Archive for the ‘Teenagers’ Category:
Back to normal
With my daughter home from camp, things are back to normal. Even without Tucker. Even though I sneezed yesterday and the other dogs just looked at me with their canine mental ‘bless you’. Tucker would run into another room if I even thought about sneezing. I spent the past ten years apologizing for every achoo. I didn’t mind.
But it still feels normal.
I credit the fact that this is still a house full of dogs and the routines and supposed-to’s are meandering back into place with my son on the golf team and school starting Wednesday, with three people at the dinner table instead of two, size five purple Converse high tops by the garage door, extra laundry (extra extra due to camp), the sound of Teen Nick coming from behind a closed door and the shrill of girly laughter trailing after it.
It even feels normal that my daughter will start high school and my son will finish it.
Important things are as they should be.
Can’t get more normal than that.
She is 14
This picture was taken 13 years ago today, on my daughter’s 1st birthday. And you know what? She still likes bows in her hair. It’s “in.”
Ahead of our time, as usual.
Picking your battles can lead to pleasant surprises
My 17-year-old son stared at the laptop.
“Uh huh,” he said.
“Uh huh what?”
“Uh huh I’ll empty the dishwasher in the next hour.”
Of course that meant he’d do it in 59 minutes, but that was enough. If it were me, I would do it right away and get it done, get back to laptop.
Same goes for meals. He has always saved the veggies for last, because he likes them least. I save the best for last - which usually means the carbs, or I eat it all at the same time. Goes to the same place, y’know.
Whatever works.
I’ve learned that with my son, if I ask him to do something within a certain period of time, without nagging (reminding is ok - which I tell him) then it usually gets done. It can be in 5 minutes, an hour, the next few days. If it’s urgent then so be it, but let’s be honest, how many household chores are truly of-the-moment? He’s the tallest, strongest person in the house, so he lifts, carries, moves and reaches at a moment’s notice. But for those things not even I like to do, I don’t mind saying “When the game is over please take out the trash.”
I was sitting at my desk when he came in and said he was going to the driving range. I kissed him good-bye and continued about my business. But when I walked into the kitchen, the dishwasher was full. And no, I did not even think to ask him if it had been emptied before he left. I didn’t assume he did it, pressing matters prevailed. I just didn’t think of it.
I’m not of the mind to call a kid back from practicing for varsity golf tryouts to empty a dishwasher that will still be amply full when he returns.
I went back to work.
And while in my mind I hover over my kids, in reality, I do not. I keep close tabs on their internet expeditions, but I do not check, double-check and triple-check if homework or a chore is done. I ask who he’s with and where he’s going, but even when he called me at 11:55pm to ask if he could sleep at a friends (he has a midnight curfew) I said yes, and did not get out of bed and drive to see if his car was where he said he was , although I thought about it. I also did not do it when I awoke the next morning as I had promised myself. He hasn’t given me any reason not to trust him - so I do. That, and I was really tired.
A while later I texted him with the age old mother-son question.
“Sushi?”
His answer: “Ya”
I’ve learned “Ya” is short for “yes,” (because that’s so long), not short for “you.”
Then my phone rang.
“Hey,” I said. It was golfer/non-dishwasher emptying son.
“Want me to go pick up the sushi?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thank you.”
If you’ve read this blog, or anything regarding sushi that I’ve written before, you know that the suburb we live in is not a foodie’s dream. Sushi we like is about 10-15 minutes away — which meant my son volunteered for a 20-30 minute excursion without me asking. I didn’t remind him about the dishwasher. I didn’t scold him for leaving his chore undone.
He returned home and we indulged together, chatting and watching Food Network in our family room. He got up from the sofa when he was done, presumably to throw away his chopsticks and containers.
And I heard dishes clanking.
It’s a shame she’s not having any fun at camp
And as thrilled as I am, I’m also SO over it.
The paci princess
My daughter wasn’t the baby I expected. Oh, I knew she was going to be a girl and I knew she would one day play with Barbies. I assumed she’d have blue eyes and blonde hair. What I didn’t imagine was, as an infant, she would be nothing like my son in more ways than toys and wardrobe. I thought she’d coo and cry when wet — like he did. I assumed she’d swing when it was time to swing and sleep when it was time to sleep — like he did.
I did not think she would have colic and reflux and never nap for more than twenty minutes at a time. And I never ever thought our family would single-handed support the pacifier industry.
But we did. And we did it for more than three years. That’s right, my daughter was a Paci Princess until four months past her third birthday.
She became our paci princess almost immediately. And we were her obedient court. Paci’s in every room, diaper bag, purse, drawer and suitcase — sometimes paci’s on my fingers just in case. She was stuck on the hospital paci’s at a time when you could only order them from the manufacturer, in Boston, and on a limited budget I could only manage to get six at a time.
