Most mornings, I get up first, shower, dress, make the bed, feed the dog, cut some fruit for my daughter, attempt to wake her up, attempt to wake her up again, and again, and sometimes yet again. In between wake-up trips upstairs, I make her lunch and putter, empty the dishwasher or wipe down the counters.
Meanwhile, my husband gets ready for work and sits in our family room watching the morning news and browsing the Boston Globe on my iPad. (His ability to multi-task borders on AADD; he's been known to have the radio going at the same time. 'Makes my head hurt thinking about it.) The upside of our disparate routines: I don't have to worry about missing something that would matter to me because my husband is an ace curator. He'll pause or rewind to a story that he thinks I'd be interested in, whether that's a piece about theatre, about our town, or a highlight (this year, I should really say a "lowlight") of a political debate.
Earlier this week, he called me in to see something and, while we were waiting, an ad came on for a new Chevy mini-van. It featured "Real kids. Not actors." (a phrase that makes me, as an advertising professional, wary from the start). The children were invited to play a computer game, but — OMG! — there was only one controller. So, a single lucky girl got to play while the other six looked on in pathetic bereavement. "How does it make you feel?" the helpful announcer guy asked them. Not good. (Duh.) But, then he revealed the new Chevrolet Traverse, which has built-in WiFi and can support ... Get this! ... up to seven different devices. Their unscripted (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) responses were unadulterated joy:
"A WiFi car?"
"That's so cool!"
"I could just stay in this car forever."
For the record, I have nothing against Chevrolet. In fact, I used to write ads for them. And, without the time (or, to be honest, the inclination) to research this, I'm assuming that many other makes and models offer similar features. What does bother me is that this is being hailed as such a wonderful thing.
Let's forget about the related issues of childhood obesity, video game violence, and the overscheduling of our kids. As the parent of a teen (and as someone who is soon to be an empty-nester), what bothers me most is all the missed opportunity.
Last weekend, I went with my daughter to the stable so that we could leave directly for Boston, where we had theatre tickets. I know the route by heart; for eight years, I drove her there and back as many as six or seven days a week. But, since she got her license, I've been off the hook. This is a mixed blessing. Yes, the found time has been appreciated, but that hour each day in the car was one of the best times we had to talk. So, I was happy to have a reason to revisit those pre-license times.
On the way (it was early), she was fairly silent. But, as we drove into town after her lesson, she filled me in on all the drama going down with her friends and fellow seniors. Sheesh! Suffice it to say, it was good that the drive was nearly an hour long. And, it was great to be back in the know.
So, my advice to parents of younger kids is this. Yes, I know car trips can be the only time you get any peace and quiet. And, if you have more than one child, your mini-van can become a fight club pretty quickly. But, please, resist the temptation to digitally anesthetize your brood.
Here are better ways to spend time together in the car:
- Listen to a book on tape or a podcast
- Share some of your favorite music
- Play a word game or 20 Questions
- Look for out-of-state license plates or sign typos
- Make up stories about people you see
- Take in the sights
Most important, use that time together to talk about what's happening at school, at home, or in the world.
We're all so busy, and stopping to talk to Mom or Dad is probably low (wicked low) on your kid's list. Especially if a topic is uncomfortable. But, being stuck together in the car is the perfect, low-pressure, chance for meaningful or maybe not-so-meaningful conversation.
As long as they're not distracted by "Monkeys vs. Zombies Road Rage Warfare III."
If you've enjoyed this post, I invite you to order the book Lovin' the Alien here.
After I had my daughter, I went right back to work. Well, practically.
I did take about two weeks off completely (fourteen surreal and blurry, virtually sleepless days). But, then I started writing ad copy again, gradually building up my hours and transitioning into halftime home, halftime at the office. By about the six-week mark, I was commuting into the city each day and my sweet child was safe and sound in a family daycare.
I had started the job while I was pregnant. I would be building a creative department for a new agency and it was important to me that my bosses (all men) understood how serious I was about it. In honesty, we also needed the cash. Regardless, it never occurred to me to stay at home permanently. I loved what I did, felt absolutely comfortable giving it my all while giving my new baby all my heart as well. For me, these were never mutually exclusive roles or passions.
