One Day of Summer

For a New England town, we had an unusually snow-free winter last year. It was a good thing because my teenage daughter and I had tickets to fly to London for an important bat mitzvah. With even one snow day to make up, we would have been caught between a rock and Big Ben. But, it all worked out. My daughter graduated from middle school and within hours it seemed we were headed across the pond.

Thank you, Mother Nature.

This year, we made up for it. Snow, snow, snow ... and, for good measure, more snow. In Massachusetts, there are a minimum number of days that each public school has to hit. So, the school year has been extended an extra week.

This does not make for happy teenagers. (Or happy mothers, for that matter.)

We have one day between my daughter's last (and most dreaded) final exam ("Compare your freshman year to the hero's journey in Homer's Odyssey" — say, what?) and the start of her Horsemanship Clinic up in Vermont. One day. Un día. We're cutting it so close, in fact, that the equine is being shipped up a couple of days before us, because the humans will be leaving at dawn the day the program starts.

Now, you may be thinking "What's the big deal. You have a whole day to chillax." Mais, non. We have one day, a mere 24 hours, to shop for and pack up everything my daughter needs and everything that her pony needs. (Really. You should see the list. Fly spray and a dandy brush and epsom salts and an animal rectal thermometer. Who knew?)

And the thing that will take the longest will be cleaning her room. As much as it pains me to admit it, I've been losing the battle of wills surrounding my daughter's bedroom for some time. Now, as freshman finals loom, I've surrendered completely. But, we will have to attack it together on our single day of summer. We simply have to.

First of all, half the crap — er, I mean, stuff — that she'll need for her trip to the "Green Mountain State" is probably buried under the piles of textbooks, homework, dirty laundry and empty Sun Chips bags that currently cover her carpet. "I need socks," she whines. "I need shorts." I am positively positive that said items (and so much more) are in there somewhere.

Second, if she does indeed leave without tidying up, I'll be too tempted to do so myself. Sure, I'll try the close-the-door-and-pretend-it-isn't-there trick. But, I won't be able to stand it for very long. Soon, I'll be on my knees, digging through a semester's worth of junk. And, I'll make some judgment calls about what's too small, too old, too torn. Bulging bundles will go off to the local thrift shop and I'll feel so self-righteous. Until my daughter comes home. 

Then there will be all measure of teen hell to pay.

No, it's better if we tackle it together. So what if the weather turns out to be perfect? So what if we live near the beach and have access to a pool and a boat and numerous ice cream shops? I'll think of it as bonding time, a few precious hours (okay, maybe more than a few) of togetherness before my little girl leaves us.

But, I'm not going to share this idea with my daughter. She'll be in a bad enough mood without it.

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.

Clean Closet, Calm Mom

"It's not fair," my daughter announced the other day.

(Um, what else is new?)

"It's not fair," she continued. "I have the smallest closet in the family."

Here's what I wanted to say: "You are the smallest person in the family. You have the smallest clothes in the family. You contribute the smallest amount financially to the family. And, you have the smallest desire of anyone in the family to actually hang something up."

Here's what I said instead: "How 'bout I help you clean out your closet Wednesday after school?"

Here's a confession. I am a neatnik and I actually enjoy cleaning out closets and dresser drawers. My daughter is not me (as she will often assert in a rather whiny voice: "I'm not you-ou-ou, Mo-o-om!"). My daughter doesn't mind clutter. Until, that is, she is missing something or can no longer close her closet door. Enter moi to save the day. I am Felix to her Oscar. Martha to her mayhem.

We go through this exercise once every few weeks. With Christmas just over (and with it, an influx of new hoodies, boots, Converse All-Stars, and yes, even socks), this is as good a time as any to tackle her wardrobe. Funny how much more room one has when tee shirts are actually folded and hangers are used to ... hang things. (Imagine that!) It will be considerably easier to find a shoe's mate when it is no longer buried under 22 inches of discarded garments on the closet floor.

There will most certainly be items earmarked for the middle school's thrift shop. After all, my daughter has grown a couple of inches in the past year. And, as per usual, there will be clothes that she can technically still fit in — but wouldn't be caught dead in. In eighth grade, there is no grey area. Either it's completely, totally, utterly cool or it is completely, totally, utterly uncool. (Most of the things I choose for her these days would, I have to report, fall into that latter category. That's why I rarely buy her anything unless she is right next to me approving the purchase.) I anticipate a small pile of uncontested donations.

Then, we will move on. There will be a number of pieces that she'll insist are fine but that I'll urge her to retire. Too tight jeans, torn in all the wrong places. Grubby tank tops in a rainbow of faded colors. Stretched-out, stained sweats from after-school programs long past. (Really, when was the last time my daughter was on a gymnastics team? But, she still has the warm-up pants, the team leotard, the beach towel.) Chances are, she'll give on one or two of these tatty treasures.

The third and final category will be the clothing that I think she should keep even though she doesn't like it or plan to wear it — now, next year or ever. There are pretty dresses, cute cropped jackets, black velvet pants. She'll give me a look that says, "Fine. You like them so much, you wear them." And, I would. I really would. If, that is, I were three inches shorter and thirty pounds thinner. Again, we will compromise, but it will be me who looks longingly at the pile of giveaways.

