Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Xtreme Parenting: Teen Edition

I've had people tell me, "You know, SuburbanCorrespondent, we like your regular blog; but that MCMM? It gets depressing - all you folks do is complain." 

To which I say, "Welcome to raising teenagers!"  Because, let's face it, mothers of toddlers can complain about dirty diapers one minute, then wax rhapsodic the next over the maximum cuteness that is a 2-year-old.  Teens?  Not cute.  Even if you love them, and they are behaving halfway human, there's nothing bloggable in that.  So it is the down side that gets all the press, I'm afraid - the tantrums, the self-centeredness, the....whoops - there I go again.

That said, there is a difference between complaining about teenager behavior and letting your teens walk all over you.  Yes, I'll blog about something outrageous my teens have said or done.  But rest assured, there is retribution.  There is revenge.  There is something that will keep me from feeling like a doormat.  Because, you know what? (now watch out, here it comes...)

I am the parent.
It is MY house.
It is MY computer.
It is MY television.
It is MY cellphone.

Are you beginning to understand?  Sure, my teens might break the rules, and be pigs, and be rude.  No one's perfect.  And there is no way to parent that will ensure that teens behave perfectly.  However, there is a way to parent that will ensure that teens will know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they have stepped over the line.  Repeat after me:

I am the parent.
It is MY house.
It is MY computer.
It is MY television.
It is MY cellphone.

Very good.  Therefore, if someone (say, a teen) wishes to enjoy house or computer or TV or cellphone privileges, it behooves him/her to suck up to the person in charge, now doesn't it?  And when you think about it, sucking up to the person in charge can be a very valuable life skill.  It is incumbent upon us parents to inculcate our teens with this skill.  So what do you do the next time he/she is rude/messy/inconsiderate?  Repeat after me:

I am the parent.
It is MY house.
It is MY computer.
It is MY television.
It is MY cellphone.

Very good. You're getting better at that. 

You know, last year, when my daughter was attending 8th grade at our public school and loved it?  If she decided to come home and be rude/discourteous/unhelpful to her parents after spending the school day acting human for her teachers, well....the next morning the poor dear couldn't find her shoes.  Nope.  She was stuck home.  Where she could practice her manners all day long.  And if she practiced well....hey! presto!  Her shoes reappeared the next morning.  Magic!

We have one computer in our house.  It has a login password that only my husband and I know.  And we don't have to type in that password for any child who cannot remember how to do the dishes.  If they say, "I forgot!" then we say, "Whaddaya know? We just forgot the password!"  It's fun.

Our teens each have their own rooms.  But remember, it is MY house.  And in MY house, each morning the beds are made, and trash is removed from the floor of the bedrooms, and clean clothes sitting around in laundry baskets are put away.  Because that's what my teens like to do.

NOT! They hate it.  But if it doesn't get done, they can't get rides (it's MY car, you know); and they can't get computer access (see above); and they can't receive phone calls....I hope you all are getting the idea by now.

Some people feel that this approach is unkind.  Not friendly.  They want to have a pleasant relationship with their teens.  So they don't punish them.  They don't withhold the goodies. But is it a pleasant relationship if you are being kind to and considerate of your children, yet they are being rude to and dismissive of you?  And is it right to teach them that they can be rude to someone and that someone will still let them do what they want?  Is it fair to their future spouse to let your teens think that that is how interpersonal relationships work?

Those were all rhetorical questions, by the way.

You can't have a good relationship with your teens until they treat you with respect, automatically, all of the time.  That doesn't mean they agree with all your decisions; it means that they do not swear at you, roll their eyes at you, yell at you, or refuse to do what is expected of them.  Those conditions are what are known as non-negotiables.  It doesn't matter how they feel about these conditions, people.  It is the parents who are in charge.  Remember?

I am the parent.
It is MY house.
It is MY computer.
It is MY television.
It is MY cellphone.

Margalit blogged yesterday about hiding her daughter's hair straightener because she would never put it away. (And believe me, Margalit, I was rooting for you - you go, girl!)  But then her daughter found it and took it back.  Should Margalit admit defeat? I don't think so.  Margalit, you go into her room or bathroom or whatever and take it all - the lotions, the conditioner, the straightener (of course) and hide it all in a better place - say, in someone else's house.  Leave her a few items (soap, comb, shampoo, perhaps).  Explain that if those items are put away properly for an entire week, you will give her one or two items back.  And if those items are put away properly for a week? She gets a few more back.  Just make sure that the straightener is last.  Ignore the symptoms of apoplexy she will exhibit as you explain the new system to her.  And enjoy the heady feeling of power.  It's intoxicating.

