Menopause plus a teenager equals wine
“If 4 teenage drivers come to a 4-way stop at exactly the same time, whose turn is it?”
“Mom I don’t get it.”
“It’s one of the questions of your driving test.”
“No it’s not!”
“Well it should be.”
Until next time -
C
When Livvy, the English Courtesan asks me for more posts about Brian, I definitely stop what I am doing and oblige. She refers so many readers from her blog to mine. She has been wonderful to me as a blogger. I will always post for her and for Bob. So Livvy, this post is for you -
Many things happened over the holiday season. It went by so fast I am still not sure if it really happened at all. Our tree is already down, the lights are packed away and all the gifts that didn’t work (or fit) have been returned.
The highlight of my holiday season was Brian’s very first dance. It was his Christmas dance.
To my own bewilderment I seemed to want to project my childhood on my son:
“Brian, are you sure you want to go?”
(sigh) “Y E S Mom.”
“OK, because if you think you don’t want to -”
“MOM! I want to go, ok?!”
I feel fortunate that the boys want to get ready for the dance in our home. Alex chose to come over and get ready with Brian. Terry (Brian’s dad) irons ties, shirts and reminds them to wear deodorant. It must be a guy thing.
No white socks. No tennis shoes. Was someone paying these boys money? Is there a free video game involved?
The fact that they brushed their teeth and placed breath mints in their pockets (on their own) made me want to pass out. Who are these young men and what have you done with my son and his best friend?
To my greater shock: both were excited.
I am still reveling in the fact that they let me take photos. They even stood still.
My ex husband was the chauffeur and I rode shotgun. The dance was being held at a hall about 5 blocks from our home. It was a short trip. The boys laugh and shove each other in the back seat the entire way. I am nervous for them.
I worry Brian is not going to have fun, so I slip him my cell, and tell him to call me if he isn’t having fun. It is at this point he looks at me like I am an alien. I realize at this moment he might like girls more than he’s been telling me.
DUH MOM.
I’m still impressed that the boys let my ex and I come into the dance and take a photo.
Yes – there were other neurotic adult moms parents there with cameras too … so bite me.
The girls look beautiful and the boys: handsome. Are you sure these are the same teenagers I see walking to school in sweats, baggy pants and get- out-of-my-face t-shits with Ipod ear buds hanging from their ears?
All the mothers of boys look lost. All the fathers of girls look ill.
Do our children really have to grow up now?
As Brian’s dad and I leave to go find something to do for the three hours before we return to pick up Brian, I manage to witness Brian’s transformation to adulthood, or the disappearance of his childhood. In the distance I notice him approach a pretty girl in a gown that happens to be his favorite color: green. Yeah, I am sure it was the color that attracted him [insert redhead mother's roll of eyes here]. He seems to ask her to dance, she seems to agree and they walk out on the dance floor. No, I did not start to cry. I think I was struck dumb.
I did sneak a photo.
No he didn’t see me.
Thank God.
He is dancing!
Does this mean he isn’t suffering?
Is he having fun?
My ex husband grabs my elbow in that you-may-be-my-ex-wife-but-I-can-still-save-our-son-from-his-mother-before-he-is-mortified pull and moves me out of the hall. Oddly, I don’t kill him. We go out for coffee, which feels strange on so many levels. I have the weirdest divorce of anyone I know. I’m sure Brian will blame us for any relationship quirks that show up when he is an adult. I can hear his excuses for not committing now.
It feels like three days instead of three hours before we are able to go back to pick up Brian from the dance. We never do get the “I am hating this, please come get me” phone call. I don’t know whether to be relieved or distressed. My ex and I walk to the corner of the hall where we said we’d meet Brian at the end of the dance. I strain my eyes and stand on my tip toes trying to find him in the blur of dancing bodies. Everyone is dancing. In the distance I catch a glimpse of what looks like Brian’s head. I birthed that bowling ball so I sure can spot it in a crowded room.
Just at that moment the crowd seems to thin and I get a clear view of my son. A girl is leaning on his shoulder and they are deep in conversation with other kids. It appears as if Brian is turning our way and my ex and I say in unison, “Turn away, don’t let him see you looking!” In a flash we are both staring at a blank wall.
A tap to my shoulder turns me around. It is Brian, “OK Mom I’m tired and the dance is over. I want to go home. Oh, and I’m hungry too. Can we get something to eat?” With that I have my old son back and we leave the dance.
Pulling good teeth out, with a feather, on a wild cat is easier than getting a teenage boy to talk about a night out. But finally, about three days later, he did say, “It was great. I had the best time of my life.”
I already guessed that. He kept humming his way around the house. He’s not usually a hummer.
Luckily no phone numbers were exchanged, so I got to dodge that bullet, for now.
This teenage stuff is stressful for us parents. I need a support group!
Happy New Year. I wish the very best for all of you in 2009.
Until next time-
C
It was said that the last we saw our three boys, they were heading down the hill to the creek.
As the boys walk off, I whisper to Heather, the mother of the boy’s leader, “Do you think between the three of them we have one complete brain?”
It would be three hours before boy contact was regained.
The work phone rings.
“Good afternoon, Forward Motion Studios”
“Mrs. Montgomery?”
“Yes?”
“Your son Jake and his friends are at my home and would like to talk with you…”
“What? Jake?”
