My son had a birthday party with his friends last weekend. He turned 14 years old. Seven boys in the midst of adolescence plus one wanna be (my 11-year old son).

When my son was younger, he seemed to have a new best friend each school year. For the last few years, he’s had the same set of friends. It surprised me when the first boy to arrive was someone I hadn’t seen in several months. He was half a foot taller than I remember him. And a voice that belied his immaturity.  Teeth dotted with braces, it was as if a stranger had arrived at our doorstep, even thought he’d been to our house many times before. One other friend’s voice was also changing, although he still looked the same.  Another friend had filled out and changed his hair style. Change is hard.

I was relieved when one of my son’s steadiest friends looked and sounded exactly how I remember him, even though it had been half a year since I had seen him. It was comforting. 

At previous birthday parties, kids were accompanied to the door by parents. There was a nice drop off ritual that said, "My son is happy to be here and thanks for inviting him. I trust that you’ll take good care of him until I pick him up."  Now, the only sign of a parent is a glimpse of a car pulling out of our driveway.  For some kids, we don’t even see a car–they’ve hitched a ride with another parent. It is the first sign of detaching from your parents–walking up to the door by yourself. The kids like to pound on the door when they arrive. What ever happened to the doorbell?

The pile of adult-sized shoes near the door indicates the start of the party. Seems that feet reach their final size early on in life. There are no jackets to hang up, even though this is the middle of winter.

We are fortunate to have a Wii gaming system, in short supply in stores since before Christmas.  (We got lucky with a call from one of my younger son’s friends on a cold, snowy Friday night. He had a tip that the Wal-Mart had two in stock. Both had arrived at the store just a few hours beforehand. We got one.  My son’s friend got the other one.) None of my son’s friends have one yet, so the novelty keeps them entertained.   

Players create a visual on-screen image of themselves, picking out shape of head, style of hair, eyebrows, eyes, nose, mouth, even glasses, before playing one of several Wii sports. A player imitates the motion of a sport—throwing a bowling ball, hitting a baseball, swinging a golf club or tennis racket–while holding on to a handheld controller that is tracked by the Wii .  The results of the action are shown on the screen.  Oddly enough, the creation of a visual image for each player (aptly called a Mii) entertained the kids for a good hour.  This is the age when verbal sparring is only topped by visual dissing.

One boy has forgotten about the party and is reminded when my son calls to ask him where he is.  He arrives 90 minutes late and folds into the crowd of Wii gamers as if nothing has happened.

I’ve set a wonderful table, bought good paper napkins and created a pleasing visual display of Molten Lava chocolate cupcakes on a desert plate with candles in each one.  I imagine the boys sitting around the table, singing Happy Birthday and my son blowing out candles. Unfortunately, my imagination has gotten stuck in a time warp. 

My son does not want candles and the singing is done around the kitchen island, while waiting for me to scoop out icecream.  Two kids are still in the living room playing Wii.  The boys get in line, pick a cupcake, get a scoop of vanilla and a scoop of chocolate and head back to where the action is–in front of the Wii. This is the pre-cursor to chips and salsa in front of Monday Night Football.

While their appearances have changed, their manners have not. I ask them how their parents are and each boy has the courtesy to answer politely and thank me for the cake and ice cream.  Only one boy picks up a napkin. 

We move to the family room to open up gifts.  In past years, our coffee table would be filled with gift-wrapped boxes.  Today, we see one gift bag, another wrapped package (a C++ programming book that my younger son has gotten, knowing his brother wanted one), and several envelopes. The trend is to give cold, hard cash at teenage birthday parties.  Even gift cards seem to be too much trouble.  My son opens several envelopes with cash. The kids no longer ooh and ahh with the opening of presents.  In the past, there would have been a clamor to play with the new stuff. Instead, my son stuffs the bills into his pocket and they return to the Wii for a game of virtual bowling. The art of gift-giving is lost on this crowd.

In prior years, we would decorate party bags, with names written neatly on the outside, and favors carefully bought at the local toy store on the inside. Now, shopping for party favors consists of a trip to Target, to get a pound of Rainbow Twizzlers and a tin of sour Altoids for each guest.  My son decides to forgo putting the candy in individual bags. I imagine him throwing Twizzlers at his friends. So when he yells out, “Who wants candy?" I remind him to be civil.  He complies but only because I’m in the room. As the kids leave, they stuff the now partial bags of Twizzlers and the Altoids in the front pocket of their hoodies, as if this is the rightful place for birthday party stash.

I have not gotten used to being around teenage boys.  And these are the good ones, the ones who still call me Mrs. Ross, take off their shoes at the front door, and thank my son for inviting them to his party.  What I can imagine is that someday, I will yearn for these days with the aliens rather than face a life with no aliens at all.