My Name is Mom, and my Son is an Addict

After years of actively scoffing at women who somehow didn’t know that their children were building bombs int their basements, I have to say “Mea culpa.”

You’d think I’d have picked up on the warning signs:

Lack of interest in family activities.

Tendency to stay behind closed bedroom door.

Mediocre performance in school.

Lack of eye contact during scoldings.

But, NO.

You’d think that I would have figured it out during the ten days of enforced family time in the aftermath of Ike, but I foolishly attributed the beads of sweat on his brow and the glazed eyes to the lack of air-conditioning in Houston summer, and the new child-labor laws that forced him into helping to clear the two tons of debris and fixing the two gaping holes in our roof.

But, NO.

You would think that some warning might have wafted past when all four of my sons toyed with the dangerous side. Three gave it up when it proved not to be quite as stimulating as all the hype promised, and yet one grabbed on with both hands.

But, NO.

Last weekend, I finally had to admit to myself that my son is an addict.

Our internet was out for two days, and off and on again for a third.

My son went into active World of Warcraft withdrawal.

It started with the same sweaty brow and glazed eyes I had seen during Ike’s wrath, but I can only guess that the adrenaline (and forced slave labor) from the hurricane was masking the more acute withdrawal symptoms.

Over the course of the weekend, he became combative and grouchy (trust me, you don’t want to see the Grouch grouchy). This was followed by such mind-numbing boredom that he took to following me around the  house and staring at me while I performed my normal motherly duties (like, rebooting the modem to see if it worked NOW).

By the time our internet came back up, he was nearly comatose. And if it hadn’t come back up, he’d probably be dead. (‘Cause if he didn’t stop whining about the damn internet and following me around, I’d probably have been forced to kill him).

So, being the concerned mother that I am, I searched the web to find some solution to this problem. I found it, with the tantalizing label, “World of Warcraft Intervention.”

Elated, I clicked the link and absorbed every word of how to un-brainwash my teenage son.

For all of you mothers in a similar position, I have included it here:

I hope it works better for you than it did for me.

I’m off to find a hypnotist. Or a witchdoctor. I’m open to suggestions.

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