Look at that dog!

Last night was my small town's annual Halloween parade. We go every year - local businesses open up to trick or treaters, and afterward there is a parade through town with firetrucks & marching bands and social clubs throwing candy to spectators. It's something I have been doing since I was a kid, and it;s always fun. This year however, there was an added bonus.

In addition to the previously mentioned groups, individuals can walk in the parade and show off their costumes. you will see a lot of regular, store-bought costumes, along with some really creative ones. This year, the best I saw was a kid dressed as a Lego man. I don't have a photo, because I was so mesmerized by how perfect it was that I forgot I had a camera.

One staple of these parades is dogs in costumes. You will see dogs dressed as Steelers, dogs as bumblebees, dogs as princesses. One year, there was a tiny Cinderella in a carriage being pulled by dogs. This year, there was a Cruella de Vil with a bunch of dalmatians. And being the dog lovers that we are, if you sit anywhere near us, you will hear repeated, excited cries of, "Look at that dog!"

Toward the end of this year's parade, I saw a cute dog heading our way in a tutu and fairy wings. I pointed it out to the girl & her friend, knowing they would love it. But then it got a little closer and I noticed that Wait! That's not a dog! And those of you that know me will understand how much it pleased me to see what it really was:




















Yes, my friends - that is a goat. A Tutu Fairy Goat. The only thing that would have made it better for me would have been if it had fainted from my camera flash. Best goat ever.

And as a bonus, her's my little Flamenco dancer:

























And my insane son:

























(he almost didn't wear it bevcause it was supposed to rain and apparenty wearing one of those in the rain can cause drowning. Or something)

I Blinked

I blinked and my sweet, silly little boy:











































Turned into a long-legged, mustache-sprouting, sometimes angsty, taller-than-I-am high school student:




















































































I blinked and my tiny, loving, bean of a baby girl:











































Turned into a social butterfly, princess, cheerleading, fashionista second grader:




















































































































I blinked and my teeny, fuzzy, wobbly puppy:













































Turned into a ginormous, hairy, clumsy, cat-fighting, garbage-picking dogbeast:





























































I really have to stop blinking

Sometimes you get one

I post a lot more photos of The Girl than The Boy. It's not because of any bias or favoritism, but because it;s harder to get photos of The Boy. Unlike The Girl, who has a spidey sense about a camera in a 50-foot radius and starts posing, he's either off running, or hiding from the camera (because god forbid his hair is messed up - and seriously? He's killing me with the hair.)

So while it's nothing for me to get this from The Girl:



























































With The Boy, I often have to chase him around, only to get this:



























But every once in a while, I get lucky:













































































It's worth all the chasing.

I Smell the Sea!

Since the kids and I are heading out in a few minutes to drive to the beach, I thought I'd share a conversation from a few years back when the kids, my dad and I were making the same trip:

The Boy (In Berkeley Springs, West Virginia): I smell the sea!

Me: Dude – we’re almost 300 miles from the sea, you don’t smell the sea.

The Boy: Yes I do! I smell the sea salt.

Me: No.

The Boy (In Winchester, Virginia): I smell the sea!

My Dad: No you don’t – we’re still 200 miles from the sea.

The Boy: Yes I do!

My Dad: No.

The Boy (In Fredericksburg, Virginia): I smell the sea!

Me: OMG – 100 miles from the sea! You do NOT smell the sea!

The Boy: Yes I do!

Me and My Dad: No – you don’t.

The Boy: Yes I do! I smell it. I know what the sea smells like and that is the smell of the sea.

Me and My Dad: No.

The Boy (coming out of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel): What’s that smell?

Me and My Dad: THE SEA!!!!!!!!!

Life With A Teenage Boy

I was walking through the house when The Boy went hustling past me in a hurry. I asked where he was going and he said, "There's no toilet paper in our bathroom, so I am going in yours." Now, I don't have a problem with him using my bathroom, but mine is old and small and ugly and the kids have a nice, new, big bathroom. Plus, it irritates me that he is so lazy that he would walk all the way across the house to my bathroom, rather than just grabbing a new roll for his.

