One of my kids used to think he was probably swapped at birth with someone else’s kid at the hospital.

He and his brother are SO different, it’s not funny. So different, that Spawn the Younger used to ask me quite often if he was adopted.  I realise now that he may have been quite concerned.

YS (after asking about being adopted for the eleventy-hundredth time): But do you remember actually HAVING me Mum?

Me (getting frustrated ‘cos I’d rather be sleeping or drinking alcohol or smoking crack than going through this AGAIN): Um YES! Because you was born after  just one and a half hours labour, and weighed in at 10lb 11oz.  I’d think I’d freakin’ remember it alright! The doctor was so eager to weigh you that he almost ran to the scales, and you were the biggest natural birth on record at our country hospital at that time. There was NO other baby in the hospital they could have swapped you with, unless they grabbed a visiting 6 month old, and I think I would have noticed that.

YS(not convinced): Yeah OK, then, whatever…

Me: *head explodes*

He’s got a point though. Some notable differences

Elder Spawn: Tidy (and THAT is some freaky shit for a teenage boy)

Younger Spawn: Untidy doesn’t BEGIN to describe his room. Or his school bag. At the end of term, we don HAZMAT suits to clean it out. Families could live for a week on the refuse in the bottom of the bag. The kid is a pig.

Elder Spawn: Tall, thin, tanned with brown hair and deep brown eyes.

Younger Spawn: Shorter, solider, tanned with naturally snow white blonde hair (even at 14), and blue, blue eyes.

Elder Spawn: Slow to get angry or upset, but when he does? Get the hell out of his way.

Younger Spawn: Quick temper. Goes off like a firecracker, then everything’s alright half an hour later.

Elder Spawn: Pretty quiet. A fairly cool customer.

Younger Spawn: Commonly asked to “Shut the HELL UP!”

There’s nothing about these two to indicate to anyone that didn’t know them, they are brothers, let alone related.

But seeing Younger Spawn with an hand on his older and much taller brothers shoulder, checking he was OK a couple of weeks ago? Seeing him taking him drinks because he didn’t know what else to do? Watching him, watching his brother with his brow all furrowed with concern?

That’s brothers are all about.

I wish I’d had the camera right then. Because at the end of the day - it’s not genetics that matter, it’s just you and your brother that matter - related by blood or not.

So my son, Spawn the Elder, has had an emotional week or two. As have I. There is nothing quite like having your teenage son literally crying on your lap, well half on your lap because he is over 6′2″ tall and I am 5′3″, despairing anything good is ever going to happen in his life.

Maybe it’s my Irish ancestry. Being born in Belfast, perhaps I have inherited that melancholy Irish heritage and passed it on. I am partial to a nice potato…

Anyways, thank you to everyone that expressed concern for him. It was greatly appreciated (by me at least, as he’d be horrified if he thought I had posted about him).

Our school has been abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. His year coordinator talked to me for ages, the vice principal called, all his teachers were advised of the situation within a couple of hours, and he was made a priority booking with the school counselor (the spawn that is, not the vice principal), and then was quickly booked into see our GP.

So the boy has talked his head off to a few people, and the general consensus is that he isn’t suffering from depression, but that he needs to work on a few coping skills. He has issues with some of the kids at school because he is more mature than the average 16 year old. Therefore, he can’t be bothered with the crap they spout, and although this isn’t a bad thing, it can serve to make him feel left out and thinking there is something wrong with him. As opposed to just recognising that some of the guys at school are nothing more than raving dickheads. As most 16 year olds are.

He is feeling much brighter however, and needless to say the stronger smell of teen spirit is like nirvana to me (heh, pardon the pun).

I’m telling you folks, this parenting gig gets exponentially harder when they are teenagers.

It sucks, and although I love my boys to pieces, and they don’t get into any trouble, do pretty well at school, have awesome senses of humour, and are generally pretty decent to hang around with….at the moment, I’d give it up in a heartbeat to be back when they were 1 and 3 rather than 14 and 16, because that era? Was a piece of cake compared to this shit.

What would you prefer, or think you would prefer? Toddler hell, or teenage angst??

Also, while we were going through this, I did a bit of research into depression in kids, and uncovered quite a lot of info. I’m thinking of doing a post covering it all in case anyone else is ambushed like me.

Do you think that would be useful??

Just when you think things are getting back to whatever passes for normal, your teenage son has a complete and total meltdown, and you realise he is just like you and wandering off towards this place.

It’s a blow. A crushing, gut wrenching blow. I feel devastated. I spent yesterday at work crying if anyone even mentioned him or even had the nerve to ask how he was.

I knew he was finding some things in life hard. I knew he was pissed off and unhappy with the way some of his mates act. I knew his grades were starting to slip.

