I have this theory about teenage jerkiness: It's a natural and necessary reaction to at least 10 years of unwarranted adoration. The kid is saying: Hold on one cottonpickin' minute: You aren't God, Dad. In fact, you aren't even close!
Not that you ever actually told her you were God. But you let her think that all those years. And now she's not only disappointed, she's pissed. And she's going to let you know, by identifying and sharply criticizing your tiniest mistakes, snorting at every inconvenience and overreacting to every annoying thing you do. And it will last for fewer years than the impossibly guileless love you received to your surprise and delight. So you deal with it.
On the other hand:
Oh, I mispronounced the word "abscisic," did I? Well if it wasn't for me, Sister, you would still wonder why motorcycles don't have seat belts.
Oh, I'm waking you up at nine to go to your soccer game am I? Well how many times did you stick your effervescent little grin into my Saturday morning hangover? (And I got up and said "Good morning, honey" and I gave you cereal and only once was I too lazy to wash the silverware and made you eat with the measuring spoons.)
Oh, I'm asking you too many questions, am I? Well you once asked me, "What is that?" And I answered, "A peanut." And you asked, "Why?" And I answered that question too!
I realize you think I'm annoying. And I know you sometimes count the hours until you can be away from me. And I know how that feels!
But I know you love me. And I know how that feels, too.