Fight Club

Any intelligent person (well, any intelligent person who's actually been there) will tell you that parenthood ain't easy. Some people say it's "the toughest job you'll ever love." 

Truth.

But, when my now teenage daughter was a toddler, I was pretty smug about the whole thing. Basically, I thought I had nailed it. After all, the "terrible twos" weren't terrible at all. My sweet little girl was compliant, agreeable, bright, and a pure pleasure to be with. As far as I could foresee, things would never change. I would always be her best friend.

Oy vey, was I naive!

These days, I can't even tell you what half of our fights are about. Everything seems fine and then suddenly we're sparring. This morning, for instance, I went in to wake her up (yesterday's experiment letting her get her own sweet self out of bed was a non-starter, literally) and she turned away from me, rather abruptly, which was when I noticed that she hadn't in fact washed her hair last night as she had promised to do.

"I didn't have tiiiiiiiiime," she whined. 

I was tempted to berate her, to make ultimatums, to express my very real frustration. 

Instead, I walked away.

Before you think this is me shirking my responsibilities, let me explain how far I've come. Just the fact that I can vacate the premises, exit stage left as Snagglepuss used to say, when a full-fledged fight is brewing is a huge step forward. Huge, huge, huge. (Did I mention that it's huge?)

And, besides, is the world really going to come to an end if she goes to the stable with dirty hair? I mean, isn't it going to get dirty there pretty damn quickly anyway?

I admit, the stakes are low in this particular case, right? But, that doesn't ever seem to matter. In fact, we tend to fight more about stupid things like dirty hair or dirty laundry, texting and too much cookie dough than anything of substance. I suppose I should be grateful for that.

Last week, The Wall Street Journal ran a story called "Why Mothers and Teen Daughters Fight."  With comments from several experts, it boiled the issue down to two opposing objectives: moms want their daughters to stay close and daughters want to break away and be themselves. In a way, the story was encouraging. I'm not alone, this is all normal developmental stuff, and (apparently) there's not much I can do about it.

On the other hand, it was a bit depressing. You see, despite the fact that I'm not alone and this is all normal developmental stuff ... THERE'S NOT MUCH I CAN DO ABOUT IT!

My resolve for the summer and the coming (senior, omg!) year is to choose my battles. This isn't always (or ever?) in my control though. So, I'll just have to practice walking away.

I'm already getting better at it.

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

3Ps: Protect, Permit and ... Panic!

I recently read an essay in The New York Times that talked about how to manage teenagers. (Actually, it was more a reflection on how to survive teenagers.) The author and mother of two teen boys, Jessica Lahey, quoted Dr. Laurence Steinberg from his book Age of Opportunity: Lessons From the New Science of Adolescence ...

"Protect when you must, but permit when you can."

I have mixed feelings about these words.

On the one hand, I agree with them. In theory and wholeheartedly. On the other hand, I'm having a tremendously difficult time adhering to them. Because, in real life is nothing like in theory.

Protect and permit mean different things to my teenage daughter and to myself. Where I may see myself protecting her, she sees me not permitting something that in her mind holds no danger whatsoever. She struggles against the boundaries I've set. I struggle to let her go.

We do agree on one thing though ... this SUCKS!

She's seventeen, so she no longer feels the need to ask if she can do something with her friends. She simply announces it. Then, if her plans change, she doesn't feel the need to give us an update. Is she safe? Probably. But, couldn't she call or send a quick text to tell us where they actually are now instead of where we thought they were then?

Apparently not.

We've never enforced a curfew per se, because she was never out late without us unless we knew exactly where and with whom. Suddenly all bets are off, and I'm sorry I wasn't stricter when I didn't need to be because it's proving very difficult to create rules now.

This is her junior year of high school. (Supposedly, this one "really counts." All right, can we please send a great big collective "F*ck you!" to whoever said that? Way to add undue pressure to the pressure cooker we're already living in here.) I've tried to leave her to her own academic devices. I haven't nagged or micromanaged studying and homework. She would disagree, of course, but I've truly cut back dramatically. At what point, then, am I allowed to check on grades and course correct if needed?