Of course, going right back to work made some things a little more difficult. Like breast-feeding. Early on, our pediatrician had encouraged me to switch off between breast and bottle and that certainly made things more convenient. I was also very fortunate; my body adjusted quickly to our new schedule. I nursed my daughter in the morning before we left and again as soon as I got home. After the first few days, I had no discomfort and never spent my lunch hour with a breast pump behind closed doors. (Ugh — thank goodness!) The only real problems I ever had occurred on an early-post-pregnancy business trip, and a single and overdue overnight at the Ritz with my husband. After a wonderfully romantic evening, he slept soundly in the sumptuous hotel bed, while I sat on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, you guessed it, pumping.
All in all, I was lucky though, and I planned to nurse for six months. Less than the fascists at the La Leche League might have liked, but more than many professional women get to. Then, at five months, three-and-a-half weeks (literally four days before I had planned), my daughter stopped. She changed her mind. "No, thank you very much." She simply turned her head away. Clearly, there was more going on in the world than my boob, and she wasn't going to miss any of it.
To say I felt rejection is an understatement. Silly, though. Her natural dismissal actually made my life a lot easier. But, it hurt all the same.
A similar thing happened with her pacifier. My husband and I never had an issue with letting her have a "nipper," as we called it, and we had a healthy stash strategically situated throughout the house, in cars, purses and jacket pockets. But, neither of us wanted her to grow into one of those strapping toddlers you see, greedily sucking and taking their pacifiers out of their mouths to speak because — guess what? — they're old enough to speak. So, we agreed we would wean her off of it at twelve months. Lo and behold, she jumped the gun again, losing all interest a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.
(I won't now narrate a detailed story of her potty-training (because I promised her I never would). Suffice it to say, it involved M&Ms and a Princess Barbie, and she acquiesced — when she finally did acquiesce — in her own sweet time.)
Nursing and nippers and shameless bribery are all behind us now. My daughter just started senior year of high school. In addition to her course load and exams and training and competitions and a part-time job, she has college applications looming. And that's all anyone wants to talk about. Family, friends, strangers we met on our vacation ... as soon as they hear she's about to turn eighteen, the first thing out of their mouth is the c-word. "Where are you looking?" "Where are you applying?" "Where do you want to go?"
By now, my daughter isn't even bothering to give any updates. "I don't know yet," she replies to every query, not even acknowledging the half-spirited research she's done so far.
The Common App is now open online and most of the schools on her (extremely short) short-list are accepting rolling applications even as I type. But, she has yet to fill in a name or address, much less outline an essay or even meet with her guidance counselor.
She's not ready. Period. And, I have to bide my time, bite my tongue and wait. She'll get there.
In her own sweet time.
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Last month, my daughter turned sixteen. (A little stunned by that one; where oh where did time go?) Our dining room mantle is still covered with cards, and one of the cutest came from my mother. It has a drawing of a horse and the message:
It's time to ask for a pony again.
The joke, of course, is that my daughter doesn't need to ask for a pony. She has one. You would think said animal would be the key to living happily ever after, right? I mean, isn't that what every girl dreams of? (Well, maybe not every girl, as this amusing ad points out.)
Now, however, she wants a goat.
Say, what?
A goat. Yes, that's right. I've finally gotten used to writing enormous checks each month to pay for the stable and hay and horse shows and vet bills and hoof trimming and trailering and tack. And now, she wants a goat.
Don't get me wrong. The goat is by no means replacing the pony. No, no, no. The goat is supposed to be a friend for it. It's called, "a companion animal." The concept, I guess, is that horses are naturally social. Having a goat (or, in some cases, a pig) in the stall with the horse is supposed to make them happier and less rambunctious.
We happen to own a rather rambunctious equine.
The owner of the stable where we board my daughter's horse calls him, "a punk." This is said with affection but also with conviction. He's a purebred Connemara and has a lot of attitude. His very first week with us, he reached over his stall and tore the collar off of someone's coat. With his teeth. He's been known to bite my husband, my daughter and a few weeks ago ... moi.
Have you ever had a horse hickey? Try to avoid it.
Last year, our pony broke out of his stall. (We still don't know how he did it. After that collar episode, he had a metal gate as well as the usual wooden one.) He ran amuck all night, eating any and everything in his path, and cleverly removing all the blankets from hooks in the tack room and strewing them about. Since then, he's lived in what we call "the stall of shame." A truly escape-proof jail of sorts, with stone walls and iron bars, down in the pony barn. Apparently he isn't mature enough to hang with the other grownups.
