It all started one day when his bedroom door closed. It’s still closed. Every day.
All day. And he’s in there – I
know he’s in there, because I hear the faint sounds of Xbox drifting through
the walls. Some days I see so little of
him, I wonder if I would recognize him when he finally emerges.
He rushes off to school with the urgency of a doctor on
call, because, he has to be on that
bus. What is on that bus that is so
important? Suddenly a ride to school is
a concession only allowed when he turns off his alarm in the morning and
oversleeps.
The contacts came first.
One day he decided he had to
have contacts now. Which secretly
thrilled me – not that there’s anything wrong with glasses, but at the tender
age of 4 he got his first pair and I felt so sad to see that his beautiful
brown eyes with the enviably long lashes would now be forever contained behind
them. I have been waiting for the day he
would be old enough, and responsible enough, to make the choice.
Now that he has, there have been many a morning filled
with the drama of uncooperative stupid
contacts – intensified only by the deadline of the bus. I have learned to keep to myself and my
coffee in the kitchen, and wait for the smoke to clear.
And GOD FORBID the hair isn’t right. O. M. G.
The Hair. We have now reached the
point of no return. It has become a
separate entity, causing no small amount of fierce stomping about the house and
preoccupation with styles and …. OMG it’s too long again!! And back to the haircutters we go, four weeks
after the last cut. One time it was a
mere two weeks, and he was
complaining it just wasn’t right and we HAD to go back. I asked him if he had the twenty bucks it was going to cost me. I’m sorry guys – but I have never understood
how a guy with hair no more than an inch long can have a bad hair day. It
doesn’t move.
Before all of that though – there was a day several months
ago that came from out of nowhere – where he woke up and decided to “clean up”
his room. Now I was excited, since 7th
grade saw this phenomenon infect my son’s bedroom. I don’t even think it has a name, but we all
know it. Some of us might remember it
ourselves. It’s like a clothing volcano
erupted inside this one room, its explosions leaving casualties on every
surface, and seeping out from under the bed.
Anyway, this “clean up” was really a purge. He was in there all day and when he was done
– 4 totes filled with Legos (really, this kid has easily acquired $1000 worth
of Legos in his short life) and miscellaneous toys of youth were standing
outside his door. Like a criminal trying
to trump the investigator, he was systematically getting rid of all the
evidence of his previous life.
Meanwhile, the room has taken on the distinct smell of BOY –
hard to describe but instantly recognizable by anyone unlucky enough to have
lived in a dorm. It’s not bad. But it’s… it’s… boy. But that is nothing
compared to the piles of clothes that have yet to see the inside of a closet or
drawer. But the drawers remain
perpetually open – I assume because it’s easier? I have to at least give him credit for
separating clean from dirty – clean on the desk/chair/bed, dirty on the
floor.
And apparently the culture-growing gene is hereditary because he has taken on my own teenage hobby of leaving used dishes and cups strewn
about his room for days until I have to come knocking for a bowl to eat my
cereal in. Last weekend – while he was
away at his dad’s – I went in there. I
wanted to change his sheets (since it’s not worth the trouble when he’s home
and barricaded in there) and counted 4 bowls, 2 mugs, 3 glasses and 3 empty soda
cans. We will run out of dishes if he keeps this habit up.
His music tastes have changed. It started subtly, with an Eminem song here
and there, and suddenly morphed into Rap fever.
Tupac, Biggie, Naz… are whispering tales of the 'hood in my son’s ears…
and he is absorbing the lyrics and spitting them out in sudden bursts as he
passes through the kitchen, or as he’s entering my room to say goodnight. Am I concerned? Not too much – since he is still sharing with
me. He runs songs by me to see if they’re
acceptable to add to his iPod, and he often plays his favorites for me on the
kitchen computer. I’m appeased to know I
am not only mom, but that I am trusted.
Fashion has changed.
Not to hip hop – though he bought himself a newsboy cap (like Biggie) –
but to Sport Dude. It was an Under Armour
Christmas. Now my lawyer will know why his check was late. And with the Sport
Dude comes the sports. Basketball.
Personal appearance has taken on a new priority second only
to good grades. He suffers the typical
breakouts of his kind, but lacks the motivation to be proactive and so is often
seen with smears of Spot On – which I have to remind him he just might want to wash off before we
leave. He’s been shaving the fine dark
hair on his upper lip for over a year now, but I have seen perplexing little
hair clippings around their bathroom. He
has lots of leg hair and, claiming to be the only one who does, has requested
to shave it off. I’d say that was the
highlight of my week – The Leg Shave – with the rap tunes going and the chemical smell
of Veet in the air.
But, like the signature on the dotted line, the last step in
this transformation is what seals the teenage-boy deal. Like Pig Pen’s stink cloud, the sweet smell of
Axe follows him. Sometimes it’s the only
way I can tell he’s been here. Sigh.
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