Biceps Over Brains

One night, back when I was planning the big wedding in a week flat, in the hours past midnight but before three in the am, my son joined me at the Mac to check in on my progress with the music playlist.  Originally, it was to be his project but I decided that it might be best for me to have a large hand in the selections after he suggested three 'harmless and clean' songs which turned out to have several expletives in them.  (Ashley, the eldest of my child trio, saw them in my iTunes queue and said I'd better play them because they could be the unedited versions: she was right!  Wouldn't THAT have been a hoot n' holler playing over the speakers at our church after the gorgeous ceremony?!)

Somehow, we ended up perusing one of my favorite blogs -- The Pioneer Woman by Bree Drummond -- and I waxed on about the fullness of her website and the layout of everything and her luxurious photography.  Without an iota of hesitation or insincerity in his ever-deepening boy-man voice, my only son said, "You could EASILY do something as good as this, mom.  Probably better.  You just need to make the time like she does."  Now, if that don't be all!  Being as emotionally melty as I already was, what with my successive late nights and early mornings and stressful organizing and mental adjustments to Sarah's and Derek's marriage and future plans of living abroad, away from all of us, starting their exciting new life together on their own terms, I could have cried.  I didn't.  But I could have.  Instead, I beamed and promptly stated that was not possibly accurate, "But thanks, honey.  That's so sweet."  It was mother-son bonding at its finest.  And he is the last nestling of our bunch.  That makes me even meltier.  (Blogger's spell check doesn't honor my creative forms of MELT, but that's what blogs are for: coining ever-evolving usages of common words.)

Now, I won't delve into the whole idea about whether or not I could develop my blog and turn it into a more quality forum.  It's not as far-fetched as it sounds.  As my boy says, it is time that is necessary as a major part of that equation.  Effort would be another.

What I will dive into is that murky mucky body of water that is mother-and-son-in-the-teen-years.  Because today, and over the course of the past couple of days following a negative school progress report discovery in the pocket of his dirty jeans -- tossed IN the hamper by the laundry room, mind you -- I don't think my boy's thoughts lean toward the generous with his brilliant blogger of a mom.  Right now, I'm over-reactive and unfair and too prying and possibly not in charge of my emotions, what with my PMS and all.  Right now, he's busy slipping in the muttered last word whenever we find ourselves enmeshed in a verbal sparring session.  And I'm busy being highly irritable and irritated and disgusted with my parenting.  A far cry from our touching little scene of that aforementioned early morning.

And that's just how it's done right now.  I talk with the other moms of budding young men.  Mom's who love their sons every bit as I do but find themselves subject to the charms their sons turn on in equal measure for cute young things they hope to impress AND mothers they hope to dissuade or persuade as the situation calls for.  Mothers who admire the smiles and athletic prowess and quick wit of their male progeny but also find cause to restrict and retaliate behind all that blinding youthful vigor.  Mothers who no longer know everything and have all the right answers for their boys because the young men before them, urged on by hormones and biceps and not-fully-developed brains, are 100% certain they no longer require parenting.  I mean after all, they drive without an adult in the car or truck now because the state says they passed a test.  If the state trusts them, shouldn't we?  And they only want to hang out in large groups, passing testosterone-laced pheromones around the circle, to hone their wrestling and driving and gaming and eating skills on one another?  What could possibly come of that?  It's not like someone might drive their behind through the wall at a friend's house?  Or someone might ride a bike off a roof onto a trampoline?  Or expensive sunglasses find themselves broken in the course of a friendly skirmish?  Or a car turn over while fiddling around with a phone or radio controls?  "It's ALL good, mom!" is the cry of our confident and coddled young men.

One day, one year, it may be ALL GOOD.  But for now, kid, it ain't.  And I have to do anything and everything in my power to decrease the chances of you injuring yourself or someone else; or damaging property of ours or the neighbors'; or possibly shortening your handsome gift of a life . . . and that includes blogging about it.  You did say you thought my blog was decent with a good shot at being fantastic.

Just remember that if you read this.