Despite looking like one for years, today my boy became a teenager. Bless his little cotton socks (it’s his birthday so gloss over the filthy sports socks). Like most 13 year old boys, sports, gaming and avoiding embarrassments are his thang. Unintentionally, I cause embarrassments just by being. Alongwith my apparently unreasonable insistence that birthday’s must be celebrated. Despite this, and his grumps with the little-un for her insistence on balloons, he managed to turn the coolometer down long enough to enjoy his birthday bash.
Oooohing and aaaahing at fireworks however are a sparkle too far for him so he abstained. Bonfire night, at the golf club, does not involve sitting in the warm club house, sipping mulled wine whilst watching fireworks from the safe position of behind glass. Because that really would be my kinda night: no fear of injury from falling debris or bitter cold. Instead myself, the little-un and my fave niece went well prepared with boots, torches and many many many layers. We know much tramping about in the mud is all part of the fun, as is laughing at my nervous disposition around large bangs. And, thanks to Inspector Gadget’s little trip into the bunker last year we now know which parts of the course to avoid. Although my fave nephew has had a change of heart about a military career, trench foot still threatens: next year I’m sure he’ll bring some big boots.
Harsh? Perhaps. Satisfying? Oh Yes! I left it a full 12 hours before ringing the tow-truck, to complain about the car blocking my driveway. My satisfaction came six hours after the offending vehicle was removed when a not particularly polite young man knocked on my door. I like to think I may have helped him park more considerately in the future.