Sixteen Candles

So somewhere between sleepless nights with a screaming newborn, working at a job for a company that seems hell bent on breaking me, and a lot of detours on my own personal journey…

I blinked and my son turned sixteen.

*SIGH*

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Ever.

That tiny little baby that everyone thought was a preemie (he wasn’t) has somehow turned into a hairy half-man with actual muscles, sideburns, and a mustache.

I know. It happens.

You’d think I would’ve been semi-prepared since there were two older ones before him. But they were already half grown when I came into their lives. They were already teenagers. I didn’t know them when they were babies, so I wasn’t prepared for my baby to become a teenager too.

In fact, this whole scenario is wrong. Ben and Kim are supposed to be teenagers and Shane is supposed to be a baby.

Who do I talk to about fixing this???

Of course, being a teenager means he’s still firmly entrenched in the belief that the universe revolves around him. He’s not as bad as a lot of kids, but let’s face it, it’s just part of being a teen.

So I guess he had it in his mind that he was going to have the male version of a sweet sixteen party AND get a very expensive gaming console he has been wanting. He also thought, up until about a year ago, that he would be getting a brand new Camaro to drive when he gets his license.

Ummm…that would be a hard “NO”.

When we have these discussions, I start to understand my father, who was born in 1930 and was raised on a farm with his seven brothers and sisters.

When I asked for too much, Dad would tell me about how he didn’t have shoes to wear in the summer time and that his mother would sell eggs from her chickens to give him a quarter so he could go into town and see a movie with his little brother. My grandfather decided he was tired of raising kids, so Dad and his little brother got jobs to help each other finish their senior year of high school.

I don’t have stories like that, though. I only had one brother and I grew up in a very upper middle class household in the city.

In other words, I was a fucking spoiled brat.

Like, what am I going to say?

“Son, when I was sixteen, our video games were two dimensional and our phones were attached to the wall.

I didn’t get a sweet sixteen party. I didn’t even get a boyfriend like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles. I just teased my hair up with Aqua Net in the turquoise can, put on my best spandex pants and white fringe boots, and went to see Frehley’s Comet at the El Paso Civic Center with my best friend.

That’s B-e-s-t F-r-I-e-n-d. We didn’t have cute shit like “BFF” in the 80’s. We just said the whole thing. Best Friends Forever.

I went to an all girls highs school where most of the families had money and the girls drove Cadillacs and BMWs and cute little sports cars. I had to share an ’84 Isuzu I-mark with my mom.”

Yeah.

Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Dad’s story, does it? I even made myself nauseous writing that.

I have to rely on The Husband Dude  in these situations, because he wasn’t a spoiled suburban princess like me.

“When I was your age, I already had a couple of jobs. I started mowing yards when I was thirteen and then when I was fifteen I started sacking groceries at Skaggs. I went to school all day, ate dinner, then walked to work. Sometimes I didn’t get home until midnight. I had to save my money for a car.”

Of course, he leaves out the part where his mom made him hand over his paychecks to her and SHE saved the money for his car.

We’re trying here, People. Cut us some slack. Parenting is all about “need to know”.

We did almost give him a “Sixteen Candles” moment, though, when he suddenly made the announcement on Saturday night that he would need a cake for the celebration we were having on Sunday. The Husband Dude and I acted like that was a revelation to us and  feigned panic, as though no, we had not realized he needed a cake for his birthday. We could see him having his Molly Ringwald moment:

But under this hard, crusty exterior, I am a softy (especially with my boy) and I couldn’t let the charade go on. So, I peppered him with sarcasm instead.

“Have you EVER in the history of your past fifteen birthdays EVER had to celebrate without a birthday cake???”

I am guilty of spoiling him, though. I can’t help it. I feel like I need to make up for the fact that one day he’ll probably need therapy. How can he not when he walks through the living room and sees his mom coloring bad words in a coloring book?

Shane (leaning over my shoulder and reading out loud): Twatwaffle.

Our eyes meet and there’s a long pause.

Me: It’s ok, Bud. You already know your mom isn’t like other moms. Someday, when you’re in therapy and have a counselor, you can blame everything on me.

Shane (shrugging his shoulders): Maybe I won’t need a counselor.

Me (to The Husband Dude): I think he just said I’m a good parent!

The Husband Dude: That’s not what he said.

Me: Shut up! I’ll take it where I can get it!

Winning!

In spite of, or maybe because of, my non-orthodox parenting style, he seems to be turning out ok.

You’d think he’d be a surly, sarcastic, sweary punk.

He’s not. He’s a sweet, kind, polite, funny, quirky, affectionate, optimistic, confident kid who doesn’t consider himself too old to come give his Mom a hug, unsolicited.

I know. It baffles me too.

Sometimes I think they mixed the wrong egg with The Husband Dude’s sperm at the IVF clinic because there’s no way this boy is mine.

Until he zings his Dad with a one-liner.

My genes are in there, like little sleeper cells, waiting for their moment to anthrax the world with sarcasm.

What more could a mother ask for?

Happy Birthday, Shane! I love you!

Even when you wake me up at 2 a.m. to tell me the internet is out.