The Parent Trenches

It’s been over 150 days since my Easter post. That’s almost half a year.

My instinct tells me this is not the way to build up blogging momentum and that big changes are needed if I’m to kickstart some kind of a chance to write for some kind of living.

And with sentences like that last one, I’m not talking Pulitzer Prize, Booker nominated, poet laureate kinda shit here.

But I’m having untold trouble staying a) focussed, b) sane and c) motivated long enough to finish anything.

I mean b) might be a case of stable door / shut etc. but I’m determined to keep trying to achieve a measure of the other two things I’m missing.

And the beginning of the year is an opportune time to start as I mean to go on…and my New (School) Year’s resolution is to be a functional adult (semi not fully – I’m not delusional).

I could write about this morning, which has already been a clusterfuck of domestic disaster resulting in a late-mark for TC.

I know. Already, an absolutely appalling start to his GCSE year.

But we are where we are.

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So. Here is the first offering of the New Term from the depths of The Parent Trenches, written in the depths of the small hours of Saturday morning.

I hope you enjoy it.

I didn’t.

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Friday 30 August

The long, warm-ish summer of ‘24 has been chockablock with distractions that have derailed my determination to produce at least some written output.

It’s not like there’s been much going on, is it…?

We’ve had a general election, an assassination attempt, an Olympics, rioting on the streets of Britain…and that’s barely scratching the surface.

Many of the above 👆 have inspired pieces of top notch armchair ‘mattress’ journalism that will never see the light of day.

You hope.

It’s been the summer of Sabrina and Swift-y whilst for me it’s been the summer of Sweat-y as I continue to drench my way to the menopause (more about that later. Obviously).

But aside from being rather damp and sticky, my own Life this past three-month has been something of a non-event.

[Notable exceptions include a micro-break in Wales 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿 avec ma mere and a couple of lunatic chiens 🐶 🐶 and a thwarted attempt at running away from home, which saw me get as far as Bridlington and back before bedtime.]

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Oh, and results day probably deserves a mention. It was certainly a day of celebration for the family. Just not for my actual daughter who spent the day in shock and disbelief.

Nowt to do with her results, you understand.

Despite her wonderfully surprising performance, for her everything was marred by the shock celebrity break-up of the year on the eve of her big day.

R.I.P Tommy and Molly-May 💔

In the end it took a posh(ish) brunch, a shed-load of guff about how “utterly wonderful you are, darling etc.” AND a new Jellycat, just for her to crack a smile.

But I was pretty much beaming the whole day 🥹.

Not that I’m not also heartbroken by the demise of the love affair of the decade. I mean, who’s thinking about Bambi? It’s always the children that suffer *sniffle.

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Well, this a better-late-than-never start to my first post back. I mustn’t lose momentum now…

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Hang on…there’s a sudden commotion downstairs. I think one of my housemates is heckling me…

I must investigate..

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So much for my stellar start 🙄

I’ve spent the last hour tending to a child whom I discovered ailing in the bathroom.

By child I mean grown woman and by ailing I mean pissed.

The daughter-shaped drunkard downstairs might be in the final year of her teens, and I might be less of a Legal and more of a General-Guardian these days. But the last I checked this was still my 🎪 and she’s still one of my 🦧.

So, I’ve taken reluctant responsibility. At least for holding her hair back whilst she vomits.

Which she’s just done. Twice.

🤮🤮…???

Once in the sink and just now on her bedroom floor. Don’t worry, I chucked down a towel with seconds to spare (it’s only an awful one Sylv bought during one of her taste-bypasses, so no harm done 👍)

Can’t she just hurl her heave-ings down the dunny like ordinary drunks?

Apparently…

Her: (pacing the floor like a dog before it chunders) I’m not that pissed, mother. You’d have to be jacking-up heroin to get on t’fucking floor in this house, mother. I refuse to stare down a piss-stained bog, mother. I’m not in a K-hole (hic).”

Well, I’ll count my blessings then, shall I?

Which it would be vastly easier to do than count all the stray olives blocking the bastard bathroom sink, more’s the pity. So I better add a shit-ton of Mr Muscle to the Prime order and steel myself for a joyous hour with the plunger in the morning.

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Since she first burst through the door, I’ve been struggling to make head or tail of her evening, beyond it being a roaring success 🥂

But a cursory look in the plug hole and you don’t need to be a SOCO to provide a forensic list of ingredients from her evening meal.

Italian’s my guess – I’ve defo just picked out some naked pasta *shudder.

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WHAT NOW???

Jesus, that was her on FaceTime, I presumed to request my assistance with a revolting round three.

But no.

My not-so-little girl is coming upstairs to get in bed with me…I neeeed you, mum (hic).”

What? Fucking WHAT?? What can she possibly “need” from me at this point in the pie-eyed proceedings?

Never mind that she’s got her boyfriend laid next to her in her own bed for any “being needed” duties – she’s an adult human. An adult human who hasn’t been anywhere near my bed since about 2015.

I’m pretty sure she’d rather die.

She’s happy enough to let me on her bed if we’re watching Love Island but that only lasts for a few weeks a year. More’s the pity.

I think we’d both say we were close but when it comes to physical contact she’s kept me at arms-length for a while now.

So you can’t possibly imagine how stunned I am, lain here waiting for her to stumble – hopefully wearing some clothes – into my bedroom.

Stunned AND concerned.

I had hoped a couple of stints with her head down the sink would sober her up a bit.

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It’s half an hour since that call and after one final farewell to the rest of her stomach contents, she’s now safely asleep in her own bed. In the recovery position. Listen, this ain’t my first rodeo 🤷🏻‍♀️

Rather more unfortunately, it’s now 02:54 hours and I’m wide awake and twiddling my thumbs.

(Speaking of thumbs, I’ve been having some worrying symptoms in one of mine. So concerning that I inputted said symptoms into Doctor Google, who gave me an hour to call 111 before I lost my arm.

But on balance that day,  I decided to use the hour to watch a Midsomer Murders instead.)

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But after being thricely interrupted tonight, to act as first-responder to my darling daughter, I’m calling it a day as far as any more writing goes.

Perhaps my next post should feature my daughter doing sommat more edifying than staggering around the house, singing and stinking of booze?

Yes, for the purposes of light and shade my next post will paint her in a far more demure style.

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Anyways, my concentration has gone to shit now I’ve gone from mildly interested to majorly invested in the goings-on over at the US Open. Looks like Djokovic is having only a slightly better night than EC.

Although, I doubt it’s his blood alcohol level that’s got him at sixes and sevens. Novak’s one of those body-is-a-temple kinda dudes.

Well, you don’t get to be the GOAT of men’s tennis by washing down Penne Arrabiata and half a cheesecake with three glasses of house white and a host of two-for-one cocktails in the bar to finish, do you?

See? Told you I could tell you exactly what she’d eaten.

Back soon… 👋