So I told him that I didn't care if he used my bathroom, but that he needed to get a new roll and put it in his. He said OK and that was the end of it.

Or so I thought until a few hours later when I was in my bathroom and reached for the paper, only to discover that the the new roll he took into his bathroom? Came from my bathroom dispenser.

His Sister Loved Her Windfall

I am being driven slowly insane by a condition known as Having Children. It’s a vicious circle – The kids drive me crazy, which stresses me out and makes me less tolerant of their nonsense, which stresses them out, so they act up more, which stresses me out even more, and so on.

I have been harassing the boy to get room clean once and for all. Every time he cleans it, he ends up sitting there doing nothing until he hears you walk up the hall, then he looks busy. This goes on for hours until those 2-minute bursts of activity result in a room that is “clean” rather than clean. Things in drawers, under the bed, in the closet – whatever it takes to make it look clean. And by the time he’s done, it’s late, I’m tired, we have somewhere to go, I’m stressed – a million reasons to just let it go.

But a couple of weeks ago, I reached my limit – that room was getting cleaned no matter what. He had to go to play in the pit orchestra for the school musical that evening, and he was supposed to have a friend stay over afterward, so I told him he needed to get the room cleaned before he had to leave or his friend wasn’t coming. He started off in his normal, sitting on his ass way, until I made it clear that his friend would not be allowed to come over if he didn’t get it done. Suddenly he kicked it into high gear.

He was working and cleaning and doing what I asked. The girl was even helping him. I gave him garbage bags to get rid of the 600 pounds of paper and crap and broken stuff that he had been shoving in the closet and in drawers and under the bed for the past god knows how long. I was happy to see the first bag come out of there. And the second. And the third. I praised him and said, now doesn’t it feel good to get that done?

He admitted that it did and kept on going. And then another bag came out. And another. And I started to get suspicious. I asked him if he was just throwing stuff away because he didn’t want to clean it. He insisted he wasn’t and that he was only throwing out old, broken stuff and garbage. I was skeptical, but given the amount of stuff I had recently seen under his bed and in his closet – it was possible. Finally, after many hours (and seven bags), he was done. He got ready and we dropped him off at the school.

After I got back, I happened to glance into the last bag he brought out, which he hadn’t tied shut. And my head exploded into a million I-Will-Kill-That-Kid shaped pieces. Right on top, I found a game. A game that had never been opened – that still had the plastic shrinkwrap on the box. And a science kit. And a sculpting book & set. And a set of good (and very much not cheap) artist pastels. And a robot-building kit. None of which had ever even been opened. Some of these things, I tried to donate to Toys for Tots the previous year, since they were still brand new, but he insisted he was going to play with them, so I didn’t.

By now, it was clear that I was going to have to go through every single bag. I understand if he had outgrown something and didn’t want it anymore. But there is no way in hell I was going to let him throw away a bunch of perfectly good stuff that we could donate or sell, or give away to someone who would love to have it. So this week, I spent hours going though those bags. And oh the things I found.

In addition to the previously mentioned items (and lots of broken stuff and garbage), I also found: the remote control car we paid about seven bajillion dollars for him to build, another remote control car, a set of air hogs helicopters, a paintball gun, a sweater, two t-shirts and a hat that he just got for Christmas (that still had TAGS ON THEM!), Several other articles of clothing – some outgrown, but in pristine condition, and some which still fit – including brand names like American Eagle, Gap, and Calvin Klein. Several baseball hats, including two scout hats and a Gap hat with the tags still on it. A favorite pair of MY sandals that have been missing for a couple of years. One of my hiking boots. A pair of his father’s shoes. A couple articles of his sister’s clothing. Approximately 1,000 marbles. His entire keychain collection (which his sister has been eyeing for years). A pair of roller blades. About a dozen books, including a boxed 3-book reference set. A Lion King collectible. A Pirates collectible coin book with several coins. The same with Steelers coins. A Sidney Crosby trading card in a protective case. A huge box of trading cards, including sports, pokemon and yugioh. Three brand new packs of pencils. A brand new pack of pens. A stapler. A calculator. Several scouting/camping items. Two scouting books. Two souvenir baseball bats – one from the final game at Three Rivers. A small piggy bank (with some money in it). A brand new set of markers. A brand new set of colored pencils. An electronic door alarm kit. A Steelers sign. Karate pads. A giant ear of corn hat (a treasure that should never be thrown away). And a whole bunch of other things that have no business in the garbage.

