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Show , t yJ SitHIke si Vefirm by Teri Gomes I hope I come back as an adult I have recently finished reading Shirley MacLaine's latest book, "Out On A Limb." I have also survived another average (read here: trying) weekend with my one teenager and my one betweenager. While you may think there is no direct correlation between these two fact,.- let. me assure you, there is. :',.('V 1'" - i .V V Much of '.Out On A Limb" deals with the topic "of reincarnation. I find the possibility fascinating. However, How-ever, if it does exist, I hope I have earned enough points: in this lfietime to come back and. completely bypass the years up to, and surrounding, teenage. Writers are a moody lot ask any editor, or mate of a writer, or the many former mates of current writers. But a writer's moods in no way compare with those of an adolescent. Let me give you an example. . A little while ba.ck I came home to find my thirteehryear:old bent over the kitchen sink, crying. I gently approached approach-ed him, put my hand lovingly on his shoulder and inquired, ; "What's the problem, honey?" To which, this five-foot, ten-inch ManChild replied, sobbing, "The egg worft tome out of the frying pan." Thinking thisAVas some kind of cryptic slang phrase in teenagerese I said. "I'm sorry. I don't understand." Gently, of course. My only son, exasperated entirely by now, lifted said pan for inspection. Nearly hysterical, he blurted, "The EGG look it won't come out of the frying pan!"-" And sure enough, the remnants of the morning meal were plainly visible. I told him to put the pan down and, "Let's talk." But once removed from the horrid pan his disposition did a 180. He said no, nothing else was bothering him. He'd been trying to unstick the aforementioned egg for several minutes min-utes and it just had gotten to him. Yes, school was fine, soccer practice was fine, in fact, his entire life, it appeared, was just fine, except for the damn egg in the frying pan. Our talk ended on the familiar note, "So what's for dinner?" This past weekend The Boy wanted to go to the movies with "all the guys. I mean, a BUNCH of kids are going to be there." After millions of phone calls and plan changing and rearranging, The Boy and just two of his friends went to the movies. I'm assuming the BUNCH of kids were waiting inside. This prompted The Girl to demand more than equal time. She invited another female of the same age to engage in that marvelous treat known the world over as a "Sleep Over." Something strange and unexplain-able unexplain-able happens when two little budding ladies get together. It is a chemistry that somehow unlocks and produces "The Giggles. ' ' Oh, they start out slow and rather self-conscious at first-guest first-guest giggler getting used to her surroundings sur-roundings for the night and testing out the temperament of The Mother. But soon they fill the house. There are giggles in the bathroom-hair bathroom-hair and make-up to be tried and applied. There are giggles in the kitchen where concoctions of every apparent origin are to be made. There .ire giggle 'Vi'ift room watching television. Buf mostly there are giggles when The Boy, The Brother, returns from the movies. By Sunday night the house had quieted. Baths and showers were taken, pajama-clad little cherubs watched soothing programs destined to lull them into slumberland. In fact, all was peaceful on the home front until it was time to make sandwiches for the morrow. The Boy discovered there was no sandwich bread. I told him I was not going out at this hour; he would have to buy a school lunch. The wailing began. In a voice at thirteen that reigsters often between Michael Jackson and Charles Bronson he bellowed, "I'm going to diiiiiiiieeeeeeeeee. Please, please don't make me eat school lunch. That stuff is so bad they feed it first to the prisoners on Death Row ; if they make it, then they feed it to us. And those guys are murderers and stuff. What crime did I ever commit to deserve this? PLEA- EASE don't make me eat school lunch!" And while all this wailing was occurring it struck a vein with me what I would most like for Mother's Day (mark your calendars it's next Sunday) Sun-day) is a day of peace and quiet. No giggles, no wailing, no moodiness. But then, I'd hardly remember I was . a mother without it all. So, if you've read this far, take note. Remember all you put YOUR mother through. Send her that card, order those flowers and don't call her collect next Sunday and whine about anything. It'll be her best Mother's Day yet Trust me. |