Paradise. It’s all relative. The much-anticipated trip to Balboa Park to the museums reminded me of why you couldn’t pay me any amount of money to be a teenager again. Or the mom of a teenager. The sun was beautiful—clouds hovering like pillows above us as the waves rocked into the shore—the bickering began as we opened the doors to the car. If you’ve seen that commercial where the kids sat in the back almost touching each other, teasing, “I’m not touching you,” that would be the trip to the park. Until I began channeling my father; his voice deep inside of me spewed forth and yelled, “Hey, I’m either gonna’ take you home right now or else dump you here and you can walk back!” Silence ruled throughout the land the remainder of the drive.
Once there, my good parking Karma held and we entered the Air & Space Museum. The highlight for my sister was finding out how little she would weigh on the moon. She was unable to locate the realty specialist for that ideal Moon property, so her newly hatched plan to relocate has been postponed.
All the things I marveled at on my trip here this summer were met with, “It’s just a tree,” (the historic Morton Bay Fig planted for the 1915 World Exhibition), “Why does this place make me want to take a nap?” (after witnessing the beauty of the grand El Prado and its Spanish Revival architectural wonders), and “Where are we going to eat?” I wonder if they’d believe that the animals at the Wild Animal Park eat surly teenagers for lunch—and then insist we visit just before feeding time tomorrow.
It's difficult to decide whether growing pains are something teenagers have - or are. ~Author Unknown
Published on: Dec 26, 2006
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