Tag: raising teens

Slap bracelet

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Because I grew up in a family with one sister and no brothers, I find it fascinating to watch the interactions of my two nearly grown boys. On Friday afternoon, C came home from college for a brief visit to watch his sister perform in the high school play. I went to get him, and when we arrived home, C walked in the door, and his younger brother was standing in the kitchen.

“Bro!” C exclaimed. “Give me a hug!” He wanted he hug (I think), but he was challenging his brother. Pushing to see if he’d oblige. C approached the younger, arms outstretched, and wrapped his brother in a hug.

What he didn’t expect was the snappy response he’d receive. W whipped his arms around his brother, wrapping him in a bear hug and pulling him off balance. From where I stood, I only heard the snapping of W’s arms against his brother’s back.

“Oh man!” C coughed as he caught his balance and straightened up. “You’re like a slap bracelet,” he said, referring to the way his brother wrapped around him.

I had to laugh. “Slap bracelet” was the perfect description of the aggressive, albeit playful—physical exchange (i.e. the “hug”) I had just witnessed in my kitchen!

Brain transplant

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Sometimes (actually, often), we have some unusual conversations in our family. The other day, I got in the car with W, and as I settled in to drive, I felt a twinge in my knee. “Ooo, my knee hurts,” I commented, mostly to myself.

“Is that from when you fell?” he asked, and I nodded. Back in January, I was pumping gas, and I attempted to step over the loop of hose between my car and the gas pump. Bad idea. The hose tripped me up, and I fell, my left knee taking the brunt of the landing. Let’s just say after the embarrassment, the tears, and the initial pain, I had recovered, but my knee… it was slow to heal.

“You should probably get that checked before you have to get it replaced,” he said in his fifteen-year-old matter-of-fact way. “I know someone who had one replaced.”

“I know someone who had two replaced,” I bested.

“You know those cars that have so many parts replaced they are practically brand new?” he asked, taking the conversation in a related-unrelated direction.

“Yeah. Can you do that with a human? Replace so many parts and organs they become a ‘new’ person?” I chuckled at the thought.

“That would be weird.” He looked out the window, and that was probably my cue to stop the conversation. But I didn’t.

“What about a brain transplant?” I ventured. “That might make someone a new person.”

“They can’t do that.” He went for the logical, but I wasn’t having it.

“But what if they could?” I pressed. “You would be a new person. You might not even remember who you were; you wouldn’t recognize your family or your friends….” I tried to think about the multitude of dilemmas presented by this type of major operating system transplant.

“You’d have someone else’s memories and thoughts,” W started to engage, but then stopped. “But they don’t do that.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t really be a brain transplant.” My mind was working overtime as I tried to wrap my head around this concept. “Maybe you’d wake up and say, ‘Oh look! I got a new body!’ For the person whose brain it was, it would be a body transplant.”

Oh my! I believe I’m thankful they haven’t figured out how to do this type of surgery. At least they haven’t figured it out yet….

 

 

Leading

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My son is off on a camping trip this weekend. And from what I hear, he may be scaring some of the younger Boy Scouts and Webelos who are in attendance. I think he would call it … leadership skills.

When the boys are starting to settle in for the night, my son will walk around to the young Scouts, approaching those who have chosen a top bunk.

“I see you’ve chosen a top bunk,” he will say to them matter-of-factly.

“Yup,” they will mumble as they burrow themselves deep into their sleeping bags. “Top bunk.”

“The first time I came here, I thought I was cool and chose a top bunk, too.”

And then he goes on to tell them that back when he was a Webelo, he attended this very camp out to this very location. And because he was young and … well, inexperienced … he, too, thought the top bunk was a good idea. And it was… at least, at first.

In the middle of the night, the slippery vinyl of the camp mattress had an argument with the equally slippery nylon of his sleeping bag, and the combination tossed him out of bed and onto the floor. And the floor was far, far below the top bunk.

The resulting impact awakened everyone else in the cabin. In the middle of the night, such a sudden and unexpected noise sounded like a freight train slamming into the building. (I was not there, but I was told). And the poor kid ended with up a concussion that lasted far longer than the thrill of sleeping in the top bunk. Actually, it was a pretty tough couple of months, but that’s a story for another day.

