Writing about raising teenagers is tricky. I have so many stories to share, but writing about teenagers in such a public way is much more difficult and more complicated than telling stories about when they were younger. I'm struggling with what I can share and where the limits are, both theirs and mine. For a while I just didn't want to share, but my muse has been hitting me over the head and I have to start writing again or I risk her leaving me.
My boys are now 16, almost 15 and almost 13. Soon we are officially an all-teenager house.
Evidence of the teenager infestation:
My youngest announced after dinner, "I think I'm going to listen to my favorite break-up song."
A favorite break-up song? Is he an expert in the genre? Really, what does he have to break up with, his outgrown shoes? Oh, he's had a girlfriend. But when she went from "friend since kindergarten" to "girlfriend," she stopped talking to him. So after a day or two of awkward silence, he said, "this is not going to work" and they broke up. Certainly not worthy of a ballad to memorialize the gut-wrenching end of a relationship.
Break-up songs, a voice subtly heading for a lower timber, a robust interest in food, and an intense desire for prescription sunglasses that allow him to see (and look cool) while playing baseball . . . all evidence of the youngest member of our gang joining the soup of male teenager hormones sloshing around our house.
Help me, I'm drowning in the soup! I am barely hanging on to my sanity, and I belch more than is prudent for a woman of my age, just to see one of my boys look up, smile, and say, "good one Mom."
|Break-up songs on the playlist tonight.|