Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Say cheese!

One of the great pleasures I have had this fall has been as the "official" photographer for the Roo-girl's varsity cheer team.

It has given me some street cred with the girls, the cheer moms, the coach and the adviser -- as well as a field pass for the football games. Woot!

A total blast, let me tell ya.

Except.

(You knew there was an "except," didn't you?)

Of course, my daughter thinks it's the most humiliating and excrutiating thing ever to have her mother on the track while they're doing their cheer thing.

In fact, she has been downright nasty about it.

Which brings us to today's topic: nasty teens and what to do about them.

I was leaning over the railing, considering my photo options two weeks ago ... and Roo saw me.

"You can leave now," she snarked.

I gave her my best death-by-eyeballs glare, and she backed down. "Sorry," she mumbled.

Later, as I cruised among the girls, periodically raising my lens in a variety of directions, she evil-eyed me again.

"Why are you always taking pictures of me?" she snarled.

I stared her down again, snarling back that I was taking pictures of ALL the girls (a tough thing for me to do, when I'd really like to only shoot my own kid).

"Then why are you always pointing the camera at me?"

I stopped dead in my tracks, counted to 10 ... and walked away, knowing that a public display was bad for me at that moment.

But later?

Sometimes, on my blog, I refer to myself as Evil Mother. I do this in jest because I generally take great pleasure in embarrassing my kids -- in a totally benign sort of way.

But that night, Evil Mother was replaced by Totally Pissed-Off Mother, who morphed into Mean and Cruel Mother the next morning.

Because. I. had. had. enough.

And so ... I sat down on her bed and let her have it with both barrels.

"I will no longer permit you to treat me with disrespect," I began, "and therefore, if you talk to me nastily, I will answer you in kind -- regardless of whether we are alone or in public. If that means I embarrass you in front of your friends, then so be it."

She nodded. We have actually had this part of the conversation before, and she knows I'm good for it.

"And if, in fact, having your picture taken is so horrible," I continued, "I can solve that for you. I will no longer take your picture."

Her eyes grew big and filled with tears.

"And if THAT doesn't improve your attitude, then I will have a meeting with your entire team and inform the girls that I will specifically not shoot any stunt group that you are in ... and that I apologize to anyone who stands near you because THEY will not get the photographic coverage they deserve as a result."

And the waterworks began.

Was I mean? Oh yeah. Was I unnecessarily cruel? *Shrug* I think it depends on whether you have been on the receiving edge of a sharp teen tongue ... and whether or not you like or allow it.

I don't.

And I'm done.

I'm also sufficiently old school to demand at least the APPEARANCE of respect from my kids. Whether they FEEL it or not is their problem, not mine.

Amazingly enough, this past Friday night, the nasty Roo stayed home ,and the sweet Roo cheered the game.

And even posed for a photo with her friend.

That's her on the left. This week, I think I'll keep her.

When dinosaurs roamed the earth ...

I love the team I work with.

We are a group of nine women from varying backgrounds with varying responsibilities.

The one thing that doesn't vary is our ages.

Except mine.

They're young. I'm old. At least relatively speaking. Most, if not all, of them are about the age of my oldest children, if not younger.

Yes, I could be their mothers.

We do find this amusing on occasion. I am referred to as the elder stateswoman and treated with the all deference that implies.

Not.

In reality, I'm more like one of the "girls" when we joke about life, liberty and the pursuit of craziness.

And so it was that one of my colleagues was walking with me toward the elevator, talking about -- of all things -- the fact that I was wearing eye makeup, which reminded her of something.

"Did you watch 'Sesame Street?' " she asked me.

And. I. fell. on. the. floor.

"Yes, love, I DID watch 'Sesame Street' -- WITH MY CHILDREN!"

She looked at me, uncomprehending ... and then realized what she had said.

And I positively HOWLED with laughter.

"When I was the age to watch something like 'Sesame Street,' the best thing on was 'The Mickey Mouse Club' -- in black and white!"