When my son is done telling his story, some of the younger scouts will change their original choice and move to a spot that’s closer to the floor just in case. But some of them will stay right where they are. And my son can retreat to his own bunk (a lower one, of course) with the peace of mind that he has done what he can.

Because sometimes we lead by example. And sometimes, it is far more effective to instill a little fear and lead by sharing your own hard lived experience.

Stash

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Over the weekend, I was vacuuming the kitchen when I got the idea to vacuum under the stove. This is not something I do on a regular basis for a couple of reasons. The first reason is that I don’t have the time, and if I can’t see the dust bunnies gathering under the stove, they might not bother me. The second reason is that if I remove the stove’s storage drawer, the cats will hear the commotion and come running. They know that in their overzealous play, they often carelessly chase their toys under the stove, abruptly ending any play session in progress. They also know that when we pull the drawer out, they will re-discover a veritable gold mine of lost toys.

Anticipating a sudden influx of cats, I pulled the drawer out and set it on the floor. A cat ventured into the space where the drawer had been and began sniffing around. I peered under the stove. “Huh,” I said aloud, surveying the array of formerly hidden items. “I wonder what made them put those under there.”

J heard me musing. “What’s under there?” she asked from her spot on the couch in the living room.

“Um… you’ll have to come look,” I responded. I wanted her to see what I was seeing. This was not the usual collection of cat toys and pompoms, and part of me was in disbelief.

She got up from the couch and came in. I was bent over looking under the stove, and she looked over my shoulder and smiled.

“Isn’t that funny?” I asked. Under the stove was a stash of those plastic tags that come on bread bags—the ones that are used to hold the bag closed. I could not imagine how the cats managed to not only get them, but to chase them all under the stove.

“Wanna hear something funnier?” she asked as she raised her iPod to take a picture of the colorful pile.

“What?”

“C and I have been stashing those under there for months waiting for you to find them!”

Ha! They got me!

But of course… you know what they say about payback. You never know when (or where) those tags might make a reappearance!

Thoughts on Gorillas

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The following is a snippet from the conversation between three of the teens in my car on the way to the movies on Friday night:

“Did you know it’s illegal to have a lady gorilla in your backseat in Massachusetts?”

“Well, what if I smuggle the gorilla into the front seat? Would that be illegal?”

“I’m pretty sure any time you use the word ‘smuggle,’ it is illegal.”

Wait… what? Was this covered in Drivers Ed, or do they only cover this particular law in Massachusetts?

Regardless, me being me, I had to look it up—the dumb law, not the word smuggle. And guess what I found? According to dumblaws.com, in Massachusetts, “No gorilla is allowed in the back seat of any car.” Who knew?

What do you think the lawmakers were thinking that day? Were they testing their constituents? Was there a reason for them to make this law? Or perhaps they were having a horrible disagreement on a particular part of some bill they were trying to pass, so they agreed only by throwing in some completely nonsensical clauses (just for kicks, of course).

And then, I got to thinking… perhaps it actually is legal to smuggle a gorilla into the front seat for transport. I’ll bet that’s a yes! Not that I’m planning to transport a gorilla (at least not in Massachusetts) any time soon….

[Image credit: Freeimages.com/Kalysha McCarthy]

On a Mundane Grocery Trip…

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I took my daughter to the grocery store on Saturday, through a bit of reluctance and dismay. Teenagers like to eat and they like to shop, but they do not like to shop for what they eat. Then again, neither do I, but I digress….

A third of the way through the store, she’d had enough. She jumped on the front of the grocery cart and perched herself on the front edge of the wagon, sitting so she had a bird’s eye view of where we were going, but I definitely did not.

In each aisle, I struggled with the steering challenge involved when 95-ish pounds perches itself at the very front of the cart. There is no going around corners in a quick and efficient manner.

As I carefully steered around other shoppers, we attracted stares from curious children who contemplated my daughter’s seat on the cart. Perhaps they thought what she was doing looked awesome, but clearly weren’t sure it was something a kid should be doing. I cringed and turned the cart in the other direction, trying not avoid locking eyes with their parents, the ones who likely would not approve of a teenager—even a small one—riding around the store perched on the front of a grocery cart.