By the time we break for dinner, her room will be tidy and organized. Everything will have a place and be in that place. Jewelry neatly organized. Foldable items folded. Hangable items hung. Shoes lined up just so. Socks rolled into uniform little balls. Desktop cleared and ready for any impromptu studying she might care to do.

My daughter may feel a momentary sense of accomplishment. She may rejoice in the recovery of some long-lost favorite pair of gym shorts. She may even say "Thank you." Chances are, however, that she'll head downstairs for a snack and a 20-minute episode of "Phineas and Ferb."

But, I'll stand and admire our work for a few minutes. My daughter's clean room is like an ornate sand castle or a jolly snowman. It's a piece of art. But, it's temporary.

The 30-Second Rule

Words. I like them. I really do.

I like using them. I like combining them into clever phrases, stringing them together in complex sentences with descriptive color commentary (and wry asides). Back in college, I was an English and Drama double major so I respect the power of both the written and the spoken word. For more than half my life, I've worked as a professional writer and when I'm not getting paid for my prose, I can usually be found reading thick books, scribbling furiously in my journal, crafting cultural pieces for a wonderful online magazine Women's Voices for Change, or blogging right here.

Yes, I like words. Words are my friends. As far as I'm concerned, the more words, the better.

However, when it comes to using words to help you mother a tween? Less is definitely more.

As much as I treasure thoughtful, logical conversations with my daughter, these days they are few and far between. Her life is moving forward at a lightning pace and she's juggling summer plans, schoolwork, riding lessons, music, fashion, gossiping with her BFFs. Sitting down for a heart-to-heart with her Mamacita just isn't at the top of her list. Let's face it, it's not on her list at all.

The terrible tweens are much like the terrible twos. At both stages, the aforementioned "terrible" is caught between stages developmentally. They are longing for independence but still require guidance and support (as well as food, shelter and Abercrombie gift cards). And, they need definitive instructions from you — yes this, no that. Not drawn-out requests and explanations.

Consider this all-too-familiar scenario ...

Mother (loving, well-meaning, hard-working, looks pretty good for her age) enters her tween daughter's room. Room is in disarray. (Surprise.) Daughter (sullen, bored, wise beyond her years, but cute nonetheless) is texting on her iPhone. (I repeat ... Surprise.) Prior to the adoption of the 30-second rule, the resulting mother-daughter dialogue might have run something like this ...

Mother: Honey? The So-and-so's are coming for dinner tonight. Can you please clean your room this afternoon?

Daughter: Uh-huh (continues texting)

Mother: It's really a disaster area, sweetie. If you'd just put your clean clothes away and put the dirty ones in the hamper, it would help. You can't even see the top of your desk; no wonder you couldn't find your notes for the science final. And, all those earrings on your night table? The backs are going to get lost again.

Daughter: Okay, okay (continues texting)

Mother: Could you just put the deodorant and the hairbrush back in the cabinet after you use them? Hang up your towels, all right? And, your bed isn't going to make itself. You know, I had to go to four different websites to find those pillow cases. I try to make it special for you and you just don't seem to care about it.

Daughter: Whatever (continues, you guessed it, texting)

Mother: I know you think I'm a neat freak, but as long as you're living under my roof, you have to do this one small thing for me, okay? You're a citizen of this family and we all work together to make a nice home. Just think how lucky we are to live here. A lot of girls your age don't have such a beautiful big room. I know I would have given anything for a room this nice when I was your age. Will you please just straighten it up for me?

Daughter: Sure, sure, in two minutes.

Having finally run out of things to say, the mother retreats. She returns forty (as opposed to the promised two) minutes later to find that the daughter is no longer texting. Now, she's on Facebook. The room is exactly as it was. Exactly. The mother, who is now stressed-out, tired and frustrated as well as loving, well-meaning and hard-working, repeats many of the same arguments only this time her voice is raised. And, so is her blood pressure.

Consider now, the same situation with the application of the 30-second rule.

Mother: Please clean up your room ...

Daughter: Uh-huh

Mother: ... now.

Chances are, the daughter will object and point out that she is texting. But a 30-second mom will tell her firmly that she must stop texting until the room is clean. At this point, the daughter will add age-appropriate sound effects and physical displays, such as eye-rolling and exaggerated shoulder shrugging. The 30-second mom will stand her ground. She will not waste precious moments talking and talking and talking, and thereby undermining her own authority. She knows her daughter and if the case warrants it, she will actually take the iPhone away until the room is clean.

Basically, any instruction (clean your room, set the table, do your homework, take the dog for a walk) should be delivered in as few words as civilly possible; "Please" and "Thank you" don't take long to say. Without all the begging and pleading, cajoling and justifying, the house will be quieter, calmer and arguably cleaner.

And, just think of the time you'll save. You and your tween can use those extra minutes for meaningful, memorable mother-daughter bonding.

Ummm ... Or not.