Who stole my daughter?

Just a few short weeks ago I bragged to my friends that my thirteen year old daughter has shown no signs of interest in boys / discos / make up / clothes (particularly of the short and skimpy kind) or anything else which contributes to the average parents’ teenage nightmare.  Not that I’d pretend it’s all rosy in our garden.  Actually, it’s a very quiet garden, as there is virtually no communication in our house these days; no conversation, discussion or chit chat, and what little there is will inevitably have been initiated by me, with the following exceptional queries:

– what can I eat?

– can I use your phone?

– I’ve no credit left. (Whilst this one is not strictly a question, there is of course an implicit request);

– will you drop me to my friends/ training/ my match etc.?

– can I have some money?

– why?  (this one covers a multitude);

– why not? (see above)

So, in the midst of our quiet, largely mono syllabic communications, you can understand my surprise when I was asked (very cleverly in the company of several other thirteen year olds) ‘can I go to Wez?’

For those who don’t live in Dublin, Wez is the long established right of passage for every middle class dublin teenager, where they are likely to have their first kiss, their first slow dance, and have their heart broken for the first time. The urban myths about this place are legion – girls with no knickers; boys with no morals; parents with no sense; young people with no inhibitions.

It’s a simple enough question: can I go to Wez? And yet it pulls on every protective fibre in me; brings the lioness alive in me; digs deep to find the long buried lessons from the nuns which led me to believe no boy can ever be trusted (although to be fair, I think they had a point), and stirs up the disciplinarian in me that wants to lock my children away from the perils of modern living, irrespective of how unhappy that makes them.

I do try to be one of the cool mums, chatting long enough to my kids’ friends to demonstrate interest but never over staying my welcome; exhibiting enough knowledge of their life contexts (which generally means using the X Factor and ‘I’m a celebrity’ as key reference points), but not over doing the point.

So here it is, the ultimate challenge: staying calm in the face of a request that turns my stomach; keeping credibility with a group of thirteen year old girls whose loyalty to any adult is assured only in so far as their collective demands are met; and not further alienating my sullen, stubborn daughter whilst keeping myself free of psychiatric intervention. It’s a tough balancing act!

Of course she went to Wez, but not before a week of planning and preparation and primping and pampering. It’s half term week so there are daily excursions to Dundrum shopping centre where, despite hours and hours of rummaging through the largest shopping centre in Europe, she cannot find a thing to wear.  After three unsuccessful trips, we reluctantly revert to boohoo.com where I pay an astronomical fee for urgent delivery.

The day before the big event, another trip to Dundrum is required, for what I’m not sure. Each venture naturally includes lunch, ice cream, dropping by the milk shake shop…..  My daughter can spend money like, well, like me if I’m honest. I empathise.

I get a phone call: ‘Can I wear false tan?’  I stutter, hesitate, do a quick balance sheet of pros and cons in my head. False tan? She has gorgeous skin, all glowy and soft and in summer she goes a beautiful golden brown. She’s tawny even in winter.  She doesn’t need false tan. How ridiculous. And anyway, she’s far too young.

‘Of course you can sweetie.’

Two hours later and another call.

‘Can I get my eye brows done?’

‘What do you mean, “done”?’

There are mutterings at the end of the phone as her friends explain to her what she’s going to have ‘done’. She then repeats this to me, verbatim.

‘Shaped mum, duh!’

Eventually I concede but only on the basis that I speak to the beautician first.  She knows when she’s reached her limit and reluctantly agrees.

Her friend stays over the night before the big event so that ‘they have time to get ready’ and I recall those days when the preparation for a night out was more fun than the event itself; when the absence of other demands on your time meant you could indeed spend hours getting ready, bathing, moisturising, conditioning, de-hairing.  How my sister and I spent hours and hours practicing jiving so we’d be move-perfect when we hit the floor at the National in Kilburn or the Galtimore in Cricklewood.  And I admit to myself that even if I had that time to spend, I’d far rather use it reading a good book now!

Thankfully, the big day finally arrives. My heart, wallet and psychological well being could not have taken much more of this. Various friends call by to assist with make up, false tan, hair curls, and attire.  Inevitably, the ‘urgent’ package from boohoo.com doesn’t arrive and so a loan from a pal is given serious consideration and accepted as an appropriate substitute.  I think even they couldn’t face another trek to Dundrum!  The girls look gorgeous, innocent, eager, as they submit to photos for the album (and some for granny which require pulling down the belly tops and not including the legs!).  They are impatient  to get there and so we pile up the car and head for Donnybrook.  I’m sure its incredibly uncool to do ‘the talk’ with children other than your own, but it was the only way I knew my daughter would listen, so I take the opportunity to remind these clever, funny, wonderful girls that they should never do anything they don’t want to; that they can make choices and must in fact do so; that most boys are lovely but can sometimes be too anxious to show off and so can forget to be respectful.

It is met with a collective groan.

Anxiously, I try to rewind my hook, my capacity to engage, and before they tumble out of the car we are laughing and they have stopped rolling their eyes and tutting. The level of relief I feel is ridiculous.

As I pull away from the kerb, watching the girls hugging the pals they’ve just met, I feel such an incredibly strong urge to rush back and hold her, wrap my arms around her, tell her she has plenty of time for all this stuff. And yet I simultaneously recall the tingle of excitement at such new ventures, of growing up, and doing things that seem so adult and alien. I am happy for her to try new things, to test herself, and learn.  But I ache for my little girl growing up and away from me and for the confusion and conflicts and contradictions she will experience, and over which I have no control.

This parenting stuff is tough.