The Hobo Has Left the Building

(post copyright 2014, Dawn Weber)

There's a stranger in my house.

I'm not sure who he is, but from all appearances, this kid combs his hair, brushes his teeth, and showers voluntarily. Quiet, anti-social, his fingers tapping furiously at a screen - I'm afraid to approach him. He looks pretty surly.

Nonetheless, I carefully walk over to the outsider and stare at his face. Is it . . . could it be?

Holy zit! It is him! Yes, I can't quite believe my eyes, but somehow, I know I'm right. Judging by the pimples, voluntary showers, and alarming array of Axe products in the bathroom, I now have a . . .

(*Cue dramatic music*)

. . .  Teenage boy.

You remember my son, the Hobo, right? Avid fan of farts, stranger to personal hygiene, avoider of anything girl- or romance-related?

Well, the unbelievable, the unthinkable has happened, and he seems to be growing up and taking an actual interest in bathing. No longer content just to smell, no, he actually wants to smell - good.

I should have known my son had crossed the slick, sweaty bridge to adolescence - the signs are all there: He empties the refrigerator, sleeps 11 hours a night, and no longer dry-heaves at the mention of females. And if I had any doubt that he's changing, it disappeared the other morning as I tried to roust him from bed.

"Hobo," I called up the stairs.

*Crickets*

"Hey, buddy! It's time to wake up."

*Muffled mumble. More crickets*

"Levi," I called again, using his real name to indicate the magnitude of the situation. "It's 6:15. Time to wake up."

*Thump* 
*Crash* 
*Stomp*

"I HEARD YOU!" he roared through the ceiling. "I am GETTING UP!"

I stood on the landing, my mouth agape, debating whether to whoop his butt or run and hide.

Where was my kid, the sweet boy, the one who would have simply said, "Okay, Mom!" and then bounded down the stairs to hug me?

Ah, but I should have anticipated this. I've been through it before, and pretty recently, too, with my daughter, the Princess, who was in a puberty-related bad mood for a good part of a decade. She's 17 now, with (mostly) grown girl parts, so the hormones are (mostly) done coursing through her system, and she's in a decent frame of mind these days.

Mostly.

Oddly enough, it was to her I first mentioned the Hobo's foul moods.  "I think your brother is becoming a teenager."

"I know!" she replied, eyes wide. "He is, like, mean! I said something to him the other day, and he just, like, SCREAMED at me! For no reason!"

Ha ha ha!

Oh, Karma - you're a bitch. But sometimes, you're my very best friend.

Still, I realize this is the beginning of the end of something - again. In the next several years, I'll deal with a crabby, gangling, sometimes insufferable man-child who will double the grocery bill, empty the hot water tank, steal my Victoria's Secret catalogue, and continue to expand his disturbing collection of Axe products.

And I will miss the little boy, the three-year-old who said "You're my girlfriend, Mommy!" when I asked about his love life.

I'll miss the older version, too. The one who smiled, laughed, replied without yelling, looked at something besides an electronic screen, and even occasionally - just sometimes - acknowledged my presence in public.

I mean, that kid smelled funny. But he sure was nice.