Every month, All About You columnist Sarah Standing takes us through the perils of parenting in Teenage Kicks
I am lying in a darkened room. I am flat on my back. I am drugged. The television is off. I am in agony. Despite Vallium, despite Nurofen Plus, despite a rather large swig of brandy I am still in pain.
Yesterday I attempted to drag a pine table two inches across the floor in an effort to stop it bumping against my newly painted kitchen wall. Something happened. One minute I was talking and the next I was playing musical statues by myself, was frozen unable to move, had involuntarily broken out in a muck sweat and was panting. Actually it was less of a pant, more of a final-stages-of-natural-childbirth primal scream. My back had gone into spasm.
As everyone knows, mothers never hurt themselves. Nor do they get ill. Nor do they complain. I crossed the Rubicon. Eventually (I think it was my silence that alerted the kids) Tilly looked up from uploading her ipod and noticed that my knuckles had turned an odd shade of blue.
Are you getting your revenge for all the times I didn't pick you up from your cots when you were little?
'Help me,' I hissed through gritted teeth. 'I can't move.''Sit down,' she instructed. 'I can't,' I moaned.
'Lie down,' suggested Archie. 'I can't do that either,' I sobbed. 'Let me help you,' said India. 'Don't. Touch. Me.' I snarled.
'Mum,' said India in the type of soothing voice mothers use when trying to tempt small children into doing something they don't want to do. 'Let me help you.' 'Don't come near me,' I grizzled beginning to cry. 'This is like being in 'Trading Places',' India muttered gesturing behind my back at Archie to call Johnnie.
I slowly sobbed my way upstairs into the bedroom. Tilly undressed me. The doctor was called. Hot water bottles were filled. Prescriptions were collected. Someone gently lifted my head off the pillow and I swallowed pills. I drifted into an agonised semi-sleep. Every breath I took felt as though I were being stabbed in the back. It got dark. It got late. I woke up. From far away, dream-like I could hear voices drifting up from downstairs. I tried to get up to go to the bathroom. An impossible feat without the help of Nubian slaves.
On doctor's orders
'Someone,' I cried weakly. Silence. 'Help,' I shouted, this time louder. Nothing. The tinkle of laughter from downstairs flickered and paused.'Was that Mum?' I heard Archie ask. 'Leave her to sleep,' said India. 'That's what the doctor said is the best thing for her. Her back's gone into spasm.''I NEED YOU!' I bellowed. 'RIGHT NOW!'
I felt exactly like my children must have felt when I put them to bed and pretended not to heed the relentless cries for 'one more glass of water'. I felt helpless, immobilised, alone and ultimately furious.
After what seemed like an eternity my door opened. Tilly tip-toed in carrying a cup of tea. 'I've been shouting and shouting for you,' I whimpered pathetically. ' What are you all doing? Tough love? An adult version of Gina Ford's sleeping baby technique? Or are you getting your revenge for all the times I didn't pick you up from your cots when you were little?' 'We didn't want to wake you up,' she whispered. 'Just shut your eyes and try and go back to sleep.'
For once I did as I was told. It seems I had very little choice.
Read more of Sarah's teenage kicks:
Alpha mother Cleaning up their act The teenage birthday partyCopyright © 2006 allaboutyou.com
