Parents vs. Puberty

Hola Wild Boy friends!

I know, I know, you were all super concerned after I failed to post last weekend. Every one of  you has undoubtedly been chomping at the proverbial bit dying to find out what mayhem has unfolded up here in La Casa de Testosterone. Right?

You didn't notice. Don't sweat it peeps, I kinda didn't either. See, there was this long weekend and swimming and an amusement park and some cocktails...we'll call it memory making. Or blog fodder. Both work. But now, here I am, back just in time to update you on my most recent parental horror: puberty.

That's right, it begins. Sure, Gav isn't technically even a tween yet. He won't be eleven until April (although he has a countdown, not kidding). Blame it on my cheap, hormone laden grocery store milk, but whatever the case may be we are dealing with the onset of the P word here.  You may think I'm mistaken, but I'd like to remind you I have in fact survived this with the three older wild sibs. Barely. It wasn't pretty. But, knowing is half the battle so I'm encouraged that going into it this time around I have the tools to cope better, and the cop and I are making enough money to support my expensive vodka tastes in these times of emotional peril.

It all started innocently enough at the beginning of the school year. Gavin casually mentioned that a girl from his class last year had arm hair like a grown man. Sadly, he couldn't really remember her name and just referred to her as "that hairy girl." Which is a terrible nickname for a girl to have in school, and I really hope they come up with something a little kinder. But then he said "the only place I have any hairs like that is in my armpits."

Open. Mouthed. Horror.

Because it's true. Oh, not a ton. One or two peeking through here and there. Just enough to breed sweaty bacteria and bring us to another super pleasant development - body odor. Like, sweet Jesus who let a stinky hobo in my car type body odor, thanks to living in California where summers refuse to dip below "hotter than Hades" and sports aren't cancelled unless shoes melt to asphalt. For reals, it's awful. So I casually mentioned that he probably needs to start wearing some deodorant. This was not translated correctly to the cop, who was the next to shop with the wild boys and was conned into buying them a can of Axe. You know, pubescent shower in a can. This is in no way a cure to the B.O., and as of right now my car smells like an eye watering blend of aerosol spritzed high school locker room. Consider this a warning - as pretty as it may look from the outside, you DO NOT WANT TO STEAL MY CAR. That smell is not for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach. I'm working on it.

But lately I've been distracted by the most recent development - pimples. Alright, to be fair, pimple. Just the one seriously ugly beacon of puberty. I made several suggestions about hot compresses and whatnot, to try to get rid of it as quickly as humanly possible. Gav's response? Absolutely not. This is apparently a badge of honor (to quote a family friend here "that's how you know he's too young - he doesn't have the good sense to know to be embarrassed by them yet"), and he's hoping to maintain some degree of it until school tomorrow to show off to all of his friends we didn't happen to encounter during six hours of soccer yesterday. He says "look - I'm practically a high schooler mom!"

So, rest assured friends, we ARE in fact working on the body odor and pimple. But he's not letting go of either one until he lets everyone at school know he's super mature. Yes, that's his interpretation. Please don't call CPS. I promise it'll be gone in a week. Please, please God let this have resolved in a week. Although, after a recent conversation with two other moms at soccer which started with a girl mom asking us two boy moms "Hey, are your kids hormoning super awful lately?" I'm less than optimistic this is resolving in a timely fashion. Pray for us.

Until next time, here's to stiff drinks and ugly pimples!