The One in Which I'm an Evil Mother-f...

I absolutely mean this, I am trying so hard to be the best mum in the freaking universe but I'm faced with the challenge of a (definitely wonderful if you're reading this my darling son, Jack) 12 year-old, and I've raised him to HAVE a VOICE and an OPINION.

Oh, why did I do that? Why?

By the time Jack is fifteen, he'll be like Germaine Greer but with actual balls.

Yes, there are times when I look to the heavens and I pray:

Dear Lord,
(I'm going back to religion on a purely selfish basis; I'm simply asking for things I want. Like more patience.)

So I was in the car driving Jack back from his guitar lesson, before dropping him off at yet another sleepover.

'We'll have to collect some drinks and snacks. You can't turn up empty-handed.'

'There's only seven of us staying over.'

'Exactly, seven is a lot.'

Seven growing, hungry, rugby lads; how do you even begin to feed them? I think I'd just throw them out into the garden, snarling, starving, and hunting down the neighbourhood cats for dinner.

'Can we get some lager?'

'Er, no.'

'OK. Bitter then?'

'Er no! I thought we'd had this conversation: no alcohol until you are eighteen and you agreed? We are against alcohol.'

Asleep, in my PJs, again.'Yes, I was against alcohol. But that was until I discovered the real world.'

'I'm not getting you alcohol. That's it. I don't agree with underage drinking.'

I base this on real life experience because I've been hungover for twenty years, and well, look at the state of me.

We swiftly moved from this to that day's' events:

'So, how was school?'

'It was brilliant. Really good thanks. Jake in sixth form went to the shops, bought a copy of the Star and we all saw him gawping at Page Three. I said to him, Jake! So he took out *Page Three, folded it and walked around with it in his pocket the rest of the day.'

(*proper horrified)

Dear Lord, 

I pleaded out loud, as we drove through Stockport, and past McDonald's.

I really need you to help me with this...

'God, won't help you now,' laughed Jack. 'You've got a teenage boy.'

I groaned. Theoretically, in number only, Jack's not a teenager yet. However, he is growing a moustache and sports size nine feet. As Jack pointed out, some of his teachers are still struggling to grow a moustache. (I'll move onto my plans for Immac-ing at a later date).

'So Mum,' continued Jack. 'If you had three wishes, what would they be?'

'To get everything I ever wanted.' I realise this is a dangerous thing to ask for; because it would be a nightmare. In the short term, I want Channel 4 to commission my sitcom.

Then Jack launched into a massive in scope, long, and complicated speech about what he would do with his three wishes: in the meantime, I drove down a one way street the WRONG way, was verbally abused by an old man, and the car chuffed and clattered like it was going to explode.

Dear Lord,

I prayed again...

If you can't help me be a good mum, at least point the way to a petrol station...

The other day, we played tennis and I whooped Jack's ass.

Jack said: 'I couldn't concentrate because you keep loading me with all your stress about work and things-to-get-done-now!'

'Don't give me that,' I batted back. 'All families have things to do, and I've told you there's nothing to worry about.'

'Well, if it's not your stress you're loading onto me, then I bet you've got PMT.'

Grrrrrrrrr.......

Um, he's probably right.