Virtually every morning, I negotiate a minefield.
If only Princess Diana were here in a clear plastic visor, crisp white shirt and chinos to bring attention to the matter. Joking aside, I'm not trying to diminish the late great Lady Di's important cause. She was brave and beautiful and brought much-needed heart to the British royal family. I was a big fan then (eight and a half months pregnant when she died, I collapsed on the sofa in tears at the news). I'm still a big fan. Sometimes, I stop and wonder what she might have accomplished if she had lived a full life.
Of course, I can't compare my efforts to hers. But, really, I do tread treacherous territory in my own home each day. And the sometimes ally — but often enemy — I face is my own teen daughter.
On the one hand, I'm yelled at if I enter the room before her alarm. On the other hand, I'm yelled at if I come in between alarms one and two. And on the third hand (because, two hands would never be enough; mothers are like the Hindu goddess Durga) I'm yelled at if she sleeps through both alarms and I didn't somehow realize it and come wake her.
'Can't win.
At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I'll indulge in a quick paragraph of nostalgia. (Cue Disney music: happy birds singing in the background.) Mornings used to be nice. They used to be special. They used to be precious time together before my sweet little girl went off to preschool or kindergarten or even third grade, and I went off to my office in Boston. She was happy to see me. We snuggled. We talked. We ate together.
Cut! (Cue abrupt scratched record sound effect.)
It's been a while.
These days, assuming that one of her alarms has raised her, my daughter has a whole world of things to do before she leaves for school — things that by-and-large do not include yours truly. First, she has to actually wake up, which is not the same thing as getting up. Often, this entails, sitting on the carpet, staring blankly in the general direction of her dresser. Somehow this helps. I guess.
She's almost seventeen, so she has to check all of her electronica. She has to put great effort into dressing in a way that looks effortless. She half-heartedly makes the bed.
Either my husband or I bang on the wall of the staircase that leads up to her room. The bang translates, simultaneously, into "breakfast is ready" and "Daddy's leaving." Although he often threatens to, he has never actually left without her. If the stars align (and somehow they always do), she grabs the fruit and muffin off the kitchen counter as she grunts "Bye" and makes it out the door just in time.
Sometimes, I blame myself ("Where did I go wrong?). Sometimes, I blame her ("What happened to my sweet little daughter?"). But, really, it's all about biology. Teens need sleep. Teen biorhythms are such that going to bed late and sleeping in are natural. It isn't poor parenting or teen 'tude; it's science.
Earlier this week (coinciding with the start of the school year in many states), the American Academy of Pediatrics released a recommendation that high schools (and middle schools) delay starting until 8:30 a.m. or later ...
Doing so will align school schedules to the biological sleep rhythms of adolescents, whose sleep-wake cycles begin to shift up to two hours later at the start of puberty.
My daughter and many others start their school day almost an hour earlier. That explains it! So this begs the question: if she was able to sleep in an extra hour, would her room still feel like a minefield?
Yes, I'm sure it would. But maybe after an extra hour of sleep (or coffee), I might be a bit more sure-footed myself.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
A client and friend of mine just posted a picture of her daughter's school project. It's a model of a waterside town, built into a large plastic container. There are tiny houses on a hillside next to a coast made out of pebbles. The purpose of the project, I gather, is to demonstrate flooding. It's the perfect hands-on way to teach a child about something bigger than she is.
Boy, I miss those days!
When my now teenage daughter was little, I was all about the art projects. Any time she came home with an assignment, I'd roll up my sleeves and — joyfully — jump in. Several stand out in my mind:
• The biography poster of George Washington. We photocopied about a zillion quarters, colored them in with silver pencils, and created a frame around it.
• The shoebox diorama of William Dawes, Paul Revere's compatriot. This might be an odd choice except that Dawes rode a horse. Even in second grade, my daughter let her love of horses drive ... well ... pretty much everything.
• The Christmas wreath made out of a paper plate, green streamers and holiday images cut out of magazines. (We still hang it in the kitchen every December.)
• The poster illuminating the mineral gypsum. We included several photos of my daughter, pointing to important information, scratching her head over puzzling facts, and smiling broadly at the conclusion (in hopes of getting an A, no doubt).
• The boat that was supposed to hold 32 glass marbles without sinking. (This one was a joint effort with her father, I have to say. It stayed afloat. Almost.)
• The Valentine's Day mailbox made out of an oatmeal container, Kleenex box, craft paper, yarn and googly eyes. (Can you guess what it was supposed to be? The head of a horse, of course.)
In addition to the ones for school (and there were dozens, if not hundreds, of those), we did our own art projects together on weekends. Costumes and masks and puppets and scrapbook and models and jewelry and, and, and ...
Early on, my daughter got a little bored with all the creativity I was encouraging. But, her friends still loved it. Often, when another girl would come over for a playdate, she'd say "Can we do an art project?" My daughter would roll her eyes but go along with her friend (and her mom).
We ended up with a lot of supplies. In the past few weeks, I've been trying to clean out our basement. I've come across dried-up tubes of paint ("make your own tee shirt"), empty cigar boxes ("make your own shadow box"), boxes of beads ("make your own friendship bracelet"). There are markers and pads of construction paper, bags of glitter and glue sticks, paper dolls and little plastic horses.
I'm keeping some for my niece, giving some to the school thrift store, and throwing some (all right, a lot) away.
Audible sigh.
I've said this before. No one warns you when it's the last time you'll read Good-Night Moon. No one warns you when it's the last time you'll watch The Little Mermaid (or, in our case, Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron).
And, no one warns you when it's the last time you'll do an art project together.
That's probably why I've kept all this junk in the basement for so many years. Well, that and the fact that my natural inclination lies somewhere over in "pack rat" territory.
If I so much as vaguely suggested a family art project now, my daughter would look at me like I had two heads. The idea's way too lame and she's way too busy. She has high school, she has riding, she has a part-time job. In less than three weeks, she'll take (and probably pass, Lord help me) her driving test. Then, she'll be free to leave me and my boxes of art supplies behind.
Meanwhile, I continue to organize and, sadly, purge. Really, if we haven't so much as opened the "Super Spirograph," the modeling clay, or the pot holder loom in ten years, we can probably do without them.
Everyone, including my daughter, supports my basement project. What they don't know is that I have a top-secret and not-negotiable portfolio stashed under my bed.
Let me know if you want to see that George Washington poster.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
