You know how when you have the babies and the toddlers and you sit in the doctor’s waiting rooms reading the parenting magazines and you come across articles giving you suggestions about how to get the intimacy back into your marriage?  Just about every issue of every magazine has some tip or idea or even lengthy essay about how to get it on with your husband during those difficult first few years as a parent.  Well, eventually that advice stops.  I guess they figure after you’ve had kids around for a while, you’ve got a handle on the whole sex thing.

But, then those children grow, and grow, and become teenagers.  Lemme tell you something about teenagers.  You can’t have them skip a nap so you can put them down a little earlier and then enjoy some quiet, or, er, squeaky bed time with your husband.  You can’t plop them in front of Blue’s Clues for a few minutes while you and your husband sneak off for a quickie.  They’re a little more cognizant than that.  And, they stay up really, really late.

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On vacation in Victoria.

Teen: This hotel has free internet! Awesome!

Mother: This hotel has a laundry room! Awesome!

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Never mind me, I’m just sitting here eating my words. I’ve been going on and on for the past few years about how wonderful the ten year age difference between my first and third kid is, and well, now I’ve hit a snag and have been forced to ‘fess up about it.

I bragged about how wonderful my son was with the baby. He held her when she was small, marveled in her milestones, rocked her, played with her, then as she grew he gave her piggy-back rides, got her juice and turned on her TiVoed Scooby Doo shows for her. I made my friends green over my live-in babysitter, allowing my husband and me to escape on weekend nights to movies or grown up dinners. All of that is still true. She adores him, he’s her hero. He thinks she’s a living doll. The trouble is not their relationship with each other. It’s their relationship with me.

I’m a smart person, one with a degree in psychology, and actually one who tends to be anxious and lie awake at night following worst case scenarios to their most horrific end. So why did I not see that at some point in this little dream family, I would be mothering a 3 year-old and a 13 year-old at the same time?

You know that scene with Homer Simpson swinging between a rock and A Hard Place? That’s me, being pulverized to dust between the toddler and the teenager.

To make it worse, they share tactics. Exchange strategies. Commiserate. I have the only three year-old in the world who stomps her foot, shouts at me, “I HATE you, you never do anything for me, leave me ALONE!” and then stomps off, slams the door behind herself and climbs into her crib. When I go in to get her, she shoves her fingers in her ears and sings, “La-La-La-La, I can’t HEAR you!” He, on the other hand is not above turning on fake water works to try to make his case more dramatic. In private. He has too much self respect to do it where any of his peeps might see. Really, I could give a dozen scenarios and quiz you—is it the teen or the toddler? And the only clue you’d have would be the size of the vocabulary, and even that is blurry, since the little one’s is expanding and the big one drops a few IQ points when he yells.

Everywhere I turn these days, there’s fear of stepping on some hidden trip wire in their delicate psyches and blowing the whole house to bits. I’m good at diffusing and ignoring and standing my ground with things. Tantrums never did really faze me. But, when there are two of them, it’s just not fair. And what works with one isn’t appropriate for the other. There are times when I would just love to hoist the big one over my shoulder and carry him out to the parking lot, strap him into his seat and tsk tsk sympathetically all the way home, “I’m sorry we had to leave like that, but when mommy says you need to stop, mommy means it, maybe next time you’ll remember that.” And, there are times with the little one when I’m dying to say, “Look, we’ve been through this, you got your answer, now leave me alone and go deal with it somewhere else, because I am DONE talking about it.” But, I can’t. The big one is too heavy and the little one won’t go away when you tell her to. They can compare notes and study each other’s techniques, but I can’t just use one universal response for both of them.

I give myself pep talks. This is normal development for both of them. Teens are supposed to be obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of paranoia (“You hate me! You love her more! You wish I was never born!”) Three year-olds are supposed to obstinate, belligerent, irrational and fickle with a dose of grandeur (“No, YOU stop it, mommy! YOU’RE being bad! No, YOU sit down! Bad mommy!”) It’s normal. It’s all so agonizingly normal. They will grow out of it. I will help them along and not become a child abuser or alcoholic along the way. Then I’ll have a 4 year-old and a teenager which is better than a 3 year-old and a teenager, and surely 14 is better than 13, right? Right? I’m sure it is. Pass the salt, please.

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It finally happened — I found myself turning into ‘an adult.’

Let me explain…

When I was a teenager and in my early 20s, I enjoyed this wonderful naiveté. I was EXTREMELY liberal, much more than today. I believed in the good in everyone. I was pro- EVERYTHING. I delighted in the differences that make people unique. I welcomed those who dressed differently than the norm. And I prided myself on seeking out those from backgrounds different than mine to befriend.

Then today, while working in a high school, I found myself being so critical of these non-assuming teens. Their pants hanging below their butt. Their hair was unkempt. Their make-up over-applied. I was annoyed with their taste in bands (so proudly displayed on their t-shirts). I even found myself categorizing them into the futures I thought them capable of.

Crap!

I spent the afternoon speaking with other adults about “these kids,” bashing politicians, and complaining about our deteriorating society. I complained about my grad-school loan payments and wallowed in my lack of an over-flowing savings account.