Is this really a horse who deserves a companion animal? I think not.
My daughter disagrees.
What else is new?
Here's a text conversation we had yesterday (while she was allegedly in school) ...
Her: We need a goat look at how well they get along with the horse
Me: That's not your horse
Her: But its a horse and those are goats
Me: Duh
Her: I want a goat
Me: What next? An elephant?
Her: No just a goat :)
Me: You do the re$earch, plan how YOU pay for it and get straight A's.
Then we'll see.
Oh, and clean your room.
Ahhhh. The digital sound of silence.
If you enjoyed this post, order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Being pregnant is like nothing else you will ever experience.
Sixteen years ago (omg), I was "great with child" through an extremely hot and uncomfortable summer. All the things you expect when you're expecting happened to me. Coworkers, with whom I was not exactly touch-feely, reached out and rubbed my belly. Uninvited. Diners at the next table audibly tsk-tsked over my apparent drinking problem. (Hello! It was ginger ale, people!) Older mothers sighed with envy and wistfully wished me well. Younger mothers regaled me with stories of 18-hour, pitocin-induced, episiotomy-required labor.
And, every, every, everyone had some snippet of wisdom to share. All of it well-meaning. Some of it valuable. Oddly enough, the one observation that my husband and I both remember as being the truest thing we heard was this ...
"From now on, every trip to CVS will cost you $50."
It did!
There were disposable diapers, baths and lotions and ointments, bottles, formula, pacifiers, bibs, thermometers, powders and creams. The nice young clerk would ring us up and — BINGO — $50.
As many other advisors promised, the baby time went by too fast. And with it, went our need for all of the above. Soon we were buying art supplies, chewable vitamins, and detangling spray. (Any of you with long-locked girls (or boys), take note. Suave makes a great product in a green bottle with a friendly octopus on it.)
CVS has also come in handy when a teacher springs something at the last minute. "Bring in poster boards tomorrow." Or, "You'll need 100 index cards by Tuesday." Before I trek over to Staples or Target (both an inconvenient drive away), I always check CVS.
Now, with a daughter who is about to turn sixteen (I repeat, the baby time went by too fast), we have new requests that take us to CVS. Suddenly, we are going through more shampoo and conditioner. Suddenly, there is a need for skin cleanser and scented body wash. Suddenly, we have to look into each and every product advertised in the gospel according to Seventeen.
At least it seems that way to me.
I was never a big drugstore girl myself. I've had short, short hair nearly my entire life (there was an ill-advised experiment growing it out when I was in my mid-thirties, but I've burned most of the photos). I wear very little make-up. And, I am notoriously cheap when it comes to health and beauty aids. I realize, of course, that my daughter isn't necessarily going to follow in my footsteps in this department. A lot of young women don't.
In my senior year of college, I went down to "Spring Break" in Florida with three other girls. En route, we stopped at a supersized drugstore somewhere South of the Mason-Dixon line. I don't know why my travel companions felt compelled to buy so much, but suffice it to say that there went two hours I'll never get back.
Like so many other aspects of mothering a teenage girl, when it comes to drugstore lovin', you either laugh or cry. On our most recent trip to CVS, I had to laugh. Shampoo and conditioner and astringent and cleanser and Cover Girl pressed powder and strawberry gum and ...
BINGO. $50.
This morning I took my usual walk after my teenage daughter left for high school. It was a beautiful day and lots of my neighbors were out, many with their canine companions.
One woman about a half mile from my house had an older black lab with her alongside an adorable fuzzball of a baby golden retriever. As I neared, the puppy's tail began to wag about a million miles a minute. He (she?) strained at the leash and waited impatiently for some expected adoration.
Unfortunately, as an allergy sufferer, I can't pet other people's dogs (I've grown immune to our ancient mini dachshund, fortunately). Well, this did not please the pup who started growling and leaping toward me.
"No," said the dog's owner. "No, no, no."
This was appropriate, n'est-ce pas? Not really. You see, the owner didn't say "No" with any kind of conviction. In fact, her soft, loving voice made "No" sound exactly like "Yes, sweetie-pie, little lovebug, mommy's doggie angel. Yes, yes, yes!"
Great. Rewarding bad behavior.
This little interchange made me think about the word "No" and how, as a mother, I have used it effectively and ... well ... not.
