It's not so much all the blood and such but the screaming - that's what gets to you, eventually

“If you define cowardice as running away at the first sign of danger, screaming and tripping and begging for mercy, then yes, Mr. Brave man, I guess I'm a coward.”
My eldest stepdaughter, R, officially entered into that phase of life that we all dread to deal with as outsiders, yet endured ourselves with such relish (and spastic angst).

This has been an auspicious year for R. Aside from turning 13 today, the remodel of this house to accomodate my brood included adding a room downstairs, effectively moving R away from the great unwashed upstairs (i.e. the rest of us), creating a sanctuary for her, alone, segregated from parents and little kids alike. And what else could a teenager ask for? Hell, it's like a whole other universe or something, the teen-o-sphere.

The festivities today included having two of her friends stay for a sleepover, the teen club downstairs while the rest of us hunkered down above, watching "Raiders of the Lost Ark," perhaps as some kind of training film (I have no idea what I'm talking about, BTW).

Actually, R is an awesome kid - er, "young lady" now - smart as a whip and handling the addition of three new siblings with exceptional grace. Despite my sorry ass stabs at snark (jokes at the expense of teens is a bit like screaming "toss the bum out!" at one of Z's T-ball games), I have to admit that she impresses me; I'm lucky to have her leading this mixed brood. Also, I enjoy her company: she's funny and engaging and sweet in a non-sentimental way.

Oh, but gods help us, she now has a cell phone. She can now text her friends that I have indeed indulged in far too many cracks at teenagers and that I'm lame and my music sucks and whatnot. That and my haircut is ugly.