Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Of carrots and sticks

Rebekah has had friends visiting this week, sisters from out of town. A week-long sleepover party!!!

I am very, very, very tired.

It's not so much that they want drives when I would normally be in bed. (Drives which I can give because we are renting a car this week. Dammit.) Not that.

It's not even that, when you show up in said rental car, only one of them is there, the other two having had some inexplicable but entirely irressistable brain fart and are now IN ANOTHER PROVINCE.

(Okay, so the "other province" is Quebec, a mere two km away, easily accessible by city busses. Point is, they were supposed to be HERE, at this time, and now they're THERE, and won't end up at the house for another hour and a half. And I, because of that damnable Momma Clock, will be awake until that happens.)

I will hereby note for the record that the teen who was WHERE she said she'd be WHEN she said she'd be there was MINE. Yes, this makes me feel a little smug. You would, too, I'm betting.

No, it's not that stuff... though none of it was especially helpful in my quest for a Full Night's Sleep.

No, it's the activity. Even when they're quiet -- and to their credit, they are -- they move around, doors open and close, water runs, toilets flush, there are footsteps in the hall, odors from the kitchen (at 2 am), muted giggles (all night long). Strangely, I just don't sleep as well when all that's going on.

And then when I come downstairs and discover (for the second morning in a row) the detritus from their midnight snacking all over the counters? I'm tired all over again. Popcorn bags, pots, bowls, spoons, cups litter the stovetop, sink and counters. Pasta sauce is smeared here, parmesan cheese is scattered there.

The first morning, I cleaned all that up. Stupid, I know. I was tired. Of course, I paid the price for my laziness. You all knew I would, didn't you? I mean, it's so predictable. Kind of dopey the way I can do this to myself. I know -- we all know, through bitter experience repeated endlessly down through the years -- that if I let something slide once, it'll only happen again. If it bothered me once, it's only going to bug me more when it happens again. And it WILL happen again, because I didn't stop it the first time!

I know this. Yet still I cleaned it up that first morning.

So of course, the kitchen was a mess again this morning. Duh. And of course, I was tired all over again... but this time, I was also Fed Up. The selfishness of teens is really quite astounding. Could you imagine yourself as a houseguest and trashing someone's kitchen overnight? I can't. Can't IMAGINE doing it. Never, ever, not once in a million years. Never mind nightly for a week.

(And no, they didn't get away with it nightly for a week. But we all know they WOULD have, if I hadn't gone all mom on their oblivious asses.)

Five minutes later, they're downstairs cleaning up. Without complaint because really, they are good kids. Ten minutes after that, they're on their way back to bed. (Good kids, and efficient.) Bed, where they will stay until, oh, two in the afternoon. Sleep and sleep and sleep. All day long. (How can they DO that? Don't they MISS sunlight?? If it didn't give me hours and hours of lovely peace and quiet, I'd wake them up and MAKE them be diurnal. But why would I do that to myself?)

So, now that I'm done telling you all about this, I think I'll just go sit on the porch in the early morning sunlight, and enjoy my quiet, grown-up cup of tea... and dream of Sunday, when they all go home, when I, too, shall sleep and sleep and sleep.

Aaaaahhh...

Empty nests and satellite nests

She's coming home!!

Well, not quite home. And really, if my left-the-nester were returning, that sentence would be punctuated with a period. A flat, resigned, stoic period.

Not that I don't love my kids. I do. To bits. But the whole purpose of parenting is to produce productive, independent adults. And so far, I've produced one of those, with a second in the transitional phase of living in a house with other college students. More adult than living at home, less adult than living... well, like an adult. But he's getting there!

And I am behind this effort. Every step of the way. YAY, adulthood! YAY, independent life! YAY, charting your own course! YAY, finding a career that satisfies!

(And YAY! No more giant stinky shoes cluttering up the front hall, mysterious socks everywhere, condoms in the washing machine, tornado-swept kitchens, and other signs of adolescent inhabitants.)

But those are secondary -- yes, really -- to the satisfaction that comes of having successfully launched a child into the wide world out there, and watching them make their way. I get ENORMOUS amounts of pleasure from this. It's akin to watching them sleep as infants, only... bigger. So, if a child were to need to come home for one (desperate, temporary, traumatic) reason or another, it would be, for both of us, a regression.

