The note-taking for “Table for Six: The Teenage Years” began this week. Sam is at that age where he “gets it,” but he’s still too young to talk about or fully process “it.” (At least that’s what I’m choosing to believe.)

And I’m at that age where I tend to over-share.

Yes, I realize that’s every age for me. From 10 – 102, words will continue to come out of my mouth long after my brain has stopped filtering them.

I’ve been quite braggadocious in my recent claims that I’m no longer watching TV. For the past three years, I’ve banned the boob-tube habit in favor of reading and writing at night. It sounds like a noble cause, but the truth is that I can’t handle TV.

I’m a bit addictive by nature and tend to obsess over things like whether the fringe on the carpet is straight and when the next episode of “Gray’s Anatomy” is airing.

Because we haven’t yet succumbed to the lure of the DVR, I’m a real-time TV kind of gal. And when my life began to revolve around statements like, “We have to leave your 100-year-old great-grandmother’s birthday party because it’s time for ‘Desperate Housewives,’” I knew it was time for a self-intervention.

Recently, however, I’ve been sucked back in. It’s been a bittersweet re-entry — prompted by the stellar reviews of my dear friend and confidant, Mary. After all, she did introduce us to “Flight of the Conchords.” And the culprit this time around? “Modern Family.”

Last week, I sat down to watch the latest episode with Sam. He’s 14; he gets to stay up a little later than the others; he’s a funny, smart kid; we were going to share 30 minutes of bonding.

And when the opening scene consisted of the three children walking in on their parents “In the Act,” the discomfort in the air was palpable. (Imagine nervous laughter from the throat of a boy whose voice is in the process of changing.)

When the father explained that marital relations are like “shaking hands, but without the hands,” I thought Sam was going to implode.

Yeah, he gets it. And there I was, sitting in the basement with my shirtless son. (He refuses to sleep in anything but sleep pants or shorts.)

You’re uncomfortable, too, now, aren’t you??

We watched the rest of the show, laughed appropriately, and went about living our forever-altered lives.

Today, Chris and Sam began Week 3 of P90X. I opted out of last week’s rigor because of a nagging and whine-worthy c-section scar-related injury. (Or, perhaps, just a pulled muscle.) Today was the day I was supposed to jump back into the fray.

At 7:30 PM as Tony and the boys were warming up, I opted out.

And Sam proceeded to call me out.

“What’s going on, Mom?” he pushed. “You said you were better! Why aren’t you going to BRING IT?!”

“I just don’t feel like it,” I admitted. “I’ll catch up tomorrow. Tonight just isn’t my night.”

“Why not, Mom?!” he pushed. “Are you wimping out?? Why not tonight?!”

“Sam,” I explained, “tonight is just not the night.”

“Give me one reason why you can’t work out tonight!”

And that was it. The gauntlet had been dropped. My brain couldn’t keep up with my mouth.

“The reason I’m not working out tonight, SAM,” I chided, “is because I STARTED today!”

“Started what?!” he challenged back before thinking.

Then it hit him.

The light bulb went on over his head.

He’s taken CPR. (And for those of you who don’t know, in eighth grade, that stands for “Creating Positive Relationships,” not “Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation.”)

His face turned 18 different shades of red.

His shoulders slumped as he sunk into to the solace of Tony yelling at him from the TV.

He turned back slowly to make reluctant eye contact with me.

“Really, Mom?” was all he could muster. “REALLY?”

And just like that, Book Two in the series was begun.

Oh, and we’re also taking donations for the Therapy Fund.

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