Mid-CenturyModernMoms

A Successful Day

Father's Day in my house was a totally successful day.  Not because we were "celebrating" Father's Day, but because we had to do a whole bunch of things and we all got through the day without anyone blowing up.

The most successful part of the day was our visit to Abe (17, PDD, ADHD, etc) at his new (therapeutic) boarding school.  He has now been there for 2 weeks and it's going fantastically!!!  I get wonderful reports about him from the staff there.  And his room was clean.  And he had learned to use soap, so he didn't smell. And he was a pleasant person to be with on our visit. And he was talking.  Wow!!!

Funky Granny came with us to see Abe.  Rosie came, too.  She said that she didn't want to come, but not too strenuously.  We walked around the campus a bit and then went to the world's largest mega-store to buy Abe a belt.  Rosie ended up with some very inexpensive T-shirts.  The family went to Friendly's for french fries and ice cream and then back to school.  Very pleasant, and a wonderful visit with Abe.  He's so much better than he was before he went to C.

On the way home, we stopped at 2 other mega-stores and did a variety of errands.  Cross those off the list of places we have to go this week!

And a nice day was had by all.

Where school seems to go on forever

Unlike most of the rest of the country, my kids are still in school. I know... it seems to last forever and yet it's never long enough! We've got one more week before they're out for the summer. This is the week of final exams. They go in at weird times, and leave at weird times. I have no clue when they should be where. I figure that it's their responsibility to get to their final exams on their own.  Once the exams are over, they're both going to be home all summer long. Yup, all summer long. Gulp!

I'm of mixed emotions. I have to admit, I love tossing the alarm clock and knowing that I won't have to see 6:30 am again until September.  Sleep is very important to teenagers and for a couple of months they'll get enough to keep them on a fairly even keel. I hope.

I also love having them around much of the time. Despite what you might have heard, I like my kids and I enjoy their personalities and their wit. Most of the time. I like doing things together with them, I like when their friends come over and I can eavesdrop on conversations and find out what the heck is going on in their lives. I like when they come up with bizarre ways to entertain themselves.

However, they eat like starving grizzly bears, they are the messiest human beings on earth, and they tend to argue. A lot. It's never nice and peaceful for very long around here. My son tends to entertain his friends here more than he ever goes anywhere else. There will be 2 or 3 day marathons of video games, shouting, eating the shelves bare, and taking over my house. I think it's better that they are here than if they were unsupervised someplace else. But OMG, the noise, the mess!

My daughter leaves school and the second she is off the property, every single thing she has learned all year empties out of her head. I've never seen anything like it. It's as if she does this brain dump in the parking lot. As summer progresses she gets dumber and dumber. By the end of summer I'm ready to scream in frustration. I must say "THINK" about 3 million times a day. She totally loses the ability to think, read, or write come summer.

Additionally, the school still have no clue of what they are going to do with her next year. It's her junior year. They want her to transfer to the other high school so they can wash their hands of her and not spend a penny on her special education needs. She has refused the transfer. I have refused the transfer. The school has no alternative. She is not registered anywhere for next year. Legally, the school has to follow her last signed IEP, which says she's enrolled in their school. So far they're refusing to do that. Which is against the law. To make matters worse? The social worker who has been working with her, and who we both like, just lost her job due to budget cuts. Today was her last day. So my kid doesn't have anyone to represent her best interests. She gave me the name of some other person whom I've never met and is male, who will be taking over for the social worker. I'm so unhappy about this.

Thus this will be, for me, the summer of lawyers and lawsuits. So looking forward to this. Not. But it has to be done. She has to be in school. We've been homeschooling and it's not the best option for my ultra-social kid. If we have to, we'll continue to do so, but I'm going to make the school let her do math and science there. I can't teach either math or science at home.

Summer is also the time when I become a professional chauffer for my kids. "Mom, take me here." "Mom, I need it NOW". This will be the last summer, because they'll finally turn 16 at the end of August and then the fun really begins.

Driving lessons.

Oh lord, kill me  now.

So maybe I shouldn't be so anxious for school to be over after all. I can't even imagine what kind of hell it will be once they learn to drive.

The Pros And Cons Of Raising Teenagers

Yes. Believe it or not, there are several advantages to parenting teens. Let's see if I can pull my brain together enough to get a few down here.

The positive list is first. The negative/educational list is later.

