ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, May 12, 1996 TAG: 9605130012
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
COLUMN: New River Journal
SOURCE: DONNA ALVIS-BANKS
This morning, the fight was over a pair of socks.
Another morning it might have been a dispute over whose glass was fuller or who had more banana slices on the cereal or who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste.
But this morning, it was over a pair of socks.
The scene goes like this:
Older sibling has one pair of socks in the top drawer of his bureau. These are white cotton tube socks with a navy blue stripe circling the top.
Younger sibling has one pair of socks in the top drawer of his bureau. These are white cotton tube socks - plain, no stripe.
Older sibling switches striped socks for plain socks.
Younger sibling discovers swap and screams. A hair-raising, bloody-murder kind of scream.
What's a mother to do?
I have pictures of these two children - snapshots I snapped in the days when I bragged to other mothers:
"Oh, my boys never fight. They're the best of friends."
Now I know why the other mothers rolled their eyes at me and muttered things under their breath.
When I look at the pictures these days, I hear the haunting voices of Simon and Garfunkel somewhere in the pit of my subconscious:
Preserve your memories ... they're all that's left you.
I have a picture of the diapered duo, their noses and chins smeared with brown glop, pink tongues reaching simultaneously for a chocolate-covered spoon.
The old "licking-the-bowl" photo.
I have a picture of the tiny towheads, their angelic faces touching as they sleep.
The old "awwwwww-aren't-they-cute" photo.
I have a picture of their two naked butts.
The old "one-of-these-days-you'll-think-this-is-funny" photo.
I quit snapping snapshots about three years ago.
Every picture we have from the last five years shows at least one sibling in some kind of spastic facial contortion.
I hope no one has looked closely at our family portrait in the church directory. My husband and I are looking straight at the camera, smiling fairly genuine smiles. We pass for a nice, well-adjusted couple.
There might be some question, however, about the kids.
The younger sibling is standing - shoulders shoved back, coat unbuttoned, chest thrust forward - like a strange statue of Napoleon. His cheeks are puffed out and his lips are pursed to stifle the giggle you can't miss in his eyes.
The older sibling is seated beside me, flashing his best Bart Simpson smirk.
What happened to angelic faces?
What happened to best of friends?
Hormones, that's what.
Not long ago, I mentioned to another writer at this newspaper that I was the mother of budding adolescents.
"Adolescents don't bud," he told me. "They explode!"
He was right.
There are two times in life when you want to crawl under a rock and croak: when you're an adolescent and when you're the mother of an adolescent.
I think I'm starting to understand why.
Maybe it's because we're both afraid of the inevitable - of turning points, of growing older, of letting go.
And hurting. We're afraid of hurting.
My younger son was about 3 years old when he had to tell his grandmother goodbye after a wonderful weekend visit. Realizing she was leaving to go back to Richmond, his lower lip began to quiver.
"Tell grandma goodbye," I goaded.
"No!" he shouted, eyes blazing. "I don't care!"
I was mortified at the time, but I know now exactly how he must have felt.
It won't be long before I have to say goodbye to my sons. They'll soon be ready to leave the nest, set out on their own, embark on the great adventure of adulthood.
Each day they grow a little more independent. Each day they fight the confines of childhood a little more fiercely.
I hope I can handle it. I hope I can keep a stiff lower lip.
Socks. Banana slices. Family photos.
Oh, these teen-rage years.
These are times that try Mom's soul.
LENGTH: Medium: 88 linesby CNB