KEY POINTS:
It's over, and we are all a little teary-eyed. Someone reminds me, sighing wistfully, that it's the end of an era. Yes, but thankfully, a not-too-tumultuous, not-too-harrowing, in fact, on the whole, pretty damned successful era. We made it out alive, didn't we? We didn't entirely lose our minds, did we? And, surely, that's a minor miracle when you're raising a teenager these days.
In fact, we're feeling very pleased with ourselves as we sit at prizegiving, watching our daughter on stage on her last day of high school, displaying a poise and grace that we will pretend she inherited from us.
I love prizegivings, especially at schools as diverse as ours. If you want to feel hopeful about our country's future, about young people, this is a good place to start. Last year, I sat behind a woman (Maori, I think) who was so excited when her son's name was called that she bounced on her seat and told everyone within earshot, "That's my boy", before turning up the sound to shout, "Way to go, son!" as he collected his prize. He did not shrink and pretend not to know her; he beamed, and everyone laughed and applauded.
This year, there is the girl from Thailand with the very English name, who is the popular winner of an award for succeeding against great odds. She lives with her uncle and aunt, and sends all her wages from her part-time job to her family in Thailand. Which has helped them build a three-bedroom house.
And there are the kids from the special ed class, all 12 of whom get an award, for such things as making a special effort to reach their academic goals, or just having a great year. Which is terribly PC, but who cares.
My dad cries, wondering why he didn't get to go to ceremonies like this when I was at high school (um, because I didn't get any awards, perhaps?). But as for me, usually the biggest sook at times like this, I'm cool and collected. More than anything, I'm relieved. We made it. She's not quite out of the nest yet, but really, our work is done. She's strong, smart, healthy, kind, hardworking, intuitive, brave and, occasionally, a pain-in-the-neck. But you get that at 18. (At 48, too, my husband reminds me.)
Five years ago, I wrote about the approaching tempest as I contemplated having a teenager in the house. So much is written about the modern teenager - that troublesome, high-strung, unpredictable, moody, hormone-driven creature that we feared the worst. We braced ourselves for turbulent times. But, honestly, it hasn't been that bad. A few tantrums and tears (ours, mostly), and a little sulking (again, us), but I think we're getting the hang of it now.
I know there are paragons of parenting virtue out there, but that was not us. We've shouted and nagged and, yes, hit - and not lovingly, either, though we soon gave that up and tried, you know, using our words and reasoning, instead. Which is frankly more useful when you're trying to explain why it's a good idea to defer your acquaintance with alcohol (because, girls, it will damage your looks and lower your IQ, according to me) and sex (emotionally problematic, and who needs that at 18?) until much, much later. Like when you no longer need to ask your folks for money.
And, okay, we've been inconsistent at times, we haven't always practised what we've preached, and we've been the source of many embarrassments for which we've never had the good grace to feel bad. Look, no one ever died from embarrassment; and, anyway, it's character building to have your (suddenly very traditional Tongan) father picking you up from the city after midnight, even when you're 18 and trying to be out late with your friends. In the Pacific, it doesn't matter how old you are - you're a child until you're married.
But, hey, it could've been worse.
Auckland policeman Glenn Compain often deals with the children of distracted, overburdened or downright negligent parents, whom he describes in his book Streetwise Parenting. Troubled children like Derek, who stopped going to primary school and ran away from home because he was sick of his parents' constant partying and boozing. When Compain confronted Derek's parents, he heard "what has to be the most pathetic excuse for being a crap dad": "I'm still young," said Derek's dad, "and I have to live it up while I can. My son just needs to harden up."
Compain doesn't hold out much hope for Derek.
Raising teenagers is a bit like gardening, I tell friends - always to much guffawing, seeing that my garden is often messy, untended and frankly pitiful. But this just proves my point; my garden reflects the amount of time and love I lavish on it, which is practically zero.
There is, of course, some luck involved. We've been dealt a very good hand. And I'm not forgetting that we have two more teenagers at home - boys, each with his own particular challenges.
But let us enjoy our moment, just for now.
