Being Miss 15

It’s been a long day. Up at 6:30am to have a shower, shave, make breakfasts, lunches, clear the kitchen, and then somehow get the children out of the house. Cycle to work against a relentless headwind that left me rubber legged before working through the day until 5:30pm, then cycle home, eat dinner, wash up, clear the kitchen, tidy up the house, wash clothes, dry clothes, fold clothes, and then try to deal with a temperamental 15 year old.

All of the usual stuff was easy. The 15 year old was not.

It’s easy to forget how difficult it is being 15. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for a 15 year old girl. You’re judged by everybody, you judge yourself mercilessly, and the friendships you forge seem to govern your happiness like the score for a pianoforte.

She’s asleep upstairs. Her phone in on charge downstairs – far away from her. I tried to tell her that everything will seem less dramatic in the morning, but I’m not holding out much hope. I’m fully expecting a pretend illness to appear – the groundwork has already been laid this evening.

I can understand her concerns. I was never one of the popular kids at school – I didn’t have many friends, and never quite fitted in. For some people being “social” comes easily – and for a small minority their popularity becomes a weapon – using their friendship as currency to manipulate the behavior of those around them. I still remember those children all these years later – I doubt I will ever forget them.

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