Who you calling grandma?

My first born is nearly a teenager. They don’t warn you about this phase in the “What to Expect” book series. They get an attitude and pubic hair overnight. Another thing happens: mom is no longer cool. At his birthday party this weekend that became abundantly clear. I had a hunch this was happening. Last summer I took my two youngest for a walk. As I pushed the double stroller a few teenagers rode past on bicycles. One of the boys whistled. I thought “yeah, I still got it.” (Cue: Pretty Woman Theme) I strutted a few steps in my New Balance sneakers. Then, I heard the other two laugh and say “Yeah, real hot.” For a moment I thought about flipping them the bird. Then, I remembered I have to act like an adult. Besides, this isn’t 1993. They probably wouldn’t know what I meant. They only speak in code: WTF, TTYL, OMG, etc. I should have texted IDLBWAA (I don’t like boys with acne anyway)

 

So, this year I reluctantly agreed to a sleepover. It started with a few kids, but the guest list grew to seven. Gone are the days of themes. My son didn’t want anything drawn on a cake, decorations or favors. The kids walked in, threw their bags on the ground and disappeared. They devoured the snacks and soda within an hour and wanted more. I joked that this wasn’t Walmart and my shelves were only stocked with so much. Crickets. They called things “beast” which meant they liked it. If someone called me beast I would run an extra mile on the treadmill. I suggested they watch a G Rated movie. Each child furrowed his brow and glared at me like I was Willis. I reached my breaking point around 3 a.m. I stomped downstairs and demanded they stop arguing over video-games and go to sleep. As I walked away I heard, “We’re not arguing grandma.” They erupted in laughter. Oh hell no! I confiscated their IPod’s and phones. I turned off the lights, TV and took the remote controls. Then, I hiked up my granny panties and marched upstairs. I may be old, but I win.

House training

“Did he pee?”  “Mom, did he pee?”  “He peed?”   “Oh man, really? He peed again?” These are common questions nowadays in my house.   Why?  We have a puppy.   I have days when I wish I could put on a puffer vest , hop in a DeLorean and relive the day we decided to bring this dog home.   Don’t get me wrong, I love animals.   I grew up with dogs and it was such a joy.   Of course it was.  I didn’t take care of the pets.   I played and snuggled with our dogs.  Our cat curled up in my bed at night until it ran away.  When that cat disappeared so did the allergies and asthma attacks I had been plagued with.   Turns out I was allergic to that cat.  Back then, I didn’t change kitty litter, walk the dog in frigid temperatures or clean up pungent dog urine.  My oldest son loves the dog.  My daughter tries to play with him, but cries whenever it playfully bites.   My middle child? Well, he may be Satan. (I’m kidding.  I think.)   He torments this dog.  Then again, I remember, as a child, my brother played football with our cat.   Unfortunately for the cat it was always on the opposing team.  My brother would race down the long hallway of our apartment and tackle the cat.  Amazingly, the cat never got hurt and loved him anyway.   I suppose I will grow to love our dog too.  As soon as he learns to pee outside.