How to Raise a Teenager

Oh, that's precious. You actually thought I could tell you how to raise a teenager? Bless your pea-pickin' heart. I was just bullshitting you.

I have no clue. None.

I gave birth in 1996 to the most precious, beautiful baby boy. I mean, really, I'm not prejudiced. This child was a celebrity in the well-baby nursery. With a head-full of thick, blond hair and, even at hours old, startling blue eyes, he had even the oldest, most seasoned nurses swooning. Our first few nights home were excruciating. I was barely 20 years old, single, terrified, and wondering what the eff I'd gotten myself into. His cries jolted me awake; his demands left me with black circles under my eyes and sore nipples. Many nights were spent in tears - he and I both - as I held my days-old son up in front of me, trying to reason with him like he was a grown man. "WHAT is wrong? You're dry, you're fed. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU???" I got no answer. I trudged through the next few weeks, hoping I wasn't scarring him for life.

He coasted through the years as a happy, juicy, sweet little monkey. He retained his celebrity status in the family and community, and he thought I hung the moon.

Until now.

The teen years have come with a vengeance, and I will be the first to tell you how ill-prepared I was and am to handle this. I can tell you what to do for cradle cap, teething, potty-training... anything. But I remain dumbfounded when it comes to navigating the treacherous waters of adolescence. I can only imagine my dad is looking down on me, stifling laughter and assured that I am getting my just deserts (yes, actually I DID just spell that correctly), and I'm sure my mom is sighing some relief that the grief is being revisited upon me. Not that they did a bang-up parenting job themselves, mind you...

He's angry, he's quick-tempered, he's selfish, and I am going to win the Shitty Mom of the Year Award by saying this... but...

I don't like my own child.

I can't stand him. I suppress the urge to slap him across his face almost daily. His snarky, holier-than-thou comments infuriate me. I want to tell him he knows jack shit about real life, and I wish I could fast-forward to his adult years so I can watch his children give him the headaches and heartburn that he gives me. Don't get me wrong - I love him. But I truly believe you can love someone and not like them.

My heart is broken, as is my spirit. I feel like I need a do-over with him. Some advance warning that I was going to evolve into this cataclysmic failure.

He reminds me quite often what a piss-poor mother I am, and here's the clincher... I believe him. Not for the same reasons he does, but because surely someone out there is way better at this than me. Where's the damn manual? Forget What to Expect When You're Expecting. Where the hell is What to Expect When Your Son Hits Puberty and Turns Into a Complete Shithead?

To my kids' teachers... You're Welcome.

Am I one of those moms who totally has her shit together and sends - no, better yet - hand delivers thoughtful, carefully-planned Christmas gifts to my kids' teachers each year? No ma'am. No way. Not nevah.

Fifi's teacher - you got a gift this year, because Fifi walked up to me in the gift shop of a Christmas tree farm with a teacher-themed ornament and begged for it. $6. Do you know how cheap I am? I could so totally buy a venti half-caf, non-fat, no-whip mocha on the way to work, AND a large half-Coke, half-Diet Coke with $6. But because Fifi is so stinkin' cute when she begs, and I wanted to look like Mother Theresa Mommy in her eyes, I bought it. So, yes... it was all about making me look good. To HER. And it worked. You got a ceramic (or whatever the hell material it is) ornament with an immeasurable cheese factor, and I got blatant adulation. It's a win-win. You're welcome.

Faith's teachers - how'd ya like them cookies? Funny enough, the two three-packs of plastic goodie containers were $6 at Wally World. We're at $6 again. But I felt OK with that, because that's $1 per teacher, yo! Plus a negligible amount of pantry staples I keep around. My older daughter with a heart the size of Texas wanted to bake cookies. Probably because she knew her tightwad mother would just as soon choke or vote for Sarah Palin than spend $6 each for six teachers. That's $36. Do you know what I could do with $36? It involves a foot bath and skin scraping from a Vietnamese woman who goes by the name "Tammy".

I digress... Faith made the cookies. I helped and cleaned up the mess. Oh, and those weird-looking cookies? For the record, those aren't Christmas penises. That is the end result of a candle-shaped cookie cutter whose designer had only the best intentions. So what if I have a dirty mind? You do, too - admit it.

Jack's teachers - you didn't get anything. You're welcome. In this day and age, the fact that I have raised my son well enough that he doesn't come to class with a gun in his backpack is a bonus. Not to mention, he would so totally get his ass beat if he came bearing gifts as the class brown-noser. Could I have brought something up there myself? Sure. In my yoga pants, a long-sleeved T that's seen better days, and Dearfoam slippers, with no makeup and my hair in a clip. That, too, would earn him at worst, an ass-beating; and at best, ridicule certain to last well into his sophomore year.

