A study was recently published in the British newspaper the Daily Mail claiming that out of all the different species available in the "teenager" genus, 14-year-old daughters are the most difficult children to handle. As a specimen of this much-maligned category, I find this hard to believe. Any analyst will tell you that the person conducting a study should not be biased. The survey was no doubt conducted by someone over 20, so that firmly and irrevocably places them in the enemy camp of the Dreaded Grown-ups.
Teenagers are a social class often tagged with stereotypes such as "surly" and "un-understandable". Close observation of their psychology and living conditions, however, will reveal that their moodiness arises from the numerous persecutions they are subjected to by certain members of their family. As soon as I arrive home, for example, after a hard day's slog at school, I am greeted by the words: "So whose life did you sabotage today?" Or: "Take those snails out of your pocket. They are not coming into my house." And this is when Mum's inside somewhere and hasn't even set eyes upon me. Mum tells me that it's just me with the snail fixation (they've cropped up all around our compound now) but I am assuming that the way parents of all teenagers regard their offspring - note the "my house" and the imperative "take" - crushes their spirits even before they've stepped inside the house.
Why do parents stop making sense as soon as their child hits their 13th birthday? Mine had never encouraged the consumption of too much non-organic food, being healthy and environmentally conscious, but now that I've voluntarily begun to refuse chocolate for fear of gaining the extra pound, I am bombarded with anxious questions attempting to deduce whether I have an eating disorder or not. Patient explanations of why they should be happy that I am finally following their advice and cutting back on the sugar has made them deeply suspicious. They aren't prepared to accept that I would ever follow their advice, you see.
With the grand old age of 14 also comes the revelation that your parents aren't as naive as you had presumed they were when you were 13, when you start getting lectures about boys and smoking. Their overwhelming concern for your safety may be well-meaning, but it would help if they understood that I - even I, pro though I am - am far more likely to hurt myself skiing in Ski Dubai than get kidnapped if I venture out there alone. To be fair, we had quite a disturbing experience at a mall once, when four of us girls sitting in the food court were harassed by a random man for phone numbers. Pretending to call our parents didn't make him go away, so we finally had to summon a real mother. Her appearance forced him to slink away, and for once we felt compelled to admit that the existence of parents, however embarrassing, is perhaps not too harmful a thing.
Parents are all very well for getting rid of creepy stalkers, but I couldn't help relating the incident to mine when I got home, and now my curfew has crept up to ridiculously early. That's what you get for being honest and having no secrets from your nearest and dearest. I suppose we owe the 'rents a lot, but I have just been going through in my head all the things I don't do. Fourteen-year-old daughters must vary from country to country, but I can't imagine myself as too difficult a teenager to raise. I diligently practice Diabelli pieces on the guitar every night when I return from wherever I've been, and the only appreciation I receive is a muffled: "Stop screeching. I'm trying to sleep."
I go to school, if only to escape the monotony of life with the family. I don't bunk too much. However fearsome the teacher, I face up to them with trepidation and a polite "sorry" if I don't have my books (most of the time). I've even finished off a massive, ever-so-difficult geography project, and if I can sneak it into the staffroom, perhaps no one will notice that it was a month late. All I have ever done is let snails into the house. They sought refuge in my dad's shoe, and there was a not-pleasant squelch when Dad put it on. My much-loved pets had to be buried, and then I get called irresponsible, with a no-snail rule imposed on me for the next decade. Life's not fair.
