My oldest son is 13. For those of you who have raised a teenager, this post may bring back horrid memories of times when you just knew you were losing your mind. For others, you may have fond memories of watching your perfect teenager grow up gracefully.
So last night I was waiting for a phone call from a friend. We don't talk often, but since my operation on Thursday, I've been much more communicative with the people I care about. At approximately 6pm, I ask my teenager to bring me the phone and I notice my friend's number on the caller ID. My 13 year old son decided I didn't need to talk to anyone, so he told my friend I was sleeping. I wasn't. Our conversation went something like:
Me: Why didn't you bring me the phone when it rang? And why didn't I hear it ring? Were you on the phone?
Son: You were sleeping.
Me: No I wasn't.
I'm staring at him now. He's silent.
Me: Were you on the phone?
Silence.
Me: Boy! Do you pay the phone bill around here?
Silence.
Me: Well? Do you?
Son: (mumbling) No.
Me: The next time someone calls for me, I expect to talk to them. Understand?
Silence.
Me: Boy! I'm talkin' to you.
Son: Fine! (he storms off)
Me: (yelling) DO NOT make me get out this chair and come after you!
He returns quietly and stands in front of me. I guess he's afraid I'll beat him down with my crutch or something.
Me: I would like it if you warmed some soup for me.
Son: (quietly) Ok.
He walks off and I'm left sitting there with a headache. I can feel my foot pounding too. I need more drugs, I think.
There are a lot of discussions like these in my house. Many of them start with, "Don't talk to your brother like he's your bitch!" and end with, "Now, I would like it if you bring me a cup of coffee."
This morning, I was up at my usual time to get the kids off to school. I shouldn't be driving since it's my right foot that's all jacked up. But, my babies have to get to school and I don't have anyone who can get them there besides me. I usually drop my youngest off first, then turn around and take my oldest to middle school. As I was dropping my youngest off, Tupac's Dear Mama comes on the radio. I turn it up and glance over at my oldest.
Me: Ever heard this song?
Son: Yeah, it's kinda old.
Me: But it's a good song. I never really cared for Tupac much when he was alive, but I listen to the lyrics more now that he's dead. Listen.
We listen in silence. I glance over at him once and I noticed he looked a bit sad. Disappointed in himself.
Son: We are pretty bad kids, huh?
Me: Yeah, but you're my favorite bad kids.
He got out the car and actually said goodbye this morning. Usually, he just hops out and struts off -- off to hang with his friends and bitch about his crazy mama.
It feels like it's getting harder and harder to maintain my composure with him. I don't even deal with his moodiness anymore; I just send him to his room the second I see his attitude rising. His father is in Afghanistan (then off to Iraq) so I'm trying to remain as understanding as possible, without allowing him to terrify the entire household. There are times when I just wanna toss him out with nothing but the clothes on his back, but there are many more times when I just want to hold him and reassure him that I'm not the enemy.
Last week, we talked about the day he was born. All the nurses wanted to play with my beautiful new baby boy. He had jet black, wavy, silky hair and the prettiest lips I've ever seen. I used to lay around for hours and just hold him -- smelling his hair and counting his toes.
