Friday A.M.

Tiny disgruntled me circa 1980.

This morning began on a less than cheery note with the two semi-disgruntled teenagers who live in our home part-time.  Though today is Friday, arguably the single best day of the week, enthusiasm was low and aggravation high.  The girl teenager entered the kitchen space wanting to know the status of her yearbook order.  “What yearbook?’’ we asked.  “You’re supposed to order the yearbook,” she complained.  “Ok,” we said, “Send us the link and we will do it today.”  “I don’t have it,” she grumbled, “It’s in some email.”  “What email?” we asked.  “I don’t know,” she whined.

I don’t know is the girl teenager’s favorite response to any and all questions.  Never in the history of my knowing this child have I heard her give a definitive answer on anything.  Would you like some ice cream? I don’t know.  Want to go see a movie tonight? I don’t know.  Do you need to go to the bathroom? I don’t know.  Call me crazy, but whether or not you need to use the restroom feels like the one thing in life that exists in black and white. How much of a gray area is there in Do you have to pee?  Also, who stays noncommittal to free ice cream?

We asked again and got nothing but the perfunctory I don’t know.  We then explained that if she wanted the yearbook to please find out how and where to order it. To this we received absolutely nothing. She turned and left the room.  She flat gave up.  This seems to be a new thing among the youth of today. Conceding defeat before the battle has even begun. No effort, no challenge, no shame.  Wow.

It was about the time that the girl teenager had chucked her dreams of owning an 8th grade yearbook that the smallest child descended the front stairs.  He was resplendent in a black and white tie-dyed T shirt purchased at a rural Tennessee truck stop called Buckees. His hair was a marvel of something recently electrocuted.  As he sat eating Cheerios, I gently reminded him that the weather was to be extra cold, necessary clothing would include both a long sleeve shirt and pants.  He then, and with great immediacy, lost the will to live. 

Heaving panic-stricken sobs filled his chest and tears exploded from his eye sockets.  The hot urologist and I were unmoved; we have played this scene before.  This small child is uninterested in clothing other than shorts.  And cozy shorts at that.  Shorts must be made of T-shirt fabric that has been washed enough times to render it disabled.  Any departure from this material including the likes of denim, twill or linen will lead to the certain disintegration of both skin and mood.

The mere suggestion of long pants to this child is a one-way ticket to tragedy. But pair this long pants request with the additional request of long sleeve shirting and we find ourselves watching a one-man Mexican telenovela on the kitchen floor. I sent him upstairs to select his clothing and brush his teeth.  Ten minutes later I found him face down on the floor clinging to the legs of his bed and howling while naked.

Brushing your teeth is difficult to do while screaming.  And the meltdown took an exciting new turn as the already loathsome long sleeve shirt was now stained with toothpaste spit. I brought him downstairs to tame the hair situation and received marching orders on which way to part.  Unfortunately, the child’s hair refuses to be swayed in the desired direction, and, as luck would have it, I am fresh out of Dippity Doo. I did the best I could while shooing him away from the bathroom mirror in hopes he would forego the mantra that Cat Cat “ruined” his hair.

He managed to calm down long enough to review the list of spelling words and then quickly returned to pieces over the small hole he discovered on the side of his sneaker. I tried to ply him with the offer of a brand new pair of sneakers and made the gross error of asking which colors he might prefer.  He came back with options of green, red, or black.  I repeated back to him, “Ok, got it. Green, red, or blue.”  “BLACK!” he wailed.

Just as he was ready to slap me back to freshman year of college, the bus pulled into view. I saw him off and have gone to my closet to retrieve the stash of Puffy Muffin cookies I keep hidden for just such occasions.  It is now 7:58 A.M. and I am having a nice chat with Doris at the Delta Elite Services line while simultaneously searching Amazon in hopes that Dippity Doo still exists.