Memorial Day weekend. Three days off from high school, hardly any homework. Given how tired my teenage daughter is most mornings, you might assume she would take the opportunity to catch up on her sleep.
You would assume wrong.
With the long weekend ahead of them, my daughter and three of her closest friends decided that the best use of their time would be to play all-night laser tag. She approached me with the concept Thursday.
"All-night laser tag? Is that even a thing?" I asked.
"Yes," she assured me, "You can look on the website."
Sure enough, a laser tag facility three towns over was offering a special overnight marathon of laser tagging from 11:30 pm Saturday until 6:00 am Sunday. The cost was $35 in advance or $40 at the door.
It seemed like a ridiculous plan to me. However ...
This was one of the (seemingly countless) times I had to remind myself that my baby was not a baby and was, in fact, seventeen. When I was her age, I pretty much owned New York City. I went where I wanted when I wanted, via bus or subway or simply walking the streets of Manhattan. The year I was seventeen, I went to midnight shows of Rocky Horror at the New Yorker on Broadway and 88th Street every weekend for several straight months. I always felt completely safe.
What worries me these days are the byproducts of raising a child in suburbia. Back in the 70s in NYC, we didn't wonder who would drive. None of us knew how to. But, it was the first thing on my mind when my daughter told me about her plans. Who would drive them all to the laser tag place at 11:30? Who would drive them all home at 6:00? And, what were the contingency plans if one or two of the laser taggers got tired at, say, 3:00 am.
As per usual, she assured me that they had it all planned.
As per usual, the plans changed at the eleventh hour.
So, there I was, at 10:30 pm (which, I'm not ashamed to confess, is past my usual bedtime), picking up one tagger then driving two of the taggers to meet up with the other two at one of the second group's father's house from where they would all drive together. (And if that sounds unnecessarily complicated, welcome to my world. My husband — wisely— had already gone to bed.)
I insisted on a handful of spur-of-the-moment rules. She had to be careful. She had to text me updates throughout the night (not that I would deliberately stay awake for them, but just knowing she was checking in would relieve my anxiety a bit). She had to be CAREFUL. She had to stay with her friends (having never played laser tag myself, I had no idea whether this was a reasonable request or not). SHE HAD TO BE CAREFUL. And, she had to be home by 7:00 am at the latest.
She happily agreed to all of the above.
Surprisingly, I slept well. Either I'm learning to let go a little, or I was simply super tired myself. At 6:00 am, I went downstairs to feed our new puppy (whose shenanigans warrant a blog all their own). Sure enough, my phone had received a string of texts and some selfies. It sounded like the overnight had been a great success.
One final message explained that she would be a few minutes late getting home because they were stopping at McDonald's.
Just tell me you're not having a McFlurry for breakfast, I texted back.
Um, was her response.
She may be seventeen, but she's still my baby. And, she has the appetite and palate to prove it.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
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.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Running a boutique ad agency, I get a lot of urgent requests. Many of our clients have a larger "agency of record," but turn to us for smaller jobs or projects that are a little bit quirky (like building a tradeshow booth that looks like the Mad Men set and then finding actors to staff it). Or, they turn to us when their timeframe is too tight for a more cumbersome agency to handle. It's all about time, and we somehow get it done.
Just like parenting a teenager.
Time is even more valuable than money. As in any transaction, this currency flows one of two ways. It's a "give vs. get" thing. For example, this past weekend, my daughter competed in the USEA Regional Championships. (Waitaminute, you don't know what the USEA Regional Championships are? Don't feel bad. I wouldn't either.)
Anyway, the event was in Genesee Valley, New York, a lovely area outside of Rochester — and a mere 8 hours from our house. We had to meet the horse (he was traveling separately) at 1:00 pm Friday. My husband couldn't take the day off and I'm my own boss, so ... chauffeur for the weekend? C'est moi. Comme toujours. (Audible sigh.)
Then again, what's an 8-hour drive, leaving at 4:30 am, when you have a chance to make your daughter happy? I'll tell you. It's a ...
FRRRRRKKKKKKKIN' 8-HOUR DRIVE, LEAVING AT 4:30 AM!!!
The roads were empty all the way to Boston and we got on the Mass Turnpike in short order. The Mass Turnpike is Interstate Route 90. Geneseo, NY is also on Interstate Route 90. So, logic might suggest that the best way to get there would be to stay on Interstate Route 90, yes?
Noooooooooooooo. That would be way too easy.
