Forever young... (sort of)

I read recently that no one acts their age anymore. In fact it's estimated that we behave around a decade younger than the age we really are. I'm not sure how this was measured, as surely it's impossible to say how a 40 year-old, as opposed to someone of 50, should behave - but the gist is that we're not being terribly grown-up. I know lots of forty- and even fifty-something men who are just like adolescents really, with less hair. And women who, despite groaning a bit when they get up from a chair, still hare off to Ibiza at the drop of a hat. Prolonged adolescence, the experts call it, and I think it's great.

Well, compared to real adolescence it is. I mean, who'd want to be thirteen again, and who can blame us for wanting to have another shot at it? It was hellish, first time around. Spots, boils and communal showers at school, with everyone laughing at your pubes, or lack thereof - not to mention exams, those horrible Findus Crispy Pancakes and having to live with Mum and Dad. No one in their right mind would want to go through that again.

The late 70s/early 80s were a particularly bad time to be young. Who was there to fancy? Leo Sayer and Bruno out of Fame. We wore polka-dot ra-ra skirts and leg warmers over jeans - probably the least flattering garments ever invented. There were only three - at most four - TV channels, and you couldn't make a phone call without a parent listening in to every word. And, God, life was dull back then. Nothing to look forward to apart from Christmas, birthdays and the Eurovision Song Contest. As we lived in a tiny West Yorkshire village, life was particularly uneventful. Apart from when the ice cream van came - just once, during the twelve years we lived there - the rest of the time I spent sitting a field, or swinging on a farm gate.

So who can blame my generation for behaving immaturely, now that we're old enough to enjoy it? I don't mean wearing clothes designed for youngsters - tiny denim hotpants are not the way I want to go. Nor am I talk about partying so relentlessly that I can't haul myself out of bed in the morning. I mean, someone still has to make breakfast. No, it's more a feeling that it's still possible to act spontaneously, should the urge take us. Like stealing a day off work because the sun's shining. Like not feeling like a failure because you've had a piece of toast (wheat! Aghh!), or decided you actually hate kale, and couldn't be arsed to make your green juice that morning.

Is anything more tediously grown up than the current obsession with clean, pure living? Even my most health-aware friend found Gwyneth's cookbook, 'It's All Good', too joyless to follow for more than three days. 'No one else in the family would eat anything I made,' she moaned. So no wonder we're rebelling. You can hardly blame us for cracking open the wine on a school night or deciding not to get the roof fixed because what we actually want to spend our money on is a weekend in Nice.

I bet even Gwyneth's rebelling - against her former self - after the big split announcement.  I love to think of her saying, 'Sod it', binning her Manuka honey and consciously uncoupling the lid off a big tub of Nutella and scoffing it with a spoon. In bed, of course, under slightly manky adolescent sheets. 

On Mother's Day please hold your domestic-related questions...

Here's my mum, Margery. I'll be giving her flowers, Philomena on DVD (which she loved at the cinema) and we'll go to Dawyck Gardens for tea and cakes. As for me, I've been banging on about, 'Oh, I hope I get this or that' for Mother's Day. But it's occurred to me that it's not really about presents. It's more about what the day doesn't involve, than the acquisition of chocolate or perfume or any manner of lovely gifts (although naturally, anything my adult-sized children should choose to give me will be snatched, greedily, in amazed delight).

No, when I think about what Mother's Day should entail, I keep coming back to: as little as possible. Unsurprisingly, a recent survey revealed that, after a trip out with the family, what women want most is a day free of cooking and chores. I know - it hardly reeks of glamour and thrills. But it's true: I really don't want to be expected to peel a potato on Sunday. Or sluice out the kitchen bin, or have anything to do with the big stinky pipe at the back of the loo. 

Nor do I want anyone to ask, 'Do we have any butter?' Normally, I'd say, 'I think so - look in the fridge' (just in case I might have cunningly hidden it in the bathroom cabinet). But on Mother's day, should the butter question should arise, I shall feign deafness or, more likely, reply, 'I have no idea.' And I'll look baffled as if unsure of what butter actually is. 

Here are more things a mother doesn't want to hear on the day which by rights, belongs entirely to her...

  

- 'Why is it Mother's Day? What about children's day?'

- 'The washing machine's making that awful grinding noise again.' 

- 'I think one of your bra under-wires has burst out in the washing machine. Again.'  

- 'I didn't do anything.'

- 'Dad's pizzas are brilliant. Yours are, um...' (wanders off with bleak expression)

- 'There's poo on my trainers.'

- 'I think I have nits...'

- 'There's a party tonight. It's down this country lane, er... I'm sure we'll find it.' 

