You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
14 year old angst.
You want some cereal?
“I don’t know.”
“How about a pop tart?”
“I’m fine.”
and so it goes.
Like talking to an angry wolverine, I’m dealing with teenage hormones and a simmering stew of adolescence.
It’s a pressure cooker of pimples and sneers and disrespectful huffs and puffs of air.
It’s like rearing a smaller version of Phillip Seymour Hoffman.
We’ve all been there, right?
14 years old, full of life and self awareness and raging thoughts and ideas and impressions.
You are no longer a child, but not yet an adult. You are in between, a boat leaving the dock, but still in the harbor where the no Wake Zone is law.
You want to gun the engine but to do so mean rocking the house boats.
Anyone got a Playboy hidden under the bed?
So it is on this weekend that I am dealing with the monster of recalcitrance. An angry teary eyed, wipey nosed insidious beast that likes nothing of this Earth.
We have to go to soccer
I don’t want to. Soccer is stupid.
We signed up for it, it’s paid for, the coach wants it.
I don’t care. I don’t want to play.
And so it goes.
A huff, a puff, an angry glance.
It’s one of those times where you need to put your foot down as the dad and say “you’re going to soccer.”
Why? Because it’s part of life, it’s part of being on a team, it’s part of committing to something and maintaining that contract of respect. Plus I paid for it in advance.
The ride over is a silent torture chamber. No words, no thoughts, no communications, just a blank stare out the window at a rainy Saturday afternoon.
We walk into the arena and the pressure cooker of the moment is upon us.
Other parents, other coaches, other teammates milling about the indoor facility.
My 14 year old stands quietly, like a brooding storm in the shadow.
I talk to other parents. It’s nice to see them.
I hope that seeing buddies will lighten the mood.
I see his team gathering.
“Your coach is over there,” i point.
“I don’t want to play,” he says.
I give him a stern look.
He stares daggers at me and walks to the corner to warm up with a team he has never met, a coach he doesn’t know.
This is the first day of an indoor league that was thrown together like bad Chinese take out.
The idea is to keep the kids active during the winter months, but I think it’s really about cash flow for a new soccer league that is struggling to convince me they really know what the hell they are doing.
“What’s the matter with him?” a soccer mom asks.
“He is teenage alqaida. He doesn’t want to be here.”
The mother laughs. Another dad nearby chirps in. “my son was whining too. Didn’t want to come.”
I take comfort in his words. Misery loves company.
School and girls and friendships and peer pressure and transitioning from child to adult. It’s hard to remember all that angst now, but I am watching it unfold before me.
Is it fun? No. Is it real, You betcha.
To all you new parents out there, enjoy the toddler years and pre school years because that is a breeze.
Ooooh. Don’t put your finger in a socket. Don’t fall down the stairs.
That’s child’s play.
When they start to drive and think for themselves and understand haves and have nots and the value of a Macy’s gift card, now you are in big trouble.
And that is crazy.™