Is it a weird, new species? No, it’s a teen

Allergy season – and tissue-eating dogs – in full swing

Excuse me, but I have a problem. I was not warned that my
adorable son would become a teenager. Seriously. Why wasn’t I told
that at some point my kid would become a teen and suddenly nothing
in my world would make sense? I mean, when you’re doing the
whole

start a family

thing, you’d think someone would mention that cute little babies
grow into teenagers.
Excuse me, but I have a problem. I was not warned that my adorable son would become a teenager. Seriously. Why wasn’t I told that at some point my kid would become a teen and suddenly nothing in my world would make sense? I mean, when you’re doing the whole “start a family” thing, you’d think someone would mention that cute little babies grow into teenagers.

I have major issues with this. First of all, there’s the whole growing taller overnight deal. I don’t like that. It’s costing me a fortune. One morning a teen’s pants are the perfect length. He puts them on the next day and boom! He looks like he’s waiting for the next Great Flood. Now my teen wears shorts – which you would think helps a bit in the growing taller overnight thing. Yeah, no. It doesn’t. Apparently if a teen’s knees are visible, his shorts are too short and the world will come to an end.

Speaking of clothes, I would like to know what teenagers do with socks. When Junior was a kid, he put his socks in the hamper, I washed them and then he wore them again. It was the sock’s cycle of life. Now that he’s a teen, I never know where his socks are. They aren’t in the hamper – and by hamper, I mean the floor of his bedroom.

So what do I do when I can’t find his socks? I go out and buy more, of course. Two weeks ago, I bought him 24 pairs of socks. 24 pairs. That’s 48 socks. Do you know how many I can find? Three. Not three pairs. Three socks. What the heck is he doing with them? And even worse, what the heck is he wearing with his shoes? Because if those are unwashed socks, I can tell you that is not good. He’s a teenager. His feet must reek.

But I don’t know that because on any given day he is wearing 50 different kinds of cologne, which has caused my sense of smell to pack up and leave town. Seriously. He has shower gel that smells. He has shampoo that has a different smell. And then there’s deodorant and body spray and the sample packs of men’s cologne I get with my Sephora orders. That’s a lot of different smells and way too many for my nose to process at once.

But I do value one thing. Junior showers. Regularly. According to some of my friends, that is not something many teen boys do on a regular basis. And the thought of that is definitely more disgusting than the various aromas wafting after Junior every day.

Oh, and hello? Are teens ever awake? Well, OK, yes they are. They are awake when the rest of the house is asleep. It’s like they’re vampires, only without the sharp teeth and broody angst of the Twilight gang. Oh, wait. Yes, there is some broody angst. Not much from Junior though. Thank goodness.

And let’s talk about eating. Food is everything to them, which is weird since they are pickier than your average toddler. Look, when he was little, Junior ate everything. Now? He eats cottage cheese, pizza and sushi, with an occasional orange thrown into the mix for variety. Sadly for Junior, the rule in our house is you eat what I burn for dinner, which usually isn’t cottage cheese, pizza or sushi.

Naturally, because he only eats three things, there is never anything to eat in our house. Junior can stare forlornly into the fridge for hours in the vain hope that the icky fruits and veggies will magically transform into leftover pizza. They never do.

Of course, no teen would be complete without the whole opposite sex thing. Except I am not supposed to talk about it. Not with you. Not with my husband. Not even with Junior. In fact, now that we’re discussing talking, I’m not supposed to talk to Junior at all. Ever. Not in public. Not in private. Not when there is the slightest chance that someone might hear me speak to him. Heaven forbid that somebody actually discover that we are (gasp) related.

Shockingly, he enjoys it when I write about him in this column. And I still get hugs and “I love you’s,” albeit when nobody is looking. I cherish them. And I have no idea what that says about my son, but I will tell you this: teenagers are weird. Consider yourself warned.

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