When my babies were toddlers I longed for the teenage years. They would be able to make their own food, I wouldn’t have to get a babysitter, I would know what I was doing and I wouldn’t have to wipe their bottoms.

Well, all three of them are teenagers now and let’s see:

Making their own food – Kinda. If I’m happy to see them survive on toast and 9p noodles from Sainsbury’s, then we’re sorted. Fruit and vegetable consumption is zero, unless cooked by me (and hidden in soup or thick gravy). They can even be a bit dicky on the toast. Rather too much of the “Muuuum… if you really loved me you’d make me some toast” going on. Get a grip, fellas.

No need for a babysitter – Hmmm. In theory, no need. In practice… well, let’s just say I don’t like to go out and leave them for too long. And if, by any chance, I have to go off for the day leaving Firstborn in charge, I leave a list of phone numbers as long as my arm, to cover all eventualities, taped to his forehead.

Knowing what I’m doing – No, not really. Working blind here, in many ways. I trust my instincts more than I did when they were babies, and I’m better at shutting out unwanted advice (spoken or implied) than I was. But that doesn’t stop many many people from saying You Must Put Your Foot Down, or He Needs To Learn That Actions Have Consequences. It’s doing my head in, to be honest. Why can’t people have more faith in my babies? I have faith in them. I don’t think Firstborn is a total dropout, even if he has left Sixth Form too early for my liking. None of them are stupid – I don’t breed stupid children – so I’ll have a less of the YOU MUST, thank you, and a bit more of You Poor Love, Let Me Hold Your Hand and Feed You Biscuits While You Rant It Out Of Your System.

Wiping their own bottoms – Thank God. That’s one thing I’ve got right as a mother.

I am not a fan of Halloween. Pumpkins, dressing up and trick or treating leave me cold. My children were at first appalled, and are now resigned, at my attitude. They were desperate to go trick or treating when little, but I would shout: “No! It’s an American thing, it’s not English! It’s like begging! And we don’t do pumpkin lanterns in Yorkshire, we do turnips!”

Quite often I persuade m’husband to take us all out for a late tea so I can avoid trick or treaters, but this year he’s away for the weekend. I spend so much time out of the house I was desperate to stay in, for once, so I begged a couple of sons to hang around and hand out sweeties. They mumbled acquiesence, but then slunk off with friends leaving me to juggle sweetie tin, front door and a couple of excited dogs (Pippa is here to stay for a few days).

The first knock came from a little boy, about four years old. I picked Pippa up, told Sparky to shut up and brandished the tin. Unfortunately Sparky took exception to Little Boy’s painted face and ghostly costume and barked at him with great vigour. I ordered her back inside, apologised profusely and handed over extra sweeties in compensation. A few minutes later I was out in the back garden, fetching in the washing, when I saw Little Boy being taken next door. He steadfastly refused to approach the door, say “Trick or Treat” or touch any of the sweets. I’m assuming his Sparky experience will put him off Halloween for life.

Anyway, in a few hours Halloween will be over and done with, and hopefully Farmville on Facebook will swap those ghastly spider, jack o’lantern and scary mansion gifts for lovely Christmas things. I am a big big fan of Christmas. I could be the Ghost of Christmas Present. I decided to get in the mood this week by playing some of the Christmas songs on my iPod whilst driving along.

Favourite Christmas tracks:

I believe in Father Christmas – Greg Lake

Silent Night – as sung by Sinead O’Connor

Stop the Cavalry – Jona Lewis

What’s yours?

I had a stomach bug this weekend. I actually cancelled a class, which I have never ever done for illness. Spent the day curled up in pain, in bed or on the sofa, then got myself on my feet for the following day’s work but staggered round with backache due to all the lounging the previous day. Now trying to work out how to reschedule the cancelled class, or else no pay.

And then, Of Course, m’husband came down with bug shortly after eating chicken pie, mashed potatoes and carrots. And, OF COURSE, he had to have it so much worse than me and is currently on his second day off work and thinking about a third if he doesn’t manage to eat anything today. Is he going to lose any money? No.

It must be lovely being employed.

I made a batch of blackberry and apple jelly. Usually this is a simple task for me. I simmer my fruit for an hour, then strain it through the jelly bag.

I never, ever squeeze my jelly bag, but this time the darned stuff came out cloudy. Why, I shall never know.

Then I filled up my jam pan, added sugar, and brought it to a rolling boil.

But on this occasion I got overambitious and overfilled the jam pan. Result, hot sugary liquid all over the cooker top which took me bleeding ages to clean off.

I’m taking a break from blackberry and apple.

Cute Nephew tries out his badminton skills at our annual August Bank Holiday picnic.

