Tag: raising teens

Middle School #atozchallenge

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My youngest child is finishing up middle school this year and moving on to high school. I have to say that I couldn’t be happier. Overall, middle school has been my least favorite parenting experience. And it was my least favorite childhood experience, as well. Middle school is the time when children are forming their own identities away from their parents, moving into cliques, discovering what they might like to do, what they are good at, and realizing that they can project the things they don’t like in themselves onto others.

When my oldest entered our town’s middle school, I distinctly remember sitting in a parent meeting in the cafeteria with a large group of parents. The principal stood on stage giving her spiel, and finally, she proudly stated, “There is NO bullying in our school. None.” And then she turned to the students she had coerced to be on stage with her and said, “Isn’t that right, students?” To which they all nodded, looking like deer in headlights.

As a teacher, a parent, and a long-ago middle-school student, I remember thinking that principal must have buried her head so deeply in the sands of self-created utopia that she had no idea what was happening in the halls she walked each day. And in fact, I was correct.

There was plenty of bullying at our middle school. But there was also much opportunity for growth. Middle schools are tough places, and so I offer some thoughts to help prepare for this experience.

1. You will not find “your people” in middle school. There will be a lot of people there, but they might not be people that you want to hang out with. They might not even be people you like. Don’t be discouraged. You are more likely to find them your people high school, but you might not find them until college. You will eventually find people with whom you have much in common.

2. Don’t work on being popular. From my experience, middle school popularity (even high school popularity) is fleeting. The people who are popular now will find themselves in amongst people who are older and smarter and more popular than they are, and they won’t know how to fit themselves in with those people. Besides, the focus on popularity holds you back from true success in life.

3. Those people who look like they have it all together? The people who don’t accept you because you don’t play a sport or you don’t live in the right part of town? They are just as insecure as everyone else. If someone doesn’t accept you, that is a reflection on who they are, not who you are.

4. Middle school is just a brief period of time. I know it may seem like it lasts forever, but it will be over before you know it. Keep your focus on your school work and on developing the best you that you can be, and you will come out stronger and more amazing than when you started. You are enough, and you are exactly what this world needs. Develop your talents and figure out who you are becoming.

I am quite happy that we are reaching the end of our middle school experience. For all of you who are not, I wish you the best of luck. Remember: this too shall pass.

Knives #atozchallenge

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“Hey Mom, I booby-trapped the sink!” C exclaimed as he shut the dishwasher and dried his hands. It had been his night to do the dishes.

I looked toward the sink, and saw he had placed several knives in the position in which (I will admit) I too frequently leave them. They were on the edge of the sink, half on the counter and half “in” the sink. The blades were in mid-air, pointing into the sink. I laughed.

C had commented on this habit of mine when he first started to work in the kitchen more often. “What is this, Mom?” he pointed to the knife of the moment, hovering over the  sink. I had used it to make a sandwich, and I wasn’t done with it. I still had more to do before I was ready to clean up the kitchen.

“Are you trying to kill someone? Look at this!” He pretended to slip, moving his hand too close to the knife. “I could cut off my finger just trying to wash my hands!” He was totally teasing, but logically, he was making a good point. Balancing a knife in that position, over a frequently used sink was probably not the best idea. Point taken.

But I still leave my knives on the edge of the sink. In the time it takes me to break the habit, the kids will have moved out.

Just so you know… #atozchallenge

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The students in C’s culinary program were preparing for some event or other last week. C came home one day to report that he had fried 168 chickens that day. He was in charge of frying while other students had their own tasks to complete. Actually, he didn’t say 168 chickens; he said 7 times 24 chickens. Interesting number.

Meanwhile, the thought that he had spent so much time with the fryolator slipped right out of my mind. Until, that is, he came home on Friday with his culinary uniform in a bag to be washed for the following week.

“Put that downstairs in the laundry room. It probably doesn’t smell too good,” I told him when he came into the house. When I was a teen, I did my time in a fast-food kitchen, and the smells of hot oil and friend foods came wafting back to me on the breezes of my memory.

C stared at me for a moment as he formed his thoughts into the words he needed to express his dismay. “Um… just so you know,” he started. “When I got in the car after school, my girlfriend said I smelled good. She said I smelled like a carnival!”

“Oh, fried dough!” I exclaimed, and the smells in my memory morphed into the smells of sweet dough mixed with fried onions and summer grass.

“Yeah, a carnival,” he said pointedly. “Just so you know.”

Danger & Discovery #atozchallenge

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I am navigating the line that separates danger and discovery. Walking this line used to be a piece of cake—it was solid, and there was a clear delineation from one side to the other. But over the years, the line has flexed and grown treacherous, making my footing uncertain.

