Ben, at 12, is not technically a teenager yet, but that hardly matters since Ben is one of those people who was born mature. This is not to say he's solemn. Quite the contrary. Listening to the news on the car radio the other day, the announcer intoned, "Next, is Bill Clinton a racist?" "He can't be," quipped Ben, "he's the first black president." I guess it's possible that adolescence will transform this smiling prankster (I got an alert on my PDA recently that read "Buy Ben presents") into a brooding shadow at least some of the time. But it's hard to imagine. He has the gift of buoyancy, a talent for keeping busy (most underrated in this screen-dependent age), and too much impishness to remain morose for long.
I so admire parents who are more rigid and disciplined that I. Certainly for three boys a bit more martinet would not go amiss. (My husband is better, but he works long hours.) And I do look at teenage girls who seem to keep their notebooks so tidy and their hair combed and their permission slips signed and think -- it's a different world.
But I'm not complaining. I get in my car and the GPS spits out directions to our favorite sushi restaurant and I think "Ben!" After haggling with David about practice time, he finally puts the trumpet to his lips and out comes real music, beautiful music. Jonathan is learning the bass guitar, helping out with the younger kids at synagogue, and earning pocket money by gardening, cleaning, and caring for the four animals in our household. He's so contented when he's working hard, and that is no small thing in this world.