“Hi Mom. We got lost.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know.”
It would seem Jake didn’t know his home address either. It’s amazing how many times we as parents go over these little important details, but it doesn’t seem to actually get past their cute hair follicles and sink into the cranium. After a brief conversation with this woman, who offers to drive the boys home, Heather discovers the boys followed the creek at the bottom of Heather’s property, over the hill, then down into the next valley floor. Quite a hike for boys who are too tired to feed their pets or do chores.
Frankly I was more impressed than annoyed.
They did forget water, a cell phone or to let us know they were planning such an adventure. But if I know boys, they probably began to wander and continued wandering until they actually looked up and thought, “Wow, I’m hungry … where’s home?” Rather than walk back, because they’ve seen that route, they attempted a new one and ended up in a subdivision neither Heather or I knew existed.
“No, it’s sweet of you to offer to drive them back, but I’ll be right there.” Heather sighs.
She hangs up the phone and looks at me.
I comment, “Hmm well I guess three boys doesn’t make a brain after all.”
When they boys return they look a bit exhausted, which is a thrill for any parent who is at the end of the summer with their kids. We live to wear our children out every day so they will pass out early and we can stop hearing “Mom?” or “Dad” for the 40,000 time.
The funny thing is they are actually excited and want to tell us every detail of their adventure. I think they are shocked that no one is yelling at them. I am just thinking of a line from Peter Pan:
“I’m a Lost Boy, I’m a Lost Boy! I’m a real Lost Boy!”
Really ladies, carry a map, have a GPS because men start young at getting lost and not stopping to ask for directions.
Until next time-
C
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Why does kitty have to get fixed?”
“Because it’s better for the cats health Brian and an un-spayed female cat can give birth to three litters a year, with up to six kittens in the litter … we don’t want her going through that. Let alone how difficult it is to give up kittens. I know you – you’ll want to keep them.”
“No, I’d help find homes for all of them …”
“She’s getting fixed – P E R I O D.”
[BIG BOY SIGH HERE]
“Brian, we went through this a few years ago with Boonie the dog and she is fine.”
“Well, she was never in heat.”
“How do you know, and why is that an issue?”
“If kitty was in heat, and those stray male cats did what you explained … then she could be pregnant already?”
“Maybe…”
“If she is pregnant the Doctors will still “fix” her?”
“Yes.”
“Then, the cat is having an A B O R T I O N tomorrow???”
“Uh.”
“Mom, we don’t believe in that do we??”
[BIG MOM SILENCE HERE]
Please write down the date and time. This is the first time in history the redhead was speechless.
However,
The kitty was still “fixed.”
Until next time-
C
Like most parents, I have enjoyed living under the delusion, that in my child’s life, I am the super hero . If there is a problem, I’ll throw on my super hero cape and fly to the rescue. In the 13 years my son has been on this earth, I have restored his faith while leaping small buildings with a single bound.
There wasn’t a problem I couldn’t help solve. But like the young bird that learns to fly from the nest, after a certain age, I can’t put on my cape and save him from the world anymore. The world is now sneaking in, under my front door, and making its way into our little wonderful life.
Yesterday, a dejected boy meets me at the door, face drawn and eyes swollen.
“I didn’t get the part I wanted…”
Large crocodile tears well up in his eyes. Before I can put down my laptop bag, he races into my arms, burying his face in my chest. I briefly wonder, when did he get so tall …where is my little boy? I realize he is quietly sobbing in my arms, not wanting anyone to hear his anguish. My heart goes straight to my throat.
I know this is one of those painful life lessons I can’t protect him from, or change. It takes the strength of Hercules for parents to hold on to our emotions when our children are in despair. Being that I am of the menopausal years, being a woman in general, and being a woman with red hair, it was all I could do not to sit down and have a good cry with him. If our children only knew how we suffer when they grieve.
I hold him in my arms for as long as he wants. I can’t remember the last time he cried this hard, or let me hold him so long. His hair doesn’t smell of baby powder and oatmeal anymore. He smells like a boy. I ponder how much longer I am going to be able to stroke his hair and kiss the top of his head. It just goes by too damn fast.
Pretty soon he looks up at me, his face swollen with tears and a nose full of snot, “I don’t want to go back,” he mumbles. Another hard part of being a parent: making our kids do things they don’t want to do because we know they must. “Boobello, if mommy stopped getting out of bed because life didn’t go exactly the way I planned I’d be still in the bed at my parent’s house…and smelling pretty bad…” He manages a short laugh.
What I want to say is “Go ahead and stay a child and I’ll stay the same age…. uh… and we’ll live happily ever after!” But that only happens in fairy tales, where the damsel, princess, freak-girl has a waist the size of a straight pin and marries a guy who runs around in tights, lives with his parents, has a serious gambling problem, and is addicted to cartoon porn…
Instead of telling Brian to stay home for the rest of his life, we make chocolate chip cookies and watch a movie. I tell him stories of how misfortune has turned out positively for me. I am not sure he is convinced. He falls asleep in his clothes on the couch. I cover him with his favorite blanket and Boonie the dog makes her way to his side.
It can break a mom’s heart to watch Peter Pan grow up.
Sigh.
Second to the right, and straight on till morning.
Until next time-
Wendy
Mom
“Mom, why can’t you find a job where you don’t have to work?”
Until next time-
C
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