So, okay, she's not coming home. But she is moving! After six years of living in a city an eight-hour drive away, Sarah (my eldest) is moving to a city a scant two-hour drive away. I could not be more delighted. It's an easy train trip. Weekend jaunts, either way, become more feasible. And I am totally psyched about helping her set up a satellite business here in Ottawa.

YAY, for kids who move! Closer, but not in.

The best medicine

Rebekah and Aising went to a party the other night.

I did the mom thing: Where is it? Who's throwing it? Will the parents be around? How are you getting home?

They did the teen thing: resist, resist, resist.

"His name is Josh."
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"No, I don't know his last name."
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"He lives on Franklin Street."
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"No, I don't know the house address."
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"I didn't ask about his parents."
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Each sentence, you understand, hauled bodily past lips of iron. Or that's what it feels like. If babies wear you out with the physical demands, the lack of sleep, the unceasing needs, teens wear you out with the emotional/psychological demands. Making a teen divulge something they'd rather not is WORK. Exhausting work. So, when you have to work that hard, you look for something to lighten the load.

Like, say, humour?

The husband and I have gotten waaaay past the point where this annoys us. It's tiring, sure, but it's also so utterly standard. We've been down this road far too many times to waste that precious emotional energy being annoyed by it. (Okay, well, mostly we have.)

You know how that whole "NO!" thing is hard-wired into a toddler? Ask a 2-year-old if they want a cookie, while waving it RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEM, and odds are very good they'll say "NO!" Then cry when you put it away, laughing. Or even better, eat it yourself. (What? You can't tell me you never played with YOUR toddler's head! Not even once? You know you did; we all did.) Humour, remember? Learn it with your toddlers; perfect it on your teens.

Just as toddler have their "NO!!", teens have their "NOT TELLING". It's all about asserting their independence and autonomy -- for both sets of offspring, large and small. (This whole toddler-teen thing is a recurring theme around here, isn't it?)

So, we don't get mad any more. We laugh. We're even past laughing quietly, just the two of us. Now we laugh AT them, RIGHT IN THEIR FACES.

"Josh on Franklin Street. Uh-huh. And if something goes wrong, and you need us to pick you up, or we need to call the police to go there, we're going to tell people... what, exactly?"

Here we mime talking to a police officer.

"Oh, it's okay, officer." I bat my eyes and hold my folded hands to my cheek. "I'm a responsible parent! I know EXACTLY where they are! Yes, sir!"

The husband chimes in. "Not to worry, officer! They're at Josh's house on Franklin Street!"

Is that not truly hysterical??? We kill ourselves, the husband and I. Fall about laughing. Our audience, strangely, is entirely silent. Which only makes it funnier. Do they honestly think their position is REASONABLE? Hoo, boy. These kids are a riot.

Okay, then. Wipe those tears of mirth, stand up straight, make the eye contact, bring the voice down to "firm" instead of "giddy", and we'll try this again.

Want to go to that party, girls? Name and number, kiddos, before you set one foot out that door.

Teens. They're so funny.

SHHHhhhhh!

7:33 Saturday morning. Rebekah (16) is in the shower upstairs. (No, she's not an adolescent freak of nature. She's going to work in an hour.) I know this not only because of the hiss of the water though the pipes in the kitchen, but because the locus of her music has shifted. Her iPod dock has moved with her.

Thanks to the wonder that is iPod, she is never without her music. Dock in use in her room and the shower; earbud in at all other times.

She is not quite as bad as her brother was at that age: I'd pop my head in his room to check that he was in for the night, and see him sleeping with the earbuds in.  (Pop my head in while on my way to or from a mid-night jaunt to the bathroom, I might note. It's been years since I've gone to bed later than my children.) And yes, diligent mother that I am, I'd check the volume levels. I knew from experience how much tinny drizzle I should (and should not) be hearing, seeping from the leaky earbuds. Generally I turned it right down on principle...

It was because of the brother that I made a rule: earbuds in only ONE ear in the house. One gets tired of speaking to non-responsive lumps lost in their private world of sound. Their older sister was similar, though her technology was a mere Discman.

Just as I catch myself shaking my head in dismay -- do those kids never need quiet? does she not need to ease into her day? -- I realize I was very similar at the same age. With a radio or LPs. Even though I was a quiet kid, I hadn't the drive for quiet that I do now, a near-physical need for it.

