My son, Lucas, has a surprisingly wide range of interests for an 18-year-old. He’s involved in the aviation and Latin clubs at his university, plays tennis, golf, and even excels at ping-pong. He claims to have earned some serious cash playing poker too. But his true standout skill? His amazing ability to rant.
He’s the ultimate rant champion, and honestly, it makes sense considering he’s been honing this talent since he could talk. It was cute when he said his first word, but after a couple of years of stringing words together, that charm faded fast. While other kids were singing the Hokey Pokey, he was throwing tantrums over chicken nuggets, yelling, “UNFAIR UNFAIR UNFAIR!” I still don’t quite understand how he connected fast food to injustice, but toddlers have their own logic, right?
By the time he turned four, he discovered the open window — and that’s when I learned that not every child should be taught the emergency number 9-1-1. Some preschoolers misuse that power, and I just happened to be the unlucky mom of one. If I sent him to his room for a time-out, he’d rant that I locked him in there “forever,” call me mean and ugly, and then yell out the window that he needed someone to call 9-1-1. The police never arrived, but I’m sure the neighbors were questioning my parenting skills. I was questioning them too.
But maybe it wasn’t entirely my fault. After all, I’ve raised three kids, and two of them express their frustrations in more typical, calm ways. Perhaps it’s birth order, genetics, karma, or even something to do with evolution — who knows?
What I do know is that his rants didn’t fade as he matured. You’d think that with a broader worldview and bigger vocabulary, his complaints would become more eloquent. Nope! Those rants evolved from chicken nugget grievances to complaints about what time dinner should be served, who borrowed his hair product, and why Snapchat crashed.
The reality is this: my son has been a ranter from the moment he could string together a sentence, and he’ll continue to be one until he’s no longer with us.
So how have I managed to survive the chaos of his rants? Let me share my two-pronged approach, which took nearly two decades to perfect:
Self-care
The moment I hear Lucas’s pre-rant growl, I escape to the bathroom and sink into a bubble bath with a book. When he starts banging on the door, complaining about a missing lint roller or a stolen taco, I casually invite him in to chat, adding with a playful tone, “I’m naked.” His retreat is instantaneous and often hilarious, much more enjoyable than any bath bomb!
Self-preservation
In the past, I tried to calm him down and reason with him, appealing to his rational side. Now? I simply redirect his rants to keep them out of earshot. That taco he’s missing? “Oh, I think your dad ate it.” That lint roller? “Pretty sure your sister had it last.” It’s every person for themselves in this house. If I’ve mastered the art of deflecting blame better than my kids, that’s just the way it goes!
When we dropped Lucas off at college, we also left behind a lifetime of rants. Our home transformed into a peaceful retreat for the ears, and honestly, I enjoyed the quiet… at first.
But here’s the thing: we’ve become oddly accustomed to his nonsensical rants. We may not know when they’ll start, but it’s always predictable that one is on its way — and there’s a certain comfort in that.
With the holiday break upon us and Lucas back home for a month, that familiar, chaotic harmony has returned. Maybe we’re a little dysfunctional, but after a semester of silence, I’ve realized that sometimes a good rant is better than silence. Especially when it means my son is back, even if it means I’ll be hiding in the bathtub again.
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In summary, life with a ranting teenager can be overwhelming, but through self-care and clever rerouting, I’ve learned to navigate the noise. Sometimes, the familiar chaos is just what we need to feel connected.
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