Seventeen. Seventeen was my best year: carefree, hedonistic and fun! Not words I would choose to describe my eldest son's initiation into his seventeenth year.
A rugby injury, when he was head- dumped in the scrum, has left him angry with his inability to tackle men or life in general. Any request to lift anything above the weight of a feather has resorted in a grimace; an ask to involve himself in family life has also resulted in whimpers of pain. However, since the injury has now been deemed as muscular damage by doctor, physio and a higher being ( ME), he can at least attempt to engage with the idea of a party. Funny that since girls have entered his sixth form!
Requirements from injured soul:
1. Do not look at my friends
2. Do not talk to my friends
3. Leave the building
4. Do not eavesdrop on any conversation
Requirements from me:
1. I will meet and greet
2. No one goes upstairs
3. Bass is turned down
4. Music off at 12
Negotiations from son:
1. You may meet but not greet nor make eye contact - I have a Medusa stare and appreciate his need for his friends not to be turned to stone!
2. You will not listen to any conversations - yeah, yeah get realistic as that is going to happen?!
Negotiations from me:
1. I will leave the building - I only agreed to the interior sucker!
2. I will play decent music music quietly upstairs on my return - The Spice Girls baby boy!
Still a subject of debate:
From him:
1. Why can he not berate me for being a total embarrassment - all the time, party or no party?
2. Why should he allow me to meet his friends as I am a total loser freak?
From me:
1. Why can I not discuss the fact that rugby players have small....?
2. Why am I paying for this party? Clearly I have " mug" written on my head!
Deal breaker on both parts:
His: me breathing
Me: not being allowed to laugh at his growing moobs! ( not true but mummy mafia weaponry)
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