Blink, and *ping!* twelve years seem to have passed when you finally re-open your eyes. Or at least that’s what it feels like with number one son. The time has come in the Stewart household to have some very earnest discussions, frettings, nashing of nails about the aforementioned clown-footed-floppy-haired-gangly offspring and his inevitable bid for new freedoms.
What freedoms do you allow a 12 year old to have? At the end of the day although he is he is very tall, has a girlfriend and some semblance of common sense (if you dig deep enough), he is still the little boy that I used to bottle feed and dry after his bath… Even if he is now pretty much at an eye-to-eye level with me!
The thing is I think I was younger than this when I walked the few miles between our house in Northampton, through Abington Park, to School. I also remember the first visible signs of fretting my parents had when they decided to let me have my wings, at what age I can’t remember, in Corby.
Of course, being young, I didn’t much worry about the fretting and I distinctly remember my watch “conveniently” stopping so the time I did eventually wander back home didn’t exactly match the time I was told to be in by.
My dad was very wise to that little trick!
So now it’s our turn to start that “fretting” to wonder what is acceptable freedoms to grant in this slightly less innocent age. I am mindful, however, of whether the fears I have are entirely justifiable?
I’ve recently been watching Charlie Brooker‘s excellent “How TV Ruined Your Life” which has given me some food for thought. So, whilst I ponder my sproglets current bid for freedom, feel free to pass on any wise words you may have on this subject, and bring much wisdom to the…. wisdomless, wise-ass-less, fick, wiseless (that’ll be me).
….hopefully number one son won’t be donning blue wode and mauling Scottish history in the meantime