For whatever reason, the gods of the GPS system told us to get off 90 and get on 87 for about 15 miles, then get back on 90. At the exit to 87, there was construction and confusion (their construction, my confusion). I misread a sign and got on 87 going the wrong way. Next exit 23 miles. Between traffic, getting gas and a bathroom break, I was back where I started in about an hour.
Quick question: What's worse than an 8-hour drive, leaving at 4:30 in the morning? An 8-hour drive, leaving at 4:30 in the morning with an unexpected (and wholly unnecessary) 1-hour detour. Shoot. Me. Now.
But, we made it. In fact, we pulled in right ahead of my daughter's teammate and right behind our horse's trailer. And, chances are, I had only aged about 6 or 7 years in the process.
The entire journey (minus the scenic wrong-way roundtrip on Route 87) was repeated in reverse Sunday night. After loading the trailer and our sedan (and cleaning out our temporary stall), we left New York at about 4:00 pm, and with only one rest stop, pulled in just after midnight. It had been a very exciting and successful journey. My daughter came in 4th place overall (in a tough class of qualifying competitors) and also received a special Champion Connemara award for top score in her breed.
But, did the math really add up?
We were on the road 16+ hours. (I won't even include to and from the motel or the various trips to sub shops and a tractor supply store — don't ask.) My daughter was in the dressage ring 5 minutes. She was on the cross-country course 4 minutes, 40 seconds. She was in the stadium for jumping 2 minutes. Total time judged on horse (other than warm-ups and pleasure riding): 11 minutes 40 seconds.
Hmmmmm ...
Was it worth it? Absolutely. I give my daughter a lot of stuff. But, the most valuable thing I have to give her is time. And I know she appreciated it.
She stayed awake the whole drive home, just to keep me company.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Yesterday, my daughter competed in a horse show. (This is a common occurrence around here, and has been for about half of her life). As usual, she had to be at the stable at ohmigod o'clock to groom her horse, pack the trailer and in this case help some junior riders do the same. The only difference was that she was planning to drive herself to the stable and I could, in theory, go back to bed. Or, in reality, take a fitness walk and get a few hours of work in before driving out to watch the event myself.
After checking to see if she was up (two alarms plus a "Puh-leeeeese, Mom, just five more minutes"), I cut a peach into slices and thought about the rest of her breakfast. With a long day of competition ahead of her, I thought something more substantive than a chocolate chip muffin was in order. I made a pizza bagel instead.
"I don't feel like it," she announced when she came downstairs in a crisp polo, shiny boots and show breeches.
This is where my first mom-fail of the day came in. Basically, any parenting manual worth its salt would have advised me to (a) insist or (b) acquiesce. I took a third completely futile route and cajoled then lectured her then ended with some snipey comment about how she doesn't take her sport seriously. She headed out with a Chocolate Chip Cookie Zone Bar (yes, said disgusting thing does exist) and I was left to wrap the pizza bagel and put it in the fridge.
Crap!
As she was headed out the door, she asked in a mildly exasperated voice, "When can I stop texting you when I get there?" she asked.
"I don't know" I told her. "Not yet."
"Uggghhhhh," she groaned and headed off.
Since obtaining her highly anticipated and much cherished driver's license four months ago, we've had a deal. She puts her phone on "airplane mode" while she's driving (no calls in or out, no texts). She's very careful. She doesn't play her music too loud. No other teens in the car (that's Massachusetts's rule, not mine). And, she texts me when she gets wherever she's going.
That, for me, may be the most important part of the agreement.
With a text upon arrival (and a corresponding text when she's leaving for home later in the day), I only have two thirty minute blocks of sheer terror. Otherwise, I'd be looking at an entire day of it.
After our breakfast debate, I expected a terse "here" text from her. Instead, I received this:
"here i forgot my saddle pads after all that!" with a little freaked out face emoticon. We had washed them the night before and they were drying in the sun on our patio.
I quickly texted her back that I would bring them to the event location. It would simply mean getting there a bit earlier than I had planned.
"great thank you I'm sorry"
It was a gorgeous day, and I really didn't mind leaving work for a couple of hours. My daughter was genuinely happy to see me. Afterall ...
1. I had her clean white saddle pads
2. I could drive her jumping saddle and other equipment to the ring so she wouldn't have to make trips back and forth to the trailer between events
3. I could take pictures for her
As far as her actually wanting her loving mother to watch her compete? The bloom faded off that particular flower long ago. These days, I have jobs to do.
