Oh, to be the mother of a teenager

My son is apparently 2, going on 16.

We spent spring break in Galveston, TX, with my family. Usually, we go skiing in Colorado, but this year, because of E, we decided to do something a little more family-friendly. Last year, we had to ski in shifts, because the kid was too little for the slopes (obviously, I don't know why we didn't think of that!). So, off to Galveston and the beach we went. We had a blast: rode the ferry to Galveston Island (first time ferry trip for all of us!), took a carriage ride around the town, went on a harbor tour/dolphin watch, toured the Railroad Museum (meaning, we ran around in a bunch of old trains), toured the Bishop's Palace, rode the trolley (or the Twolley Bwown Twain, as E called it), and played in the waves at the beach.

Anyway, one night, as E was drifting off to sleep on the hotel double bed next to me, he gave a big sigh and said "I hate you, Mommy." I looked at him in amazement: his eyes were closed, and he gave all the appearance of being already asleep. I said "what?" My sweet child replied "I hate you, Mommy." Amidst my parents' barely-stifled sounds of glee, I said "I'm sorry??"

I didn't think the parent-hatred was supposed to start for at least 10 more years?