- 'That's my charger' 

- 'Has Dad's guitar always had that hole in it?' 

- 'You shrunk my Fred Perry top. It was £55.' (holds out hand)

- 'Oh my God! Blood's pouring out!'

By the way, I don't want my family to take the no treats thing too literally. I mean, I won't shout, 'Take it away!' if something home-made and delicious were to be placed before me, with a glass of chilled wine. And if they decide to, you know, take me out for lunch or something, then of course I'll be pleased to go. 

Just, you know, in case anyone's wondering.  

Things I've said no to

I was dog-walking with a friend this morning when I mentioned applying for my sons' provisional driving licenses. 'They'll have to wait until I'm paid,' I added, as I'm at that time - not of the month, a freelance writer's earnings are far more haphazard than that - but the time when I seem to respond to every request with, 'Yes, fine - but you'll have to wait till I'm paid for that.'

'You mean you're paying for their licenses?' my friend asked, looking shocked. Well, yes, they are still at school full-time - but her remark did make me think, am I being overindulgent? I paid for my own license and all my lessons and test - but then, I was 25 and hadn't lived with my parents for eight years. It would have seemed mad to phone up and say, 'Mum, Dad - any chance of footing the bill?' They'd have assumed I'd got myself into terrible bother, or rolled their eyes and said, 'See - told you she's not coping.'

In some ways, though, maybe it was better that I stood on my own two feet from a pretty young age. Jimmy goes one better, telling me that at 11 years old he was running around, doing the shopping for three different aunties which took him the whole of Saturday. He'd also build the fire and make the house all toasty for his parents coming home from work - that's after digging over the veg patch and re-pointing the house. What did our offspring do at that age? Come in, throw down an array of bags and coats and flop in front of the telly. Sometimes, I like doing stuff for the kids: ironing a shirt, or picking up a requested item from the shops. But, while it makes me feel pleasingly motherly, I do wonder if I'm a bit soft.

That's why I started to think about all the things I haven't done - the things I've said no to, with no negotiation. That made me feel a whole lot better about the provisional license thing. Tough love, I think you call it... well, toughish. 

'No you're not...'

- Getting an exotic pet. I've been bombarded with requests for bearded dragons and snakes (what is about scaly things in tanks?). When my friend Annie allowed her son to get a dragon, she was rewarded with a bite on the hand. It's not that I have disallowed all pets; we've had fish which resided in a murky tank, and two rabbits, neither of which lived to pensionable age. And we have a dog, Jack, who we don't really regard as a pet at all - he's elevated above pet status. But honestly - I don't think I could sleep, knowing we had a reptile in the house.

- Having your ears pierced at seven. My daughter was about 11 when she had hers done. I know this still seems terribly young - but, believe me, holding out until then took every ounce of mental strength I possessed. As she was old enough to take care of her ears, with all the cleaning etc, I (sort of) felt it was okay. Although one friend did ask, 'So you're fine about your little girl having her lobes punctured?' 

- Buying everything out of Hollister. The brand seemed to have a moment a year or so ago, and I was nagged about buying very ordinary items from there at vastly inflated prices. You're probably aware that Hollister stores are pitch black inside, and staffed by impossibly beautiful people. So I refused to go in, saying that I wasn't prepared to humiliate myself by standing on some model's foot. Also, without special night vision, you can't possible tell what colour anything is.  

- Inviting the whole class to a party. In fact, hosting any kind of lavish kids' party at all. Entertainers, limos, live pumas bursting out of cakes - there's no need for any of it. All kids care about is lots of rubbishy food and friends to run around with. As long as you don't offer rice cakes, or become too dictatorial over the games, everything will go swimmingly. I think the trick is not to start offering very much in the way of entertainment, then you're not expected to up the ante every year.

I was trying to think of more things I've said no to - but I ground to a rather premature halt. Which probably suggests that I am a pushover, and that my friend was absolutely right. 

I am a disgusting beauty hoarder

I'll admit it: I'm a beauty hoarder. Anything given to me, or tried and not liked, is stashed in the glass-fronted cabinet in our bathroom.  And there it remains - dozens of tubs of bacteria multiplying in gunk. I feel sick just looking at it all. 

There are lipsticks from when I worked as a beauty editor on a magazine - in the 80s. They pre-date mobile phones and the Internet. There are mascaras from Thatcher's era. I don't use them, obviously, but can't bear to throw them away - because I hate waste. Time, then, for the Big Beauty Purge. 

