SATs all folks

Chav Towers seem to be the only school left in Wales still holding SATs exams.

A couple of weeks before she is due to sit them The Teenager arrives home and adopts that casual tone that means she has done wrong and is trying to play it down.

''So, some kids yeah? Like...got hold of some SATs papers right? And they, ummm, kinda were giving them out and stuff. So yeah, I got one.''

And she tosses a Maths exam paper on the the table and shrugs to emphasise how this is not a big deal.

''So what should I, like...do?''

Just the fact that she is asking my advice rouses my suspicions further.

''Who was giving them out?''
''Just some kids.''
''What kids?''
''I dunno, some kids.''
''And where did they get them from?''
''Some other kids.''
''And where did the other kids get them from?''
''For god's sake! I don't know!

And then she pauses

''What's for tea then? I'm starving.''

Later on I attempt to get more information out of The Teenager but she is solid as a Guantanamo suspect.

''Okay, so we are going into school tomorrow morning to give the paper back''
''Seriously?''
''Yes, seriously. You need a pre-emptive strike.''
''A what?''
'' You need to get in and apologise, admit you were wrong to accept one of these papers.''
''No way. I'm not a freak, mother.''
''Tomorrow. First thing.''
''For god's sake.''
''That's what's happening.''
''Fine!''

Then a thoughtful pause.

''Well can we at least photocopy it first?''

8.15 a.m. the next morning and I press for a last ditch confession when we are around the corner from the school.

''Just tell me now if you had anymore to do with this. Because If I go into that school and defend you and you're not innocent here, I will be really mad.''

A guilty pause. Followed by guilty eyes meandering everywhere but to meet my gaze.

''I knew it! What did you do?''
''NothingmuchreallyIjuststoodoutsidewhiletheboystookthepapers.''
''You just stood outside? So you were the bloody lookout? Oh great. This is bloody brilliant! And now you tell me?''

I pull into Chav Towers carpark grimfaced while my very own Tony Soprano looking petrified. But her fear is not born out of what punishment she faces, but more of being spotted at school with her mother. When you go to a school for wannabee gangsters it is better to pretend you are the orphan of a crack 'ho from Compton.

Once inside and having 'fessed up, we learn that someone has already grassed. The teenager has been marked as a key member of the crime ring. Shame she was not villainously minded enough to spot the CCTV cameras apparently recording her every move.

Over the next few days we await news of punishment. The Teenager's year tutor calls my mobile on her speed dial. She says the CCTV footage confirms my daughter's part in the crime. I lament the old days when teachers had to bully confessions out of kids, rather than get them off a tape.

We are now in a different league to the spitting in the stairwell incident, or the can of coke thrown in the canteen that started the food fight. This is even worse than the alleged happy slapping-to which the teenager maintains she was not the only one filming, but was simply picked on because her videophone had more mega pixels.

The Teenager will spend a day in 'base'. Although it sounds like a nightclub, I am informed it is actually a 'solitary confinement educational unit' where the punished are made to sit alone in booths with high walls and no talking is allowed. It sounds far scarier and progressive than exclusion, where she would simply stay at home and celebrate a day off lessons with a lie-in and Jeremy Kyle.

The Teenager calls me up crying and wailing about 'base'. I am thrilled to learn there is something she is actually fearful and consider building my own 'base' in the front room. I mutter something about don't do the crime if you can't do the time.

I call the American and suggests I should tell her that if she wants to be a criminal, she should be a better one and watch out for obvious traps like CCTV.

10 days later The Teenager sits her Maths SAT paper. It is an entirely re-written one from the one she stole. 5 days after that she spends a day in 'base' and declares it 'absolutely hideous'. 7 days after that she gets her results.

Maths-91%

So it seems that despite what my own mother told me, cheaters do sometime prosper, even if they're unsuccessful ones like my daughter.

The Queen Teen's two birthdays

The Teenager has yet again pulled off her annual trick of having two birthday celebrations.

She has cleverly arranged a party with her friends the weekend after she turns 14. Despite the fact that it is the Easter holidays so she could easily do this on the actual evening of her birthday. This means I have to organise an entire day of stuff on her birthday. And be nice to her. For two days rather than one.

