Once upon a time, there was an extraterrestrial living in my house. This being didn’t have gigantic glowing eyes or multiple limbs. It didn’t peel off its skin to reveal a see-through body at night, nor did it consume food through a nostril.
However, this creature had moods that shifted like the wind. One moment, he would burst into laughter, and the next, he would be yelling at the top of his lungs while slamming doors. His communication style was primarily non-verbal, characterized by eye rolls, shoulder shrugs, and the occasional grunt interspersed with words like “whatever” and “yeah.” And when it came to food, he devoured it as if it were about to vanish before reaching his mouth.
If you have a similar being in your household, you’ll know I’m talking about the teenage boy. Specifically, the one who isn’t quite old enough to drive but is definitely too mature to be seen with Mom while being driven around town. “Just drop me off here, Mom. That’s good—stop now.” Heaven forbid he should be spotted in a vehicle with a living, breathing mother.
His hormones surged through him like a roller coaster, transforming him into an alien that seemed unable to connect with his otherwise ordinary family. He could demolish an entire pack of cookies, two pot pies, and a burrito, washing it all down with a quart of milk, only to complain later that there was nothing to eat in the house.
He left bowls of Jell-O under his bed, growing into what can only be described as fungal specimens no one should ever have to inhale. In his world, he was the main attraction, utterly misunderstood by everyone else around him.
As time passed, I accepted this alien presence in my life. I observed as he grew taller than me, transitioning from footie pajamas to jeans. I listened as his entertainment shifted from the Muppets to rappers dancing in the streets. I went from giving baths to his imaginary friends to reminding him to shower before school.
And honestly, it was all fine—except I struggled to maintain my own identity while he morphed into this new version of himself. The sight of clothes strewn around, an empty box of my favorite crackers, or that casual eye roll would send me into a frenzy. I’d look in the mirror and see an alien reflection. What was happening to me? I would scream in confusion, ranting nonsensically.
Logically, I understood that he was at an age where my own memories began. I could recall the anxieties of that first big date, the nerves accompanying a boy’s casual glance, and the emotional rollercoaster that characterized those formative years. I had been there once, but that was not enough to ease my feelings.
A simple “Thank you, Mom,” a kiss on the cheek, or an “I love you” would have been nice. And you know what? It did happen. Out of the blue, he would plant a soft kiss on my cheek, only to return to his world of alien communication moments later.
At times, I would wish for his alien ship to come and take him away. “Let him grow up,” I’d plead, “then bring him back—taller, wiser, with kids of his own.”
Eventually, that day came. He matured, and I found myself standing in his empty room, listening to the echoes of his past: the beeping of video games, the hushed whispers of late-night conversations, and the deep bass reverberating against the walls.
In that space that was once his universe, I realized how quickly it all transpired. He passed through my memories and moved on to create his own—some I recognized, others were uncharted territory for me. Now, he is experiencing what I once did: an alien inhabiting his own space, devouring his snacks, and feeling like nobody comprehends his life.
But the truth is, my alien loves that boy just as much as I do.