I am boldly, proudly living up to my mediocrity this year. And I have $12 in receipts to prove it. Happy holidays.

The View from the Kitchen Window

The house is not quite as large as we'd hoped, but it'll do. You can hear Fifi's television through the ceiling in our bedroom if she has it too loud. The dining room has some scary ass wallpaper border, and the staircase is lavender. (Yeah - did you catch that? Lavender.)

But. The kitchen window. Beyond my Arthur Court collection that rests on the oversized sill is a portal to another land. It's my own personal ViewMaster Some things I imagine while swirling Merlot around in my wine goblet that holds nearly half a bottle glass, lost in my utopia that muffles the screaming kids and barking dogs in the background. I imagine Edward walking out from the woods like he does at the beginning of New Moon a new swingset right *there*. Setting up our hammock right... *there*. Even though the reality is just as dreamy.

I look into the backyard that houses fireflies at night; fireflies that are held captive in my five year-old's dirt-smudged palms as he walks breathlessly in the back door to show me his treasure. He's designated an unused planting area off the deck as his "sandbox", and I've been meaning to weed it out for weeks for that reason. (Topping off my Merlot at the thought of that Mom FAIL.)

Fifi plays veterinarian to a neighborhood stray whom she now refers to as "her" kitty. That cat loves her so much, it hides in the ferns below the window and waits for her to leave. My quirky little princess picks flowers and carries on conversations with unseen friends as she gingerly steps through the cone flowers and wild violets. Fifi doesn't care how ratty her curls get, and though she's in cut-offs and a grubby t-shirt, she might as well be wearing a tulle gown with fairy wings, because that's how I see her. She's in her own little universe and has no idea that this window lets me in there from time to time.

I can't decide whether to roll my eyes or laugh as I watch my husband warble to his iPod as he mows through the banks and hills that lead into the creek. Somewhere out there, some birds are covering their ears and wincing. Anyone who can butcher a song that Axl Rose sings is truly untalented. Thank you, Lord, for the mower that drowns him out.

Deer and rabbits have a choice on either side of the woods - a corn and soybean farm, or our backyard. Guess which one is safer? I doubt there would be a fifty-pound, four month-old Great Dane puppy barreling toward them amongst the field crops. That scenario has played out from my window more than once, prompting me to let whatever dish I was washing clumsily drop into the sink as I bolted out the back door to chase the brat all over the place. Dog wrangler wasn't in my job description when I applied, ya know.

I'd love to say that the ViewMaster often provides an idyllic picture of my four children strolling hand-in-hand through the clover, singing about their Favorite Things. But this ain't Austria; it's Indiana. I often see dirt poured down a collar... a chase ensuing between our old yellow dog and the neighborhood stray... Finn's shorts tearing while he awkwardly attempts to the slide on the old, rusty swingset we have been meaning to disassemble.

I suppose the reason I love that window is that it frames the moments that make up my life - good or bad, messy or manicured, sweet or annoying, melodious or off-key, raining or sunny. That is what brings me back to it each day, waiting for a new snapshot.

You live where now? AKA I'm baaaaack!

Yes, I've moved. Through situations I may discuss at a later time (don't hold your breath, yo...), I sought employment away from the ghetto-fabulous Memphis metro area. Things went from "I'll pop a cap in your ass" to "Would you like a bottle of pop?"

Ahhh, the Midwest. The heartland. The breadbasket. The crossroads. Amish people. Corn fields. Snow. Soybean fields. Townships. More corn fields. More snow. And we love it. We'll skip the part where I lived here for 57 days (trust me; I counted) before my husband and kids moved here. I have the twenty pounds and Xanax prescription to show for that. The staff of Barnes & Noble knew me by name. I saw New Moon in the theater no less than eleven times, maybe more; I lost count a few times.

I have officially experienced winter for the first time in my life. I will never forget the morning of December 31 when I got off work. It was 1 degree. ONE. Uno. With a windchill of minus 18. I had a runny nose at the time, and in the relatively short walk to the parking garage, my snot froze on my face and in my nostrils. I stiffly climbed into my SUV, cranked up the heat, and cried.

