GIVE ME A BREAK:IT'S DEBS SEASON and parents on Hysteria Lane are on stress alert. There's the cost of dresses, tuxes, hairdressers, spray-on tans, waxing, brow-shaping and make-up, plus the challenges of dealing with emotionally overloaded teenagers embarking on university, job searches or gap years, but that's not what's really worrying them.

It's the alcohol, the sex and the prospect of having to pick up a psychologically-frazzled child from the hormone morass in time to focus on real life with some semblance of organisation.

And no one's more worried than the parents of boys - especially the mothers.

"She's got him twisted around her little finger. She calls and he jumps. He's totally unfocused. I'm convinced it will cost him a hundred points in the Leaving Cert. Wouldn't say that to him, though. I have to be nice to her."

"Have you noticed that they're more well-endowed these days? Did you see them in those dresses at the parents' reception the night of the debs? It nearly convinced me to have a breast enhancement. We weren't that big, no way."

"It's the nutrition. Hormones in the meat, maybe. "

"It's the push-up bras!"

"And the hair! Teased up about a foot high and slicked back. They all looked the same!"

"The Stepford Debs."

"I know! The Dublin 4 debs more like."

"That little tease is not getting her hooks into my son."

"Thank God my son isn't serious about the girl he brought."

"How do you know?"

The tinkling of a coffee spoon serves as a dramatic pause at this point. "He said he was only bringing her to the debs because he wanted to get drunk and have a snog."

A cappuccino cup lands heavily on its saucer. "He actually said that? What sort of girl is she?"

The name of a posh south Dublin girl's school is mentioned. "They're not all like that, of course. I'd hope that he would treat her properly." "

Did [ husband's name] have a talk with him?"

"I don't like to get involved in that. It's between father and son."

"I know what you mean. But I still have the urge to toss a couple of boxes of condoms into the cart in Tesco and leave them lying around. I don't want my son to be - you know. . ."

A silence then.

"They're good boys. Mine came home at 7am and he wasn't drunk."

One of the mothers pulls her mobile phone/camera out of her bag and shows it to her companion. "There they are."

"Oh my God! That's not natural. Couldn't BE! "You think she's had a boob job?"

"No - her hair! Those are extensions, definitely. And look at the way she's draping herself over his shoulder. OH MY GOD!"

"Pure Hollywood. I know. That's what's freaking me out."

"We weren't like that, sure we weren't?"

"Not even in our dreams."

The other mother pulls out her phone and shows it to her friend. (It takes total self-control on my part not to sneak a peak.)

"Ahhh, look at him!"

"It's not a great picture."

"So handsome . . . they were babies only yesterday . . . remember when they were in Montessori? The little hand-prints they gave us on Mother's Day?"

"I still have mine."

"Me too."

Another silence. My waiter appears. I've finished my espresso and should be going but I need to know how this story ends, so I order another coffee.

"I always swore I'd never be one of those possessive Irish mothers," one of the women says.

"So did I but look at the reality. I've been married for 20 years to a man with a possessive Irish mother and damn it, I'm going to give as good as I got. My baby boy is mine. He's not going anywhere."

Then she produces her own mobile phone/camera. She shows the screen to her friend, who says, "She looks familiar."

"Please tell me you haven't seen this girl advertising on Facebook."

What is it about mothers and their sons? That night, I watch TV with my 11-year-old son and enjoy every precious moment when he decides to snuggle up beside me. I can already feel the goodbyes.