Oh No, I’m Blinded! Dealing With Monster Teen’s Growing Body

I share this because after telling the story to friends, I realized that maybe other mother do not talk with their sons this way. And plus, in hindsight it is hilarious. But when it was happening I was just frustrated.

So my son is a musician, and plays in the school band. The other night he had a performance, and I found out only the night before that he needed to be dressed in a white dress shirt and black slacks. Of course I have to buy this ish short notice!

So after work the next day, I run to the store, estimating my monster teen’s growing size. Pretty much holding things to me and picking a size slightly bigger. It works well for the shirt. For the pants, well, the last size I’d bought him was 32-32. And as a side note, stupid men’s sizes are stupid. Yes, I know they make more sense than a woman’s because you can have a tall skinny dude that needs a tiny waist and all, but it’s too confuzzling for me. So, I just bought his dress slacks in 32-32. I forgot about the one thing my genetics have cursed him with.

My son has a badonkadonk.

This is not a representation of my son. He has a huge butt, but that does not turn him into a monkey.

It is a ridiculously big behind for a male. He’s in denial. He thinks I’m making it up just how like I had him believing for some time that he was a clone after my first of him had an “unfortunate accident.”

But his butt is huge, and when I rushed home, gave him his new clothes to iron and throw on while I changed, I came back out to a visual dilemma.

From behind, his pants looked rather tight. It was showing off just how curvy those back cheeks were.

Me: You gotta go up a size in pants next time.

Monster Teen: Why? They fit.

Me: You look like you are smuggling cantaloupes back there.

Monster Teen: My butt is NOT big Mom!

And then… He turned around and I’m blinded.

Me: Oh no! You can’t go out like that!

MT: What?!

Me: All I see is crotch!

MT: WHAT?!

Me: Your junk is sitting up like a beacon right up front. No one will be able to see anything but that!

You remember in the movie Labyrinth, how we as children were introduced to David Bowie’s package? David Bowie has websites dedicated to his package.

My childhood… if it hadn’t already been sullied, that moment would be now.

 

http://id34111.securedata.net/areaology/area.html

I don’t want my son to have websites. *Shudders*

Monster Teen: What am I…

Me: Can you move it? Push it down the leg of your pants or something. Ugh. Just, just get it out of everyone’s face!

MT: grumble grumble grumble

Me: BIGGER PANTS. And boxer briefs.

If it wasn’t for having to leave out the door at that moment, I would have NEVER let my poor teen go out the door like that. I know he already catches the eye of many a young female. Well the other night he was serving them free teen on a platter with that get-up. Much to my “ew that’s my son” disgust.

How would a man handle this same situation with his son I wonder?

You sound like a tuba farting in the bathroom… and Ninja Airlines

Seriously it just happened

Monster Teen decided to use the upstairs bathroom just a while ago, and it (the odious back-blast from his badonk) shook the first floor of our apartment.

Since Monster Teen is almost off his “Super Grounding Z” (patent pending), we’ve been slightly having fun with each other. Which means we get to have cool convos with each other again. Yay! My son was actually reading my poetry and giving his own interpretation for each. Which is cool, because since he plans to be the best percussionist EVAR, and write his own songs for his fantasy band, if my writing skills did some slimy leaking into his genetics – well I’m ecstatic!

Of course, then we had to go weird and think up Ninja Airlines.

So here was how it started. So I was talking about how chilly it’s getting and him needing some long johns. But I called them ninja pajamas. I call them ninja pajamas because the military issues long johns. and at one point they were black and silky. And they had little thumb-hooks. So cool. And so, if you were just running around in your long johns for spits n giggles, you’d feel all ninja-like.

Ahem. Anyway, so I’m explaining that all to the Monster T because he asked why I called them ninja PJs. And then he pointed out that our long johns are now tan-colored. So I explained that it’s for desert ninjas.

Monster Teen: But why would ninjas be in the desert?

Me: Ninjas are needed everywhere, and need to be able to blend.

M.T.: But how we they get there?

Me (with complete sincerity): Ninja Airlines, of course.

M.T. (pretending to be an airline attendant): Welcome to Ninja Airlines… I’m not sure if you are actually here, so I hope you enjoy your flight.

Me: Please remember that there is no jutsu while the plane is in the air. Only before take-off and after landing.

M.T.: No summons allowed in the seats. Yes, I know that they aren’t really pets and can talk and have awesome powers, but they must be left in pet carriers.

Me: Please no trying to jump out of the plane to run at ninja speed through the trees. We are NOT turning around to pick you back up.

Monster Teen: And please, do not try to hypnotize the pilot. We may crash.

I love my spawn. Giggle-snort.

😀

Children are Evil – My monster just fracked up my awesome mom track record

So no matter how great a job you are doing as a parent (or how well you THINK you are doing as a parent), your idiotic teenager can just frack up your track record.

You didn’t know this was a contest? OF COURSE IT IS!!!

And now I’m behind in the race like a fat kid trying to win carrots. Shut up. It DOES TOO MAKE SENSE! Ahem, yes, my mind is wandering, I can’t sleep (Clowns will eat me… not in a good way).

My MonsterTeen (patent pending), now has a juvenile record. And not for doing something cool that he can tell stories about when he’s my age. Oh no, he will have a lame “I was a follower that didn’t want to be looked at like a punk” story.

Let me set the scene for you: The other night, I’m chilling on my couch, half out of uniform, flexing my online shopping muscles while buying Christmas presents for the MT. As soon as I pressed the “place order” on my favorite site (really, I’m not sure if I love Amazon.com or bacon more) there’s a knock on my door. A policeman. A cop. A cute cop, but a cop nonetheless. And I think cutecop maybe got the wrong address until he asks if I am MonsterTeen’s mother.  Oh sweet baby Hay-soos. What is going on.

