Broken Record

A couple of years ago, when my now teen daughter was younger, she used to say "Don't tell me you love me so much." Apparently, I was a big, bad, broken record of maternal affection.

She doesn't complain about that anymore (I'm sure she still thinks it though). In fairness, I try not to hug her as much, kiss her as much, stroke her hair, rub her back ... y'know, any of those oh-so-offensive gestures. And, I limit my "Love you's" too.

But, I'm still a broken record. 

If "I love you" made her roll her eyes, how must my daughter feel about the things I say these days? Here's a sample, by no means complete, of the endless litany of nags she puts up with:

"Don't leave dirty dishes in your room."
"Put your laundry in the hamper."
"Get off your phone."
"Make your bed."
"Bring the dirty dishes down from your room."
"Hang up your jacket."
"Have you finished your homework?"
"Don't stay up too late."
"Eat your green beans."
"Put on a scarf."
"Puh-lease take the dirty dishes down from your room."
"Take your backpack upstairs."
"Take your shoes off the couch."
"Take your vitamin."

Take, take, take ... take me away. Now. When did I become this person? Do I even say "Please?" I hope so. Sometimes. Maybe. 

I don't know.

When your children are little, you have high hopes for them — and for yourself too. You vow never to be unreasonable, never to say "Because I said so." Never to nag.

Never say never.

I have an excuse; my daughter doesn't listen. Period. We can say the same things over and over (believe me, we do) and they don't sink in. How many times have I asked her not to leave ice cream bowls on her desk? That would be ... um ... a thousand! We have rules about cell phone use. Does she adhere to them? In a word, no. Does that make me nag? 

In a word, YES.

Then again, why should she listen to me when I never seem to say anything of consequence? Same old, same old. Even fairly benign questions must get irritating when she hears them day after day after day after day:

"How was school today?"

The thing is, most of my nagging isn't about anything important. (But, I do — and will continue to — say "Drive carefully" every time she gets behind the wheel of a car.) Really, what am I afraid of? That she'll flunk out of school and live a life of poverty and despair? That her laundry will take over her bathroom and I'll lose her in it? That the dirty dishes on her desk will attract a variety of vermin and we'll all catch the bubonic plague? 

Well, yes. I mean, no. Maybe. I digress.

There are many keys to good parenting and one that I've always believed in is: "Choose your battles." In honesty, I was a lot better at it when my daughter was younger, compliant and worshipped me. It's tougher now. Somehow it feels as though I can't stop because if and when I do stop it will mean I've given up. Given up on my immaculate house, given up on my compulsive organization. Or, here's the rub, given up on any semblance of authority.

I have a very good kid. My nagging has never included anything remotely like:

"Don't do intravenous drugs before dinner; you'll spoil your appetite."

Or

"Did you remember to take your birth control pill?"

Or

"Have you finished that community service the judge ordered?"

I know I'm lucky. My daughter is a smart, funny, talented young person with a big heart. She puts up with my incessant nagging at least as graciously as any other 16-year old. I'll try to hold my tongue next time. I really will.

But, I wish she'd take the dirty dishes out of her room.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

The Sound of Silence

Mornings are not the most pleasant time of day around here. 

We have a teenager. 

(I understand you're tired. I realize you were up late studying math. I apologize that school starts at 7:50 am. I know life sucks. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.)

Today, as usual, my teen daughter grudgingly got herself out of bed and was puttering about in her room. I don't know what she does up there. The alarm (her second) goes off a few minutes before 6:30. Her father drops her at a friend's house at 7:05. In-between, I make her breakfast and lunch (the high school cafeteria "blows"). And, like clockwork, at 6:55, I call upstairs.

"Breakfast is ready."

Today, she came down and started one of those conversations that I hate, the ones where she requests that I change something we've always done. (BTW, she does this in a really condescending voice, like she's a Nobel Laureate and I'm the village idiot.)

"Mom, can I ask you something? I think I've asked you before."

"Um. What?"

"Can you not call and tell me breakfast is ready every day? I really hate it."

I had a hundred snappish comebacks on the tip of my tongue. For example ...

"Well, I wouldn't have to if you got down here faster. And, by the way, your room is a disaster area."

Or ...

"Well, excuuuuuuuuse me for trying to be a good mother and slaving away in the kitchen and making you a nice meal."

