Alison Craig: Learning to treat wild child with kid gloves

So here we are, just a couple of weeks into the school holidays and, frankly, what a strain it is already. The days of holiday clubs and soft play areas are sadly over for the Craig household, as we are now the proud parents of a teenager I affectionately call Teenwolf.

He was given this moniker because he is mostly nocturnal, he has hair sprouting all over his face and body, and because he snarls at me on a regular basis.

When I describe him as "hormonal, hairy and grumpy" he retorts that I have just described myself. Fair point.

But with six long weeks of school holiday stretching ahead the main problem that faces we parents of the teenage population is how on earth we corral them during the long, late nights of the summer.

The days of slumping on a sofa with matchsticks in each eye, watching him watch the Teletubbies are long gone. As are the days wrapped up against the elements standing at the side of a play park with a packet of hankies, some wet wipes and a carton of juice, making sure he doesn't cannon off the climbing frame and land on his head.

The intensity of feeling does not fade, it just changes shape. As they step out and away from the bosom of the family it is a different form of terror we experience.

Those nights when everyone is rooted to the sofa watching TV, or sitting round a table talking, or just shuffling round each other in the kitchen are increasingly rare. Now, our evenings are more likely to pan out as follows.

The long-suffering husband and I sit watching the telly or trying to talk over the thumping music that's booming from behind the bedroom door.

When this stops it is followed by a liberal waft of Lynx seeping down the stair as the bathroom door opens and Teenwolf emerges, fully coiffured, loping down the stairs, swinging his head round the door with a grin and a cursory "right, that's me, I'm off".

It is only with the benefit of a piece of wood in my mouth to bite down on and an eye contact warning from my husband that I manage not to start The Inquisition.

Where to? Who with? For how long? Will there be food? This last question is just a thin disguise for the real questions: Will there be booze? Will you drink it? If you do and it's on a empty stomach will you be ill? Will you lie down and choke on your own vomit?

Ah yes, the paranoia of the mother. Then, after the unspoken questions, the instructions. Don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't walk home alone. Don't get into anyone's car. Keep your finger over the top of any bottle you are drinking from in case of spiking.

In fact, don't drink from bottles, glass is dangerous. Stick to cans. Watch out for drugs. Any sign of aggro, walk away.In fact, run.

But that barrage of panic stays in my brain and all that comes out of my tightly-controlled mouth, in a strained, high, squeaky and unconvincing tone is: "Have fun."

As the door slams and the teenager goes out into the big wide world, as teenagers have done forever, I continue my internal talking to. "Alison, for heaven's sake stop being neurotic. He's not daft, he'll be fine." And then I do something to block out the memory of myself at that age.

Courtesy of Martini Rosso, some wild friends and a liking for punk I would describe myself as a vile teenager. So I take comfort in the fact that I survived and he cannot possibly be as bad as that.

So, an uneasy calm is restored. That is, until I get the text at 11.30pm: "I'm gonna stay the night. I'll be back in the morning." From calm to clenched in a moment.

I fight the urge to pick up the phone instantly and launch into part two of The Inquisition.

Where are you? Are there any parents there? Who are they? Where do they live? Have they been run past Disclosure Scotland? Can I have their passport numbers? And their DNA.

But I know the phone would be slammed down long before I got to that point. So I text back: "OK, see you in the morning. Have fun." For my challenge this summer is to lighten up and back off. I am told that all the time by Teenwolf, and I am trying. I really am.

And so far he has turned up when he said he would. And when he stays over he will turn up bright and breezy the following lunchtime with no sign of having overdone it . . . only to find a red-eyed, lunatic mother with a fake smile, too much make-up (to disguise the lack of sleep), and a vague whiff of stale gin.

Yes, this whole lightening up thing is definitely a work in progress. I'm off for a lie down.