When my children were younger, it was easy to create opportunities for them to discover the world in ways that involved little risk. They would play in the sink with soapsuds, “experiment” with science kits that were designed specifically for kids their ages, or don their puddle boots and wade along the shoreline of our pond with a net and a bucket catching frogs and fish and turtles.

Now that the children have become teens, the line I walk is thin and often barely visible. Their discoveries involve delving into some project that has an uncertain outcome. Take, for example, the electronic interests of my younger son.

He has, in our basement, an area in which he satisfies his technology-driven need to create. He has electronic components culled from the drawers at the back of his favorite Radio Shack stores, before his they all closed. He has an array of lights and breadboards and switches and transistors and miles of wire.

For his most recent project, he created a speaker, wired and assembled and tested by his fourteen-year-old self. But then he needed a transformer and an amplifier, so he built those, as well.

And then he took his creation, and he plugged it into a wall outlet carrying 120 heart-stopping jolts of electric current. That part I made him do in my presence at the kitchen table. And I readily admit, I took a step away from the table, just in case. There was a deep sigh of relief from this mom when the entire contraption did exactly what it was supposed to do.

Yesterday, he began to assemble a box for his speaker. He used power tools to cut the ¾” MDF while I made dinner, pretending not to hear the whine of the saw emanating from the basement. Pretending there was no danger involved in my son’s latest exploits.

Today, when I arrived home from work, he proudly demonstrated his new speaker—assembled and working and sounding pretty darn good, I must say. There is no doubt in my mind that the “discovery” aspect was an integral part of the process: he built, he learned, and now, he will move on to the next project.

Bigger and better discoveries lie ahead for him. And the line I walk—between danger and discovery—becomes ever more treacherous.

D

Artistic #atozchallenge

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I live in a house with three creative teenagers, each of whom views the world in his or her unique way. In my house, there is forever a creative flow of pieces being reimagined and molded into thoughtful wholes. It is a lifelong endeavor, the concept of being a creator. If you are a creator, you are constantly looking for raw elements that can be made into something interesting.

This vision and creative treasure seeking started years ago, when the children were just toddlers. We would walk through the craft store, and they would pick up items from the floor: a stray button, a piece of yarn, a detached bud from a stem of silk flowers. At that age, they simply saved the items, perhaps as inspiration for future projects.

The other day, I took a quick run through the living room, tidying up. I came across a crumpled piece of paper on the end table, and I reflexively reached for it. Mid-reach, a vision rushed into my brain of J, sitting on the couch, this crumpled piece of paper in her lap. Her pencil scratched the paper as she recreated the folds and angles in her sketchbook for drawing class. I took a deep breath and removed my hand, leaving the paper where it was.

“Do you still need this crumpled paper?” I remembered to ask her the following day.

“No. You can throw it away,” she responded indifferently.

“Did you finish your drawing?”

“What? The one with the little men?” she looked up from her homework.

“Little men?” I questioned.

“Yeah. There are little men climbing on it. It’s just a sketch for a bigger project.” She shrugged and showed me the sketch. And sure enough, there are little men hoisting themselves up on the various levels of the ball of paper.

What started out as trash had become the expression of one of my artists. And now I know: because I live with artists and inventor types, it is always good to check before I throw anything out!

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Driving

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There is something about being out on the road with a brand new driver that imparts a thrill greater than any amusement park ride anyone could ever dream up.

As you barrel through town at speeds ranging anywhere from 2 to 72 miles an hour, you have absolutely no idea whether the car you are riding in will clip the mailbox on the side of the road, toppling it over, or veer into the center lane straight into the path of oncoming traffic. You have no idea if the car is going to come to a halt before it reaches the vehicle stopped at the red light just ahead of you, or… not.

In my state, there is no need to pass a test before taking the wheel. Children reach a magical age determined by a handful of stressed-out lawmakers at the end of a long day of deliberating on important issues, they grab their birth certificate, and hop in the driver’s seat. No permit necessary. And when they first take the wheel, the entire extent of their knowledge of the laws of the road is gleaned from years of sitting in the back of the mommy-van staring out the window. Truth be told, if you really think about it, it’s a frightening prospect.

And yet, this is my present reality. Each day, I drive my car to the high school in time to meet the students as they exit the school following theater practice. I dutifully move to the passenger seat to become a passive observer in the vehicle which I pay for and on which I cover all the expenses. (And to think, I once thought handing over a $300 pair of eyeglasses to a three year old was a big deal….)

As my daughter gets in, the first thing she does is move the seat three feet closer to the steering wheel and adjust all of the mirrors accordingly. Her older brother and I are close enough in size that I barely notice when he drives my car, so this is a novelty for me. The first morning after she was on the road, I had forgotten she was the most recent driver, and I hit my head on the door-frame trying to squeeze myself between the seat and the steering wheel. Now, I am a bit more astute about noticing the seat position before I attempt to get in.

