The Teen Years
Today I had BIG PLANS to post about the teen and how proud I am of him. Since, ya know, I realize I don’t post about the teen very much at all.
This is mostly because any time he does anything I roll my eyes at, laugh with him over, look at him with a look that says: boy, are you CRAZY? - he will follow it up with, “Mom, are you putting this on your blog?”
It takes all the fun out of talking about him. I get it, though, I do. I used to HATE when my mom would talk about me with the ladies at her job. Her job. Ladies at her job that I would hardly ever see and I would get mad at that!
And now here I am, talking about the boy with the whole INTERNET. Poor baby. Mommybloggers, start saving the money for therapy now. You’re gonna need it.
I’m starting to think of this whole raising a teen thing like the scene outside the club in Knocked Up. You know, when the bouncer tells the chick: “I can’t let you in cuz you old as fuck.”
I’ve said it before but it bears repeating… no matter how hip you think you still are, no matter what you did when you were younger, no matter what you wear or music you listen to that makes you think you’re still relevant - IT DOESN’T MATTER.
There will come a time that your teen child will think you’re old as fuck… and you will not be let into their teen club.
And you want to scream: I don’t want in your stupid club! I’ve been to that club and it’s wack! The music sucked, the girls were sluts, the guys were ugly and the drinks were watered down! Fuck your club, anyway, TEENAGER!
But you still, secretly, want in the club. You want to be accepted. You want them to let you cut in line, raise the velvet ropes and allow you to flounce on in… but the teen stops you: HALT. You are not welcome here!
And you. You with your 8, 9, 10 year old sitting there thinking you’re immune - oh ho ho, my friend. Your kid is going to hit 13 and gone are those fun days. Those buddy days. Those “my kid would never do that” days. SHUT IT. They WILL. Prepare yourselves. Batten down the hatches! The teen years are a-comin’!
My mom tried to warn me, I know. I didn’t listen. Not my boy, not him! He’s so sweet! So loving! Yeah. Thanks, mom. You tried.
All that to say, I’m proud of this young man. PROUD. Pride fills my heart, threatens to overflow and make a huge mess all over myself… bigger than the mess that sent me home from work early this afternoon. Oh boy. ‘Nother post, ‘nother day…
I bought the boy some cargo pants and a polo at Old Navy this weekend. Cargo pants size 34×34 and polo shirt size XXL. Thinking both would be WAY too big but they were on major sale, so, hey.
But, joke is on me since both fit. A teensy bit big, but fit. My buddy, my baby, my son… he’s 14 (and a HALF!) and 6′2″.
He’s a Freshman in high school and doing incredibly well. He’s in accelerated classes that he wanted to take, by the way, doing better than I ever thought he would.
He’s in football for the first time ever (outside of tag) and has practices every day. Practices that keep him on campus til nearly 7 at night. Long after I’ve said SCREW THIS at my office and made my way home to decompress.
And he never complains. He attacks life with vigor that I never had. These times I prayed for, yearned for, attempted to prepare him for - they’re here. And he’s doing so well.
He got out of the car at the high school today and I looked at him starting to walk away from me and I wanted to cry.
But I didn’t cry. I looked at him in those should be too-large clothes (that weren’t) and put my hand on his back and said, “Have a good day. Call me if you need anything.” And I let him walk away.
P.S. That last part made me think of this song:
Which just made me infinitely un-cooler in the teen eyes, I’m sure. This was the jam, son! You just don’t understand…