Or ...

"Well, that really hurt my feelings. I don't see why you have to be so hateful when everything I do is for you." 

Here's what I said instead ... 

"Okay."

That's it. Really.

I'm so proud of myself I could burst! I feel like I have reached some heretofore unattainable peak of maternal zenliness. I am patience. I am tolerance. I am composure. Look up "grace under pressure" in the dictionary and you will likely see a picture of moi!

My daughter is downright surly in the morning — that's on a good day. And, I do crave appreciation. (For the record, my breakfasts and lunches are quite nice.) But, if she wants to wallow in ... er, I mean ... ease into her busy sophomore life in silence, why shouldn't she? 

There's the rub. The silence is what kills me these days. When my daughter was little, we had such a happy, chattery routine. It included two-way conversations in the early hours and books read aloud together in the evenings. After I tucked her in, we had that little ritual beloved by so many moms:

"I love you.

"I love you more.

"No, I love you more."

Now? No more. 

As often as not, I go to bed while my daughter's still doing homework or studying. I give her a kiss (usually on the top of her head before she can pull away or grimace), wish her "good night" and get the hell out of dodge. When she isn't working, she's engaged with friends online or streaming a show on the iPad via Netflix. I used to get a few back-and-forth words in when I drove her to the stable every other day. But, with her brand new license in her eager hand, she heads off alone now.

When my daughter was little, I missed the quiet I had known before she came into my life. Now, I miss her stories, the jokes, the affectionate banter. I try not to sound desperate or repetitive. I try not to fill the quiet with gentle mom nags: "Have you got everything? Did you remember your permission slip for the photography field trip?"

I try to be silent.

After all, Thomas Carlyle said "Silence is golden." 

We choose our battles, and this ain't one of them. From now on, I won't announce that breakfast is ready. 

Or, as Belinda Carlisle (no relation) said, "Our lips are sealed."

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.   

The Nagging Truth

I read a story written by a parenting expert a few days ago. It said that you should make a list of all the things you nag your teen about, and then cull it down to just the most important three. 

Three? How could I possibly choose three?

Let's get a few things straight here. First of all, I am not naturally a "nag." I have what might be called a "can-do" attitude. I see something that needs doing and I do it. I expect other people in my life — my husband, my coworkers, my teenage daughter — to behave the same way. If everyone does what they are supposed to do when they are supposed to do it, there is no nagging necessary. Right?

Dream on, my friend, dream on.

I'm quite certain that my daughter would find this hard to believe (Hard? Try impossible!), but it gives me no pleasure to nag. I actually resent being put in a nagging situation. Sometimes, I'm surprised by what comes out of my own mouth.

Who is this person, I wonder. When did I become such a ... well ... nag?

Think about the word itself. As a noun, it literally means a decrepit old horse. As a verb, it means to complain incessantly. Incessantly! I'm an incessant complainer. Ugh!

But, despite my aversion to the very concept of myself as nag, reading the story made me stop and think. Do I nag too much? Probably. Should I choose my battles? Probably. Would life be better if I took an enormous chill pill? Probably!!!

If there's anything at which I've always excelled, it's following instructions. Seriously, I was one of those kids who did really, really well on standardized tests. I actually enjoy following rules. (This is just one of the reasons my daughter and I rarely see eye-to-eye.) So, I sat down and made my list. Here is just a small part of it:

• "Make your bed."
• "Pick up your dirty clothes; put them in the hamper."
• "Hang up your coat."
• "Turn off the computer."
• "Did you bring in the permission slip?"
• "Put your phone down."
• "Have you finished your homework yet?"
• "Don't snack anymore, we're having dinner soon."
• "Brush your teeth."
• "Have you written that 'Thank You' note yet?"
• "When will you be home?"
• "Did you return that book?"
• "Call her back now."
• "Turn that music down."
• "When are you going to study for the test?"
• "Clean off your dresser."
• "Bring your shoes upstairs."
• "Bring the empty soda can downstairs."
• "Use your napkin."
• "Don't eat cookie dough out of the container."

In my defense, I do usually add the word "please." Also, in my defense, these actions that I am (incessantly) asking about are not news. It's not like my teenager doesn't know she's supposed to make the bed. And finally, once again in my defense, I am not the only person in this mother-daughter relationship who is nagging.

