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.