I have been down this road before, but I had forgotten just how much my muscles tense and my blood pressure spikes when I am in the car with an inexperienced driver. In this situation, I am the adult; I am in control, and yet, I have no control whatsoever. I can scream all I want, but that doesn’t mean the car is going to stop.

Like childbirth, I had pushed the memory of the first-time driver deep into the recesses of my brain, and it was not until I was riding in my own car on the roads with child number two at the wheel when the memories, the physical reactions, the FEAR came flooding back. (I try to keep the fear to myself. At least until this blog post.)

Someone once told me that one of the great uncertainties of life is having a baby without finding out the gender before it is born. I beg to differ. One of the greatest uncertainties in life, if not the greatest uncertainty, is getting into the car with your teenager. You just never know how that is going to turn out. I’m hoping I’ll survive this one. And the next….

Sweatshirt?

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Spring has come early to these parts, but that doesn’t mean spring is here to stay; it comes and goes. In fact, the weather is so volatile lately that we might experience the entire range of four seasons within a span of days. Or hours. Last week, it seemed as though spring had settled in, but this week’s raw temperatures have mixed with precipitation that reminds me the calendar still says March. But last week’s weather spoiled us. And the more inexperienced among us have shed our thick outer layers in favor of the freedom of a sweatshirt.

Then again, the teens among us shed their jackets with abandon long ago, and only wear such heavy garments when it is cold. Really cold. While I am more comfortable when I am bundled up, my young friends (the male ones, in particular) tend to believe a sweatshirt is enough unless the mercury dips into the single digits (and in these parts, we still measure in Fahrenheit).

Last night, we stepped outside the house on the way to a Scout meeting. My youngest was in a sweatshirt, the sight of which was making me shiver. “It’s 37 degrees,” I informed him. “You should be wearing a jacket.” This information was imparted merely for the purpose of informing him. I had no thought that he would actually care, much less do anything to rectify the situation.

“That’s funny,” he retorted. “That’s the same argument I was going to use about not needing a jacket.” Ah, to be young and numb to the cold.

I picked him up at the meeting two hours later. The temperature had dipped closer to freezing, and it was raining. As we stepped out of the building, his tough exterior crumbled for half a second, and his weakness slipped through. His immediate reaction was the statement, “It is very cold out here!”

I bit my tongue to stifle the I-told-you-so that was tumbling at warp speed toward the front of my mouth, and when I looked at him, he was already back-pedaling. “Wait, that’s not what I meant….”

“I know,” I said, swallowing hard to keep my mother-words down. “It’s not cold out here. You meant to say, Oh look, it’s raining!”

“Yep. That’s exactly what I meant!” he snickered.

We walked the rest of the way to the car in silence. Sometimes the obvious is better left unsaid.

Cleaning the Closet

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I can always tell when my daughter’s schedule gets too busy. She doesn’t take the time to put her clothes away, so her clean clothes are deposited into a growing pile over the course of a couple of weeks. Eventually, the pile begins to rival Mt. Everest until she has time, and the items are wrangled, sorted, and deposited in their proper locations.

Admittedly, the past few weeks have been crazier than usual with too many activities, long term assignments, and planning for the months ahead. With the number of hectic weekends, her bedroom recently required some mountain-taming.

Yesterday, after sleeping off her 21 hour day on Saturday, she tackled the task of taming the mountainous terrains spreading across her bedroom floor. She started with her closet, which needed a bit of organizing to accommodate the extra articles of clothing she had acquired from her step-sister on a recent visit. She sorted through all her clothes; deposited the too-small items on my bed; asked for extra hangers; and got everything sorted and put away. When she was done, she was pleased with her work.

“Hey, Mom, come look at my closet!” While I was anxious to see the result, in retrospect, one might think that inviting me would not be such a good suggestion, given the circumstances.

“Nice!” I complimented her effort. “It looks great!” But then I spotted something peeking out from between the plaid flannel—a sleeve of white lace hung proudly, as if it belonged there. “Oh hey, that’s my shirt,” I pointed.

“Yeah,” she agreed, drawing out the word in hesitation. “I gave everything else back, but that’s pretty much mine now.”

“That’s interesting.” I paused, waiting for her to fill in with–oh, I don’t know, a request maybe? Nothing. “I don’t remember giving that shirt to you.”

“Um… okay, I stole it,” she admitted. “But you’re welcome to borrow it any time!”

I’m welcome to borrow it. My shirt. Of course.

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Art vs. Science

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There is a story I tell my children about self-advocacy. It is a story from my own high school experience, and though the story is antiquated due to my advancing age (at least in their minds), the story still resonates with them. As it is time to register for classes for the coming academic year, the story has come up once again.

