Bubba reminded me the other day that he's going to be a teenager in less than 2 months. That can't be. He's my little boy. He's as tall as me now too. That's not saying a lot since I'm only 5'3" but he can look me straight in the eye.
He acts like a teenager, too. He's mastered the smart-aleck quips that grate on my nerves. The acne is starting to form on his face, although not because I don't hound him to wash his face constantly. And the phone calls. I don't even bother to answer the phone anymore because I know there's little chance of it being for me.
I dread all the other aspects of having a teenage son. There are issues that I am completely unprepared for. I can handle basic sex education but when it comes to the manly art of burping the worm, doodling your noodle, spanking your monkey, or any other creative euphamism you choose to use, I'm at a loss. This area is totally, udderly reserved for his father. How do single moms do it?
But, getting back to the purpose of my post today, from here forward, Bubba will now be known as The Teenager. There's a sound in my head each time I think of him as The Teenager. It's a doom sort of sound. I can't explain it but I'm sure those of you with teenage kids know exactly the sound I'm referring to.
So keep the Celexa coming and if anyone wants to send me alcohol, email me for my address.