1. Teens are addicted to computers. If you own several computers the teens will leave you alone until the cows come home. That means they forget about food and phone calls and television. You can watch what you like, eat whatever you want and even talk on the phone without being bothered.

2. Teens sleep in, every day. This means you can sleep in as well, assuming you don't have a job to go to or a class... The house is very quiet when the teens are sleeping, nice and silent.

3. Teens will always eat pizza. If you forget to make dinner, pizza is only a phone call away.

4. Teens leave their dirty clothes on the floor. If you have a dirty carpet~NO ONE will ever know. They cannot see the carpet through the clothes.

5. Teens like to stay up late. You will never feel lonely again at 2am. Your teen will be awake with you.

6. Teens love to eat late at night. Here's your excuse for a midnight snack. "Oh hi honey, I was just making the kids some food." (He/she'll never know you planned on eating as well.)

7. Teens are messy everywhere~this means you can blame them even if you made the mess. This is very handy if you have a spouse who's anal-retentive.

8. Teens NEVER fill the gas tank. Something else you can blame on them. "Sweetie, I just filled it. Fido must have used the car and all the fuel I put in it."

9. Teens forget to turn off lights. You'll never come home to a dark house while you have teens.

10. Teens eat lots. When they are old enough to drive, they are old enough to do the grocery shopping for you. This is very advantageous for those of us who detest grocery shopping.

For all of you who have younger children or no children, let's talk about teens. Don't be scared...well, really smart parents are scared. Teenagers are frickin' scary!

Janice's not-so-well-known facts about teenagers.

1. Teens are full of drama and angst and over-reaction. Full of it. When BBB was 13/14 all I had to do is glance his way to elicit this angry response: "What? WHAT? Why are looking at me thatway?" Dang boy I was flipping my hair off my face. I did not even mean to look his way. YIKES. The really fun days were when he got home from junior high, slammed the front door shut and stomped right on past me. The best way to react: IGNORE their presence until they seem calmer.

2. Just when you you get a grip on how to handle new and exciting behaviors, they change. Get to used to it. At 19 BPB still does this. Life with a teen is rarely if ever predictable.

3. Be prepared to have your teen ignore you and if anyone they know is close by they will pretend that have never seen you before. DO NOT embarrass your child by saying Hello to anyone. Pretend to be invisible!(I, personally, love messing with my teens' minds, so I would always introduce myself to anyone that was even close by.)

4. (AHEM)If male teens spend extra time in the bathroom do not knock on the door and scream, "What is taking you so long in there??". Trust me on this one.

5. Teens love to think they are independent. They will want you to drive them to and fro, here and there, up and downtown and everywhere but they will want you to let them go out of the car without a kiss goodbye, without you sticking your head out the window and screaming: "Hey my honeybabysugar! I love you!!!" This will cause your teen to turn beet red and flee from sight rapidly, maybe never to return. ( No suck luck. They always come home~they know where the money and food are.)

6. Teens sleep ALOT! Particularly boys between the ages 13-17. My BBB took naps last summer because he was so tired from growing. They will grow! One day you need to look down to meet their eyes. The next day they are looking down at you. It's disconcerting.

7. Teens eat 24 hours, 7 days a week. Not kidding! Get ready to serve up seconds and thirds and fourths. Also try to have snacks on hand at all times. Teens are hungry at 12 noon and 12 midnight. Just stock up! My food bill is 4 times what it was when the boys were younger.

8. Teens lie. If they get caught red-handed they will deny, deny, deny. Dr. Phil says, "How do you know if your teens are lying to you? Their lips are moving."I find this to be true in older teens the most.

9. BIG WARNING HERE: Expect your teen to go from acting like a 14yo to a 2yo in 30 seconds or less. No warnings. Temper tantrums, inability to make decisions, crying for no reason, slamming doors and stomping their feet.I think that is enough for now. You are most likely thinking it might be a good idea to sell your 10yos on the black market.....don't even dream about it. Teens always get returned to owner.

SOUNDTRACKS by Jenny Gardiner

My teenaged son was hit by a car exactly one year ago today.

I was driving home after having dropped my youngest at a school right across the street from where my older ones attend, when I found out about it. Looking back I realize that probably right about the time I was dropping off one kid within shouting distance, the other was being launched across a parking lot by a Jeep Cherokee.

That morning, lost in thought, having no clue what I would soon learn, I almost didn't answer my cell phone in time when it rang, and luckily caught it before it bounced to voice mail.

