Category Archives: teens

Growing Pains

Posted on February 1, 2012 | 2 Comments

Raising teenage girls is a lot like drinking molten steel.

Except that with teenagers, the trauma is unrelenting. There’s no swift, merciful end; just a sustained, soul-searing affliction.

And as a parent, it is expected that you transcend the rage of your teenage antagonist and soldier on, lovingly and consistently providing the instruction, necessities and boundaries that she needs to help shape her into a young woman.

They start out so small, so simple, so cute. They wear pink, they shuffle around in mommy’s shoes, pretend they’re princesses and force you to drink pretend tea at a microscopic table while flanked by a stuffed bear and a stuffed bunny. If you’re lucky you get to wear a tiara. And don’t forget to hold your pinky up.

And then, somewhere along the way, that sweet little thing is swapped for this dark, hostile, unapproachable creature who, for reasons unknown, has decided that you are no longer her ally but her sworn enemy, someone whose sole agenda item is to control her and make her life miserable.

Because, obviously, that’s exactly what her mom and I had always wanted to do, from early on in our lives. I’ll always remember one of our earliest conversations, soon after we met:

“Say, sweetie, have you had the burning desire to control every aspect of your daughter’s life and make her miserable?”

“Why, yes, honey! How curious that you should bring that up! Let me show you a list of all the ways in which I’ve aspired to spend the rest of my life bringing sorrow and difficulty to my daughter’s life, for no good reason other than that it would be such a lark!”

Yeah. All parents do that. Every teenager knows this. This is why we provide healthy food, a warm home, homework support, access to a computer, rides to school when necessary, the occasional treat, and cell phone service. Deplorable! Child abuse!

Because what we secretly love is having attitude thrown in our face, regardless of the conversation initiator:

Step-father: “Did you eat breakfast?”

Daughter: “ALL RIGHT! Jeeez! I’ll do it in a MINUTE! CAN’T I JUST FINISH what I’m doing FIRST? SHEESH!”

Mother: “I like cheese.”

Daughter: “YOU HATE ME! I CAN’T WAIT UNTIL I CAN MOVE OUT OF THIS HORRIBLE PLACE!”

Seriously – there is absolutely no escape from the attitude. It appears every where, every time, under every circumstance, in every condition, with every word. And why? Where does it come from? To what do we attribute this simmering cauldron of anger that bubbles just under the surface, ready to erupt with even the slightest perceived provocation? Only God knows.

And still we press on, pursuing a goal only hoped for and not seen, heads down, teeth clenched and shoulders squared.

Between the “Screamo” music (imagine a lunatic shouting unintelligibly at the top of his lungs mixed with the sounds of an industrial machine shop and a jet engine at top RPM) that blasts Michael awake at 5:30 AM, the heady, cloying scent of “Ragdoll” perfume that rolls down the stairs every morning, the vigorous heel-dragging at homework time and the pall of angst that hangs over the family room, I’ve pretty much had my fill.

But… I will say this:

She helps with the garbage when asked. She does the dishes, when prodded. She remembers to pick up her brother at the bus stop, and she takes good care of him when his mom and I aren’t around.

My hope for the future is that once she has passed through all of this, the tumult of raging hormones and conflicting notions, that she will emerge a kind, loving, diligent and self-respecting young lady.

My hope for my wife and myself is that at that time we won’t be completely grey.

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Posted in daughters, family, frustration, life, stress, teens

Stormy Season

Posted on November 18, 2011 | 4 Comments

If I could just get one single concept through the skulls of teenagers, specifically the ones that are currently residing under my roof, it is this: There Is More To Learn.

One of my kids is currently going through some troubles at school, in which she believes she is not doing well because A) The teacher is not doing a good job at explaining things and so everyone in the class is failing, B) it’s so boring and when am I ever going to need to know this stuff later, and C) I’m no good at it.

Thus, with great drama, the wall is thrown up along with the hands in utter resignation, and she issues forth the cry: “I Give Up.”

Now, the fact that she doesn’t get enough sleep couldn’t be the problem.

And certainly her study habits (and by “study habits” I mean her practice of plopping her carcass on the couch after school and remaining there until it’s time to head off to bed) are not at issue.

Nor could it have anything to do with the fact that her diet is horrible.

This particular child has chosen to be a vegetarian. And by that, I mean someone who doesn’t eat anything that might provide nutritive value of any sort, be it animal, vegetable or mineral.

She will eat Cheetos happily, though. And ice cream. And popcorn.

Her daily intake can be summed up in a few sentences. Breakfast consists of air and a declaration that she is late for school. Lunch is a mystery; she doesn’t pack one, and she apparently doesn’t buy anything at school either. I suspect she eats her homework pages, because we occasionally get reports that she hasn’t turned in an assignment. Dinner is whatever the meatless part of the evening’s meal turns out to be, assuming it is something that is A) covered in cheese or B) from a bag with Oroville Redenbacher’s picture on it.

