Circa September 29, 2011
My friends with older children used to chuckle when I said, “not my Frick. He’ll always be adorable and sweet.” They told me that eventually even my sweet Frick would be “the typical American teenager,” full of smart-mouthed comments, attitude, and words I’ve never heard of. All of the sudden I would be uncool.
This moment has arrived. Not overnight, but with each passing day I see less and less of my baby. He’s been taken over by hormones which make him smarter than everyone, he sleeps 16 hours a day on the weekend, everything challenging is “stupid” or “lame,” and everything good is “beast.” What the heck does that even mean?
The other day, I called one of my friends who told me this would happen. “Hello, my fellow friend of teenage boys.” She laughed and asked how they were. I spewed my stories of hormones, farting, refusal to face wash despite emerging pimples, lip hair, general stench, and of course the bedroom door. I’ve not taken it off the hinges yet, but I’m tempted.
Everything is contested. Everything is an argument. I am constantly reminding myself that I am the adult. I set the example. I am the boss. God, give me strength not to sell them to the gypsies.
Update March 2015
Well, I would love to tell you that things are easier and that Frick has magically snapped out of his teenagerness. He hasn’t. I still constantly remind myself that I am the boss, but I often feel like I’m losing my job. I still fight with him. But there is one difference. He isn’t a little teenager anymore. He is a young man. He’s leaving the house in a year. We’re looking at colleges and I’ve transitioned into teaching him immediate life skills so he can live on his own–how to cook simple meals, how to pump gas, how to pay for things with a debit card, how to find his way to school in a car. It’s insane, and scary, and makes me want to tear my hair out. But despite all of it, he is still my baby.