The plans began several weeks ago. I tell her I'll to the restaurant but she tells me she already has. I offer to help with her costume, but she's got that covered too. She's already bidding on a Alice in Wonderland Queen of Hearts outfit on ebay. In my name. Snacks for the sleepover? She's called my mother with a shopping list.

''So how many girls have you invited to the sleepover?''
''Including or not including me?''
''Including you. Obviously. Unless you plan on sleeping elsewhere?''
''Ummm. About 7.''
'' You can't have an 'about'.''
''7 then.''
''Including you? So you've invited 6?''
''Oh. Well it's 8 then.''
''Jesus. Where are they all going to fit? We live in a two bedroomed terraced. 8 is the absolute max!''
''Don't worry Mum!'' She trills with rare optimism ''I'm doing a sleeping plan!''

The costume on ebay is modelled by a woman who looks like her main occupation involves wearing a lot less clothes. The Queens of Hearts was stern and scary and used to shout at all the little card men. I don't remember her looking anything like a ho' on the croquet lawn. I ask The Teenager what everyone else is coming as.

''Sexy Little bo peep, Sexy Little red riding hood, Sexy Miss Muffet, Sexy Alice in Wonderland''

I email the Queen of Hearts costume to The American, to get a male perspective. He replies saying I am sending the following message: ''Hey my 14 year old daughter is going to be a stripper for her birthday! Wanna stop by?"

5 days later and The Teenager's costume arrives on my desk at work. Fearful of my colleagues thinking I've taken up stripping or worse for extra cash -I unwrap it in a toilet cubicle and am relieved to discover it looks far more innocent than it did on the model slash actress.

April the 2nd arrives and it's exactly 14 years since I brought the most beautiful baby ever into the world. I make a fudge cake, it looks rubbish but tastes good. We have a great day, we get on brilliantly, there are no fights. I ponder the possible correlation between me being nice and us getting on.

3 days later and eleven 14 year old's descend on my house dressed in their stripper nursery rhyme costumes. Some have diverted from the theme and there is a sexy bumble bee and a muslim girl with a pair of Playboy ears over her hijab.

I call Amber into the kitchen to ask her who out of these 11 girls is sleeping over.

''All of them?'' she enquires hopefully
''I said a maximum of 8! Where will they all sleep?!''
''I don't know Mum'' and she looks at me with ridiculous puppy dog eyes ''Which ones should I send home?''

I'll give it to her. She's good.

''Well which ones have you not mentioned a sleepover to?''
''Just Little Red Riding Hood''
''So you have told 9 they can sleep? That's 10 including you.''

I peer into the living room and see Little Red Riding Hood munching a piece of birthday cake and drinking cherryade. She is the tiniest of the group and probably doesn't get picked for games.

I tell her that we'll obviously have to let everyone sleep.

''Thanks Mum!'' and she plants a kiss on my cheek.

And with that rarest of rare display of affection she skips off back to her friends.

Being nice is easier than I thought.

I might try it more often.

Email is so over

''No one uses email anymore''

This is the futurespeak gospel according to the Teenager. Email is 'over' apparently. Now it's seemingly far too time consuming to actually type someone's email address into a box, construct a few grammatically complete sentences and hit send.

Dare I venture what the alternative is? I retain some credibility with a correct guess that it's social networking sites and IM that have replaced the retromail. Of course, I don't say 'social networking sites' and 'IM'. These would take far too long. I just say 'Bebo and MSN?' and she grunts ''uh....yeeeeah'' in the kind of patronising drawl you would use with with someone who's frontal lobes have been sliced out.

Call me old fashioned but I am still impressed by the way email flies around cyberspace and lands at it's destination in a second...or 60 or them if you're an Orange broadband customer. I like the way people take their turns to speak, it's very British.

