I am the proud mother of a very handsome 14-year-old son. He’s tall, takes very good care of his hair, but occasionally skips a shower and sprays AXE body spray all over himself in the kitchen while I’m eating my breakfast. Other than that his hygiene is pretty good. I hear him wash his hands after he uses the loo, and he doesn’t (usually) wear the same shirt two days in a row.
He always had gorgeous skin that is smooth and supple, but like most teens after going through the joys of puberty, he started breaking out a bit. At first, they were just little bumps and he’d ask me about them. After taking a closer look I told him they looked like clogged pores and it would be best to just leave them be.
“Well, what would I did with them? What do you mean?” He literally had no desire to mess with them, and as I explained that some people liked to pick at them, or pop them, he looked at me like I had just suggested he clean his room or something of that nature.
And then it happened; the clusters of pimples started blossoming all over his chin, nose, and mouth area. He would come down stairs in the morning to pack his lunch for school, and through the cloud of AXE spray, I’d see white heads that had turned yellow, and looked as if they might shoot me in the eye if I came any closer.
“You have a little, like, really, a few somethings sprouting from your chin and nose, honey. Can I help you with those,” I asked one morning. I was dying, I couldn’t handle it. I wanted to look away and delve in all at the same time. It was confusing.
“No way, you told me to leave them alone.”
I guess I did, but that was when they were tiny bumps you could barely see with the naked eye. We have now graduated to mounds of puss and I have feelings about this.
“I’m just not sure I can let you walk out of the house like that. If we pop them, and put a little acne cream on them, they’ll go away,” I told him.
He practically ran out of the house that day. His motto is, I have acne, world. Take me or leave me. No one is popping anything on this face so you can just deal with it.
I went out and bought him a luxurious face wash and organic face oil– I’m kind of a skin care junky and I know all too well when your face is dry, you break out, and which products clog your pores. Then I bought a face mask, thinking we’d do it together after a bit of bribing.
But no such thing has happened. My son does not share the same feelings I do about the heads sprouting from his face. It would be so easy to creep in his room and pop them while he’s sleeping, and believe me I’ve thought about it, but I’m aware it’s a bit odd and crossing some sort of line.
I can’t help but think, Oh, what I could do with those pustules. Just give me a tissue, and we could settle in for a fun Saturday afternoon.
But alas, my son isn’t having it. He doesn’t care to wash his face, do a face mask, or have his mother assist in poking at things that pepper his face.
So, here I sit, minding my own business, clenching my butt cheeks every single time there’s something on his face that looks like it might erupt at any moment. I mean, maybe I’m the only with the problem– I’d drop anything to run and have a crack at those suckers.
Or maybe his lack of concern for his acne is what gets under my skin. I wonder how he can walk around like that without a care in the world, and how he doesn’t even have the slightest urge to stand in the mirror and see what those babies are made of.
On second thought, maybe I will sneak in his room tonight. What can it hurt? He already thinks I’m overbearing and everything I do bothers him anyway. And maybe he will wake up and thank me for all my hard work.
Now, where’s my flashlight?
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