I had been fairly pleased with myself for managing to have one of each, a son and a daughter that is. Now I am not so sure. Boys and girls are very different despite both being brought up in the same house, the same way and with the same rules. It is becoming more apparent as time ticks on that I’m being attacked from both sides.

Take this evening as a typical example with nothing major on the agenda, just tea and homework to work through. My daughter does her homework before I have even asked if she has any. A dream for most parents, but I don’t get away with it that easily. My son, on the other hand, is a nightmare. He forgets he has homework until 2 minutes before bed and that’s if he has remembered to bring it home. The mere phrase of ‘I have homework’ coming from him sends me into nervous twitches. My stomach tightens into knots as I check to see how well we did on the last homework. Yes I know it’s his homework but when a child is struggling we, as parents, have to step in at some point and explain things unless were quiet happy to have a wailing child complaining they can’t even add 2 and 2  in sobs of tears. Apparently this is common and boys nearly always struggle with homework whilst girls breeze through it. It doesn’t ease the nightly misery though. At the start of the homework I am fairly confident in adding 5 and 5 and how to spell this and that. ( quite literally ) by the end of the homework even I struggle to count unless I am using my fingers and spelling any word more than three letters is just brain suicide.

On the flip side evening meals, although another bone of contention, this time it’s my daughters turn to turn me into a nervous wreck. My son will eat anything and everything you place in front of him. No poking it with his fork and asking what it is with his nose turned up. No asking what animal is it or if it’s organic. My daughter requests a small amount before the serving spoon has touched it, as she pears at it like I have just served up the latest recipe incorporating arsenic. A knife is far too cool to use and just on the table for decoration, silly me. She then very kindly points out all the bits she doesn’t like, which I have decided is relative to the day of the week. Mushrooms seem to be ok on a Monday but by Friday they are just gross. If it’s not enough that it’s just me doing the shopping , dragging it back from the shop, putting it all away and not forgetting thinking up a new meal every night and cooking it, woe is me if I repeat a meal more than once in the same century. She wails she is so bored of it despite only having eaten the offending meal twice in her life.

Of course were not finished yet as we’ve not touched on the matter of the dishwasher. I grew up having to wash up the whole families dishes so I positively delight in just putting it all into a magic machine that washes it all for me. My children though take a dishwasher, of the mechanical variety, for granted. For them it seems very difficult to comprehend the process of putting their plate into the dishwasher without being asked every night.

These things are sent to try us I know and my only way of getting through these times is thinking up ways for revenge. I have one potential revenge situation on place which, if I am crafty enough, will see me through a few more months. My daughter is now is the ‘bra wearing’ stage and of course I have to buy them, which means she has to be in the shop with me. So if you see a fairly insane looking woman complete with red faced young teenager in tow, don’t laugh its revenge, I did mention the newly bought bra would be on my head didn’t I?