Weekends at the Cleaver Compound have sucked for the past two months.
We need year-'round, seven-day-a-week school for my mental health.
The Boy is outta control.
I'm dead to him, he says.
If only I could be so lucky.
Weekends are a whirlwind of cursing, insults, one-finger salutes and storming out of the house.
He is out there right now, in the middle of a storm. I think a neighbor took him in - a neighbor who is raising five granddaughters, four of them teens.
It's a regular hormone fest.
I'm sure he'll be banished from their house any minute now.
I can't control what he does, he says.
Apparently, he's correct.
He's always going to be better than me, and I better deal with it, he says.
Like I ever thought I was better than him. More mature? Definitely.
Less out of control than he is? The final vote hasn't been tallied on that yet.
Last night, for the first time ever, I didn't like him...not one bit.
God help him, because I am the last member of his fan club here.
I surrender. My bag of mommy tricks is empty.