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The First Day of Tween School
By Anna Seip
It’s the first day of middle school, and I’m sharing the only bathroom in the house with a tween. This is not going to work, I can already tell. My 12-year-old son sprays a cloud of cologne. It’s the “scent of California,” he told me. The smell is like limes left over after a party. Puberty has barely begun in my house, and I’m already tired of it. This time last year, I was begging him to take a shower once a week. Now all of a sudden, he’s asking for acne cream and deodorant. I make a mental note to get an estimate to build a half-bath in the basement.
“Do you think I should get my hair straightened?” he asked, brushing his long golden locks over and over. He didn’t get a haircut all summer.
“Why? You already have straight hair,” I said.
“Yeah, but, I think I need one of those straightener things, like a curling iron but it’s flat.”
“No.”
“Well, Allie says I should get one.”
Three Allies live in our neighborhood. They run in a pack and slip notes through our screen door. All summer, the Allies could be found at the picnic table next to the basketball court. Sometimes, they’d wear bikini tops with shorts and run in the rain. They call our house, giggle and leave messages on our answering machine. One Allie regularly draws hearts with sidewalk chalk in front of our house. As my son’s teen years approach, I know there will many more Allies calling and leaving notes. Maybe I will like one of them, but I doubt it.
But, I know he won’t. He’s already an inch taller than me. His feet are a full size larger than his dad’s. A driver’s license is only a few years away. In five years, he’ll go to college.
The clock strikes seven, which means I’m late for work and my son needs to get to the bus stop. I fight for time in front of the mirror, so I can put on my make-up. Behind me, he adjusts his T-shirt that has surfer girls printed across the front.
“Are you sure they’ll let you wear that to school?” I ask.
“They’re wearing one-pieces, so it’s not like you can see anything. Gah, mom.”
That drives me nuts – the “gah, mom” sighs. “Gah” is the shorter, more exasperated form of gosh or geez.
He pulls his jeans down to his hip bones so that the top of his boxers will show. I resist the urge to tell him to pull his pants up. I resist the urge to pull them up myself. He slings a messenger bag – what all the kids are using this year instead of backpacks, he has informed me – and asks me to write him a check for lunch money. Suddenly, I’m grateful that he needs me, even if it’s just for something small.
I watch my son walk to the bus stop with his friends – a group of gangly boys also wearing surfer T-shirts and baggy jeans. I feel like a child left behind while he’s out there finding his way as an adult.
Maybe I’ll hold off on installing that half-bath. These lime-scented mornings are numbered. Soon enough, he’ll be too embarrassed to share a bathroom with me, and these before-school talks will be gone.
Anna Seip is the mom of a middle-schooler.
