So tonight I had to drive my fifteen year old son, Wyatt, to his school so he could take pictures of some event.
We had to pick up his friend on the way.
The problem, however, lies in the fact that Wyatt hates me when he’s with his friend.
Sure, on occasion, I may have said or done things that may or may not have embarrassed him…but honestly, I thought it was cool to out him as a Gleek! Honest!
So tonight I tried my best to just shut up and drive.
Not as easy as it sounds.
Because I’m fun.
Like I’m really fun.
I bop to the music.
I sing out loud.
I yell out, “Everybody, sing it with me!”
Apparently, this is not acceptable when a child other than my own is in the vehicle.
And normally, I’d say, “Too bad buddy, you were attached to my tit for the first three weeks of your life, you will sing “Don’t Stop Believing!” “
But Wyatt is going through that awkward, trying to find himself stage.
He feels his identity lies in a striped woolen tuque that he wears ALL THE TIME.
And personally, I think it’s more likely to give him the identity of ‘Where’s Waldo,’ but in an effort to be supportive, and I figure it’s not like he’s carrying around a bong, I say nothing.
…Well as little as possible.
This is a really hard relationship for me to accept.
He’s a deeply intellectual boy with deep thoughts.
And well, I like writing about testicles.
My thirteen year old and I are perfect for each other because we giggle at the mention of any body part preceeded by the word ‘dirty’: ie. dirty armpit, dirty feet, dirty nose, dirty ass…I get to say ‘ass,’ the 13 year old doesn’t, but we really bond over that one.
Ok, so back to driving.
I am saying nothing.
But I’m bored.
So I start channel surfing through the radio stations.
I land on the 70s station, and “Band on the Run” is playing.
How can I NOT sing along? How? How? How?
So I sing along. But quietly. Like church-mouse quiet.
But Wyatt is giving me that sideways “I hate your guts” look.
So I stop.
But then a commercial comes on the radio, and the commercial lady says, “Make sure the water from your eavestrough doesn’t fall on your __________.”
Jubilant, I look over at Wyatt.
“Did you hear that?” I say.
Staring straight ahead, no doubt afraid one wrong move and I’ll open my window and hang my head outside like a dog, Wyatt replies, “Nope.”
The boy with us though, says, “Yes. It said, “Make sure the water from your eavestrough doesn’t fall on your meter.”
Giggling I say, “Oh!”
“Wyatt, do you want to hear what I heard?”
Refraining from any eye contact less I explode with glee, he replies, “Nope.”
Sorry. I CANNOT help myself!
I blurt out: “I thought I heard, ‘Make sure the water from your eavestrough doesn’t fall on your weiner!”
Well I did hear that!
He hates me.
But that was so worth it!