I'll say it again. This SUCKS.

My job, as I see it, is not to be her friend. Not to permit all the time. And, in fairness, I permit much much (much much) more than she gives me credit for. Really, my job is to help her succeed. To help her do her best and become the best version of her possible. To help her embrace the values that I believe are important for her to lead a happy, productive life. This doesn't make me very popular. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.

And in the protect and permit dichotomy, I seem to inspire a lot of resentment for the first and no credit whatsoever for the second.

Rock ... me ... hard place.

She doesn't believe me, but I would much rather see her smiling all the time. I don't actually enjoy lecturing or picking fights or upholding consequences. 

She also doesn't believe me, but I have enormous faith in her. I'm so proud of her so much of the time. I believe that she can accomplish great things. And, I believe that part of my job is to enable her to do so. Sometimes, that means permitting her to do things she wants to do.

But, sometimes it means protecting her. Not just from things that go bump in the night, but from making short-term mistakes that might have long-term ramifications.

These days, it gets harder and harder to be her friend. For now, I'll just have to settle for being her mother.

I'll be her friend again — and gladly — whenever she's ready.

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

Think Twice, Text Once

About twelve years ago, I was running a much larger ad agency than I do today. There were good things about it: a schnazzy office, a corporate credit card, a reason to wear something other than yoga clothes. There were also significant downsides ... 

45 creative, passionate people. 45 sensitive, supersized egos. 

In a word ... drama.

One afternoon, a vice president account director rushed into my office in a panic. "What do I do? What do I do?" It wasn't so much about what he needed to do as it was about what he had already done. He'd received an unfortunate email from a colleague. When I say "unfortunate," I mean she was snotty, stubborn, downright condescending. He immediately forwarded her email to me (I was his and her supervisor) with a snide observation including a term that rhymed with Ducking Rich (hint: try an F and a B). As often happens in the wonderful world of email, he did not in actuality send it to me. He accidentally sent it back to her.

"What do I do? What do I do?"

When email became the norm for interoffice communication, we had to teach all of our staff some new rules for this new world. Don't use all caps (IT WILL SEEM LIKE YOU'RE SCREAMING). Never hit "reply all" unless you really, truly, absolutely, unequivocally want to reply all. Don't hit "send" without proofreading the message first. Don't say anything negative about clients or coworkers (or the Bush administration). 

And, perhaps most important, never put anything in email that would be better communicated in person.

Alas, our teens need similar guidelines in their all-text, all-the-time social lives. There are many conventions (and assumptions) that I don't understand. (For example, did you know that if you include a period in your text sentiment it means that you're mad? Ugh, I can't keep track. Period.) But, what I do understand is how words can clear things up or muddy them completely. How you can diffuse a potential storm or stir one up out of seemingly nothing at all.

And, in this at least, my daughter recognizes and truly appreciates that I can help.

Typically, my intervention (she actually seeks it out, believe it or not) occurs in the car when I'm driving her somewhere. Or she bursts into my office — whether I'm on a conference call or not — distraught because so-and-so misunderstood what she said about what's-her-name. "What do I do? What do I do?"

While I hate to see her so distressed, I welcome these opportunities to teach her about all the nuances of effective communication that they simply do not cover in the Honors English program. Like ...

• Giving the other person a graceful way to save face (even when you think they are — and should admit they are — utterly in the wrong).

• Apologizing for any misunderstanding (even when you believe that any such misunderstanding is theirs and not yours).

• Backing away from a conflict (even when it would be way more satisfying to stay and fight it out).

• Realizing that less really is more (even though you have so much more you want, need, frrrrkin' must say).

• And, finally, giving up a new argument in order to save an old friendship. 

Teen girls (I can only speak for the girls; it may be very much the same for teen boys) are all about the drama. They are quick to find offense and not always quick enough to forget it. And girls like my daughter wear their hearts on their sleeves. Or, these days, on the text screens of their iPhones.