She gulped. "I don't think of you as that old," she said.

Obviously ...

I'm still laughing.

Originally posted at From the Planet of Janet

Home sweet homecoming

When last we spoke of homecoming, it was a miserable moment in the world of Roo.

It seems, however, we must speak of homecoming again. This time, OUR homecoming, not the homecoming of some other school that we decided to essentially crash.

OUR homecoming is different. OUR homecoming is a fun dance to go to, even if you don't have a date.

But it helps if you have friends going too.

And so it was that the Roo-girl found herself on Saturday afternoon, planning NOT to go to OUR homecoming because her cheer buddy (a year older than Roo) didn't want to go and they decided to plan an evening of dinner and a movie.

She and her friend (a girl we will call Jessie) decided it would be fun to have their makeup done ANYWAY at the local mall. So off they went.

It was during this lunchtime expedition that the Roo-girl found herself invited to join the crowd in a limo going to the dance. Not Jessie's grade or her crowd and no room in the limo for more than just Roo.

Jessie told Roo that, OF COURSE, she should go. After all, her makeup was already done.

And so Roo came home all excited that the homecoming dress with bad memories from two weeks ago would be redeemed at OUR homecoming, which will be FUN.

Except ...

You know, of course, that Jessie's enthusiasm for Roo going to the dance was a front. In fact, she actually was quite upset that Roo had dropped her like a hot potato abandoned their plans for dinner and a movie.

Alas, I see both sides.

I am glad Roo went to the dance. She had planned on it from the beginning. She had the dress and the shoes. She had been making elaborate plans with her friends that eventually were dropped when Jessie decided she didn't want to go after all.

And I'm sorry Roo went to the dance. She hurt her friend and is taking a lot of guff from her other friends as a result.

Have I said recently how much I hate teenage girls?

 

Psssst -- it's the PSAT

Those of you who know me well know that I am caught between a rock and a hard place while I watch time fly by as we move inexorably closer to "the big one."

You know ... the BIG one.

The day she graduates from high school. The day she goes away to college. The day my day-to-day childrearing comes to an end.

Color me freaked out.

I know I have played this tune before and I still have another 2 1/2 years to go, but something happened on Saturday that made me realize just how close it is.

The Roo-girl took the PSAT.

This is the beginning of the beginning. The preliminary step toward the college applications. The first baby step toward the first day of the rest of her life.

MY BAYBEEEE!!!!

The taking of the exam ("The longest test I ever took in my whole life!!!!!") prompted some conversation about where she wants to go to school.

The answer?

Out of state.

Why?

Because she wants the experience of going away before she returns to the fold.

"I love California, Mom," she told me. "I will always come back here."

Whew!

Random acts of weirdness

Heard around our universe ...

Z-man: I think I weigh 120 now -- with my clothes on.

Evil Mother: Really. How tall are you now?

Z-man: *previously short dude grinning with newfound height* 5-foot-8.

The Roo-girl: Hmmm. I'm just barely 5 feet, and I weigh 100 pounds.

Evil Mother: Mostly muscle.

The Roo-girl reaches her arms in the air and stretches langorously.

Evil Mother and Z-man: *in unison* And BOOBS!

The Roo-girl: *smirking* If you've got 'em ...

Please note this was the girl who bemoaned her undeveloped state not too long ago. She is now ... ahem ... more boobish than me. Grrrrrrr.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Roo-girl: *crankily* I don't want to be up now.

Evil Mother: Me either, but you gotta do what you gotta do.

The Roo-girl: I can't WAIT to own my own business.

*pause*

The Roo-girl: I'm not going to open until 11 every day!

Evil Mother: Not so good for business if you don't open early.

The Roo-girl: I. DON'T. CARE.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Roo-girl: Come ON, Mom. We need to stop at the 'Bucks before school. Coffee! I need coffee!

*Time out while I finish getting ready for work and we drive to the local Starbucks*

The Roo-girl: I'll have a vanilla bean frappuccino.

