My husband, The Brit, and I have lovingly been raising our grandson, The Briteen, since he was 3 years old. This sweet little boy has been a joy and a blessing in our lives. Until now.
Now our little boy is growing up and I want to know what the hell is happening? He used to chat with us over his bowl of Cocoa Puffs in the mornings. Now he emerges from his bedroom like a dragon on Game of Thrones. One wrong move and we could get roasted!
I dare not utter a word until he has showered, dressed, and his hair is perfect. Then, all I can hope for is a faint grunt in response.
Our sweet little guy has become a teenager and suddenly, his awesome Granddad is an uncool geezer. I’m no longer the wonderful Grandma who has his back. I am now a meddling monkey on his back.
“What are you doing?” he’ll fume at me.
“Your shirt tag is showing and there’s something on your neck,” I gently explain as I fiddle with his shirt collar and nape.
“My tag is fine,” he growls, “and my neck is not a field—quit picking it!”
Raising a teenager can be an exercise in futility, like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. You keep flailing away in the hope that something will stick.
I feel for my boy, I really do. I remember what my teen years were like and they weren’t always pretty in pink. Ask my mother!
Teenagers are very misunderstood. They are treated like children because, legally, they are; but they’re expected to act like adults because they are starting to look and sound like us.
Only a couple of years ago my boy used to complain about his child-voice. “I sound like a girl,” he’d fret.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I soothed. “Your voice will deepen as you get older.” Now he is acquiring a rich baritone, that is, until suddenly he makes a noise like the last gasp of a decrepit bagpipe.
Mom once told me that teen boys are easier to raise than teen girls and that the world would be a kinder place if girls could be kept in deep freeze from ages 13 to 20. My sister entered her teen years just as I was leaving mine, so Mom suffered through 10 years of hormonal hell between us.
My brothers, she said, were so much calmer. She didn’t explain that it’s because teenage boys turn into hibernating bears who only emerge from their lairs to eat and use the bathroom!
Our young bear keeps his room hermetically sealed from our prying eyes. He sleeps with the dog, so it has a malodorous funk that would ward off a battalion of trolls.
Each morning he lurches out of his lair with a grunt that sounds like, “I’m going to take a shower,” or “I’m going to take an hour.” And his showers last an hour.
He spends another hour grooming his hair, which must be perfect before he emerges into the light of day. He then dresses, topping off his attire with the same hooded sweatshirt he has worn for the last five weeks. The only way I can wash it is when the bear sleeps, and I risk life and limb finding it in the darkness of his cave. Mounds of his dirty laundry have been seen desperately creeping into the laundry room in hopes of a cleanse.
Once showered, groomed, and dressed, the bear becomes more frightening. He’s hungry and must be fed, and often. He stalks the kitchen cupboards and stares into the chill of our refrigerator as he growls. Or is that his stomach?
“For the love of God, you’re letting the cold out of the fridge!” I’ll scold. “Why don’t you just take a picture?”
Slowly he turns, his dark eyes meet mine as he snarls, “There’s nothing to eat.”
“What do you mean?” I reply incredulously. “There’s yogurt, fruit, eggs, juice, cereal, milk, bread for toasting. Choose something!”
“I don’t want any of that,” he grunts. Now I’ve done it. I gone and poked the bear! He has chores I want him to do, but needs sustenance first. So I forage for bagels and lox, because his energy could fail him at any moment.
How is it possible for a healthy 14-year-old to be too exhausted to wash a dish, but have plenty of energy to ride a skateboard for hours?
This is the same person who can program a computer but can’t figure out how to make a bed. He works miracles with sea scallops, patiently cooking them so perfectly it would make Gordon Ramsay envious, but making tea and toast for his Granddad tests his mettle.
He is also an oracle, revealing truths that are unexpected and, frankly, unasked for.
“Grandma?” he queried just the other day as I drove him home from school. “You know how you’ve said I’m starting to get a mustache?”
“Yes, Honey.” I wistfully fell innocently into his trap.
“Well, so are you!” he posited. Thanks, kid. This I need.
Recently, he said he was part of a team working on a school event with an Old West theme. I asked if he needed a costume or anything.
“I’m going to wear jeans and a plaid shirt.”
“I have a cool cowboy hat you can wear,” I helpfully offered.
“No! No hats!” Right, that would mess up his perfect hair.
“How about a bandana scarf for your neck?” I pressed.
“No!” he huffed. “I’m wearing jeans and a plaid shirt! I need Styrofoam.”
Yeah, Styrofoam was an important artifact of the Old West.
“Styrofoam balls or blocks?” I asked reasonably.
“I don’t know, squares I guess,” said Cowboy Vague.
“Could you give me even a little detail,” I begged. “What’s it for?”
“Cake pops,” he answered. Right, those good Old Western cake pops. “We’re sticking cake pops in the Styrofoam.”
“When do you need this?” I asked, already fearing the answer.
“Tomorrow,” was his nonchalant reply. Of course! “I also need five boxes of Swedish Fish.”
Where in the wild, wild West did they have cake pops stuck in Styrofoam and boxes of Swedish Fish? But mine was not to reason why. Mine was but to do or die, and I damn near did on my quest for five boxes of Swedish Fish and a rectangular block of Styrofoam. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have been up half the night baking cake pops.
I ask myself, why? Why do I do it? Then my Briteen comes home, tells me that Old West Day was great, and thanks me for helping with a big bear hug. That’s why!
Ariel Waterman hates Swedish Fish but loves cake pops. Send her some via Arts Editor Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in May 26 – Jun 2, 2016.