Under the threat of going to jail this is the story that came out: He was hanging over in his “girlfriend’s” neighborhood with her and another dude. We’re just going call her Shanaynay, because that’s just as ghetto as her real name. The other dude is going to be called Oomfoofoo Jr. So, they are all on the stairs and Oomfoofoo Jr. asks to borrow a pen from my son. My son gives it to him and then he an Shanaynay proceed to just stand there and watch as Oomfoofoo Jr draws male and female body parts in health class detail, writes that he’s fracked the wife of whoever lives there, and many other crude and violent things – ending with “and this was written by to black guys, you better be scared!”

Are you frackin kidding me. -_-

So MonsterTeen now has a record, because he was a punk, and didn’t tell on the little bustard, or just walk away. He is lucky as heck that cutecop didn’t take him to the station as he threatened. He is lucky that the man who’s door was defaced only wanted an apology. He is lucky that the housing complex isn’t pressing extra charges, fees, or kicking us out of our home. And he is lucky that I didn’t murder him.

Instead I took away all electronics: TV, cell phone, PSP, PS2, PS3, Wii, Nintendo DS, laptop, ipod (yes, the little bustard is spoiled). No TV, no going outside, no sodas, no desserts, and no candy even though we’ve got a lot leftover from Halloween. He’s grounded until Christmas… unless he fails any classes on his report card.

Meanwhile back at the ranch… in my brain that is… I’m starting to go into somewhat of a depression. I don’t want my son to ever turn out like his biological genetics donor. I was stupid, but my son should not pay for it. He has all the tools to be better than the both of us. So I may sip a little more wine than usual this weekend. And I may shed a tear or two where he can’t see. I already have. And I’ve also had friends that have been very supportive by understanding that I don’t just take this as “oh, boys will be boys, he got in trouble, and it’ll be cool.” My real friends have been either talking to the Monster Teen, or taking him out for some male bonding. Because mom just might lock him in a closet somewhere.

So Monster Teen has ruined dimensionthe5th’s mom track record of awesomesauce. Back to training. And torturing. Maybe I should reinforce the story that he’s cloned and tell a new story of what happened to the first version of him.

My son is lucky that he’s one of the few children I actually like…

Conversation with my teenager:

Monster Teen: Argh! My back hurts so bad!

Me: Lay on the floor and I’ll crack your back.

Monster Teen: How are you going to do that! Isn’t that dangerous?

Me: Monster Teen, how can cracking your back be dangerous?

Monster Teen: Couldn’t that give you scoliosis or something?

O_o

Me: Boy, I’m about to slap the “special moment” out of you.

*Monster Teen has his own theme song. Whenever he says or does something so absurd like the conversation above I sing “Speciaaaaal… Momeeeeents… dodo-dodo-dodo”*

Awesomesauce Parenting from a Slightly Weird Mind

Today’s text conversation with my son is pretty darn normal for us:

My monster teen: (sends picture of  tall closet mirror by the trash dump by our home) “Mom, this was beside the trash cans. It looks brand new.”

Me: “You have a new mirror coming in with your new bedroom furniture tomorrow. We don’t need it.”

Monster Teen: “Ok. I thought it would look good over my bed on the ceiling.”

At this point I choke on my spit. W…T…Frackadoodle in hot fudge does my 14 year old want with a mirror on the ceiling?!?!?! He’s PURE! He’s still able to touch a unicorn PURE!

Me: “What! Why would you want a mirror on your ceiling? You know who puts mirrors on their ceiling? Perverts. Or people that want a horror movie monster to come out of the mirror and get them.”

Monster Teen: ” -_-”

Me: “I’m just saying. Weirdo.”

Monster Teen: “Never mind. I don’t need to know all that.”

Me: “hahahahahaahha”

Monster Teen: “I’m going back to work on my chores. I don’t want that mirror anymore.”

Sometimes, I like to think my son was put into my life as a fun torture object. He has about 3 grey hairs he swears is from me hiding in closets and under his bed to scare him. He still threatens his friends with the fact that he has a psycho mom.

I’m a single mom, that was a single mom from a very young age. I was young and dumb and full of… juices… just like every teenager. Hormones and parents divorcing and arguments made me lash out, but the only person I hurt was myself, with drugs, and alcohol, and sex. So I did the very not smart and academically gifted thing I was known for, and got Cinemax with a guy, and pregnant. And became a teenage statistic.

Or I could have. Instead of becoming the whore meant for welfare and 5 more kids like my “wonderful” father predicted, I finished high school, started to work as a preschool teacher, and took night courses at the local community college. When I realized that it wasn’t enough money to really take care of my monster, I joined the military. I vowed that although I was a selfish bastard and never wanted children, I would raise try and raise a child better than I could ever be.

And so, my child-raising style may be a little unconventional, especially for this day and age. I’d rather my son fear me a bit, rather than be his friend. We talk when he’s done something wrong, but I still take my uniform belt off and spank him afterwards. We also spend loads of time together, watching anime, or heading to a museum or amusement park. I talk logically about him NOT going to college because school is so hard for him with his reading disability. Not right away anyway. We talk about sex, and not becoming a statistic. He knows how he came into being, and knows that he is very much-loved, but it’s a hard road that I took. And when I’m bored, I like to stare at him with a maniacal grin and do the sound of the scary monster chick from The Grudge. Or tell him that he was cloned. Or describe how I would cook him if we were stranded in our house without any food.

Meh, he seems well-adjusted.