Do Not Negotiate With Terrorists or Teenagers

                “You should get an award for the #1 Most Unfair Mom in the Whole World!!!!”  My newly minted teenage son stated in a loud aggressive manner punctuated by the very quiet shutting of his bedroom door (this due to the lesson learned when slamming the door resulted in a lack of door for the better part of three days.  That’s right, hit em where it hurts, right in the privacy.)

                “Yes well that’s an award I’d be proud to win.  Just so you know in 10 years or so you’re going to call me and apologize for all the things you just said.”  Let me also state that while I’m not a fortune teller or gypsy I know that I and most others have placed similar calls to parental figures about midway through their twenties.  So by powers of deduction I’m going to assume that while he’s doing a great job of playing a sociopath in real life right now that my son will indeed make it out of his hurricane Hormone and go back to being a normal human being at some point.

                People told me when he was a model citizen at the young age of 3 months sleeping through the night, no ear infections, no colic, no allergies and not fussy that to watch out for the Terrible Twos.  I then watched like a hawk for the chiming of the 24 month bells (which it was suggested for him to currently refer to his age in months to mess with people.  156 is the answer if you’re doing the mental math.)  As they came and went the only change was that he FINALLY got off his lazy behind to walk and then promptly made up his own language.  Even then I was more worried about the dreaded teenage years than anything.  Kids are like dogs, when little bad behavior is cute.

                “Oh my god mom!  I don’t want to spend the whole night fighting about this!  You always do this! It’s so not fair!”  Let it be noted that on the 13^th birthday hormones gifted my son with the ability to end every sentence with an exclamation mark and to speak in constant hyperbole.  It must be exhausting.

                “Well if you didn’t want to fight about it you should’ve just turned your homework in.  It’s already done.”  My calm response.  Like wild dogs teenagers can smell fear.

                “I HATE it when you say that!”

                “Then turn your work in and I won’t say it.”

                “Oh my GOD!  I can’t believe you don’t care about my feelings!”

                “If you turned your work in I’ll bet you’d be feeling much better right now.”  This is a classic case of argument inception.  Eventually he gets so fed up with my continued response that he falls into just a series of grunts and under breath expletives that I’m sure, while offensive, would impress me with their creativity.

                People who speak about the famed Thin Line between Love and Hate, or the other so popular Love Hate Relationship I am convinced have kids.  I visit both these parenting landmarks on a daily basis.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my son, but I also hate him.  No…. I love him.  In fact on this day of being thankful I am the most thankful for him.  While I’m not sharing the holiday meal with him this year he and I share dinners together five times a week that always start with a statement of what we are thankful for.  My goal is that he grows up being thankful everyday and not reserve it all for the third Thursday of his birth month.  Sometimes when he’s sitting at a 13 and I need him at more like a 9 (Patrick said that last night.  Brilliant.) I still am grateful for being his most unfair mother ever.  By using parental context clues they lead me to believe that being unfair is in fact a synonym for parenting win.  After all I’m fairly certain that his idea of fair would involve not bathing, eating only crackers and ginger ale, playing Xbox with no timer, computer gaming with copious amounts of cursing, a room that could make a cameo on the hit show Hoarders, no knowledge of tooth brushing and a vocabulary that is sans the word ‘homework’.  So every time we fight I just remind myself that he is simply taking one more step forward in being a better person and that the traits that frustrate me so very much, being headstrong, solid in his beliefs, unwavering logic, quick thinking and the inability to quit when he feels he’s been wronged, are all things that make asking him to clean his room result in a 45 min audition for university debate club and upping my nightly bourbon intake from two fingers to somewhere around four, will also make him a successful adult.  One that I am certain I will always be proud to claim as my offspring.  Plus it’s kind of hard to hold a grudge against a not-so-small-anymore person wearing a tuxedo t-shirt, singing ‘The Safety Dance’ explaining his thoughts on the Affordable Health Care Act while sneaking in a Step Brothers quote and a well placed line straddling joke that does his momma proud.  Love. 

Creative Problem Solving

                This morning was like most Sunday mornings.  I woke up somewhere in the 8:30s and before leaving bed caught up on both my news and social media.  (Another reason I’d like coffee makers to take up residency in bedrooms where they would clearly do the most good instead of requiring a three room hike all the way to the kitchen.)  Upon my morning Facebook surf I came across this article that was shared by not one of my super smart and interesting friends, but by two!  (Both of which you should absolutely read their blogs and laugh at their attempt at humor.)  Already I knew that this was either about bourbon/going to make my face super happy.  It was the second.

