No Answer

As my now seventeen-year-old daughter moved from childhood into her tweens and teens, I attended a handful of parenting workshops. These were offered, free of charge, by her elementary, middle and high schools. The PTO would invite a speaker and all the concerned moms (and a couple of dads) would dutifully attend "How to Raise a Resilient Child." Or "Helping Your Student Handle Middle School Stress." Or "Don't Panic, It's Just Puberty."

One thing we heard over and over was that we were — in essence — heading back into the "Terrible Twos." Becoming a teen and becoming a toddler had much in common. So we were advised to lock dangerous substances away, teen-proof the house as we once child-proofed it. And, most important, set firm rules and stand our ground.

The problem was — and has been — that I'm not very good at it.

When my daughter was about eighteen months old, her wonderful pediatrician explained what was in store.

"First of all," he told me, "The 'Terrible Twos' is a misnomer. It lasts longer than a year. It's more like the 'Terrible One-and-a-Half to Threes.' She'll be testing her boundaries all the time." His advice? "Only say 'No' when you mean it. If that means that you say 'Yes' 99% of the time, that's okay. Just make sure that when you do say 'No,' you follow through."

That's what I've done. As advised, I've followed through on the "No's," but they've been few and far between. In my defense, it's been very easy to say "Yes." My daughter was a remarkably well-behaved little girl. She was good-natured and compliant. There was really never any reason for so-called "Tough Love." She rarely asked for anything inappropriate and I simply said "Yes."

Sadly, what was a successful strategy for my toddler has proven to be an enormous stressor where my teen is concerned.

These days, my daughter tends to make announcements rather than asking for permission. Eight months into her driver's license (Lord help me!), she's mobile and independent. I was never really big on curfews anyway. We agreed that I'd stop micromanaging her homework and studies this year. And, like most kids in suburban America, she's wired and connected pretty much 24/7.

You can understand her utter shock, her sheer incomprehension, when she can't do what she wants with whom she wants, where and when she wants.

But, sometimes I have to say "No."

OMG!

Before you call Social Services, let me assure you (and myself) that in the grand scheme of teenage things, my daughter is a very good girl. She doesn't drink or do drugs or endanger herself in other ways. I do think she drives a bit too fast, but she (and my husband) claim that I drive too slow.

I should be grateful — and, truly, I am — that we haven't fought over the really big stuff. Still this year has been difficult. The push-me/pull-you of her growing independence (and her age-related incomprehension of the concept of consequences) has been really tough.

What she doesn't (or won't) understand is that as her mother, I do have to step in sometimes. Its my job. And it's no fun for me, let me tell you. This includes making her go to bed when she's overtired or catching a cold. It includes at least a semblance of moderating the use of electronics. It includes assuring that her grades stay at the excellent level they've always been.

Would it be nicer to take the easy road, never say "no," never disagree?

Hell, yes!

That's not my job. My job is to help her succeed and become the best possible version of herself. Really.

Sometimes my job sucks. Really.

Right now, I'm being punished for the one percent of the time that I actually say and mean "No." Someday, maybe, I'll get credit for the other 99%.

For a Christmas surprise, my daughter wrapped her PSAT scores and placed them under our tree for me. She achieved absolutely respectable scores across the board, but one of her lowest marks was part of the Critical Reading section, specifically "Determining the meaning of words." 

Apparently they must have asked her to define the word "No." 

You see, we're having some trouble with that one.

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Rewarding Bad Behavior

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.