And the Xbox and TV that your son loves so much?  Remove them.  Give them away, even.  That really gets a teen's attention.  And there is no law against padlocking your refrigerator.  It just looks a little weird to visitors.  Sometimes teens require Xtreme Parenting.  It doesn't mean you've failed.  It just means you get to think outside the (X)box for a bit.

A friend of mine says she doesn't want to get engaged in a zillion battles like this with her teen.  But the beauty of drawing a line in the sand and doing something radical is this: you only have to do it a few times before your teen starts to think twice.  There won't be as many battles because they know you mean business.  I haven't even had a reason to hide my daughter's shoes lately.  Bummer.  It was sort of fun watching her look for them.

Teens? What Teens?

Suburban Correspondent here, ruminating (as always) on how to salvage self-esteem when surrounded by teenagers.

Sometimes, when I'm overwhelmed by all the things about my older kids I can't control - their choices, their work habits, their sleep patterns (though I give it the old college try) - I retreat into my happy space, my "what teens?" world.  I focus on the 4 youngest (all the while blocking out the fact that they, too, will turn on me in time) and revel in their adoring company. My enjoyment is enhanced by the knowledge that my pleasure in the younger kids disgusts the teens, who see only peskiness where I see cuteness and innocence. 

Yes, I enjoy my younger kids just to spite the older ones.  I even shower the kiddies with extra treats, saying, "You love Mommy, don't you?"    If one of my alienated offspring grunts, "You never let us have smoothies!" or some such complaint, I say, "I guess it pays to be loving towards Mom, doesn't it?"  This, of course, is not an advised course of action in any parenting book out there; I should know, as I've read them all.  But it does observe my cardinal rule for raising teens: don't take them too seriously, or they will drive you crazy.

I'm hoping that, by the time the youngest are teenagers, I'll be able to spite them by spoiling some grandchildren.  And maybe even some newly grateful grown children of my own...

Bad Timing

Suburban Correspondent here, contemplating Mother Nature's bad sense of timing.  Think about it: do entering middle age and raising teens really mix?  I'm starting to believe it's a combination as deadly as drinking and driving.  I mean, just as 10 added pounds, wrinkles, gray hair, and less of that come-hither feeling (if you know what I mean) are becoming the new features of my personal landscape, is it really necessary that the resulting death blow to my self esteem be compounded by my teen daughter's obvious disgust whenever she is near me?  Do you know yet how damaging it feels - self-image-wise - to start speaking to your teen daughter, only to notice an embarrassed expression on her face - an expression that might be more appropriately directed at a raving, incoherent homeless person accosting you on a city street than at the person who birthed and diapered you?

I swear, Anna woke up on her 13th birthday, saw her father and me, and thought, "Who are these people, and why are they telling me what to do?" 

Lucky for me (and my self esteem), I do have younger ones, for whom I am still a maternal goddess of mythic proportions.  They play UNO with me, they tell me what they would like for lunch without looking annoyed at the question, they come to me with their problems.  I don't have to cut off all their contact with the outside world in order to get their attention (although, I will admit, I have fun doing that to Anna). I am their acknowledged mother and all is right with the world.

I know these halcyon days with them will end, of course; I'm no fool.  But hopefully, by the time these younger ones are teens, I will have passed through the maelstrom of impending middle age and be more comfortable with my older self.  I will be able to look down upon their adolescent antics with the Olympian detachment that comes with having weathered such blasts before and survived.  Right now, however?  I'm too new to both the aging game and the raising-teens scene to help but feel a tad shaken when confronted with a teen daughter who calls me a "stupid old lady" in the fitting room at Kohls.

So...how much longer?  Any of you out there with grown children feel like sharing the secret time line with me?  We're going on 2 years now, and I would really like my daughter back.  I understand she needs to grow up, I'm fine with that.  I just need the grown-up version that acknowledges not only my existence, but also our relationship.  Preferably well before the point in time when she is choosing my nursing home...

