The Joys of Being The Mother of A Thirteen Year Old

It had been a hot day. Really hot.

Grumpy Pants had been working for a good part of it, and came home hot, sweaty and smelly.

I made him an iced coffee. Because I am an awesome wife. Not because I was making myself one and he wanted one too, because he saw me with one. Okay, maybe that last bit. Or maybe a bit of both.

“Argheuwwww!” Monkey Boy stated, as he walked into the kitchen, then staggered back, covering his face with his hands.

I turn to look at what had caused such a reaction.

Grumpy was standing beside me, drinking his freshly made iced-coffee, completely naked.

Admittedly, this is a phenomena that occurs with all the males in our household and I no longer even notice it.

I sigh, and explain to Grumpy how I think he needs to step up at times and de-traumatise the teenager. The responsibility always seems to land with me. I don’t mind it, but it can drain the life out of me at times. It would be nice to have a backup.

Monkey Boy is either completely okay or seriously, mentally disturbed as he commenced tormenting his brothers, rambling incessantly about stupid shit and ignoring each and every one of our requests.

We make it to bedtime with no further incident; other than the unrelenting obnoxiousness from the teenager. I read to Chippie and then with Godzilla, and just when I think it is safe to relax, Monkey Boy, still loaded with testosterone and facetiousness, comes bounding in and demands a cuddle.

Which would be okay, if he just Shut. The. Fuck. Up. But he doesn’t. He rambles and gibbers and goes on and on and I tell him to please, please, please go to bed.

“But I’m just trying to tell you about my day at school,” he says, laying on just a touch of Guilt Trip.

“I know,” I reply with a small sigh.

“It’s just,” I continue. “I get bored and I stop listening.

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