As I hit the snooze button after going to bed far too late, I’m aware of the calming sounds of ‘Om’ being chanted in the next room by my 14-year-old before he heads out for a pre-school run. Rolling over, I find myself pondering how long it would take to burn off just one more leftover mince pie.
Sometimes it feels like we’re in an episode of Absolutely Fabulous in our house. My teenage son sets his alarm for 6.30am so he has time to meditate, work out and fit in an ice bath before school. He goes to the gym three or four times a week, uses face masks, drinks gallons of water and eats only ‘healthy’ food. A chicken dipper has never passed Arthur’s lips and if I buy him some cookies as a treat once in a while I’m met with an outraged, “Mum I can’t eat that!”. His favoured post-school snack is a healthy fruit salad which looks like it could have been whipped up by Jamie Oliver. Meanwhile, I shamefully shove my 4pm doughnut behind a cushion.
At the end of the day, Arthur is in bed by 9.30pm working on his DuoLingo while I fall asleep in front of Netflix, then drag myself upstairs at midnight.
Meikle wakes to the sounds of her son chanting ‘before he heads out for a pre-school run’
Credit: Heathcliff O’Malley
Andrew Tate is anathema to my boy and his TikTok generation; they follow online role models who are all about working hard, making the most of life and being the best you can be. His school backpack contains his much-thumbed copy of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Teens and our dog Percy knows he’ll get a walk come rain or shine.
It’s all very different from my teen years in the 1980s when I used any excuse in the book to get out of PE lessons and certainly never did sport outside of school hours. Instead, we were out clubbing, drinking Thunderbird through a straw, and smothering foundation over love-bites.
When I was the age my youngest son is now I bunked off a maths lesson to go to a gig – and bumped into a teacher from my school who was also playing hooky. Arthur, on the other hand, has signed up for business studies to further his online selling skills and is a peer mentor to younger pupils, guiding them through any concerns.
I’m not averse to keeping in shape – my children have grown up with me going to boot camps in the park and were on the sidelines cheering me on when I ran a half-marathon and charity 10ks. But this was mainly to offset my love of coffee cake, and salt and vinegar crisps, not to mention justifying the copious amounts of Prosecco that seemed to get quaffed most weekends.
Lockdown was the starting point on Arthur’s quest for physical fitness.
My long-forgotten yoga-mat was unfurled once more and the weights that had been gathering dust behind the sofa for at least a decade re-emerged. Joe Wicks became our very own personal trainer as we thundered around the sitting room for 20 minutes every day, before heading out on the walks which became part of daily life during that period. Not only did it allow us precious time to talk, but we all loved the endorphin rush that exercise brings.
When normal life resumed it didn’t take long for my old habits to gradually slip back. Arthur, meanwhile, now has the physique of a male model.
I’m slowly getting used to the idea that it’s now my son who gets ogled in the street these days. Older teenage girls give him the appreciative side eye, which makes me feel a strange mix of pride and protection.
I’m hardly in the same league as Ab Fab’s Edina by any stretch of the imagination yet both my boys disdainfully ask “Are you drunk?” after a civilised couple of glasses of wine with dinner. Thank goodness I managed to kick my Marlboro Light habit before they were born as in their minds smokers are (quite rightly) considered to be ‘absolute idiots’ and ‘losers’.
Back in my day it was the cool kids who smoked and slugged back illicit booze from their parents’ drink cabinets. The cool teens I know now are more likely to whip up a kale and chia seed shake.
Unfortunately I made the fatal error of getting them to say ‘big fat tummy’ when they were younger and saw me eating cake in the hope it would make me think twice. Now if I so much as dare to glance at a Cherry Bakewell I’m met with a chorus of cries. I just wait until I’m on my own to scoff down a Mr Kipling or two.
Meikle: ‘I wait until I’m on my own to scoff down a Mr Kipling or two’
Credit: Heathcliff O’Malley
Of course I don’t want to make food an issue. They know that there’s no such thing as good food or bad food. That it’s all about moderation and eating a colourful balanced diet filled with lots of fruit and vegetables.
My boys rarely eat meat at all, bar sausages and chicken – and they’ve never had white bread or sugary cereals. My youngest son, who is 12, has his own Instagram cooking account where he posts all the healthy meals he’s created.
My childhood however was filled with breakfasts of sugar-topped Rice Crispies or Weetabix, revolting steak and kidney pies (it seemed to take hours to chew each mouthful of gristle, which now makes my stomach turn at the very thought), lots of tinned meat including tongue – the horror when I discovered tongue literally was just that – and something called spam fritters for school dinner – what even is spam?
At a car boot sale this summer what did Arthur spend his budget on? A Leon smoothie recipe book.
And it’s not just physical health that is so important to my sons’ generation. Arthur and his friends discuss mental health in a way that my generation never did. I can remember going on a school trip when I was Arthur’s age where a boy shut himself in a cupboard with a razor blade to self-harm (although we didn’t know that’s what it was called back then). He was just ignored and spoken about as the ‘weirdo’. Now he would be supported by all his friends and a network of agencies.
It would have been inconceivable to the 16-year-old me to talk about my panic attacks, such was the shame and stigma back then. When I did confide in an adult I was told to “pull myself together”. Unthinkable in 2024. I just dealt with it alone, never told anyone else and spent years terrified that I must be going mad. I am so very grateful my sons’ generation don’t have to suffer in silence.
Now of course young people talk about their mental health all the time. Schools have pastoral support and access to counselling (albeit with waiting lists).
I pride myself on having a close relationship with my sons and hope they feel like they can tell me anything. We certainly talk a lot. Sometimes I’m at a loss as to what certain words mean – cap, bruh, rizz…but I’ll never stop being interested, asking them questions. I want them to feel they can come to me with any concerns or worries, especially when it comes to mental health.
They have friends who’ve changed gender, gay friends, friends with ADHD, neuro-diverse friends, friends who identify as ‘furries’, friends with ‘they’ as a pronoun and friends with two mums or two dads. They openly discuss their feelings and call out sexist or racist behaviour. Sometimes it’s hard to keep up but I try my best and always celebrate their enlightened, inclusive world. It’s a far cry from my youth when kids who were in any way different were labelled naughty, odd or simply written off.
So, for my New Year resolution I have decided to try to be a bit more Arthur. While I can’t quite bring myself to have ice baths I am turning the shower to freezing at the end and am currently able to stand 25 seconds. I have bought a special lead that allows you to run while walking the dog but Percy just gets tangled up in it so for now it’s walking only (better than slouching on the sofa watching another episode of 24 Hours in Police Custody).
I’ve restarted daily HIIT workouts with Joe from the comfort of my sitting room; I’m trying intermittent fasting and adding kefir to granola. And since the mornings after the nights before seem to be getting worse with age, I’m trying to reduce the alcohol.
But I’m not giving up my secret sweet stash just yet.
