‘90s FAMILY : The Age...

My father’s normal speaking voice was a bellow that buckled wood siding. My mother spoke just as forcefully, and she made sweeping gestures that knocked over lamps in adjoining rooms. Because of my childhood humiliation, I grew up to be a soft-spoken, genteel woman. Imagine my surprise, then, when my 11-year-old son, Eric, leaned over the restaurant table recently and hissed, “MOM! You’re talking too loud.”

I had a flashback so powerful I passed two time-travelers along the way.

Could it be that my parents weren’t the Foghorn Leghorns I thought they were in my teens? Maybe that would explain how quickly they shaped up while I was away at college. I attributed it to maturation--theirs, not mine.

My view of the world back then was tainted by common teen-age disgust. And now, I realize it’s my turn to be on the receiving end. Soon I will face many of the charming little weapons teen-agers use to remind adults that they are inferior.

These assaults can be verbal--as in the liberal use of “ duh! “--or facial, as displayed by the gruesome lip curl that translates into: “I am so disgusted with you that it’s making my upper lip shrivel.”

You know the routine.

You ask him in front of his friends how his day was and you get the Blank Stare. You tell him you think his T-shirt is baggy enough to look cool, and you get, “Like you know.” You plan an exciting weekend and you’re rewarded with, “Are you serious?” or the less rhetorical, “No way!”

And if you foolishly ask him to help out, you receive the sarcastic, “ Yesss, maaaster ,” delivered in a Peter Lorre voice he thinks was created by Ren, the bug-eyed cartoon Chihuahua.

Don’t even get me started on Beavis and Butt-head.

The flip side of the frozen Blank Stare is the deft execution of facial contortions. These include eye rolls, head shakes and--the most extreme maneuver--the dreaded full-face muscle-tightening lock. When you see this, you begin to wonder about the possibility of human implosion and what that would do to the carpeting.

The verbal missiles that assail parents usually come in the form of grunts, with “ ugh !” or “ huh ?” right up there with the famous “ duh! “ These economic, one-syllable responses yield great effects. One “ duh! “ can stop parents in their tracks and reveal them for the fools they are.

Or so the teen-ager hopes.

I remember saying “ duh! “ to my dad . . . once. When all of us were hanging around the family room he said something so inconsequential and obvious that it had to be addressed. With every molecule of mocking contempt in my body, I said: “Well, duh! “

Everyone stopped.

I received a look from my dad that convinced me that I would soon be dead. But he didn’t do anything. He just watched me as I melted into the Naugahyde recliner.

I had every right to stand up to him--after all, he had played polka king Frankie Yankovic’s records during my slumber party. But I didn’t. From then on, I quietly concealed my distaste for him . . . until he left the room, then the facial contortions went into overdrive. That’s what we called “respect” in my day.

In addition to the grunting “ duhs! “ occasionally real words are emitted by teen-agers, delivered in several musical variations. There is the short and sharp “ right! “ The staccato-style “what. . . ever .” And phrases held long enough to impress Pavarotti, such as “ oh greeeeeeeaaaaaaaatttttttttt! “ All of these are followed by exhales that could inflate a hot-air balloon.

It is quite clear to me that Eric has entered the lip-curl era, and that means that my son, who used to look adoringly at me, will for the next few years criticize me unmercifully.

I miss the old son, the one brimming with innocence. This reality makes me recall a time three years ago when I thought he had lost his innocence. I was driving Eric and his classmates on a field trip, and to win the title of “cool mom of the school,” I cranked open the sunroof on the boring Volvo and blasted Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” from the stereo. The song was experiencing a revival thanks to “Wayne’s World,” and we played the tape over and over, head-banging as long as we could stand it.

To further prove that I was cool--and had been for a long time--I casually tossed out the fact that I listened to the same song when I was in high school.

“Not the exact same song,” they baited.

“Yes, the same song,” I said.

“Not the exact same singer,” they went on.

“Yes,” I said. “Freddie Mercury.”

I was expecting them to say, “Wow!” but instead, one boy blurted, “He died of AIDS.” That got them talking about gays, straights, condoms, disease and death--heavy subjects for 8-year-olds. As I was mourning their loss of kid-ness, one boy in the back seat asked Eric where he had gotten the Queen tape.

“From the Easter Bunny,” Eric said.

“Cool!” they chorused.

They were still believers, and my son still had wonder in his eyes.

I was granted a reprieve of a few more years, and that makes it OK that I’m losing him now. I’m better equipped (I’ve been working out with weights) and I have a unique vision that allows me to still see my sweet son as he was, even when he’s expelling sighs instead of sentences and performing eyeball aerobics.

I know that he still loves me, even when I embarrass him, and that someday he will say “Really?” and not mean “I couldn’t care less,” but rather, “I’m hoping that the wonderful thing you just said is true.”

My day will come.

Really.