OK adolescence has probably been here for a while. But a visible sign of it has appeared.
And it's friend, another pimple.
All of a sudden, my one-month-away-from-twelve-years-old son looks like a teenager.
And the really unfair part is that I have a pimple too. It's not from adolescence but from 40-something hormone changes. However, I don't feel like I have to suffer through acne again in my life so I got myself to the dermatologist. There are great treatments for acne and damn it I'm not going to put up with pimples vying for space with graceful aging.
As we know, independently performed personal hygiene is not the adolescent boy's strong point. But this is the very first step in the treatment of acne. We have to try it before we go for medical intervention. So he is going to have to wash his face morning and night with cleanser. To him, this is an almost impossible imposition on his time, and a hassle too. And too taxing on his hormone-deranged memory. So this means I will be reminding him twice a day to wash his face.
Now I really feel like the nagging mother of a teenager. Ick.
The other interesting point is that my son is not at all concerned about the appearance of pimples on his nose and chin. He really doesn't care. Could this be a boy's lack of concern or obsession about his appearance? Because when I started getting pimples at his age, I FREAKED OUT. I hid in the bathroom and tried to arrange my hair to cover my face. I felt that everyone stared at the pimples. I angrily picked at them until they turned into something less like a pimple and more like a scab.
My memories of adolescence are something I don't visit very often, as it was not my favorite time in life. It was an uncomfortable rollercoaster of a time that was necessary to endure. But now there is a very obvious symbol of the changes occurring attached to my son's face. Every time I see that pimple, some memory of my adolescence surfaces and I shudder. I really hope what my friends tell me is true, that boys have an easier, less turbulent journey through these changes. I also feel a little sadness that the smooth soft skin of my little boy is gone. It has been replaced by bumps and hair, bruises, scrapes, blisters and sweat.
At least I don't have that particular look of dazed concern, sheepish confusion and heightened frustration that seems to be more common on the faces of my friends with daughters.