I am also addicted to things in mini sizes, the assumption being, 'This'll be handy for travelling.' Fine if it's quality stuff, but we are hardly talking Cowshed here. Why am I hanging onto 13 tiny bottles of unbranded shampoo and a Novotel soap? Why do I thieve hotel toiletries at all, as if fearing some global shampoo shortage? Plus, there are hotel shower caps, shoe shine cloths and mini sewing kits. If something's there, I have to grab it. There's also a body lotion fixation going on. Like most women in their forties I don't relish the prospect of withering to a crisp. But still.... four tubs of body butter, all but one smelling decidedly off?  

I find a metallic (actually glittery) lotion purchased at around the time Madonna was married to Sean Penn. There are bath salts purloined from a Cornish holiday house when my daughter was a toddler (she is nearly 14). I remember them being bright yellow. They are now beige. Then there's make-up: eye liners worn down to stumps and lip palettes that smell of old ladies' drawers - and not in a good way.

It's great, though - the sorting I mean. It feels purposeful and cathartic. I'm ruthless in my binning of the stale and the hideous, and discover forgotten treasures along the way. I've found perfectly good Boots No 7 and Neal's Yard cleansers, a bevy of quality serums and enough decent moisturisers (Lancôme and Guerlain - how could I have misplaced these?) to keep me going all year. So, instead of blundering around in beauty halls, buying stuff I don't need, I'll now know exactly what I have at home.

Post-purge, life already feels more streamlined. I can sit on the loo without having to avert my eyes from the chaos behind the glass doors, and I can actually find the goodies I love, rather than raking through manky old tosh. I now have the beauty cupboard of a proper grown-up, and I could kiss it. 

Let's stick together

 

'At this stage in our lives,' my friend Sarah said cheerfully, 'loads of couples split up.' She pointed out that our kids don't really need us any more (apart from to ferry them around and give them money). 'So,' she concluded, 'not that I'm talking about you of course - but lots of couples decide there's no reason to stay married.'

To me, this seems wasteful. You've weathered those baby and toddler years, without sleep or proper nutrition. You've bickered over whose turn it is to stand in the park for three hours, in the pouring rain, and spent romantic evenings sand-blasting dried Weetabix off the high chair. Surely you're now due some fun together? Deciding to split up now would be mad. If we were going to do it, it would have made a whole more sense when we were ashen with sleep deprivation, and never went out, and when I was still blaming him for impregnating me. Why divorce now, when we can do whatever we want?

Sarah reckons we're in a 'danger zone' now because the glue that held us together - ie, our offspring - will soon disappear. Off to college they'll go, leaving J and I miserably sipping sherry and occasionally rousing ourselves for a game of whist.

Well, that's not going to happen. I may be jinxing things by even writing about this, but I have a plan, and it feels very exciting. Here it is.

Staying together when the kids leave: my strategy

- Talk to each other. Admittedly, this can be scary: what if the only thing we can think of to say is, 'Did you put the bin out?' We may have to practice getting the conversation flowing again. Alcohol will help.

-Try to be rational. Looking back, when our twin boys were babies I wasn't quite myself. Jimmy only had to make an innocent remark for me to fly off the handle or run upstairs screaming. 'This is a nice ham salad,' he once had the audacity to remark - my cue to throw a velour sleepsuit at his head and start sobbing (my reasoning being that a ham salad couldn't really be 'nice', and that his comment was really a criticism of my domestic abilities). Thankfully, we are now living in more rational times, and should therefore get along better. Plus, most argument triggers are child-related: who's being too  strict/soft, why don't they help more in the house and whose fault is it that they don't, etc. Remove teenagers from the equation and what is there left to fall out about?  

- Get the heck out of the house. Although we haven't needed a babysitter for years, we still tend to forget that we can go out, pretty much whenever we want. We need to remember that teenagers are capably of cooking, putting a wash on, walking the dog and taking themselves off to bed. No one needs to be tucked in. And J and I no longer need to be perpetually on call.

And that, I think, is the crux of it: we were only together for two years before I got pregnant, and it feels like there's a whole lot of catching up to do. Cinema, restaurants, fancy bars and weekends away... there's so much we can do, the choice is boggling. My only worry is that, by the time we've decided, everywhere will be shut.

Our first kid-free holiday in 18 years... what will we do?

Family holidays were easy when the kids were little. Well, not easy exactly. By the time I’d finished packing I’d be utterly exhausted (although Jimmy could never understand why I made such a big deal out of preparing for a trip. ‘You should be like me,’ he gloated. ‘A couple of T-shirts and a pair of shorts and you’re done.’).

I would have laughed - bitterly - had I not been busy packing a million items of kids' clothing, toys, board games, DVDs and inflatable tortoises, plus all the medical stuff for every possible emergency, which apparently we didn't need - because just a couple of T-shirt and a pair of shorts and you're done.  

