The Party's Over

Graduation is a mere seven weeks away. And, in case any of us have let that slip our minds, my daughter's school just issued a letter about it. A five-page letter. A five-page "refrigerator letter," so named because they are asking us to post it prominently in our homes. And, with a teenager in the house, what could be a more prominent position than ... you guessed it ... the refrigerator.

(After all, that's where the orange soda and chocolate chip cookie dough live.)

To the authors' credit, the letter did start out with a few words of congratulations: "with great anticipation of their bright futures." It then walked us through all of the senior activities scheduled for the coming weeks. From the mandatory (their underline, not mine) parents meeting, through the annual carnival, Senior Art Show, prom, white water rafting trip, up until the big day itself.

This is useful information and I will, indeed, post said letter (or, at the very least, tuck it into my desk planner). I appreciate knowing what's going on. Really, I do.

My issue is with the tone.

After those extremely succinct words of celebration, the letter quickly became a long list of all the terrible things our teenagers might do which would preclude their graduating along with their peers. Here, in no particular order, are just some of the potential (it truly feels like they're anticipated) crimes and misdemeanors:
 
• Not passing a course
• Not returning a library book
• Not paying senior dues
• Not serving detentions
• Not returning a sports uniform
• Not cleaning out a locker
• Not turning in the "Post-Graduation Plan" sheet
• Not settling up any cafeteria charges

That's a lot of "Not."

There are also things that students might not not do (in other words, do) that would result in graduation expulsion. These include:

• Being in possession of alcohol
• Being in possession of drugs
• Being in possession of tobacco ...
• Or of "related paraphernalia"

(All of the above get them kicked out of prom as well as kept away from graduation.)

Then, there are other mandatory get-togethers: graduation rehearsal ("all seniors must attend!") and a "mandatory safety procedure preparation meeting" for anyone going white water rafting.

And, finally, students are warned that "No flip-flops or sneakers will be allowed" at commencement itself. This particular outrage holds a less severe penalty. The offender will merely be sent home to change. (Phew!)

Oh, and don't get me started on the fact that they suggested that girls wear dresses or skirts.

What is this? 1961?
 
Nevertheless, I know that safety has to come first (or at least right after making sure you return your sports uniform and any library books). But, rather than talk quite so much about "setting up clear boundaries and meaningful consequences," I wish they would give our kids the benefit of the doubt. Yes, spell it all out, but maybe also acknowledge that our students have worked hard and — for the most part — behaved like responsible young adults thus far. I don't think words like "violation" really need to be used quite so much.

Then again, they did offer an idea for a mother-daughter activity. They pointed out that "Students should be able to say 'no thanks' if offered alcohol or drugs or tobacco." My daughter happened to be hanging out in my office when I read the letter, so I suggested we role play.

"Here, little girl," I sneered like the Wolf in Into the Woods, "Have some alcohol or drugs or tobacco."

Silence.

"You're supposed to say, 'No thank you,'" I prompted.

"No. Thank. You."

Well. My work here is done.
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Jailhouse Rock: Junior Prom, Part 4

My ad agency worked with an interesting client a few years ago. They were in the hazardous waste industry and manufactured a handheld raman laser spectrometer. 

Don't worry. I don't for a minute expect you to understand what that is (my creative team and I certainly didn't until we were charged with marketing it). But, essentially, you can point it at an unknown substance and within minutes, know the chemical makeup of it. So, for example, you would know whether what looked like a harmless bottle of spring water was really filled with some other clear liquid. Bug poison, for example. 

Or vodka.

If I didn't know how severely underfunded my daughter's public high school is, I would suggest that they buy one. It might make all our lives easier.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Time flies. The snow has finally melted (except in the parking lots at the local grocery store and YMCA, where they had plowed it into mountains, which have yet to disappear). Three of the four quarters of my daughter's junior year are behind us. Successfully, thank goodness. And ...

We are only a couple of weeks from prom.

OMG.

The tough parts are behind us. Finding the right dress, waiting for a "promposal" (spectacular, btw, watch for details in a post to come). The next step on the road to junior prom is the paperwork.

And there's a significant amount of it.

