I certainly was never like my teenager, was I mom?

I was on my way to my mom’s house to figure out why her streaming device wasn’t working.

I tried to troubleshoot it over the phone, but after 40 minutes of my mom reading aloud error messages and pushing buttons I couldn’t see, I gave up.

It was a 45-minute drive from my house to hers. But I didn’t mind. Because I live with a teenager.

As I unplugged and replugged the device, rebooted the router, and clicked through the “settings,” I bemoaned how hard it is to raise a teenager.

One minute, he’s following me around the kitchen reading aloud from Albert Camus’ “The Myth of Sisyphus” and the next, my mere presence solicits annoyed sighs. (Seriously, decide. Do you like me or not?)

“How can a kid who is so smart make such dumb choices sometimes?” I asked my mom.

How does he eat a week’s worth of groceries in a single day?

Why does it take him so long to do anything I ask?

Why is he so nice to everyone who

isn’t me?

My mom made sympathetic tsk, tsk noises. She offered advice.

I clicked to reconnect the device to the Wi-Fi and then looked up at her. Oh.

My mom went through this twice. My brother is 18 months older. We were teenagers at the same time.

I’m sure we were angels. At least I don’t recall rolling my eyes or copping an attitude.

There was a slight smirk on my mom’s concerned face. It was time to head home, where the teenager lurked.

“I’m sorry,” my mom said, hugging me.

“I’m sorry,” I said at the same time. I owed her that, for my teen years and for today.

I felt better. She got through this, twice. I will, too.

In the meantime, if I need a place to hide out, at least the streaming device works.