I treat Facebook with a similar distaste to smallpox. Why would I willingly allow all the no doubt hideously unflattering pictures of myself that exist out there to be branded with my name? I have lost count of the amount of times grown adults have begged me..yes begged..to join. I won't kid themselves they want me in their gang, I know they just want to up their 'friends' count. I can't afford another frivolous but delightful waste of time in my life. Asides from my beloved retromail, there is already ebay, popbitch and the Top Shop website. But the friends persist and then they get upset that they can't share their album with 250 pictures of their new baby. Then they send hopeful invitations to join. 'Your saddo mate with too much spare time wants you to poke them on their Facebook profile!'

They send these to my email. See how things come full circle.

My 33 year old brain cannot keep with IM. No sooner have you responded to one question, than the conversation has moved on. IM is nothing more than an intense workout for the fingers. Russians could train armed KGB agents in swift response by simply sitting them in front of MSN for an afternoon. The teenager can shut down around 20 chat boxes in the time it takes me to step over her bedroom* threshold. I guess she does not want her mother to question what the intentions are of the young gentleman who appears to have lost his shirt.

On Monday morning something strange arrives through my letterbox. I open the red hand written envelope with trepidation. Inside is what appears to be a letter from a friend thanking me for her birthday present. Wow. What to do with something that involved a pen and a stationary set? Handling it like a ancient relic I move it to the mantelpiece.

The Teenager scowls at it as she walks past.

I sit down to write an email of thanks.


*slum

A teenage cover-up part two

So what is the problem with teenagers and coats?

Mine is still treating hers with the kind of contempt usually reserved for anyone who still has the audacity to breath over the age of 20.

Every morning the battle lines are drawn at 8.30 a.m. in the hall of our tiny terrace. Me on one side with a not unreasonable request for the coat to be worn ''It is still winter.'' The teenager on the other throwing back "I'll take it but I won't wear it."

'N'er cast a clout till May is out'. My mother's words still ring in my ear from childhood. She sometimes replaced the 'N'er' bit with 'Never'-which made more sense, as my mother has n'er even been to Lancashire. This phrase would shout loudest in my clubbing days. Not for me shivering on a street corner at 4 a.m. waiting for a taxi. I might have had to queue for the cloakroom, but I went home warm.

So what is the problem with teenagers and coats? The Teenager says it's because Chav Towers has a rule that bans coat wearing inside. (Is it just me or is this bollocks? A rule for the sake of it.) So therefore, taking a coat means having to carry it around school all day. Which I guess is a problem as you might want your hands free to draw horns on pictures of teachers or whatever it is that kids do when walking between classes.

But the coat aversion doesn't end in school. It extends to her social life. Every time she goes anywhere she is always saying goodbye while halfway out of the door, so by the time it has registered she is trying to escape coatless and I have taken chase- she is halfway down the street. Wearing short sleeves.

I didn't always observe my own mothers mummerings about the clout. Sometimes I cast a clout in April and feel deliciously rebellious. The phrase may have to be rewritten in the light of global warming. Or just teenagers in general, who seem to want to cast their clouts all over the shop.

A teenage cover-up

New Year's resolutions are not supposed to last Beyond January. So it is almost without guilt that I admit to breaking my no shouting resolution. It happened sometime not long after I posted last. I don't remember what triggered it, but odds are it was the teenager's refusal to get out of the house on time in the morning or stealing something else of mine without asking.

But I now feel differently about yelling. After my self imposed ban I realise I am a better Mum if I don't screech and wail like Britney Spears being forced to wait in line at Starbucks. My own mother has always told me that you lose the battle when you shout. Much as it pains me she is probably right. Again.

Also I have realised that there are times when yelling is entirely justified. Take for example the steamer of a row we have this week. The Teenager is going out to the cinema with friends on Saturday night. I trust her that 'cinema' is not a euphemism for 'trying to get into a nightclub' or 'buying WKD to drink in the local park'.

She comes into the bathroom while I am soaking in the bath-to get approval on her outfit. Lets put asides for now the fact that she rather gouge out her own eyeballs than let me come in the when she is naked in the bathroom.

''Gorgeous!'' I say, at the chiffon, sleeveless shirt and skinny jeans combo.

And then-echoing my own Mother for not the first time of late- I add

''As long as you wear a coat.''
''I have a cardigan.''
''A cardigan is not a coat.''
''For God's sake.''
''Just wear a coat.''
'I'll put it on, but then as soon as I get out of the door I'll take it off again.''
''Fine. Just wear it.''
''You're pathetic.''