I gathered up all the goods and waited until he got home. Then I watched while he noticed the huge bin of cool stuff and approached it. And then I attacked: “BACK OFF! That is not your stuff!”

“What? This is stuff from my room!”

“No – that is stuff you threw away, so it isn’t your anymore”

“No way! That’s not fair! I didn’t mean to throw that stuff away! Come on, Mom!”

“Forget it, Pal.”

And then I happily gave a bunch of the stuff to his sister while he watched. Sometimes I love being the mean mom.


PS. I know that he didn't throw this stuff away out of pure ungratefulness - he was in a panic that he wouldn't get to have his friend stay over so he started throwing stuff out without even looking at it. But it's still no excuse.

Defending Bieber

I found myself in a very strange position this past weekend – defending Justin Bieber. I KNOW! But the point of this post really isn’t about Justin Bieber and how much he sucks or doesn’t suck. It’s really about teenagers and how much they suck.

Now, I’d like to claim that I was never like that as a teen, but I have to be honest – I was. I can clearly remember what a big asshole I was. And all my friends were. We were the good kids – we got good grades, and were kind to people, and didn’t cause trouble. But we were still assholes.

I remember the days of thinking my parents were old-fashioned idiots who didn’t know anything about the world and wouldn’t know good music if they heard it. I remember thinking how unfair everything was. I remember always having to get the last word. I remember swearing to God and Buddha and Magnum PI that I would never be like my parents.
Hello? Gina, meet karma.

The boy is a teenager now and he’s pretty much killing me. He is all those things I remember being: stubborn, a know-it-all, contrary, lazy, smartass, OMG SO SLOW, and a general pain in the ass. And yet, he’s still a pretty damned good kid.

That said, his anti-Bieber campaign is really getting on my nerves. Now don’t get me wrong – the mere thought of Justin Bieber makes me gag. But the girl loves him, so he’s in my life – in my ears, hanging on my walls, in my laundry (on her shirts and jammies – obviously, he’s not actually in my laundry – that would be weird), so I deal with it.

I don’t recall my parents being big Shaun Cassidy fans, but they still bought me the albums and clothes and posters and jewelry (which I still wear), and my dad (bless his heart) even took me to his concert. And my aunt didn’t swoon over Andy Gibb, but she still sat in the second row at the Syria Mosque and happily(ish) got trampled on my a bunch of screaming girls and (her least favorite part) hit by flying Gibb sweat, because I did swoon over him.

Anyway, the girl has Bieber Fever. And the boy has IHateBieber Fever. And being a smartass, know it all, stubborn, contrary teen, feels the need to express his anti-Bieber feelings every time he sees, hears, or even thinks about anything remotely related to Justin Bieber. Which triggers the screamy, Bieber-Fever, 7 year old crazy. Which in turn triggers my nervous breakdown.

I finally told him, “Enough! Enough with all the bad-mouthing and mocking and negativity!”
His response – of course (being a self-righteous, know it all teen), was “Jeez, mom, I’m entitled to my opinion!” He was feeling very proud of himself for that response until I told him that while he is entitled to his opinion, if that opinion is the opposite of the opinion of someone he cares about, and if that opinion is hurtful to someone he cares about, then perhaps he should keep it to himself, and that if he thinks I am stupid enough to think that he really cares all that much about Justin Bieber in one way or another, rather than expressing his goddamned opinion for the sake of making his sister scream, the he is sadly mistaken. And the next time he thinks about trying to stir up shit and ruin my peaceful evening/dinner/car ride by making the screamer who screams scream even more, he better think twice, because I WILL KILL HIM.

