Where There's Parenting....There's A Punchline

Once parents safely (and triumphantly) get around the bend of a mind-numbing and troublesome stage of child rearing....

Sleeping through the night...

Pre-school drop-off hysteria...

Middle-school romance...

Driver's ed....

...they acquire the uncanny ability to laugh about it.

Why?

Because they're already knee-deep in the throes of a far worse and far from funny new stage of parenthood.

Right now there's no laughing in this household at the Senioritis that has settled in with my eldest (although... the inability of an 11-year-old to speak to a teacher about a missed assignment....or the inability of 16-year-old to keep a lamp on while watching TV with a boyfriend... now THAT shizz is just hilarious).

I don't know for sure but I'm pretty confident the guy who wrote Don't Sweat the Small Stuff was a parent. If he wasn't, he deserves to share a beer with Gandhi across the table from Mother Theresa because that guy's got it going on. Pure genius.

My son applied early decision to three area colleges without one iota of assistance from his parents. Much as the English major in me wanted my hands on that essay (baaaadly), I held firm. Didn't even see it before it went out (cue in facial tic). Not my most ah, let's say, motivated kid, it was important to us that he get at least one life lesson out of a fairly stress-free existence to date (something along the lines of "You want it? Go out and get it").

He got into all of them.

To be clear: his parents are beyond proud.

However....

Now walking through life with shoulders back and a "Take THAT" smugness, he has since announced "Sayonara!" (naturally he would've used "Adios!" but I don't think he remembers any years of Spanish) to his backpack, his course schedule and any other minor reminders that he is still an actual student enrolled in an actual high school with actual graduation requirements.

To be clearER: the situation has become unbearable and nightmarish in our home.

There is nothing more frustrating that trying to reason with a seventeen-year-old brain -- a brain which is solely influenced by the recommendations of other seventeen-year-olds (you know, the demographic of the population presently wrecking their parents' cars with a mantra of "I know what I'm doing - why can't you trust me?" Yeah, that group.).

It's so easy to love your kids. But liking them through all the growing pains? Not so easy.

The irony of this whole shebang is that I really (really) (REALLY) like my son. My mood lifts when he enters the room. He is good natured. And bright. And funny. And extremely well liked by everyone that meets him. The fact that he will walk across a room full of people and kiss my cheek regardless of who's watching definitely keeps him atop my leader board (let us not forget that I keep my kids in constant competition). He is my firstborn and - like all parents know - that's something special right there.

But these days we're battling and yelling and unpleasant to each other and I'm sad a lot of the time.

Because I want so very much to really (really) (REALLY) like him again every day.

So I'll keep my chin up on this winding road and look for the curve ahead because dammit, I am going to laugh like f****kkkkkin crazy when this is all behind me in a few months.

My actual prayer in church the other day: Please bless my children. Even though I cannot stand them right now. (In my defense, let me paint a picture of that exact moment: Senior Slacker was still home in bed, Sophomore Sass was pulling apart split ends right next to me (how she could actually see them with her eyes rolled into the back of her head was curious) and I could - honest to God -- smell the rancid morning breath of the other two who sat three bodies away from me.

Not even kidding.

Funny, right?

It better be.