Operation Blitzkrieg 2.0: When Puberty Struck Back

As anyone who’s followed this blog—or had the privilege of meeting our “sweet” Noah—already knows. The boy suffers from a full-blown case of multiple personality disorder. To date, we’ve identified four distinct alter egos.

1. Normal Noah

This is the one most of the world sees. He’s generally agreeable, easygoing, and plays by most of society’s rules. A decent kid all around—aside from his regular diaper “deposits” every couple of hours. You take the good with the gross.

2. The Mayor

This persona appears mostly at school, where he’s apparently a model citizen. Polite, charming, the kind of kid teachers love and other students tolerate because he follows the rules. Sadly, Miriam and I almost never see this version at home. The Mayor seems heavily influenced by his good shoulder angel, Stevie, who tends to clock out around 3:15 p.m. Must be nice having banker’s hours…

3. The Agitator

This version emerges the instant Stevie vacates the premises and Noah steps off the school bus. He transforms from The Mayor into a pint-sized provocateur before his backpack even hits the kitchen floor (which drives me nuts, BTW!). It’s like watching Dr. Jekyll slam a Capri Sun and morph into Mr. Hyde.

4. The Demon Child

This delightful creature was christened by our eldest—who, bless her soul, has often served as the unwilling substitute caretaker. Since the dawn of puberty, a new entity has been slowly festering in the dark recesses of Noah’s psyche. Picture a gremlin watered by rage and acne, its hormonal tendrils twisting through every synapse. And to my everlasting sorrow, this Demon Child has chosen me, Pop Shane, as his mortal enemy in the Forever War of Alpha Male Supremacy.

For a while, we maintained a Cold War truce. Sure, we had the occasional Cuban Missile Crisis-level standoff, but nothing that escalated into our version of the US/USSR’s MAD in the ‘80s. Most of our skirmishes involved the usual dumb stuff.

Take, for instance, The Great Water Bowl Standoff: I tell Noah to fill up Ozzy’s bowl. He says “no” three times. I threaten consequences. He finally sighs, grabs a glass, fills it up, then locks eyes with me as he deliberately pours half down the sink before dumping the rest in Ozzy’s bowl.
I swear I could hear the Mission: Impossible theme playing in his head.

“Done, Pop Shaner!” he grunts, before piss-illy (that’s not a typo) dropping the glass in the dishwasher so hard he breaks it—and another glass for good measure.

Breathe, Shane, I tell myself. Don’t murder the little s***. Bubba in Cell Block D doesn’t need a new rackmate.

These woosah moments are a near-daily exercise in emotional yoga. They are normal. They are routine.

But a few days ago, everything changed. Noah decided it was time to engage in MAD and hit the nuclear button.

It started innocently enough. Miriam and I were on the couch, re-watching The Middle—we completely relate with each member of that family—after another long day of wrangling humans. Out of nowhere, Noah (currently operating as The Agitator) starts firing his Nerf gun at the TV. We’d already confiscated all his darts after The Great Basement TV Massacre of 2023 (may it rest in shattered pixels), so we weren’t worried about damage—just irritated by the nonstop bang-rack-bang echoing through the living room.

Miriam, ever the optimist, tried the standard gentle approach. “Noah, please stop shooting that at the TV.” She tried again, slightly firmer. Mothers, honestly—how often does that actually work?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

When that failed, she raised her voice a notch. “Alright, Noah! If you don’t stop, Pop Shane is going to take that Nerf gun away!”

Yeah, thanks for volunteering me to be the bad guy, I inwardly groused to myself.

I saw it happen in slow motion: the squint, the jaw jut, the telltale signs that The Agitator was leveling up. Without a word, he racked the charging handle, took aim at my sweet wife, and pulled the trigger.

If you remember Dave Chappelle’s famous line, The Agitator basically just said, “I’m Rick James, B****,” before unloading an imaginary round into my wife.

Folks, you know I couldn’t let that slide.

I jumped off the couch and pounced on the Agitator. We had a brief, ferocious struggle before I wrested the Nerf gun away from him—and then made my fatal mistake.

I thought the battle was over so I turned my back on the Agitator.

Only we were no longer dealing with The Agitator.

I walked back to the sofa, handed the gun to Miriam, and sat down. Rookie move. Every boy on the playground knows this unequivocal rule: never turn your back on your opponent right after you think you’ve won.

Before my butt even hit the cushion, The Agitator had transmogrified into The Demon Child and launched Operation Blitzkrieg 2.0.

I didn’t even see it coming. One second I was giving myself an imaginary pat on the back for my victory against the forces of male puberty, and the next I was being body-slammed by 104 pounds of pure hormonal fury.

Now, I didn’t play football in high school, but once during a soccer match while in the Corps I collided at full sprint with a 6’3”, 215-pound Gunny. My 5’11”, 153-pound self learned what physics felt like that day. I probably could’ve written a dissertation over it.

This was like that—minus the helpful hand up afterward. The Demon Child tackled me from the side, threw a punch that connected with my jaw, and then tried to bite me. His little fangs became caught in my shirt collar. I couldn’t tell if he was channeling Dracula or Mike Tyson.

I was caught off guard and pinned under him while he punched, bit, and kneed like he was training for a match with Ronda Rousey. Don’t laugh—104 pounds of wiry muscle can do some serious damage when you’re flat on your back.

I did what any rational man in my position would do: screamed like a little girl and flopped around like a fish on a dock. Somewhere, David Attenborough was narrating the struggle.

Once I gained the upper hand, I grabbed him in my patented “crab carry” hold and battled my way, step by painful step, up the stairs to his room. I dropped him on the bed, slammed the door, and retreated like a war hero who barely made it out alive (still waiting on Miriam to grace me with a Purple Heart).

By the time I collapsed back onto the couch, I was lightheaded, gasping, and dangerously close to puking in the nearest trash can. I like to think I’m reasonably trim for my age, but my recent near-death experience told me it might be time to man up if I want to retain the title of family Alpha Male.

And that, my friends, is The Demon Child—age 15, a year and a half into puberty, and already training for his first sanctioned cage fight. And my wife wants to keep injecting him with growth hormones? She’s nuts. I can’t even imagine this little s*** with twenty more pounds and another four inches of reach.

At that point, I’m not Pop Shane—I’m just the undercard.

God help us all.

Stay connected! Join our mailing list for updates and follow us on Facebook for more Noah moments and laughter.