Once my nipples thawed, I decided that this particular season is overrated. So did my kids, as the natives here scoff at the snow days that Memphis declared with overly dramatic news tickers whenever so much as a three-minute snow flurry encroached. To declare a snow day here, I believe, is considered weakness. I imagined that they measured it by walking their dog. Some government official would take a labrador retriever out for a walk in the accumulated snow. If you could still see the dog's head, school was in session. If the dog disappeared, maybe it was a good idea to cancel classes. And buy a new dog.

Acclimation stumbled at times. Like when my husband and I didn't think to buy snow boots for our kids. I mean, hell, where do we find them? And what crackhead decided that in February, department stores should discontinue their winter wares and start selling bikinis? February? In Indiana? Really? So savor the mental image of the north Mississippi rednecks letting their kids wear two pair of socks over their hands once their ONE pair of gloves got wet after playing in the snow.

We've seen Lake Michigan. Windmill farms. The Chicago skyline. The world's largest chocolate fountain. We've tried these disgusting concoctions they call three-way and five-way chili.

I took a pay cut when I moved here. I've also developed a deterrant to working overtime, which speaks volumes if anyone knows how many hours I worked in Memphis. I hate myself for those hours now. And in turn, my checkbook now hates me, but my kids love it. Mom is home all the time, it seems! I've rediscovered my passion for cooking, since we don't eat out much now.

While lower-paying, my job is a bit more cush, shall we say. I don't see anywhere near the amount of soul-eating violent acts against children that plague Memphis. An exciting night at work for me is an Amish buggy vs. SUV. (Yep. It happens. And it wasn't me; I swear.) I work in a big city; don't get me wrong. But it seems as though people up here are better at... well... behaving. Srsly.

It's a new start for us, most importantly. A new leaf. New experiences for our kids, and for what seems like the first time, a chance to truly be a family. Pass the pop.

One Tube of Guyliner Away from Emo

I occasionally use the phrase "So-and-so makes me understand why some animals eat their young." I never thought I'd insert my older son's name in that sentence. Don't get me wrong; I knew the oh-so delightful teenage years were inevitable. I was just hoping for a gradual segue into the depths of hell. A forewarning of some sort.

Instead, Jack went to bed one night my considerate, loving, loyal son, and awoke the next morning a sullen, mouthy teenager, full of piss and vinegar.

My little boy, my firstborn. He was a little surprise I got at Mississippi State as a sophomore. A small "oops" that I now tell him and others was the best thing to ever happen to me, the best decision I ever made. He was born in two and a half hours, a mercifully short labor for a scared-out-of-her-wits 20 year-old single mother (two months past the teenage-mom stigma - YES!), alone in the delivery room, save a close friend. I remember he came out perfect. Oh-so perfect. You usually find that babies with a headful of hair tend to be dark-haired, while blond babies come out as little cueballs, "bald as a peckerwood", my Granny used to say. Never understood why she inverted that word. Anyway, he had a thick, soft generous amount of golden blonde hair. The nurses ooohed and ahhhed over him. He would gaze up at me with startling, crystal-blue eyes. Pink and delicate. Just heavenly.

Yes, prejudiced mommy. Say all you want... I gave birth to the freakin' Gerber baby. He slept through the night at 4 weeks old (just in time for me to start back classes, woot!), he was joyful and giggly and chubby.

The perfection continued through the years. Super bright, he was reading at 4 years old. He started prefacing his phrases in preschool with "actually" and "eventually", moving on to second grade with "Hypothetically speaking" and the like. The Gerber Baby was the next Einstein. Only with better hair. Surely my ovaries were coated in 24k gold. Hold your applause. No, really.

Starting at 8 years old, Jack endured several surgeries and months upon months of physical therapy for an orthopedic issue. It was like caring for a 90-pound newborn back then, but he rarely complained. He missed all but two months of third grade, yet went on to score the second highest number of AR (reading) points for his entire elementary school, only slightly behind a fifth grader who'd had the entire 9-month school year to accumulate what Jack had in less than 8 weeks.

His baby brother, our fearless Finn, came along when Jack was 9 years old. It was love at first sight. Finally, a little more testosterone in our home after two stinky ol' sisters. You've never seen siblings this far apart in age so unusually close. My husband and I have said they'll both have separation anxiety when Jack goes off to college (Harvard or Boston College? We'll keep ya posted...). Jack wants to play with Finn, babies him, fixes him peanut butter and banana sandwiches. It is the sweetest thing watching the two of them together. Makes me farklempt (tawk amongst ya selves).

Though his affection and attention towards Finn has not faltered, the remnants of my once-sweet boy are slowly slipping away. Who are you, and what have you done with Jack???

