Boy. When you take a week or so off from blogging, your blog stats plummet like Obama's approval ratings. So, this is me, getting back into the swing of things.
My big boy, C. Peevie, has finally reached that age when he does not have to be bribed or coerced into showering. I thought it would never happen. Now he not only showers, but he even has shampoo preferences, and appears to be single-handedly keeping the Axe brand profitable.
He was sitting on the floor next to my Chair of Don't-Bother-Me-I'm-Watching-TV, and we were watching a Castle re-run. I looked over at him, and he was sweet and lovable, and his hair was all clean and shiny and soft, and I had the maternal urge to pet him.
"Can I pet you?" I asked, reaching for his hair. I was sort of proud of myself for respecting his personal boundaries by asking before touching. Usually I'm a bit more impulsive.
He looked at me, and tipped his head away from my hand. "Did that sound less creepy in your head?" he asked. And then he laughed hysterically at his own hilariousness.
Yes, son, as a matter of fact, it did. It did not sound creepy in my head AT ALL, thankyouverymuch. I'm still figuring out how to navigate the turbulent waters of teenagerdom. C. Peevie just turned 15, and it seems like the rules keep changing. I can hug him, I can't hug him; I can touch his hair, I can't touch his hair. I can watch TV with him, I can't watch TV with him. He wants junkie snacks, he wants healthy snacks.
But I can always give him rides, or give his friends rides. That has not changed.