 

Middle Age

I was reading to my 5-year-old the other day while she played with my hair.  "Hey!" she said.  "There's something white on this one!  And it won't come off!"  That's middle age for you.  It just doesn't come off.  The gray, the extra pounds, the wrinkles - they're here to stay.  I've been looking at my options for the next 30 years (God willing): should I strive for the plump, vulnerable, soft look?  Or should I attempt the seen-it-all, no-nonsense, in charge demeanor?  Which one would make it least likely that, years from now, young women, upon seeing me in the store or where ever, would think, "Getting old sucks!"

Probably neither.  I'm just kidding myself.

Birthday Girl

Suburban Correspondent here, wanting to keep it light today, all righty? No serious topics, no politics, just some blather about, say, birthdays. Can't argue about birthdays, can we? I hope not. Mine was yesterday - I turned 45. And, you know, it felt good. I feel....free.

I don't know why I feel so free.  After all, despite my advancing years, I still have 6 kids at home to raise, 4 of them not even teens yet.  But maybe, since I haven't gotten pregnant in the past 3 years, I'm realizing that the baby years are done.  Sure, life with teens can be a wild, sleepless ride; but it doesn't compare to the crazed early years, when my only goal was survival.  I'm moving beyond my survival-only life now; and it is refreshing to be able to look around and survey the horizon.  Let's see...there are just so many things I can do, now that I'm not spending all my time comparison-pricing disposable diapers or buckling little people into shopping carts and strollers.  I could go back to school or I could knit and crochet more or maybe I could even get a part-time job, just to get out of the house in the evenings. 

Of course, I know a lot of other, more fun ways to get out of the house after dinner: Mothers Nights Out, yoga, Stitch 'n' Bitch. But those reasons tend to get pushed aside for the kids' stuff, like homework or Boy Scouts or whatever.  Somehow, needing a sanity break just doesn't rank with all the zillion and one things that kids need done for them in the evenings, even though it darn well should.  Even the teens seem particularly needy just when I'm hoping to get a little me-time.  Suddenly there is a clothing crisis (Anna) or a math crisis (Theo), and life as we know it has to stop until things get resolved.  I'm fantasizing that a job would take precedence over all this; and, by getting out in the evenings, I wouldn't feel like a prisoner anymore.

Not that I like to compare being a SAHM to being a prisoner; but I'm thinking that the detainees at Guantanamo get out more, and with less fuss, than I do.  And torture?  Put those guys in a room all day with 2 small children fighting over who gets to sit in the flowered armchair; they'd break down, all right. 

Where was I?  Oh, yes, keeping it light.  Right.  So...I'm sitting up at 11:30 PM on my birthday, baking blueberry bread and making sandwiches.  Why?  Because Larry and Anna are leaving at 5:30 tomorrow morning for a week of work camp, and they need food for the car ride.  Since I got the day off for my birthday and spent 2 hours browsing through every clearance bin in the bookstore, and another 2 hours reading Devil in the Details, well...stuff that should have gotten done, didn't. 

You know, if you're gonna dance, you gotta pay the band.

Still, I love birthdays.  Mine, that is.  And now it's only 365 more days until my next one.  So give me some ideas for my next chance to goof off for 24 hours - what would you do?

Just What The Doctor Ordered

Whoa! Suburban Correspondent here, which means that it must be Sunday again. How did that happen?  You know, I don't like this time-speeding-up-as-we-age thing.  I especially don't see how the time that is moving so slowly from my teens' viewpoint could be the same time that whizzes by me so fast that I can't even keep track of which month it is.  All I know is that I am reaching the halfway point of a year that, by my reckoning, shouldn't be anywhere past March yet. 

Of course, I can count on summer to slow things down a bit, albeit temporarily.  My least favorite date is the 1st of September.  The beginning of September is akin to being at the top of a greased chute which deposits me, approximately 3 seconds later, at the beginning of the next calendar year in a bewildered post-serial-holiday-state, a condition that renders me a sobbing shell of the woman I was a mere 4 months previous.  Thank the Lord for the therapeutic power of a festivities-free January.

Anyway, I had my annual pep talk today.  At a local homeschooling conference, I saw the doctor - Dr. Ray, that is - and listened to him remind me that

I am the grown-up.
I am allowed to set the rules.
There is no reason whatsoever to tolerate disrespect, verbal or otherwise, from my beloved progeny.

All things I already knew, of course; because I learned them from him last year. After last year's talk, I came home, kicked down the front door (figuratively speaking), and ordered my teenage daughter to her room.  "Why?" she asked, bewildered. 

