Teenagers. They are fickle little creatures. They eat. A lot. They sleep. Oh my God do they sleep. They change their clothes faster than they can be laundered. They like to buy stuff. Shiny, expensive stuff that for the most part, they really don't need or won't use. They like to stay up late. And, they like to test their boundaries.
Before I say any more, I have to make one thing perfectly clear. I love my son. I love all five of my kids. #1 is my favorite first born. #2 and #3 are my favorites because they are my twins. #4 is my favorite because she is my eldest daughter. And #5 is my favorite baby of the bunch. However, I find myself in an unfamiliar territory concerning #3.
Now, I'd like to think of myself as the Mrs. Carol Brady type of mother. But let's not exaggerate here. I'm more like Hitler with a pinch of Stalin. In light of recent events (events that shall be known as The Great Depression of 2010, and believe me, I will be filling you all in on that in due time), I became...dare I say, a pushover? Sometimes, as a parent, you have to. Sometimes, punishments need to be overlooked. It's for the betterment of the children. But there are situations, like the one I now find myself involved in, where a parent must call upon their inner Napoleon and do what needs to be done.
The Great Depression of 2010 hit us all very hard. Wait, let me rephrase that. It beat the living shit out of us in a dark alley with a baseball bat. The rest of us are healing from our wounds. But #3? I feel like he may be succumbing to his. The Carol Brady in me wants to make him a cup of hot cocoa and sympathetically ask him how I can help. But the Hitler in me keeps saying fuck that shit, he needs prison camp.
To say he fell in with the wrong crowd wouldn't be an understatement. It would be an all out, bold-faced lie. Truth is, these are the kids he knew his whole life. But the combination of entering his teenage years along with the sudden implosion of our family created a catastrophe. I can handle breaking curfew. I can handle the drop in grades. I can deal with the slip of the tongue, the skipping of practices, and experimentation of illegal substances. But what I'm completely and utterly at a loss with is the distance. Even though we're in the same room with each other, we might as well be continents apart. I know my son, and I know there are things he wants to say, but he isn't saying them. That? That just kills me. I would rather he kick and scream. Punch a wall. Break something. Tell me to go fuck myself. But just say something.
I'm not writing this to garner any sympathy, trust me. I never really did give a flying fuck what other parents think of me. I do what's best for my kids regardless. Though, it's only fair to warn the rest of the world and especially those who hang out with my son, that Rachael is getting angry. And you aren't going to like Rachael when she's angry.
I'm not oblivious to the fact that #3 is capable of making his own decisions, even if I don't agree with them. Even if they are wrong. Hell, I'm a grown-up and I still screw up. The most difficult part of being a parent is biting your tongue. I've bitten mine so much that it's bleeding. It hurts. And I can't do it anymore. So, to the select few who've made it to my you-are-so-fucking-fucked-you-little-fuck list, expect some up and coming actions. Expect a knock on your door. Expect me. Expect police. Expect attorneys. Expect juvenile detention centers. Because I'm not going to stop until I know my son is safe. You are putting him in harms way, and I will make sure I put you away.
As for #3? He knows what he's in for. Believe me, he knows. Right about now, he's devising Plan B in hopes of saving himself from impending doom. He's going to start showing up to practice. He's going to bring books home every night and study. He's going to become more helpful around the house. He's even going to begin to spend more time at home. But he isn't going to be able to distract me from my ultimate goal. See, once upon a time, I was 13, too. And none of that saved my ass, either.
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