Death better at times than life sentence of child rearing

Your child's arsenal can be a dangerous and carefully selected set of not-so-happy memories that they can draw on strategically at any time. Photo/File

With life form the elder, technically, off my hands I just have to hold out until April next year, when the clones will finally be 18 and theoretically no longer my responsibility.

I've never claimed to be the perfect parent, if such an entity even exists. I've freely admitted to making many mistakes because I firmly believe it's the responsible thing to do ... once you admit to something and take ownership of it. It also disarms "the enemy". They can't throw it back in your face and, if your kids are anything like mine, trust me, they'll try.

Your child's arsenal can be a dangerous and carefully selected set of not-so-happy memories that they can draw on at any time.

Choosing the right memory at the right time can inflict serious injury, especially to our pride/ego. They want to get your back up and they're looking for a fight. One of my clones is like a heat-seeking missile, relentlessly following me, nipping at my heels and he won't stop until he hits his target.

You know the type, a win-at-all-costs, low blows and all - and while I in no way advocate arguing with your children, sometimes it's just unavoidable. This is where taking responsibility pays off.

We are engaged in battle, exchanging verbal blows but physically it feels as though he's twisted both arms behind my back, has kneecapped me with a baseball bat and is now about to put the gun to my head. He reaches for his holster of horrible memories and goes in for the kill. With great relish, he pulls the trigger: "Remember the time when you ... "

The pain shoots through me, I'm lying on the floor, I look up to see if I can catch a glimpse of my own brains as the splatter on the ceiling above me, it's then that I realise he's fired a blank.

I'm on the ground, injured. I hurt all over and my heart is aching and while there is a part of me that just wants to give up fighting altogether, it's not my time to die.

Before I slip in to a coma I gather the last of my strength and tell him that I do remember and that I also remember telling him at the time that not only was I wrong, I was also very sorry, so what's his point?

I visibly see the wind go out of his sails. He's got nowhere to go from here and he knows it.

There's no winner in this battle. There is a small victory though, the fight is over ... for now.

We each retreat to our corners. Me, I just need to recover as quickly as possible. Regain my strength and prepare mentally to ready myself for the next attack.

He slinks off to his sanctum. He's probably plotting his next ambush already. Who knows what goes on in the mind of a hormonally charged teen life form?

While he licks his lips, savouring the taste of the blood shed from battle, I'm left to lick the wounds that were ironically self-inflicted, by poor parenting decisions. But because I choose to own my mistakes, I've escaped death row and must continue instead with my life sentence. And while death might often seem to be the more attractive option of the two, it's also the easy way out.

In a time where 12-year-old boys are out killing and 12-year-old girls are getting pregnant, I guess I have much to be thankful for. My biggest battles seem to pale by comparison.

We're told all along that as parents we need to be responsible for our kids, but when push comes to shove we see little real example of it. Despite all the talk by police and other government agencies, in my opinion, not enough parents are being held accountable for the actions of their kids. What will it take ... a 5-year-old with gun?

Kate Stewart is an unemployed, reluctant mother of three, currently running amok in the city ... Warning: approach with caution (or cheesecake).