Must be nice to know everything in the world

I'm learning the old adage is true...the middle school years really are hell on self-esteem.

My self-esteem, that is...not my middle schooler's. His self-esteem is just fine, thanks. 

Mark's always been confident in himself. The big change is his confidence in me. When he was little, he'd ask me questions because I was Mom, the all-knowing. He'd ask questions because he wanted answers, and he wholeheartedly believed I had them.

Now, as a snarky 13-year-old, he questions for a different purpose: to prove me wrong. Apparently, the brain trust has shifted in our house. I no longer know anything--anything at all--and Mark suddenly knows everything. Seriously. He even advises me how to drive and park my car, something he's never, ever, ever done in his entire life.

He's pretty good at giving attitude, too. I come home each night and watch him for a couple minutes, playing basketball with his best friend, laughing and joking. It makes me happy to see him thriving socially.

But then poof! As soon as his friend leaves, Mark turns into a snarling, surly little being who's suddenly lost the ability to communicate in any language other than angry grunting.

It's like there's an invisible alarm clock somewhere out in the universe, and it goes off every night when Mark sits down at the dinner table. That ding! signifies that all intelligent conversation must stop, and all language becomes non-verbal.

"How was school today?" I ask every night.

"Uuuh," Mark grunts. I've interpreted this grunt to mean, "Fine, thanks for asking."

"What was the best thing that happened to you today?" I ask next.

He replies with a shrug and an "Errr." I've interpreted this to mean, "Wow, there was so much, I can't even think of one specific thing to share. But thank you for being interested!"

Some people might give up at this point, but not me. I am strangely committed--I love a challenge. I won't give up until I get a full sentence out of my little Neanderthal.

"What'd you do at lunch?" I ask. "Who'd you eat with?"

In return, I get a heavy sigh, an eye roll, and then, after a moment of simmering silence..."The same thing," he'll grumble. "Basketball. With the same people. I tell you every day."

And boom! A semi-conversation. Success!

Not every night is a Demoralizing Dinner. There are two ways to make conversation a little easier: one is to eat dinner in front of the TV, which Mark loves, because he gets to watch TV and I don't pepper him with questions. Mark loves this so much, he asks me every day, hopefully, which table are we eating at (meaning: living room coffee table in front of the TV, or dining room table). I burst his bubble most days and tell him we're eating dinner like a normal family--in the dining room, where we will provide the soundtrack and canned laughter, not the TV.

The other way is to just wait it out. After dinner, I join him on the basketball court/patio. He doesn't mind conversing then, as long as we keep up the activity, and he's suitably distracted/hyperfocused. ("Must. Get. Ball. In. Net.")

I realize it's a teenage thing, and that hopefully, on his 20th birthday, he'll miraculously be cured and turn into a civilized human being. But in the meantime--self-esteem be damned--I'll keep trying, and keep trying NOT to take the attitude personally.

And who knows, maybe I'll get more than just a few syllables out of him each day.

Uuuh...