If we dare to point out that she needs to eat protein and perhaps some actual vegetables, she will haughtily report that her diet is fine, and that she knows how to take care of herself.

We could try to explain that her diet has a direct correlation with her ability to perform at school, to sleep well and to think clearly, but we would be shot down before we could finish a sentence. She knows better, you see, because she is a teenager.

And in a sense, I can understand this way of thinking. A teenager is someone who has had enough years and enough growth to see that she isn’t a child any longer and she has passed beyond the childish way of thinking. She has passed beyond childish sorts of ideals and childish sorts of wants. Her universe has expanded greatly, and she has expanded right along with it. She is able to get by in the big world as far as it has presented itself to her. She no longer crawls or toddles, but is walking and running. In her mind, she has reached full steam in all aspects of her existence. What more growth could there be?

I remember very clearly in my life a point where it dawned on me that I did not, in fact, know everything. I realized then that there was a lot that I did not know, and a lot more to learn. It was then I truly started learning.

I wasn’t a teenager any more by that time, though, but was entering my thirties.

So I don’t expect a lot out of my teenagers in this regard. Telling a teenager anything is like spreading seeds on the sidewalk.

But I’m a parent, and thus I persist with the seed spreading, in hopes that eventually one gets through the concrete and reaches the good soil underneath.

 

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Posted in daughters, family, frustration, life, teens

Morning Drive

Posted on October 27, 2011 | 3 Comments

About twelve seconds after I woke Michael up this morning, he burst into tears.

He had asked me where his mommy was, and I had to explain that his mom had already left for work, and that meant he’d missed his morning drive.

Michael likes to drive with his mom every morning. He’s been doing it for as many years as I can recall.* On those days when she has to go off to her meetings, her cardio rehab or to work, Michael follows her out to her car, and after she’s had a chance to sit down and get her lunch box and coffee situated, he clambers up on her lap – an increasingly awkward process, Michael being a big seven-and-a-half year old now – and holds on to the steering wheel while she buckles up and puts the car in reverse.

Slowly and carefully she’ll back the car out of the garage and down to the end of the driveway, as I walk along side.

Then she stops the car, and I open the door, scoop him out, and hold him up for one last kiss and hug before she heads off.

It’s a ritual. One that probably won’t last too much longer, for a couple of good reasons: 1) He’s getting to be a bigger and bigger boy. His legs won’t be able to tuck under the steering wheel much longer, and he head will start bumping the passenger compartment ceiling. 2) He’ll eventually reach the stage that all kids do, the one where they turn the corner from mommy-magnet to parentally indifferent, which is the street just before “don’t embarrass me, mom!”. Once he gets there, mom will be lucky if she gets a grunted “bye” from him in the morning. Assuming he’s awake when she goes.

And it’s because this time in his life is fleeting, here today and gone the next, that neither his mom nor I are insistent that he give up his habit, as inconvenient as it sometimes is to all involved (I’m content to give my wife a kiss and a wave from the comfort of the garage, and she is happy to not have to struggle with a 45 pound package of bony elbows and knees while negotiating an aging SUV).

This brings us to the inconsolable sobbing that Michael furnished for this particular morning’s story arc.

“Michael,” I said while selecting his outfit for the day, “I’m sorry you missed her, but she has to leave really early to get to work, and you needed the sleep because you were up so late last night.”

My reasoning, sound as it was, did nothing to mitigate his grief. In fact, it seemed to fuel it.

“Let’s see your Grandma. Maybe she can help,” I said, hoping that Grandma K could make things better. Grandmas are good with things like that.

We wailed our way down stairs to find Grandma in the kitchen, putting away dishes. (Grandmas implicitly take over the dish doing in our home whenever either of them visits. I cannot say I dislike this fact.)

“Michael! What’s wrong?” she asked.

“He missed his momma’s drive this morning,” I explained.

“Oh, that’s so sad.” She stopped what she was doing to give him her full attention. “But you were up so late last night! It’s not good for you to get up so early! And your momma has to go to work…”

She did her best. She gave her most soothing, consoling Grandma voice. Still he was not mollified.

“Maybe you can drive with Sister S,” I suggested, without any seriousness. Sister S doesn’t have a car. And Sister S can’t drive yet.

But as she does sometimes, Sister S tuned into our conversation from the other room, and jumped in:

“Yeah! Michael, if you get ready fast, you can drive with me!” she said, excitedly.

He was hesitant, but started getting dressed.

“Wait a minute…” he said, stopping. “You can’t drive!”

“I know,” she said, “But I can give you a piggie back ride down the driveway!”

