Please, do not get me wrong. I housed this currently 5’9” (and growing like a frickin’ weed) beast for 9 months, birthed his 8 lb 4 oz body after 3 rounds of pitocin and grueling labor pains, and I love him to the ends of the Earth. BUT… he is 15, and if he doesn’t consider my foot up his ass as a permanent part of his wardrobe, he is denser than I thought. If you have a teenaged boy, then you likely understand where I’m coming from, and you can fill in the number of years and come up with a few more or few less things that you hate about them.
- Getting him to clean his room – you would think I was asking him to climb Mt. Everest for shits and giggles. I went in the other day to vacuum, and just walked back out – I could barely find the floor for all the piles. This was after he claimed to have cleaned it – twice.
- Getting him to help out without being asked – As an experiment, I occasionally allow the dishes to pile in the sink, and overflow onto the counter to see if anyone will fix it by unloading and reloading the dishwasher. I watch him add to the pile all day. After ___ hours, when I can no longer take it, I ask (desperately trying to leave the angry sarcasm out of my voice), “Please unload the dishwasher.” Insert his dramatic sigh, and see #14 & #15. Today, I took him back to school shopping for everything from supplies to clothing, and when we got home, I asked him to bring in all the bags. His response, “Even the grocery bag?” He was dead serious.
- He knows bloody ev-ver-ry-thing – Apparently, I gave birth to Stephen Hawking.
- He will use all my hot water – the painfully endless shower. I just try not to think too much about why it takes him so long.
- He farts – Fine, we all fart. He thinks this is an acceptable thing, regardless of company. Like even when your boss is present.
- And this is supposed to be funny – Dude. Really?
- He is the drama queen. Not my daughter – Everyone said about our daughter, “Oh just you wait for the teenage drama.” Clearly, they never had a boy. I swear he is the one who can stomp, slam doors, scream, and eye roll better than anyone in the house. And over something really important, like who gets control of the TV remote. His birthday present this year needs to be a tiara.
- He uses my shower and my razor – he has his own shower. I bought him a razor. I now throw my razor out with extremely high frequency. See #4.
- I have to repeat ev-ver-ry-thing – Wait for it… you will repeat ev-ver-ry-thing. And within inches of his face with somewhat shrill voice, usually.
- WWE – a few years back, he was injured most of the summer, and we felt so badly for him because he is such an active, athletic kid. He read as much as he could, hobbled around on crutches as often as he could, but he hit a low point and started watching WWE. Then asked for a subscription to the website. Cue parental guilt, and it now haunts us. Daily. Over breakfast, as we’re all scrambling to put ourselves together to get out the door, we hear Stephanie McMahon’s voice spewing her love.
- Wet, smelly laundry stuffed in basket – He works out several hours a day. He stuffs these sweaty clothes into the hamper. He then jumps in the pool, brings the wet towel and damp bathing suit in, and stuffs those in a laundry basket. Three days later, the smell could be bottled and sold as biological warfare.
- His room is a storage vault – he collects everything sports – baseball, basketball, football. And Star Wars. And Avengers. Oh, and nutcrackers (weird one, I know, but there are actually some amazingly cool ones) And if his room was curated like a museum, I might be ok with this, but please see #1…
- Ev-ver-ry-thing is a competition – I married a very athletic man, and I birthed two very athletic children. And even walking up the stairs becomes who can do it the fastest in our house.
- He talks back – Me: “Please clean your room.” Him, “GOSH, MOM, I WILL!” Me: “Please turn down your music.” Him, “GESH, MOM…WHATEVER!” Me: “Dinner is ready; I made your favorite meal.” Him: “ALRIGHT, MOM!! I SAID I WAS COMING!” Me: “You did?” Him: “MOM, STOP!!!” You catch the drift.
- Attitude – See #3, yet the full irony here is that I’m not so sure my son even knows who Stephen Hawking is, yet he has something to say back to you about pretty much every topic. Every time. And this attitude has sass, eye-roll, sighing, and general brassy balls. I often wonder how his pants hold those things up.
At the end of the day, I still love him immensely. He still puts his head on my shoulder as a form of a hug at night, kisses me on my cheek, and says, “Love you, Mom.” And I smile and say, “Love you, too, buddy.”
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