The show went well, and she left with two first place ribbons: dressage and stadium jumping. Along with the rest of her team, she headed back to the stable to celebrate. I headed back to my home office to work.
It occurred to me that my daughter is like the push-me—pull-you from Dr. Doolittle (you know, the weird, two headed llama thing in the old movie with Rex Harrison). She's moving away from me as fast as she can at times, and then returning just as quickly when circumstances change. Usually, that means when she needs something.
I always think that she'll appreciate all the above-and-beyond. That she'll understand how lucky she is that her mother is Mrs. Fix-It. But, I don't think she does. Maybe she will someday. Right now, it's all she knows.
In fairness, I do get a lot of "i'm sorrrrrrry" texts when there's a request. And, often "thank you soooooooo much" when said request is fulfilled. But, she's sixteen and her life is moving pretty fast. She can't stay repentant — or grateful — for too long. She might miss something.
So, back to her earlier question ...
"When can I stop texting you when I get there?"
How about "When you stop texting me with emergencies."
Or better yet. "When you're thirty-seven."
Yep. That works for me.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
As you may have read, my life changed dramatically recently.
My teenage daughter — after dedicating herself to six months of study and practice with a purpose and commitment I have never witnessed before — aced her road test. My daughter, my baby, my child, is now officially allowed to drive.
OMG.
The very first day, she came home, beaming, with her interim license (really, just her learner's permit with the word PASS scrawled across it in ballpoint pen), then immediately "borrowed" a car to go and see her horse.
She was ecstatic.
You might think, based on her enthusiasm, that we had kept the two of them apart. You might think I had never made the thirty-minute trip with her day after day (after day), year after year (after year). You would be wrong.
Here's what people told me ...
"Oh, just wait. You're going to love all the freedom!"
"Wow, what will you do with all that time?"
"Congratulations! You must be so happy."
So happy? More like, so not there yet. (Or, so anxious. Does that work for you? Yes, I'm so anxious.)
To give my daughter credit where it's due, she is a careful and conscientious driver (according to her father, aunt, instructors and registry inspector — I myself wouldn't know). And, she's been incredibly understanding about her mother's current agitated state. Each day she lets me know when she's leaving home (I'm often there, in an office on the third floor), then sends a brief text when she arrives:
here
Pure, unadulterated relief. Never was a word more welcome!
Only once in the four weeks since she got her license has she forgotten. Thirty minutes came and went. Then thirty-five. Then forty. (Can you tell I was watching a clock? 'Biting my nails too.) At about fifty-five minutes, I gave up pretending to be a cooler, calmer, more collected mother. I was worried about calling her phone; if she was stuck in traffic somewhere, I didn't want it ringing and distracting her. So, I called the stable. No answer. Then, I called her trainer's cell and left a message.
A minute later, my phone rang and a sheepish teen said "Sorry, Mom." Whether she was really sorry (and no matter how sorry she may or may not have been), we haven't had a repeat incident. I don't think she's in a hurry to be embarrassed during a lesson again.
It makes me wonder how long I can enforce the call-me-when-you-get-there (here) rule. A year? Two? Until she finishes high school? Until she finishes college? Until I finish, period.
A woman in my Zumba class wears a hoodie sweatshirt that reads "You can do anything for twenty seconds." (It refers to some brutal cross-training fitness class that I will never never never take.)
Every time my daughter gets behind the wheel and heads to the stable, I say a little prayer. I push thoughts of breakdowns and fender benders out of my mind and distract myself with work or chores or a rerun of Dance Moms. I'm nervous. But, I'm also brave.
I tell myself, "I can handle anything for thirty minutes." And I can.
But after that? I'm making a call.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Several times a week, I drive my teenage daughter to and from the stable where we board her horse. At this point, with the permission (and permit) of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, plus several hours of professional instruction under her skinny little belt, she could actually do the driving.
Except she can't. Because I'll have a heart attack. And then where would we be?
I could write an entire post — multiple posts, really — about the sheer and almost illogical terror I'm experiencing when the fruit of my womb is behind the wheel of my car. And, I'm sure I will.
But, not now.
Right now, I want to talk about another rite of teenage passage. Song lyrics, those anthems of angst that define today's adolescents just as they did when you and I were sixteen.