That was enough for Michael. He hurriedly dressed and ran over to her. I held her backpack as he jumped up on her back and she grabbed his legs.

“Okay, here we go!” she said, and headed out the door. “Vroom! Vroom! Screeeech!” She made over-the-top fake automobile noises and hustled down the walkway, down the driveway and around in a figure-8 before stopping at the mailbox at the property line.

“There you go! All done!”

“Yay!” he said, and hopped off. I handed his sister her backpack and she waved goodbye, trotting quickly down the sidewalk and off to meet up with her friends.

I scooped a sock-footed but shoeless Michael up and carried him into the house, a transformed boy: he who was recently steeped in regret and loss was now a satisfied, placated boy who was ready and eager to face his day. With a smile.

Some times, sisters can be really great.

 

* Rabid fans of this site (who, as of this writing have not made themselves known) may recall this story which states that Michael always rides in his car seat when in the car. And this is absolutely true… with the single exception of his morning drive ritual. See, I just don’t count that as “riding” in the normal sense of the word. I should be a politician.

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Posted in family, life, memories, michael, moments, teens

But Of Course

Posted on May 19, 2010 | 6 Comments

Wednesday night is usually one of not-well-organized chaos. After picking up Michael, I come home to a house overflowing with teenagers, as my own girls are with us for dinner. They’ve usually got a huge stream of updates for me.

This night was no exception. Just before dinner, my 14-year-old daughter L came running up to me with great excitement: “Daddoo daddoo daddoo look!”

She then quickly retrieved one of her boots from the entryway and upended it over her other hand.

Out drops a large plastic fish.

“You had a fish in your boot,” I say, pointing out the obvious, not sure where to begin with my attempt to grasp exactly how or why she went through the day carrying a doggy chew toy of that size inside her footwear.

“It’s my husband,” she says without missing a beat.

“All righty then,” I say, and put all questions out of my mind.

Knowing sister L, this is entirely within the realm of normal. For her, “normal” is a vast, expansive realm.

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Posted in daughters, inscrutable, moments, teens

A Day In The Life…

Posted on March 26, 2010 | 10 Comments

…of a teenage girl on Saturday

11:30 AM: Awaken.
Check for text messages. Send a couple.
Shuffle down stairs.
Enter kitchen, pour bowl of cereal, add milk.
Send a text message or thirty.
Send more text messages.
Take bowl to table with one hand. Ignore father’s admonishment about being careful.
Text.
Text.
Text message.
Texting… texting… texting…
Notice bowl of Froot Loops in front of you, act surprised by their sudden appearance. Finally remember that you’d put it there yourself.
Laugh.
Send a text message about it.
Send more text.
Go to couch, assume slumped position.
Text message. Text message. Text message.
Text.
Message.
Send more text messages.
Text. Text. Text. Text.
Send text messages.
Keep sending text messages.
Text. Text. Text.
Send text messages.
Reposition to full recline.
Text.
Text.
Text.
Text.
Text.
2:15 PM: Decide that it’s lunch time, return to kitchen. Graze upon cheese, squished white bread, apples, dry ramen noodles, etc.
While sending text messages.
Text. Text.
Return to couch.
Text. Text.
Send more text messages.
Text. Text.
Text messages.
Text. Text. Text.
3:55 PM: Get up to use the bathroom.
And send text messages.
Text.
Text.
Text.
Wash one hand while texting with the other.
Repeat, reversing hands.
Text.
Text.
Text.
Send more text messages.
Text.
Return to couch.
Text.
Text.
Text.
6:27 PM: Complain of being tired.
Text. Text.
Send text messages.
Text. Text. Text. Text. Text. Text.
Ignore call for dinner.
Text.
Text.
Send lots of text messages.
Shove five-year-old brother out of personal space bubble.
Text. Text.
Keep sending text messages.
9:20 PM: More texting.
Text.
Text. Text. Text text text text text text text.
Notice that it is dark and family is gone.
Text.
Text. Text.
Connect phone to charger and keep texting.
Text. Text. Text.
12:20 AM: Glance at clock, groggily head up to bed.
Text.
Text. Text. Text. Text. Text. Texxxxxxxxxxxxxxxt.
Text.
Pass out.
Text.
Text.
Text.
Wake up, realize you’re texting nonsense to a number you don’t know. With the country code for Brazil.
Text a retraction in broken Spanish.
Text. Text. Text.
Receive message from that unknown number. Vow to look up translation for “quem e’ este? E como você começ meu número?” tomorrow.
Text. Text. Text. Text. Text.

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Posted in daughters, fun, teens

Tips For Teens!

Posted on February 23, 2010 | 8 Comments

Okay, kids, here’s a scenario: you walk into the bathroom, and just after you shut the door you notice there’s no toilet paper. The dispenser has an empty cardboard tube, and the spare rolls are all gone.

