Lorraine Candy - Mum, Whats Wrong with You?: 101 Things Only Mothers of Teenage Girls Know

Lorraine Candy is a mother of four and an award-winning journalist with over a decade of experience writing about parenting in national newspapers and magazines, including columns with the Sunday Times Magazine and Daily Mail. She is also the co-host of the chart-topping lifestyle podcast Postcards from Midlife, which features the stories of spirited midlife women and tackles parenting adolescents. Formerly the editor-in-chief of Sunday Times Style, ELLE and Cosmopolitan, she is now focusing full-time on writing. Lorraine is a keen open-water swimmer and dog lover and grew up in Cornwall.

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Thank you to the following for making this, my first book, possible.

The agent: Robert Caskie, my patient literary agent, who coaxed me into writing this book. He finally accomplished his mission with the use of cocktails (Punjabi sours). I am grateful for his empathy, which allows me to be my full ridiculous self on every phone call.

The editor: Mum of two grown-up daughters, Louise Haines of 4th Estate, with whom I bonded over the meanage years. All journalists think book writing is easier than journalism. I now know the opposite is true, thanks to Louises expertise. And also, the help of HarperCollinss Marigold Atkey, a wise woman indeed.

The cheerleaders: Couldnt have done it without the encouragement of these strong women. In no particular order: Nina Ahmad, Lisa Potter-Dixon, Dipa Shah, Victoria White, Gill Morgan, Kathy Lette, Trish Halpin, Cathy Brown, Davina McCall, Nadia Narain, Lyndsey Reid, Claire Bowman, Laura Atkinson, Hannah Swerling, Meribeth Parker, Meg Mathews, Jane Cole and Suzi Godson.

The experts: A special thank you for the generosity of time and wisdom from these wonderful humans: Fiona Pienaar, Alicia Drummond, Lisa Damour, and writer and mum of five Clover Stroud, who kindly comforted me when I had a panic about privacy.

The virtual support crew: Thank you to the army of friends (fellow mums, mainly) that I have never met, those who sent supportive words over Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. I read all your messages; they were much appreciated. (heart emoji)

The family: My parents Anthony and Vivienne and my sister Barbara in Cornwall, and my Wiltshire in-laws, especially Grandma Pru, from whom I learned much about mothering kindly and unconditional love (plus the art of sending birthday cards).

And finally, the great love of all our lives, aka the Worlds Best Dad (he has the mug with a pocket for his biscuits), James Candy. We made it, Jimmy!

The day my eldest was born, on an August Sunday at 8.26 a.m., after thirty-six hours in labour, the heartbreakingly beautiful song Angel of the Morning was playing on the telly. It was the soundtrack to a car advert and the only external thing to seep into my morphine-addled consciousness as I gazed at my 6 lb 3 oz miracle in her plastic hospital crib.

I couldnt bear to put her down for even a moment, couldnt bear anyone else touching her or moving her more than millimetres from my side. The nurse had to unfurl my fingers subconsciously gripping the edge of the plastic crib when the time came for me to go to the loo after my emergency C-section. How could you love something this much? She was so tiny, so quiet. Bright-red hair, intense blue eyes wide open. All velvety, milky cuddles and tiny breaths. Here she was, my real-life Angel of the Morning. I didnt need anyone else that sunny August bank-holiday weekend. It was as if the world kept turning but for us everything stopped moving. She would be my everything, always and forever.

Sadly, that precious little baby girl is no longer with us. She has gone, possibly temporarily, but certainly for the foreseeable future. She is now pretty shouty, actually. Inexplicably impolite, sarcastic and a bit self-righteous. I barely recognised her at first, what with the fierce eyebrows, multiple ear-piercings and the flashes of garish pink in her once natural strawberry-blonde hair. She flounced off into the street coatless (teenage girls never wear coats), deliberate holes in her tights, school skirt rolled over at the waistband, AirPod earbuds in.

Would I step in front of a runaway lorry for her still? Of course I would (it is a love like no other), but maybe there would be a millisecond of doubt just before the relief of being knocked over and possibly spending some time alone, asleep in hospital, without the constant commentary on TikTok or YouTube stars as a backdrop to my life. Without someone asking: What is wrong with you? every five minutes.

As my eldest teenager and her sister, who is seventeen months younger, often tell me, it really does suck to be me (mum) right now.

The thing is, I can still faintly feel the shadow of her tiny toddler hand in mine and there is still glitter between the floorboards in our kitchen, poignant reminders of the early mornings we spent doing art at the table in our PJs, dunking our digestives into warm, milky tea. But that girl isnt here right now. In her place is an adolescent. She was a pre-teen, then a tween and now a teenager.

And I just never expected it to be like this when I had her, aged thirty-three. Adolescence is all a bit of a shock, frankly. The glorious parenting highs, the occasional desperate maternal lows. The working-mum guilt I personally had of not being there enough for toddlers replaced by the mum shame of the times you discovered one of your teens had done something so unacceptable you couldnt say it out loud. How could I raise a person who behaves like that? you think in the dead of the night, when youre kept awake with worry and recriminations.

People compare most feelings to a roller coaster, but parenting a teenager really is the closest it gets, physically and emotionally. It can be exhausting. Each morning I am looking over the top, waiting for my stomach to fall through my pants or speeding upwards filled with the wondrous joy of being around a new adult-in-the-making whose optimistic and enthusiastic take on life is addictive. Days of darkness, then moments of blinding sunshine and some disturbing and confusing shadows of grey in between.

One minute youre secretly sniffing the top of their delicate heads as you slip their ladybird wellies on and the next you are the mother of dragons, quite literally putting out fires everywhere. Its like there is one (or more) of them skulking round your kitchen making SCOTs (selfish cups of tea) and setting your hair ablaze if you dare ask her to take the cup to the bin before she removes the teabag and trails it dripping all over the floor.