But I didn’t know he couldn’t cope with life in general very well. That he is on the top of a slippery slope that leads downwards to nothing good. That he cannot see anything good or worthwhile in his life.

He turned a tear stained face to me and said he’s stupid. He said he’s dumb and useless and will never amount to anything, never get a good job. He can’t go to TAFE, or undertake any alternative form of study due to his stupidity. But he doesn’t understand how he can possibly stay at school because he can’t concentrate in class. Even if he takes copious notes, he can’t remember what he wrote.

He gets so, so sad and frustrated so easily. And I? I am trying to find the right way to help him before his life is impacted too much.

The upside? He trusts me. Tells me mostly everything (I’m not naive enough to think he tells me EVERYTHING!) . How he’s feeling, what pisses him off, whats going on.

You have to talk to your children. Make sure they talk to you. If they don’t want to talk to their parents, encourage them to speak to somebody else. A teacher, a sports coach, a family friend, it doesn’t matter who, as long as they care for the child and have their best interests at heart.

So hi-ho, hi-ho, it’s off to the school counsellor we go. And then the GP and then….I don’t know.

Apologies for the lameness of this blog lately, but it’s about my life and my family, and we’re going through a wee bit of a crappy time, which consequently gets reflected here (and in my inability to spend time reading blogs, and being cheerful). Hopefully, we shall resume normal transmission shortly.

So the junior spawn decided in his infinite wisdom, to rack his mobile phone bill up to $500 by downloading soccer videos, Big Brother videos, and music.

I am livid. I mean, Big Brother? Haven’t I taught him better than that?

Elder spawn of the might-have-been-twisted-testicle has always been so good with his phone (even better now he works 3 shifts a week after school at Coles and pays for it himself), that I guess I expected junior spawn to be the same.

Admittedly, junior spawn has had his phone for 6 months with no dramas, however that’s because he is well aware of the expenses of downloading stuff from a mobile.

I am not really speaking to him at the moment. He has had his mobile confiscated, he has no internet access on his computer, is grounded, and now has to withdraw all his meagre savings from the bank to pay me.

Enough punishment, do you think? What else could I do?

P.S. And to all those who offered torches, candles, hugs, and hopes of ass kicking, I thank you all. You’re all awesome. It’s just pretty much how things are from time to time here, although help is being sought.

In the words of Jeff Fenech* ( who could barely string a coherent sentence together, let’s face it): “I love yous all.

*He was an Australian boxer, for all you ingrates overseas. Not that I care either really. I hate boxing.

So yesterday. Started off prettily crappily as Mondays are wont to do, and then went downhill rather quickly.

1. It was Monday
2. It was raining. Yeah, I KNOW we need the rain. I totally get that. I just don’t want it on the roads when I am driving to work. Kthx.
3. It was Monday and I don’t think the drugs are kicking in.
4. Just before I leave for work, my eldest spawn approaches me with…an extremely painful testicle. What? You have a what? Oh. Right. Ummm…*think, damnit*

So fast forward to seeing Dr Robert. Who then informs us he thinks said spawn has a testicular torsion. A what? Ewww - that can’t be good?

No, says Dr Robert, it isn’t good. It means the aforementioned testicle has twisted upon itself cutting off it’s own circulation and if the lack of circulation isn’t remedied fairly soon, spawn could end up one sided. Which doesn’t affect future fertility and whatever and so forth, but with spawn being a neat freak, probably doesn’t appeal to his sense of neatness and order, and will drive him insane later in life until he gets himself an implant and sets himself on the road to becoming a plastic surgery addict.

Turns out, an emergency ultrasound is needed, and if it shows a torsion, an emergency operation is required, so spawn had better not eat, just in case he needs his ball cut open and untwisted. Spawn goes white. I go into capable mother mode. Ha! What’s that, you may ask. I have no fucking idea.

Anyway, we proceed to ultrasound clinic. We wait. And out comes a pretty girl and calls spawns name. He faints. Almost.

The jury is still out on whether it is cool to have your balls ultrasounded by a pretty girl, or just fucking embarrassing. We hoped for his sake he didn’t enjoy it TOO much….because THAT would be embarrassing.

It’s clear - the ultrasound. Phew. So no operation. Probably a torn ligament or infection, to be confirmed when the blood tests return. So we threw some antibiotics down his throat and made him rest it. Resting a testicle. Is that an odd concept, or is it just odd to me?

Anyway, so then I celebrated like only I can, by eating a bread roll because by then I was starving, and breaking my front tooth off in the roll and eating it. The tooth. Let’s hope that doesn’t come back to bite me. (cue uproarious laughter).

Later on in the evening, I ate some almonds, because I love almonds, and a molar shatters. So I guess it’s off to the dentist.

Awesome.

Fuck, I hate Mondays.