And then, because there is obviously still a teensy-weensy touch of stubborn, oppositional, know-it-all, smart ass, contrary teenager in me, I followed up with, “JUSTIN BIEBER IS AWESOME AND YOU’RE JUST JEALOUS!”

Sigh. I’ve turned into my parents and my kids.

Also? Bieber sucks.


.

Snow & Siblings

The kids had a great time playing in the snow on Tuesday.

Of course right after these were taken, he threw snow in her face. And then she screamed. And he laughed and laughed. Until she picked up a handful of snow, blew her nose into it and threw it at him. Then she laughed and laughed.

And don't tell anyone, but I may have laughed a little, too.

FOURTEEN!

Today – at exactly 12:05 pm to be exact – my baby boy turns fourteen. FOURTEEN! I know what you’re thinking:

First, that he is not a baby. And to that I say, SHUT YOUR DAMNED MOUTH! He is MY BABY!

Second, you’re thinking, “Oh Gina, but how can this be? You’re much too young to have a fourteen year old!” You’re right about this one. I had him when I was 12. I was a real slut back then.

Anyway, I have decided that my gift on his birthday – what? I don’t deserve a gift on my baby’s birthday? I’ll tell you that I most certainly do. For one, I pushed his giant head out of my body (VAGINA!), and that did some serious damage for which I deserve a gift. And two, he and his sister both owe me big for what they have done to my bladder. Not to mention my sanity.

So my gift on the anniversary of my baby boy’s birth is the gift of humiliation. His, that is.

Happy Birthday, Boyzo:

This time I really mean it!

You know – every time I post a new entry, I think to myself, “See – that was easy! I am going to blog every single day from now on!” And I totally mean it at that moment. And that night, something will happen that makes me think, :I should blog about that! Or that! Or that! (or any of the million things that go on in my life every day). But then the next day rolls around and I am tired, or cranky, or crazy-busy and I think, “OK – I couldn’t do it today, but I will blog tomorrow for sure. And the tomorrow rolls around and either a) I am as tired/cranky/busy as I was the day before, b) I can’t remember the million things I wanted to talk about, or c) I remember them, but suddenly they seem uninteresting and stupid.

So anyway…Hi! Here’s what’s been going on lately:

1. We brought the puppy home! Yay! We went through several (hundred) names before we finally settled on Charley. It suits him. He’s really cute and sweet and lovable and a big pain in the ass. I totally forgot about the getting up at all hours to take them out and the incessant whining. The whining/crying/screaming as if being murdered was the worst part, but luckily, he has grown out of that (thanks to my twitter friends for reassuring me on that). He still gets up to pee in the night, but it’s down to once. Still – interrupted sleep = me being even more forgetful and spacey than normal. Good times. Behold the cuteness:









































2. Halloween! We went to the annual party that my niece Scabs throws. It’s my favorite party of the year. Mainly because we are an evil bunch who use Halloween as an opportunity to torment and ridicule each other. If you have ever done something embarrassing – it will be used against you on Halloween. One year, we all dressed as Scabs. One year (the year of the punching the crackwhore story), someone came as Drunken Poolrat Gina and someone else came as Beaten Down Crackwhore. This year, I went as Scabs. Now, it may seem repetitive, since we went as Scabs before, but this time around, I went as Scabs looking how she did when she earned her nickname. See – many moons ago, Scabs worked at a bar and she invited mr b and I to the bar’s Halloween party. Well, she had been drinking all day and by the time we got there, she was sitting at the bar, dressed as a clown, makeup smeared, cigarette dangling from her mouth and she croaked at us, “Where in the HELL have you been?” So from then on, She became Scabs, the Chain-Smoking, Hard-Drinking, Pissed-Off Clown. Thus:

Scabs (with a scary Nanny McPhee in the background):


















Blind Ref:


























Flapper (when she told her firends she was going to be a flapper, they all asked, "Who's Flapper?")



