"Look, Mom, don't worry, I'm fine," my son said, his voice jagged and hepped up with the high of adrenaline. "But they're loading me into the ambulance."

I've had my share of heart-stopping parental moments, including the time we put one of our kids to bed only to find her---out of nowhere---in the throes of a seizure twenty minutes later. That episode led to all sorts of eventual angst and trauma, things that have contributed to making me a stronger person, no doubt, albeit a stronger person with a more acute fear of all that could go wrong in my beloved children's lives.

The minute you hear such words uttered, what flashes before you is all that might be wrong that you don't know. That he won't make it to the hospital before he dies, and you'll never have the chance to impart those last important words, the I love you's, because who knows? Maybe there are internal injuries and then what?

Last week in our small town that's exactly what happened. A sweet, friendly, athletic 16-year old girl was leaving her neighborhood en route to school. She turned left when the light turned green onto a busy four-lane highway, not realizing that an 18-wheeler was barreling down on her, its driver in such a rush to make it to his destination that he ignored the laws and the fact that he was manning a moving missile and just kept on driving right through a red light shattering the lives of so many people instantaneously. They say this girl died in the blink of an eye, upon impact. Of course her parents and her twin brother will have all the time in the world to die slowly from the heartache hoisted upon them.

The tragedy of this story has revisited me again and again since last week. Perhaps more so because but for the grace of God, it could have been me getting that same phone call that child's parents received that morning. Those parents who, if they were lucky, only a few short minutes earlier had kissed their girl goodbye and wished her a good day.

It resonates too with me because this is the sixth such accident in our small town in half a year's time. Two teens we know were nearly killed right along that same road by red-light runners, in one case a drunk driver. And yet it keeps happening, no one seems able or willing to stop it.

We were so fortunate. While my son was pretty banged up, had lots of cuts, scrapes and bruises, and even ended up passing out in the ER once the adrenaline wore off, he did live to tell about it, even sort of becoming a legend for a few days at school: the boy who got hit then run over by a car (by a girl who was text-messaging and speeding and who has since had additional moving violations yet still has her license). He, at least, was able to garner a few laughs over it.

I, however, remain haunted knowing that he was all alone at that moment of impact, when the front end of that Jeep met his backpack--laden as always with 30 pounds worth of textbooks that probably absorbed some of the force and likely saved his life--and sent him flying. And he was alone precisely at that moment the car then drove over his foot, the added insult to injury. This knowledge just kills me: that he was there---and I was probably right across the street--- and I couldn’t help him in such a lonely hour.

These thoughts often plague me when I hear of others’ tragedies. Innocent victims, people just going about their lives when poof, it all changes. And all ultimately alone when they most needed someone---or something---to sooth them.

I realized something interesting shortly after my son’s accident, though.

We were at a party with several families, watching a slide show of our vacation on somebody’s laptop, with an iTunes playlist on as a backdrop, when the song Wonderwall by Oasis came on.

“Dude, that’s the song I was hit by!” My son blurted out to his friends with a chuckle. Because he was listening to his iPod when he was hit, he has a personal soundtrack--a theme song--to probably the worst thing to ever happen to him.

A soundtrack. We all have those songs in our lives that bring us back to good times: that first kiss, the prom, graduation, a wedding day. But in this iPod generation, where most everyone tunes in whenever and wherever they can, songs probably link to more and more unexpected occurrences in our lives.

That my son had a theme song to the accident sort of creeped me out at first, but it didn’t bother him. In fact he was happy to hear it playing that night, even though the last time he heard it was under, uh, less than ideal circumstances.

I can't help but wonder if that girl had a favorite song playing on the radio just before her life was snuffed out. If she was lost in happy thoughts, excited about a big game, or planning to shop for a Mother's Day gift after school. Was there something there that helped her when she needed it most?

I guess I’m glad that in his hour of need, music was there to comfort, and--like that backpack--to soften the blow a little bit for my son. For me, I don’t think I’ll ever hear that song again without my heart stopping for just a moment, recalling that most important time in which I couldn’t be there for him. But perhaps when he hears Wonderwall my son will remember to be happy he’s alive, comforted just a little bit by music.

Who’s the Rebel Now?

by Laura Benedict

Just now—no lie—Pomegranate came in to say that she knows that just because she doesn’t do drugs or have sex doesn’t mean she’s a good person. Also that it scares her a little because God gives her pretty much everything she asks for now, and does it mean her life is going to suck later, or will she suddenly die in a tsunami or something.