I hear Rebekah's music come on in the mornings, I tense up. It's not that she has it unduly loud. She's essentially respectful of the other residents. It's louder than I'd like in the enclosed space of my bedroom, but it's reasonable.

But it's still noise. As I sit here, there is already the hum of the fridge in the room next to me, the strident buzz of the dehumidifier in the basement. The water heater drums mildly. I'm enjoying the tick of the keyboard and the mild patter of rain outside, the occasional swish of tires down the wet street, but those other noises, the fridge, water heater and especially the dehumidifier, I could live without. They intrude.

It's not that I don't like music, but it's 7:33. In the morning. On a Saturday. I love music... just not quite yet. The ambient noise, especially that damned humidifier whining and grinding away downstairs (I really should see if it needs servicing or something; surely it shouldn't make noises like that?) is quite enough. Thankyouverymuch.

Add the bump, bump, bump of Rebekah's music, and my shoulders start to rise.

It's curious, this need for sound we have when we're young. It's not just that kids use their music to establish their identity, though of course they do, but that they seem to need to be immersed in it at all times. Is there no need for peace? No desire to be unstimulated by anything but their own thoughts?

Seems not. Seems that desire comes with maturity, mostly.

When I consider that in another four or five years I will not be receiving a morning thud, thud, thud on my eardrums, I do not get wistful for times past, I get eager for times to come. Bring on the empty nest! A peaceful home. The only music the music I choose, when I choose. Which would NOT be at 7:33 on a Saturday morning.

Meantime, maybe I'll replace the damned dehumidifier.

Sometimes the best way to "Serene" is via "Devious"

For quite a while now, we'd been down to one teenager in the home. Only one backpack in the hall. Only one pair of shoes -- oh, what am I saying? -- only one size of shoes scattered in the hall. Only one person making impromptu snacks in the middle of the night. And only one set of "products" in the bathroom -- and, since Rebekah has curly, dry hair, she doesn't wash it daily. So, only every-other-day showers, with their accompanying wet towels and piles of discarded clothing.

And then came Aisling.

Aisling, in fact, puts her shoes ON THE SHOE RACK. (Imagine!) She takes her backpack TO HER ROOM. She does make snacks in the night, but she (mostly) clears up after herself. She HANGS HER TOWELS after her showers.

But toiletries, er, excuse me, product?

Aisling does "product" like I've never seen it done. She has product for her skin -- one for her elbows and knees, another for her face, a third for the rest of her body. Product for her face -- exfoliants and pore-unpluggers and acne cream and concealers and, and, and... Product for her body hair -- shaving cream and shaving mousse and depillatory cream and bleach... Product for her hair -- OH! The product for her hair! Stuff to straighten it, stuff to smooth it, stuff to volumize, stuff to shine, stuff to enhance colour, stuff to... I don't know what all that stuff is for.

Suddenly our bathroom was full-to-bursting with bottles and jars and tubes and tubs and spritzers and puffs and scrubs and razors and ... STUFF!

(And that's not including make-up. Make-up she does in her room.)

I've never seen anything quite like it. And me? I hate clutter. Hate it, hate it, hate it with a fiery passion. It's not that we don't have it: we have a small house, we have stuff. There is clutter here, but I wage an ongoing battle to minimize it. Aisling's bathroom clutter was turning my decompressing, serenity-seeking shower time into a stress-out of clutter claustrophobia. I needed a Strategy.

So first I invested in a few of these:

Everyone has one. Everyone keeps their favourite stuff in there, and ferries it with them into AND OUT OF the bathroom. I began to see surfaces in the bathroom once more. Nice, shiny, clutter-free surfaces. And my serenity started to return.

And then we decided that Aisling's preferred shampoo and conditioner could become the family's, because, really, do I care?

Nope. Soap is soap.

So now we have a giant bottle of shampoo and one of conditioner. All her seventy-five pounds of product can be toted to the bathroom her her caddy, and otherwise stay in her room.

It works.

Except. When my husband came back from grocery shopping (with a side trip to the pharmacy for The Right Product)... he purchased this:

when he was supposed to get this:

Apparently, there is a Big Difference between the two. Big. (More than the red accents vs blue accents, apparently.) And, because he is a very nice man (aka "soft touch"), he actually went back to the pharmacy and got the Right Bottle. And Aisling is happy. Me, not so much: Now we have a jumbo bottle of the "wrong" stuff. What to do?