Then, while driving home during the first warm day of the year, the sun seemed to cloak me with a blanket of optimism and clarity (yeah, I know I sound a bit trite). Then I read Rita’s post — Mr. Positive. I was being too negative. I had forgotten my younger self (not that 26 isn’t young), and had become jaded.

I live in a cute home (although in need of renovation) in a great neighborhood. I have a wonderful husband and amazing dog. My parents love me and are always there to help. I have a nephew on the way, friends that make me laugh, and money in the bank. I’m not where I want to be in my career, but I’m just starting out. I can’t take luxury vacations, but I will someday. I’m lucky to have what I have. And patience is a virtue I need to work on.

There’s no reason to slight these bright-eyed kids. Being negative doesn’t have to be a daily part of my routine. Will I ever abandon my sarcastic rhetoric — not likely. In fact, not possible. But can I strive to see the good in people, the beauty in bad fashion statements, and the joy in not having to worry about the pitfalls of having too much money and too many assets. I can be patient and trust that, with hard work and determination, good things will come.

I will smile at the teenagers passing by, hope that they keep their sunny outlook, and ignore the fact that I can see their boxer shorts.

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A few weeks ago my teenaged sons were entertaining a group of friends who just happened to be girls. Traditionally when that happens, the kids start out in the kitchen snacking on bowls of M&M’s or cookies and then they migrate into the bedroom our sons share which is actually a small “suite’, consisting of a study, a bunkroom and a bathroom. PlayStation and their computer are also in there so the taboos that plagued my generation regarding the simple act of bringing the opposite sex into one’s bedroom and “ALL THE PERVERTED THINGS THAT WAS SUPPOSED TO IMPLY” (but didn’t), don’t apply here. That said, I was urging my older sons to put away the enormous basket of clean-and-unfolded clothing so that the room would look less slovenly, lived-in by swine, cluttered.
“Relax, Mom, ” said my 16-year old. “My friends couldn’t care less.”

“What about your underwear? At least stick that in a drawer someplace Doesn’t that bother you?” I asked.
“Why should it? My friends know I wear underwear.”

And then it hit me. Of course their friends know they wear underwear. Their friends know. Their teacher knows. Everyone knows because anyone with two functioning eyes can see a good two inches of it above the waist of their pants or shorts. And I’m not talking about gangbanger pants with the crotch that hangs level with the kid’s calves. I’m just talking about regular Levis and a general “unconcern” about whether or not one’s underclothes can be seen from a remote space satellite orbiting the planet.

So, if the kids don’t care about one’s underwear being visible while it’s still on their body, I suppose it makes perfect sense that several pair of “unoccupied” boxers left lying crumpled under a desk chair aren’t going to give any of their friends a big case of the vapors.

Madonna, you may be yesterday’s news and God knows you’ve been replaced by some other morons (K-Fed comes to mind) with similar taste in attire, but the legacy you began by wearing your bra on the outside of your shirt is still gaining momentum. Gee….thanks.

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A suburban Boston school has banned flip-flops, citing them as a safety issue. The kids are pissed. They always are. For years and years schools have banned certain clothing items and kids get a masterful lesson on protesting and petitioning and they always lose — another great life lesson!

I remember my mom telling me that when she was in high school, the girls had to kneel down and if their skirts didn’t touch the floor, that meant they were too short and they were sent home. When I was in high shool, several rock’n'roll t-shirts were banned and although I can’t remember the bad bands that caused this mandate, it always had to do with licking or some obscenity.

The kids in the following article are acting like they’re the first to be screwed over by da man and taxes, but guess what?… they don’t pay taxes, or if they do, it’s minimal part-time Target contribution. Seven flipped-out flopper kids suggested in the artile, “Tell them to worry more about academics.” I’d like to throw that back in their little pimpley faces and say right back to he/she/it, “Why don’t *you* worry more about academics and just deal, K?” (Aren’t I awesome at this mothering thing?)

Read about the woes of these poor little, victimized darlings at the bostonherald.com:

If the Randolph school board approves the measure, it would join a growing number of schools in Weymouth, South Hadley, Boston, Bellingham and Hudson that have kicked flip-flops out of the classroom.

“You hear from kids in flip-flops tripping up stairs. Literally tripping up stairs,” said Weymouth School Committee Chairman Sean Guilfoyle.

When Weymouth banned flip-flops districtwide last July, three forlorn high school fashionistas responded by gathering 541 signatures for a petition opposing the ban, which they presented to the school board in April, according to School Committee minutes.

Guilfoyle said the students argued against the ban by showing that the board’s policy allowed many types of footwear that are similar to flip-flops.

The plan backfired. The School Committee added “athletic/beach sandals, roller sneakers (and) excessively high heels” to the list, according to this year’s dress code.

“They were magnificent,” Guilfoyle said of the three flip-flop ban fighters. “But at the end of the day, it’s a safety issue.”. Read the rest…

[TAGS]flip flops, fashion, teenagers, dress code[/TAGS]

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