My kids can mow grass, plant flowers, trim borders, fertilize, and use the weed whacker and the blower. It is helpful to have a big job like yard work in your back pocket in case all the kids in your house misbehave at once or in the event they were all in on the same crime. If you want to make an especially memorable experience, I suggest the removal of a large bush or small tree. They’re not easy to dig up. It’s a dirty, sweaty job, even for an adult. It’s particularly daunting if the shovel is taller than the kid holding it. Keep a list of jobs stored in your head. You never know when a teenager will screw up next. You might as well get something good out of it.
When one of my teens snuck out of the house using his bedroom window after coming in for his curfew on time, the sneak, I was shocked and furious, but a fitting punishment popped almost instantly to my mind, as if it had been planted there by God himself. I explained that since my teen was so familiar with the workings of the window and screen, he could put that knowledge to good use the next weekend by removing all the screens and washing all the windows in our home. I thought the punishment fit the crime in a tidy manner. It’s nice when there’s an ironic theme to the grounding. I do love a clever consequence.
Another time, my son’s consequence was to spring-clean the porch—a big job, since it was the first cleanup after winter. It was easily a five-hour punishment. The pollen was so thick that the floor looked yellow. All of the furniture had to be removed from the porch, washed, and later returned. The cushions and pillows had to be cleaned. The walls had to be swept of cobwebs and washed. It was a filthy job. After issuing specific instructions and providing the cleaning equipment, I went about my day, confident that justice was being done and pleased that I’d also get a clean porch out of the deal.
After an hour or two, I heard my son talking to the neighbor who lives next door. I like my neighbor. He’s a young doctor. He has two baby girls. Unfortunately, I think he’s just a heartbeat away from calling the authorities to report us for child abuse. When he sees my kids working, he looks visibly appalled. Just you wait, I always think to myself.
“Hey,” he said to my son, tentatively.
“Hey,” my son answered as he tied a white T-shirt around his nose and mouth to keep the pollen out. I had heard him sneezing nonstop for over an hour. About sixty used tissues were wadded up on the swing, where he had thrown them in between swipes he was making with the mop. (This kid has the strongest work ethic of my three. He’s big, muscular, and strong like only high-school athletes in the peak of condition can be. I always get better results when he’s the one in trouble. The boy does great work.)
“Son, are you having an allergy attack?” my neighbor asked, the picture of a concerned physician. “I have some Claritin if you need it.”
“No, sir, I’m okay,” my son said.
My neighbor couldn’t stand it. He had to know.
“Do you just like helping your parents out, or what? That’s a big job you’ve got there,” he pointed out—trying, I suppose, to gauge whether he should make an anonymous call to DHR or just go ahead and dial 911 and let the police sort it out.
Time to intervene, I thought.
I started walking toward the porch. I felt a little bad about the pollen. I knew one of my kids was really allergic, but I’d forgotten which one. I might have crossed a line there. Ideally, none of my punishments is designed to send any kid to the emergency room.
Before I opened the door, I heard my son’s response: “Oh, no, sir, I don’t like cleaning. This is a consequence.”
Well. What a good boy! I couldn’t have said it better myself. You have to love a kid who responds like that. Lord knows, I do.
The next consequence I impose will be Christmas card labels. My current list is a big, fat mess. It will take many painful hours to organize. My kids have better computer skills than I do. The next time somebody gets in trouble, he or she is going to spend the weekend working on Christmas card labels. As a bonus, it will be a good reminder of how much we value our many, many extended family members. As my child sorts through the names and addresses of distant relatives, we’ll review the whole family history together.
Doesn’t that sound like fun?
CHOICES, CHOICES, CHOICES
1.“My brother/sister did the exact same thing, and he/she didn’t get in trouble at all!”
2.“You should see what other kids do! I’m an angel compared to some of my friends!”
3.“You can’t ground me until I’m thirty! That’s ridiculous!”
4.“You should just trust me!”
5.“Just because other kids were drinking doesn’t mean I was!”
6.“You can’t be mad at me because of what someone else posts on my Facebook wall!”
7.“When I have kids, I’m going to let them do/pick/wear/go wherever/whatever they want!”
8.“You’re totally overreacting! Nobody got hurt. This punishment isn’t fair!”
9.“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
10.“It wasn’t even my fault!”
11.“Nobody else’s mom grounded them!”
Where Did You
Get That Idea?
One of the hardest things about parenting teenagers is: other people. They make my job more difficult than it has to be. I hate that. My teenagers’ friends, other kids’ parents, older siblings, cousins, grandparents, even actors, rock stars, musicians, and models—every person and her hair stylist has an opinion on the best way to parent teenagers.
It’s like squirting lighter fluid on the grill when one of my teenagers says something like, “There’s no reason we can’t go to that concert at the beach by ourselves! So-and-so’s dad says we’re plenty old enough!”
In a sarcastic aside to my husband, I reply, “I understand why he wants the boys to go alone. He will be way too busy committing adultery that weekend to take the boys to that concert like he promised.”
