I’m not sure why, perhaps because my teenager has been so easygoing and we haven’t hit many bumps in the road to adulthood, I thought I might escape the “contempt for the parents” stage. 

I mean, I have tattoos.  We went to his dad’s show last month…together.  And it’s not like his dad’s in a Jimmy Buffet tribute band or belting Kenny Loggins’ covers; his dad’s in a punk band that’s pretty well known in Richmond.

Nonetheless, we have managed to turn into skin curdling geeks.  Here’s a typical conversation about my attire, my demeanor and horrible disgusting embarrassing me.

Him: When we go to the pool party, do you have to get in the water?
Me: Well sure - it is a pool you know.
Him: Why did you put those blonde streaks in your hair?  You look just like the girls at Papa’s shows - just like everyone else, except you’re 35.
Me: No, son, I’m 36 but who’s counting.
Him: Are you going to wear those boots? For God’s sake they are knee high black leather with huge buckles - you’re not riding a motorcycle to work are you?
Me: I’m riding a bike and it has two wheels. Does that count?
Him: NO offense, but I don’t really like your tattoos. I mean no offense.
Me: Thanks, considering I have more then I can count on one hand. And by the way, they’re permanent, but I’ll get over it. I’m not offended at all.
Him: Why do you always laugh at your own jokes?
Me: Well, because I’m hilarious, son, if you haven’t noticed. And if I don’t laugh at my jokes then who will?
Him: OK, but do you have to laugh SO loud?
Me: Yes, because they are super funny.
Him: You’re doing that thing again - that thing I can’t stand. Stop it. Stop that.

At this point I don’t even know what I’m doing to annoy him because if I live, breathe or wake up I am apparently doing it wrong. 

I thank God for this stage (well on my better days I do).  Kids need to break free from their parents - especially when their parents are tattooed blonde-streaked hilarious braying idiots like me.

Be free, Beau, be free.