Anyway, once we were away on some gorgeous beach, all my stresses would melt away. The kids were happy to run in and out of water all day. But it's been a long time since anyone collected razor shells or dabbled about in rock pools. The pic above was last summer, when we rented a house near Pollensa in Majorca and took our three teens, plus three of their friends - it was brilliant. The kids totally took over the barbecue and we barely did a thing (apart from Jimmy, who drove the terrifying 9-seater car around mountain roads). But this year, everyone is doing their own thing, or being taken away by friends' families. So Jimmy and I are going away on our own.

Just the two of us! We haven't done this for eighteen years. I'm sort of bereft and delighted. Last kid-free holiday we still used travellers' cheques and took about five minutes to pack (camera, Birkenstocks, pants). We didn't have mobile phones or any other twittering gadgets. So it all feels quite different this time. It took about six months to decide what to do, the choice was so boggling. And now I wonder what we'll talk about for a whole week. Also, we're so excited I worry we'll over-schedule ourselves and either do too much or too little. And it'll be odd, lying on a beach with no one kicking sand all over the food or trying to bury us. And how will we amuse ourselves without running off for ice cream and snacks? 

 Still, it'll be interesting to wander around crumbly old towns without being annoyed because the kids aren't enjoying it enough. We won't be shouting, 'Look at that church. Why aren't you appreciating it? We might as well be at home!' 

There'll be no one moaning if we suggesting going to see some Boring Art, or demanding lobster off the menu when we stop for a quick lunch. 'No, you can't have the lobster, I hate to be mean - but it is £800.' The holiday house cleaner won't drive after us in a furious rage to the airport, due to a grubby handprint on a bedroom wall - as happened to us in Corsica. We won't be fined for shoving a glass down the inner workings of the pool ('I was trying to trap ants!') - as happened in Sicily. No one will perch on a radiator and accidentally pull it off the wall (Brittany) or puke in the hire car (everywhere). We will not have to park a big suitcase in front of the dent in the hire car when we return it, which happened because everyone was shouting in the back and Jimmy reversed into a pillar. 

Also, no one will look disgusted at the sight of us in our bathing wear. At least, no one who knows us. I can't bloody wait. 

The small matter of the rest of their lives...

Well, that's the prelims over, and the real exams are hurtling toward us, and after that - that's IT. The future. It's what people mean when they casually ask, 'So what do your kids want to do?'
Er, what do they want to do? What most teenagers do, I suppose. Hang out with friends, scoff gargantuan amounts of food and then, when the kitchen's been cleaned, ask if there's anything at all in the house to eat. They want to watch movies. Lie in. Poke at their phones and channel hop, while we wait, patiently, to watch our own box set. Isn't that what being a teenager is all about?

Only, that's not what they mean at all.
When people ask, 'What do they want to do?', they're actually saying, 'So, what kind of futures are they mapping out for themselves?' And I always want to reply, 'D'you think anyone actually talks to me?' Instead, I usually mutter a few things they've mentioned, casually and in passing - but it's never enough. And so the enquirer turns to my kids, and no one says much and it's all horribly awkward. Things were much simpler when they were little, and they'd say, 'I want to be a pirate/astronaut' and look all excited and happy. Everyone was satisfied with an answer like that.

I remember this stage of my own life. At 17 years old, for want of something to say, I'd blab that I wanted to be an illustrator. Then, when I failed to get into art college, everyone had to act all sorry and suggest alternative careers. To cheer me up, Mum suggested I apply for a job as a cleaner at a hospital. I don't know which department I wandered into in my shy and nervous state, but it was clearly the wrong one as, instead of being interviewed, I was handed a small kidney-shaped bowl and asked to go into a cubicle and wee in it.

'Well,' I thought, 'if I'm going to be working with sick people, maybe they need to check I don't have any diseases.' I sat there and tried and tried to wee - nothing. Not  a drop. What a failure I was, being turned down for art school and now, to top it all, I couldn't even pee in a bowl.

I think teenagers tend to be surer about what they don't want to do.
Eg, like having to wear a suit and tie and trot off to an office every day. Because no sets out wanting to do that, do they? No one, at 16 years old, announces, 'I can see myself working for Standard Life.' There's nothing wrong with such a career choice, of course - it's just, they tend to imagine rather more, um, exciting prospects for themselves. Working in call centres, or for insurance companies and banks, is for parents - ie, ancient people. 'It nearly killed me,' my friend's son announced, somewhat over-dramatically, after completing five days' work experience at a solicitors' firm.