I have no problem with my kid’s friend. However, I’m not a member of his father’s fan club and never will be. The premise of this chapter is: if your friend jumped off a bridge, would you do it, too? Sure, it’s a cliché, but that expression is still as true today as it was the day it was coined. The times may be a-changin’, as Dylan suggested fifty years ago, but people are the same piece of work they’ve always been.
Have you noticed that nowadays more people than ever feel free to weigh in with their entirely unsolicited opinions on how to handle kids they didn’t give birth to? I’m convinced it makes them feel virtuous to boss the rest of us around. News flash: when I need an opinion about how to parent my teenagers, I’ll ask people I love and respect. I’ve certainly sobbed into my margarita with my close friends about the stress of rearing teenagers in today’s complicated world. Sometimes, we all need a comrade in arms (another parent) to listen to our tales of woe. Usually, what I need most is shoring up. I need my friends to tell me to hang tough, to remind me that parenting is not a popularity contest, and to reassure me that I’m doing the right thing even if I feel like (and am beginning to look remarkably like) the Wicked Witch of the West.
When I hear pop stars spout off glib parenting advice on television, it makes me want to throw things at the screen. Sometimes, I do that almost-snorting thing with my nose that embarrasses my kids. (Of course, almost anything I do, like singing in church or breathing too loudly when their friends are around, embarrasses them.) Why in the world should I care about how Madonna parents her teenage daughter? We are not acquainted. I don’t know what she’s like in real life; she may be the soul of discretion, but some of the things I’ve seen her do and heard her say in front of God and everybody make me wonder. Maybe she lives up to her name in private. How would I know? What difference does it make if my kid’s friend has never had a curfew in his life? Who cares if the neighbor’s kid raises free-range chickens in his backyard? In what way is evidence from other people’s lives and choices supposed to be persuasive to me about how to parent my own kids, except perhaps as a cautionary tale? I
don’t get it. Truly.
Think it is just kids who are influenced by the in-crowd? I have two words for you: bottled water. Water is free from the tap in the kitchen. Otherwise sane adults buy bottled water (with no greater purity standards than the water in the bathroom toilet) in fancy bottles with inflated price stickers. Talk about a fast one … I never thought Americans would fall for that. Of course, I never thought women would voluntarily pierce their tongues or tattoo their backsides either. Even food goes through popularity crazes. Heirloom tomatoes and goat cheese were all the rage for a while. Now, it’s microbrewed beer and organic vegetables. Just imagine: teenagers are even more vulnerable than adults to whatever the cool crowd says is “in.” We’re all frail mortals. Will Shakespeare had us pegged a long, long time ago. Nothing much has changed since then.
I tell my children exactly what free advice is worth. I remind them to always consider the source. That’s true for Internet research for high-school research papers and for big decision making about where they want to go to college, whom they should marry, and what they want to be when they grow up.
You know who always has parenting advice ready to serve up to unsuspecting members of the public? I bet you guessed this one: people who don’t have children. They are always quick with the if-he/she-were-my-kid editorials. Yeah, yeah, right. They have some nerve, in my opinion.
I have a friend who called the bluff of some free-advice bums when he boarded an airplane for the first time with his three-year-old daughter. She began screaming for a favorite stuffed animal that was, sadly, safely stowed in checked baggage. No way was the toy making an appearance. He explained the situation patiently and logically to his daughter. The three-year-old didn’t care for his explanation. In fact, the screaming escalated. My friend began to sweat. We can all identify with that. Who hasn’t felt the pressure of being trapped in a public place with a child too young to be embarrassed?
He took note of the disapproving looks and snarky comments from passengers trapped in the surrounding seats. When the complaints of disapproving villagers rose to a fever pitch, my friend stood, turned his back on his red-faced, screaming daughter, and addressed the passengers as a group: “Okay, people, I’m really sorry about this. She’s driving me crazy, too. I don’t know anything else to do. I’m out of ideas. The floor is now open to suggestions. Short of hitting her or drugging her, I’ll try anything you suggest.”
Well, that shut them up. He let those words resonate in the cabin. Then he made eye contact with anyone brave enough to meet his gaze. Of course, none of those know-it-alls knew what to do either. However, they were highly motivated to come up with an it-takes-a-village solution because the prospect of a screaming three-year-old on a transatlantic flight was not a happy one for anyone. Finally, a woman opened her purse and offered her grandchild’s book as a distraction. Another passenger came up with two crayons and a notebook. A young student offered a game on his iPad (and saw his self-sacrifice rewarded with a round of applause). Slowly, the tension level returned to normal in-flight misery. I think my friend did rather well, all things considered. Sometimes, there are no easy answers, and nobody knows it all, no matter how much smack they talk.
Some people just can’t help sticking their noses in other people’s business. They always think they know what other parents should do. Of course, their own kids are usually bullies, shoplifters, porn addicts, or compulsive gamblers. It is much more fun to look at other people’s problems and see easy solutions.
“Why doesn’t she kick her thirty-year-old pot-head son out of her guest room and make him get a job?” That’s a real common scenario.
“If she didn’t always bail that girl out, she’d learn a lesson!” We all know helicopter parents.
