“Okay guys, it’s time to get ready for bed! Ben, brush your teeth. Alex, go to the bathroom,” I holler from the other room, where I’ve been hiding from the Wii and it’s incessantly cheerful music. My head feels like someone stuck it in a vice and turned the crank to 11.
*Spinal Tap Interlude*
The numbers all go to eleven. Look, right across the board, eleven, eleven, eleven and…
Oh, I see. And most amps go up to ten?
Does that mean it’s louder? Is it any louder?
Well, it’s one louder, isn’t it? It’s not ten. You see, most blokes, you know, will be playing at ten. You’re on ten here, all the way up, all the way up, all the way up, you’re on ten on your guitar. Where can you go from there? Where?
I don’t know.
Nowhere. Exactly. What we do is, if we need that extra push over the cliff, you know what we do?
Put it up to eleven.
Eleven. Exactly. One louder.
Why don’t you just make ten louder and make ten be the top number and make that a little louder?
[pause] These go to eleven.
That was like a guitar solo – BUT BETTER.
Anyway. My headache. It’s one larger than ten. It goes to 11.
But I’m not gonna be all Mommy Dearest about it – the kids aren’t at fault, but I’m totally itching to lay down in the dark and watch some Pawn Stars* before sacking out myself.
I can hear Alex’s padded feet tromping toward me for a quick cuddle goodnight and I open my arms for his embrace – which generally occurs at about 827 miles an hour. You gotta brace yourself for that one.
The other one, my big son, begins to wail. Not actual tears but like the typical teenage bullshit, “Oh my GOD, how DARE you, blah blah blah.” I try to ignore his outbursts, but rather than tire himself out (like I’m hoping), he just keeps on. I’ve never MET someone so good at thoroughly beating a dead horse until it’s nothing but dry bones.
He’ll go on for hours – bemoaning his horrid fate of having to brush his teeth, which, I should tell you, Pranksters, is, according to him – “the WORST thing that could ever happen to him.” He’ll argue that point too. Just like he’ll argue that the sky is, last time he checked, green and not blue, and really Mom, how could you be SUCH an IDIOT**.
I’d probably let him continue to rail on and ignore him, but he’ll follow me around like the world’s crabbiest puppy, making damn sure I’m good and aware that he is not happy with me. Nothing is immune to his attacks – chores he’s been doing for four years are still the OTHER worst thing ever besides that one worst thing that was worser.
If I ask him to vacuum, it’s like I’ve asked him to vacuum with his nose. If I ask him to put something away, it’s like he’s stepping on broken glass to perform such a deadly chore. When I tell him to brush his teeth, it’s like I’ve told him to do so with tin foil.
I’m about ready to show him footage of kids in third world countries just to drive home the point that hey, it’s not THAT bad. But he’d probably tell me he’d rather be there, living in a hut, without a Wii, away from Yours Truly.
Ah, the teenage years. So glad you’ve visited my house.
Unrelated (totally related): Anyone want a surly 10 year old? He’s sure anywhere is better than here.
*Hey, at least it’s not the Kardashians
**the Internet wonders the same thing.