You're fired!





















Snooki was there, too:






















3. Football season is over! I repeat – football season is over! Finally a break from the constant cheer and band practices, games on both Friday and Saturday/Sunday, and driving all over creation to get to them! All season, I couldn’t wait for this moment. And yet – don’t tell anyone I said this, but I think I’m a little sad about it.



4. And speaking of football, our high school is getting a new stadium, and the last game in the current (70+ year old) one was a big event, with players from the very first game, alumni parties and former cheerleaders and band members on the field to participate. I joined up with the alumni majorettes and expected that we would be doing a simple salute to SSB & alma mater. Imagine my surprise when I got to practice before the game to discover we had an entire routine to learn. It was insane, but fun. And the boys won, meaning we won the very first and very last games in the stadium. Unfortunately, I put mr b in charge of taking photos, so I ended up with 65 shots of the fireworks and the backs of the heads of the people in front of him, but no really good shots of my super twirling skills. Sigh.

The closest thing to an action shot that mr b got - note the lack of zooming and the partial head in the foreground:


















The boy and me on the field together. I love that he wasn't embarrassed that his mom was twirling.
























5. Unrelated to anything else I have been talking about, I left my checkbook on the table yesterday morning, after writing one for the kids’ school photos, only to come home last night to discover that the girl had written herself a check for $1000.


6. Finally – go here and help the kids.

Halloween is scary for many reasons

Last night, we went to our small town’s Halloween Parade. Before it starts, the local businesses hold a Trick or Treat and the library has activities, so my friend and I headed down early to the girls could enjoy themselves before meeting up with their cheer squad to ride along in the float.

There is nothing like Halloween to bring out the crazy. We saw our fair share of skanky costumes, pushy parents, misbehaving kids, and general impoliteness, of course, but the kids had fun. At one point, as we were making our way down a crowded sidewalk, we noticed a woman standing there wearing the most hideous, pants that you have ever seen – they were possibly pajamas – pink and furry and tight. We saw her a few times over the course of the evening and every time, she looked crazier and nastier than the last. But when we passed her on the sidewalk, she was talking – both to the person on her cell phone and a person standing next to her and taking up valuable space on the already crowded walk. I remember thinking that people without kids should really try to get the hell out of the way and let the kids through.

Shortly after we passed her, I noticed a little boy walking very close to me. It was so crowded that I didn’t really think anything of it – just assumed his parents were behind me. That is, until we walked about a block further and away from the main area. We went to sit down on a bench and noticed that Buzz Lightyear had joined us. I realized that this little boy had just sort of attached himself to me. I asked him if he was lost and he said yes. He told me his name was Andrew. He seemed a little vacant, but I assumed it was because he was scared. So I asked him who he was there with and he didn’t answer. I asked if he was with his mom and he said no. The same for his dad. I asked who he was with again and he said his dad. It became clear pretty quickly that this little boy was special needs. So I took his hand and led him back into the fray, hoping to find a frantic parent looking for him. Otherwise, I figured I’d pass him on to the first police officer I came across.

He wasn’t afraid of me at all – he willingly took my hand as we walked around. Because he wasn’t able to communicate much, I had no idea of a last name, who we were looking for, what they looked like. I tried to jest walk slowly to give the parents a chance to spot him. And hoo-boy, did they. I heard a screeching, “Where were you!?! “ and looked up to see none other than Miss Crazy Playboy Bunny Pants heading towards us.

I could tell that she was CRAZY AS SHIT a little upset, so I tried to greet her kindly and say that he got mixed up with our group, but she cut me off by screaming at the poor thing about how he’s “not supposed to run away.” I spoke up and tried to shoulder the blame, claiming that we had stepped between him and her as we walked by and he got pulled along with the crowd (which isn’t really what happened, but I was trying to divert her ire a little). But it took everything in my power to not scream right back at her and tell her 1) that he ended up separated from her while she was completely distracted and talking on the phone, 2) that while we teach our kids not to wander off, when they are that little, their safety is ultimately OUR responsibility, and 3) that as a special needs child, he obviously needs even more supervision, especially given his trusting and willingness to take a strangers hand and walk away with them. Not that I would have had a chance to say all that anyway, since she grabbed his hand from me (the poor thing was hanging on to me for dear life) and dragged him away, still yelling. People really suck sometimes.