Last summer, we had a family weekend in London.  As the five of us strolled along the South Bank, we happened to glance into a huge office block where people were beavering away. 'Ugh,' snorted one of my kids, 'imagine doing that every day.' I wanted to say, 'D'you know what that place is? It's IBM! Don't you think that might be a pretty interesting company to work for?' I managed not to, though, because I'd made a rule to stop harping on about jobs and prospects and futures.

Here are more things it's best not to say to a teenager who may, or may not, be contemplating the path they wish to follow in life...
Don't worry - not everyone's academically minded.
Have you thought of applying for something with the council?
Or dog-walking?
I think I read that McDonald's have a good training scheme.
Did I tell you our Daniel is studying law? At OXFORD?
When I was your age... (then proceed to blab on for 800 years)
Poor you, following in your highly-successful brother's/sister's footsteps!
Don't you have ANY idea of what you want to do? 
There are no jobs out there. None at all. 

When the kids don't need you...

I'd been away for three days for work. No big deal, I know - I didn't expect champagne and bunting to herald my return. But... a tiny bit of fuss would have been nice. A hug, or a resume of all the things I'd missed. 'Did you have a good time?' asked one of my sons, gazed fixed upon his iPad.

Yes, fine, thanks,' I replied, setting down my suitcase. And that was that. Clearly, family life had trundled along fine without me. No one appeared to have been excluded from school, developed scurvy or even noticed my absence particularly. I sloped upstairs feeling thoroughly disgruntled, until it occurred to me that... this is what's meant to happen.

Indifference to parental comings and goings, I mean. And it's okay - it really is. Sure, it takes a little getting used to, but think how weird it would be if your adoring offspring remained that way forever. It's lovely, being watched intently by a three year-old while you apply your make-up. Imagine, being that fascinating to anyone! But if a seventeen year-old were to behave like that, I'd assume drugs were involved, or that they were building up to make some terrible announcement. 'What is it?' I'd keep barking. 'WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME LIKE THAT?' My blood pressure would be through the roof.

We know, of course, that children are programmed to gradually separate from us, progressing from occasional eye rolls to full-on communication avoidance. For me, the toughest time was when they hit the 12, 13 mark. I wasn't prepared for my once-loving children to suddenly regard me with disdain.

I took to hovering around them like a needy kid who'd been shunned from the gang. When they had friends around, I'd buy their favourite snacks and barge into their room to serve them. They'd all look round in alarm, as if I'd waltzed in wearing a fringed bikini, and someone would mutter, 'Just leave it at the door, would you?'

Then, gradually, the distance between us began to feel normal. And as soon as I'd accepted it as a perfectly healthy developmental stage, I stopped the loitering, the snivelling and bribing them to hang out with me. They were stretching their wings. That's what kids are supposed to do.

Anyway, it's not all bad news, this feeling of being slightly redundant and not knowing what to do with ourselves. Here are some unexpected - and quite delightful - things that happen as the kids start doing their own thing.

- If teenagers seem aloof, it's because they are busy thinking about the world. Like this Ukraine situation: ask an older relative what's going on, and they'll have you pinned to the wall for 17 hours until you have to invent some domestic emergency to get away. But ask a teenager and they'll come back with precisely the kind of short, digestible response you required.

- You're not needed. Of course, you hope you'll always be their first port of call whenever they're worried or sad. What I mean here is being 'needed' in a cutting-up-food, dabbing-lotion-onto-verrucas kind of way. The tedious stuff which we didn't mind while it was happening - but don't exactly mourn when it's all done.

- You feel more united as a couple. When your kids won't hug you anymore, you and your partner are likely to seek solace in each other. Happily, there's more time to be 'romantic' (ahem) now you no longer have drifts of Lego to sweep up. Plus, nothing creates a sense of solidarity like being regarded as a pair of imbeciles by your kids.

- You and your teens can enjoy a new way of relating to each other. I mean, what choice is there? They've made it clear they don't want you checking their homework or arranging their pizza toppings to look like a face.

- You can do what you want. When our boys were tiny, virtually every sentence Jimmy and I uttered to each other started with 'I'm just...' ie, 'I'm just... going to the shops/kitchen' (which implied, 'Is that okay with you?'). We were shattered and stressed and felt it necessary to keep each other under constant surveillance. You couldn't have a pee without asking if that was all right. The one time Jimmy ventured off piste - ie,  went to the pub without written permission - I threw a cake at him.

Those days are long gone. Now we just say, 'I'm going to town and then I'm meeting Andy for a drink.' And that's that. No wrangling, no negotiating, no 'I'm just.' God, it makes me so happy to be able to type that.