The nightI danced till 6am with a broken pelvis BE THERE
...and why my wild teenage parties mean I’m no mug when it comes to my children’s boozy shindigs
FEARLESS, frank and funny, SUSANNAH CONSTANTINE — TV presenter, author, wife and mum to two teenage daughters and a son — flies the flag for older women in her monthly column, sharing her life lessons on how to embrace middle age with gusto — not to mention a sense of humour.
OUR family’s first teenage party was two years ago. We weren’t hosting, thank god — 16-year-old Esme was invited. It was organised by a very good friend of mine who has three daughters. The middle one was turning 16, a girl I’d known since pre-school. So when a handful of mothers were invited to help out as taxi drivers, sisters-in-arms and self-appointed spies, I signed up.
I learned a lot at that party by peeping from a window at the teens in the garden. Above all, I learned I was deeply paranoid — fearful that every Fanta was laced with contraband vodka, terrified a harmless snog could lead to sex.
There were shenanigans, of course. Monitored alcohol was on offer, along with food and music. Some went home with a love bite in lieu of a party bag and many were drunk, their pristine livers susceptible to the diluted cocktails.
It was bittersweet to see children I’ve known since they were tiny with their adult training wheels on. The boys spluttered on cigarettes, desperately wanting to be ten years older or a dJ, and the girls were just thrilled to be there.
Half of me was overjoyed to see my beautiful daughter socialising with confidence, the other half bereft. When it was time to leave, Esme was tipsy but not drunk and had reverted to acting like a loving, cuddly four-year-old. Fine by me!
Since then, we have had a positive epidemic of parties, and I’ve learned more about how to handle them.
Of course, we have all heard the horror stories about parties that end in disaster: a Facebook announcement that inadvertently encourages gatecrashers and ends in a trashed home; parties held by friends whose parents are unknown, but who your child tells you will ‘definitely’ be there. (Try asking for their telephone number to check it’s all above board and you are met with a torrent of: ‘You don’t trust me. No one else’s parents are so protective.’)
ALTHOUGH I didn’t start partying until I was a little older, we were just as wild. At 18, I was a car passenger on the way to one party when we crashed, and I broke a toe and cracked my pelvis. Already half-cut, I didn’t feel a thing and danced until 6am. It wasn’t until the drink wore off that I felt the pain.
As it turns out, though, I do trust my children. They have had plenty of opportunity to mess up — my husband Sten and I try to give them just enough freedom to find their own way — but have slowly gained our trust by telling us truthfully what goes on. like the time a drunk girl wandered off, got lost and was picked up by police eight hours later, passed out on the roadside.
Of course, trust goes only so far. I am also in cahoots with other parents at each party — and my kids know I will always pick them up, no matter how late.
Not that they haven’t tried it on. When I arrived back from Cornwall three years ago, my
then 17-year-old son, Joe, who had been home solo for a week, was at the door to welcome me.
‘Hi Mum, let me help you with your suitcase.’
Rat smelled. My eyes swept the kitchen. Immaculate. Unnaturally so. ‘Did you have a party?’ ‘No.’ ‘I will find out.’ ‘OK, I did. It was amazing.’ He went on to tell me how he ordered food and drink from Tesco, turned the sitting room into a nightclub and had 25 sleeping over. There was nothing, not even a cigarette butt or an unmade bed, to incriminate him.
He had done so well, his punishment was to organise every party we had for the next two years.
What surprised me was that none of the parents had called to find out about the impromptu gathering, as I always do.
In my time, things were more formal. For birthdays, an invitation was sent out — by post — and you were expected to reply. Now it’s all done on social media. This makes policing more difficult. So, what can you do?
Three weeks ago, we held Esme’s 18th birthday party. I set myself a budget, worked out alcohol units per head (seven!) and prepared for the invasion. At the start, Sten gave a ‘speech’ announcing that the house was out of bounds and anyone caught with drugs would be thrown out.
Yes, there were casualties who ended up napping under a hedge, but everyone was safe and had a ball. So, if you are the parent of a teenager, this is what you need to know before throwing a party . . . BLINDINGLY obvious, but you’d be amazed how many parents leave. Teenagers are brimming with unexploited athleticism, so they’ll hang off your windowsills and have sword fights with your curtain poles. They’ll also raid your fridge, eating everything.