Recently in Mr. Teen Category

Two weeks ago, Mr. Teen announced that he needed to bring some Christmas snacks for his Spanish class. Mexican snacks. When asked what that might be, he requested Norwegian crepes, which he thought could pass for something Mexican.

That's when I decided to put my foot down and be practical. Crepes are easy to make but a mess to bring! Mr. Teen (who at ten used the handle "Nuclinator Joe 10" in a chatroom) - would not budge: "I'll need some ingredients for my crepes" he'd remind me every day of the last week - "for practice."

I picked up Mr. Teen from the Dexter Sailing Camp yesterday. Pick up time was 1:30 pm, I pulled into the driveway.. 1:28 pm. On time, all the way from Cambridge to Cape Cod!

I got out of the car, and spotted Mr. Teen almost immediately in the crowd, where he was dragging his bag on the ground while his super studly, new sunglasses were proudly showcased, hanging around his neck. His face was tanned, his nose was peeling. Unusual, since Mr. Teen the Scientist always uses factor 50 and up.

A camp leader came up to me before I got to him. "Your son was a GREAT camper!" she said with a big smile. "I think you've just got yourself a brand new sailor!"

"I've been so nervous," I admitted. "He didn't know anything about sailing until this summer, and he mostly just... sits in his room and program his computer.." She laughed. "Well, you know.. sailing is a LOT about thinking skills. He picked this up immediately!"

Mr. Teen told me that he had a marvelous week, making new friends, swimming, sailing, playing in the woods. "I was wondering why you didn't call home," I said, interrupting his stories of being pushed off the pier and pushing friends off the pier while I helped him lift the bag into the car trunk. "...hmmm...why does this bag seem much heavier than when I dropped you off? Did you bring home the SEA??" Mr. Teen raised his eyebrows into the familiar question mark position. " I don't know," he said, answering both questions at once. Some things never change, I guess.

This morning, I unpacked his bag to do laundry. It turns out that Mr. Teen DID indeed bring home the sea. Whenever something got wet, he just tossed it into his bag together with all his clean pieces of clothing and blissfully thought nothing more of it. After all, like any other teenager, he does have a personal laundry service assistant, doesn't he?

... and what do you know, he forgot to hire a mummy sitter:-(

Left behind here between all the chocolate milk stains, empty coke bottles, dirty socks, computer manuals, bags of chips, toblerone wrappings and more, I'm lonely, bored, unfed, and ... did I mention lonely?

This weekend - Mr. Teen invited a different Mr. Teen over for an intense Playstation Portable Battle. To make their short break from the war a little more bearable, they ordered a real feast: Chicken with Lotus Seed. In Asian art, mind you, the lotus symbolizes birth and rebirth. Might that have been a factor in their choice?

I had Moo-Shi. Moo-Shi is tasty. Moo-Shi is delicious.

And Moo-Shi tastes just as good the day after. Coming home late and very hungry last night from my choir rehearsal, I headed straight towards the goodies. PantherGirl leaped onto the kitchen table, like a Chinese Dragoon Kite, bending her head, peering lustfully past me and into the fridge.

Oh, emptiness! Nothing there, except for two half full boxes of ...Chicken with Lotus Seed.

"Did you eat my Moo-Shi?" I turned to PantherGirl in surprise. "Mjiii-hiii" she whispered meekly, staring down at Sir Orange FlaggyTail with a mixture of contempt and disappointment. Too fat for the height of the kitchen table, he rests in the shadow underneath.

"Did you eat my Moo-Shi?" I asked Sir Orange FlaggyTail. No answer. Just a nervous blink. He got up silently, swaying his tail towards Mr. Teen's room.

"Did you eat my Moo-Shi?" I asked Mr. Teen, who still wasn't in bed, even if he was supposed to by now.

"Nope!" he answered a little too fast, adding defensively: "Don't you know that you're waking me up with all that noise?"

"What's Artesian water?" Mr. Teen, green and pale, is home from school, resting at the coach and drinking as much water as he possibly can handle to recover from the seemingly incurable Cambridge stomach bug. Holding his Fuji water bottle up close to his eyes for better inspection, he's got a question for Super Mum.

Google, define: artesian.

"Water held under pressure in porous rock or soil confined by impermeable geological formations." I read, casually pretending to know these factual things. Mr. Teen is quiet, thinking. A wrinkle slowly grows above his eye brows. He burps.

"I think that's very good" I hastily add, as casually as I possibly can, knowing where this might go as Mr. Teen tends to take a liking to finicky attitudes. "It's like gourmet water!"

Mr. Teen however,  isn't convinced and studies the label again. "I wonder if Sir Orange FlaggyTail is an Artesian cat," I hurry to distract him. Mr. Teen drops the bottle and looks over at Sir Orange, who blinks back at him, confused.

"I'd say he's more of an artistic cat," corrects Mr. Teen.

Mr. Teen and I got to borrow my friend Erik's car. I mean ship. A large, silvery Mercedes-Benz; Mr. Teen and I sit comfortable inside. Or do we?

The buzzing sound of seat machinery fills the air. Mr. Teen pushes all the buttons he can find: recline, raise, move forward, and then tilt backwards again... I stop the car to join the fun. Oh, and the steering wheel can be moved, too! We spend 20 minutes of fun getting comfortable.

Outside, it is pouring rain. Our ship is gliding forward, steadily, safely. "Now THIS is a CAR" I sigh. Mr. Teen, looking good in a blue sweater, agrees: " And I can sit & SLEEP!"

We get on the highway; we can hardly see the other cars on the highway (in Boston, these are called "opponents") for rain, it's like being under water. I put on the classical music station.

