DH and I bought Number One Son a drum set for his birthday last month. Just between you and me, that was the biggest mistake we ever made. I would estimate that he has actually drummed on it for a total of perhaps fourteen minutes, although he swears that he just doesn’t have the time now, and will use them all summer long without fail.
I’m inclined to believe it’s true that he doesn’t have time; after all, what with talking on the phone most of the evening and lying on his bed gazing at the ceiling the rest of the time (contemplating the theory of relativity, no doubt), his life is full. Parenthood is a gift.
God knows I try to be patient with the boy. It’s just that dealing with a sixteen-year-old who lets nothing natural or nutritious pass his lips until he has first consumed all the junk food he can find in the cupboard, and whose gamut of emotions runs from moody to bestial, can be trying.
Each night I lay me down to sleep praying that someday he will be able to support himself, and that he will pack his 100-decibel stereo, his fifteen pairs of size twelve running shoes that he leaves directly in front of the front door, and his white elephant drum set, and sally forth to direct his own frail bark across the sea of life.
I don’t worry about whether he’ll eat well on his own. I already know. He won’t. But he has proved to me beyond the slightest shadow of a doubt that the human organism can survive for extended periods on little more than Pop Tarts, potato chips, and jars of peanut butter.
Number Two Son has learned about pressure points in karate school, and I have good reason to stay out of his reach these days, having learned from painful experience that, while I’m having a tender mother-and-son moment with him, he’s quite liable to suddenly start overhauling the nerves in my arms, neck, or wherever he’s practicing his latest pain manoeuvre. Makes one a trifle cautious, that does.
One and Only Daughter’s greatest angst in life at the moment is zits. For Valentine’s Day, the boys in her school were given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to buy a single red sweetheart rose to give to their favourite valentine, and OOD got six of them.
Now, I have to tell you that this would have done wonders for my ego, but she took it all in stride, commenting only that there must be a lot of guys out there who like stick legs. The wretched little ingrate knows perfectly well that her mother would kill for gorgeous legs like hers, so I contented myself with the single acid comment, “You’d prefer stumps, maybe?” It was not well received.
What, me worry?
[Update: It was fun to read this particular soliloquy from long ago, because these three feisty adolescents actually survived our parenting and have grown into fine, responsible, caring adults that DH and I are proud to know and call family. ~sh~]
