I’ll bet those psychologists who tout the merits of spending “quality time” with our children, never had teenagers! Gone are the days when I could plan a stimulating activity, share time reading a book or even supervise a playgroup to enjoy watching and learning about my son. As the mother of a (Gasp!) almost 18 year old, I’ve learned to take what I can get, or shall I say, "give what he can take". Our most FREQUENT form of interaction, these days, is my placing a few bills in his outstretched hand. Any parent, worth their salt, knows that the best way to learn about your children is to sit quietly,  while they are just hanging out, doing their thing. It helps if they are held prisoner in a car, at  a restaurant, or engaged in a chore or some type of  physical activity. That is when the real “QUALITY TIME” occurs.

Today, as a lesson in responsibility, my son was required to help me paint the garage,  in the home we are now trying to sell. He and his band of teenage cronies have taken over( and trashed ) the garage for the last five or six  years. First, it was a skateboard park with an enormous half pipe going across its full width. Then,  it became home to a true garage band, filled with cast off furniture, giant speakers, sound equipment and instruments, and  long-haired, forlorn looking boys, making angry music that sounded like it was sputtered up from the depths of hell. Don't you know my neighbors love us???
 
All this abuse  has taken a toll on my POOR garage… There were holes to be patched, trash to be disposed of, junk and equipment to be removed, doors to be repaired , and-  oh yes, painting to be done! All,  so that the elusive prospective buyer, will fall in love with our immaculately clean and perfectly designed home.
 
First, let me give you a little background to this encounter…I have a very artistic family. If anyone ever has a “design emergency”, we are the ones to call. We can give anything the artistic touch…If , however, the need is fixing or repairing anything, that is where we fall short. The result of this is that our house looks great, but- hey, don’t open that door! It might fall off its pretty hinges!
 
So, imagine my surprise today, when my son jumped right in on the painting… granted, he did not follow my instructions of , “Edge trim  all the corners and mouldings with a brush before starting to roll”, but instead was somehow doing both tasks,  simultaneously. I decided it was best that we not work together, so I worked on one long wall, and he on the other. After an hour or so, I turned around to see his side looking pretty good. I was on the only ladder, so he was only able to reach up to about 7’ or so of the 10’ ceiling height, but still, he had covered a considerable amount of area, with a fairly uniform-looking coverage of paint, all the same.
 
“Gee, Brennen," I say. " I didn’t know you had painting skills… looks like you’re doing a good job there, son.”
 
We both continue painting… the slip-slap of my brush in contrast to his old roller, that obviously needed  some lubrication. Finally, he steps back, and observes his wall with pride...
 
“Oh yes,” he says casually, “In Theatre (a CLASS, of which he took this year, first semester, for the first time in his life, and found a TEACHER, Mr. “E”  and  a GROUP, that he loved ) , I have painted a lot of scenery this year.  We even have to design and build our own scenery, and props…” He goes back to work on his wall…
 
Slip- slap, squeak, squeak…
 
“And I have learned SO MUCH about operating sound equipment. I practically do all the sound for their plays.  I’ve learned SO MUCH that will help me next year, in college,  when I take Sound Engineering…"
 
Squeak, slip- slap, slip- slap…
 
“And I write…You’d be really surprised at what I can do…We even do baby yoga!”
 
Slip-slap...
 
“What?” I exclaim. “Why baby yoga? You all are not babies!”
 
“No,” he says, “But it doesn’t take long to do, like regular yoga, and it helps us relax”.
 
“Oh, I say, “That makes sense.”
 

I look at my beautiful, brilliant son. How FAST the time has passed… He was almost  two years old when we moved into this house. We used to have the best birthday parties, here…  all with themes, games, and matching cakes. There was the year we did “Star Wars” and I dressed up like Princess Leia,(complete with the Danish buns on the side of my head). We had a Star Wars Obstacle Course in the backyard. Then, there was the dinosaur, fire truck and Power Rangers parties. Then, it seems like  suddenly, he wasn’t little any more, and we hit those dreadful middle school years. He wore black tee-shirts, dyed his hair black and adopted a  black expression, for what seemed like an eternity. I thought that  phase would never end...  I had high hopes for High School, which I remembered fondly as a time of ball games, hot dates, and proms. Let me say, my son is not a “Joiner”. My high school memories are a stark contrast to his. Yet, I am thankful, in his last year of school, he has found a teacher, a group, and a craft, to which he finally feels he can belong and be successful.
 

“Hey mom,” says Brennen, changing the subject.  “Do you mind if I stop for today? Brandon and I want to go see a show tonight. Can you give me some cash?”