Teenagers

Teenagers can be hard work.

 

I know that’s a ridiculous understatement. It’s like saying the Irish weather is unpredictable, and expecting a clap on the back for such insight.  Having spent a number of years working with teenagers, I should know this better than some, but in the recesses of my mind, I had this idea that my kids would be different, because, well, because they’re mine!  My idealistic image of these traditionally troublesome years was that we wouldn’t have the moods and silent dinners; that there would be no slamming of doors and refusal to let me into bedrooms; that the school and work day would be discussed with interest and enthusiasm and that my questions (what have you been up to? what are you doing?) would be met with a response other than ‘nothing really’.  In short, I thought I had the perfect, teenage tantrum- free children.

 

Obviously I was wrong. I have tried to include my kids in my year of activities and celebrations, taking them to New York (‘I’d rather be playing football’; ‘why do we have to do all this sight seeing crap?’ ); going glamping and tree top climbing in Derry (‘do we HAVE to go?’); inviting their friends to my birthday party (‘this music’s rubbish’) and then this weekend, taking them to Sligo, on our fantastic Wild Atlantic Way, for outdoor adventure activities.  You’d think I’d have learnt my lesson!

 

The three hour drive there is silent other than sporadic instructions issued by my daughter about changing the radio station. Things improve temporarily when we arrive in Sligo and find a restaurant serving scrumptious chicken wings and burgers! Next morning, we head to Slish Wood, a beautiful area beside Lough Gill, where we are met by the wonderful Deirdre from North West Adventures.  We all hitch a heavy ruck sack over our shoulders and follow Deirdre through the forest, and along bubbling streams until eventually we start ascending a steep, overgrown hill. The kids are like goats, hurrying ahead, seemingly oblivious to the slippery moss and muddy paths.  I, on the other hand, huff and puff my way up the hill, lugging the equipment, stumbling over tree roots, and finally making it to the top of the hill, breathless and unable to speak, to find the others happily chatting about some Irish man called William Firth, who introduced the world to surfing!  The kids seemed to find everything this Deirdre one has to say incredibly interesting and informative.  They respond and even make eye contact.   I knew there was something shifty looking about her.

We are 25 metres up the hill, and standing above a sheer rock face.  Deirdre quickly has the ropes sorted, the harnesses on, the safety talk done.  Paddy goes first, bouncing his way down the rock face.  Yay for Paddy! Ella goes next and does a great job of getting her knees and legs and feet in the right position, somehow managing to look graceful as she descends to the bottom.  So now it’s my turn.  I step near the edge, and for a moment recall my terror when I commenced my tree top walk recently; how my stomach lurched and my legs trembled; how my hands clenched and back trickled sweat. 

 

And here I am again, looking over a precipice, hooked to a safety line, and about to step off into air.  But this time, miraculously, my nerves are steady; my stomach is settled, and my legs feel solid.  I set my feet apart, bend my knees and sit into the harness, and then I lean back and trust the equipment to keep me safe. I walk myself down the full 25 meters, not quite confident but definitely not a tear or tremble in sight!  Thank you Joy Poots, thank you for giving me that horrendous, terrifying, nerve wracking experience. – this is easy peasy in comparison!!!

Paddy and Ella have another few abseils, but I’m happy with my single journey. And besides, to come down requires going up, and I’m just not able for another breath taking (as in having no breath left) climb!  After lunch, we head to Lough Arrow, where we join a hen party of teachers from Donegal for rafting games on the lake.  Despite all the rain and terrible weather, the rivers are too low for white water rafting, so instead we paddle across the lake and then test our balancing skills and team trust as we attempt to walk around the edge of the raft while others paddle and spin and bounce us.  Paddy can’t wait to fall in, and does so frequently and with great aplomb. Ella and I soon follow suit, and whilst most of the teachers end up on the lake, somehow most of them manage to avoid getting their hair wet or their make up smudged.  I on the other hand, go in head first several times, water going up my nose, down my throat, inside the wet suit…..but the humiliation is only starting.  Inevitably, I now have to get back into the raft, and while the skinny teacher gang can be pulled in with the might of a little finger, it takes several of them and a sustained effort, to haul my big fat arse out of the water.  I try kicking, getting some rhythm going, thinking that will give me some momentum , but all it does is rock the boat and leave one of the teachers (the Home Ec one I think) feeling sick.  Eventually, with two hands on each shoulder strap of my life jacket, they haul me in and throw me face down on the bottom of the raft.  I thrash around trying to turn myself over, but there is nothing to grip and no traction on the wet rubber. With a final supreme effort, I get back on my knees and am able to sit up;  my educator friends are diplomacy itself, and avoid eye contact as I readjust my particularly unattractive attire.

 

The kids love the games and Ella ends up in the competitors boat (no idea how) where she seems quite at home ramming our boat and trying to beat us back to shore. Later, they tell my old pal Susan, and Pat the Farmer all about the activities, and I observe and listen and smile quietly, trying not to let my pride embarrass them.  (The truce is only ever temporary after all).  And as we eat carrot cake and chat and laugh, I realise why I keep trying; why I haven’t stopped making the effort; why I haven’t given up on engaging with my teenage children: Because every time we laugh collectively makes my heart swell; every time they surprise me with their conversation renews my sense of pride; every smile, knowing glance, surreptitious wink reminds me how wonderful they are, and because of course, I love them: truly, madly, deeply.  So sometimes they are grumpy, uncommunicative teenagers, often they are distant and impossible to engage. But sometimes, just occasionally, they hug me, say something kind or interesting, or just laugh with their friends not knowing I’m watching, and each time, every bit of me knows that this is the important stuff, and I will never regret a moment of my time with them.