A has entered what I like to call the Armpit of Adolescence. Forgetting things, days when nothing goes right, and explosive anger. He ended up with a 71 for the six weeks in English after a lifetime of straight A's. And, of course, he hates me at the moment because I will not let him go to a midnight showing of HP4 on a school night, and I am making him sing with his choir so that he misses one hour of hanging out with friends on Saturday night. Oh, yes, I made him take off a tank top and put on a T shirt even though it was a sweaty 42 degrees F outside. He told us we would have to nice to him or he would put us in a retirement home. At least he's not screaming "I HATE YOU!" like I did to my dad. Of course, he's hopefully not bipolar!