Teen Beat
October 14th, 2009I hate teenagers. I’m allowed to say that because I have one. I love him with all of my heart until the end of time… But I don’t always like him. I’m talking about a real teenager here – 17, not 13. I’m talking a teenager who will wash his pizza down with a beer if I’m not looking… who wouldn’t know a bookstore from an army recruiting office. You got off easy spending the weekend with your niece. At thirteen, they still light up a house when they smile. They still warm your soul when they give you a hug. Their voices are still a sweet octave higher than they will be much too soon. And you’re right; hanging with a cool thirteen year-old beats the hell out of hanging with most adults. But then they turn 14 and it’s all over. They’re headed to 17 and you can’t stop it.
My other son will soon be thirteen years old. But he’s still twelve, and I’m digging every last minute of it. He’s precocious, yet still innocent. He’s self-absorbed, but only after engaging everyone in the room for hours. He’s funny, and how many twelve year-olds can an adult say that about? The other day he did a David Caruso imitation that should have been on Youtube. Plus, he loves the Celtics as much as I do. If that doesn’t guarantee us a bond for life, nothing will. I know exactly how you felt hanging with your niece this weekend. Hanging with a 12 or 13 year-old who you love like that is basically heaven. But get ready; hanging out with them four years from now may at times be basically hell.
The truth be told, I completely lucked out in the teenager department also. My teenage son is no angel, but he’s MY no-angel. He has an attitude, but it’s an attitude that he’ll need to be successful. On those all-too-rare occasions when he lets down his guard and opens up to me, I’m pleasantly surprised as often I am anything else. There’s another factor, too; it’s somewhat jarring, but almost always cool as hell. The kid doesn’t just look like me or act like me – he is me. My son has my forehead, my legs and my moxie. He has my lazy streak and he has my driven streak. His moods cover every piece of real estate between the lands of joy and misery. I look at my son and I see myself… Only a “myself” that I can still change.
Guess we could all take a lesson from a teenager every once in a while. Well, maybe once.