But then we turned into aisle 9. We passed two men shopping together; they looked to be around 30, I would say. One was pushing the cart when he noticed my daughter. “Oh,” he feigned surprise, his face remaining dead serious—almost disgusted. “I didn’t know we could ride on the wagon.” He looked at his friend. “Hop on!” He commanded, and his friend—easily twice the size of my daughter—assumed a position on the front of their cart.

They took off down the aisle. “We’re going to race you in aisle 12!” the cart pusher called out over his shoulder. “That gives us a couple of aisles to practice!” The two men careened around the corner and were gone.

For a split second, the competitive impulse in me was awakened, and I wondered if my daughter and I could really beat these men in a race down aisle 12. And then I snapped out of it. This was the supermarket on a Saturday. There was no way aisle 12 would be clear enough for shopping, never mind a race.

I sighed, abandoning my reverie, and put some muscle into pushing my cumbersome cart. Yet in that ten second interchange, an otherwise ordinary grocery trip had been transformed. My mood had lightened, and I had a renewed sense of fun. Maybe I would meet up with these two in aisle 12… if not today, maybe another day!

 

[image credit: Freeimages.com / Suzanne van Hattum]

Smiley faces

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I have smiley faces all over my house. I know where they are, but they are invisible to the untrained eye….

This weekend, my daughter and I decided to make a bold change in our living room. Since we moved in, the walls in the room have been a very pale yellow, the color of butter. The choice was made in part because the room is small and north-facing. It gets minimal daylight through the French doors, so I was looking for a light, sunny color to compensate.

This weekend, we made a long overdue change. Together, we decided on a forest-y green with one darker accent wall. For whatever reason, we started with the accent wall, making the most dramatic change first.

Here’s what I love about painting with my daughter. Before she begins to paint, she takes the edge of her paint-laden roller to the wall, using the blank space as her personal canvas. In the midst of the old color, there appears a smiling face of the new color, and she continues her walk to the corner to begin covering the entire wall.

The image sticks with me. Now, every time I look at a finished wall—this one or several others in my house—I can see the face, smiling out at me. The number of walls in my house with smiley faces is growing. The number of rooms with hidden smiles… it’s growing, too!

It’s nice to know I have smiley faces watching over me throughout my house. It gives each room a positive vibe. Perhaps if you come to visit, you might even be able to figure out where the faces are hiding!

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[Image is a very poor quality snapshot of the wall we painted–before it was completely covered.]

Crazy Thoughts

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By a stroke of pure, dumb luck, college drop off for my son dovetailed beautifully with a weekend camp program we typically attend as a family. While it was unlucky that my college son would not be able to join us at camp, it was lucky that I wouldn’t be spending the weekend at home, where his absence would be most pronounced. A weekend at home would mean I would notice that that house was one quarter less full… that there was an empty bed… that the food wasn’t disappearing from the house as if being consumed by a powerful vacuum. Instead, I would be away, occupied by (most of) my family and some long time friends.

Even away from home, I found myself frequently wondering what my son was doing, who he was with, and how he was navigating his new life in the college environment. Camp was merely a partial distraction, but my son was still in the forefront of my mind.

On the second morning, as we slogged out of the dining hall after breakfast, the sun caught the shape of an incredibly industrious spider crafting a web in the corner of a small alcove near the doorway. The creature was quite large and conspicuous. Had it fallen on someone, there is no doubt a scream fest would ensue.

A small group of us stood transfixed, watching the spider spin its web, carefully attaching silk strands one to another as it wove its deadly trap. It was working on the center of the web, maybe a repair from a recent struggle—there was no question this spider had been eating well in order to achieve its current size.

As I watched the spider, a thought began to creep into my head, eclipsing—no! joining with the thoughts of my son. This spider would make the perfect dorm pet! After all, there were rules against four-legged pets, but the students could have fish. Why not a spider?

A spider would live peacefully in his room, right over his bed, taking care of all the tiny bugs that enter the room. A spider would not take up much room; it would live quietly, weaving webs in the corner over his bed, repairing its web and possibly making it bigger each night. Eventually, the web might interfere with the bed, but by then, my son would be used sharing his space with his unusual pet….

