Monday, November 29, 2010

Ridin' the storm out (an apology to my mother)

First of all, I'm sorry about the plant. I know it was a Mother's Day gift, and I know I was angry at you for some reason, but I really didn't want it to die. I just said that I hoped it would. I never knew if it did or not, but I'd be surprised if you didn't just kill it yourself. I'll never forget doing such a stupid thing, and I'm sorry.

Now that THAT'S off my chest, let me explain. I was a teenager. It was Mother's Day. I was angry at my mom for something I can't even recall, so I went and got the plant I had bought for her, handed it to her and screamed, "Here's your plant. I hope it dies!" and stomped off to my room.

NICE, huh? Well, quid pro quo, Clarice.

I am apparently living the nightmare that my parents lived some 30 years ago - the teenage years. I had no idea what an asshole I was until I got a taste of what my 13 year old has been dishing out lately. Wow. I mean, really. I was a grade-A beeyatch. From hating everything to do with family to sitting in my selfish, morose and angst- filled room to playing music too loud just to annoy to pretty much single-handedly spoiling any joyous occasion with my crappy attitude, I'm now getting back twofold.

Mom, the curse worked. I had a child just like me. And it's WORSE. It's MALE.

Really, though, I knew this was coming. I braced myself as best I could. But I don't think anything can actually prepare you for the teenage years. It's like someone telling you what it's like to be hit head-on by a Mac truck. You can "ooh" and "ow" and flinch all you want at the description, but until you get hit head-on by a Mac truck, you just won't know how it really feels.

I have to say, I TRY to be sympathetic. I DO remember at times wishing I could just let go of the sullen attitude and have fun with my family and smile and be nice, but it was almost as if I was tied down by this teenage cancer that told me I needed to make everyone's lives as miserable as possible. I really remember not being able to help it - whether it was raging hormones or depression or mental illness or just being a teen. And God love my mom and dad - but mom especially, for she bore the brunt of my evilness. I'm sure with me being the third child she felt she'd seen it all before, but all I can say is if my second child goes through this like my first I'm flushing him down the toilet (just like my dad told his mom he would do with his first three children - no lie).

A guitar teacher I'm trying to pair my son up with to give him some guidance as to his current "musical taste" (or lack thereof) caught me off guard tonight. Here he was, a hip, cool younger dude teaching my son some sweet riffs. After the lesson, we were discussing my son's attitude toward the lesson and the teacher. His surprising words of advice for me? "PRAY." I stopped dead in my tracks. Not that I don't, but a hip, cool younger music dude telling me to pray? It must be REALLY bad.

I know we'll get through this, these teenage years. He's a good kid with a heart of gold and a brain full of morals and values that I know his dad and I have somehow stuck in there somewhere, no matter how far back in his conscience they might be right now. All I can hope is that he can ride out this wave of tidal teenagedom and come through the tube as a decent young man. Some don't make it. Some wipeout. Some drown. That's what scares me. But you'll bet I'm going to keep praying... and maybe get him a surfboard for Christmas.

2 comments:

  1. YOU are a Third child? Explains a lot.

    =)

    Praying. And if you want to come over with Logan sometime, you are more than welcome. =D

    ReplyDelete
  2. I sympathize with you Amy. I don't have kids, but I was a jerk of a teenager. My Mom saw me at my worst. I hate to say this, but I didn't get myself together for many years. A few hard knocks as well as finding a meaningful career were the only things that helped. I hope your son is an earlier "bloomer" than I was. And I will pray, too. He's lucky to have such an insightful Mom.

    ReplyDelete

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