DRINK UP!

There are moments, as a parent of pre-teenage children, when it feels like I’m just about ready to enter the priesthood. That’s not because I’ve developed a fervent religious belief, am prepared to accept the vows of celibacy, nor even that I have become a man. (Although my daughter did ask me the other day why I dressed like one.) No, the reason is that I seem constantly in the situation where I have to take the higher moral ground.

As mothers, we feel we need to show our children the true way. Do as you say and say as you do and all that. This may not always include religion, but it certainly encompasses most other major areas in life. What do you say when your child’s best friend is plainly not that nice? How do you react when your own child strays from the right road? This is the age where we are trying to instil a sense of rightness. Parenting the pre-teenager is no longer about reminding them to wash their hands before tea. We want them to know instinctively what is wrong, and we need them to be ready for the teenage years which seem fiercely different from our own.

This week we’ve been talking alcohol. Max, in his first year at Secondary School says his friends are allowed to drink sometimes. Instead of screaming “DRINK WHAT?” and whipping myself into a frenzy of anxiety, as a modern parent I realise it’s best to remain calm.

“Oh yes?” I say, cool as a cuke.

We discuss the demon drink.

“The key is Max, to always know what you are drinking.”

“Well, yeah,” he replies “ why wouldn’t I?”

I explain the different alcoholic content of vodka, beer and wine and state categorically that punch and alcopops must be avoided at all times.

“Stick with beer,” I hear myself saying. “Spirits are for losers.”

The Father of the Children passes through the kitchen during my ‘Guide to Booze for the Under 12’s Lecture’ looking askance and wondering what on earth he can have missed.

“Of course,” I add “I’d rather you didn’t drink anything at all for ages.”

“When are you allowed to get drunk then?” he asks.

Not sure how to reply, and remembering my own experiences and the stomach–pumping episodes of a friend I reach for the higher ground.

“I think, when you feel ready. Probably when you become a man.”

A priestly moment, the words ‘my son’ are so nearly on my lips. Can I really be spouting such tosh? Chances are that one day there will be some hideous party in a village hall somewhere, when he’s barely fourteen, and I will be called to deal with a vomiting teenager. I just have to pray that I am called in time and that he doesn’t proceed to hot wire a car.

It is New Year’s Day morning.

“Did you and Dad get drunk last night?” Max asks. “It was so noisy I couldn’t get to sleep.”

Given our recent conversation I think carefully before replying. The truth is that I went to bed at three having imbibed considerably more than recommended in the Guide to Behaviour for Priests.

“No,” I lie.

Should I have told him the truth? Should I have confessed to my lack of control? Does he need to know if we were playing strip Twister? God moves in mysterious ways, sometimes it’s best to lie. The only thing is at what stage should I explain that particular truth? Not yet maybe, although somehow I feel he knows that one already.

Life in the Slow Lane is written by Clare Kent. She has three children - Max is nearly eleven, Flo is nearly eight and Bobby is six and a half - and lives in Wiltshire.

NEXT INSTALMENT: 22 JANUARY 2003