Mr. Teen is watching the speedometer. I explain to him why this ship is such a delight and easy to sail, how solid the skeleton is, how the wind doesn't move it an inch, why I am not so worried about the water on the road. I go on and on for quite a bit. He nods to all of this.

"Now, wouldn't you agree we'd be pretty happy if we had a car like this?" I ask, but then, come to think of it, a car alone wouldn't do it, would it? I get greedy: " - and a house: a beautiful house with many windows! And some great stuff inside, books and.... shoes. And.."

Mr. Teen, resting comfortably with the seat reclined, doesn't lift an eyebrow. He knows that women are often like this. "Actually, I think we'd be pretty happy enough if we just got internet access at home," he says, and presses a button. The seat rolls slowly back up. ... is he being ironic? Is he a deprived child? Have I failed as a provider? I'm confused, but when Mr. Teen turns to me with a smile, it turns out that he was just being practical: "At least then I wouldn't have to hang my antenna out the window to catch the neighbors wifi."

It is an extraordinary boring Sunday over here. Drowsy. Perhaps it is cold outside: our street is suspiciously quiet. Even Sherry Turtle (the kitten terror) is sleepy, she curls up next to me and lets out a sleepy purr.

Thank Godness I think to myself - at least now I can move around in the house with no panther attack of any kind. I get up and walk to the bathroom. Within a few weeks of residency, and wilder than any kitten we've seen, Miss Turtle has turned our apartment into vivid chaos. Sir Orange FlaggyTail, slightly pissed off at all the ado, has given up on parenting the crazy creature: tattle-telling seems to work better.

"Mrrrriaw! Mriaow! Mriaaaaow!" he brumbles with a dark, deep voice when Sherry Turtle swings high in electrical wires, climbs curtains and bookshelves, takes a swim in the toilet, or eats his food. He won't stop until the problem is taken care of, by US, of course. Chances are, you see, that S.O.F.T. will be attacked by this mini panther if he gives her a smack for the mischief. A bit too fat too fat to keep up with her fighting skills, are we?

But the sleep ball moved with me into the bathroom. One small lump is peacefully resting on the floor mat when I'm done brushing my teeth. I carefully sneak around her on my way to the room in the back, not to wake her.

Oh! Here, my desk is covered in laundry. How did that happen? Too many clothes to fold. I decide to escape before I feel like I should clean it all up, but stumble over no other than Sherry Turtle, asleep, at my feet as I turn. "Will you stop it, cat? I'd hate to step on you!" I moan, and move her to a safe pillow.

In the living-room, there has been ongoing hacking this weekend. The old pc shines with a new Linux foundation: Mr. Teen with pride. Apparently a new mouse, a new keyboard, and more ram is desperately needed, if I was to show my serious interest in his well being and further educational development, he informs me. Perhaps I better leave before he adds the broken Playstation controller to the list?

I make a quick turn in the middle of Mr. Teens list of wants, almost crushing, you guessed it, no other than Sherry Turtle. Miaaooo... she cries, unhappy. Is there no way to sleep next to someone in this house? "She wants crepes" says Mr. Teen, changing the topic, realizing his list is too long. "Are you hungry?" I ask him. He nods.

We wrap Sherry Turtle in a sling to get her off our feet, and begin the crepe process. Peeping into the batter, she shouts "This... this is kind of interesting over here," to S.O.F.T, who is left down there at the floor, all lonely. Cutting right to the case, "Is it lickable?" he wants to know.

So we wrap Sir Orange FlaggyTail into the sling too, but just as he settles in, he spots the floor down there and suddenly remembers being afraid of heights. Panicky, round eyes stares at Mr. Teen who captures the event with a camera.

Just off the press:

This Saturday, Mr. Teen was accepted into a Science Weekend program at MIT, beginning this coming Saturday.

Watch out, residents of Cambridge: A select number of inventive teens will put their deepest imaginations to use. I cannot wait to hear about their project for the fall, but I doubt it will feature sending electricity through the air (One of Mr. Teen's never-ending obsessions: Why not go completely wireless, while we're at it? Why use batteries? Why use, yuck, outlets? Why not just fetch your power from the air?)

"And, they will give us FREE lunch! Can you imagine?" Mr. Teen announced, with a happy smile.

- and for consistency, brings Mr.12's favorite two word combo.

What is it like being 13, I wonder. I know I am supposed to wonder even though surely I must know already. This is what my mum asked me when I turned 13. And my brother. And my youngest brother.

"Vet ikkje" (Don't know) answers Mr. Teen. He is in a scruffy mood: The kids at summer camp were so unruly yesterday that their trip to Six Flags got canceled. "Is it not different?" I ask.

"Vet ikkje" says Mr. Teen. For the next 15 minutes, "vet ikkje" bounces right back at me.

Hmm. In the end, I give up: "Do you think you'll learn some new words this year, at least!"

This got Mr. Teen thinking. "Kanskje", he says, tasting the word. Perhaps. At least this is a more positive direction, I think quietly, but Mr. Teen read minds. "Kanskje ikkje" he adds, with an evil grin. Perhaps not.

I sigh and roll my eyes. This is exactly the reaction he is hoping for. Encouraged, he finds even new words and triumphantly slings them towards me: "How about: Eg tror ikkje det!" (I don't think so).

Sure. Mum has now got some cheap ammo, and that from Mr. Teens own gun! "We could always go to Six Flags on our own, but....." I pause, shrug my shoulders and sigh slowly before I deliver the punch line: "Frankly, I don't think so. Eg tror ikkje det."

Mr. Teen, a good sport on select occations, loves a good game. He snickers and climbs onto the camp bus we've been waiting for the last 20 minutes.