If you are a very nice, undevious person (like my husband) you just use it yourself. But that would put that extra bottle back in the bathroom, and I'd just decluttered us down to a very lovely two bottles, one bar of soap, and two shower puffs. For four people! Ah, serenity. I don't WANT an extra bottle in there, not even for the month or so it would take Stephen and me to empty it. I ended up putting it in the closet in the hall, but that doesn't solve the problem. We still have that extra bottle.

Good thing I'm not a nice, undevious person, or I'd be stuck with it forever.

When you open either of the bottles, you see the same thing: thick, white, goop. You smell the same thing: lightly floral. You feel the same thing: slick, soapy slime. It looks, feels, and smells exactly the same...

Soooo...

For the past two weeks, every couple of days, I've been emptying the Wrong Bottle into the Right Bottle, big, soapy glop by big, soapy glop.

It looks, feels, and smells exactly the same... and apparently it works exactly the same, too. Nobody, even Aisling, has noticed a thing. The Wrong Bottle is almost empty now, and soon we will have only the Right Bottle in our bathroom.

Whatever that is.

Mwah-ha.

The laundry and the line

I have long been of the opinion that often the best parenting is borne of sheer laziness inertia. Janet gave us a sterling example of this earlier this week -- not only does she have a teen who does her own laundry (in sheerest self-defense), this teen will also DO HER PARENTS' LAUNDRY!

Does it get any better???

Unlike Janet, I rather like doing laundry. (I know, I know. I'm a freak. But hey, I'm a freak with clean clothes!) So, the ONLY reason I don't do my kids' laundry is because they need to learn how. It's a life skill, along with cooking balanced meals, paying bills on time, and balancing chequebooks.

(Me, I've got three of those four nailed so far...)

When each child turned 12-ish, I showed the child how to use the machine and sort clothes, I suggested a schedule that would keep them ahead of the piles, and I stood back.

And stood back.

And stooooooood back.

I sttod back as the piles grew, as the kids fell further and further behind, as their bedrooms vanished beneath an ever-growing mound of reeking fabric. As they were forced to wear wrinkled and sweaty clothes to school. Because, I trusted, sooner or later they would hit that tipping point, and would cave in to necessity.

And I would not -- repeat, WOULD NOT -- cave in first.

And this was HARD for me, because, as I say, I like doing laundry. I itched to get in there and make it all go away, turn the moldering heaps into sunshine-fresh, neatly folded stacks. Oh, the gratification! The satisfaction! The not gagging when I passed their rooms! But I had a parenting principle at stake, and, dammit, the lazy little slobs were GOING to do their own laundry!

Eventually, they did. Not with the frequency I might prefer, not with system or regularity. But do it, they did. All three of them.

Theoretically, laundry includes drying, folding, and putting away, but, hell, if they get the dry clothes into their rooms, I'm prepared to leave it at that. There are only so many battles a woman is willing to fight in a week, and when it comes to room maintenance, my kids have turned inertia into an art form. But! They wash their own clothes! And I do not! This is Success.

You may be further impressed by this achievement when I tell you that I have thrown an extra challenge into my children's laundry-ing: We have no dryer.

We have no dryer because 1. I am an eco-friendly sort and 2. We do not have a ton of money to throw around. Put 1 and 2 together, and you get a woman who decides that convenience factor does not outweigh a) the cost of purchasing and running a machine and b) its environmental impact.

We line-dry outside in the summer, in the basement in the winter... which means a lag of anywhere from two to twelve hours for dry clothes, depending on the type of clothes and the weather conditions. This is not a big deal, really, once one has made the necessary mental/logistical adjustment.

Me, I actively enjoy hanging clothes on the line, and pulling them down a couple hours later, smelling of fresh air, all crisp with sunshine. My own kids don't share the joy, but they deal. Because, really, what choice do they have?

It's not a big deal, that is, to anyone but Aisling. The grapevine informs me that Aisling is "totally freaked" about the whole line-drying thing, and I suspect the grapevine is right, because Aisling, who has now been living with us for six weeks, has yet to do one single load of laundry.

Granted, the girl has enough clothes to keep a family of four dressed for quite some while, but I'd have though we'd have hit the tipping point by now.

Six weeks, and no laundry.

