There have been tantrums, slamming doors, sulks, heart-stopping failures to return home on time after parties.
We located the obligatory bottle of cheap vodka in the sock drawer.
On a couple of occasions certain people have gone out for the day to Camden Market and returned with more piercings than they set out with.
We have discovered in dark corners outdated detention slips or disastrous exam results. We even once had one of the twins ring us to come and get them at the police station.
But sometimes I have had conversations with other careworn women and realised that actually our household scored quite low on the Richter scale of teenagerhood.
Since 2004 we have been the parents of teen-agers. Now, eleven years later, this is the week when that ends. In truth I haven’t thought of Perran or Carenza as teenagers for a couple of years, but technically they still were.
I’d like to thank them for worrying us just the right amount.
If there had been no jolts at all, we’d have felt we hadn’t had the full parenthood experience. But on the other hand, there has been nothing life-wrecking either.
So far as I know.