You're right, you ARE a good listener

Having a teenager is fun because you get to repeat everything you say at least five times. The first four requests are always ignored, but oh, that sense of accomplishment you feel when your teen finally acknowledges you (with a grunt) makes the effort all worth it. (No...no, it doesn't.)

Most of the conversations in my house go like this:

Me: Did you do what I asked you to do?

Mark, rolling his eyes: Yes, Mom.

Me: You put away the (book, clothes, dirty dishes, cat toys, whatever)?

Mark: No, you didn't ask me to do that. When did you ask me to do that? (Then, under his breath once again for good measure: She never asked me to do that.)

Me: (No response. The only sound I make is that of my head banging against the wall.)

Sometimes I just give up and realize he has to learn his lessons the hard way. Like when he packed his bag for a weekend trip to Catalina, a very beautiful and very cold island 26 miles out to sea. Yes, you and I both realize that "island" means a piece of land surrounded by water and chilly ocean breezes, but you and I are not Mark.

Me: Pack a jacket, it's gonna be cold.

Mark: No it's not, and besides, I already packed a jacket. 

I could see a thin sweatshirt falling out of his bag. I thought about discussing the differences between sweatshirts and big, heavy jackets, but then I remembered that Mark is at that wonderful age where he already knows everything, and thus, already made a decision based on those facts.

Me: OK. Good job packing.

Of course, the first thing he said when he got off the boat was how cold he was all weekend. I didn't even have to open my mouth.

"I did bring a jacket," he reminded me. "I brought THREE sweatshirts!"

"Well then, good," I said. 

"Besides, I don't even have a big jacket," he sniped.

"You actually have two," I reminded him. "Ski jackets. In the office closet. They're very warm." 

I didn't add, "Warmer than sweatshirts," but Mark knew I was thinking it and stomped off.

Up until this point, his "listening" skills haven't really harmed him--not permanently, anyway. But he did have a few uncomfortable minutes last weekend. 

"Brownies!" he yelled at the store, throwing a box of these babies into the cart.

"Those aren't regular brownies," I told him. "They have a lot of fiber in them."

"I LOVE fiber," Mark answered. 

"Just...be careful," I warned him. "Only eat one at a time." 

He rolled his eyes and snorted, totally unappreciative of my motherly advice.

Later that afternoon, Mark was sweeping up outside when suddenly, he stopped, stood straight upright, and darted into the house. He was gone for a good 20 minutes, and when he returned, he was pale and a bit sweaty. 

"You okay?" I asked. 
 

"My stomach hurts," he whined, caressing it carefully.

"Oh, no!" I said. "What did you eat today?"

He smiled a guilty grin and answered, "I only had three brownies." 

"Three FIBER brownies?" I asked. He nodded his head.

And I just laughed. Because seriously, he may not listen to me, but he's sure as heck gonna listen to three brownies. And to the life experience that results from gobbling down three of those fiber-filled nuggets all at once.

His listening skills still haven't improved, but at least I've still got half a box of fiber brownies left.