This afternoon, my daughter brought home a very serious-looking document. On official school letterhead (and for some reason, printed on blue paper, maybe to prevent its being lost in the abyss known as the backpack), is our "Permission Slip to Attend Junior Prom."

If you think I'm exaggerating as to the serious nature of this communique, let me excerpt it for you here:

Policies, Procedures, and expectations for all students and their Guests:
• All students who are attending the junior prom are expected to be in school the day of the prom
• All students and guests should be at the high school by 5:30 pm
• Please do your best to carpool to the high school, the parking lot will be crowded
• All students and guests must check in at the school and ride the bus to and from the prom
• Be prepared to have purses and pockets searched (no backpacks allowed)
• Be prepared to be subject to random breathalyzer
• No guests allowed who are 21 or older
• Any guest who is 18 or older and not enrolled in high school must be CORI checked 
• All students and their guests must board the bus when directed to do so, to return to the high school 

All students and their guests are expected to behave in a manner that shows respect for themselves and others. Students who violate this policy will be asked to leave the prom. The student's legal guardian(s) will be called and must come pick up the student and guest immediately. All school rules and consequences apply. Smoking and tobacco are NOT allowed.

There's then a place for my daughter to print and sign her name. Then, there's a separate special message for her father and me:

To the Legal Guardian:
I understand that my son/daughter is attending the Junior Prom. Should he/she engage in behavior that is not in accordance with the rules and regulations, I will be called and expected to pick up my son/daughter immediately. If I am unable to be reached, my child will be placed in protective custody with the police until I can be contacted. If there is a medical emergency, a chaperone will accompany my son/daughter to the nearest hospital.

And at this point, we sign and provide a phone number where we can be reached during the event itself. There's a final asterisked warning to all of us:

* A prom ticket cannot be purchased until this form has been returned

Okay. Now, I do understand that prom nights have historically been notorious for underage drinking. Friends of mine (who didn't grow up in midtown New York) have told me about classmates who had serious accidents, in some cases died, driving home from a less rigorously supervised prom. I really do want my daughter and her peers to be safe.

But, I can't help feeling that this is taking things a little too far. "Subject to a random breathalyzer?" Really?

It worries me no end that my daughter and her classmates are treated as though they're already guilty and must constantly prove their innocence. Take it from a native New Yorker, this is a fairly sleepy little town. I don't think there is much going down in the way of truly dangerous delinquent behavior. The bulk of the student body is too busy playing field hockey, rounding out their college resumes with community service and studying for their SATs. As far as drugs are concerned, I wouldn't be surprised if some of the students are on anti-anxiety meds, but not much else.

Then again, I guess I should be grateful. Really. I mean most kids in juvie probably don't get to have a junior prom.

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


 

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.

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

Terrible Twos vs. Terrible Teens

My daughter just turned seventeen, and I'm fairly stunned. We all joke "Where did the years go?" But, I really want to know. 

Where did the years go?

When she was little, we had this marvelous pediatrician. He had a few topics about which he was absolutely passionate. Bicycle helmets, for example — not only was my daughter required to wear one, but my husband and I were supposed to as well. 

I remember one annual check-up when he coached my daughter on what to do if a friend ever offered to show her "Daddy's gun." The solution was to feign a stomach ache and insist on calling Mommy for a ride home. 

The single most useful thing this doctor taught me was to choose my battles. My daughter was about to turn two (as in "terrible ...") and I was warned to "Say 'No' only if you mean it and you're going to stick with it. If that means saying 'Yes' 99 percent of the time, so be it. If you say 'No," and she cries for 45 minutes and then you say 'Yes,' you've just trained her to cry for 45 minutes."

Amen.

We were really good at it. In fact, we congratulated ourselves fairly frequently about our fabulous parenting finesse. Granted, we did say "Yes" more often than not. But, our daughter never abused that affirmative attitude. She was sweet and compliant. She followed rules: happily took her bath and went to bed on time each night; ate her fruits and vegetables; tidied her room, neatly grouping Barbies ("Mommies"), Kelly dolls ("Sweeties") and a handful of Kens ("Daddies," of course) into brightly covered canvas drawers. Tantrums were blessedly few and far between. 

