I recently found my diary from when I was 13 years old.
“Oh how exciting…. NOT,” I hear you all proclaim.
I had similar thoughts, and was just about to give it to my step-daughter who’s almost 13 to read for a laugh, when I thought it prudent to read it first. Given that I was a goody-two-shoes, teachers pet and extremely nerdy looking, I didn’t think there was going to be much to get excited about, but it turns out there was more going on in that 13 year old brain than I remember.
In a well-played bid to ensure no one actually read my diary, the first page is devoted to my period and how heavy it was. If, somehow, you managed to get past my description of blood soaked panties, and turned the page, you would discover that I was madly, deeply in love with a boy at school by the name of Luigi. To cut some very, very long stories short (this must be where my never-ending drunken storytelling originated), he asked me out, then cancelled and broke my heart, but I still loved him very much, and then he decided he did like me after all, and he got “very intimate” with me (yes those were my words) because he kissed me on my hand and then on each cheek. Oh how sweet and innocent.
Then the good girl image that I remembered started to crumble with my first act of rebellion against my parents. My class was going on a school trip but my parents had forbidden me to go because kids were taken in overcrowded cars. This was in the late 80s when safety was a minor consideration. I’m not sure whether permission slips were required back then, but that wouldn’t have been an obstacle for me since I’d been practising my parents’ signatures for some time. I ended up going on the trip in a teacher’s VW Beetle, crammed in with 8 other kids. The 13 year old me thought this was a great adventure; now, as a Mum, I’m completely horrified.
Obviously I don’t want 13 year old step-daughter to read something like that and get ideas, but there was worse to come. Whilst I knew which body parts were involved in bedroom hi-jinks, I honestly didn’t have a clue about the actual mechanics of it all. This didn’t stop me from proclaiming repeatedly in my diary that I liked sex. I also thought it was incredibly funny and clever to sign off as P. Rostitute, Yep you can all see how immature I was at that age, so it’s very concerning that when Luigi and his pals invited my friends and I on a date with plans to play strip dice and some special alone time, we agreed to go. I don’t know what would have happened if this date had gone ahead, but fortunately I developed shingles and spent a few weeks at home feeling very unwell. By the time I returned to school, Luigi had moved on and all my romantic hopes were dashed.
Several pages of angst-ridden teenage drama followed before we packed up our home and moved to Scotland, where a whole new set of dramas awaited me. Luckily none of the boys at school liked me, so my awakening womanhood was devoted to Duran Duran and A-ha. My adoration of them was bound to result in one or all of them falling in love with me if they could just meet me – bla, bla, bla. Pretty much like how Miss almost-thirteen goes on and on about the band One Direction. It’s just as painful to listen to as it probably was for my parents back then. At least I had better music taste ‘though!
Nowadays kids are a lot more Worldly-wise than we were, so I dread to think what thoughts are going through their heads. I just have to hope that my step-daughters and my own sweet little girl have better strength of character than I did.
P.S. Sorry Mum and Dad
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