The diary of a 50-something-year-old mum who deserves a medal, a fan and five minutes of peace.

Monday – The Day I Became Background Noise

7:15 am. I entered my son’s bedroom to wake him up for school. He was cocooned in his duvet, surrounded by soft toys, looking like a child who’d been raised by wolves and sponsored by Minecraft.

“Come on. You’ll be late.”

“I don’t wanna go to school.”

Ah, yes. The famous tween-in-training minute. A mysterious unit of time lasting anywhere between thirty seconds and three geological eras.

I returned five minutes later. Still horizontal.

“GET UP!”

“Why are you shouting?”

Because, my darling child, I’m fifty one, menopausal and currently experiencing the internal temperature of a baked potato. I’m not shouting. I’m simply projecting my voice across the burning ruins of my patience.

By 8 am, we were both furious, he was finally dressed, and I’d forgotten where I’d put my phone.

Mum’s survival tip: Give clear instructions and a countdown. “You need to be dressed in ten minutes” is better than repeating yourself seventeen times until you sound like a malfunctioning Alexa. Get him to set his own alarm, too. You are his mother, not a human snooze button.

Tuesday – The Tablet Has Custody of My Child

I asked my son to lay the table for dinner.

“I’m just doing something.”

Of course. Because apparently the fate of civilisation rests on whether a collection of pixels can survive another round.

Twenty minutes later, the table is still bare, I’m waiting to place the food out but there is no cutlery.

“Hello? Table needs to be laid.”

He ignored me.

“Did you hear me?” I am now raising my voice.

“There’s no need to shout.” Yet he continues to play.

I briefly considered turning off the WiFi. Then I remembered that I value my own life and didn’t fancy being the subject of a documentary called Mother Causes World War Three.

Instead, I told him to stop the game and it could wait until after dinner. We settled on a routine: finish the task, then play. No endless negotiations.

Mum’s survival tip: Agree on gaming limits when everyone is calm, not halfway through a building a bridge in Minecraft world or avoiding creepers or whatever else is apparently more important than food. Set expectations in advance, use a timer and follow through consistently. The aim is not to ban fun; it’s to teach balance.

Wednesday – Hot Flushes and Hot Tempers

Today, my hormones decided to host a rave without inviting me.

I was standing in the kitchen almost in the freezer, enjoying the only pleasant climate I’d experienced since 2019, when my son shouted.

“Can I go on my tablet?”

I replied, “Have you done your homework?”

“No.”

“Tidied your room?”

“No.”

“Put your clean clothes away?”

“I’m too tired to do jobs.”

Somewhere deep inside me, a tiny woman wearing a headset whispered, Respawn. Do not engage.

I took three slow breaths and ignored him.

Then I sat down with a fan pointed directly at my face and ate an ice cream with the quiet determination of a woman rebuilding civilisation.

Mum’s survival tip: Menopause can affect sleep, mood and concentration, making everyday frustrations harder to manage. If you feel yourself boiling over, pause the conversation. Say, “I’m too wound up to discuss this properly. We’ll talk in ten minutes.” If symptoms are affecting daily life, speak to your GP. You deserve support, not just a larger handbag full of fans.

Thursday – The Backchat Olympics

“Can you put your clean clothes away?”

“Why?”

“I’ve made sure you’ve got clean clothes, the deal is that you put them away.”

He rolled his eyes so dramatically I thought they might fall out and bounce under the sofa.

I asked him whether he’d like to explain his point without the attitude.

“Whatever bruh.”

“Excellent. A compelling argument. I shall alert the press.”

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself laughing. It’s difficult to maintain parental authority when your own sarcasm is trying to sabotage you.

Mum’s survival tip: Don’t get dragged into a battle of the last word. Calmly say, “You’re allowed to disagree, but you’re not allowed to speak to me disrespectfully.” Then return to the original request. Praise him when he does communicate respectfully. You’re teaching him how to argue without turning the lounge into a courtroom.

Friday – I Am Not the Household Help Desk

At 6 pm, my son appeared in the kitchen while I’m making myself and husband a cup of tea.

