It&#039;s Called Puberty

It's Called Puberty

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Twitter: http://twitter.com/MomandProfessor

Sheryl Bone is a full time, online professor in the Department of Student Success at Kaplan University. An active member of professional organizations, she makes presentations on a variety of topics related to education. Sheryl serves as a regional leader for the College Reading and Learning Association. She is a full time mother to three children, ages 14, 12 and 10 and one little dog, as well as a full time wife to a busy, supportive husband. Always driving someone somewhere, she is sometimes frazzled, usually tired, but generally a very happy woman. Follow Sheryl Bone on twitter at http://twitter.com/MomandProfessor

It's Called Puberty

Posted on February 11, 2011

I found a strange man in my kitchen yesterday. He was making himself three pieces of wheat toast, to go along with the heaping bowl of penne and marinara sauce and the huge glass of orange juice he’d prepared for himself. He heard me enter the kitchen and greeted me, back to me, focused on smearing butter all over his toast. Hearing “Good Morning Mom”, in a strangely deep voice shocked me into reality. The strange man making breakfast in my kitchen wasn’t a stranger at all, but my twelve year old son. This twelve year old man child is a person I don’t know yet. He is new to our family. My son Max has been taller than me for a while. I’m only five foot four and a half. He was five foot seven and a half last time we checked. I’m sure he’s taller now. His height was hard enough for me to take. The voracious appetite that fuels his growth isn’t new, but continues to grow, just like Max does. It is hard to keep him in food. I feel like he is always eating and I am always grocery shopping. The clerks at Whole Foods know me by name. I’ve had some time to absorb the height and the appetite, but the broad shoulders and booming low voice that I found making toast yesterday took my breath away. The complete awe I felt for this man child, who used to be my little boy was short lived, however. The crumb covered counter top, dirty pasta bowl and spilled orange juice mandated comment, which was met with accusations of me being a neat freak, a nut job and some other mumblings I couldn’t quite make out, having something to do with getting a life. I’m quite certain I have a life, and a full one at that. Perhaps my man child just doesn’t appreciate it. He seems to think the life I should have ought to revolve around meeting his needs and cleaning up after him. Who is this man child ? Why is my sweet son driving me crazy ? Later in the day I asked my girlfriend, with a man child son of her own, two years older than mine. Her answer was simple. ”It’s called puberty”. Oh my goodness. I don’t think I’m ready for this !