All of my kids were excellent babies. No colic, nothing. We never have been the red-eyed, sleep-deprived parents. I always joked that because of that, we were going to catch hell when they became teenagers. Who knew how right we were? I'm waiting for even my older daughter's head to start spinning as she projectile vomits split-pea soup all over her Pepto-Bismol pink bedroom.

"You do NOT put your sister in a headlock!"

"What do you mean, this project is due tomorrow? When was it assigned? LAST MONTH?!?!"

"You shut your mouth when you're talking to me!"

"If you roll your eyes one more time, so help me God, I'll knock you into the middle of next week and be there on Wednesday to smack you again!"

"Why? WHY? Because I said so!"

"You slapped your sister?"

"Wipe that look off your face right this minute!"

"Do you want to get your cellphone and XBOX back before you turn 30 or what?"

The sullen looks, the silent stares of contempt... where did we go wrong? I don't care if it's the norm. I want to spray him down with Teenager-B-Gon. I buy him Gap and Ralph Lauren and Wallaby's. They get shoved to the back of his closet while he mumbles something about only wanting Levi's, Nikes, and hoodies. He has a thing for graphic tees, in an astounding array of black and grey. Sometimes he even gets a little crazy and might wear NAVY. Srsly. I will have to try to push the Alex P. Keaton look on Finn in later years, I suppose, because Jack ain't havin' it.

He's still a good kid. Most parents would give their eyeteeth to call Jack theirs. It could be so much worse. But to go from angelic, polite Jack to bordering-on-emo Jack in a short time frame has knocked me for a loop. I don't know if this is the worst, or the calm before the storm. Whichever it is, this is why God begat the scientists who begat Xanax. Praise the baby Jesus.

Buying Healthcare in Bulk

"Welcome to Holy Moly Children's Medical Center, can I take your order, please?"
"Yes; I would like a knee immobilizer, lidocaine gel, lycra sutures, ummmm... solumedrol with a 22-gauge IV, supplemental oxygen, and a dose of IM Rocephin."
"Would you like that Holy Moly-sized?"
"Errrr... sure; why not."
"OK, your co-pay will be $100; please pull around to the first window."

OK, so that's not exactly how it goes, but that's how I feel lately with the various calamities involving my four rugrats (OK, three, really; Faith reminds me that she has done nothing in her life to contribute to our health plan's two million dollar lifetime maximum). I'm just waiting for Child Protective Services to come bang on my door and start questioning the children individually. "Does your mommy ever hit you?" "No, sir! Wait - do wire hangers count?"

Let's backtrack, shall we? Waaaay back in October of 2007, Finn was jumping on the trampoline (which I vehemently resisted letting the outlaws buy my kids for Christmas, yet was informed that I was being hysterical and over-protective), and broke his tibia. It was a buckle fracture, commonly known as - guess - a trampoline fracture. He was our first to break a bone; not bad for being baby #4. We made a tidy profit on the trampoline when Scott dismantled it. Father out-law asked if he was going to get the money from the sale, since they bought it. I informed them that, sure, they could have the money, but we were planning on using it to pay his grandchild's medical bills. I never heard a word about it after that. But I digress...

In October 2008, Finn had to have his tonsils and adenoids removed and his turbinates done. That was not an accident, but it connects to the next injury. The tonsillectomy recovery was quite an ordeal, and was capped by an injury sustained while rough-housing with his sisters at church a few weeks later. Shattered nasal bridge. Reconstructive surgery two days before Christmas. Finn was given Versed. Mommy took Xanax.

March. Jack showing off his newborn baby giraffe-like mad skills in the skating rink at a friend's birthday party. Took a spill. Braced himself with his arms. Broke his radius. Cast for six weeks. He got Motrin as needed. Mommy upped her Zoloft dose.

May. Finn rebreaks aforementioned post-tonsillectomy, post-reconstruction proboscis at the hands of an evil little girl a classmate at school. Not serious enough to require surgery. Whew - that was a close one. Had his fifteen minutes of fame on Facebook, describing on camera the dastardly deed blow-by-blow. "Ms. Pam tell her, 'Say you're sowwy'... but her didn't."

Yesterday. I'm looking forward to chillaxin' in a t-shirt and shorts before I go to work a night shift. I'm standing in the kitchen, making a sandwich, when a muffled, approaching wail emanates from the front of the house. The front door opens and the wails get more desperate, and you get that chill where you know something's really wrong.

