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?

Man of the House

My adorable little boy has sudden moments of pure masculinity, where he is overcome by the need to exert his manly influence over my poor femalish self. These moments can be extraordinarily precious: when we read bedtime stories, lying side-by-side in his toddler crib, he will insist on putting his arm around me, and having me rest my head on his shoulder, instead of vice versa. These moments can also be extraordinarily trying: he disdains to wear the cutesy, coordinated outfits I choose for him, and will insist angrily on wearing the same football jersey and jeans for days on end. And when I tell him he can't wear that freaking shirt again because it's disgusting (extra meanness points to me if I remind him that it's because he wouldn't wait for me to cut up his spaghetti), he'll command me to wash it.

We went shopping today, ostensibly to look for clothes. Without skipping a beat, and while ignoring my sugary exhortations to "just look at that beautiful Easter outfit," the bear that is my son dove for the nearest item of clothing with a ball on it. He then glared at me tyranically and stated, "Let's buy it. I'm done." I swear the dislike-of-clothes-shopping gene is expressed ridiculously early. The boys should at least be old enough to buy their clothes before they may start choosing them, right? Right?? Hmph. That's my opinion.

While it may sound strange and not very matronly of me, it can be a comfort to know that I'm not always the one making the decisions and running things around here. At random times, my son says: "I'll take care of you, Mommy," while patting my back, and I know that all of my worldly cares are in the sweet, capable hands of this little boy who loves me more than anything in the world. Even football jerseys.

Suzie Homemaker

Gas for late-evening trip to Albertsons's = small amount, but still meaningful!
Needed ingredients for Cheerio applesauce muffins = $8.70
New blender that Mom can't buy = $25
Hand-crushing Cheerios for 3 hours = $400 in physical therapy to recuperate

9 happy preschoolers at 10 AM Friday morning = priceless