Thankfully, Small Fecker, who hit 14 last Monday (yes, I know, bad pregnancy timing) is a few years away from the beach party. He is content to spend a day with his mates playing football but I know that they are both nearly out of my hands.
Tonight I watched Big Fecker and his tribe making their way down the cliffs to the beach with armfuls of booze and then turned my gaze out to sea.
I think we have done our best as parents. Some would consider my morals to be a little adjustable and that Nirvana was not a good band to lull them off to sleep. As I have said before, they don't come with a manual - you make it up as you go along and fight the guilt when they fall by the wayside.
I think they know how much I love them- despite their foul habits and a need to write 'Owen is Gay' on my beautiful retro fridge in permanent ink (that was this morning by SF - Owen is our cat btw). Thoughtless rather than malicious, but I sometimes have to fight the urge to beat them black and blue and remember what a complete numpty I was at that age.
I look out over an aquamarine sea. They are good kids really, one year older and one year funnier, smarter and brighter than they were last year. They can walk when the car has broken down, talk into the night about things they shouldn't know about and argue like politicians. They are shaping up just fine and maybe, just maybe, I had a hand in it, somewhere.
Don't forget the competition two posts below.
There are now five entries up on LITTLE MINX.