Oh – and totally unrelated, but I have to share: When I went to meet up with the boy after the parade (he marched with the band), he was holding hands with a girl!!!! And I don’t care how much burghbaby hates multiple exclamation points – sometimes they are needed. Like when your baby boy is HOLDING HANDS WITH A GIRL!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Life With a Teen

Last week…
The Boy: Are we going to Kennywood on community day?
Me: No, because we are going next week for your band day.
The Boy: what day?
Me: The 19th.
The Boy: OK

A couple days later…
The Boy: What day did you say we were going to Kennywood?
Me: The 19th.
The Boy: I think it changed.
Me: Yeah – it changed TO the 19th.
The Boy: No – I think it’s another day.
Me: I’m pretty sure it’s the 19th.

A couple days after that…
The Boy: Kennywood isn’t the 19th.
Me: Yes it is. I checked after we talked about it.
The Boy: No it isn’t.
Me: Yes, it is.

Two days ago…
The Boy: So and So’s (band friend) pool party is the 19th.
Me: It can’t be – Kennywood is the 19th.
The Boy: I told you – Kennywood got changed. It’s the next day, AFTER the pool party! Even Mr. K. said so! (this said in full-on DUH tone)
Me: Dude – I checked again last night – I have an email for the band boosters saying that Kennywood is the 19th!
The Boy: MOOOOOM! It’s NOT! It’s the NEXT DAY!!
Me: Whatever. I’ll have to email them again and find out for sure.
The Boy: WhatEVER!

Today…
Me: Hey – I checked with the boosters and Kennywood is definitely on the 19th.
The Boy: I knooooow – that’s what I told you!!!!
Me: WHAT? You argued with me for days about how it was the 20th and it got changed and the pool party was the 19th and how I’m wrong and blah blah blah!
The Boy: MOM! I SAID IT WAS THE 19th!! And YOU said it wasn’t. I can’t believe this!
Me: I WHAT? YOU WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME???
The Boy: You just always have to be right.
Me: AARRGGHHLLLFFFMMMPPPCCHHHKKLLLRRRTTMMFFPPHHH! Thud.

Playing Favorites

Do you play favorites with your kids? I try not to, and I don’t think I do, but sometimes I wonder if the boy perceives it that way. I don’t have a favorite child. I love my kids both the same and yet differently. I think the question arises mainly because of their age difference. I can overlook things more with a six-year old than a thirteen-year old, explain it away because of age or immaturity.

Like when they are fighting about something stupid. The other day, there was some delightful screaming coming from the girl’s bedroom. It turns out that the kids were fighting over an eraser. A stupid eraser that looked like a $100 bill. I’m not sure whose eraser it was in the first place, but I think we had several of them and I recall putting at least one of them away in the girl’s craft drawers.

But apparently, there was one on the boy’s bedroom floor one minute and the next, and the next, it was gone. So, he went into her room, knowing that she had taken it. When she saw him grab it, the arguing ensued. They were both in full-on, “It’s MINE” mode and I was not in the mood. He ended up keeping the eraser, but I ended up defending her, and I am a little ashamed to admit that when these types of skirmishes arise, I tend to fall on her side of the issue.

It’s not because I love her more, or because she is my favorite. It’s mainly because OMG THE SCREAMING MAKE IT STOP! And I know that’s not necessarily the right attitude to have, because I don’t want to train her to scream and get what she wants. However, I can tell you with complete certainty that if I found that eraser and asked him if it was his or if he wanted it, he would not. Unless he could text his friends or play games or go online using that eraser, he would not give one teeny, tiny RAT’S ASS about that eraser. But because he knew his sister took it? That eraser suddenly became the essence of his very being. He Can’t! Live! Without! THAT ERASER!!!!

