El Edad del Pavo

"Hola Chico," I stand in the bedroom doorway where early morning moodlight barely reveals my once little boy, now that oddly man-like form whose arms and legs struggle for space on the remarkably tiny single bed. 

Nada. No response. No movement.
 
"HOLA CHICO,"  I call, still leaning in from the doorway, unwilling to cross the threshold into that realm where socks, AXE, and dust bunnies come together in a chemical compound known to mothers everywhere as "stinky boy smell."

Nada.

In the movies, this is where boys roll over, groan, offer up mumbles indicating, "In a minute" or "I'm coming," or "Ahhh Mommmmmm." 

En mi casa?  Nada. 

Dear Lord.  Am I going to have to go in there? Surely the Good Mother Handbook includes no such mandate.  Not even Mary-Mother-of-God had to walk into Jesus's stinky teenager room!

"AAAA--JAYYYYY,"  my soccer-mom voice rings through the tiny apartment as the bedroom's overhead light flashes in desperate warning.  "OWOOOGA!  Mother on the verge of crisis!  OW-OOOOGA!"

Nada. 

I am NOT going in there.  Not happening. Nope nope nope. 

With a disappointingly soundless crunch, my bare feet deflate a ball of spiral-notebook paper, the fuzzy edges tickling my toes as I do not walk into his bedroom, do not look at the pens, paper, headphones, gum, and Euro change scattered on his desk,  and definitely do not inhale. I also  trip on a ridiculously large basketball shoe before reaching the sweaty form (why doesn't he open the WINDOW???) and shaking him none too gently. 

"AJ, it's time to get up.  You have to go to SCHOOL!"

Discretion being the better part of motherhood, I quickly escape from the boy hovel, retreating to the kitchen where my coffee waits for  milk and the lovely carmel powder that converts Spanish coffee into something this wimpy American can swallow.

Eventually, the boy emerges.  Amazingly, I still have to remind him to take a shower.  Why do thirteen year old boys still think showers are optional?  And, oh, by the way, showers involve SOAP and SHAMPOO?  Carumba!  Oh, yeah, and those clothes -- from yesterday?  You can't wear those again today.  Seriously. 

So, how is school going for AJ?  Well, let's say it's not the best thing in his day.  He says that it's hard and most of the time, he doesn't understand what is going on in class.  He wanted to go to a school where everyone spoke Spanish, but now, he sort of wishes he has asked to go to an English school.  He likes his friends.  He has to be at school early so he can talk to his buddies.  The girls in the back of the room use their highlighters -- to color their hair.  The boys all play soccer during break, and that's the best part of the day. The Language teacher is crabby, he likes his music class but the teacher is kind of strange, and French is really hard. 

When I share this report with my Spanish friends, they all smile and nod and say, "My kid says the same thing -- and he speaks Spanish fluently!"  Here, this age is called "El edad del Pavo" -- the age of the turkey. The glorious years when our teens don't know which way is up, when they like almost nothing, eat everything except vegetables, and never have any clean clothes to wear.  The girls act dumb, and the boys . . .  well, in many ways, at this point,they really are dumb. We all pray that they come out of it, and my mother assures me that by age 50, those boys become pretty decent men. 

Often, I see a glimmer of the man to be.  This morning, showered, dressed, and breakfasted, he leans down (yes, down) to give me a hug, and he still has a bit of that sweet boy feel to him.  He hugs me hard, says, "Te amo, Mama," and heads down the three flights of stairs to the street.  As I turn back to the kitchen, I hear him nattering in Spanish to our landlady as he shuts to front door.  And then, I see his math book and his lunch, left on the kitchen table. 

El edad del pavo.