The only hiccup we had was potty training, and even that resolved itself in fairly short order, once she was ready. A single weekend of M&Ms (hooray for bribery) and we were done.

While she was going through her not-so-terrible twos, I was terribly busy. I commuted into Boston every day and was on the road often, servicing a couple of major ad agency clients out on the West Coast. My terrific toddler took it in stride. Our time together most evenings and on the weekends (Saturday mornings at Gymboree) made up for the hours she was with her nanny.

It was all so easy.

So, my next question (after "Where did the years go?") is this. Do moms of teens have some form of amnesia? Like the way new mothers forget the excruciating pain of labor as soon as that wet little bundle is put into their arms. Was it as easy as I recall or am I looking back through memory's rose-colored glasses. Who knows?

What I do know is that it ain't so easy anymore.

Part of our back-then success was definitely maintaining a routine and setting rules. Neither of these seems remotely possible now. Between high school and two part-time jobs, riding and competing in horse shows, and fulfilling myriad social obligations, my daughter's schedule is anything but routine. Now that she can drive herself (and soon her friends as well, Lord help me!), I have very little control over where she is and when. All I can do is feign some iota of control and authority by insisting "Don't be too late." Or asking "Is all your homework done?"

As far as rules are concerned, there weren't many to begin with and those that were in place are ... well ... pretty much ignored. To my credit (I guess), I do still try to choose my battles. My daughter hasn't been in any trouble (I'll try not to say "Yet"). Her grades are good. She's relatively polite to her elders. Not always to me, maybe, but certainly to her grandmothers and other grownups.

When I bristle at some behavior or feel the need to assert some sort of authority, I have to think about it. Am I pulling rank because she's making a poor choice? Or am I merely trying to recreate a time when I was the only adult in the relationship? 

She has a major goal right now: to achieve independence. I know that, I really do. And, although she would be the last to admit it, I am trying.

It's tough. In fact, at times, it's terrible.

But, I'll look on the bright side. At least she's potty trained.

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

Compliance

There are two things I remember clearly about Kindergarten Orientation. The first is skipping.

It was spring, and my now teenage daughter was in her final year of preschool (technically, pre-kindergarten). As usual, I picked her up at her daycare provider’s house when I returned in the evening from my office in Boston.

“What did you do in school today?” I asked her as we headed home.

“Skipping,” she told me.

“Cool. What else?”

“Nothing. Just skipping.”

After a few consecutive days of similar (and so succinct) reports, I asked her teacher about it. Turns out, the children were skipping considerably more than usual in preparation for Kindergarten Orientation. The year before, the teacher confided, many of the aspiring kindergarteners had failed. Skipping, that is, they failed skipping. So, this year, the school wasn’t taking any chances.

I nodded solemnly, and reflected on my tuition dollars at work.

The second thing I remember about Kindergarten Orientation was a fairly long form I had to fill out. It included my daughter’s medical history, education to date, family life, hobbies, napping and eating habits. The final question was this:

“Choose one word to describe your child.”

Tough. There were so many words I wanted to write down. Bright, beautiful, funny, sweet. But, the one word I finally chose was: compliant.

I figured they were looking for something remarkable about each student. More than any other child I knew, my daughter was a good listener. She followed directions. She was cooperative and obedient. In a word, at five years old, she was ... compliant.

You may ask “And now, at sixteen, is she still compliant?”

I may answer. But, I may not because I may (probably, certainly, definitely) be choking on my own laughter so hard that you’ll have to call the paramedics. Stat!

Here is a partial list of all the things that my darling daughter is not compliant about: bedtime, cleaning her room, writing thank-you notes, getting homework done, time limits on any technology device. Don’t get me wrong, all of these tasks are eventually completed. But, in terms of following a direction when said direction is given? Nada.

Actually, it’s particularly frustrating because our typical pattern goes as follows. I ask. She says “Okay.” She doesn’t follow through. I ask again. She says “Okay” again. She doesn’t follow through again. By the third or fourth (or seventeenth) time, she is rolling her eyes, audibly sighing and even responding with “I heard you already. Stop nagging me.”

Winning situation? Not.

Anyway, one would still hope that my once compliant little daughter would take authority figures other than her loving mother a little more seriously, right? Alas, no.