Pathetic? Pathetic? I slosh out of the bath, wrap a towel around me and march straight to her room and demand my jewellery and handbag back that she is wearing, telling her she can steal the accessories of someone less 'pathetic'. She pleads an apology, but it is only to save the jewellery, so I stand firm.

Then, all but five minutes later she mutters that she is going and I rush out to the landing hallway and I see the coat slung over her arm. I give her the Spanish Inquisition about how she is getting from cinema to sleepover and who is going and what film they are going to see and what time it starts. At one point she stamps her foot in frustation so I extend the questioning for longer. When I finally finish she runs down the stairs and then slams the front door so hard the whole house vibrates.

I belt downstairs after her- furious. I open the door and aware that I cannot rush into the street in a towel-stand at the door and scream in manner of a fishwife;

''GET. BACK. IN. HERE....NOW!''

The teenager then mooches back in and mutters something about what ever happened to my New Year resolution not to shout.

I ground her. There are tears. I do not shout again. There are more tears. I take her to my parent's house, we drive in silence the whole way there. I didn't shout. I won the battle.

But I am under no illusions about winning the war.

Shout, shout, let it all out

14th January and the New Year's resolution not to shout is holding firm. When I say 'holding firm' I mean I have raised my voice, maybe twice, possibly three times. I have not screamed once though and my neighbours are now reconsidering their decision to call social services.

Exercising such control over my wayward vocal chords has been less of a challenge than I imagined. Shouting-I can now see with the benefit of hindsight-is something of vicious circle. You get stressed, you shout, you get more stressed, you shout even more, stress levels hit the roof-as does your voice. Once you break this cycle you are free to issue your threats through gritted teeth a-go-go.

Note that ceasing parental shouting though does not stop arguments. Or normal teenage behaviour.

This week, I briefly feared that our home had been burgled. Strangley though, there were no forced locks and the perpetraitors just attacked The Teenager's room. And they didn't actually steal anything. The intruders must have been looking for Top Secret documents.

At least that's the only explanation I could fathom for the state of The Teenager's room which looked like something between Sarajevo and a drug dealer's lair-post raid. Apparently it was simply her inability to find a pair of jeans that did not make her size 8 legs look fat that spawned the 'thief chic'.

The Teenager says she prefers it that way. I pondered how this was possible as I swept though the detritus feeling like one of those industrial cleaners from Life of Grime.
''A tidy room is a tidy mind'
''Not really.'' she grunts
''Yes it is.''
''Uhhhh, whatever. Can you get out of my room please?''

I do so just as I feel the desire to shout. I pick up the copy of The seven highly effective habits of teenagers I bought her and wave it in her face. By the looks of the coffee stains it seems to have been used as a drink's coaster.

On my return from work The Teenager is wearing my new top as a dress, my vintage clutch bag, my new gold heels and my headband. I dig my nails into my palms to stop the shouting.

She is also wearing the smile that indicates she wants something. What else? I think wearily. She is already wearing half my wadrobe. Can I assist her in any other way? Maybe she would like to make another withdrawal from Bank of Single Mum?

''A lift would be lovely Mum'' She does a sweet lopsided grin that I cannot resist
I borrow from her vocab. ''Uggh. I'm tired. Do I have to?''

Then she hits me with an irresistable plea.

''Please Mum? I can't walk in these heels''

She's her mother's daughter. I am powerless to resist.

Christmas point breaking

''It's going to be weird having a man in the house on Christmas Day.'' says The Teenager.

She is not an extremly late developer and talking about Father Christmas. She gave that one up at the age of 8 as soon as she was sure it wouldn't affect the present tally. The teenager is referring to my American boyfriend, who is staying with us for what the Yanks call 'the holidays'.

I had tried to discuss this in a nice civilised manner over sushi way back in October and the response was a series of grunts. Now on the eve of his arrival it seems- as I am simultaneously trying to turn my house into something it is not (i.e -clean) and having an outfit crisis-now, now she wants to talk about it. Or just make me feel guilty. Being as I don't have time for the former, I settle for the latter and make a mental note to buy her another 10 presents to get over it.

