Any of you who have teenaged sons or daughters at home must know what it's like to feel as if you are in your own reality TV show that's a cross between Malcolm in the Middle (remember the voice-raising, hair-pulling, certifiable Mom?) and That 70s Show (where the self-absorbed kids are hilarious and awful at the same time.) 

Seriously, if I had a dollar for every time my son's sarcasm nearly punctured my heart I would be so wealthy that I'd gather up all of you -- my sister-moms -- for a week-long vacay at some tropical island where the pool boys and bartenders all have to be over 25 and sweet – without a single surly bone in their bodies.

Now, if YOU met my son you’d say I was crazy. You’d tell me he’s polite, thoughtful, adorable and mature beyond his years. You might have even glimpsed the rare appearance of his dimple. And I know you would be right.   He is a good kid and has some amazing qualities, it’s just that I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like. He’s too busy mulling over the fact that I’ve ruined his life by making him do all sorts of horrible things, like go to school (yes, every day) and call his grandparents and show up for swim team practice (a team he chose to be on BTW; listen, the practices are at 5 a.m. – you know I did not choose this sport.).

It just would be nice if I could play the part of one of his friend’s moms, just for a day. Or his band teacher … or even his dad … none of whom seems to receive my son’s mood-swinging, eye-rolling, one-word grunts on a daily basis. It would do my soul good if I could more often see the sweet and kind person that lived inside this man-boy for the first 12 years of his life. Okay, 10. 

But the appearance of that joyfulness is starting to make a comeback, along with the amazing fact that my son wants to talk again. To me, I mean. He’s asking questions. He wants me to listen. And he’s incredibly open – he’d rather know stuff than be embarrassed. Of course, I’m not getting carried away – it’s still a once-in-awhile occurrence, but I’m blown away by what’s going on in my teenaged son’s mind every time we communicate. Recently, after we’d stopped to get some Starbucks frozen drinks on our way home, my son walked into the house and said, “Hey, Mom, come sit on the couch with me and hang out.”

I wanted to run a comb through my hair and put some gloss on my lips, certain I was on some form of Moms Get Punk’d. But when I walked into our family room, my son was nearly bouncing up and down, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He patted it for me to sit down. Yes, next to him. As the mother of a 14-year-old, 5-foot-10, 130-pound wrestler-wannabe, I was naturally wary. But I sat.

And I didn’t move for nearly 25 minutes.

My son became animated as he talked about the things that fill his heart and his thoughts; how he sees himself in the world; what he believes about things like reality, faith, dating, pressure, friendships. He spoke in full sentences. He had a good grasp on three-syllable words. He was open, honest, excited to share.

I know I had a silly grin on my face the whole time I watched him, listened to him, and most of all, enjoyed him.

And I think he basked in my silent acceptance; in my nods and smiles that told him I respected his views, I was proud (and maybe a little surprised) that he had spent so much time thinking about things; that I was not in any way judging him.  

I didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t venture too many opinions, didn’t stop to tell him his drink was melting all over the coffee table. I basically wrapped myself in this communicative connection. When was the last time we talked like this? At his invitation? It was enough to make me stop dead in my snarky tracks, for how I do go on about the walk-through-fire that is raising a teenager. 

Maybe it was just the Starbucks Java Chip Frappacino talkin’, but whatever it was, I’m grateful that it showed up in our world last week.

And it was so nice to see the rare appearance of that dimple.

Ginger Emas is the mother of a 14-year-old son and the author of “Back On Top: Fearless Dating After Divorce.” She is a regular ShareWIK.com columnist.

More articles by Ginger Emas, click here.

©ShareWIK Media Group, LLC 2010

Any of you who have teenaged sons or daughters at home must know what it's like to feel as if you are in your own reality TV show that's a cross between Malcolm in the Middle (remember the voice-raising, hair-pulling, certifiable Mom?) and That 70s Show (where the self-absorbed kids are hilarious and awful at the same time.) 

Seriously, if I had a dollar for every time my son's sarcasm nearly punctured my heart I would be so wealthy that I'd gather up all of you -- my sister-moms -- for a week-long vacay at some tropical island where the pool boys and bartenders all have to be over 25 and sweet – without a single surly bone in their bodies.

Now, if YOU met my son you’d say I was crazy. You’d tell me he’s polite, thoughtful, adorable and mature beyond his years. You might have even glimpsed the rare appearance of his dimple. And I know you would be right.   He is a good kid and has some amazing qualities, it’s just that I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like. He’s too busy mulling over the fact that I’ve ruined his life by making him do all sorts of horrible things, like go to school (yes, every day) and call his grandparents and show up for swim team practice (a team he chose to be on BTW; listen, the practices are at 5 a.m. – you know I did not choose this sport.).

It just would be nice if I could play the part of one of his friend’s moms, just for a day. Or his band teacher … or even his dad … none of whom seems to receive my son’s mood-swinging, eye-rolling, one-word grunts on a daily basis. It would do my soul good if I could more often see the sweet and kind person that lived inside this man-boy for the first 12 years of his life. Okay, 10. 

But the appearance of that joyfulness is starting to make a comeback, along with the amazing fact that my son wants to talk again. To me, I mean. He’s asking questions. He wants me to listen. And he’s incredibly open – he’d rather know stuff than be embarrassed. Of course, I’m not getting carried away – it’s still a once-in-awhile occurrence, but I’m blown away by what’s going on in my teenaged son’s mind every time we communicate. Recently, after we’d stopped to get some Starbucks frozen drinks on our way home, my son walked into the house and said, “Hey, Mom, come sit on the couch with me and hang out.”

I wanted to run a comb through my hair and put some gloss on my lips, certain I was on some form of Moms Get Punk’d. But when I walked into our family room, my son was nearly bouncing up and down, sitting cross-legged on the couch. He patted it for me to sit down. Yes, next to him. As the mother of a 14-year-old, 5-foot-10, 130-pound wrestler-wannabe, I was naturally wary. But I sat.

And I didn’t move for nearly 25 minutes.

My son became animated as he talked about the things that fill his heart and his thoughts; how he sees himself in the world; what he believes about things like reality, faith, dating, pressure, friendships. He spoke in full sentences. He had a good grasp on three-syllable words. He was open, honest, excited to share.

I know I had a silly grin on my face the whole time I watched him, listened to him, and most of all, enjoyed him.

And I think he basked in my silent acceptance; in my nods and smiles that told him I respected his views, I was proud (and maybe a little surprised) that he had spent so much time thinking about things; that I was not in any way judging him.  

I didn’t ask too many questions, didn’t venture too many opinions, didn’t stop to tell him his drink was melting all over the coffee table. I basically wrapped myself in this communicative connection. When was the last time we talked like this? At his invitation? It was enough to make me stop dead in my snarky tracks, for how I do go on about the walk-through-fire that is raising a teenager. 

Maybe it was just the Starbucks Java Chip Frappacino talkin’, but whatever it was, I’m grateful that it showed up in our world last week.

And it was so nice to see the rare appearance of that dimple.

Ginger Emas is the mother of a 14-year-old son and the author of “Back On Top: Fearless Dating After Divorce.” She is a regular ShareWIK.com columnist.

More articles by Ginger Emas, click here.

©ShareWIK Media Group, LLC 2010