Evil Mother: *bursts out laughing ... because apparently she's the only one who realizes vanilla bean fraps are COFFEE-FREE drinks*

Originally posted at From the Planet of Janet

The dating game

The Roo-girl sorta-kinda-maybe had her first date on Saturday night.

Sorta-kinda-maybe?

Let me explain.

For some inexplicable reason, my daughter believed it would be fun to go to homecoming dances at other schools. Her latest BFF, Julie, had a date for one and didn't want to go "alone." Accordingly, she recruited Roo to "go with." As part of this process for any school other than her own, Roo had to have a boy to get her a guest pass.

And so, Julie got her a boy.

In Roo's mind, this was just an access pass to the dance. But apparently, in the boy's mind, this was a date.

No amount of motherly advice would break through to her. We even talked about what would happen if Julie and her date sucked face the entire time and how she would feel about that.

Her words, and I quote: "Julie PROMISED me that she wouldn't do that."

Uh-oh.

So, with great trepidation, I sent her off to Julie's house, a limo and homecoming at a local'ish  Catholic school.

I also sent her off with this piece of mommy'ness: "If you get yourself into a situation where you are uncomfortable, CALL ME. I will pick you up from wherever, no questions asked."

I'm not sure how to describe what happened next. She texted me at 7:45 p.m. to say "Hi, I'm still alive."

We traded texts for a few minutes about how she wasn't really having fun, that the boy was clingy, how she wasn't interested in him, and I reiterated my willingness to pick her up WHENEVER.

I heard nothing until close to 11. And then the phone calls began.

"Please come get me. I can't get into the limo and watch Julie making out again."

And so I got off my sickbed (yes, I have been dying of some nasty bug), as promised, and drove like a bat out of hell the 16 miles to the "other" school.

"Are you almost here? It's dark and I'm alone."

I put the pedal to the metal and broke a few land-speed records.

"Mommy, where are you?"

I found my sobbing daughter standing on the sidewalk by the school, in the dark, with only a few stray people still there.

She confirmed then that HE was on a date; SHE was not.

And she felt horrible about it. Angry at her BFF, who made her uncomfortable by -- as I figured -- sucking face all night. Embarrassed. Humiliated.

There was little usefulness, at that point, to explain the mathematics of dating to her: Boy + girl + limo + dance = date.

She has a lot to learn.

Hell's bells kitchen

My son Z-man graduated from culinary school last May.

I was/am so proud of him. But for all of his accomplishments in the kitchen in faraway collegeland, he would never -- and I mean NEVER -- cook for me.

In fact, if the subject came up, he got moody and sullen and sulky and generally unpleasant.

I found this to be a problem, since I spent a small fortune on his tuition. I mean, really. For all that it cost me for the last two years, I should get some kind of gourmet meal, doncha think?

Yeah, well. No.

I didn't fight it. After all, he was actually working in a restaurant kitchen. For real. So cooking at home would seem kinda like a busman's holiday.

But now? Business is bad all over, and he has been laid off (a subject for another day -- and oy, what a subject!).

As a result, I engaged in what I refer to a sneak attack.

Last night we planned to have spaghetti for dinner. I, however, have a particular aversion to marinara and prefer something less ... uh ... red. And so, from the aisles of the supermarket, I called him.

"What could we use to make something that I would like for the spaghetti?" I asked.

"Uh ... like alfredo?" he answered.

"No, more like garlic and olive oil or whatever."

"How 'bout capers and white wine?"

"YUMMM!"

I continued my shopping ... and got a text message.

"Get a lemon and parsley."

Two minutes later, I got another text.

"Also get mushrooms and peppers and whatever else you want in there."

I smiled.

Last night, my boy cooked for me.

It was delicious.

Taking it to the limit

I took a big step this weekend.

I did something that I have never done before. Something that scared me half to death.

And I was a brave little puppy about it.

What did I do, you ask?

I handed my debit card to my daughter so she could go shopping at the mall with her friend.

Ayiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

The Roo-girl is looking for a dress for the homecomingdance. (The homecoming dance??? Ayiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!)

Anyway, I had no cash to give her and no time to go get some, so I closed my eyes real tight, reached into my wallet and handed her my card.

I only had to breathe into a paper bag for a couple of minutes.

She had to memorize my pin. For someone with swiss cheese for brains (everything seeps out the holes), this was a challenge.

"6-7-2-2 ... 6-7-2-2 ... 6-7-2-2 ... 6-7-2-2," she chanted as she danced around the room.*

"Text it to yourself," offered Z-man helpfully.

Ayiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

And so she was off, my card nestled in her wallet, my heart nestled in my throat.

Several hours, I texted her to see how things were going.

Evil Mother: Finding anything?

The Roo-girl: Yes, I found a dress. Looking for shoes.

Evil Mother: *clutching her chest* How much have you spent?

The Roo-girl: Like 15 so far lol

Evil Mother: On a dress????? Lolol

The Roo-girl: Yes :-)

Evil Mother: That's my girl!!!!

The Roo-girl: I knew you would be proud.

I feel so much better now.

*No, that's not my real pin. You think I'm stupid or something????

And who does Mama teach to mend and tend and fix ...

I believe in God.

I keep a kosher home.

When my children turned 13, each of them in turn became a bar or bat mitzvah -- literally, a son or daughter of the commandment -- and took their places as an "adult" in the Jewish community.

As an adult, I have always belonged to a synagogue and gone to services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

Until now.

This year, I let my temple membership lapse and didn't purchase tickets (yes, you need tickets) to the holiday services. I continually walked past the envelope of membership information without taking action.

As early as Friday morning (before Rosh Hashanah began at sundown), I still had no plan. Fortunately, my BFF rescued me from my malaise and offered my family a place at her synagogue with her family.

But as I sat in services on Saturday morning, flanked by the Roo-girl and Z-man, I realized one of the sources of my problem.

Tradition -- or, rather, the lack of.

For years, my parents hosted a night-before dinner on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. When that stopped, they hosted post-services lunch on Rosh and a break-the-fast on Yom.

This year, there was none. Some of that was due to my mother's breast cancer diagnosis not being as clean and pretty as we had hoped. She was clearly not up to hosting anything.

But even so, I realized I have nothing in its place. The torch has not passed to another family member, nor have I taken up the challenge myself.

So there was nothing. No dinner. No lunch. No family gathering. And I barely managed to find a place to worship with the two children of mine who still live under my roof.

My childhood and, frankly, adulthood are filled with memories of holiday dinners at first my grandparents and then my parents.

Right now, I despair at the memories -- or lack thereof -- I am making for my children ...

Crossposted at From the Planet of Janet

Hey hey, ho ho ... let's get that ball and really go!

Ah, fall.

Well. I mean: Ah, almost fall.

Well. What I REALLY mean is: AHHHHHHH, FOOTBALL!

Yes, it has begun. This was a big weekend for the Planet household.

High school football began. My Roo-girl hit the track as a varsity cheerleader for the first time.

Was it different from cheering at last year's junior varsity games?

"Oh my GAWD yes," she told me later.

But she rocked it. Her pre-game butterflies were gone, and she cheered and danced and flew like a pro.

The stands were packed. Our team won. The Friday night lights were turned off.

And Wonderhubby and I turned our attention to the pros.

We are NFL fanatics, made all the more worse by our obsession with fantasy football.

We plan. We plot. We bond over setting our lineup.

Then Sunday is our day of rest -- with two laptops, the remote control, DirecTV's NFL Sunday Ticket ...

And food.

For opening day of the 2009-10 season, we chose carefully.

Tortilla strips. (But are they big enough to scoop with? There was a huge debate over this.)

Spinach dip. (Yummmmm)

Mango-peach salsa. (Be still, my beating heart!)

Alas, the Roo-girl was satisfied not.

"No guacamole????" she complained. "This is NOT OK!"

Apparently we have failed football food.