Just You Wait
by Kambuckta
I get really sick of stupid magazine articles bemoaning the changes in lifestyle and the loss of identity that parents experience when they have their first child. You know the ones: the folk who have live-in nannies and on-call plastic surgeons who then carry-on about how difficult the transition to parenthood is. They have no idea. A baby is just a blob of putty, waiting to by moulded into a nice, agreeable little kid. Just wait until the benign little kid turns into an atrocious teenager. Worse still, wait until there are a few of them living under the same roof, then they'll really have a reason to complain.
I like babies. They are cute, they smell nice, they dribble on cue, and they really like you too. Teenagers are not cute, unless you've got a penchant for acne and big noses. They certainly don't smell nice. For the first time in your life, you almost begin to appreciate the wafting aroma of Brut 33, at least compared to the other effluvia that permeates the house. They still dribble, but usually at the most inopportune time (like visiting the grandparents), who then mutter something about developmental delays under their breath. And don't expect a teenagers face to break into a huge, welcoming smile when you walk in the door, unless you have just done the shopping, or it's pocket-money day.
I know babies use lots of nappies, which can be gross at times, but just wait until you have a laundry full of post-pubescent jocks and socks. These pathetic excuses for a science experiment have been decomposing in the kids bedroom, along with six months worth of sheets, and an equal supply of vegemite sandwiches. Being toxic waste zones, you refuse to go within coo-ee of them as your survival instincts are still reasonably intact. Of course, your exhortations to 'Bring out yer dead or there'll be nothing to wear tomorrow' fall on completely deaf ears, unlike 'Who wants Maccas for lunch?' which can be heard as a whisper from 100 metres. Selective deafness in adolescence is a medically recognized condition, but no remedy has yet been found. Don't bother shouting. It doesn't work.
You can have a conversation with a baby, and they will gurgle, chortle and croon in reply. Just try to have as meaningful a discourse with a teenager. Mute silence or monosyllabic grunts are the invariable response to any discussion that you attempt to initiate. You know that they are capable of talking, because your phone bill tells you so. However, you also note that a lot of the calls are of the 1900 variety, which perhaps explains the newly-found propensity to grunt.
Those of you who complain of sleep deprivation when the new baby comes home, had better enjoy the surfeit while it lasts. You can doze off while you are feeding the little darling. Your teenagers' promise to be home by 10.00 p.m., however, takes on an insomniacal insignificance at 4.00 a.m. as you lie there waiting for either the hotted-up Commodore to rev into the driveway, or the coppers to knock at the door. Buy shares now in Nescafe and forget about the educational savings plan. They won't need it anyway.
Another variety of sleeplessness is when your kid kindly deigns to stay home for the night, provided he can have a couple of friends to sleep over. At this point, you reluctantly accept that not only is he hopelessly inarticulate, but innumerate as well. A 'couple' of friends turns into ten belching and grunting human-hoovers, who can strip the food cupboards and fridge in five minutes flat. You then maintain a vigil by the stove, preparing pizzas and sausage rolls to stuff into their cavernous maws. Seven hours, and three trips to Safeway later, you finally fall into bed, to be lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of 'Fatboy Slim' and 'eminem' at full volume. Just you wait.
One of the nicest things about babies is that they don't cost very much. Doting grandmothers happily purchase the flannel pilchers and the mock-colonial cot, and if you're clever, Medicare covers the rest. Medicare doesn't stretch to kabuki classes, lacrosse gear, or interstate school excursions though, and by this time, the grandparents aren't quite so generous with their gifts either. They just don't appreciate that a new pair of runners does not mean Dunlop Volleys. So, to ensure the kids don't end up on the therapist's couch, regaling him with tales of your neglect, they must be encouraged to participate in culturally-enriching activities. On the down-side, you have to cheer on your (not so talented) progeny, on the strict conditions that you stand anonymously behind a tree, and park the car 200 metres down the road, in case any of their friends see you, or worse still, the bomb.
Speaking of their friends, this is the one time in your life when your self-esteem can get a bit of nurturing. According to the mates, you are the coolest, and they really wish that their mum was just like you. But before you nominate yourself for 'Parent of theYear', just be aware that your kid is probably saying the very same thing to Kylie's mum or Jason's dad, and outlining in specific detail, all of your defects as a parent and a human-being. Don't be too alarmed: there is a pact between parents of adolescents to not believe everything we hear. Just occasionally though, we really want to believe all those stories about Kylie's folks. It gives our egos a much-needed boost to think that we are not quite as dysfunctional as those other parents.
Babies are nice because they don't argue, except when you try to persuade them that pumpkin is yummy, or that establishing a diurnal pattern is a groovy thing to do. Teenagers fight. Geez, can they fight! Your comment about their green hair invites an explosive outburst of the magnitude of the Hiroshima blast, with howls of protest about the repression of minorities and the removal of human rights. Your heart gives a little jump for joy, because you heard them actually talk for the first time in years. At the same time though, you make a mental note to check the Piaget book for indications of developmental delays as their reasoning faculties seem to be somewhat disturbed. All you had in fact asked them, was whether they had remembered to use conditioner on those luminous locks. Just you wait.
Driving a baby around in a car can be a pleasant experience, mainly because they doze off as soon as the ignition is turned on. Driving teenagers around is not. They monopolise the radio, bash each other senseless in the back seat, and whinge incessantly about how they are going to be late. It is the only time you will recognize the notion of punctuality creeping into their consciousness. When your sleeping angel is the only other occupant of the car, the remains of a half-chewed rusk may litter the floor. Compare this to the 2.35 tonnes of miscellaneous flotsam to be found in a teenager-infested vehicle. It's more of a mobile garbage dump than a family wagon, and you seriously suspect that the mummified remains of the missing cat are buried somewhere under the debris. "Ah well", the toe-rags remind you, "It wasn't much of a cat anyway. Can we get a dog now?"
Whereas a baby wants to make you happy, teenagers make it their ambition to make your life as difficult as possible, unless of course, there is money to be made out of it. A simple request to take out the rubbish is answered with a perfunctory 'nuh', although the entrepreneurial kid will follow this quickly with 'How much is it worth to ya?' Your previously harmonious, cooperative household as been invaded by hard-core, right-wing economic rationalists, who would think nothing of selling their soul to the devil if there was a buck to be made.
So, this is what the future has in store for you, and your cherubic Bundle of Joy. I have heard on the grapevine that not all teenagers look and behave like the scrofulous, slavering idiots that I've described, but I haven't met one yet who doesn't. Treat that information with the scepticism normally reserved for alleged sightings of UFO's and Elvis. The only redeeming feature of teenagers is that one day, they will probably have teenagers of their own. I know what I'll be doing when my darlings become the proud parents of the future. I'll be laughing my head off, and saying, 'Just you wait!'