My daughter is a very accomplished little nag herself.

She may be in Honors English, but she has trouble with some pretty simple words. Like n-o. When I use that word, as in ...

"Can I get a new riding helmet?"
"No."

... she seems to think that I've said, "No. But, if you nag me about it (if you incessantly complain about it) long enough, I'll realize that I actually mean Yes."

Then there's the nagging about how terrible, how downright Dickensian, her teenhood is. Nobody else it seems ever has to clean their room or do their homework. Nobody else has rules about computer and phone usage. Nobody else has to let their mother know where they are or when they'll be home.

How do I know all of this? Because of my daughter's nagging, of course.

So, back to my assignment. Which three will it be? I'm reminded of the story of the Fisherman and his Wife who were granted three wishes by a magic fish. I never understood why they didn't ask for more wishes. I guess my nag list would include:

• "Have you done everything in your power to succeed at school?" (See, this covers homework, studying, reading, returning important documents to school.)
• "Have you done everything in your power to make our home nice and comfortable and orderly?" (That's for beds, floors, laundry, dishes.)
• "Have you done everything in your power to stay healthy?" (There's exercise, diet, hygiene.)

Let's hear it for consolidation. But, somehow I don't think that's what the author had in mind.

Control Freak. Who Moi?

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” 

This quote from author and educator Elizabeth Stone is one of my all-time favorites. It rings so true to me. For the past fourteen years, I have been less than whole. My very center lives in the next bedroom over.

This was fine when she was always accessible. I could hold her, hug her, kiss her to my heart's delight. Alas, those days are over. My daughter is her own person and she is not one to suffer foolish mothers gladly.

Most of the time, I walk around dazed and confused. The love of my life has moved on (not literally, of course, but attitudinally) and I am bereft. Once in a while, though, I am able to see the world through her eyes. This morning, for example, I had a moment of clarity and here is what I observed ...

My daughter's mother is a control freak.

Really, it's true. This mother's dressing room is right outside my daughter's door, and she waits there, listening for the alarm clock to go off. Once it does, she can't just finish getting dressed and mind her own business. Oh no, she has to loiter and say inane things like, "Good morning, sweetie. Did you sleep well?"

I'm not quite sure who this ridiculous person is. But, she looks a lot like me.

For the next thirty minutes or so, this overbearing mother feels compelled to nag my daughter about pretty much everything. Here are just some of the incessant questions and directions that come out of her maternal mouth:

"Make your bed."

"Put your pajamas in the hamper."

"Can you bring that bowl with you when you come downstairs?"

"Do you have your English homework?"

"Do you have your Math homework?"

"Do you have your Social Studies homework?"

"Do you have your gym clothes?"

"Take your vitamin."

"Finish those strawberries."

"Put your phone away."

"Do you want me to call your Music teacher about that assignment?"

"Don't wipe your fingers on your jeans."

"Your hair is tangled."

"What time will you be home?"

"Eat your bagel."

"Wear a hat and scarf."

"Go brush your teeth."

"Hug, please."

"Bye honey. Have a great day."

OMG! Who is this person and when did I become her? 

When I stop and listen to myself, I have to give my daughter props (credit) for putting up with me at all. Her answers may be monosyllabic (and there is certainly some eye-rolling going on), but she isn't completely making fun of me. Well, not to my face.

Seriously, though, is this who she thinks I am? Because I am really much more interesting, independent and just plain cool than my breakfast banter would lead one to believe. So how did we get here?

My daughter's at an age when mornings are unpleasant have-to-haves. Her approach is to get through them in silence. 

Ay, there's the rub. To this mother's ears, her silence is deafening. It is a preview of the years to come when she won't be here anymore. So, my instinctive reaction is to fill that silence. But, I think I'll try and embrace the quiet next time. Maybe we can be together in it. 

Whenever my daughter is particularly ornery or moody, I remind myself that she is going through a perfectly normal developmental stage. She is stretched between her past as a little girl and her future as a woman. She is struggling with all of the changes in her body and her world. And, I try to understand and empathize, shrug it off.

My dear daughter, I'm also struggling with these changes. More than you will ever understand — until, that is, you have a daughter of your own. So, the next time I start nagging, you have my permission to shrug it off too.