After the bomb scare at her school this week, an email was sent out from the principal, outlining some changes in protocol for the following days. Students were not permitted to bring backpacks or lunchboxes (the better to hide a bomb in, I guess). They had to bring all their supplies and belongings in a clear plastic bag. And, their cell phones were not to be used on school property all day. It was suggested that the kids leave their phones at home, but — since that was not going to happen in anyone’s wildest imagination — if they did bring them, the devices had to be out of sight and turned off for the duration. Otherwise, it would be confiscated and only released if and when a parent made an appointment to pick it up.

Many of my daughter’s classmates (and 52% of the high school’s students overall) chose not to go in the next day. My daughter made a fairly solid case for joining the army of truants, but I said I’d consider it only if she spent the entire day studying AP World History (no texting, no laptop, no Netflix). My goal, of course, was to convince her to go. To her credit, she complied.

Over breakfast (having packed her lunch in a clear plastic bag), I reiterated the no cell phone rule. “Keep your phone out of sight,” I reminded her. She nodded. We picked up a friend and I dropped them off at the front door of the school. “I’d say, ‘Keep me posted,’” I joked. “But, you can’t use your phone.” She nodded.

With very little traffic, I was back home in about five minutes. As I walked in the door, I received a text from her friend.

They took her phone. Call and pick it up.

Five minutes.

Of course, my first thought was to call the school. But, then I realized that there was no way I would have known my daughter’s phone was taken unless she or someone else contacted me, which they were not allowed to do. My call would basically implicate my daughter’s friend.

At my 2:35 pick-up that afternoon, I finally called and spoke to someone in the office. Sure enough, I would have to come in and meet with the principal if I wanted the phone back. “You’re coming with me,” I informed my daughter. “You’re going to have to apologize to him.”

“It’s not my fault,” she moaned to me. “So-and-so was supposed to be my lookout. Plus, school hadn’t technically started yet. I thought the rule was only for school hours.”

“Then why did you need a lookout?” I countered.

Ha! Busted.

The principal was surprisingly nice about it all. My daughter, he told me, had the distinction of being the first student caught that morning. He reminded her about the policy (which was going to continue until further notice even though backpacks were back). He told us to have a nice day.

On the way out, I think my daughter was waiting for some sort of lecture or punishment. I did tell her that I’d rather not be called into the principal’s office again. “Ever.” But otherwise, I was pretty chill.

Being the first to have her phone confiscated may have been a dubious honor.

But, at least I can say she was first.

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

Purchase

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.

Caution: Explosives Ahead

I love movies. There is nothing quite like that feeling of anticipation when the lights dim, you settle into your seat, and taste that first piece of delectable popcorn with "golden topping." (What is that stuff? Never mind, I'm quite sure I don't want to know.)

Over the years, I've related to various silver screen heroines. I went through my Juliet phase, my Scarlet O'Hara phase, my Sister Maria phase. As an adult, I understood why working woman Holly Hunter cried after her run each morning, why Sally fell for Harry, why Hannah felt taken for granted by her sisters.

But these days, the movie in which I most clearly see myself is a tremendously gory low-budget horror film from 1981. It's David Cronenberg's Scanners. And there's one infamous scene in particular that reminds me of ... well ... me. I'm not going to link to it (because it truly is disgusting), but if you're curious, you can Google "exploding head scanners." Just don't say I didn't warn you.

In Cronenberg's cult classic, scanners are people with superhuman telekinetic powers: they can read others' minds and make things happen through their own thoughts and concentration. A renegade scanner who is participating in a "harmless" demonstration decides to show off, focuses on another scanner's cranium and KABOOM! there is blood and guts and brains everywhere. The effect was created with raw beef livers and a shotgun. Not for the weak of heart (or the recent of lunch).

Despite the spectacular 1980s special effects, there is something basic and human and motherly about the scene. You see, I often feel as if my own temples are about to burst. In fact, this exceptionally unpleasant sensation happens almost daily. And, the movie's tagline pretty much says it all ...

10 Seconds: The Pain Begins.

15 Seconds: You Can't Breathe.

20 Seconds: You Explode.

Here are some, but not all, of the reasons this particular mom fears for her head:

When I have to repeat — for the hundredth time — that a certain someone can't go on Facebook until her homework is done.

