Raising the Tasmanian devil and roses--or a shorter description--Teenager

Back in 2002, before I ever knew there was such a venue as a blog, I took an English composition course. The initial excuse that I gave everyone was that I was starting my nursing degree and this was the course that they recommended you begin with to assist with your future assignments. But truth be told, I had always wanted to see if I was a writer and this was as good a chance as any. Unfortunately, I did not take into account my excruciatingly poor grammar, which lead to a B+ mark that I have never lived down!
that not withstanding, there was one piece that I was particularly proud of and that I had wanted to write for some time: my impressions of raising a teenager.
 I did not like being a teenager, I did not like being around teenagers when I was one and I was not looking forward to raising 2 of them. Jarrett did not disappoint. as the saying goes "he was all that and more!"
the following paper was the one that I submitted to my English professor. Happily, I have corrected the grammatical and style mistakes! perhaps now, I would even get an A! and to be clear,,,,this was written about raising Jarrett as a teenager; Connor was a peach! (Oh and if you believe that, I have some swamp land for sale! :)

Taz, Thorns, and Teenagers.
I have heard it said that raising teenagers is like trying to nail Jello to a tree. Just trying to picture the impossibility of this endeavour does form a mental picture of the trials and tribulations of sharing your life with teens, and while I appreciate the frustration and futility illustrated by this analogy, my experience is that raising a teen is like a cross between growing roses and living with the Tasmanian Devil.
Sixteen years ago, we were doubly blessed with the birth of our first child and the purchase of our first home. I had always admired my mother-in-laws spanning gardens, and longed to duplicate her roses in my own yard.
However, roses are not indigenous to Canada; they are an import from the more temperate climate of England. Roses are fragile plants, requiring protection from the harsh elements and many pests that may attack them; even though, their strong canes and fierce thorns camouflage their need for pampering.  So it is with a teenager, whose frequently spiny exterior shields your view of their pain and frustrations, brought on by the daily struggles of peer pressure and the pangs of first love. as I long to take him into my mothering arms again, as I did when he was a toddler, and shield him form the realities of lifes's sharp thorns, his fight for his independence is more than likely to stab the good intentions away. Then when I least expect it, he will show the soft vulnerable side of himself that I knew was always there. as with my  rose bushes, for months they will look just like thick wooden stalks with fierce prickles, and then one morning, suddenly I am blessed with soft velvety petals unfolding in the sunlight.
my main motivation for wanting roses in my garden, despite the challenge of growing them, was their heavy fragrance, which filled the morning air when the petals were heavy with dew. When my son was an infant, I would cradle him in my arms and deeply inhale the milky soft sweetness of his hair and breath. Unbeknowst to him, and probably even to my husband, I would sneak into his room at night and inhale deeply of his tender perfume, taking a moment to stroke the velvety texture of his petal pink cheeks. Although, the sweetness has left the fragrance of my teenager, his pungent aromas still fill my mind and our home. Whether it is the bouquet of his after shave of the month, the spicy smell of his deodorant, the fresh tang of the outdoors after a long summers day or his mustiness after a hard work out, his teenage scents fill our home and our lives.
Although the challenges of rose gardening do illustrate many aspects of living with a teenager, it occurred to me on afternoon while watching Bugs Bunny cartoons, that I was actually raising a facsimile of the Tasmanian
devil. On a typical day after school, a vortex of swirling energy will move through our house sucking everything into its path. as he hist the refrigerator, he systematically empties if of its edible, and sometimes even inedible contents, grunting and groaning the whole time, leaving food and dishes in a tell tale path.  the only thing that seems to be missing from the after school tornado is a large rabbit, munching on a carrot, saying "Whats up doc?" As with roses, Tasmanian devils are heavy feeders.
Similar to Taz, there is nothing quiet about raising a teenager. His clumping feet, loud and deepening voice, fill the forest of our home drowning out all other sounds. I have also come to the conclusion that there is an unwritten law that as teenagers you must try to ruin yours and your parents hearing, with your music. Although my sons taste in music is not  as offensives as some that teenagers may choose, I still live in fear that he will deafen, his brother, us and himself with it. After all, the entire collection of guitar licks of Eric Clapton can compete with the howling winds of a cyclone or the vortex caused by the Devil.
Communicating with a teenager is also like trying to talk to Taz. the series of grunts and groans, interspersed with "whatever", hardly resemble intelligent repartee, but at some point they suddenly make sense. As with the devil, somehow between the unintelligible moaning, Bugs and Taz get their points across. Occasionally, my teenage son can astonish me and actually sit down and have a stimulating and learned conversation with me. Of course, I know at this point, he is only condescending to communicate, because, after all, I am just "Mom".
As the creatures of the forest know, and any younger brother can tell you, the angry temperament of the Tasmanian Devil and the mercurial moods of a teenager, are enough to send grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and faint of heart parents running for cover. just as the animated rabbits and raccoons are drawn scurrying in fear, yelling, "The devil is coming!" In my house, we have learned that when my oldest is blasting through the day, the best that we can hope for is divine intervention!

over the years, there have been may disappointments in trying to grow my roses. I have lost many bushes over the winters, only to replant in the spring. I continue to try to be successful in my gardening, while protecting them with burlap and mulch, and being wounded by their bristly barbed thorns, as I prune them in the spring. As I trim the dead wood away and watch the canes sprout upwards toward the spring sun, I also watch my son grow upward, reaching the sky with his hands and heart, longing to be independent. I know that the heartaches of raising my son, like the roses, were worth the effort, and I keep replanting my love in his heart. I have also come to realise that although I cannot nail Jello to a tree, living with the Tasmanian devil is not as bad as it seems at first; sometimes, it can even be fun.