THE TYRANNY OF THE TEENAGER

I’m pretty organized. I keep a detailed calendar, only make appointments I can keep and work hard not to waste other people’s time. I have always believed in this adage;

“Your lack of planning is not my emergency.”

I guess the author of that little piece of wisdom must have forgotten to add the caveat, “unless you’re someone’s mother,” because these days I seem to live by the (far lesser known but equally revered) saying;

“I have no plans and no life, so if you miss the bus and need a ride to school or forget your P.E. clothes (that I have washed and folded) and need me to drive back and get them in rush hour traffic or suddenly decide at 8:00pm you want go somewhere that scares me to death until midnight and then want to be picked up a block away so no one knows I exist… your wish is my command.

2 PM, Saturday: I have taken the dogs to the park, gone to the gym, made breakfast and lunch for Danny and done two loads of laundry. I’ve looked forward to this afternoon all week. Nothing else to do. Nothing. Read. Write a little. As a defensive measure, I ask my son what his plans are for the rest of the day. He says, no plans. (“Perfect.” I reply). I sit down at my desk to leisurely peruse the paper.

2:20 PM: “August might come over,” he yells down the stairs.
“Okay,” I yell back.

2:25 PM: “Harrison is coming too,” he calls
“Okay,” I call back.

2:40 PM: His door opens. “I’m hungry.”

I make a second lunch.

3:07 PM: Harrison can’t get a ride. Can we pick him up?
“Sure.”

So I get in the car and go pick up Harrison. I come back and open the book I’ve been reading. I feel a presence at the door.

“Can you take us to the mall?”
“What about August?”
“He wants to know if we can pick him up on the way there.”
I stare daggers at him. Surely he will feel some sense of shame. (Hahahahaha).

I pick up August. We get halfway to the mall when he realizes he has no money and forgot his phone. We drive back. His parents aren’t home (Why would they be?) I shove him through their dog door, he gets his stuff and we drive to the mall. It’s 5:30PM. We decide that they will eat dinner there and I will come back to get them at 9:00 PM. I come home. Feed the dogs again, light some candles, put some dinner in the oven and spend a half hour figuring out how to change our (“our,” what a joke) TV from the x-box configuration to HBO. I sit down in front of a real movie. Hot food. Hot movie.

Ding. Text message.

“Can you pick us up now?”

Oh, well that’s simple. I type into my phone…

“No.”

I turn the movie back on. I take a bite of salad. Ding.

“We’re bored.”

He’s going to have to do better than that.

“No.”

Several minutes go by. The movie’s getting good. Ding.

“But I’m cold.”

He’s cold. It’s Southern California in June. I don’t even respond.

Ding.

“August lost a shoe and Harrison thought he was giving a dollar to a homeless guy but he gave him a ten by mistake and tried to ask for it back but the guy got weird so we let him have it and we didn’t
have enough for dinner and we’re all still hungry.”

Ohmyf’inggod. Okay. Take a breath. These are other people’s children. It’s irresponsible to leave them at the mall hungry and half shoeless. I pause my movie, hit the wrong button on the remote, lose my connection to Netflix, text that I’m on my way and drive to our meeting place.

But no one’s there. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes. People are annoyed at where I’m parked. I move. I move again. I consider maiming myself to get a handicapped sticker. Finally I see them strolling over. They are laughing. They have Frappuccino’s. I hate them. August has lost his other shoe, but somehow acquired a top hat. We get home where the dogs have pulled my meal down from the counter, broken the plate and eaten the remote.

“Oh man, I think I just stepped in glass.”
“Can we have quesadillas?”
“Do we have speakers that will connect to Harrison’s phone?”
“Your dog just like threw up a battery in the living room.”
“I don’t like quesadillas. Can I have something else?”
“We’re going upstairs ’til dinner’s ready.”

I stand in the kitchen and begin to multi-task. (That’s what I call shredding cheese and crying at the same time.) Why? Why do I do this? Well, I guess it’s because I genuinely want him to have a good time. I want him to have friends and go places. But I also believe he should make plans ahead of time and understand that the world doesn’t revolve around his every whim. I look up. Danny is standing at the door.

“Mom, I I just wanted to say thanks for doing all the driving and everything today.”

Well there you go. THAT’S why I do this. I wipe away my tears and smile up at him. He’s not a selfish monster. He does appreciate all these things I do for him.

“But in the future, could you not talk when I have friends in the car?”

Rae.