My son is a teenager, a young adult I suppose. Some of the physical, emotional and social changes he is going through are wonderful and are vastly improving my relationship with him. Drawing us even closer. Some of the changes on the other hand are f##ked and make me feel our family would be better off if I sent him away to boarding school and rented out his room to three heavy-drinking Irish backpackers.

This time of change, brings about many… changes.

A wonderful, positive “my son is now a teenager” change –

I can watch “MA” movies, I don’t have to make him look away at the violent scenes and he understands the plot. The other day I am sitting watching that Kevin Costner/Sean Connery classic, “The Untouchables”. Halfway through the movie Capone picks up a baseball bat and beats a disloyal mafia dude to death… and I didn’t have to get my son to avert his eyes! During that same movie I explained the concept of “prohibition” and it was understood. This now opens the way (much to my wife’s dissatisfaction) for masters Clint Eastwood, Bruce Willis, Sly Stallone, Joe Pesci, Quentin Tarantino and Bobby De Niro, to play a much bigger part in our lives.

Freaken annoying “my son is now a freaken teenager” changes –

When I am standing there (hypocritically) getting up my son for receiving a less-than-sterling report and a complete lack of effort, I used to look down at him. It gave me a distinct air of superiority and authority. Now I am looking down just a little, it’s probably more like I’m looking across at him. Some of my stature has been diminished and with it has my mandate.

All his peers, for want of a better word… stink. It used to be that you could pick up 3-4 of his mates from rugby doing the car-pool lift home, and you could tell if they were eating lollies because you could smell the “Redskins”. Nowadays, you have to have every window open because they smell like a wet hessian sack full of taxi drivers (with all due respect to those cabbies who don’t smell, I’m not talking about you).

Our wrestling events, be they over the remote control, possession of the prime couch-spot or just a random biffo, are now much closer, hard-fought events. It used to be that my 70kg weight advantage meant my wrestling moves (namely the Backbreaker, the Facebuster, the Drop Down-Town and the Cutter) were more than enough to overcome his pathetic ones (the Boston crab, the Piledriver, the Doomsday Device and the Atomic Drop). Now, his moves really hurt.

My only son, now makes me cover up my tattoo before I go to any event at “Hornswood Affluent Boys Grammar”. It’s of utmost importance that I do not appear too loud, too outgoing, too convivial, too party loving or too tattooed, to any of my son’s teachers, his peers, parents of his peers or his myriad of female friends. Basically, I have to immediately stop being me.

He will not leave his f##king hair alone. Understandably, with a bald dad, bald uncle on my side, bald uncle on my wife’s side and bald-as-a-badger grandfather on my wife’s side, he will not have hair for too long. So he’s enjoying it while it’s there. They may invent a cure for baldness by the time he is in his twenties and he won’t have to try to fight nature as I did, but until then, DON’T CONSTANTLY TOUCH IT. He and all his mates are forever sweeping their hair to the side, preening, flicking, pushing, lifting and wafting. I know this is hypocritical (again), because in the 80’s, living in Hornswood and attending “Hornswood Affluent Boys Grammar”, our hair was relentlessly dyed, bleached, doused in hair spray, gelled and moosed, but I think it’s the father in every generation’s right to complain about his son’s hair.

Things change when our little boys, become young men. They become secretive (who knows what the hell is going on in his room), they sound like Russell Crowe, they need to shave, they won’t do homework, they are constantly on social media, they bully their sisters, they hate your radio stations, they eat like John Candy, they get zits, they dominate the television, they need to be driven everywhere, they spend money, they argue (every opinion or request of mine apparently needs justification), they know everything, the opinion of young girls is more important than any opinion their mother may have, they sleep in half the day and they wake up surly.

We love them dearly, but freaken hell!

It’d be REALLY awesome if you left a comment on my blog, Share via the Facebook button below, or just give the Facebook post a thumbs up. Check out my new writing business, which allows me to now claim I am in fact, a professional writer (www.hornswoodexpress.com.au). Cheers.


  1. As your little brother I can attest that we really pushed the limits. I too was sent to boarding school and we live 20 minutes from our school! I was surrounded by country folk that had plenty of experience on the sheering floor; pub fighting and new every word to “Thank God I’m a country boy”. My experience was is on the dance floor; pashing and I new every word to “tainted love”. My parents knew how to mess with my head, the boarders knew how to mess with my face.
    In hindsight though, it helped to save me from myself. Something worth keeping as a threat before he comes to you with- “Dad, what do you know about the morning after pill?”.


  2. The apples don’t fall far from the tree, worse luck. You’re getting all you deserve, with more to come my big hairless friend, and if this is true, then I’m soon to become well aquatinted with the fire department. Bugger.


  3. I’m sorry lads but I’m with Carol…teenage girls are by far the more troublesome.

    I can remember hitting the clubs in questionable clothing, with questionable company, taking questionable, um, medication…..

    I just pray the girls are late bloomers….

    Lets face it, with teenage boys you only have to worry about one penis…I on the other hand (as the mother of two girls) have to worry about every penis in the greater Sydney area!

    With luck they will never cross paths with rock stars/movie stars/ male models/ male strippers….maybe karma wont come back and bit me in the arse??!!


  4. Oh god. Don’t get me started on hormone-fuelled pre-teen girls……

    Apparently I am ‘mean’ because I insist that the hemline on my daughter’s school uniform is slightly longer than what my mother (in her 60’s hey day) would have termed a ‘pussy-helmet’.


  5. Give him a break Jase!

    I’m sure your parents wanted to tie you into a hessian sack with a few bricks and throw you in the river when you were a teenager. Face it – all teenagers are shits. The only known cure is military school. The best way to dodge the teenage bullet is to send them to boarding school – thats what my parents did to me at age 12… the pricks!


I would love to hear your opinion on my latest blog.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s