New Year, New Monsters

Just when you think you have your kids figured out, they turn into full-raging hormone zombies. So you learn to deal. No biggie.

Then one day, you're shopping at Walmart and you see your twelve-year-old, male zombie turn his face and there grows a long, stray hair. You panic - How did I not see that before now? What kind of MOTHER am I? What's happening? Where did IT come from?!? Gross! OMGosh. Where am I? What's my name? What do I do - buy a razor right now or do I wait? Does one, long hair constitute that expense? Do I tell him? Does he already know? Eww. Who is this creature? I wanted to scream, "SOMEONE PLEASE PINCH ME; I'M HAVING A TERRIBLE NIGHTMARE!!" I had a fleeting thought of jumping the Pharmacy counter, shoving the pharmacist, security guard and whoever else got in my way, to the ground and then downing a bottle of Prozac like a raving lunatic.

I was spinning in that Twilight Zone vortex, in the middle of Walmart, having all of those thoughts. Can you imagine? But then...

I had that Aha! moment (you know what I'm talking about) - I'll just pluck it out with my tweezers while he's sleeping and he'll be none the worse for not knowing, right? So, you tell your husband the plan and instead of conspiring with you like you know he should, he tells you you're crazy and proceeds with a puffed-up chest and pride-filled, father-face to reminisce about the day he started shaving. You start reminiscing about smothering him with the pillow while he's sleeping (before you pluck the stray hair off your son's face, of course, because he might wake up and you don't want any witnesses.)

You go buy some Calgon.

It doesn't take you away.

At least you can somewhat understand your fourteen-year-old female zombie...

Three days a week.

So, you're driving home with said female zombie last night after her ballgame. They won and yet she looks really down so you start simple...

So, you won!....we played terrible

Yeah, I noticed your head was somewhere else - you okay?...head nods

Have a headache?...head shakes

Hungry?...more shaking

Tired?...still more shaking

Wanna' talk about it?

*sniffling, eyes blinking holding back tears*

Everything okay with you and Billybob*?

No. We broke up. *sniffling, quiet sobbing*

Of course now I start sniffling and blinking back tears, driving with blurred vision.

We talk little the rest of the way home and I respect her space. In time, I suppose... or they could get back together tomorrow. We get home and she showered, ate, read a book, did homework, watched TV; all the normal things but now with a somber look on her face. It's killing me. I look at her and like those commercials, see her three years old with strawberry-blonde pigtails and freckles, sad about a stuffed toy that the dog tore up. Ah.

Of course, I'm still wanting the details; to know what happened.

So, G comes home, we converse quietly in the kitchen and he goes in and tucks her into bed (which she normally doesn't request anymore) and they talk! Booger!

He decides that pulling her out of a class today and going for ice cream might help the sting fade faster. He always gets all the fun *sticking out tongue*. Maybe I should teach our male zombie how to shave. Ha!

I live with a house full of monsters...and I love it.

So, what's up with you? Dish.

*name changed to protect the little punk. :0)

GO SEE THIS ONE!

And take a tissue.