                This five minute cartoon read, and then following blog made me stop.  And read it again.  It was a moment when I thought, “Hmm, I’ve never had it put so succinctly as that.”  It’s a mental battle I’ve raged for years about my life’s choices and how I’ve come to find myself in the middle of my autobiography as it stands today.  I am not college educated.  I am not collecting a very high salary with a 401K.  I am not in a tax bracket that causes sleepless nights in the springtime.  My car is heavy on the rust and loud on the exhaust.  My home is ‘quaint’.  My luxuries in life include the NHL package on DirecTV and bourbon once, maybe twice a week.  I can my own food.  My freezer is the home of many styles of bargain priced meat.  You know what though?  I like it.  A friend and I had many a conversation about jobs and how it defines us as people.  I told him that I believed that our self worth is not based on net worth, that where we punch our time card is not indicative of our success, but that if you wake up most every morning happy to be you, then you’re winning.  Of course complacency breeds laziness and we should all strive to move in the forward direction that we so desire, it does not mean that we need to make our forward the same as someone’s vision of what it should be.

               “Angie you were so smart, you know you could’ve done anything.”

                This could be the theme of many a conversation people have with me.  Like the ‘smart’ I had in regards to book stuff as a child and teenager magically dissipated the moment I pushed my son from my most special of places.  Let’s be real though, anything?  That’s a little too broad of a spectrum, and what’s wrong with choosing to be a mom anyways?  Like if I had pro-choiced myself all the way to the clinic and gone off to college would that make my choices better?  Or if I had had my parents raise my son while I went away busy studying to be anything would people call me a success?  Would they use words of description like ‘sacrifice’ and ‘selfless’ and ‘hardworking’ to describe me if I sent my son to daycare and nightcare while I spent 12 hours a day working and going to school?  For what?  To maybe make more money than I do now that I could in turn spend on my son to make up for all the time that he missed out on.  To use money as a way to say, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for all your parent teacher conferences, for your first day of school every year, to make you dinner, to tuck you in, to watch inappropriate movies, to teach you how to garden and can and do laundry and do dishes and cook dinner and make your bed.  I’m sorry I wasn’t there to discipline you, to read you books, to take walks, to talk about your day, to cuddle when you still wanted me, to help you tackle a friend problem, a word problem, a next day book report, to sleep next to you at the hospital when you’re sick, to make you popcorn when the nurses aren’t looking.  But instead mommy has a degree and can buy you a new TV if you want, does that make up for it?” 

                Oddly while in school (high school that is), I never knew what I wanted to be.  I switched between a marine biologist (it was the 80’s and 90’s everyone wanted to be a damned marine biologist), or something with math, or with science, or history, or English etc.  I wanted to write a book that millions of people purchase/checked out of the library.  I wanted to live anywhere but where I grew up.  I wanted to do big things.  Turns out that I never really knew anything about what I wanted until I had my son (super clichéd and I care not), when I grew up it appears as though I wanted to be a mom.  I’m not sure if I’m very good at that, we’ll find that out at a later date after a myriad of therapy for my son, but I love it.  I don’t care anymore if I write a book that sells a million copies; I’m ok with a blog that seven people read.  I moved away from where I grew up and landed exactly where I was supposed to be.  I like to think that I didn’t ‘drop out’ of college; I just retired before I finished to pursue a more challenging life’s path, parenting and table waiting.  Even on afternoons like today where my voice turns into something similar to Darth Vader and I seriously think to myself, “How long do you choke someone until they just become unconscious?  Not seriously hurt or kill them, just enough to make them stop talking for fifteen minutes or so.”  Now clearly I wasn’t going to injure my son, I was thinking that maybe I needed to cool down and if one of us was going to get to take a nap damnit, it should be me!  I still know I made the right career move.

                So in all this rambling about myself and those pesky ‘feelings’ I hear I’m not skilled at expressing what I’m getting at is that, I’m happy, and if I could turn back time (who’s singing Cher in their heads now?  I know I am, and you’re welcome) I would not do it any different, well except maybe finishing the whole bowl of popcorn last night after Alex fell asleep.  I immediately regret it and am still harboring guilt about the whole sordid affair.  Mistakes are not what make a person, but their solutions and I’m enjoying all of my creative problem solving.

