If you were, say, an old Denver friend or a relative, and you were to call me, we’d probably catch up on my kids.  You’d ask about 3of3 and I’d say that she was absolutely perfectly lovely and a raging lunatic.  You’d inquire about 2of3 and I’d tell you that he is just as funny and charming as ever and a compulsive liar bordering on sociopath.  We’d get to 1of3 eventually and all I’d really be able to say is that he wears one shoe size smaller than I do and that he’s a complete jerk.

You’d probably say something like, “Way harsh, Tai.”

But of COURSE he’s a complete jerk.  He’s 11 and has inhaled steroids every day for the better part of 6 years now.  Puberty has sucker-punched that boy, and hard.  The only thing more disheartening about him right now than his disposition is his aroma.

The boy makes Axe body spray smell like heaven.  And Axe deodorant.  And Axe shampoo.  And whatever Axe they come out with next.  Lesser of two evils, yo.

The thing is, he’s just not that into me anymore.  I am no longer a deity; I am nothing more than a boss whom he occasionally has to hug.  He’ll still throw me a sideways glance and a coy smile if he sees me in his school, but he’ll never approach me.  At home he spends most of his days trying to dodge me in new and creative ways.

Just because you turn all the lights off and totally bury yourself under a throw blanket, that doesn’t mean I suddenly can’t hear the Super Mario Brother’s theme on the DS from under there, you dumb ostrich.

I’ve noticed a sharp and speedy decline in both the length and quality of our conversations as of late.  Where he used to talk my ears off over dinner, now he powers down his veggie burger* and runs out the front door before I can catch him. Now I know where the sudden interest in Marathon training has come from.

We don’t giggle on our drive into school anymore; I giggle and he curls himself into a tight, fetal ball of over-it and prays for a quick death or the end of the torturous drive to school.  Which takes 42.36 seconds.  Drama Queen.

He still loves me, of this I have no doubt, but the boy has moved on.  He’s matured.  He thinks that I am a moron.

He told me one day that he wished I’d stop wearing all that Eye Shallow (liner).  Why?  Because he thinks it makes me look dumb.  His friend came to the door three nights about at 7:45 to ask if he could go outside to Ripstick and when I said no, he looked me dead in the eye and screamed, “Oh, COME ON.”  And yes, I let him live, thankyouverymuch.

I actually think this whole thing is quite endearing and almost funny.  See, I wasn’t allowed to so much as say Huh? to my mother without loosing my front teeth and so the fact that I’ve cranked out this man who isn’t afraid to tell me what he thinks, who isn’t afraid to be a normal teenager, well….I’m feeling pretty damn good about that whole situation.  I think I win, you know?

And I am going to keep repeating that to myself when the kid comes up to me and says, “Why are you dressed like THAT?” and I say, “What?” and he says, with a little finger drawing an air circle in front of me, “That.  That thing you’re wearing” and I say, “You mean this dress?” and he says, “Yeah, that” and I say jokingly, “You’re mom’s a girl, dude.  Did you forget that or something?” and he, dead serious, says, “Well, yeah” and walks away.

I’m a better parent than my mother.  I’m a better parent than my mother.  I’m a better parent than my mother.  But I’m starting to see where she got the idea to kill us all came from.  Bygones.

*That is a whole other story entirely.