Teenagers, Testosterone, Cell Phones, Jurassic Park and Game of Retirement

“Yes Mr. Hill, testosterone can jump start puberty, but I don’t give radical hormone therapy to young boys who happen to be mediocre at dodge ball.” – King of the Hill

Okay, that meme came together really well.  Or maybe Jack and Peewee were separated at birth?

Pugsley is currently experiencing what every teenage boy has experienced since there were boys – TOTP teenage onset testosterone poisoning.  The symptoms are many:  extreme idiocy.  A sudden lowering of voice.  Unexplained hairiness.  Armpit smell.  Showers longer than the Crimean War.

As I’ve mentioned in the past, I think 11-14 is the critical age for children.  This is the defining age where they begin to rebel.  They’ve turned from nice, sweet children into little monsters who have determined that they have feelings but have no regard for the feelings of others – in a word, all middle school age children are psychopathic.

Although irritating, it is a passing phase, as long as the parents stick to their guns.  I have seen children become middle-school aged tyrants whose parents tremble as they approach.  It’s not a pleasant sight, and the wreckage of their lives is equally unpleasant when they first impact a world that doesn’t care that momma always cut the crust off of their sandwiches.  I’ve had occasion to see that karma train show up a in a spoiled child’s life, and I always enjoy watching the fireworks more than a virtuous person should.  Sue me.  I’m human, although my ex-wife might disagree.

At some point natural selection by impact with Kia® will kick in.

Recently, I’ve been sticking to my guns with Pugsley.  It’s not really hard, you just don’t give in to them when you’re right.  Pugsley had his most recent attack of TOTP just the other day.  I sent him to his room.  After composing himself (and issuing an apology) he and I ended up outside, and he was sweeping the last leaves of autumn off the patio.

He stopped.  “Dad, I’d like you to give my phone back to me.”  His phone had been confiscated at least two months earlier for some infraction, and Pugsley had never managed to string enough “good” days together to get it back.  If truth be told, my criteria was probably a bit arbitrary, as well – I’m not particularly a fan of preteens having phones.

John Wilder:  “First, keep sweeping.  You can work and talk.  Second, why on Earth would I do that?  I had to send you to your room today.  What does that tell me about your overall behavior?  What’s in it for me?”

He raised his hand, as if dealing with a velociraptor that was one hamburger short of a Happy Meal®.  “Hear me out.  I want you to give me the phone back.  So you can take it away if I misbehave.”

“Okay, you have my attention.  I’m listening.”  This was interesting thinking.

Then the monologue started.  “Okay, listen.”

I stopped him.  “Don’t start a sentence with okay.”

“Okay.  I mean,” Pugsley Paused, a bit flustered, “right.  So . . .”

“You don’t need to start a sentence with ‘so’ – just say it.”

I was enjoying this.

“If I have my phone, you have an effective punishment.  I know what you want.  You want for me to do my chores without nagging.  I get it.  You want for me to do them daily.  You want me to stop back talking, and to stop being a jerk.”

“Go on – what about grades?”  It was obvious he’d been paying attention when I talked.  It was also obvious he’d been thinking.

“All at A minus or better.”

“What about quality?”

“If it doesn’t meet your standards, take the phone.”

It was well rehearsed, and was logical.  If he messed up?  The phone would go away.  If he did well?  I would pay for the phone bill.

“Okay.”

Pugsley did a fist pump.  “The Art of the Deal . . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I hear he’s selling this revised edition at school.

In short, he would give me everything I wanted for the price of a phone.  I even have a signed contract.  It’s like reverse Satan – I give him his soul in exchange for a cell phone.

And what, exactly, did I extract?

• His mastery of his testosterone-besotted self so he could maintain self-control and unleash the Pocket-Hulk® (which is what we called him when he got mad and was a tiny Pugsley).
• Discipline – I wouldn’t have to nag him about the chores. He has to start his own motor.
• Long term thinking – he also agreed to link a minimum grade to the phone – and keeping an A minus means planning to do your work and doing it every time it’s due.
• Standards – he agreed that work would be fully done. Well done.  By my standards – not “good enough.”

It may sound like I’m lazy and want him to clean the house while I type amusing anecdotes into the computer.  And I am lazy.  But if Pugsley can learn self-control, discipline, long term thinking, and high standards from my slothful life?

I call that a win-win, and maybe the best deal either of us will ever make.  Besides, I want him to be successful so he has lots of money so he can choose a nursing home for me that’s not based on Game of Thrones.

I hear the pudding is to die for.