Roler Shift

                “Sooooo, did you have a good time last night?”  My son asked me in what can only be described as ‘dad’ voice complete with hand on hip and cell phone gesturing to adequately age him about 30 years his senior.

                “Sure did.”  I flippantly responded while one eye opened drinking my coffee, hip propped against the kitchen counter.

                “I thought we’d already discussed the fact that I really just don’t feel comfortable with you going on dates with men I don’t know?  I just don’t like it mom.  I don’t like it one bit.  I think it’s high time this man,” (the tone here was more like derision, and he really did use the term ‘high time’) “comes over for dinner already.  Make meatloaf, it’s delicious and impossible not to like.  Now, if you need me, I’ll be in my room playing Xbox since my grounding has finally expired.  Will you get my controller down?  I know you hide it on top of the bookcase.”

                I certainly understand his hesitancy and concern.  For all he knows he may be spending a night with the grandparents while I am getting a ride to dinner with a man that subscribes to the Ariel Castro form of dating.  One minute I’m there and the next I’ve been surprise adopted for the better part of a decade.  Happens.  Yes, my little boy has officially entered into the ‘Protector of the Mother’ phase in his life.  Not a terrible transition I suppose.  Last year at this time I wrote a blog about my sweet sweet boy starting sixth grade and my uncertainty of his becoming a teenager and my ability to deal with him getting older.  I reread it and have some serious updating to do.

                “Hey sweetpea, want to cuddle on the couch and watch our recording of AGT?  I’ll make bacon popcorn and everything.”  I asked my son while he was immersed in Minecrafting. 

                *silence

                “Alex?  Did you hear me?”

                *key tapping

                I looked for a headset or some other form of parental silencing, but could find nothing of the sort.  Hmmm.  Try just outright ridiculousness topped with accosting to grab attention then.

                “After gardening all afternoon my hands smell like cilantro.  Smell them.  Do you think they smell like cilantro?” This being said while I casually waved my scent questioned hand in his face.

                Very quickly he turned, and in a look of pure horror and resignation about the fact that there is no coming back from this one, he looked down.  Then I saw it, sitting on the desk with the screen backlit and the words ‘Conference Call’ screaming their utter discomfiture, I realized that he was on speaker phone with not ONE girl, but enough to constitute a GD conference call!  Seriously?!  I suppose he won’t make that mistake again.  I feel after living with me for twelve plus years he would know by now that I am less than traditional and more than willing to mortify him at the drop of a hat, either on purpose or purely by cosmic genius.  What I’m sayin is, you gots to warn a mother.  Am I right? 

                For the sake of full disclosure I will admit that I have played many a practical joke or pulled off some sort of trick just for the sake of attempting to match my son’s face to his hair color, and because of such things he has returned the favor to the best of his abilities in spades.  I also force his participation in an assorted array of activities from gardening and canning to puzzle doing and mini book clubs.  I make him eat things he doesn’t enjoy for the benefit of a healthy diet, I force him to clean his room, he has to earn money through manual labor to pay for expensive things, his napkin must be his lap’s best friend to eat a meal, for over a decade I have tortured him with having to take a shower (which recently has turned from a relative of water boarding to a request, ewwww, I know what that means) and in return we get to have what can only be described as a really really good time. 

                While canning yesterday he casually says, “So, it this fella coming over for dinner this week or what?”

                “Yes.”

                “Good.  Man, I sure hope my hands don’t smell like cilantro or anything.......”  He innocently drops while stuffing green beans into a pint jar and smirking a little.

                So while the teenage stuff (you know, girls and hair and weird smells and flash mob attitude changes and a new found need to shower twice a day and the lack of socks that end up in the laundry and the conference calls and the shit talking on xbox games and the ability to know all and so on and so forth) still makes me nervous about the next seven birthdays, I still can’t help but look forward to every adventure we have yet to experience.  After a whole day of doing everything I wanted to do without complaint, he ended it by lying on the couch with me and watching Mythbusters (his choice).  When he was almost asleep (but swore he wasn’t tired) he says, “Mommy, I’m super happy you had me when you were so young.  It means we have all the time in the world to spend together.”  Heart.  Melted.  (But for the record, he’s still not getting a Playstation 4 or some such nonsense and I probably shouldn’t ride in a car with Carrie.)