No, I tell a lie. Two weeks ago, she was complaining that she had run out of underwear and so, deciding to cut her a little slack, I offered to throw some in with the load I was doing that day. This is more than I would normally do for my own kids, but she's new, so I was being nice.

Two weeks ago, she was running out of underwear. Two weeks ago, I washed six pairs for her.

And nothing since. By my calculations, she's been without underwear for eight days now...

Do I want to ask?

Nah.

The Pill as Protection: Passe?

When I was a teen, my mother talked to me about sex. NOT for the first time, not by any stretch. There was no single "Talk" in my life, more like an ongoing conversation. My mother, a nurse, was the last thing from prudish, and had given me clear and age-appropriate information as long as I can remember.

This conversation, too, was age-appropriate. I was a teen and likely to become sexually active in the near future. We talked about contraception, and when the time came, with my mother's input and guidance, I went on the pill.

That was thirty years ago.

I now have three sexually active kids, two of whom are girls. Are the girls on the pill? No. Do I want them to be? Nowhere is the difference between 1970-something and 2000-something made more clear than in my answer to that question.

When I was a teenager, the worse consequence of sex would be an unwanted pregnancy. Any nasty little infection you might pick up if you were stupid/unlucky could be treated with a round of antibiotics.

That was then.

Now the consequences of inadequate protection are not just inconvenient or even life-altering: they could be life-destroying. And the pill no longer constitutes "protection", not against AIDS. If my girls had only a pill between them and pregnancy, that would mean they had nothing between them and a whole lot worse. If they are on the pill, my fear would be that they would become less consistent with the condoms.

So. Do I want my girls on the pill? No, I do not.

How about you? Let's set aside for now the question of whether they 'should' be having sex at all, or whether or not you approve of teen sex. If you have sexually active teens, particularly girls, how do you feel about the pill as protection?

The honeymoon is over. Wonderful!

I think the honeymoon is over for Rebekah with Aisling. I knew it would happen. I've been waiting for it. I worried about how it might manifest. I had ideas about how to deal with it. I just didn't know what would precipitate it -- jealousy? crowding? insecurity? boredom?

It turned out to be none of the above. What's bothering Rebekah, what's really, really, REALLY bothering her about Aisling is that, to Rebekah's way of thinking, Aisling is not treating her step-father and me properly.

Isn't that wonderful?

Now, let me make very clear here. I am having no problems with Aising's behaviour or attitude. So far, she's been a perfectly delightful kid to have around. She's following house rules, she's communicating reasonably well (better all the time), she's polite, she's cheerful, she does the dishes when she's asked. All this seems pretty good, no? Not a lot for a parent to complain about.

BUT, and Rebekah has complained of this any number of times, the things she says to our faces are NOT the things she's saying to Rebekah.

"She doesn't appreciate what you're doing!"
"She complains about you!"
"She's taking advantage of you guys!"

She's not done anything, in other words, that Rebekah (and her siblings before her) haven't done a gazillion times before. Aisling's behaviour is absolutely typical adolescent self-absorption. Nothing more, nothing less.

It's wonderful, I tell you!

See, Rebekah is annoyed by this. It's really irking her that Aisling's not more grateful, that Aisling is less than 100% honest with us, that Aisling doesn't fully appreciate all that's been done for her.

Rebekah, in other words, is seeing adolescent behaviour objectively. And she is OFFENDED.

I am less so. "I know that she says stuff to you about us. But you know, I'm pretty sure that sometimes," I raise my eyebrows and grin at her, "at least once in a while, you've griped to Aisling about us."

"Noooo, I hav..." She can't finish the sentence we both know would be a lie. She looks appropriately sheepish.

"It's normal, sweetie."

"But she only notices what you don't do, what you say no to. She totally takes it for granted that you painted her room, that you bought her a comforter and sheets and those shelves, but she got mad when you wouldn't pay for the TV stand, too!"

"Normal, love."

"But doesn't that BUG you?"

"Not as much as it's bugging you! Probably because, after eight kids, I'm used to it by now. She'll outgrow it, sooner or later." It took a minute, but I could see the wheels turn and the penny drop. Aisling is normal. Aisling is doing what teens do... which means that... [clink!] ...I do it, too!

And THAT conversation (yesterday) is probably why THIS conversation (today) went like it did.

"Mum, I was wondering about Driver's Ed."

"When were you thinking of taking it?"

"This summer."