Last night, for example, my daughter got home from the stable at about 7:30. Now, I should preface this story by explaining that I asked — specifically — about the homework and study situation. How much did she have to do? Was she sure she would have time if she went riding? Should she maybe consider skipping a day?
"Yes, I'm fine." "Don't worry about it." "It's covered mo-o-om."
Fast forward to 11:00 pm and I'm sure you can picture what was going on in my dining room. Let's see ... there was the thesis for her essay on the Odyssey, a packet for World Cultures, and about six dozen French vocab flash cards. And, guess what I did? Send her to bed and let her face the consequences? Hell to the no.
Like the puppy's owner earlier, I rewarded bad behavior. I stayed up alongside her, helped print and proofread, and baked her a chocolate chip cookie dough soufflé.
Worst. Mother. Ever.
Years ago, before I was a parent myself (and consequently thought I knew everything about parenting, LOL), I was visiting a friend and her toddler. We were getting lunch ready and the little guy was helping ... by jumping on the open dishwasher door. Seriously. At some point, he tired of this and reached up to the counter where there was a large, sharp knife that had just been used to cut sub sandwiches.
"No!" I yelled from across the room.
The child stopped short, burst into tears, and ran to bury his face in his mother's legs. She looked at me and quietly explained "We don't like to use the n-word with him."
Okay, then.
(BTW, that same child later poured a bottle of pear juice into the keyboard of my new Mac Plus. Ah, sweet memories.)
Well, apparently I'm not that good at using the "n-word" either. Apparently, I'm incapable of administering "tough love," or letting my daughter sink or swim. Apparently, I'm not preparing her for real world accountability. Apparently, I'm a pushover and an enabler.
But, I do make a mean chocolate chip cookie dough soufflé.
It's snowing. Just over a week ago, we had more than thirty inches fall. After a few days of mild weather, the roads were pretty clear, but the sidewalks were not. In fact, there were many places where there were no sidewalks at all, which necessitated walking in the already pinched road. Now, everything is white again.
Yes, I know it's February and this is Massachusetts. In fact, I was recently heard arguing with my teenage daughter about whether or not she had to wear winter boots and my very words were "This is New England. We have weather." The issue, actually, was not about boots, per se. She was perfectly happy to wear the tall leather fashion boots her aunt gave her for her birthday last year. My concern was that said tall leather fashion boots would not look so very fashionable caked in slush and salt. I insisted she wear her "fuggs" (fake Uggs) and received rolled eyes and loud guttural sound effects of extreme exasperation for my troubles.
This is New England. We have weather. "Oh I could never live in Florida. I'd miss the seasons." Blah blah blah.
But, I am so tired of it. Not just the monotony and the cold and the layers of outerwear and the road salt on everything. I am tired of injuring myself.
As a (sophisticated, if I do say so myself) fifty-year-old woman, I am now walking around with knees that look like they should be on a kindergartener. Two different slips on two different mornings are responsible for my new youthful appearance.
May I digress a moment? For the record, I think I should get lots of cosmic extra credit for my continued dedication to my morning walks, don't you? I do not think I deserve scabs and bumps and bruises. Apparently, somebody up there isn't paying attention.
Regardless, my left knee was skinned when I stepped onto a patch of black ice on the pavement outside Ace Hardware on Atlantic Ave. I am aware of black ice as a driver (I can credit it for my first automobile accident back in 1991 when I spun around several times and went through a fence), but I had never encountered it as a pedestrian. My knee stung but I was happy that my yoga pants hadn't ripped. Only when I returned home and stripped down for my shower did I see the bloody mess underneath the pants. Ouch!
My right knee was the casualty of an icy little spot at the foot of a hill only about a tenth of a mile from our front door. In this case, it was more of a bang than a scrape. My knee is swollen like a softball and a lovely shade of blue. Again, my yoga pants survived unscathed. And again ... ouch!
Since my two falls, I have bravely soldiered on with my life. Working, mothering my teen, preparing for a family vacation, and going to the gym. (Did you ever stop and think about how many yoga postures take place from a kneeling position? I have now.) And, despite my recent brushes with death (or, at least, asphalt), I've continued to walk, which brings me to the theme of this post: purchase.
Purchase. I'm not referring to a new Coach bag (which, I need, if a particular spouse is reading) or jewelry or shoes or even riding breeches for my daughter. I'm referring to a tertiary definition of the noun: (1) a mechanical hold or advantage applied to the raising or moving of heavy bodies (2) an advantage (as a firm hold or position) used in applying one's power.
