Teenagers: Perfecting the Role of Jerkhole Since Always

I’m grieving because something died. My son’s pre-teen years. They’re dead. Vanished. Gone in a spurt of high-pitched giggles that morphed into the sound of Axe body spray.

I knew this day would come. Everyone has to be a teenager unfortunately. But just like absolutely everything with kids, there’s no understanding what it’s like until you actually go through it.

My son’s childhood was a full and happy one. He read books, he loved to draw, he had friends he actually let us hang out with, he conversed with adults, he participated in family fun. He leaves behind two parents, a sister, and a legacy of not always being smarter than everyone around him.

Every day I visit where he’s buried (his bedroom which smells like dead people) and wonder why something like this has to happen to good people (namely me – I’m good people).

I put offerings by his gravestone (“I bought your favorite cookies.”) and hope that this will appease the spirits. But as we all know, spirits (teenagers) are fickle and mean (but really just assholes).

I’m considering maybe cremating him to see if that helps. Maybe incinerating his sassy little ass and cackling loudly while he burns will show him I deserve some respect. Then, I’ll pour his ashes into his beloved gaming computer so he can be in his favorite place. (Should the Neptune Society handle this type of thing?)

I feel like it’s a win-win for both of us. He gets an eternity without a mother trying to joke with him (the embarrassment!), providing him with life skills (the nerve!), or speaking words to him in general (so exhausting!). And I get some peace.

Because I don’t know if I can continue to grieve like this (which mainly entails rolling my eyes and being annoyed every damn day). I’m pretty sure my eyes were not meant to roll this much. The muscles behind my eyes have muscles. My eyes are swole.

So the next time you see me, maybe say a word of encouragement (but please something besides, “They’re not teenagers forever.”) Give me a pat on the back (or maybe just smack the back of my head to finally stop my eyes from rolling). Be kind (because my teenager is the opposite of kind). And reminisce with me about the days when he was cute and fun and wasn’t such a flaming jerkhole.

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