10.30 at night, I pull up to the building and it is thumping, thumping, to “YMCA”. The classics never die, I guess. Somewhere inside, in the mass of teenage thespians, my 12 year old son is Getting Down With His Bad Self.
My internal monologue is mostly I’m a good mommy I’m a good mommy I’m a good mommy because I AM, dammit. It’s a really well supervised dance party at the youth theater company he’s involved with, and has a strict, STRICT, code of conduct. People have been banned for way less than you’d see any given day at any given junior high. Good Mommy.
But it’s also I’m not ready for this because I’m NOT. Sons #1 with the Hair and #2 with the Voice* never gave me any trouble. They just quietly gangled and videogamed their way up through puberty. I’m sure there were hormones involved; they both sprouted a respectable number of zits, cast sideways glances at girls, and seemed to grow six inches every week, but there was no trouble. They Kept Calm and Watched Monty Python.
THIS, however, is #3….. with the DRAMA!! The boy never walks anywhere. He struts, he flounces, he saunters or boogies. Where his brothers placidly ignored their adolescent blackheads, he found a small sprinkling on the side of his nose, gasped in horror and leapt flamboyantly for the Nutrogena Acne Wash. He talks to me about girls. He’s twelve.
So the small voice of sanity and realism that I’d prefer to ignore (la la la LA LA I can’t HEAR you!!!) is whispering in my ear ….. Buckle up kiddo, it’s gonna be a loooooooong and bumpy ride.
Leonard’s gonna need more wine.
* Ah yes, The Voice. Tall skinny 16 year old white kid, with glasses and a super geek vibe and a deep bass voice like Barry White. Equal parts weird and awesome.