Wednesday, August 7, 2019

Little jerk

My son has always been my easy kid.

Clarification: technically speaking, Owen is not "easy" at all. (He has a checkered past of doing questionable things like this and this and this.) But he doesn’t carry the emotional tote-bags that my daughters do, which means he’s brought some levity and affection to my life for twelve cheerful years.

Things, however, are starting to change.

It appears as if Owen is dipping his toes in the torrid swamp of puberty. Which means he doesn’t like me very much anymore.

In every single one of our conversations, for instance, his non-verbal gestures now consist of eye-rolling, scoffing, shrugging and stomping. He stages a revolt when I ask him to do anything, whether it’s taking a shower or unloading the dishwasher. He uses the word “freaking” when he gets upset with me, even though he knows it’s not allowed because it sounds too much like a different, naughtier word. (A word, incidentally, that I’d love to shout at the top of my freaking lungs.) 

Just last week, I was tucking Owen in at bedtime. After I managed to plant a kiss on his forehead, he told me, simply and without fuss, that he would prefer it if I weren’t his parent right now. “I like hanging out with Dad,” he said. “You’re mean to me all the time, and he’s way more fun to be around.”

Thanks to my twin 15-year-old girls, I have been able to develop the skills to detach emotionally in situations like this. I know that no one, especially me, benefits when I fight fire with fire, so I responded to Owen with a tender litany of That’s too bad, I’m sad you feel that way about me, I don’t feel that way about you, I love you, I’ll see you in the morning, goodnight my darling son. I gently closed Owen’s bedroom door and went off to hide in my closet. 

The fact remains: my easy kid is slipping away like water through a sieve.

It helps knowing I’m not the only one who’s struggling with the onset of nasty boy-hormones. My brother-in-law and nephew came to visit us last month. Mike and I chatted in the front yard while Drew and Owen played basketball. The sounds of their cousinly shouts and laughter echoed down the street.

“I can’t believe how happy Drew is right now,” Mike said. He shook his head. “He was awful at home before we left. He wouldn't stop whining and complaining like a little jerk. I don’t know what’s happened to him. It’s like he’s become a different kid this year.”

“It’s the same way with Owen,” I said, profoundly relieved. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know him anymore.” 

But later that evening, I knew him again. When I kissed Owen goodnight, he wrapped his arms around my back in his idea of an embrace, although it more closely resembled a wrestling move designed to take somebody down. He put his lips as close to my eardrum as humanly possible and said, not softly, “I love you, Mom.”

Being a middle-school boy and all, he refused to release his grip. It was like having a monkey hanging off my shoulders as I tried to stand up. I resorted to tickling his armpits so he’d let go.

But I immediately missed the feel of him clinging to me. 

***

I can’t play basketball worth shit, and I’m terrible with athletic metaphors. But I know this much: puberty is a long game. Can someone please tell me they've got a uniform I can borrow?