Here’s a question. Do we all think that our sons are so sweet at ages ten and eleven that they couldn’t possibly turn into the heinous hormonal teen that everyone else seems to be complaining about? Does it completely shock all of us or was I the only one out there thrilled with my boy, accepting compliments on his obviously delightful behavior and thinking… “Oh those poor other mothers! Dealing with all that teenage attitude! Thank God I’ve managed to dodge that bullet.”

What a maroon.

It’s Labor Day weekend. My son has turned thirteen and his first year of middle school starts next week. It’s a highly coveted private $chool. We have, my son and I, spent countless hundreds of hours over the past year filling out applications, writing essays, being interviewed, touring and sucking up beyond all human endurance to get into this particular place. We did it. WE-DID-IT!!!! Now the moment where he actually gets on a bus and goes there is 3 days away and (as every other single working mother knows), it is the weekend to buy new school clothes.

But he won’t.

Not only that. He’s laughing at me.

I sit down next to him at his computer and say, “You have a choice. You can either go out there right now and get some new clothing while it’s still new clothing or you can, lazy and too late, lope on out there in a week or so and end up with the dregs of sale garbage that the world has already picked through and decided against. It’s your choice.”

He blinks as though coming out of a coma and turns his head to me.

“Wuh?”

No. Is it really possible that he hasn’t heard a single word of my long and (I’d thought) persuasive speech? He turns back to killing zombies. “No clothes,” he says.

Now, he’s bigger than I am. I’m 5′2″. At this point, and I do mean at the exact moment I write this, he’s 5′9″. God only knows what he’ll be by tomorrow. And he’s going to get much much bigger according to his orthopedist. He will, within the next five years become, no doubt about it, 6′6″. We do not want to make this an argument based on size.

“Yes, clothes,” I say firmly. He ignores me. The zombies are prevailing, and I believe he blames me for this.

“Besides which,” I continue, “It’s my three day weekend too. I’ve been working hard all week and I’d like to get out of this house and not sit here watching you play video games for 72 bloody hours if you don’t mind. I have shopping to do also and I think we should make a day of it. It’ll be fun. Come on. Get your sandals on and comb your hair.”

There. It’s decided. We’re on our way to the mall to buy clothes. I give the dogs water, put them out, grab my keys and my bag and open the front door. He looks up. “Are you going somewhere?”

A very long hour later we arrive at The Grove. People are window shopping, lunches are being eaten, music is playing, and I am with arguably the most enraged person on the planet. He stands directly behind me. I walk, he walks. I stop, he stops. He. Is. Doing. What. He. Has. To. Do. We go into no less than six clothing shops and surprise surprise, there is not ONE SINGLE GOD DAMNED THING he wants or is willing to try on.

“Are you hungry?” He stares at me. “Are you thirsty?” I’ll try again. “We could do something fun, you know. We could see a movie.” No response. “Want to go to the Apple Store?” His eyes narrow to slits, his shoulders slouch even more. His mouth opens almost imperceptibly. “Why?”

OHMYGOD. Okay, I think. Just keep going. Dutifully he follows behind me step-for-step into the Cheesecake Factory. He orders and eats an entire 8 piece pizza, a caesar salad, 2 cokes, french fries and a piece of cheesecake without speaking to me even once. Gratefully a couple of women with a little girl sit down next to us so I can enjoy some human contact. As he follows me out the door I make a decision. As long as this is going to be a bad day, let’s make it a really bad day. Let’s teach this kid that sometimes, just sometimes, what his mother wants to do needs to be respected. “Forget clothes,” I tell him, “We’re going to the movies. We’re going to go see ‘Julie and Julia’. It’s about two women who found themselves by learning how to cook.” When he hears this I know he just wants to die.

So now we’re even.

He slumps into his seat. The chick-flick begins. He furiously stares off to the side of the screen proving, he must think, to everyone in the theater that THIS WAS NOT HIS IDEA. He’s obviously inherited my stubborn side. For a solid hour he remains petrified and unyielding. People around us are enjoying themselves. There is laughing. My son, as far as I can tell is not even breathing. About halfway through, Meryl Streep makes reference to some Strawberry Bavarian Cream thing. I sense a minute shift in his body language. He glances over at me. Almost imperceptibly, he speaks. “That sounds good,” he says. This is it. I seize my chance. “Maybe we should get the recipe and try to make it,” I whisper back. He nods his agreement, turns his head toward the screen and it’s done. Suddenly the wall of resentment has come down.
I have established a beachhead. Civilized communication is re-established!

Which all sounds great until I realize that now I have to actually go buy Mrs. Child’s book and make Strawberry Bavarian Cream whatever-the-hell-it-is. Oh well. I’m going to put this one in the “win” column. Think of the money I saved on clothes!

Talk to you soon,

Rae