I’m sitting on my hands. I’ve some news to share, really exciting news. But I can’t share it for a while. Quietly screams…
So here’s Diggy, fast asleep this evening…perma thumb in his mouth of course. Looking so angelic and, to be fair, his behaviour has massively improved in recent weeks. I no longer laugh in the faces of strangers who stop me in the street to admire his white blonde curls and tell me he ‘looks like an angel’. Love that boy xx
Earlier this week I splatted a few of my demons. And on Facebook of all places. Opens brackets and mounts soap box…I wish Facebook would push off. It’s not that interesting, it’s clunky as hell, it has all kinds of appalling and sneaky privacy issues and ‘keeps me connected’ with people I’d rather forget. And yet I can’t bring myself to delete my account. What if I ‘miss out’? (on what?). Plus, I really really enjoy some of Ye Olde Photos which organised and motivated school friends post up from time to time. I hardly ever go on FB anymore, it’s like my dirty little secret. Closes brackets and steps off soap box.
So, I was pottering around Facebook and I spotted that an old school friend had added yet another 80′s horror school photo. I clicked on the thumbnail and, in a heartbeat, I was 13 years old and the ‘cool older boys’ were staring at me, striking a pose and snapped in their usual ‘lair’. I had a really strong physical reaction to the sight of 4 rather feeble looking 15 year olds with shocking hair and sleeveless sweaters tucked in to their pleated front trousers. FFS I’m 39 years old but, apparently, old habits die hard.
They weren’t unpleasant, those boys. They weren’t bullies, they weren’t bad. They were just…cool. We were all in awe of them, and were desperate for them to notice us and like us. Ideally, we wanted them to be our boyfriends but we were clumpy 13 year olds and that was out of the question of course. They would hang out outside the ‘bootroom’ during break, lunch and after school…a vantage point which meant they could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the school. I would watch them from my day room, up high..safe…wishing…hoping…
But every time I walked past them, they’d go quiet. I’d look at my shoes, clutch my books to me tighter and scurry past. Then I’d hear talking, whispering, laughing and I’d was certain it was about me. Eventually I adopted a ‘safety in numbers’ approach and would only go past them with a couple of friends. It made us bolder, but still there would be the silence…the laughing.
So I gave in. I couldn’t BEAR to walk past them anymore, I couldn’t stand the whispering. So I would look to see if they were ‘in place’ and, if they were, I would walk the long way (very long) around the front of the school to get to where I needed to be. Anything to avoid the whispering…the laughing..the silence.
Time passed. Two of them left a year later, the other two went on to the 6th form and the Bootroom was no longer their lair. I got older. I cared less. And eventually ‘the fear’ left me.
And I never gave it another thought until a few days back when Facebook slung my teenage past in my face. I peered at their faces, the faces of BOYS with ridiculous haircuts. I didn’t laugh at my young self for feeling the way I did, because I know exactly how painful it was at the time, and how skin crawlingly awful it was to be that teenage girl. But I know now, as I did then, that they weren’t unpleasant or cruel boys. Very possibly most of the silence…laughing…talking wasn’t aimed at me at all. I doubt that the memory of that overwhelming feeling of self-doubt will ever leave me.
I couldn’t resist the temptation to click to see if I could access their Facebook accounts and, oh joy, I could get in to one. What a let down! He’s just a regular 40 something bloke, his bleach blonde hair gelled at 90 degrees long gone, his breathtaking good looks faded, his chiseled cheekbones sunken in to his face. He looked so appallingly normal. Like someone I’d like to have a drink with, talk about old times with, reminisce with. Ha! Reminisce with someone I never, ever EVER dared even speak to for the 4-5 years we went to school with. For the simple reason that he was cool, and I was not.
I fear the teenage years for my boys. Life is complicated, there’s no doubting that. But the teenage years are fraught. It’s a pity they turn out to be, generally, the most formative years of your life. The years where you either knuckle down and pass the exams that matter, or you don’t. The years where you get comfortable in your skin and shine, or you don’t. The years where you find enough of yourself to keep steady, or you go off the rails. Urgh. I’m exaggerating to an extent but I’m certain that our teenage years are critical to shaping who we are. It’s a pity all those hormones get in the way.
So, angels and demons….two angels sent from heaven to be my babies….four teenage demons defeated. I win.
x
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