Hugging a Porcupine

DH brought a book home from the library about being the parents of an adolescent the other day. It had a perfect title: How to Hug a Porcupine. And since, more often than not, I’m getting a faceful of quills when trying to deal with Frick these days, it’s proven to be sound advice, more often than not.

I always thought I’d be a better parent of a teenager than a young child since I have so many years of experience with teenagers at school. I love younger kids, but some of their habits (especially the whining) drive. me. up. the. wall. I was suuuuuure I’d be so much more effective once they started to creep up in the double digits, age-wise.

What’s that old proverb about wanting to make God laugh? Yeah.

Anyhoo, Mr. Frick is becoming, more and more, Mr. Prickly. Everything’s cool until I suddenly cross some unseen border, then WHAM! Quillface. Case in point, last night’s homework. I’m trying to deal calmly with him, and he gets nearly apoplectic. And doesn’t finish. So now I need to wake him up early so he can finish. Never mind that he asked me to wake him early; I’m sure to get zapped for trying it. Open House was last night, and I can see clearly what needs to be done, but he’s not hearing it. He knows better (even though he’s trying to make algebra do things that are mathematically impossible). He’s offloading all his issues on a different issue that even he admits isn’t the issue. It’s maddening.

And then he turns around and is the most generous, hilarious, wonderful tween in the universe. It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Someone who’s survived these years, please let me know my face isn’t going to be permanently perforated. I’m all for patience and forbearance, but let’s face it, they don’t sell those qualities at Targét. At some point, the tank’ll be dry, and I’ll still be in a faceoff with a bristling little rodent. Help!