Our discussion veered well into the religious and philosophical, so I won’t delve into it here. But I will say that she is a good person. She’s nice without being sappy or condescending; she’s one of those kids who doesn’t just hang with one group of friends, but floats. She works very hard for her grades and the solos she gets in choir performances. She’s almost always kind to her unpredictable, emotion-driven little brother. And she’s occasionally grateful for what she has.

How in the hell did this happen? Where did this angel-child come from?

Oh, I have my exasperated moments: When she says, “Why do you hate me?” after realizing that I’m not going to change the whole family’s travel plans so that she can go to a party. Or when her father replaces the five gajillion gigabyte video Ipod he bought her “just because” with a refurbished one because she carelessly lost the one he gave her. Or when she asks me if she can pretty-please drive on her own to meet her boyfriend a mere three days after we revoked her driving privileges for an undetermined amount of time—and you would’ve done the same if you had seen her pull out in front of a school bus, nearly killing herself and her little brother because she hadn’t bothered to wipe off the passenger window. Or when she hurt my feelings last week, making me want to cry.  But, I digress….

Sometimes I get a little suspicious of the goodness of her in much the same way she is suspicious of the bountiful circumstances of her life. Does that sound ridiculous? I don’t understand how she is the way she is, and I certainly don’t deserve to have such a well-behaved child. It freaks me out.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but I was a nightmare of a teenager—that girl who was always getting other kids into trouble, that girl that no mother of a son wanted to see show up on her doorstep. Ah, those were the days. I’m so tame now. For a long time I looked back on those years with intense mortification. But I confess that I’m just a smidge proud of that rebel girl who got a job taking clothes at the dry cleaner’s counter at the age of fifteen so she could support her clothes, gasoline, concert ticket, boyfriend, and—not long after—beer and Jack Daniel’s habits. My parents were generous with their car and made sure I had all the necessities and lovely vacations. Plus, they loved me. I was never grateful, though, and I treated them badly.

My father keeps warning me that Pom’s going to go off the rails someday and rebel in some catastrophic way. Presumably it’s in the genes. Maybe she will eventually rebel. But I don’t think it will be in any way that I’ll immediately recognize.

Or maybe Pom missed the gene. Maybe it’s her brother who has inherited the nightmare-teenager gene. I hadn’t thought of that. Damn.

Mixed Messages

So much is going on at our house that I feel the need to unburden myself or I'm gonna 'splode from all the information overload. There's good news, there's bad news, there's insanity, and there is relative calm. Oh, and there are two nutty teenagers that live to change the equilibrium at any given moment. Because, you know, they're teens!

So what's new?

The Boy made high honor roll in school. HIGH HONOR ROLL. You have no idea of the nachas this gives me. I'm so very proud of him for finally, after 11 years in school, buckling down and deciding to maybe, perhaps, um...do his work. Because that's a good idea if you're trying to get into college, isn't it?

But is he happy? Why no, because I'm a bitch to him and I never do anything nice for him and he hates me and hopes I have a heart attack and die. He's just a bundle of joy these days. I'm so sick of being screamed at I just want to duct tape his mouth shut. I won't, but don't think I don't fantasize about it. And just what is it that he's so angry about? Oh, I had the unmitigated gall to ask him to dig up some weeds in the garden. Last week. And then again every freaking day. But he won't do it, and he says that he gets no pleasure from gardening, so why should he do it? Um, maybe because you eat the food I grow from my garden? Could that be a good reason? Evidentially not.

And then there was that party. The one my darling son held while I was out of town. The one he was told not to even THINK about. But he did it anyways, and there was alcohol and probably pot and a whole bunch of kids spread all over our front hill. How did I find out about the party? Well, first I found an empty liter bottle of gin in his closet. That was a fun discussion. And because I am the suspicious type (do you wonder why?), I checked his Facebook page. Facebook is awesome for catching kids doing bad things. They're so dumb they leave up photos of the parties. All you have to do is follow the photos. I did, and lo and behold, that was our porch with my son holding a beer can looking particularly wasted on a friends photo set. Ahem. I could probably get a job with Scotland Yard. I'm that good.

Consequently, things are up and down with him. School = good. Home = bad.

The other one? The Girl? She's gonna drive me absolutely bonkers writing a paper on a book she read for school. She hated the book. So what else is new? She hates reading of all kinds. Sort of a disappointment for a serious book lover and writer like myself, but what can I do? Her father is an engineer. Say no more.

