I am typing this while trying to resist an overpowering urge to text my daughter.
Everything okay? I will message, soon, when I can't hold out any longer.
And I'll watch my phone, in real time, until the little blue bubbles appear, and seem to hover there forever before finally, a reply.
Y x
The 'x' is because she knows I'll be just a little bit pissy if it's not. What this message really says, between the dots, is: YES. FFS. GO AWAY.
Watch: Things Parents of Teens Just Get. Story continues after video.
My daughter is 13 on Friday.
It's 13 years since the wild pre-dawn morning she arrived, peachy perfect and squalling. Thirteen years since she flew into the delivery room a full fortnight early to a chorus of bellowed swear words and a dad who was ready to catch her.
I can't explain how those 13 years have been a century, crawling past, and also just five minutes, jetting by.
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