You see, on one of our recent car trips, the oldies station (yes, I'm an oldie, I admit it) was playing The Who. I was singing along without much thought, when I realized how silly I (not to mention Roger Daltrey) sounded:
Don't cry
Don't raise your eye
It's only teenage wasteland
I'm nearly 52. (Holy crap.) Daltrey is nearly 70. (HOLY CRAP.) Meanwhile, the only teenager in the picture was quietly texting in her seat, ignoring her mother, ignoring the ancient rockstar, ignoring all that teen trauma from long, long ago.
I wasn't a huge Who fan (although I did see the Tommy movie a couple, well several, okay about a hundred times). My teen years were all about Elton John:
I'll be a teenage idol, just give me a break
I'm gonna be a teenage idol, no matter how long it takes
You can't imagine what it means to me
I'm gonna grab myself a place in history
A teenage idol, that's what I'm gonna be
And Meatloaf:
Ain't no doubt about it
Baby got to go out and shout it
Ain't no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
'Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed
Of course, my daughter and her friends have their own musician gods and their own anthems of angst. Today's pop music includes countless songs about the trials and tribulations (and torture) of being a teen, about first love, about partying. For example, "Up All Night" by One Direction, "Teenage Dream" by Katy Perry, "We Are Young," by Fun.
Or anything at all by Taylor Swift.
My daughter's musical tastes run more toward small, indie groups. She and her BFFs go to a concert every month or so (long nights of fun for them; long nights, period, for the parents). "Their" bands often open for better known acts. On more than one occasion, they've gotten to meet them, take selfies, snag a broken, autographed drumstick.
Good times.
Every generation has its own soundtrack. And, every decade produces an extensive catalog of teen music. Years from now (years and years and years from now), my daughter will probably find herself driving her own teenager somewhere. A song will come on and — miraculously, musically — the years will peel away. She'll feel sixteen again, like I did a couple of days ago.
And the generation gap will never feel wider.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
My daughter is 16 now. 16. 16. 16. Can you tell I'm having a little trouble wrapping my arms around that number? (Almost as much trouble as I have wrapping my arms around my daughter — unless, of course, she wants something. Then she's all about the cuddling.)
Anyway, in case I haven't mentioned it about thirty times in the past thirty seconds ... my daughter is 16.
Whoa.
I have this never-ending ear worm in my head. David Byrne, circa 1980.
"You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?"
Okay. How did I get here?
Turning 16 is big, big, big. The biggest thing in the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts is that my daughter now has a piece of paper with her picture on it that gives her the right to drive. With a licensed adult and lots of restrictions, sure. But, still! The permit is hanging (should I say, is proudly displayed?) on our refrigerator door right now. That way, whether I'm taking her out or her father is, we know where to find it. Unfortunately, it means that I see it about two thousand times a day. In the picture, grainy digital black-and-white, she's smiling. Apparently, she just can't wait to get behind the wheel of a two-ton lethal weapon.
Omg. I feel a little queasy.
She still can't drink or smoke legally, I guess I should be grateful for that. (Or vote, for that matter, which is unfortunate because we tend to see eye-to-eye on politics.) But, it does make me wonder about other rights she's suddenly acquired. A quick Google and here you go ...
According to CAB, the Citizens Advice Bureau, at 16:
• She can leave home without consent from her parents.
Not gonna happen.
• She can apply for a firearms license.
Not gonna happen.
• She can get married or enter a civil union with her parents’ consent.
Not gonna happen.
• She can leave school and work full-time.
So not gonna happen
• She can consent to sexual intercourse.
Omg. And, if that's not bad enough ...
• If she's treated for a sexually transmitted disease the doctor does not have to tell her parents.
OMG. Can you tell I'm having a moment of maternal denial?
The news isn't all bad. My 16-year-old can also legally change her name and earn minimum wage and apply for certain benefits such as the Youth Payment, Young Parent Payment and the Guaranteed Childcare Assistance Payment.
Omg. My head hurts. Pardon me while I go block CAB's website from my daughter's computer.
Okay, I'm back now.
I've heard so many mothers wish aloud that their little ones would stay ... well ... little. And, it is truly difficult to say good-bye to a beloved baby, a toddler, a sweet child. I've always tried to avoid voicing the feeling because I never wanted my daughter to think I dreaded our (her) future. There are many wonderful things about growing up.
My daughter has become my friend (when she's actually talking to me, that is). And I need to look on the bright side.
That piece of paper on the fridge can't be replaced by an actual license unless she completes forty hours of driving practice with a parent. And, she's not going to complete forty hours of driving practice with a parent unless she's very very (very very) nice to that parent.
Hmmm ... this may all work out after all.
