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I realise that their brains don’t fully develop until they reach twenty-five, nevertheless, my teenagers truly surpassed themselves with their wild behavior last weekend – for which, (and obviously) – I feel somehow responsible.

 

Teenagers Behaving Badly

Allow me to introduce you to ‘Cone Man.’

 

Being one half of the perfect, role-modeling-power-parent-couple, the old man and I purport to be.

 

And as if that wasn’t as much as any mother and middle-aged drama queen of my calibre should be expected to bear, (without upping her medication), Tyson’s chest also went out of ‘I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here’.

 

Teenagers Behaving Badly

Tyson’s Chest

 

Anyway, you might have noticed that I haven’t dissed my son’s crazy antics for a few weeks now. The truth is, I’ve applied myself to serious meditation and prayer since we imposed our tough love sanctions, (as recommended by our esteemed leader at Bad Parents Group), on Kurt’s lifestyle, a month or so ago. And although I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he ‘went to ground’ in that time, for several weeks there were signs that our boy had turned normality corner.

 

Silly us! When all he was doing was regrouping in the boy cave, working out just how far he could push the new, ‘ridiculous’ boundaries that we’ve imposed on him that threaten to curtail his anti-social behaviour.

 

Even though I must remind him at least ten times a day that he has no hope of sustaining them once he leaves school and has to hold down a job.

 

Sorry, esteemed leader.

 

‘When you get a job…,’ has become my newest mantra; one that I lob at him aggressively as many times as possible between breakfast and dinner.

 

But back to last weekend…

 

So aside from Kurt narrowly missing the realignment of his beautiful, $10,000 teeth, (dental work we’re still paying for), not once but TWICE on Saturday night; missing the last bus home (which prompted a rare telephone call to us to beg for a lift at 1.30am and culminated in our poor boy having to walk home for a whole hour (… yes, I did say ‘WALK’ for a WHOLE hour ); the devil in him could still not resist stealing this North Sydney street cone, and redesigning it into a super-hero costume.

 

‘CONE-MAN’ HAS ENTERED THE BUILDING, much to the delight of the other residents of The Block, as you can imagine. Although I wouldn’t if you want to sleep tonight.

 

Apparently there’s some hidden meaning in the name ‘CONE MAN’ that is fucking hilarious to a seventeen-year old boy with the mental maturity of a toddler. And did I mention that Kurt is in what is probably the most important academic year of his life so far?

 

And while CONE MAN was meandering his way back to the homestead, causing havoc on the streets and men to lock up their young daughters, not one to be outdone by her brother, NC was out celebrating the emancipation aroused by International Women’s Day. Unfortunately, the worse for wear after one of NB’s work functions, NC escaped back to their room early to find herself physically removed from the floor of the en suite of their bathroom and back to her bed by one of the hotel security men sometime during the early hours, when NB couldn’t get back into the room and thought she was dead.

 

She thinks she only flashed one boob – so THAT’S ALRIGHT THEN!

 

I suppose these scientists have to let their hair down sometimes.

 

Familial events such as these make me question where we went wrong as parents?

 

Although I do feel some pity for students in Australia, many of whom continue to live at home through their years of study. In the UK, you get packed off to university with little more than a ‘fuck off, then!’, a backpack full of Marmite and a growing HECs debt the minute you complete your HSC year, so you can fulfill those horrible, formative drinking years of debauchery as far away as possible from the judging eyes and new carpets of your parents.

'Our Mate' - Jar of UK Made Marmite Spread bra...

‘Our Mate’ – Jar of UK Made Marmite Spread branded for sale in Australia and New Zealand (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

I remember my own first years away from the Big Brother house I used to call home – the ‘love-ins’, the physical run-ins with road traffic and the croissant raids at 5am – with a surprising fondness and amazement that I am still alive to tell my tales.

 

Unlike my two hooligans, I didn’t have to come home and account for my behavior.

 

 

 

 

 

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