I don't live under a rock, in fact I pride myself on being rather a hip and happening mother of teens. I can talk drop-ins and ollies, I own a beanie and board shorts and I know it's no longer cool to stick your tongue out and holler 'WAAASSSSUUUPPPPPP!' when your fifteen year old and his posse arrive home from school (although busting out a 'moonwalk' and a 'running man' during the school social may have been a mistake… I'm not sure; the boys have erected a wall of silence around the incident?) However, I'm struggling to come to terms with children's birthday celebrations needing similar event management skills as those of that beardy farmer who looks after Glastonbury.
Karaoke roller disco's, paintballing with the SAS and sleepovers at a sea-life centre…what the bloody hell happened to sausage rolls, ribena and pass the parcel around the dining table with five friends and Abba crackling along in the background? Due to this miserly old grump parent with integrity stance, this weekend has been one of testosterone scented sleepovers, homemade chocolate brownie cake and the odd sniffle and teary eye as my youngest child turns 13 and Slap and I are now totally outnumbered by a teen army that marches on its stomach.
"Standing on the fringes of life offers a unique experience, but there's a time to see what it looks like from the dance floor."
— Chbosky
Go Baby!!