Yes, these thoughts did enter my mind as I watched the spider weave its tangled web, pulling me in to its weaving. For a brief moment, I thought about how very much my son loves spiders (or… not). And how he might be perceived by his dorm mates if he kept a pet such as this in his room.

And then I turned and walked away. Because even though bringing this spider to my son is humorous in theory (or maybe just in my head), the same humor would not be present if I actually appeared at my son’s dorm door, spider in tow. In fact, I might be banned from the campus. Forever.

And as far as the spider goes, it is much better off right where it is.

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[image is a photo of the camp spider, used with the photographer’s permission]

Used Up

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I am sitting at the kitchen table finishing up some summer work when my daughter quietly comes down the stairs and approaches me. I look up at her.

“Promise you won’t get mad,” she says as she holds out her hand. Her fist is closed, hiding whatever it is she has to give me. I study her face, not quite able to tell if she is kidding or serious.

I hold out my hand, and she pauses a split second before she drops the tiniest nub of a light peach pencil in my palm. I gasp, feigning distress. I look at her, wide eyed. “You used up my peach pencil??” I ask.

She nods. “You can get another one,” she informs me. “I needed this one.”

She had borrowed my colored pencils because I had the best ones—a tin of 36 Prismacolor pencils. Colored pencils—good, artist quality pencils—are not cheap. And drawing, painting, creating, this is how she chooses to relax and recharge.

Of course, when she borrowed my pencils, I was well aware of the simple truth about “borrowing” art supplies. It’s not the same as borrowing, say, a musical instrument, because unlike borrowing a guitar, art supplies get used up in the borrowing.

Next time I’m in the art supply store, I will stock up on light peach pencils. Because the truth is, I am more than fine with sacrificing my colored pencils in the name of amazing art.

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[Top image is my tiny light peach pencil. Bottom image is artwork courtesy of my talented daughter.]

This Moment

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[I began this post last week, right before my son left for college, but I wasn’t able to finish it. Until today.]

The car is packed and sits waiting for the inevitable morning drive to college for freshman drop off. I stare out the window, watching the silent car sitting in the drive, wondering if I will be able to sleep.

Over the past few days, I have lived in a state of internal panic. My mind is bombarded with all of the wisdom I have neglected to impart to my son, the lessons I didn’t remember to teach, the “teachable moments” that have slipped by as I carelessly thought, Next time, I’ll teach that lesson. As a single mother, the burden of guiding and teaching has fallen solely on me, and I know there are things (many things) I have forgotten.

Yet, this day is one that has been looming on the horizon since the birth of this child. It has been talked about, planned for, worked toward, and encouraged for as long as I can remember. As long as my son can remember. My son, my first-born child.

This is the child who taught me how to be a mother. When he was born, the weight and solidity of his tiny infant body in the transition between womb and world was unexpected to me. In the early days and subsequent weeks—months… years—he taught me to sleep lightly, so I could hear the murmurs and cries when he woke. By sleeping lightly, I could hear the disturbances, the coughing, the bad dreams, and the nonsensical phrases uttered in the depths of sleep.

He taught me to watch carefully to protect him from dangers. He taught me to stay a step or two away, so he could explore on his own with me always ready to catch him—physically or metaphorically—if he fell.

I pushed this child gently, urging him to step away when he held tightly and wouldn’t let me out of his sight in his first days of preschool.

He taught me to be brave in the pediatrician’s office—most notably when the doctor was painstakingly and painfully placing four stitches into his three-year-old lip late one February night.

He taught me that my instincts for him, for all of my children, were as valid as a single teacher’s decree. When his preschool teacher advised me to hold him back so that someday he might be a leader, I chose to keep him with his age-peers. He became a leader on his own schedule.

He taught me to love fiercely because childhood is just a blip on a parent’s radar.

This child is the one who taught me how deeply a parent can love.

I now realize that over the years, this child has been teaching me to let go, a lesson that will continue through his college years and beyond. Now, this child is teaching me one of the toughest lessons of all: to say good-bye. Again and again.

Now, it is my job to step back, get out of his way, and watch him continue to grow, with guidance from afar, as he gains independence and finds his path.

This child…. This young man…. This moment.