“I can’t believe she lets her child talk to her like that!” I’m guilty of self-righteousness on this one. I’ve been tempted to jerk up a child I didn’t give birth to after hearing him talk to his mother, my friend, like she is an idiot. It’s one of my pet peeves. I have a very low threshold for this particular sin.
When someone shines a spotlight on our own issues, we always have reasons why our situation is “different.” We are quick to explain why a suggestion won’t work for us. Sometimes, it really does help to get another perspective from a friend who knows you and your teenager. You have to feel comfortable baring your soul or venting your spleen to that person. This confidante must be able to resist the urge to share the story of your teenager’s mistakes all over town. You must have faith in your friend’s counsel. Otherwise, there is no chance you will take her advice. If you choose to confide in a friend whose children are high-school dropouts, the problem may not be your teenager. It may be you. You may not have good sense yourself. It happens.
Bottom line: when my kids idolize friends or relatives who make bad choices, it makes my job so much harder. Isn’t parenting challenging enough without people deliberately trying to sabotage you? I bet you have some friends or relatives like this in your own life. It’s as common as shower curtain mildew. With friends and relatives mucking things up, who has time to worry about interference from famous people you don’t even know? And have you seen some of the reality shows on television, by the way? Whose reality would that be? I am proud to say that I don’t know anyone like those people on TV.
Before my kids were teenagers, other people’s opinions didn’t matter much. Their words were just white noise in the background of our lives. No way could they rock our little world. To toddlers, Mama knows everything. She’s always right. If she needs backup, there’s always Dad. If I said, “Try this—it’s delicious,” my children’s mouths would open like baby birds’.
My three children had absolute faith in me. I had all the answers. If I said, “You’re okay—you’re not hurt!” they would nod even if blood was trickling down their legs. Mama knew when the water was too shallow to dive, when the drink was about to spill, how to build the perfect fort, and how to make an A on a book report. Life was simple then. I was a goddess on the home front, revered by my children for my mind-reading abilities, my talent for fixing broken toys, and my gift for reading aloud with different characters’ voices. Those kids rushed the front door when they heard my key in the lock like I was Justin Bieber at a middle-school dance. My children were eager to share their thoughts and experiences with me, and they were anxious for my endorsement of every new endeavor. Those were good times.
Even back then, well-meaning relatives often dipped their oars into my parenting waters, but it wasn’t hard to bring my kids into line. I’d say to them, “I know your grandparents let you do that, but who is the boss of you?”
“You are,” they’d admit, reluctantly.
We called it “deprogramming” when my kids returned from an anything-goes grandparent outing. One of the hardest things to do as a parent is to stand up to one’s own parents and tell them they can’t do something with your kids because it is unsafe or unwise or simply because you have chosen to go another way. No matter how old the grandchildren, parents, and grandparents are when that happens, it’s tough to do. Grandparents don’t like to be chastised by their grown children—even when they’re wrong and they know it. We’ll probably be the same way when our teenagers grow up and have children of their own. At some point, you realize that, as an adult, you have to be your kids’ parent, no matter whom you have to stand up to. It’s part of the job description. Check the fine print.
Parenting offers some shining moments—birthdays, graduations, sports victories, award ceremonies, and lots of “firsts.” But parenting is also cleaning up vomit when your kid has a virus, pacing the corridor while your kid has the broken bones in his arm realigned, and meeting your kid in the principal’s office when you are more ashamed than he or she is. You don’t get to pick and choose. It’s all part of the ride.
The serpent in the garden is the friend in your kid’s life who has no rules whatsoever. No curfew. No bedtime. No driving restrictions. He’s free in the world and vir
tually on his own. Neglected kids come from all socioeconomic backgrounds. Some have nannies. Others have parents who are in crises of their own, incompetent, absent, neglectful, or downright mean. All of my kids have had at least one friend like that. Good kids can have God-awful parents, you know. It’s just the luck of the draw.
At first, my kids thought those friends had it made in the shade. My kids felt that, in contrast, they were forced to live in a harsh prison camp in the suburbs. After all, nobody makes those friends get up for church on Sunday morning. They are the envy of every teenager because they never have curfews or punishments. They can always sleep late. They don’t have to go to school if they don’t feel like it. They can go to R-rated movies whenever they want. They can stay up all night watching television. They’re free to eat out all the time because no one ever cooks dinner at their houses. They’re available to spend the night anytime. They’re never hauled out of bed to do yard work, nor do they have to stay home to study. Over the years, I’ve heard every version of, “He comes to school whenever he wakes up,” “She can wear anything she wants,” “She can stay up as late as she wants,” and “She just comes home whenever she feels like it. She is so lucky!”
The truth, of course, is that nobody cares enough about those kids to see if they’ve done their homework, to check that they’re safely in their beds at night, or to make sure that their baseball pants are washed. You don’t have to have a license or pass a test to become a parent. You don’t have to plan for it. It’s easier to get pregnant and have a baby than it is to adopt a puppy at the pound. You don’t have to make your children a priority in your life. Heck, you’re not legally required to do a good job at parenting, or even to try to do a good job. Scary, isn’t it?
I've Had It Up to Here with Teenagers Page 5