When it's below freezing and that same young person refuses to wear a hat or a scarf or a pair of gloves, even though she has several of each of these apparently unnecessary accessories.

When there are dirty dishes in the aforementioned offspring's bedroom, in the bathroom, in the living room, the TV room, in pretty much every room in the house ... except the kitchen.

When there is a complete and utter disregard for rules despite the fact that said rules have been in place for years and have not changed one iota in all that time.

When I've had a particularly gruesome day at work only to learn that there is a humongous social studies project due the next day that will require all hands on deck, not to mention supplies we don't happen to have.

When I learn, through a strategic series of questions, that the social studies project in question was assigned not today, not yesterday, not even last week, but A FULL MONTH AGO!!!!!!!!

KABOOM!

Until today, I thought that the perceived combustion of my brain was simply a manifestation, a symptom of a greater disease state known as mother-of-a-tween-itis. But, some quick web research has shown that "Exploding Head Syndrome" is an actual parasomnia disorder in which the patient is awakened by a fantastically loud noise inside his or her head. How horrible! Although these EHS episodes do not include physical pain, they do lead to anxiety and understandable difficulty sleeping.

The cause is unknown, but EHS appears to be connected to stress and extreme fatigue. Oh, and more women suffer from it than men.

Yep, that sounds about right.

Rules ... And The Bending Thereof

In our house these days, there are a lot of discussions about rules. "Discussions" may not be the right word. How about protests, fights, altercations, melees, battles royal?

You see, there are different perspectives about rules. Not just in our family, but in the world at large. T.S. Eliot advised (soundly advised, if you ask me) ...

"It's not wise to violate rules until you know how to observe them."

My daughter, I am sorry to report, is a little weak in the observing them department. She sees my authority as unfair. She is persecuted for her beliefs. She is taxed without representation. (She has taken way too much American history.)

By virtually any accounting, I am a lenient, liberal parent. In my daughter's mind, however, I am running the all-girl equivalent of the Yorkshire school in Nicholas Nickleby. It's amazing that she gets anything to eat other than gruel!

To add insult to injury, my daughter knows in her heart with a certainty and a self-righteousness reserved for the very young that she is the only fourteen-year old girl at her middle school (probably the only one on the entire planet, WTF!) who has to follow so many rules. According to her, no one else has limits on their computer time. No one else has to make their bed. No one else has to text their mother when they're hanging out after school. No one else has to surrender their cell phone when they retire for the evening. No one else has to finish their homework before they can watch The Lying Game.

In addition to our drastically different opinions on the necessity of rules (we could agree to disagree, except she would never agree), my daughter has mind-boggling fortitude. You would think that after she has been caught bending the rules, oh say, a thousand times, she would stop bothering. Not my daughter! She will continue to push because she knows something crucial to her cause. She knows that she has the strength of ten grinches (plus two), while yours truly is walking around in a fog of fatigue more often than not.

There have been a number of times when her persistence has almost paid off. Almost. Just the other day, she was on her iPhone (texting or looking at pictures or playing with her favorite app) when she was supposed to be eating breakfast and getting ready for school. For a moment, I considered simply ignoring it. But, I knew my momentary apathy (brought on by my perpetual exhaustion) would set a precedent. I had to be vigilant. I had to persevere. I had to uphold order. After all, without rules, wouldn't our very civilization crumble? I heard myself say, as I have said so many times before ...

"Um ... honey, ... are you supposed to be on your phone?"

Busted. She groaned but shut it down. Beneath her eyes though, I could see that spark of defiance. A revolution waiting for another day.

Someday, my daughter will be on her own. Her loving mother will no longer be there with gentle (sometimes, not so gentle) reminders. She'll have to write her own rules and eventually she will play benevolent dictator to some smaller being. When that inevitable future state arrives, I, as doting grandmother, will most likely become my daughter's daughter's accomplice. I look forward to it.

For now, if T.S. Eliot were here, my daughter would accord him the same respectful response she always gives me: she would roll her eyes. She could much better relate to Thomas Edison's position:

"Hell, there are no rules here — we're trying to accomplish something."