If you linked from Facebook to this post, allow me to apologize.  I’ve teased you into a digital shaming.  There will be no quiz that determines what character you most resemble from What’s Happening.  Rerun has not been chosen as my sitcom twin.  Neither will Raj, Dwyane Wayne, Mama, Dee or Shirley be chosen as my, or your, doppelgänger.  And for that, I’m grateful (and, frankly, a little relieved that I’m not Shirley).

If your feed is anything like mine, it’s amazing how quickly  Facebook  has been taken over by these “personality quizzes”.  It seems like over the last two months, I’ve learned everything from what city a good friend should have moved to after college, what celebrity boyfriend an ex-coworker should have been dating, what U.S. President a college buddy most resembles, and on and on and on.  I’ve clicked through a few of these, which purport to make crucial life definers out of a series of inane questions.  “Which of these cats looks most appealing to you” is somehow supposed to help lead the algorithm towards a declaration of the ’80s pop star I most resemble (Michael Jackson, if you’re curious).  Sure, they’re harmless fun, and a chance for most of the women I connect with to put images of Ryan Gosling on their Facebook timelines without their husband’s objection.  And I’ll cop to chuckling at the “What would John Travolta have called you at the Oscar’s” gag that went viral (for the record, I’m Marcel Whayte, which is actually a huge improvement on my real name. From now on, I’m Marcel Whayte, the one who knocks).

But I think I’ve reached the limit on my tolerance of these.  We’ve all had those friends who spent their first year on social media over-posting with mundane details about weather patterns and the funny thing their 3 year old said in the car and “wheels down at O’Hare” and how delicious that kale salad at Whole Foods was (and yes, the fact that I’ve been guilty of sharing all of these except anything remotely resembling kale worship does not escape me).  We’re now at the point of over saturation of quiz results, where hundreds of us continue to post test results that always somehow manage to declare that we deserve better than we have.  I should be living in Paris!  I should be working with Steven Spielberg!  I should be dating Kate Upton (pause for brief daydream and moment of silence)!  How about you?  I bet your quiz won’t be nearly as impressive! You should be exactly who you are.  But not me!  I should be a Navy Seal!!!

Well, I’m not a Navy Seal (this should not come as a surprise to any of you).  I don’t live in an exotic city filled with romantic idealists.  I think I passed an SI Swimsuit model on the street once, but it was cold and I didn’t stop to check.  And no, I’m not like Rerun on What’s Happening either.

I’d rather write slightly exaggerated posts about what actually happens in my life, for better or worse.  Sure, I’ll take the quizzes now and again, but I think I’ll spare all of you the details on what snack food I most resemble.  Even if I’m apparently as delicious as a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

Maybe I am Shirley after all…

The parenting experience is always unique.  There is no one-size-fits-all baby prototype that runs like clockwork and hits its marks like a veteran actor.  There is no roadmap to where your kids are headed, no matter how many “What To Expect When They’re Expectorating” baby books and “He’s Not A Jerk, He’s Spirited” child-rearing manuals you memorize.  You’ve got to be flexible to survive as a parent, because you’re not traveling a shared road with other parents.      Your kid is unique, for better or for worse.

But there’s one universal truth that all parents face, and it’s a rough one.  It can be summarized with one word, three syllables that bring fear into young parent’s hearts and evoke shudders in those who’ve already faced its evils and lived to tell their survival stories.

That word is puberty.

Puberty turns your sweet and innocent child who loves her Mom, Dad and fluffy puppies into a belligerent antagonist who wears short skirts and black t-shirts and rolls their eyes when asked what time it is.  Puberty doesn’t like things that are fluffy.  Puberty replaces Mom and Dad with a cell phone and an Instagram account.

Or so they tell me.  Because despite my wife’s impeccable organization and insistence on timeliness in our lives, my kids are late to puberty.  And that’s fine by me.

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