Being a passenger in my newly qualified 17 year old boy racer’s car is right up there with any other heart in the mouth rides I have ever done and I nearly had a heart attack. I tried SO hard to be cool and not be my mother who sits in the passenger seat with me even now, pinned to the back of the seat with a fear of god look on her face and her foot constantly pressing on an imaginary brake, emitting sharp intakes of breath every 10 seconds until I want to drive on the pavement just to annoy her.

It is not natural for me to relax when the product of my own loins has taken my life into his hands. It is a constant source of amazement to me that my children are capable of doing anything on their own, without me. Least of all when I briefly considered whether he should show me due respect by turning the thumping, vibrating, sweary lyric’d music down and by not jolting the car until I felt car sick and by not speeding up at inappropriate moments. I kept having to duck down in order to avoid the disapproving looks of other drivers and pedestrians because the music was so unbearably loud. At one point when we stopped next to some people having a civilized meal by the side of the road I had to apologise by telling them it was my son that was driving and that I had been kidnapped – but I don’t think they heard me.

Needless to say, I am officially turning into my mother. I tried to turn the music down twice, I audibly gasped twice and I commented on the fact that he hadn’t looked or used his indicator several times until he told me to “shut up” and even worse was that my daughter kept pointing out that in her opinion he was a much better driver than me.

On the 1st day of January I did very well. Hungover and happy to go to bed early as SO bored and couldn’t be bothered to stay up not drinking.

On the 2nd day of January (yesterday) I popped over the road to have a cup of tea with my friend who was also not drinking. A 6 o’clock cup of tea. Not ideal but fine. She went in to make me another one and came out with two glasses of wine saying “oh bollocks to this” and I put up absolutely no fight whatsoever. My kids were with their dad last night – it was a last minute arrangement and so I hadn’t made any plans. I was going to stay in and not drink. Then my teenage son started texting me “mum, can I have a few people over tonight pleeeeese?”. “No. Definitely not” was what I said for quite some time – have a party at your father’s house, go away, leave me alone, I want a night off, sort of stuff which he ignored for about 20 texts knowing full well that he would eventually wear me down – texting that he would do all the tidying up, that I wouldn’t even notice, that I could trust him and the best text of the lot “mum why don’t you just go out clubbing for a bit?” Like I go clubbing. Anyway, my friend suggested I let him if he agreed that they all left at midnight.

I then went to the local pub with some friends and drank wine. At midnight I asked my friends to come back with me to help get all the teenagers out. Somehow, between leaving the pub and getting to my house (5 minutes walk max) my support group of bouncers went from helping me kick them out to “party at L’s house – everybody come!”. So I walked in to my house to kick 20 teenagers out of my house with 15 friends from the pub AND some gatecrashers – including the caretaker from my children’s school who just happened to be walking up the road with his wife, his daughter and her boyfriend.

The teenagers didn’t seem remotely fazed by the arrival of a bunch of oldies so we merged parties, emptied the contents of my fridge, danced about, spilt things all over the place and had a really lovely time – I felt like I was a 17 year old at somebody else’s party until I came downstairs this morning and surveyed the mess. But sometimes it’s worth it. All that mess. It was just one of those rare moments when you can enjoy an evening with one of your children on the same level – I love that. Also I could pretend that all my friends were incredibly young and beautiful with not a bald head in sight. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much hair in my house at any one time.

So. Like lots of people, my sensible New Year’s Resolutions will start again tomorrow. Back to work day. What a shame it’s a whole five day week.

My house smells of beer.

I had been worrying that something else had found it’s way underneath my floorboards that had recently died and that I was going to have to expect another swarm of flies any minute.

But no. I have just discovered the source. Sitting quietly in the corner was a bag I had overlooked.

In it was my teenage son’s rugby kit left over from last week.

Impressively smelly boots. How do they manage to generate such horrible smells? They’re just rodents dressed as humans.

Well, I was impressed. Clearly due to over-excitement, my son seemed to be the only one of the group of teenagers at my house to drink too much. At first he was quite sweet. He kept coming back in to the house and saying “OH NO. I’ve forgotten AGAIN what I’m meant to be getting. It’s really important and I can’t remember” and laughing his head off and wobbling off down to his mates at the bottom of the garden. My daughter also commented on the fact that he kissed her goodnight – “mum, did you see that? He actually kissed me goodnight, he’s never done that in his entire life!”.

It didn’t take long however before he was vomiting down the side of my shed. His lovely girlfriend came to get him water and looked after him. She doesn’t drink much she told me, which is a VERY good thing. She is teeny and blonde and completely beautiful with HUUUGE eyes and she had sparkly bits on her cheeks and when I commented on that to my youngest son he said “yes and did you see that my brother had sparkles all stuck on his face as well?”

Watching him grow and develop has been a privilege. Watching him play football has made me understand how men work together. He has taught me to be a better person.

So. What am I allowed to do now that I have successfully managed to raise a reasonable human being without any instructions? (recent behaviour regarding suspicious muddy marks on the knees of his jeans excluded). A telegram from the Queen? A licence to drive a fork lift truck? A degree? A certificate at the very least? No. Zip. Nothing. It’s rubbish. I feel very unappreciated.

Whereas on the other hand, now he is the ripe old age of 16 he is allowed to (in no particular order of preference):-

- Get married
- Ride a moped of up to 50 cc’s
- Pilot a glider
- Have sex (SURELY NOT?)
- Join the armed forces WITHOUT MY PERMISSION
- Have a beer with a meal in a restaurant or pub, but not at the bar.
- Buy scrap metal
- Buy a fish (WHAT?)

If he lived in Canada he’d be able to drive now….

What else can you do round the world when you’re 16?