Posts from — November 2009

Brand new enormous size 11 big man leather dress shoes … triple tied.

My son has said all of four words to me this week. They are:

“Pizza”
“No”
and, “I forgot.”

So I’m working at the school bookstore yesterday and the mother of one of his friends approaches me and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I just have to congratulate you on your son,” she says. “He is just charming.”

“Oh my God,” I think to myself. “This is just brutal sarcasm. What the hell has he done now?” And yet, she continues, smiling. “What is your secret? ” She asks. I stare at her paralyzed. Does she know who she’s talking to? Is she on acid? Does she need money?

“We had the most wonderful conversation last week,” she continues (probably in a polite way to cover up the fact that I am just standing there squinting at her.) “He just loves the middle school and how ’bout that new girlfriend?”

I’m lost. Now what? I can’t let this woman know that I have NO IDEA WHAT SHE’S TALKING ABOUT. I can’t let her know that while thrilled with the notion that my son could have an actual conversation, let alone look up long enough to identify a girl and separate her from the pack, I am completely confused by what she is saying. Another woman strolls over. “Are you telling her about what Danny did at the field trip?” she asks the first mother. Then she turns to me. “He gave his lunch to a crying kid who forgot his.”

Okay. This isn’t funny anymore. He noticed something? He gave away his lunch? Who am I living with? Well I can tell you. I’m living with non-communicative primordial ooze. So why is it that when my little neanderthal is out in the world, he’s Ralph Freaking Lauren?

The answer is obvious. It’s to spite me. It’s to keep me off balance. It’s to make me into a raving maniac. (Like I needed any help with that.) Have you seen the classic movie “Gaslight?” Well, this is his version of that. This is how he begins his control of my life. This is how he makes me believe that he is sane and I am not. And dammit if it’s not working.

And then the report card comes. “Danny is always happy.”

Oh COME ON.

“I am so impressed with Danny. He has a natural maturity and willingness to try just about anything.”

This is just cruel.

“Danny is a fervent lab partner who seems to really enjoy the discovery aspect of this course.”

No. Danny is a sullen, angry teenager who despises anything that requires him to rise from the couch and regrets ever being born. What is actually happening here?

Okay. There are a few times that he is attentive and willing to help out. But this is always in trade for a ride to a distant friends house or the purchase of an extremely murderous X-Box game. So of course, the question here is, why is he so completely lovely at school and when visiting friends, but at home I get the exasperating back-breaking hypochondriac whose life I ruin on a daily basis? Honest -to-God I have sat here for the last thirty-five minutes trying to figure out the answer. Finally I decided, screw it. I went into the den, paused the television and read him this entry. “What is it?” I asked. “Why are you like this?”

He turned to me, thoughtfully. I could see in his eyes that he was interested and trying to find the right words to help me. “This is it,” I thought. “I can see the beautiful human being that all those other mothers were telling me about.” He opens his mouth…

“Dunno.”

Five words.

Can I just ask why I try this hard and still look this bad??

These days parenting is all about building children’s confidence. “Give them some authority,” is the new rule. “Let them know you value their opinion.” “Invite their input.” I bought into this completely during my son’s elementary school years. I made him feel as though he could do anything. I went out and got all the books. I used the words that they taught me. Words like:

“I sure wish I’d had half your ability at math when I was in school.”
“Can you help me organize the closet? You’re so much better than I am at figuring out where things go.”
“How do you think we should do this? I can’t decide.”

The end result is that my kid thinks I’m a bumbling moron. When I go to turn on the T.V., he holds his hand out and says, “Oh my God. Give me the remote.” As we walk out the door he asks, “did you at least remember your keys?”

This can’t possibly be what the psychologists had in mind.

Not only that, he’s very sure that since he’s the only capable one in the house that he has a say in everything that happens around here. For example, a simple Saturday morning will sound like this:

Me:” Okay sweetheart, we need to go run some errands.”
Him: “No.

Obviously I’ve lost control when I’m required to come up with a valid reason for him to leave his computer. Whatever happened to “Get in the goddamn car?” When I was a kid in Michigan, and my parents told me to get in the car, it didn’t matter where they were going, I just got in the car. I got in the car once and ended up in California. I had no idea. New house, new school, no questions. Because my parents weren’t interested in my input AT ALL. If someone had told my father to let me have a little authority, he would have taken a sip of his J&B and uttered his famous phrase. “The door swings both ways.” I remember being horrified. If I didn’t like his rules, I could leave. I tried that little gem out on my son. He replied, “Not only that, the window in the bathroom won’t close.”

And I’m beginning to think it’s too late for me to regain our former master/slave relationship. I suppose it’s my fault for listening to the “experts” who decided that children should have power. Where are these geniuses now that the kid is 5′11″ and ripped? Surely there must be a follow-up book out there explaining the procedure for taking down a teenager who thinks he has it all figured out. I’m thinking Fruity Pebbles, netting and bungie cords.

Me: “Tomorrow after school, we need to get your hair cut.”
Him: “No.”

Seriously though, he’s not rude. And eventually he will become a strong man with solid well thought out opinions. It’s just that right now it’s hard to believe that someone who draws monsters on his arms with a Sharpie pen can be so freaking sure of himself. And you know, maybe that’s what’s so irritating. I think I might be mad at him because I’ve NEVER felt that sure of anything. Never.

So, let’s review. I now resent my son for being exactly what I tried to make him. Someone more confident than I am.

Damn it to HELL.

Rae