Of late, I have been quiet about the comings and goings of my brood of three. In part, it’s because they no longer like to do things with me. But it’s also out of deference to my children’s sense of privacy.
Because The Boy is now almost a teenager. He’s in 7th grade. He has a phone! He has an Instagram account! He has his own Ventra card!
He also has a wicked case of attitude.
Yes, The Boy is almost a teenager. (I might become almost a drinker in response.)
On Saturday, I received a heartwarming text from a friend, who wrote that she had enjoyed spending time with The Boy while he and a handful of other friends spent 24H celebrating her son’s 13th birthday.
Or it would have been heartwarming, if The Boy in question hadn’t spent the past 60 minutes in my presence in a pubescent snit because I would not agree to spending 7/8 of the Halloween budget on a wildly inappropriate cosplay prop that does not a costume make.
But as I feel my mouth press into a straight line as a clench my teeth after I have explained for the 15th time why stainless steel blades are not an appropriate prop for a Halloween costume, I know that if I don’t talk (write) about these challenging parenting times, one of us might not survive the next 5-7 years. Although, if you ask him, I’ve already ruined his life. I think I’ve ruined his life 45 times since July, and 3 times since breakfast.
How many times this week have you ruined your kid’s life?