The deal is, if she persists in whining and nagging and complaining, at some point I'll come to her rescue just to shut her up. Guilty as sin, I am. But gosh, how much whining can one person take? My tolerance is low, apparently.

Her schooling is coming along despite the fact that her tutor is dyslexic (I know!) and not overly bright. Sweet as sugar and helpful as can be, but OMG, I eventually insert myself in the tutoring sessions in English because otherwise my kid would be learning the wrong stuff. Math and science, I'm not that worried about. The kid is doing fine in school.

However, the school. Well, as nice as they are about my son, they're nasty and unpleasant and totally unhelpful to my daughter. They do not like her. They do not like green eggs and ham either. Well, the feeling is mutual. Not about the green eggs, although I doubt I'd like those either. About the school administration. They are not nice to me, to her, and they're driving me beserko.

And then there's me. I'm doing ok, hanging in there. We're going as a family to Chicago in a couple of days for an event sponsored by Ford Motor Company. You would think that traveling with teenagers would be a piece of cake compared to toddlers and infants. Well... you would probably be wrong. The preparation before the trip is exhausting. We're being feted at a fancy restaurant for a Mother's Day dinner, which meant that we had some shopping to do.

The Boy has outgrown every single piece of clothing he owns, so we had to get him pants and shirts and a pair of shorts just in case the weather ever cleared up in Chicago. Apparently the weather will never clear up in Chicago. Sigh.

The Girl only owns summer dresses that fit well. And no decent pants. More shopping. Like the Girl, my only dress that is currently in style and that fits after a major weight loss is a strapless summer frock. Off to another store to get me something springy but with sleeves and a bit of skin coverage. I hate to shop, I hate to spend money on clothes, and I hate to take my kids shopping. So this week was really swell. 

Oh, and the allergies. The allergies! We all are suffering. The sniffles, the nosebleeds, the itchy eyes, the rashes.

All in all, a jolly good time at our house! So what's going on with you?

Not Quite Malibu Barbie, but Darn Close!

written by Judy Merrill Larsen

For the past twenty-one years, I've driven mom cars.  You know the type--they can haul car seats, little league teams, coolers and ice for lacrosse practice, 7th grade social studies projects, and all sorts of car pool arrangements.  Not to mention juice boxes, happy meals, and pizzas.  Once the juice stains have faded (for the most part), you can load the car up for that first drive to the dorm.  And then back home that summer.  Then, load it up for that first apartment.  Oh, and trips to the vet for the dogs so they can cover the windows that aren't open with nose prints and the ones that are open with drool.  It's a car that screams MOM.  MIDDLE-AGE.  SUBURBS.

 

 

I went from a Taurus wagon for the first 7 years, to mini-vans (two!) for the next 6 years, to a Saturn wagon for the past 8 years.  It's what my kids affectionately refer to as "The Silver Bullet."  It's what my sons drove to learn to drive.  They less affectionately asked if I paid extra for all the squeaks and pings it makes as I motor along.  It shouts "practical" and "paid for."

 

 

 

What it doesn't shout (or even whisper or sing) is "fun" or "sexy" or "carefree."

But, this does.

 

And, for the past two weeks, I've been behind the wheel of my first ever convertible.  Now, I'm not a car person (exhibits A through C above!).  But, there's something about a convertible that fills me with glee.  It's impractical, I know.  I'm 48 for cryin' out loud.  Some of you might be wondering if maybe I'm having  little mid-life-menopausal-type crisis.  Nope.  I'm just finally at a point in my life where what I drive doesn't have to take into consideration my kids.  It can be, dare I say, for me.  For fun.  And when a friend mentioned a few weeks after we'd had lunch that the lease on her 2005 convertible was up and it had fewer than 9000 miles on it (Yes.  You read that correctly) and that she had a good deal to buy it but she wanted something else, I casually mentioned it to my husband that night at dinner (because, we'd been talking that perhaps it was time to hand down the Silver Bullet to one of our more-or-less deserving children) and the next day we took it for a test-drive on one of the first sunny, warm days we'd had since last October.  And I felt like Malibu Barbie--only with brains and not in a bikini.

And no, the kids cannot borrow it.  There's a perfectly good 2000 Saturn wagon they can use.

