Nah, I'm not talking about The DaVinci Code, or if NotHenry on LOST really is a good guy, or even where to find a flattering swimsuit (if one actually exists). No, the greatest mystery is.... [insert scary organ music here]... the mind of a fifteen year old boy.
Here is an example of what I'm talking about.
Today I was reading our history read-aloud to my twelve-year old daughter and eleven- and fifteen-year old sons. I was about halfway through a very interesting chapter, when out of the corner of my eye I kept spotting a gray, Beanie Baby cat flying through the air between my sons. Now, normally I let my children engage in some hands-on activity while I am reading, because we homeschoolers are all about kinesthetic learning, right? But stuffed-cat-tossing seemed just a little over the top. I kept reading, in hope that my older son would have a sudden burst of maturity, or at least that two of his brain cells would spark and connect, but my hope was in vain. The cat kept sailing through the air, back and forth, like a furry, gray tennis ball with a tail. I finally stopped reading, looked over at both boys, and calmly but firmly said, "STOP." You will never, ever in a million years guess what my three-years-away-from-being-an-adult son said then.
"It wasn't me."
What?! Was he kidding?! As far as I could tell, he apparently thought I would immediately accept an alternate but bizarre explanation for the flying stuffed feline.
1) My younger son had taken on superhuman skills of speed, a la "Dash," son of Mr. Incredible, and was able to toss the cat back and forth to himself;
2) The Beanie Baby cat had miraculously come to life and was catapulting itself across the room and back like some kind of manic flying squirrel; or
3) I was actually insane, and the airborne cat was simply a figment of my psychotic, menopausal mind. (To tell the truth, for a moment I almost bought into this one.)
I should also mention that this incident follows on the heels of another a couple of weeks ago, when I discovered him on the roof of our two-story house at ten o'clock at night. His explanation? "I had to get the dog off the roof." Oh, okay, that clears everything right up.
I really don't know what's going on in that boy's head. But I'm pretty sure that every psychologist in the world today took that career path because he or she lived with a fifteen year old boy at some point in their lives.