| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
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happy birthday, Cleo! ask her to post something on WAYD. |
Agatha I can comiserate. Hayley will turn 13 right after school gets out. |
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That makes us SUPER old. Happy Birthday Miss Cleo. |
I wrote this for the feature section of my former employer a couple years back when my son turned 13. I can't link you to it because it's not in their online archives, but if you'll indulge me: Stop The Clock, My Kid’s About To Turn … 13 TAMPA - By this time next week, I will officially be the mother of a teenager. As my son, Zach, enthusiastically ticks off the days until his 13th birthday, I find myself wondering, "How could this be happening?" When did that little boy with the toy sword stuck down his shorts and his cheeks stuffed full of Sour Warheads turn into a lanky, bleached-blond chick hound with baggy pants slipping off his hips and a cell phone cemented to his face? And, more importantly, what am I supposed to do about it? I should’ve seen it coming. The signs were there, but I didn’t want to acknowledge them. Wiry black hairs sprout on his upper lip, even as I’m waxing off my own menopause moustache. That puberty and menopause tend to happen at the same time is proof in my book that there is no such thing as intelligent design when it comes to human biology. In my house, mother-son mood swings are a definite threat to the survival of the species. Our moustache race was only the beginning of Zach’s metamorphosis. My soon-to-be 13-year-old takes great delight in pointing out that he is now my height, 5-foot-8. When we’re face-to-face, we’re eye-to-eye, which makes my withering glare of parental disapproval far less effective, apparently even comical. It also grants me the full effect of the eye-rolling that occurs whenever I open my mouth to speak to him. And then there are his feet: I’ve been on cruise ships smaller than his shoes. At least his personal habits are evolving, mostly for the better. He is certainly much cleaner these days. I should buy stock in Herbal Essence hair products. And his appetite has expanded beyond pizza and chicken nuggets, with a preference for fresh grouper. My wallet mourns for the days when we could order from the children’s menu. Not that long ago, it would’ve taken bribes and threats to get him to the mall; now he spends most Friday nights there. Not with me, of course. I drop off his posse and watch them disappear into a sea of boys wearing too much Axe cologne and girls wearing too-low jeans. Speaking of the mall, the boys department — like the kids menu — is history. We’ve graduated to Men’s, where the prices are doubled and T-shirts have to be screened for appropriate content. My rule is that T-shirts must pass the Grandma test: If you can’t wear it in front of Grandma, we’re not buying it. Yet, at nearly 13, Zach considers my rules more like suggestions than actual commandments. It’s like actress Susan Sarandon said of her teenagers: "I taught my kids to question authority, forgetting that the first authority they’d question would be me." Amen, sister. Now everything is a negotiation. And Zach’s better at it than I am. This kid could talk Diddy out of his P. Zach: "I’m going to ride my bike to Girl-of-the-Week’s house." Me: "You don’t have time. Dinner’s almost ready." Zach, rolling his eyes: "You haven’t even put the noodles on yet. Her house is just up by the school." Me: "By the time you get there, you’ll have to turn right around and come back. What’s the point?" Zach: "If everything had a point, there’d be no place to sit. Besides, I already told her I’d be there." Me: "Call her and tell her you can’t make it." Zach, speaking slowly, as if I’d had a lobotomy: "Mom, in the time it has taken us to have this conversation, I could’ve been there already. By the time dinner’s ready, I’ll be back," he says, heading out the door. Me: "You better be!" Of course he’s not back in time for dinner. Instead, I get a breathless phone call from his ever-present cell phone: "My tire went flat." Or, "Their clocks are slow." Or, my favorite, "I’m almost home." Then it’s decision time. Is this worth fighting about? Do I have enough energy/wits/antacid to take him on? Is he likely to get my point or just get angry? Can’t we all just get along? Lord, help me. I’m so not ready for this whole teenager thing. In a last-ditch effort to prepare myself, I read the Aug. 8 Time magazine report "Being 13." I fully expected the worst. But instead of horror stories about sex parties and cyberstalking, I found the news to be somewhat encouraging. Of the 501 13-year-olds polled by the magazine, 90 percent felt they have a good-to-excellent relationship with their parents; more than two-thirds (68 percent) felt their parents have just the right amount of involvement in their lives. Nearly three-quarters (72 percent) haven’t started dating yet; 60 percent thought people should wait until they’re married to have sex. Teen pregnancy rates are down, according to the Centers for Disease Control. Between 2002 and 2004, there was a 9 percent drop in drug use among people 12 to 17, according to a federal survey of some 70,000 people across the country. I can live with those stats. Maybe 13 won’t be so bad after all. Zach’s a good kid. He gets excellent grades, plays sports and has stayed out of trouble so far. Sure, he’s a little mouthy, but I have to admit that he gets it honestly. We also have the same warped sense of humor, which sends us into giggling fits that baffle his father. And sometimes — like when he’s studying or watching a ball game with his dad — I get a brief glimpse of the man he’s on the verge of becoming. It takes my breath away to think I’m helping to make that happen. Now if we can just keep from killing each other until then. -------------------------------------------------- Sorry for the long post. Zach starts high school in August and gets his learner's permit in five months. Then I'm really screwed. |
Karla that was wonderful and so funny(but true)thank you:) Jonathan turned 13 in Febuary,I haven't seen him in almost four years,sniff. |
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great story, Karla. you're a good writer. someday, i'll be the parent of a 13 year old. god help me. yeah, and good luck, dave. |