Most days, this house is so filled with teenage boys that I feel like I am living in a cloud of testosterone. The strangest thing is how little boys turn into teenagers practically overnight.
Last year my son Shaggy Hair was a cute little boy who liked me to read aloud to him. He still liked hugs and sometimes even sat on my lap. A year later, and suddenly he is taller than me. He's got this new deep voice. He hasn't cut his hair since last year so I can't really see his eyes. (I think he's going for the Cool Snowboarder look, which here in the northeast is a pale version of the California Surfer Dude look.) Oh, he's still the same wonderful kid and underneath the long curls, he's got the same innocent freckled face, but he's definitely going through the separation-from-Mom stage.
Last week, I took a nap. I was wearing a long t-shirt and jeans, so I took off the jeans for the nap. Nothing unusual about that. Because I'm short, a big t-shirt covers me up just fine. Anyhow, when I woke up, I could hear Shaggy Hair calling me. He was doing his homework on the computer and wanted to ask me something. I came into the room, sat on the bed, and began answering his questions. I was thinking, "Oh, how nice. Even though he's going through this independent teenage phase, he still needs me."
Then Shaggy Hair Boy turned, tossed his head in the way that ultra cool teenage boys do when they need to actually see from beneath the locks of hair, and gave me the kind of look of horror that only a thirteen-year-old can give. After a dramatic pause to indicate the depths of his horror, he spoke up in his new deep-but-squeaky-around-the-edges voice:
"Woman! Get some pants on!"