And that is what pisses me off. We go through this constantly. Stupid sibling fights over stupid things that neither of them cares about. They only want to win. To get one over on the other. People, I am an only child – I came into this parenting gig knowing nothing about these sibling fights. I was naïve enough to think that because they were so different in age that this wouldn’t happen. I even actually said those words when she was a baby.

I was MONUMENTALLY STUPID back then.

But the point is that now, I feel like I take her side over his too much. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I always take her side – I take his, too. But sometimes I look at the stupid fight they are having and I think, OK, it’s normal for a six-year old to act like a six-year old. But for a thirteen-year old to act like a six-year old? No. And when he has a legitimate beef with her (like yesterday when he came home from a sleepover to find that she had left a bunch of her toys in his room), I support him. I just can’t take when he fights with her for the sake of fighting with her. Because he doesn’t care about the stupid eraser. He only cares about winning. Same with her. She’d never look at that damned eraser again, but because he has it, she wants it. But she’s six. That’s what six-year olds do.

I also think some of this stems from the fact that she is my last child – my baby. I can remember when he would never sleep in his own bed and it made me insane. I read twitter and facebook updates and blog posts from my friends with a young child and they all sound just like me back then: “OMG this child needs to sleep in his/her own room before I lose my mind!” But knowing that she is my last, and that pretty soon, she won’t want to be caught dead sleeping with me? Some nights I find myself lying in bed actually wishing that she would come crawl in and snuggle with me. I know these days are numbered and I want to revel in every last one of them.

And, I mean, he’s thirteen. In case you don’t know a thirteen year old – they are kind of a pain in the ass. I was a pain in the ass when I was thirteen. Everyone I know was a pain in the ass when they were thirteen. That’s what thirteen is all about – you’re trying to figure out who you are and what you want and you’re growing and you’re tired and you’re hungry and all that plus Jesus GOD the hormones are making you into some sort of alien monster idiot moody pain in the ass clinically insane cyborg. And he’s no exception.

But he’s a good kid. Sure – he has stupid fights with his sister, but according to every single non-only child I have ever talked to – that’s normal. And sometimes he’ll sit patiently with her and help her play a game or watch a movie with her or help her trap a cat in a cardboard box. He can’t walk past a homeless person or a bell ringer or a donation box without digging into his own pocket. He enjoys life – he smiles and laughs easily. He loves to spend time with his family. He is kind. He plays with his little cousins. He’ll sit and talk to his 90 year old Baba even though she can’t hear a word he says. He wears his heart on his sleeve.

But like every other thirteen year old, he’s at this weird place in his life. He’s not a kid, but he’s not an adult and sometimes he’s a moody pain in the ass who doesn’t care what I think or do, and other times, he’s still my little boy who wants a hug and is easily hurt. He’s an almost-man who is still willing to hang out with his mom, who isn’t embarrassed to put his arm around me in public. Until, of course, he is in range of sight of another cyborg in a Hurley shirt and then he tries to discreetly remove himself. And I let him because I understand. I want to hang on to those moments for dear life because he’s still my baby boy, just like his sister is my baby girl.

So I’ll hug him and hold his hand when I can, and let go when he wants me to. And even though I’ll take his sister’s side is a stupid fight about a stupid eraser, I’ll let him stay up later, and talk to him like an adult, and give him the freedom he craves (within reason), and I won’t come down on him too hard when he forgets something for the seventy-hundredth time even though I sometimes want to take him in for a head X-ray because I am sure that along with all his pencils, his phone, and his science homework, he lost his brain, too. I won’t freak out when I hear him utter a swear word, and I won’t butt into his friendships or phone calls (much). And even though the sound of sixty straight minutes of hacky-sacking is driving me crazy, I’ll let him do it in the family room. And while the forty-minute long conversation about Runescape is killing my brain cells and making my ears bleed, I’ll nod and smile and listen just a little while longer.

And I hope he knows that is me taking his side.