The redundancy of bitching

I know I have been complaining an awful lot lately about the teen boy child that now lurks in my home, but the truth of the matter is that it is fully warranted. Loren has been many things through the years: energetic, bubbly, chatty, but never before has he been such an emotional pain in my ass. I would never have thought I would say this about my one child with whom I have a simpatico, but I don’t really like him right now. Love him, yes. But if I were to have a free afternoon to share with an individual, he would not be at the top of my list of easy companionship. Sometimes I can feel empathy for him. My freshman year was awful and I was perhaps the bitchiest individual on the face of the earth, so I really do get that being 14 means that you can start the day with zest only to turn into an evil, selfish fool by the time you hit the kitchen and declare that the cereal is simply not going to work for you today because you have decided in the last 10 minutes that you are a) a vegetarian b) opposed to child labor c) in support Socialism d) you will never again eat anything that isn’t organic. Believe me I get teen angst. But I left behind my inner Molly Ringwald when I grew up and realized how to get over myself. And now living with somebody who could so easily be in the halls of a John Hughes high school is wearing quite thin. The only bright side at the moment, other than the fact that he will soon be going to bed, is that this weekend belongs to his dad. And then? Then I will have 48 glorious hours during which there will be no bitching from the little boy who I used to hold in my arms but to whom I have to now tilt my chin upwards to even see into his eyes.