"Well." Looong pause, as I consider how to present what will be unwelcome news. "Here's the thing. I'm totally in support of you taking Driver's Ed. It'll make you a better driver, and it will decrease your insurance."

"And you paid for it for Sarah."

"Yes, I did. But there's your humungo cell phone bill."

She absorbs that for a beat. "Oh, yeah... Which is probably about as much as Driver's Ed would cost, right?"

'Fraid so. I explain the one or two other financial issues pertinent at the moment, which make it very difficult for me to stretch the budget that far this month.

"Well. I guess I don't have to do it this summer. I can wait a month or two."

"I think it might have to be at least a couple of months."

"Maybe in the fall?"

"As long as everything falls into place as I think it will? Yes, the fall."

"Okay."

Pretty good, huh? I tell my just-turned-sixteen daughter she can't have the Driver's Ed her heart desires, the Driver's Ed we'd long ago agreed I would pay for, the Driver's Ed she's been looking forward to for, oh, about a year at least... and she takes it on the chin. Without whining, without pouting, without sneering, without flouncing. She just takes it. I am SO proud.

AND IT GETS BETTER!

Two hours later, while I am preparing dinner, the girl appears in the kitchen with a piece of paper and a calculator. She wants to prepare a budget and a schedule for repayment of the phone bill. (!!!!)

AND EVEN BETTER!

After our budget-planning quarter-hour:

"Thanks, mum."

"What for?"

"For not freaking out when you saw the bill, and for paying it for me, and for helping me figure out how to pay you back. Oh, and for not just taking my cell phone away, because you totally could have."

You know, when we agreed to take Aisling in, I thought we were helping out a kid in a difficult situation. I thought we were putting our parenting beliefs into practice, giving from the heart and in our own home. I worried how this might affect my relationship with Rebekah, if it might shift the household balance to the Dark Side, two best friends shoulder to shoulder against The Oppressor.

I had NO IDEA we were bringing in an agent for maturity, a 24-7 object lesson in appreciation, responsibility, and self-reliance.

I am speechless with gratitude.

Amazing.

Reality checks can be expensive

The cell phone bill arrived this week. I'd been wondering when it would get here.

It probably took so long because it's FREAKING ENORMOUS. Too heavy for the truck. Gave the mailman a hernia. I didn't know precisely how big it would be, but I knew I was in trouble when I discovered that Rebekah had bought herself a cell phone charger while in France.

See, she took her cell phone with her, but forgot her charger. "Perfect!" I chortled in my Evil Mother heart. She'd be able to text me to let me know she'd made her flights and transfers along the way there, but once it ran out of juice, that would be that. No international calls or texting. An oh-so-simple way to curtail the enormous damage a teen with a cell phone could do to the family budget when in a different country.

Of course we warned her of the dangers of international cell phone charges, but... she is fifteen. In fact, I had reasonable confidence in her ability to rein herself in, but... she never turns the damned thing off. She'll complain like crazy when friends wake her at two in the morning with a text or a call, but when I suggest she turn it off before bed, you'd think I'd suggested she poke out an eardrum so as not to hear it. And if she doesn't turn it off, people can call and text HER, can't they?

So, while Rebekah might be able to NOT make a call or send a text, do I have any confidence that half her class will also exercise similar restraint? HA!

She forgot her charger? Mwah-ha. I couldn't have planned it better had I tried. And then her brother mentioned the replacement charger. I emailed immediately, with shaking fingers.

"STOP USING YOUR CELL PHONE! DO NOT CALL, DO NOT TEXT! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW EXPENSIVE THAT CAN GET! TURN IT OFF, TURN IT OFF, TURN IT OFF NOW!!!!!"

She did.

It was too late.

The cell phone bill?

$757.68

SEVEN HUNDRED FIFTY-SEVEN DOLLARS AND SIXTY-EIGHT CENTS.

In eleven days.

I waited a day before I showed her the bill. I think this was the first time I've ever seen anyone "blanche". You read about it in books, but now I know what it looks like. Her skin went dead white, her big grey eyes flew as wide as I've ever seen them go.

"Seven hundred dollars?" Her voice was thready and weak.

"And fifty-seven, sixty-eight." Mine was firm. Because me, I'm over the shock. Time for action. "Good thing you kept your job, huh?"

Wow. You can go whiter than 'blanched' and still stay upright. Who knew?

