Steve Braunias is the parent of a 15-year-old
Fifteen on Monday, waking her up at seven with three brown paper bags filled with five presents. She has a sloth on her bed, that patron saint of sleep, but this is maybe the first birthday morning I remember that she wasn't already up and about and on her feet. We have a standard image of early adolescence as something hectic and exuberant but it's also the first time they really discover the joys of a long, deep sleep. Teenage bedrooms all over New Zealand are filled with creatures who doze till midday. Strange to think of all the households quiet with adorable sloths.
Fifteen on Monday, her childhood now stored in cupboards in the hallway. There are the loom bands, there are the drawings and paintings, there are the Sylvanian mice in petite waistcoats, there are the stuffed toys (sample: a schizophrenic creature I bought in Wānaka with one side of its head glowing with a smile, the other side wearing such a dejected frown that it looks like it's suffering a mental collapse), there is the Nerf gun – to this day if I see one of those little shrapnels of foam known as Nerf bullets on the pavements or in the gutters, I pick it up and take it home, driven by some fear that you never ought to let your Nerf ammunition run low. There is a certain kind of face that you often see on old people when they walk past little kids. It's a dopey face, transfixed by the sight of something precious that goes out with the tide: childhood. I think I might be getting that face.
Fifteen on Monday, and up the road and off to school in her school uniform, which is to say the same kind of cut-off denims and black sneakers and white T-shirt that all her friends seem to wear. I'm always asking her about the social structures and demographics of teenage life, and we have long talks about such subjects on our evening walks around the neighbourhood. She points out the house of a teenager she claims is the most popular girl in Auckland, and hosted A-list parties that spilled out on to the balconies surrounding the top level of her mansion. But the parents have separated, and the house has been sold for high millions. Fame, youth, wealth: all the tenets of teenage social media come to life on our neighbourhood walks.
Fifteen on Monday, and she is loved to the moon and stars and back by her parents, those doting servants, with their calendars and timetables and credit cards. It's nice to be in the background of someone's life. You do your best to just sort of lurk in the shadows, an unseen presence, there when needed, a kind of security detail, bodyguards ready at a moment's notice to take a bullet. These are somewhat dramatic concepts but all parents need to cling to heroic ideals as they slave over making their teenagers breakfast, a morning snack, lunch, an afternoon snack, dinner, a Rocky Road for dessert, and an evening snack. Your job is to bring the fuel. Their job is to set themselves on beautiful fire.
