Sandy Slaga

Teenagers and Fertilizer

My beautiful niece turns 3 on Monday. Much to my chagrin, she lives in Minnesota and doesn’t often see my son and daughter. In an increasingly infrequent lightbulb moment, I thought a current photo of her cousins would make an excellent addition to the birthday package.

So, for the sole and evil purpose of imposing upon the oh-my-gawd busy lives of The Teenagers, I perkily announced last evening that there would be a brief photo op this morning before school. Evidently, the heads up evaporated amid the blare of the seventeen year old’s tv and the sixteen year old’s instant messaging and geometry angst.

This morning, unaware of the above-referenced evaporation, and using the perkiest possible pre-caffeine voice, I reminded my lovely children of my desire for a quick photo.

The sixteen year old chose to suffer in silence, a noble choice under the circumstances.

The seventeen year old protested being photographed in his school uniform. Outside. Where anyone could see, for god’s sake. Then, he hit the button. One of those buttons. With a smugness only a mother can wipe off, he cracked that he’d be late for a before school meeting with a teacher. That I’d arranged.

Fertilizer hit the fan from all directions. The only one to avoid the fallout was the mini Dachshund, and that’s because she fits under beds.

There’s nothing like a good old fashioned fertilizer flinging to clear the family air. I’ll go out on a limb and say it’s even necessary to rearing well-adjusted children.

It’s certainly required exercise for maternal mental health.