As I trek through our frosted town these days, it's difficult to establish a purchase, scaling snow banks at curbs and entrances to parks, testing my footing, trying to find a grip that will hold my weight as I go up and over an icy obstacle.
My quest is for security (I'm out of knees, folks), not grace.
But I've realized on my solitary, ill-advised tours that gaining a purchase is a metaphor for life as a teenager as well as life as the mother of one. We are in such a new place this year, my daughter and I. We don't quite know the rules or how to move forward safely.
My daughter is negotiating a big new school with a tougher curriculum. Having glided through her elementary and junior high years, she faces almost daily anxiety about studying enough, figuring out what certain teachers want and how to juggle old and new friends. Meanwhile, I'm suddenly unsure of how much freedom is too much, when to push and when to let go. Do I step in or let her fall down sometimes? (And, do we have enough band-aids?)
I'd like to think that we're climbing these hills together, but more often than not, we're in adversarial positions. My hope is that through the arguments and edicts, slammed doors and shoulder shrugging, she knows in her heart that I am on her side.
So, I guess this stage of our life together is much like my morning walks through the snow. It's time to proceed with caution.
And watch my step.
When your child is a baby, there are these wonderful moments of sheer bliss, utter calm, pure love. Of course, there are all kinds of frustrations too. These typically revolve around such issues as sleep deprivation, fussiness, sleep deprivation, monotony and, yes, sleep deprivation.
As your tiny tyke begins to grow, the frustrations change. Tantrums take over. Or school brings a whole new set of worries. Bullies, un-understanding teachers, new feelings of disappointment, exclusion, anxiety. But I still look back on all those years through decidedly rose colored glasses.
Basically, you don't realize how easy any of these times are because they feel anything but easy while you're going through them.
But nothing, I mean nothing, compares to the frustration of trying to control a teenager. Control? Ha. Try fathom. It is simply impossible. Simply. Impossible.
Make a concerted effort to give clear, consistent direction? It doesn't matter. Here's an example from last night in my own happy home:
What I said: "Go put your clean clothes away and come right back down so we can talk about your English essay."
What she heard: "Meander upstairs, browse the latest issue of Seventeen; Instagram your fifty closest friends; try on your new green nail polish. Only come down again when your parents yell up at you. Oh, and forget to put away the laundry."
If only there was a Babelfish.com to translate parent into teen and back again.
The good news, I guess, is that she seems to talk back less than she did. But, if blank looks could kill, I'd be one majorly murdered mamma. I swear, sometimes I think I must be speaking (let's face it, yelling in) another language altogether.
My point, I guess, is this. YES, I get it. Teens can frequently frustrate the hell out of us. That's why I kinda sorta understand why there seems to be a trend emerging in which parents punish their wayward offspring through public humiliation. I do understand it. But, I don't agree with it.
The news stories are funny (and, I can only imagine that there are millions of moms and dads nodding in recognition every time one comes on). There was the ill-fated tween shoplifter who had to wear a tee shirt that read "Hide your money. Hide your clothes. Hide everything. Cuz I'm A Thief." There was a slightly older girl who was forced to stand on a street corner with a sign that said "I sneak boys in at 3 a.m. and disrespect my parents and grandparents."
The most recent story was a dad who had a tee shirt made with his angry face on it and the dare "Try me!!" His daughter had to wear the shirt to school for a week after breaking curfew. The father also posted a picture (he's smiling; she's not) and full explanation on social media.
The posting part of the story is certainly the most timely (and well may be the most embarrassing for the teenage perps involved). Today, we all "live out loud" online. No one more so than teens. The idea that the Internet exists solely for their benefit — to share their successes and (apparently) their defeats — feels true to our kids. In fact, I sometimes wonder if anything that happens in their analog lives feels real until it's also out for the world (and world wide web) to see.
So, I get the frustration and I even get the effectiveness of the communications channel. But, I disagree with the bigger concept. Does shaming really work? Does it dissuade bad behavior? Or does it simply plant and nurture an acute sense of rage and helplessness?
My gut tells me it's the latter. But, I wouldn't know because my parents never publicly shamed me. And I never will my daughter.
Quick. Someone find Hester Prynne and ask her. She'll tell you.
