Spring Sprouts Studley Dudley
Spring fever is running amok at my house. It seems like every change of season, brings a change in my children’s behavior. So far Lane 2 hasn't shown any major signs but her brother, Lane 1, is another story entirely.
At 12-years-old he is one giant ball of hormones, normal, I know. I really can sympathize with the kid because I feel a little edgy this time of year too but lucky for me, I'm used to my hormones.
The first sign of spring taking hold was when he told me he needs me to wake him earlier so he can “get ready.” Ready? I’m thinking, he wants to get ready for school?
Isn't this the same kid who I had to fight with just two months ago about taking a shower everyday? The same boy who wears bedhead to school if I don't catch him first? The very same child who would rather eat a glob of toothpaste then actually brush his teeth?
It isn’t so much school he wants to get ready for. It’s the girls. Yes, as you can tell I am thrilled.
I wake him at 6 a.m. now, rather than 6:30. He gets in the shower, then goes to his bedroom, puts on his music, gets dressed, goes back into the bathroom (music still blaring), puts on deodorant, cologne and then he starts with the gel. By the time Lane 2 or I can get into the bathroom to empty our bladders, he has stunk it up so bad in there, that it is like walking into a bachelor pad on a Saturday night (hand wipe mark on the fogged mirror included).
He asked me to buy him a gold chain this weekend.
“Yeah, right, Mr. T, I'm all over it.” I think was my response.
He asked if he could get his hair cut at a barber shop. “I’ve been cutting your hair since you were in diapers,” was my quick no comeback.
He bought, with his own allowance money, cologne. “You really dig that dollar store fragrance, huh?” Was how this mom replied to that situation.
Over the weekend, Studley Dudley, as I have been calling him, wiped out while riding his bike no-handed. It was kind of one of those “Look, Mom. No hands,” moments until his cheek, arm and knees were covered in road rash.
Then it was a little more like, “Look at my face. It’s ugly,” he whined.
“Road rash builds character,” I said in a very matter of fact tone, as I dabbed his cheek with a cold washcloth.
Before I could get to cleaning off his arm or knees, seven, yes, seven, little girls were at my door, faces pressed against the screen asking if he was okay. They were pushing each other trying to get a better look. They reminded me of baby pigs fighting for a nipple.
“Oh, man, Mom, this is embarrassing. Can’t I just go back outside like I am?”
“Son, you’ll look much more pathetic once I bandage you up,” I told him. “And if you think the girls are concerned now, just imagine how concerned they’ll be when they get a load of all the gauze I'm going to wrap you in.”
“Wrap me up good,” he said with a devilish twinkle in his eyes.
Mummy Boy, formerly, Studley Dudley, was okay as he limped outside to get as much sympathy as one 12-year-old boy possibly can get from seven little girls, all of which, incidentally, had checker board dirt imprints on their little noses from pressing so hard against my screen door.
With spring officially here, I can only hope that the worst of it is over and the old saying about March is true, "in like a lion, out like a lamb". But something tells me my little lion will just turn into a really baaaad boy.