Oh, No--The Possibilities Really Are Endless!

by Laura Benedict

The moment we choose to love we begin to move towards freedom...
        -Bell Hooks
        American critic and writer

Just last Friday, I watched as Pom drove away with only Bengal in the car for the very first time. It was also the first time she drove the car without me, her father or her grandfather with her. I had been anticipating that day for many months—okay, many years—okay, since I lay on my side in my bed one dark night, newly pregnant with her—but the depth of what I’m feeling has me completely overwhelmed.
I imagined I would be fretful about her being in an accident, or parking in dark, scary parking lots, or being carjacked, or getting lost and having to ask directions from the only house for miles around: that of a backwoods meth dealer with a predilection for blue-eyed sixteen year-old girls. I know things will happen about which she’ll say to her brother, “Mommy can never, ever know what just happened!”  I make my living with my imagination. It knows no bounds when it comes to tragedy. Other moms have covered such fears beautifully here--rather they have written beautifully about adjusting to them. As I read Nina’s wonderful post about her son’s gaining confidence and independence when he mastered public transportation, I quailed a bit. I felt a little ashamed—perhaps I’m one of those “parent-as-bodyguard” moms. I’ll have to ponder that.
But all those fears are buried for the moment as I am now buzzed on the adrenalin of a new worry: Pom doesn’t need me so much anymore.
It first hit me when my DH and I watched Pom back out of a parking space near the restaurant where we’d all just had lunch. “Remember when they let us leave the hospital with her?” DH said. Now THAT was a weird moment. I gave birth at a hospital two hours from our home and, three days later, the nurse just checked that we had a car seat and waved us off. About ten minutes into the trip we said, almost at the same moment, “Can you believe they let us just drive away with her? With no one to supervise?” But it hit me harder these sixteen years later when I returned to our empty house and realized that I wouldn’t have to hop back in the car a few hours later and pick up Pom and Bengal at school. (I had dropped DH at work.) It was just me. In the empty house. Alone with the dog. In the empty, quiet house. The rather messy, empty, quiet house.
Worse, there was a student government meeting after school to which Pom had to drag Bengal. Then DH and I had a function to go to and wouldn’t be home until almost 10:00. It felt like a very long day.
I haven’t been so great at building up Pom’s independence. She’s as responsibility-lazy as I let her be. Thank goodness she’s academically ambitious and is highly self-interested. I’m a big fan of enlightened self-interest. It’s what saved my naïve little rear end a thousand times before I turned eighteen. I wouldn’t be surprised if, now that she has a taste of independence, she’ll develop a real taste for it. She’s my daughter after all.
Writing this, I realize that the half-stunned, untethered fear inside me right now isn’t so much that my children won’t need me—it’s the realization that I need to be needed. Oh. It feels weird to say that. I’ve always prided myself on my independence, and have been—for almost all of my life—fond of the phrase, “No, thank you. I can manage just fine all by myself!” But, apparently, that’s not quite true. I can’t get by so well without someone else to focus on. I love to fuss-over, feed, cuddle, love, nibble, tote, fetch, yell, and provide-for. I love to button-up, zip-into, tease, tuck-in, and listen. These things have filled my life for so long, I don’t know what I’ll do without a steady diet of them.
I know I have a few years left, particularly with Bengal. And there is my long-suffering DH to tend to. We don’t date often, though we talk, talk, talk and laugh a lot. Our plan is to be here for one another long after both kids drive away.
As Pom and I stood in line waiting to order lunch that afternoon, she (in most dramatic Pom-fashion) threw her arms wide and said, “The possibilities are just endless!” I wish you could have seen her smile!
Maybe her new driver’s license actually means the same thing for both of us: freedom. I wonder if she’s as scared as I am.
Yeah. Right.

Hey Little Girl! Ya Want a Ride? by Jenny Gardiner

Today we're going to talk about logistics. Moms of teens? Logistics, anyone? Ring any bells?

Okay, fasten your seatbelts, cause here we go. I've got three teens. One drives, one is mere weeks away from her official license and emancipation, and one is completely at my driving mercy for a few more years.

I'm going away for six days to a writing conference. This would be a conference for that writing career of mine that doesn't exactly pay the big bucks. Suffice it to say, my value in this family comes from my kid-shuttling skills. Sure my prose is top-notch and all (I have to say that in order to bolster my self-esteem). But while my income as a writer is imminently replaceable (as in: I could get a part-time job at the Tip Top Diner and make more money), my mere existence as the means of transporting kids to and fro is what makes me needed. And badly. I'm a heartbeat with a driver's license.

