LIFE LESSONS

YOU ARE NOT ENTITLED TO ANYTHING

I speak of this peculiarity in today's youth: Entitlements.

Backstory first: You all know, to some degree, my philosophy: If there are NO rules, then no rules can be broken. It's how I raised my sons. It's how we live. And this has served our little family well. It worked and continues to work- for the three of us.

Enter Molly, an almost-eighteen-year-old girl, kicked out of an abusive home at fourteen, and living most of the ensuing years either on the street or in various 'houses' with other, similarly damaged kids. And Boyd. Like a son to me. Also carrying the burdens of a crappy childhood and adolescence and... following the family footsteps of substance abuse.

I took them in because that is who I am. I opened up my home and my heart and gave them sanctuary because I can never ignore the pain or misfortune of others. I've been them. Someone, once, gave me a helping hand when I most needed it. A stranger. When we were homeless and in the street, he gave us money for a roof over our heads and food on the table till we were back on our feet. He didn't lend, he gave. And ever since, I have been paying back this kindness, however I can.

But here's the thing: My philosophy is, for the first time, being challenged. And I am having to seriously... think about laying down some rules. This is so unpalatable, so abhorrent to me, I cannot act. I cannot go against my beliefs and yet... Molly and Boyd- they are pushing me.

"Mum, you have to." This from Dylan, who sat on my bed as I deliberated out loud.

"I am not their mother! I shouldn't have to be! It's not my role to lay down rules!"

"They are taking advantage of you."

That's what is at the crux of it. They are both taking advantage of me.

What do I mean? Here's a quick example: Molly had swept their room last week. A pile of food crumbs, wrappers, dust and other small debris sat outside their door since. Every time I had to use the bathroom, there it was.

One day, I placed a small broom leaning on the wall, on top of it. That's where it stayed.

Yesterday, given my brother and his family were coming over and the two nephews would use part of that space leading from their room as a play area, I grabbed the broom and proceeded to sweep. Molly emerged.

"Oh! Thanks for doing that! See you later!"

Off she went, makeup thick, black fishnet stockings exposing 99% of her thighs, the rest of her encased in a long hoodie.

"What the fuck just happened?"

Dylan, who was passing me to get the dog-lead so we could walk to the supermarket along the shore, said, "That's your typical seventeen-year-old girl mum."

"NO!"

"You have to tell her."

We discussed what he and I concurred were 'entitled' teens, all the way to Chelsea.

"Mum, they don't understand! They've never been taught!"

"C'mon! It's common decency, manners- I mean you don't have to have a bloody Doctorate to know them!"

"No, you're wrong. And if you want to help them, you have to set some rules. You have to."

"I can't! That's not who I am!"

"Then tell them to go. It's causing us problems."

Harsh words, from him. Boyd is one of his closest friends.

But I did pause and think of all the things introducing angst and a sense of... ill-intrusion into our previous harmony: Walking one morning to find the bathtub full and... pink. Towels on the floor. Glasses and bottles of soft drink alongside. Three days later, the tub still full and pink and the pile of towels grown as had the drinks- these mainly when Molly got ready to go out, which was every day.