36 Hours with the Teens

So last night I walked into the living room and the two teens are in chairs, three feet from the TV, playing the video games they had just purchased from GameStop, where they traded in their expensive Christmas and birthday gift games for used ones. Not a great deal to me but whatever. I remember as a teen blowing all my waitress tips on clothes I would discard after one school year, so marked by that year's fashion that I'd be dated in the eyes of others if I had carried them through another year.  A Hoodie and jeans with elephant bells, one year, set me back more than any other one outfit until my twenties.

At any rate, I walked into the living room where the boys were side by side, controls in hand, like a pair strapped into a roller coaster, and they put the game on mute. I looked over at the screen and saw it was another war game. Then they paused it. And waited. I wanted to drawn down the blinds in each of the three windows and they just waited. And watched me as I went over to the windows, one by one. Then waited. As I left the room the action came back on. Then the sound, beginning with some animated soldier saying, "Fuck you."

Remember when we muted the set because our nighttime drama might be too rough for the children's innocent ears?

Tim knows I hate the war games. Sometimes he tries to discuss the merits of the games, such as interactive maps that lets him discover the Middle East, or role-playing games that include decisions of ethics or humane efforts. I listen, because I know it is important to him--these games, the whole range of them--but I don't buy it. His friend had purchased a skateboarding game and Tim had also traded for a mysticism game so I'm hoping they will mix up this assault on their brains today.

His friend is spending the weekend with us while his parents are out in Bayfield with friends. Ken's up on the Gunflint so I'm host. The two sixteen-year-olds have been friends for years so it's a welcome change for me.

Last night I kicked them out, though, so I could have some quiet and also some time to clean the house. I only got about a third of the way on the cleaning. I forget how much work it is to clean. Up and down the stairs, I spent half my time putting things in order, divvying up people's belongings and restoring back to their respective places.

Dinner last night was marinated sirloin on the grill, sliced and served with a mayo-Dijon sauce (which no one else ate but me), fried Yukon Golds, salad, and the New French baguette that you bake in your own oven, always a hit with teen boys.

I cleaned up the spare room for Adam, an act I've always loved doing for others. I suppose I love it because people have done it so nicely for me: fresh sheets, plumped pillows, the best quilt in the house, a set of towels placed on bed's edge, night lamp left on as welcome.

This morning Tim had to leave early for his baseball game and he popped into Adam's room to tell him he was leaving. I had been awake for awhile with tea and the NYT. Adam got up soon after that--and our house was very quiet. He didn't seem too uncomfortable and when I asked him if he wanted breakfast he quickly said yes. While we ate we shared some stories. He talked about his grandparents, whom I had seen over the Fourth, and how his grandma had called wondering his sister's shoe size. His sister is in college and away for the summer, working. So Adam told his grandma he'd call her back and then went into his sister's closet and checked out the sizes of all the pairs of shoes in there, hoping to come back with an average, which was size 8, he determined. With so much eye aversion and mumbling going on among the teens of the world, I so appreciated this effort at table conversation.

Adam's gone home for some down time while I head over to Tim's game. Tonight the three of us are making homemade pasta. Adam knows how to make Alfredo sauce from scratch (he brought his shaker/strainer and the recipe) and Tim learned how to make egg noodles while on a retreat at school. We'll head to Cossetta's for some semolina flour and Italian sausage.

Food, the great mediator.