How to be the World's Worse Mum. Step 5: the Jumper

‘You’ll need a jumper,’ I call.
There had been crystals of ice on the grass this morning. I had run my hand down a single spike of grass and the ice crystals had lumped together in my hand.
‘It’s cold out,’ I yell from somewhere upstairs. ‘You’ll need a jumper.’
I bounce down the stairs, ‘You’ll need a jump…’
‘Da Dah!’ the teenager steps forward. He is wearing a jumper.
For a moment I’m relieved and pleased.
‘Oh brilliant,’ I say
Then I realise.
‘Have you taken the one from the drying rack in the kitchen?’ I ask appalled.

I know that it had not had time to dry as I’d only recently taken it from the washing machine.
It was the jumper that the pigeons had pooed on in Venice. The one that yesterday I’d carefully washed. Turning it inside out as the label demanded and laying it flat to dry.

‘You can’t wear that one.’ I say shocked. ‘It’s still wet.’
I reach out and can touch the dampness with my finger tips.
The teenager shrinks away from my hands, ‘No it’s not.’ he proclaims.
‘Yes,’ it is. You can’t wear that. Take it off.’
‘It’s fine.’ he declares.
‘No, it isn’t. It’s still wet! Take it off. You can’t wear that one.’
The teenager makes no move. His arms are folded. He is looking stubborn and sullen. His eyes despise me. He’s not speaking now.
‘Look we can’t go for a walk with you wearing that…’ I begin exasperated. ‘It’s cold outside…’
I’m wearily trying to explain the sense and logic of my thinking. ‘You have other jumpers upstairs that you can wear. That one is wet.
The teenager looks at me with contempt. The damp un-ironed jumper is clinging to his body. I fret at the thought of the wet jumper making his T shirt wet and damp too.
‘We’re not going if you don’t change your jumper.’ I say. The teenager stands almost tearfully in the hallway. He looks at me with angry, accusing hurt eyes. I close the door to shut out the scene for a moment, and then think better of it and re-open the door.
He is standing there like an appalled ghost his arms wrapped around his jumper drawing it closer to his body as if his very soul has been mortally wounded.
I go into the kitchen make a cup of tea and sit down with my suduko puzzle. I have no more to say on the matter. I am past arguing.
I wait and say nothing more.
He does finally change his jumper.
We do finally set off.
‘Why didn’t you just ask me?’ The teenager demands in the car. ‘Why did you have to shout?’
‘I wasn’t aware that I was shouting.’ I reply, knowing truly that only my tone of voice had changed during the stand-off, and that I hadn’t shouted at all.
‘All you had to do was ask me and I would have done it. All you had to do was explain to me and I would have done it. You didn’t have to shout.’ He replies like a seasoned negotiator.
‘You think I was shouting, but I only changed the tone of my voice,’ I say, wanting to close the matter. I’m an even more seasoned negotiator.
‘You were shouting,’ the teenager says. ‘All you had to do was ask nicely. Why didn’t you say, “Please”?’
‘You’re right.’ I reply.
The teenager is still aggrieved.
‘I’m sorry.’ I say finally.
And only when the blame is resting fully on my shoulders is the subject dropped …

….temporarily.