Teenage wasteland

My house is inhabited by two strange beings who prowl the halls at all hours of the night, eat everything in sight and communicate with me and my wife with only strange sounds and hand gestures.

I’m talking, of course, about teenagers.

I am told that I was once a creature not unlike them, until I evolved into a human being. Maybe I was, but I guess time has wiped my memory banks clean of the experience, because much of what they do is inexplicable to me.

They will stare into a refrigerator bursting at the seams with food and say, “Why do we never have anything here to eat?” They can go downstairs at 2 a.m. and cook a pizza when they’re hungry, but ask them to boil their own hot dogs and they whine like lonesome puppies.

Have you ever tried to get information from a teenager? If you really need to know something, unless you put bamboo chutes up their fingernails, you’re lucky to get anything beyond name, rank and serial number. Mimes carry on better conversations.

Here’s the typical after-school parent-teenager conversation:
Parent: “How was school?”
Teenager: “Grunt.”
Parent: “What did you do?”
Teenager: “Grunt.”
Parent: “Do you have any homework?”
Teenager: (silent eyeroll).
Parent: “Is everything ok?”
Teenager: “Why are you always on my back?”
Parent: “I’m sorry, I’m just concerned. I just want you to know that you can talk to me about anything that’s bothering you, ok?”
Teenager: “I’m hungry.”

When you have a child, along with the birth certificate you should be presented with a chauffeur’s license and a little black cap. You are constantly dropping them off and picking them up. If you ever complain about this, you get the “I didn’t ask to be born!’ response.

Through the magic of cell phones, the little darlings can call you as soon as they’re ready to be picked up and ask you to come get them. Generally, about 90 seconds after the first call, I get a second call asking, “Where are you?” Apparently they are under the impression that when they’re not home I am sitting in the car, hands on the wheel, foot on the accelerator, the car facing the street, so that as soon as I get the first call I can gun it and get there as fast as humanly possible. I’m expected to respond faster than Batman.

I am now presently trying to teach my daughter how to drive. I will give her credit, she is doing pretty well. I do most of the teaching, because when her mother rides with her it usually turns into a screaming match that would make Jerry Springer blush. I try to handle things more calmly and speak in an even tone of voice, even when I’m saying things like, “That was a curb, not a ramp. Now, let’s back off of the shrubbery and try it again, ok?”

Here’s my advice for anyone riding in a car with a teenager behind the wheel. First, take as many Xanax, Valium, Prozac and Vicodin pills as you can without overdosing. Then secure yourself in a straitjacket to make sure you don’t try to reach over and grab the wheel. Blindfold yourself so you won’t see the five near-miss accidents that occur before you even get out of the neighborhood. Then pray silently and ask God for forgiveness in advance for all of the things you’re about to say.

I talk to other parents and they assure me that they encounter the same odd behaviors in their offspring. And I must say, I am very proud of my children and I love them very much. They are both straight A students, very active in school and church, well-liked by adults, and can be a joy to be around, as long as it’s after noon.

And one day they’ll be gone, and I’ll be the one whining.