I blinked and suddenly found myself the mother of teenagers. TEENAGERS. One minute I was wiping their arses and cutting their grapes in half, and now I’m funding a small streetwear empire and spending my evenings as an unpaid Uber driver-slash-life coach. Harrison’s 14 next week, Alex is almost 13, and let me tell you no one, and I mean NO ONE, warned me that this stage would be like trying to navigate a hormonal minefield with a blindfold on, while carrying sweaty shin pads, a McDonald’s order, and the emotional baggage of a missed haircut appointment.
Social Lives Busier Than My Inbox
These boys are never in. Ever. I have no idea how they maintain the energy. They’re either out at football, at a mate’s house, walking to the shop for snacks that’ll be inhaled in 3.4 seconds, or begging for a lift to somewhere “literally just down the road, Mum, it won’t take you long.” Spoiler alert: it always takes long. Because their version of ‘just down the road’ is apparently a half-marathon away.
Alex is particularly thriving in the love life department. Yep, my nearly-13-year-old has a girlfriend. A real one. With a name and everything. I walk past his room and hear soft muttering. He’s on FaceTime with her, whispering sweet nothings like “hold on, lemme mute my game a sec.” It’s sweet, in a “what the actual fuck” sort of way.
When he’s not video calling her, he’s on with his best mate, chatting absolute shite while playing FIFA or some game that makes them scream like they’re being mugged. And then I get shouted at for walking in during a crucial match or making too much noise with the hoover. Imagine me, trying to do boring Mum things like cleaning, while also dodging imaginary sniper fire and calls of “MUM, SERIOUSLY, YOU’VE MESSED ME UP NOW!”
Montirex, Trainers and the Haircut Hustle
Alex has developed a Montirex obsession. He wears it. His mates wear it. If it’s not skin-tight, stretchy, and has a logo the size of a satellite dish on it, apparently it’s not worth wearing. I live in fear of growth spurts now, because replacing those outfits costs more than a short break to Paris.
And the trainers – Jesus wept. These kids don’t want shoes. They want status symbols. Limited edition Nikes. Jordans. God knows what else. He shows me screenshots on TikTok with a look of pure desire, and I’m sitting there trying to work out if we can stretch this week’s food shop to accommodate another pair of trainers.
To top it all off, they want haircuts all the time. “Mum, my fade’s grown out.” What? It’s been five bloody days. These two are rocking fortnightly trims with names like “mid-skin fade taper blend.” I’m not even sure if that’s a haircut or a cocktail.
The Room Situation: Abandon All Hope
Their bedroom is an actual warzone. I avoid going in unless absolutely necessary — and even then, only with a hazmat suit and emotional support biscuit. There are plates hidden under beds. Crumbs in the beds. Hoodies strewn across every surface like they’re building a soft-fabric fort. And the smell… my god, the smell. It’s like someone mixed stale sweat, Lynx Africa, and broken dreams into a diffuser.
You’d think I was asking them to climb Everest when I tell them to tidy it up. The excuses range from “I’m doing it in a bit” (which never comes), to “I know where everything is!” which is clearly bollocks, because I found a crisp packer behind the Xbox that was not part of the interior design plan.
Gaming, Grunting, and Gaining Independence
Both of them are hardcore gamers now. And when I say gamers, I mean full headsets, hours online, intense yelling at teammates they’ve never met, and gaming chairs that look more high-tech than anything in my living room.
Conversation with them is now mostly limited to:
- “What’s for tea?”
- “Can I have a tenner?”
- “Mum, you need to drop me off in ten minutes.”
- “I need a haircut.”
- “Mum, the WiFi’s being shit.”
Teenage boys are basically expensive Tamagotchis with WiFi – keep them fed, watered, and online, and they’ll mostly survive.
But in between the eye-rolls and the grunts, there are these glimmers of absolute brilliance. They’ll make me laugh so hard I nearly choke on my coffee. They’ll randomly give me a hug (usually when they want something, but I’ll take it). And every so often, they’ll say something deep and thoughtful that makes me remember they’re not just hormonal gremlins – they’re becoming proper little (big) humans.
Messy, loud, expensive, but bloody brilliant.
God help us all.
