Mum’s the word: Janet Christie

I DECIDE to put my foot down. I will not tolerate smoking, ever – unless it’s me. Call me a hypocrite, and they do, but my house, my rules (I’ve heard other, real parents say this).

So, come Friday evening the house is devoid of boys and pals wolfing pizzas and guffawing. Result. Youngest and I spend quality time together, fighting over a pair of (my, expensive glossy, now ripped) tights.

Except by 11pm they’re not home. I text them. Eldest Child responds that he will be back around two. He will not. He’ll be back now. Middle Child isn’t responding at all – his phone is off.

Midnight comes and goes, Eldest is safe in bed, Middle AWOL. I pace, drink red wine, fret, cry, smoke. What was I thinking? Better home misbehaving than lost, unconscious in a gutter, run over, choking on their own vomit. Oh God.

1am and I’m about to make the call of shame to proper parents who may have seen him, when the stairs creak. Burglars! Wiping away snotter I jump out to surprise the intruder.

“Aaaaahhh. What are you doing?” says a blinking, boxered Middle Child.

“Where… sob… been? Worried sick,” I gasp, arms wrapped around him.

“Asleep. In my room. Since nine. You’re mad. And you’ve been smoking. Bed. Now.”