Taking a week off...

Okay, I actually took several years off...

In fact, I cannot remember the last time I even looked at this blog.

I guess the whole 'getting married, moving to Virginia, inheriting two kids almost immediately' stuff got in the way.  As it will.  So lots of catching up to do blog-wise.  So much that, frankly, I'm not even going to try.  Let's just all pretend we're all caught up on my life and move forward to what brought me to the blog again.

I've got a great, great friend here in the 'ville (oh, that's Mechanicsville.  Virginia.  If you've not kept up, that's where I live  now.  A bit less, um, urban than I might like.  But it is home to my husband, so here I am) who blogs on a fairly regular basis.  Not too regular - but enough to make me think I should get back to it and also, it doesn't have to be regular.

Yesterday we stood in the 115 degree heat index sending our respective boys off to camp and I turned to her and said, "It's okay if I'm glad he'll be gone for a week, right?"  And she looked back with the confidence that I one day hope to have, smiled and said, "Of course."  She's like that - very understanding and kind and never judgmental.   Or if she is, she guises it in stellar advice so I have no idea she's thinking I've lost it.

Zackary Glen.  13.  5'10".  Running the table with hormones and teen attitude.

I love this boy.  I will hunt you down if you hurt him - purposefully or not.  I never even knew the speed of which I could come to somebody's rescue until I became his mom.  It's quick.  Lightening fast.

And I'm also thrilled to have a week off.

I'm sure he is too.

We have been butting heads for weeks now.  Pretty much since summer started.  This year, summer as been different.  This year, I have another teen to contend with.  And while Zoe is finding her motivation with her first 'real' job, Zack has lost his, left at the exit door of Oak Knoll when school dismissed.

Previous summers went like this:
We both got up at about the same time.  He'd settle onto one couch with his laptop, I'd settle onto another couch with my mine (coffee for me).  We didn't necessarily solve world problems, but we were sharing the same space.  We'd chat occasionally, meet in the kitchen for snacks and meals and make plans for the afternoon.

If my schedule allowed, we'd pack up and head to the pool.  I'd bring my laptop so I could supervise both work and Zack.  He'd flitter around with friends while always keeping an eye on me.  The minute my toes hit the water, he'd be next to me so we could float around talking about life.  During breaks, he'd always convince me that, yes, he could have a Big Bopper this close to dinner.  I'd say no, no, no, here's two dollars.  Carefree.

This summer?  Not so much.
This summer, I struggle to get him out of bed at the crack of 10am.  Even after I've convinced myself that he is, indeed awake, he still lounges.  In bed.  Staring at who knows what.  Chores?  Eventually.  Chores have always had to be done by noon in the summer.  And always were, usually by mid morning.  Now, Zack rolls downstairs at 11:50am, still PJ'ed and unfed, in a mad dash to knock them out by noon.  After, it's right back upstairs.

Pool?  No so much.  It's too hot.  There's nobody there.  It's boring.  Better to just play video games.

Mind you, we have a no-plugs/no-batteries policy between 1 and 4 everyday.  Perfect pool time.  And he's even old enough to go on his own now - dropped off without a pesky mom hoping for some quiet conversations.

Not happening.

My little boy has drifted away.  Replaced by a (very) young man (who had to shave before leaving for camp!) with a (very) young man's attitude and sense of being right about every-dang-thing.

Days are spent repeating myself.  Do this, do that.  Again, do this, do that.  Met with annoyance that I'm nagging (he doesn't mind when I ask him the first time, it's the third or fifth time that bug him).

My questions are met with questions.  Most often 'Why are you asking?"  As in, "Zack, do we need more kitty litter?"  "Why are you asking?"  Why....why...would I be asking....

If it's not a volleyed return of question, it's a Johnny Cochran inspired argument about why he hasn't done something (mostly because I didn't communicate it correctly or he doesn't feel it's necessary on my timeline or, or, or.)

I love that boy.  But good grief,  how am I going to make it through five more years of teenager-ing him?  I've barely made it through one year and have thrown myself prone at the feet of the director of Camp Hanover.

It gets easier right?  We find a new rhythm?  A new norm?

I did tell him I'd spent the week missing him (and I do).
I did promise myself that I'd do some introspection (hello blog) and dig out that softer side that has been hardened a bit.

I've even taken a shovel into his room to poke through the boy gunk so that he'd have a refreshed room to return to.

I do love that boy.

And will likely mentally run across the field into a bear hug when we pick him up.  I mean, not in real life - the one where I am now mortifying.

I know he loves me as well.  Still my sidekick.

My very tall, occasionally mustached, snarky sidekick.