I needn't have worried. The American resumes his previous tactic of buying The Teenager off at a cost of £20 a time and disagreeing with most of what I say and agreeing with most of what she says. It works wonderfully and they get on like the proverbial house on fire. I am left wondering if stomping around, sulking and becoming monosyllabic will encourage my parents to start handing me crisp notes.

"You already do. They already do." says The American.

On the big day The American unashamedly continues his tribute to good old Yankee capitalism by showering me and The Teenager with presents. With the exception of an argument between The Teenager and I over an untagged Urban Decay glitter eyeliner (that I am forced to concede) all is well. So we're all in a good mood before heading off to my parents for the annual Smith dysfunctional family Christmas.

Despite asking my mother to make The Teenager's stocking bigger than mine this year, she has ignored my wishes and drags out a sack with a cheery Santa printed on it that is literally breaking at the seams.

"It's tradition! We've been doing this for 33 years!'' my Dad tells The American as Mum drops the sack at my feet.

The Teenager's sack is notably smaller, although still big enough to impress. She makes a point of finishing unwrapping hers first and eyeballing me as I self conciously unwrap a pair of pink Marigold with fluffy trim and a fake diamond ring on them.

Smack bang in the middle of Christmas and New Year I turn 33. The Teenager comes into the bedroom in the morning and does a good job of hiding her disgust that The American and I are in the same bed together.

She nods at one of her gifts to me, that is wrapped in gold paper 'That wasn't cheap you know'.

I unwrap it last and am thrilled to find a chiffon bell sleeved blouse with diamante buttons. I also get a necklace and The Desperate Housewives book (after I bemoaned my only Christmas reading matter was a Nigella cookbook. I was thinking of something a little more challenging, but it's the thought that counts.) I feel a warm glow, that I know from the pre teenage days is something called affection for your child. I throw my arms around and am delighted to not receive the usual 'What the hell is wrong with you?'

By lunchtime the warm glow has faded and we are trying to do some sale shopping but instead are arguing like sisters over an umbrella in the pissing rain while I try to get money out of the hole in the wall. The American rushes up to see what the problem is. He later tells me he assumed by all the shouting that we were getting '...robbed at the ATM'. '

''No one gets robbed, this is Wales'' I tell him. ''And it's called a cashpoint round here mate''

The row then continues at the cafe bar where Mum is buying us lunch. Mum does not help matters by moaning the lack of duck in my duck salad.

''It's duck Mum. You don't get volume with Duck.''
''But £10 for that? It's just duck and a bit of rocket'.'
''Do you want me to give you £10 Mum?''
''No darling. It's not about the money. But £10? For a bit of rocket and some duck?''
''So do you want a tenner?''
''No! Of course not... it's not about the money...but £10! honestly.''

New Year and The Teenager wants to go out with her friends to the city centre for the fireworks display, funfair and music fest that Cardiff council is paying for with my tax money. Being as someone should benefit from this spectacle I agree, only realising afterwards that it will mean being out till a least 12.30 p.m-hours later than she ever has been. I issue strict instructions on how she is to return; via the main, well lit street with the crowds walking home or on the late night bus and with all her friends in accompaniment and no dilly dallying on the way etc etc.

With grim predictability 12.30 p.m. comes and goes and no sign of The Teenager. Cue numerous phone calls in which I get a series of lame excuses about the late night buses running late.

At 1.45 a.m. she tumbles into the hallway with her two friends, shouting apologies and judging by their glassy eyes looking like they may have sampled the wonders of a festive WKD or two. I don't know whether it is the New Year champagne, my resolution not to shout anymore or just sheer fury but I say nothing other than:

''Go upstairs. I'll deal with you in the morning.''

1.46 a.m. January 1st 2008 and Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze fill my TV screen. The BBC has somehow decided Point Break is the best they can offer us to start the New Year. A film made in 1991. Round about the time when I was staggering into my parent's hall way, glassy eyed with a series of lame excuses about late night buses running late.

Happy New Year.