“Mum, my tablet battery has died.”

“So you want me to?”

“Why was it not on charge?” Like I’m supposed to know when it’s needs charging, I have my own stuff to deal with.

I looked at him. He looked at me. Somewhere, a washing machine beeped, the kettle boiled, and my last surviving brain cell handed in its resignation.

“Did you not put it on charge this morning?”

“No.”

“And I guess you didn’t check it when you got back from school?”

“No.”

“So your process currently consists of asking me because?”

He grinned. “You’re my mum and you know everything?”

“Nice try.”

But I am trying to retire from the being the mum who knows everything.

Mum’s survival tip: Let your child solve age appropriate problems independently. Instead of immediately rescuing him, ask, “When does it normally need a charge?” or “Would it be an idea to put on charge while I’m at school?” Helping children build independence is a lot less exhausting than being permanently on call.

Saturday – The Great Lego Collection

I opened his bedroom door and discovered a habitat that would interest environmental scientists. Mainly dust on the units and on the Lego he’s constructed.

“Right. We’re sorting this out today.”

“Don’t touch my Lego.”

“Look at the dust around your room.”

“Why? I like it dusty.” He claims.

Because I enjoy clean things and oxygen and currently your bedroom is testing its limits.

We couldn’t agree on a compromise, I didn’t think it was too hard to ask that he dusts seeing as I wasn’t allowed to touch it.

He grumbled, but he did it. Relucatantly, with a fluffy make up brush and then I followed around him with the hoover.

I later celebrated quietly with a cup of tea. It’s not to my standard of clean, but at least he made some sort of effort of it.

Mum’s survival tip: Break overwhelming jobs into small, specific tasks. “Clean your room” can feel enormous; “put your washing away and clear your desk” is manageable. Offer choices where possible, but keep the expectation firm. Independence grows through practice, not through Mum doing everything while muttering under her breath.

Sunday – Peace Talks and Takeaway

Sunday began with a suspicious silence.

My son was gaming. I was drinking tea and trying to remember why I’d walked into the kitchen.

Then he appeared.

“Mum, can we get chinese tonight?”

I looked at him. “Have you done your homework?”

“Yes.”

“Tidy your room?”

“Mostly.”

“Put your clean washing away?”

He sighed. “Yes, Mum.”

I smiled. Progress! Not perfection, but progress.

We ordered chinese, and he told me about his game. I listened, even though I understood approximately three words and one of them was probably a character’s name.

Later, I told him that I knew I could get snappy when I was tired or overwhelmed, but I still expected him to pull his weight and speak respectfully. He admitted that sometimes he ignored me because he knew I’d repeat myself.

Well. There’s a little family therapy nobody ordered.

We agreed to try clearer routines, fewer reminders and more responsibility on his side.

Then I went to bed, where I experienced a hot flush so powerful I briefly considered sleeping in the fridge.

Mum’s survival tip: Make time for connection that isn’t about chores, homework or screens. Ask about his interests, share a laugh and notice the good moments. Keep boundaries predictable, apologise when you get things wrong and remember that tweens in training still needs a parent even when they’re acting as though you’re an embarrassing customer service representative.

Being in my fifties with a ten year old boy is a special kind of endurance sport. You’re navigating hormones, mood swings, sleepless nights and a child who believes taking his dirty plate out to the kitchen requires a written invitation from Parliament.

But the secret isn’t to win every argument. It’s to stay consistent, choose your battles, keep your sense of humour and remember that you’re raising a person, not managing a small, sarcastic employee.

Set clear expectations. Let natural consequences do some of the work. Make room for conversations that don’t end in a lecture. And when your patience disappears, take a breather before responding.

Most importantly, look after yourself, too. You cannot pour from an empty cup, especially when that cup is full of cold tea, your hormones are hosting a bonfire, and someone has just shouted, “MUM! THE WI-FI’S GONE!”

Because one day, they’ll grow up, move out and do their own washing.

And you’ll miss them.

Possibly.

But you will absolutely enjoy having control of the television remote again.