“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 13th 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.
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