Playing aeroplanes with grandma out in the field.

SIL wanted to play too, but Baby Brother was having none of it.

All a boy needs – a stick and an adoring grandma.

Onions have done well this year, apart from the silver ones which didn’t grow very big and, in many cases, went mouldy in the ground. Note to self: next year write down the varieties so you know what to avoid in future.

I need to pick that onion flower and save the seeds for next year.

Both runner beans and Italian beans have scrambled eagerly up the canes.

The Italian beans look beautiful both in and out of the pods.

Sparky has a rest while a son and I pick blackberries.

The view would be better without the industrial pipe bridging the water, but it’s not bad.

Son and dog admire the poplars between playing fields and river.

Too much going on. Too much to worry about. Money, teenagers, husband. Essays not getting written.

I finally got to the allotment this week, after a few weeks’ absence, and I grouched at SarahP and mentioned that I was thinking about getting a different job. “No,” she said, decisively. “You’re mithered. Even if it was a bog standard job working on the checkout at Asda it would take up brain space you don’t have.”

Fair enough.

And then today m’husband and I found a dog. He was running along the middle of a main road, limping and looking bewildered. We leapt out of the car and cornered him on a building site, where he peed in terror. Husband noticed there was an airgun pellet lodged under one eye and he was very thin, although his coat was in quite good condition. He was too scared to eat or drink but husband stood next to him and he leaned against his leg, before curling up on the ground at his feet.

We called the dog warden so he could get some veterinary treatment and be checked to see if anyone had reported him missing. I gave the warden our phone number so she could let us know what was happening with him, and after she phoned back later in the afternoon I called the rescue kennels where he had been placed to say we were interested in rehoming him. They said no! They would not place an adult dog in a home which had cats.

After 8 days our rescue, if unclaimed, will move to a dogs’ home in Newark – bloody miles away. Apparently that place will do more work with him, such as testing to see if he is okay around cats. So I will keep phoning and checking what is happening with him. He did seem such a lovely dog. A collie type, I think. Black and white, quite a short coat. But bloody Newark is bloody miles away. And I’m already mithered. Too mithered even to upload pictures from my camera and stick them on my blog. Maybe another adoption would not be a good idea.

But he was a lovely dog. And we found him – or did he find us?

ADDENDUM: I phoned the kennels on the 8th day, to be told that the dog had been claimed by his owners. Good news. I think.

After some deliberation, I have come up with the following answer to the problems of parenting teenagers: Be skint. Stony broke. In the financial doghouse.

For if you are skint you can respond to various demands with absolute conviction in your tone when you say ”I’m really sorry my darling boy, but I have no money. None whatsoever. You will have to buy your own designer jeans/ hair bleach/ deodorant/ illegal alcohol/ chavvy cap.” Your blasted yet beloved offspring may rant and rave at the basic unfairness of life, but in my experience they never fail to recognise the basic, unvarnished truth and either accept the lack of bleach/ jeans etc or go and get a part time job.

And whenever my darling boy proposes that he will drop out of sixth form in order to spend six months getting fit and applying to join the Paratroop Regiment, I can say with conviction: “Of course darling. It’s your future. But you must have either a job or a college place right up to going on basic training, or else I will be even more skint than I am now.” (Note to the childless – m’husband and I get family allowance plus tax credits until Firstborn is 19 AS LONG AS he is in further education).

For the first time ever in my life I am congratulating myself on my financial ineptness.

Yesterday I did a shortened version of the Myers-Briggs personality test on Facebook and got ENFJ. Which I have got before in the full version – or maybe it was ENFP? Anyway, there was an E and an N in there, and I’m pretty sure of the F. I think it’s pretty accurate.

This morning I did an even more bastardized version and got this:

Your personality is characterized by your impulsiveness, defiance of conformity and orthodoxy, and competitive nature. Taken together, these traits make up the ideal crackpot. While your personality might seem flighty and your attention span short to an outsider, you live by the motto “Life is best approach–oh, look, potato chips!”

You are always on the cutting edge of new trends. Whether it’s podcasting, taking up the guitar, or running away to a far-off east African compound and joining a doomsday apocalyptic cult, you are always following your heart and quickly embracing new ideas. However, you tend to be fleeting in your passions, which means they often may lack the dedication that marks a true cultist. While you often lack the dedication most people give to careers and family, you can still support yourself in more unorthodox ways, like by selling blood plasma, turning tricks, and mooching off your family.

Famous Crackpots include Joan of Arc and–oh, look, potato chips!

Stop laughing, brothers of mine. Although I have to say, the potato chip remark is uncannily accurate.