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Hand on heart, I have no sodding clue what my child has said to me since he woke up this morning. Not. A. Clue.

Officially he is still in the Tween-Zone but the teens are approaching quickly, far too quickly, and I can see the changes kicking in as the minute’s tick by. About a year ago the greasy hair arrived. Like some sort of monster from the deep lagoon, it was disgusting! As a former hairdresser, I strode into the situation with confidence that things would soon be under control. There was nothing I hadn’t seen or dealt with during that fifteen year period of my life. I was so confident that I would go so far as to say that I was cocky. It was with my chest  puffed out and a glint in my eye that I doused his head in clarifying shampoo and began to scrub.

Five minutes passed; I was dousing again.

Another five minutes; repeating the process for the third time.

Fifteen minutes later; my former glory had left me and I was rocking in a corner, banging my head on the wall, muttering in tongues ‘It won’t go!It won’t go!’

Eventually, it did go but not until we’d called in the  big boys. Sand-blaster, acid bath, sheep-dip, and so far we’ve managed to keep the  beast tamed and under control.

And then came the spots. Overnight, my beautiful boys’ baby soft skin erupted. I don’t know what was worse; the fact that I was totally unprepared and went into a mini-melt down or the fact that he didn’t care. When I tried to casually introduce an element of skin care to his morning routine, it was brushed aside. Apparently, he’d rather have the spots and the extra five minutes in bed. Maybe, this is simply the difference between girl teens and boy teens? Or  the difference between the (healthier ) state of his self-esteem versus the (unhealthy) state of mine at a similar age. I hope the latter. A few ‘You-Did-Great-Mom Gold Stars’ would be nice at this testing time.

After the spots came the B.O. Seriously, we don’t even want to go there. It’s early. Some people are still eating breakfast.

And so, back to this morning, we have finally arrived at the ‘speaking in joined  up writing’ phase. It’s probably pushing the legal boundaries, referring to it as ‘speaking’. It’s a sort of low, continuous noise without a break. Somewhere between the subsonic rumble of an earthquake and the call of a whale in distress. I’m quite in awe. I can only assume that he’s breathing in through his arse because no proper exchange of oxygen appears to be taking place either through his nasal or oral cavity. I have of course checked his vital signs, just  to satisfy myself that what we have got happening is ‘Tween-itus’ and not some kind of nasty bacteria or alien bodily takeover. It’s definitely not bacterial. the alien take over  I’ve not ruled out completely.

The most astounding thing ( to me) about this situation is that he doesn’t seem to realise what he’s doing. The sounds that are coming out of his mouth, to his ears, obviously still sound normal! 

Joint frustrations are mounting!

I think I may go shopping once I’ve finished my coffee, sat here in Nero’s. With all standard methods of communication failing between The Colonel and myself, post-it notes and biro’s are the future. Aside from that, I guess I just have to make sure he is fed and watered at regular intervals until such time that he evolves beyond the grunting stage and rejoins us back in the land of the living.

I don’t know if there is enough cake in the world to get me through this.

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