It is amusing — when not exasperating — to have a newly minted teenager in the house. It is particularly amusing to watch the teen through a 7-year-old’s eyes.
When she opens the bathroom door and is assaulted by the smell of body wash, she shouts, “Too much OX!” Well, it’s Axe, honey, but , agreed. Way. Too. Much.
She calls her brother the “evil nut.” Affectionately, of course.
When asked to relay him a message, she comes back to report, “he’s doing regular big kid stuff, like texting.”
She is intrigued by his texting, especially when it involves girls, as she thinks it might lead to a date and a chance for her to get to sing that song about sitting in a tree and k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
She views his personal hygiene (despite the copious amounts of Axe) as questionable, so she is horrified to discover that while putting away laundry, I have acidentally left a pair of his boxers in her dresser. ”How did these disgusting things get in my drawer?!” she shrieks, carrying them in such a way that she is barely touching the offending article, a tiny section of waist band clipped between two fingernails.
She asks to read some new comic book he’s acquired, but he declines, telling her it has inappropriate bad words. “I can’t read bad words yet,” she assures him with perfect first grader confidence. (Only later do I think, wait, what bad words?)
She complains about him — and then sits next to him on the couch brushing his hair so it looks just like “Justin Beaver’s.” And while he tells her ”Bieber, not Beaver,” for not the first time, he allows her to continue to make a creative mess of his hair.