Thus my absence means one of three drivers in our cadre of makeshift jitney drivers is off the list. Dad driver has this crazy thing called a day job. Son driver has this crazy thing called school, and then varsity soccer. And of course this of all possible weeks is the week in which there are four---count 'em, four---soccer matches. Three of them out of town.

So middle daughter has the lead in the school musical, performance is two weeks away. This means she can't miss play practice at all, or she'll never get a lead again. We know how tragique that would be.

And then there's youngest. Travel soccer practice, scrimmage and game. Dad is default coach since the coach blew out of town mid-way through the year. Dad's a great coach. But there's that little thing called work he keeps missing out on.

So, Jen sets about planning, strategizing, flow charts a-flowin', spread sheets a-spreadin', all viable options in play in this schedule-rides-while-mom's-gone project. Neighbor #1 has committed youngest for three rides into school this week, mornings only. Her daughter has lacrosse practice after school so no rides home there. Neighbor #2 says he can ride daughter home two days, but two days he's out of town, can we drive his son in on one of those days and then on Monday? Hmmm. This dashes neighbor #1 for one morning because we must reciprocate #2's generosity, meaning husband must drive one day in morning. In the meantime fiance of #2 says she can leave work early to drive kids home two days, so we're set.

I'm set to leave in a matter of hours. But this morning I come down to this email from neighbor #2: "I forgot I have to take son to doctor's appointment tomorrow so can't drive your daughter home."

Damn, now must find yet another link in the chain of drivers. Meantime, husband offers to drive girls in to school this morning (son still asleep; he goes in on late shift to school, a plan devised by administrators to ensure that kids don't have faces plastered to desk catching Z's all day long). On way into town husband calls: how is older daughter going to get home from play practice today? Son has away soccer game. Dad's going to game. Only person headed our way is a girl who now gets a ride home with her sketchy boyfriend. Not the one we want her driving with. Last-minute revelation! Woman in neighborhood (who I don't know--first rule of who-drives-our-kids violated) has kid with bit part in play. We're driving her kid in two weeks to the play while they vacation in the Caribbean. I scramble to find her name in my email in-box, call her, speak with her fiance (what's with the fiances with all of these middle-aged folks in my neighborhood?), who, incidentally, has been married to two other women in the neighborhood in the ten years since I've lived here. Can first daughter ride home with your fiance? Call waiting beeps in. Husband on the phone. Okay, need ride for daughter #1 Thursday as well, as son has soccer match, youngest and Dad have soccer scrimmage, thus daughter #1 would be stranded at school indefinitely. Back to fiance on hold. Will call back after contacting ride source. Ten minutes later, rides confirmed. Two more down, who knows how many more to go?

So if you're keeping up with me (as I should be packing instead of mapping out driving logistics or writing about them) here's the deal: Got rides for youngest daughter to school three mornings but have to give up third morning to concede to neighbor who is giving rides home for four afternoons but who just rescinded a ride. Now also obligated to ride his son Monday morning, which means I can't drive my fun convertible on a warm sunny day since he'd have to be folded up like an origami crane in the backseat, which isn't so neighborly. Means I have to sacrifice and drive the banged-up ho-hum silver mini-van-from-hell. The one whose ventilation system reeks of mildew, with the lingering odor of wet dog. First daughter now has ride home with quasi-stranger---who sound nice on phone---after play practice two evenings this week. For Wednesday? Oops, I forgot. She's got a regional choral concert. Mandatory attendance. In fact they tried to jam in a make-up practice, also mandatory, for this week, but I told them they'd have to pick her up from school and drop her back home afterward. They never replied to my email. So husband now has to trek into school Wednesday to get first daughter, schlep her to concert practice, wait the two hours in town because it's not worth driving home for that time. Youngest? She'll be stuck home re-heating leftover pasta for dinner. Son? Well, at least he can do his own driving when possible. This is why we don't dare use the car as a punitive weapon in our arsenal of things-to-take-away-when-kids-don't-do-what-they're-supposed-to-do. That would only serve to punish us!

Husband just got back. "I still don't have ride home for youngest from practice today." Practice today? Damn, forgot about that! Husband is going to son's away game. How the hell is youngest getting home?

