Note to self: (I apologize for beginning this post as if I were Bridget Jones - I do love that scene in the book/movie when she, not a cook, decides to host her own birthday party and decides on an elaborate menu of Thai dishes that, pretty much, turn out to be "Blue Soup, Omelette, and Marmalade.")
Back to the subject at hand. Note to self: turn a blind eye to the slogan on eldest son's new t-shirt, which reads in large black letters, "SHAKESPEARE HATES YOUR EMO POEMS." When he showed it to me I had a sudden vision of him being knifed on a bus by an offended emo person, and told my son how I felt about it. Number two son, in his usual way said quickly, "Don't worry Mom, the emos will be too busy slitting their own wrists to worry about Ian and his t-shirt." Ack! Where did these horribly insensitive children come from? Granted, they are sixteen and fifteen and 'at that age,' so my friends tell me.
My mother, on a recent visit shocked me by telling me I was like my eldest as a teenager. I'll feign a Miss Piggy voice now and say, "What, moi?" Originally scoffing at the idea that I could have been as snide, as critical, as aloof, as impenetrable as my eldest son presently acts, I could not avoid the truth of Mom's claim for long. As time's sheer curtains were parted in my memory and long forgotten scenes played like silent films in my brain, it slowly dawned on me that I had been like my eldest in many ways - and I continued to be so until the effects of first love and the subsequent heartbreak served to knock off my edges with the harshness and precision of a stone sculptor's chisel.
I suppose the next time my boys go for society's jugular I will be able to comfort myself with two facts:
1) The t-shirt is, I would assume, available at CD Plus stores everywhere. Soon my son won't be the only one wearing it, and its shock value will diminish.
2) One day my sons will fall in love.