In walks Fifi, looking like Sissy Spacek in the prom scene from Carrie. OK, so maybe I'm exaggerating a wee bit, but it was bloody, and it scared the hell out of me. Seriously - about five drops of pee came out. Mass pandemonium ensues as Fifi, Faith, and the neighbor kid all try to explain what happened. I grab a cloth, wet it, and put it to Fifi's face. From what I could gather from Alvin and the Chipmunks (that's how they sounded, all trying to talk at once, hyper, and I'm sure there was some helium involved at some point), Fifi was running from a barking dog, scared out of her wits, and ran smack into the neighbor's pool deck. Results:



Ouch.

So I had to go to work two hours early and play Mommy, while wearing scrubs. Then I had to clock in. She got stitches. She has a ballet recital in three days. Is it OK if I become an alcoholic now?

It's pretty bad when you've gotten to the point where you're numb to your kids' injuries. Don't get me wrong... you're not indifferent to their pain; you still baby them and love on them and kiss them and make it better. But you aren't panicked; you simply take charge and do what has to be done, whether that is take them to the doctor or call the ER (AKA your place of employment) and tell them, yep, you're bringing your kid in again. And nope, they don't need to consult Medical Social Work.

So the drive-thru scenario was just a comical bit on what has become my life as of late, but we practically do need to start a tab at the children's hospital. Yesterday, I told the admissions clerk to bill me as usual for our co-pay. He laughed uncomfortably and then stopped and said, "Oh - you're serious. Oh, OK."

Is it just me, or are you envisioning my health plan company(*koff koff*CIGNA*koff koff*) getting pissed and making voodoo dolls out of my family? Wait - I take that back. That would make no sense. Because any injuries they'd inflict on us in some primitive, mystical manner; well, they'd have to pay to fix. Hmmmph.

I just have to accept the fact that as long as I have the fruit of my loins under my roof or claimed on my insurance, my employer will get $50 per paycheck toward the hospital bills I owe them. Even if I get the balances paid off 6 months from now, they might as well keep drawing it out. Because we'll be back.

Perfectly imperfect

Sometimes in my mind, I find my self apologizing that things in my life are not as they should be, according to my mother-in-law's um, public opinion. My house is always in shambles. And while a lot of it is just clutter, oftentimes, the basic cleaning gets overlooked more than I would like to admit.

I forget to sign homework a couple of times a week or send lunch money, and each sibling thought the other fed the puppy. Or the cat. Or the ever-forgiving elderly dog. I will forget dinner or just lay in bed too long to have time to start dinner before I leave for work. So - surprise - it's take-out time again. Chinese or Sonic?

My SUV has food containers and old mail and miscellaneous crap spilling out all over the floorboards. But it's new and dependable and the vehicle of which I've dreamed, so that's OK. It's MY SUV. So what if it looks like a family of transient Guatemalans lives in it?

There's still areas in the playroom that need to be sanded and repainted because I changed my mind about the design and removed a wall full of shelves. It doesn't look great, but it will get done eventually. All that matters right now is that there's a super-comfortable, kid-friendly microfiber sectional in there on which to lay and watch a SUH-WEET Sony Bravia flat screen TV. You'll just need to sweep the Doritos crumbs to the floor and arch your back to avoid the hair clippie wedged in between the cushions.

My bedroom looks like it should be declared a disaster zone. But again, it's MY mess, and I go into convulsions when Superman tries to organize it. The dead roses on the dresser from Valentine's Day? My excuse is I'm trying to grow colonies of bacteria that my high school biology teacher could only dream of I don't want to empty the vase until I have something to fill it back up with. Hubby has yet to take the hint.

My kids? They can be unruly and spoiled and are very difficult when it comes to getting them to help around the house. Our son's lackadaisical attitude towards it cost him his summer trip with his youth group to Florida. Do I beat them daily or accept that they're never going to reform? Not like I'm gonna come home to my seven year-old greeting me at the door with a smile on her face, saying, "Let me take your satchel, Mother Dear. It must be dreadfully burdensome. Faith is upstairs drawing you a bath, and Father has prepared a feast. I had to help him make more broccoli, because I ate all of mine. Finn is already bathed and in bed and only watched twenty-two minutes of television today. It was a documentary on the environmental devastation of the Exxon Valdez. He was taking notes on an Etch-A-Sketch."

Shyeah. Back to reality.

Bottom line - the mess? It's our mess. You don't have to look at it. The unruly kids? They're my kids. I either love them, or start Googling "Chinese water torture". It's all imperfect - perfectly imperfect. But it's the home we've made, literally and figuratively. Take it or leave it.*


*:Just be careful where you step, because I think Fifi forgot to clean up after Susie when she ate the grass clippings and barfed on the Pergo in the living room.