With careful wordsmithing, together, we have extricated my darling girl from many a thorny text situation. She appreciates this ("She likes me. She really likes me.") and I derive more than a little satisfaction from our successes.

It's nice to feel that mother knows best once in a while ... even if it's only once in a very, very long while.

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

For Argument's Sake

"Because I said so!"

For the record ladies and gentlemen, I never planned to be a "Because I said so!" kinda mom. I always imagined that my child and I would have rational dialogues. That we would reach a win-win consensus. That we would see eye-to-eye more often than not. That we would, after a thoughtful and civilized discussion, agree about what was best for her own well-being.

That was then. This is now: LMAO!

These days, I wish it was as easy as saying, "Because I said so!" You see, there's no point in becoming that authoritarian cliché because guess what?!? Whether I say those dreaded words or not doesn't matter one single solitary iota. The argument ain't over until my daughter says it's over.

And, unless I capitulate, she never says it's over.

I can't tell you how many times I have left a room while she's still making her point — making it for the eighth or ninth or seventy-third time. She is tireless. She is persistent. She is indefatigable. (Sometimes I wonder if she is hearing-impaired.) In her hormone-addled mind, "Yes," means "Yes." "No," means continue the debate until "No" means "Yes." It bothers me to exit in the middle of her sentences, so I fire lame verbal warning shots: "I'm leaving. I mean it. I'm going away now. Really. This is me, walking out the door." If I do manage to escape, she lets go with a loud, guttural wail of frustration.

But, I've learned not to react or even feel particularly sorry for her. Because, no matter how pissed she is when I declare a cease-fire (oh, and she can be quite pissed, believe me), in her book it's only a temporary setback. The argument will resume, with nary a beat missed, at dinner, in the car, or before school the next morning.

My daughter wants to major in equine studies and make a career in the equestrian industry — either running a riding school, as an equine photographer or as an equine affairs lobbyist in Washington. She has it all planned out. But, I worry that she is missing her true calling. She should go to law school, directly to law school, do not pass go, do not collect $200. She has a keen litigious mind, a sound sense of logic, and an unrelenting passion to see that justice is done! Justice, in this case, meaning that the result she gets is the result she wants. The verdict is in and the court finds for the plaintiff. Case dismissed.

Until this past weekend, my daughter's utter inability to accept my authority or comply with my wishes was a source of bewilderment (and even a little shame) for me. I mean really. I'm a good mother. I work hard. I make things pleasant and easy and nice for her. Is it so much to ask that I get a little respect?

Uh ... don't answer that.

Then, I read about a study recently published by the University of Virginia in the journal Child Development. This study, conducted over the course of three years, found that adolescents who argued with their mothers were less likely to succumb to peer pressure about drugs and alcohol than those who simply backed down and did what their mothers said.

In other words, the skills my tween is developing in our never-ending mother-daughter debates may actually serve her well in high-risk high school moments of truth.

Hallelujah!

Will this new information make my day-to-day life any easier? I doubt it. Will the family feuds still make me want to pull out my hair? For sure. But, maybe I can adjust my thinking a little bit. Maybe my daughter isn't trying to get the upper hand as much as she's trying to assert her own independence. Maybe it isn't that she thinks I'm wrong; maybe it's that she's trying to define for herself what's right.

Or, maybe she really does think I'm a moron, that life is unfair, and that no one else has ever had to suffer like she does when it comes to (insert grievance here: cell phone limits, an early bedtime, cleaning her room, eating her vegetables). Don't get me started. Better yet, don't get her started! Any of these (or a thousand other) perceived injuries can launch a deposition the length of War and Peace.

She may never be a lawyer, but if holding her own in an argument is somehow an indicator of her ability to hold her own when confronted with bad behavior or a dangerous situation, then I can breathe a sigh of relief.

I pity the peer who tries to talk her into doing something she doesn't want to do.