There was me, aged 15, swaying in satin Betty Boop boxer shorts, Doc boots and a flanno, mumbling incoherently, trying to justify to my parents why my friends and I were completely plastered.
‘We admith nuffing!’
Before falling on my face.
That was the stuff of parent’s nightmares. It must have been so surreal for them standing there and watch me stumble around with smeared mascara, stinking of cheap scotch.
Wondering where their sweet girl had gone.
And in the morning, when I vomited in the bin in my bedroom and the world spun, and I heard my mums angry footsteps down the hall, I was full of remorse and shame. That feeling is still fresh. But it was also temporary, because after the month of grounding, given half the chance, I would have done it again. (Except no one wanted to invite me anywhere because I ALWAYS got caught red handed when doing anything wrong.)
Having teenage children terrifies me.
And karma is a bitch.
I remember screaming at my parents when they wouldn’t let me go to a party ‘When I have kids I’m gonna let them do whatever they WANT!’ Before slamming my poor over-slammed door and flopping on the bed in a flood of noisy tears.
‘Let’s have this conversation again in 20 years and we’ll see if you feel the same way!’ Dad called smugly after me.
And oh no, here we are and he is right (damn it.) I want to wrap up my babies in fluffy blankets and smell their perfect, innocent little heads forever.
I want to say sorry. Sorry to my poor parents who did everything right, gave me so much and really tried. And I never asked about their shitty day, or if it was too much trouble picking me up from a party out in the sticks in middle of the night. Eek! But I think it’s too late! Karma has already decided my fate.
It’s not like I robbed banks or clubbed seals as a teenager. I wasn’t a terrible nightmare all the time, but I definitely sucked a good portion of it.
Sullen. Sulky. Withdrawn. Hysterical. Bored. Selfish.
These words describe me pretty well from the age 14 to 18, despite my family’s efforts to break through my teenage icy façade.
The occasional amazing concert, meal and holiday would pull me out of my bitch-cave, and life would be good. But I would crawl back in there pretty quickly.
‘Kurt Cobain has died and now I want to die too!’
‘Everyone is going to this party and if I don’t, no one will talk to me ever again!’
‘I want real Doc Martins, not these College Doc’s. It’s just too embarrassing!’
‘I can’t believe that you won’t let me meet up with the 20 year old random guy I met last week at 9pm by myself in the city!’
It goes on….
And I am grateful they said no. Now.
At the moment my little kids crawl all over me while I am trying to sleep, poking their fingers in my belly button and my nose, drooling on me and making Princess Twilight Sparkle with her sharp unicorn horn kiss me.
So I guess I should enjoy it now because what goes around comes around. Soon I will not be cool, funny, intelligent or remotely useful and I’ll miss those greasy little fingers trying to open my eye in the middle of the night.