                I have been so completely worried about how this whole ‘getting older’ act was going to work when preformed by my son that I missed the part where this whole past year has been spectacular.  Not that Disney is knocking on our door to make a sitcom based on our storied life or anything, in fact there are plenty of days where I wish that I could legally, what was affectionately called in the time of my elders, ‘beat his little ass’ (of course I don’t want to hit my child.  Well, I did want to yesterday, but not now.  For sure not right this minute.) but most of the time being my son’s mom is kind of awesome.  Plus I’m pretty sure with the amount of blackmail pics and etc I have saved up on my hard drive mixed with the speed at which social media can circulate an image, I’ve got a little insurance that teenage years will not be nearly as bad as Nostradamus has predicted (side note to all parents of young children, take lots of pics of your daughters with awful haircuts and ridiculous outfits and pics of your sons wearing girl's clothing and playing with My Little Ponies.  You will all thank me for this in about twelve years or so).  In fact I look forward to this new chapter of parenting where the roles begin their shift around the earth’s axis to their eventual opposing resting place causing life altering cataclysmic events and so on and so forth.  A ‘Roler Shift’ if you will.  That’s science.

Eyes of Emulation

                “I.  Am.  Sooooooo.  Bored!”   My son lamented in a dialect best described as ‘Ugh’ and simultaniously moved his body in a similar fashion to the rubber band Gumby toys I had as a child where when you push the button the band goes slack and the entire thing collapses on itself.  It may soon be scientific fact that children’s bones are made of a similar material, yet instead of a button the band goes limp any time a request is uttered from a parent’s mouth.

                “Only boring people are…..” I couldn’t finish.

                “Oh my god mom!  BORED!  Yeah, I know!   I hate when you say that!”

                This is a phrase that has been passed down generationally.  My mom said it to me with similar results to the ones that I receive.  She ended hers with, “If you can’t find something to do, I will and you won’t like it.”  This was always my cue to stomp into my room before she could introduce my hand to the vacuum.  After I’d shut myself in I would vow to never say that kind of stuff to my kids should I have them.  I wish that I could go back in time and laugh in my ‘all knowing’ preteen face.  Repeating things from our childhood is natural.  Whether it’s phrases or traditions or favorite meals or even a vicious cycle of drugs and abuse (while I certainly don’t suggest the last one) the perpetuation of these things is something we are all guilty of in some way.  The one thing I feel I missed out on is that now not only is it frowned down upon to ‘beat our kid’s asses’, but somewhat illegal in places.  Don’t get me wrong I wasn’t looking to met out corporal punishment or anything, I’m just sad that I will probably never get to say:

 “This will hurt me more than it will hurt you.”

“I hit you because I love you.”

“I’m just trying to teach you a lesson.”
“Wait until your father gets home and he’ll ‘tell’ you again!” or

“You made me do this.”

I suppose I must rely on my wits and bribing techniques instead of the back of my hand.  Really is too bad. 

                While camping recently my sister’s mother in law joked that when my son grew up he would likely write a book titled, ‘Growing Up Angie’ and that she would buy it.  I countered that instead of a college savings I should make it a ‘therapy account’ to help him become normal.  This did cause a bit of introspection though about what sayings and things from his childhood that, while he hates them now, as an adult he’ll find the wisdom in and perpetuate.  I have compiled some of my favorites that I well and truly hope continue:

“Only you have the power to embarrass yourself.”

“Don’t sell yourself short or someone will pay the clearance price.”  (This is sometimes ended with, “and you’re worth more than that.” depends on how much energy I want to expend in my parenting syllabus.)

“Yesterday is not today’s fault.”

“Jason Mraz songs have subliminal messages in them to make people want wieners.  That’s why girls really like him.  Prolonged exposure for guys will cause gayness.  That’s science.”

‘Soooo not true, everyone knows people are born gay, they don’t become it.’

“Mr. Mraz hasn’t been around that long.  You’ll see I’m right.”

“You’re welcome to as many negative comments as you want, but must counter them with three positive.  Negative rolls downhill and if you go too far it’s a long hard climb back up.”

“Don’t say, ‘I can’t.’ but ‘how can I?’”

“You can’t control people, only how you react to them.”

“It’s not what you say, but how you say it.”

“The most important thing you can make people feel is appreciated.”

“You get bed bugs from strip clubs.”  (Among other things.)

                Maybe he’ll repeat all of them, maybe none, maybe only two, but most likely I’m telling him these things as a reminder to myself.  I can make a million speeches about eating healthy, but if I do it while shoveling fast food into my mouth the words become moot.  I can’t just say the things that would make me a better person, I have to be them to ensure that when my son looks at me with eyes of emulation, I’m proud of my reflection.