"Because you've made my life a living hell for the past 10 months," I told her.  She was so stunned, she listened.  And then I slowly began to turn things around.  This book helped.

Still, it's good to be reminded of the basics from time to time.  So I went back today to imbibe more wisdom at the feet of the master.  You see, this man has 10 children.  That's right.  He's an expert.  He also has a comic delivery which has his audience practically rolling on the floor during his talks.  Go ahead, check him out.  You'll be glad you did.

And I'm not even getting a free book out of that little advertisement up there.  I am uncompromised.

Best-Dressed

Suburban Correspondent here again with a discussion question.  Open book.  It's all about dress codes for teens (and I think we all know that we're mostly talking about teen girls here).  Mary Alice had an interesting post last week, all about the wisdom of being open with our children about sex (or s-e-x, as she put it).  As an aside, she mentioned that her mother had never put any restrictions on how Mary Alice's youngest sister dressed.  And this comment gave me pause.

As anyone who reads my blog knows, my teen daughter Anna and I have had several run-ins on the what-to-wear issue.  Appalled by the sultry, I-am-a-slut look that seems to be in vogue for teen girls, I've endeavoured mightily to hold the line at my daughter dressing in a manner that communicates to others her sense of self-respect.  Oddly enough, Anna doesn't seem to like the long-sleeved prairie dresses and high-buttoned shoes I've picked out for her....

Ha, ha - just kidding - but, from the way she acts, you would think that is how I am telling her to dress.  Essentially, my dress code rules have consisted of basic guidelines regarding cleavage display, heel heights, and skirt and shorts lengths.  She has cooperated, but it hasn't been pleasant.

And yet, it is hard for me to imagine saying to her, "Wear whatever you like, honey."  Somehow, it seems disrespectful for Anna to be sitting in the same room as her father with her boobs hanging out of her shirt or with 3-inch heels showing off leg all the way up to mid-thigh.  And it would feel odd to me for her father to let her go out into the world that exposed and vulnerable looking.  I doubt anything bad would happen to her, but it still seems to be sending a message that he doesn't care at all about protecting his daughter.

So (and here is my question, finally) - does any of it matter at all?  Really? Type neatly, and make sure to give examples to back up your answers.  Input from fathers would be appreciated.  And extra credit will be given for amusing anecdotes.  Because I could really use a laugh right now.

The Joy of Teens

Hello.  I'm suburbancorrespondent and I'm the mother of 2 teens.  I also have 4 younger ones, thanks be to God, or I would have run away from home by now.  Margalit invited me to add my 2 cents to this blog - even though she said she was looking for people who have good relationships with their teenagers.  Apparently, she hasn't read my blog very closely.  Living with a teenage girl who has decided she no longer wants anything to do with you feels like the 7th grade lunchroom all over again.  Avoid eye contact.  Don't confront unless absolutely necessary.  And for heaven's sake, don't breathe near her unless you want to feel the cloud of disgust that emanates from her person like a cloud of napalm.

Why, no, I'm not having a lot of fun right now.  Why do you ask?

If you're one of those persons who just loooves teens, you may want to move right along to some other person's blog post.  I enjoyed mine, too, until they turned on me.  Give me little kids any day - at least, when they throw a tantrum, you can pick them up and put them in their rooms.  But when my 14-year-old daughter Anna throws a tantrum?  I have to gather all the younger children and leave the house.

This doesn't happen with all teens, mind you - my son Theo is 16 and he doesn't throw tantrums.  He's polite and helpful around the house.  (I'm telling you this in case you think my husband and I are just total losers as parents.) But you can tell we bore him.  He's trying to finish both junior and senior year in the next 12 months, just so he can get out of the house.  Nothing personal, or anything, I know - but it still makes me feel about as attractive as a week-old tuna sandwich. 

Let's face it - the teens just don't  get excited about the little things anymore.  The popsicles, the walks to the park, the homemade playdough - not only are they not excited by them (and, really, I don't expect them to be); but they are anxious to put as much distance between themselves and those who enjoy such innocent activities (that would be, um, me) as possible.

So, if you come here on Sundays expecting me to wax rhapsodic over my adolescents, you're bound to be disappointed.  Any time I spend thinking about them is usually spent devising ways to make their lives as miserable as they make mine. Revenge is always sweet. 

Popsicle, anyone?