We’ve got armpit hair! I repeat—we’ve got armpit hair!

As much as I’d like to think of Boy #1 as that cute little dude in overalls and moon boots who I caught pushing the mop in the kitchen and saying, “I help, Mommy?” in that cute toddler voice, it’s probably time I face the facts . . .

He’s a tween. In 6 months he will officially be a teen.

And he has armpit hair.

How do I know? Well, let me tell you…

I was driving him to his baseball game yesterday late afternoon, minding my own business, when from out of the blue, he blurted, “I have hair under my arms, Mom.”

“You do?” I asked, choking back the tears and the desire to start rocking him while singing “You Are My Sunshine” in a key that would probably offend my former-music-teacher-Grandma’s ears.

“Yeah,” he said. Apparently he had noticed them in the shower hours earlier. “I have a few really short ones and then two longer ones.”

“See?” he suddenly said, and as I tried to keep the van on the road, I glanced over to where he was pulling over his sleeve and saw what no mom wants to see:

Not one or two armpit hairs, but a whole herd of hairs. And they weren’t short, either. They were long enough to start curling over.

It was horrifying.

“Stop it!” I yelled involuntarily. “Would you just stop growing up, for crying out loud?”

I’m just waiting for him to open his mouth someday soon and hear not his voice, but the guy’s voice in the Oakridge Boys who sings “Oompapa Oompapa mow mow” in the song “Elvira.”

Yes, I realize I’m pushing 40. Yes, I realize that other people my age have high schoolers, or even kids who are legally adults.

But when it’s happening to me, it just seems way too fast. And I don’t like it. Not one bit.

Well, at least I have two more who are content to stay little boys, at least for a while. Boy #3 still thinks he’s going to marry me.

We have a few more years until that starts feeling creepy.

The Puzzling Logic of a Tween

I’ve told my 12-year-old that he can call me at work — if it’s important.

Well, apparently I should’ve been more specific, because this is one of the calls I got this week:

“Mom, will you look at this hat online real quick? It’s really cool and it’s on sale!”

(Um, no.)

This along with various other calls inquiring when I’m getting home, if I’ve left yet to come home, and—again—when I’m getting home.

However, the other day I was driving home when I noticed that I had a text. From the same son who’d called me repeatedly about various trivialities. So I casually picked up the phone (when I came to a stop, of course) and read the text. Here’s what I saw:

“Mom, the vacuum cought on fire.”

(Yes, I kept his spelling intact despite my editorial urges to fix it.)

Really? A marked-down skater hat ranks an interrupting phone call, but a fire involving a household appliance only warrants a text?!

As you can imagine, I nearly drove off the road calling him back to see if the house was burning down (considering the text had been sent a half hour before I saw it). Fortunately, it wasn’t a FIRE as much as it was a yucky smell coming from the vacuum, presumably caused by my dear son sucking up a wad of paper towels. (He “didn’t see them.”)

So, this story has somewhat of a happy ending (although I can’t vacuum now until I get to the store to purchase a new belt). But, can someone tell me how this is logical in the mind of a middle-schooler? Ugh.


Image by mrceviz

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