Oh, I forgot yet another thing in all of this confusion. Wednesday? Youngest is supposed to spend part of the day at the high school, where she'll be attending next year. Problem with this? Her ride is leaving at 8 a.m. and headed to another school. She doesn't have to be at the high school till 9. Son and daughter #1 won't be going in until the late shift. Which  means husband now has to drive daughter, wait with her for the arrival of the buses from the middle schools to ensure that she ends up in the group with her girlfriends from the neighborhood rather than some greasy-haired, cigarette-reeking rednecks in cammo. Husband then will have to return to get her at lunch time to deliver her to her school, which is across a busy road and up a long driveway from the high school. Unless...Wait! Son! Son! Son can slip out of school for a few minutes and drive---or maybe even walk!---daughter back to her school. Where husband will have to arrive a few short hours later to pick her up anyhow, unless we can find someone else who's going our way. I think another neighbor's son drives there now, but daughter tells me he's on the golf team and they go elsewhere after school to practice. Dagnabbit!

In  the meantime, I forgot to mention the haircut issue. Son says to me on Sunday: "Mom, I need a haircut. Like, badly. Like, tomorrow." Uh, son, hair salon is not open on Monday. You've got soccer all week long. How would you do this? After series of intensive and illicit text messages while he sat through AP Stats on Monday morning: text, phone salon, text, phone salon, text, phone salon, we conclude that on Thursday he can slip out of the last ten minutes of AP English, race down (though not speeding because then he'd lose his license and I'd throttle him for that!) to the hair salon, and get back in time for his mandatory presence in the stands during the JV game. Or he can go Friday after practice, at 6:45. Only problem is salon closes at 4:30 on Fridays. I guess hairdressers need happy hours (though at this point not nearly as much as I do!). We settle on the post-school, pre-game haircut. Only to have him chastise me for scheduling it then. Huh? I zipped him shut though when I told him if he didn't take that appointment, he'd have to wait at least a week, which would mean going to prom with a fresh haircut, which of course no one does...

Late yesterday school sends unexpected announcement: due to their hosting a state-wide education conference, school for older two lets out at lunchtime on Friday. What about play practice? Soccer practice? Who knows? And whatever happened to just taking the damned bus?

Saturday, youngest daughter has travel soccer match. Out of town, two hours south of here. That means dad's there too, since he's the coach. Son? Why a soccer match, of course, one hour west of here. Who schedules a high school soccer match on Saturday? In four years of his playing soccer in high school, never has there been a Saturday match. Until now. First daughter? Aside from the social life that requires transportation, and the fact that we aren't getting in her required driving time in order for her to get her official license, she has that make-up choral practice that I nixed from the get-go. And all four of them? Expected at husband's parents house for family gathering that night, two hours north of here. Which means husband will have put in six hours of driving Saturday. Make that eight, since he has to drive back that night. And in the thick of all this? I haven't even contemplated who will be tending to our needy dogs and other miscellaneous pets.

Did I mention that husband also has to be sure to feed the kids all week?

Suffice it to say Jen won't be encouraged to do any out-of-town ventures anytime soon...

It's so nice to know that I'm needed. Sort of sad that it's primarily because I am a make-shift taxi-driver, however.

Curfews

Grumble, a 10th grader, doesn't have a robust social life and doesn't drive yet so curfews have not been an issue.  But then last weekend, on closing night of the play, came the cast party.  The curtain falls, the kids wipe off their makeup, strike the set, then everyone goes to The Majestic (a 24 hour diner) to eat, and after that there's a cast party.

G was actually pre-worrying about the cast party when I dropped him off for his 5:30 cast call.  In his mind it was going to be heavy with seniors, and there might be drinking and he wasn't sure he wanted to go.

Fortunately, while serving refreshments during intermission I met the parents who were hosting the post-Majestic party -- really nice, responsible, grounded folks. They assured me there would be no alcohol and lots of supervision, and they even promised to snag him a ride home with one of the seniors. I gave Grumble the green light to go. 

Then I crawled home to bed and fell asleep anxiously, with the light on, while watching Trading Spaces.  Such is my robust social life.

Grumble walked in at 1:00 am happy and singing.  Now 1:00 am seems awfully late for a 10th grader, but the happy and singing part, well that made my heart swell.  We talked a bit before he went to bed, though I have no idea what either of us said.

Question to all you wise and worldly Mid-Century Moms:  How and when does one establish a curfew for a non-driving 10th grader who will not have a car in 11th grade.  Can you set a curfew without having to be the actual person who will have to don a bathrobe at midnight and fetch the child from some remote zip code?  I don't remember this being a problem with older son Jaws, because when he was in 10th grade we lived in a nice little compact town of 18,000 where nothing was terribly far away.  Advice please!