Recently I took a stroll down memory lane and I came across a column I had written over a decade ago when I worked at a different newspaper.
My teenage son, Mason, at that time, was a two-year-old toddler. In the first paragraph of that column I wrote, “Sometimes I wonder if I gave birth to a caveman disguised as a normal, healthy little boy of 18 months.”
I went on to explain how my toddler refused to say words and instead grunted and pointed at things of interest or to show me what he wanted. No words required when a doting Mom was always on-hand to figure out what he wanted.
Eventually he did learn to talk. In fact, for the past 10 years he was talking in complete, coherent sentences. Then one day he woke up with a man-sounding voice and he began grunting like a caveman again.
Funny how history repeats itself.
“How was your day?”
“Do you have any homework?”
“What is new with you?”
“What would you like to eat for supper?”
You get the point. Communication with him has become hard work with little returns.
By definition, the teenage years are only seven years long. I survived an infant screaming through the night, the terrible twos, potty training, kindergarten, and another seven or so years of childhood trials. I should be able to survive raising a teenager, although there are days when I have my doubts.
In another decade expect a column about what a fine young man he turned out to be, who will (hopefully) be back to talking in complete, coherent sentences again.