We haven't worked out the repayment details yet. I figured one kick in the head was enough to start with.

To be continued...

Happy Canada Day! (Phew...)

Wednesday was Canada Day here in the North, when we celebrate the anniversary of Confederation, the founding of our country. (A mere one hundred forty-two years ago. We are a baby country.) Like many urban Canadians, we headed to the woods... and the mosquitoes and the blackflies and the horseflies and the deerflies. Sounds like heaven, no?

In fact, it was. The insect life was not too outrageous, the lake was beautiful, the surroundings idyllic, the peace undisturbed. Lovely. Stephen and I took "relaxed" to a whole new level, and the dog? She was in Fuzzy Canine Paradise.

And the teens, you ask? Fifteen-year-old Rebekah and sixteen-year-old Aisling? (Isn't it pretty? An Irish name, pronounced 'Ash-LEEN'.)

Stephen and I several long discussions about this. Would we turn down the invitation? Would one of us stay home? Would we just cheerfully pull rank -- "Guess what, girls? We're going to a cottage for Canada Day!!" Or would we give them a choice? Their decision wasn't a totally foregone conclusion, at least for Rebekah, who quite likes cottages, but, if we gave them the choice, we had to be ready to allow them to stay home. Alone. 

Though we've left Rebekah and her siblings alone for that long before (it would be about 36 hours), Aisling is new to the family mix. She's only been with our family a little over a week. Is she trustworthy?

The only way we would find that out, we decided, was to try. It was only 36 hours, we were less than an hour away, and though there's no cell phone reception, there is a phone. We would alert certain neighbours, to stand by as backup for emergencies, and give the girl a chance to prove herself. For good or ill.

We presented the possibilities, and let the girls talk about it. Faced with a choice between this

this

this

and this...

OR...

this

this (click on this one to get lovely large image; quite something!)

and this...

They opted for the latter. We weren't really surprised.

"If it just wasn't Canada Day, mum!" Rebekah said. With sincerity. Aisling, for her part, was fervently relieved not to have to leave the city. Turns out cottages are not her thing, even plumbing-and-electricity equipped cottages less than an hour out of town. Cottages have all that... nature... everywhere. And (gasp!!) no cell phone reception. What is life without texting?

Not.Worth.Living.

So. The girls would be staying alone in the house. They laid out their plans for the day. We laid down certain ground rules.

- You may not invite anyone into the house.
- You must call when you're in each night.
- If your plans change, you must call.
- I will be calling your cell phones at intervals to check in. You must pick up.

And then we left. And you know what? I didn't even worry.

Much.

Thursday morning, 7:15, we arrive back, dump our stuff in the living room. The place is untidy, but not outrageously so. It's been lived in by two adolescent girls. It has not been partied in by multitudes.

Phew.

In her basement bedroom...

Aisling is sleeping.

Phew.

Upstairs, In Rebekah's bedroom... 

The bed is empty.

Empty?

Rebekah?

Not here?!?!!?

Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep breath. THAT I wasn't expecting. Aisling, now? Though she's been Rebekah's friend for a while, and have formed a good opinion of the girl, that is not the same thing as living under the same roof. For that, she's still mostly an unknown commodity. I don't know what her home patterns were like... well, I know that "patterns" is the wrong word to use. It's abundantly clear that patterns and stability were not features of her home, poor kid. So. Though we like her enough to take her in, we do have eight teens between us and over a decade of teen-parenting experience under our belts. We're not naive.

I wasn't 100% sure whether I'd see Aisling's snoozing form in her bed. But Rebekah? I was sure she'd be there! SURE. I'm not panicking yet, but obviously we have to find the girl, and fast. I only hope she hears her cell to pick it up.

She picks up on the first ring.

Phew.

Obviously woken by the phone. (GOOD. Little cretin, scaring me like that. She deserves a rude awakening. But I keep my voice calm. Mostly.)

"Where ARE you?"

"Mutter, murmle, gftuszysdx."

"Pardon?"

"I'm in your bed."

My bed? Seems my mattress is more comfortable than hers.
My bed. She's sleeping in my bed.

Phew.
Phew.
PHEEEEEEWWWWWWW...

I think my sigh of relief wafted the curtains in the neighbour's house across the street.

So, there you go. Stephen and I left the girls alone for 36 hours... and I've only gained one-half of one grey hair as a result.

Phew.