10 is the new 13
I thought — hoped, prayed — I had another two years before it hit. Or at least one more year. But judging from the length of time the kid now spends on the phone (an instrument he wouldn’t even answer a year ago), the whiny arguments that greet ninety percent of our requests, the mortified “Mo-oms!” at my showing any signs of public affection, I think it’s safe to say that puberty has once again come to visit our house.
I am so not ready for this. And, having endured this stage four times before, I know exactly what “this” is.
Send chocolate. Preferably Valium-laced.