What will you do? What Will You Do?

True, you could use the facial tissue that’s in the box on the counter.

Or, you could even use the paper towels that are under the sink, even if it is going to be pretty uncomfortable.

Here’s a tip: go to the closet where the extra TP rolls are kept, and get a roll yourself! You know, the closet your mom & dad have directed you to repeatedly? Yeah, that one! It’s easy:

Step 1: Open the closet door.
Step 2: Reach for a roll. Any one will do.
Step 3: Firmly grasp the roll.
Step 4: Carry said roll to the bathroom.
Step 5: Unwrap roll, discard outer protective paper, place on dispenser hook.
Step 6: You’re ready to go.

Life skills, kids. They’re a good thing.

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Posted in daughters, kids, teens

More Tips for Teens!

Posted on December 15, 2009 | 5 Comments

Didja know?

Your 6 ounce bottle of “Ragdoll” perfume will actually last you more than three days if you use the handy spray feature built in, instead of uncapping and upending the entire container to douse your head and shoulders.

Using a light touch with this clever spray method, you’ll exude a subtle, delightfully elusive fragrance as opposed to a cloying, toxic cloud. The idea is to intrigue rather than to assault.

As always, kids, remember: less is more.

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Posted in daughters, parenting, teens

Smack

Posted on December 7, 2009 | 4 Comments

Sister S: “What are you making?”

Michael’s Mom: “Corn muffins.”

Sister S: “Ewww!”

Me: “Why ‘ewww’?”

Sister S: “It sounds gross.”

Me: “Have you had cornbread?”

Sister S: “Yes.”

Me: “Well, it’s the same thing, just in muffin form.”

Sister S: “Ewwww.”

Me: “What makes it ewww? It’s the same darn thing!”

Sister S: “Because I don’t like cornbread.”

Me, to Michael’s Mommy: “Can I smack her?”

Michael’s Mommy: “Be my guest.”

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Posted in daughters, inscrutable, teens

Tips for Teens!

Posted on November 11, 2009 | 11 Comments

For all those daughters in their teen years out there:

Did you know? If you use a little less eye liner, you can actually get more than one use out of your eye liner pencil! Amazing! Saves the planet! Keeps you from looking like a raccoon or a villain from the 1960′s-era Batman show! People will actually be able to see your eyes!

Less is more, my dears. Less is more.

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Posted in daughters, teens

Michael, a Parenting Tool

Posted on September 16, 2009 | 11 Comments

One Saturday in recent history, sister B asked if she could have a friend over for dinner.

A boy-type friend.

“Yes, but you’ll stay down stairs,” I admonished her.

“What if I keep the door open to my room?”

“No. You stay down stairs.”

“All right…” she said, reluctantly.

And they did, staying down stairs to watch a movie and to keep Michael entertained. Michael glommed on to this boy like a Remora on a shark’s belly, intrigued with this person who was clearly not a sister, but wasn’t a little boy like himself either. But this young man was okay with it.

Sister B was not as okay with it.

Before dinner time came, I had to run out to the store briefly. I let my wife know about it, and called out the general caution: “Be good! I’ll be right back!”

Not ten seconds after I shut the door, sister B began implementing a plan to get them out of Michael’s reach. She went upstairs by herself, waited until Michael noticed her missing, and then she went downstairs and asked her friend to go up.

My wife, having a keen sense of a three card Monty game going on, perked up her ears and paid close attention to the unfolding scheme.

Sister B then asked sister S to go upstairs, while she herself distracted Michael with one of his favorite movies. Then she went halfway upstairs and asked sister S to come down and make sure Michael was watching his movie, or she’d turn it off.

Sister B had successfully gotten herself and her friend upstairs in her room, leaving the door open.

Michael’s Mommy has more vision than that, and can see right through wool even if it has been pulled down over her eyes.

So with the promise of chocolate as a reward, she sent Michael upstairs to keep sister B and her friend occupied until Daddy came home.

When I finally did arrive home, I saw sister S watching the movie, my wife in the kitchen with a devilish smile on her face, and no trace of Michael, sister S or her friend.

“Where are they?”

“Upstairs,” my wife said, smiling.

“Upstairs? But I told her-”

“It’s okay. Michael’s up there too,” she said.

I went upstairs to check, and found Michael pacing the floor of sister B’s bedroom, stalking back and forth brandishing a foam sword.

Sister B was hiding under one bed, and her friend was hiding under the other. I could just see the boy’s face, who mouthed:

“Help me!”

Sister B replies:

“I can’t move!”

I sent Michael downstairs, and freed the captives.

“Like I said, you need to stay downstairs,” I told them.

No more problems with them the rest of the night.

Oddly, this particular boy has not made a return visit.

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Posted in daughters, michael, mom, teens