Within the education system, there is a path that each student is expected to follow—the “cookie-cutter” path that allows guidance counselors and teachers to quickly check boxes and sign forms, moving kids through the system with the confidence that they are getting what they need. A student’s expected path depends upon post high school plans. (Because in high school, you know the direction your life will go.) If a student is planning to go to college, s/he is expected to take the “college prep” path. Those with more rigorous college aspirations demand an “honors” or “AP” path while those who are planning to go to trade school or get a job might choose either a standard or vocational path.

Each path comes with expectations for the courses that students should take along the way. And therein lies the problem. It has been my experience that this cookie-cutter approach doesn’t work for all students. It didn’t work for me when I was in high school. But back in my day, it was more difficult to stray.

Before my freshman year of high school, I sat down with my guidance counselor. Back in the day, guidance counselors knew each of their assigned students and did both course planning and college counseling. (What they do now, I have no idea and even less evidence, but that’s a story for another post….) My counselor listed the courses I would take my freshman year.

“What is this? ‘Earth Science’?” I questioned. “And why do I have to take it?”

“You’re college prep,” he informed me, as if I didn’t know. “That’s what college prep students take.”

“Why, exactly, do I have to take this class?” I tried again.

“Because you are college prep, and colleges like to see science courses,” he informed me.

“How many science courses?” I asked.

“At lease two, but definitely biology and chemistry. Physics is good, too.”

“So… where does Earth Science fit into that?” I pressed. “It almost seems that ‘Earth Science’ is not a required course. I’d like to take art instead.”

He stared at me, as if I had just slapped him. “I’m sorry. Did you say ‘art’?”

“Yes. Art. This one right here,” I pointed to Studio Art on the course offerings list.

He began to shuffle the papers on his desk dismissively, as if ignoring me would make me go away. “That’s not the usual course of studies,” he informed me without looking up.

I’m not the usual college prep kid, I wanted to say, but instead, I merely said, “That’s okay. I’ll take biology as a sophomore.”

He studied me intently for another 20 seconds before he signed off on my unusual course of study.

Sophomore year, I took biology, and junior year, I took chemistry. But at the end of junior year, I was back in his office. By now (three years later), he knew who I was and what mattered. To me. “Suzanne,” he greeted me. “What brings you in?”

“Physics,” I stated bluntly, shoving my course selection sheet across his desk. He sighed deeply, his shoulders slouching in defeat.

“Art?” he questioned.

“You got it!” I smiled. He signed off on my senior year course choice without further discussion.

Funny… I got into college without those extra two science credits. I continued my art path through college. To this day, I have no regrets. I seldom use science in the strict, “science” sense, but I have used art all my life.

This week, my daughter texted me a picture from her course of studies booklet. She is contemplating an interdisciplinary course, “Art of Science.” Now that’s a science course I could delve into!

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Heat

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The other day—the last day of February, to be exact—I was driving my two younger children to an 8:00 am appointment. It is a sad truth that the last day of February in northern New England is seldom warm, even the occasional Leap Day, as it was.

But it was morning, and I had been running around before I got in the car. I was also stressed because we had been in a hurry to get out the door to meet the time constraints of the requisite appointments. And because I was stressed, I was warm. I cracked open the car window to get some air.

“Oh no, Mom! Close the window!” my daughter groaned from the passenger seat. “It’s cold in here!”

Now, before I continue, let me fill you in on a bit of background information. My daughter is always cold. All winter long, she comes downstairs in the morning wearing a long sleeve t-shirt with a plunging neckline, and maybe (on a good day) a sweater that’s made out of some material that’s no warmer than tissue paper. And then she complains that she’s cold, and I need to turn on the heat. Yeah… no.

“It’s not cold in here,” I retorted. “It’s quite warm.”

“It’s NOT warm, Mom. You’re ruining our lives!” She let out a little giggle at her dramatic statement. “So… last night I heard a commercial on the radio, and it made me think of you. This lady was opening the windows in her house, and her kids were complaining that it was below zero and they were freezing. And then the announcer said, ‘Is menopause ruining your life?’” She paused here for effect. “Totally you, Mom. You are tearing this family apart! Turn on the heat!”

“If you dressed warmer, you wouldn’t be so cold,” I told her. “It’s always warm enough in our house.”

“Just because you’re warm enough, doesn’t mean we have to keep the heat at 48°,” she stated bluntly.

“We have heat to keep us warm and a roof to keep us dry. You should feel fortunate.”

“Are you seriously playing this card?” she asked, incredulous that I would expect her to feel fortunate when she’s always cold. “Why should we freeze because, you know… Socialism?”

“I’m not saying you should freeze. I’m saying you should recognize that you are lucky. If you want to pay for the heat, I’ll turn it up. In the meantime, I’ll pay for a sweatshirt.”

“I had a dream that I was with Bernie Sanders,” she said as she abruptly changed the subject. She went on to fill me in on the rest of her dream.

“That was kind of a random change of subject,” I informed her when she was done.

“Oh well, you know… Socialism,” she responded.