But those pacifiers not only soothed my daughter - they soothed our family. We knew what worked for her and made it work for us. I am a quintessential Type B mom, I go with the flow even when it throws me for a loop. I was never against pacifiers, I just never considered them. But, I sure did once I knew that a piece of silicon made her happy and helped her sleep.
Bringing the pacifier on board made my daughter reliable. She reliably carried her ba-ba, paci and baby everywhere she went. She took it out to eat and drink and eventually to talk a blue streak. She put it in her cubby at preschool, along with her Baby.
Much to the chagrin of many, we were unwilling to take the pacifier from her until she — and we — were ready. And that came one sunny, warm December day when we lived in Tucson, and she removed the paci and I saw a rash around her mouth. That was it. That night, the Paci-Fairy came and took all the pacifiers away and left a green talking Teletubby in their place.
My daughter never looked back — she only looked at that Teletubby. Luckily that was an obsession that didn’t last as long as pacifiers.
Even though my daughter dons braces, she didn’t get buck teeth from years of worhipping at the Temple of Paci Perfection. She didn’t go to kindergarten with pacis in her pocket. And now — she’s fourteen. The memory of the Paci Princess is a happy one. We smile when we look at old photos - our (my) favorite being the one where she’s asleep in the carseat, paci securely in place, and a piece of Kix cereal loosely at the tip of each nostril. That’s a keeper — added to by newer memories like that of the Pink Hair Princess.
And yes, my dedication to the parenting philosophy “whatever works,” continues.
My love/hate relationship with overnight camp
I dropped off my almost-fourteen year old daughter at overnight camp today. She’s the one kneeling in the green shirt you can sort of see and the blue hair you cannot really see at all.
It’s not a difficult drive if you’re talking logistics. I wind my way to the highway for fifteen minutes and make a right. I drive about 100 miles or so and make a right off the highway, and then less than ten minutes later I make a right into camp.
But if you’re talking something else…it’s much more than three right turns and straight on til the middle of August.
I love that when my daughter was ten she wanted to go away to a camp where she knew no one.
I love that she had the wherewithal to do something brave.
I love that she wanted to go back.
I love that she can rock climb, canoe, sail and shower with cold water.
I love that she loves to get dirty.
I love that she wanted to go to the four week camp and that she wanted to go back again.
I love that she met her friends today with big hugs and how everyone commented how she cut her hair, and not that it was streaked with blue, although I’m sure that story will come later.
I love that she meets girls and counselors from all over the world and from Chicago suburbs.
I love many of the girls are Jewish even though it’s not a Jewish camp, because she doesn’t have a lot of Jewish friends at home.
I love that she takes the teddy bear she named after the Jonas Brothers.
I love that she took the same sundress for socials that she took last year, but all brand new socks still attached with those annoying plastic tags.
I love that she takes fishing every year as one of her activities.
I love the smile I see when she turns to leave with her old friends.
I love that she told me not to forget to write her every day.
I love being able to give her this experience - one I never wanted and still don’t want.
I love sending her packages and seeing photos on the camp website.
I love that she loves camp.
But I love and hate that she is gone for four weeks.
What’s your favorite time of day?
Mine is early morning, even though this morning I woke up panicked, jumped out of bed and went into my son’s room telling him he was late for summer school which starts at 8 o’clock.
“It’s ten of eight,” I said. “I think.” His digital clock still blinked from the last time we lost power. A month ago. His cell phone is his lifeline and his clock. I had no way to know what time it really was, although half-asleep I reasoned it must be later than it should be.
“It’s ten of six,” he grumbled.
He went back to sleep and I let out the dogs and made a pot of French Vanilla coffee. I took the laptop into bed, checked emails and Facebook, lest anyone have an event or status or new uploaded photo I hadn’t seen since 10:30 last night.
I read some news, checked the weather (it’s 57 degrees here) and did a bit of research.
It’s the only time of day when I’m awake and the kids are asleep — you know how relaxing that is when the kids are little? You put them to bed at seven or eight or even nine and you have the rest of the night to yourself? Kiss that puppy goodbye when your kids get older. That flipped around for me when high school started and the late-gene kicked in for my son.
Now my “rest of the night to myself” comes before dawn — or at least before 7am.
Don’t put an artichoke in the microwave
I fancy myself a decent cook and purveyor of above-average meals that have gotten two children to - and almost through - the adolescent stage of life. Healthy foods fill the cabinets, fridge and freezer — Omega 3’s and whole grains, organic beef and free range chicken. Even quinoa. Of course occasionally I make a grave error in judgment - like the time I attempted to pass off turkey as beef, the misplaced attempt to hide pulverized vegetables in burgers and today, when in an effort to expand the 5-a-day repertoire, I decided that steaming an artichoke could be done in the microwave.
It cannot.
Houses that smell like burnt artichokes for upwards of four hours, send teenagers running for the proverbial hills and dogs under the beds. Come to think of it, burning artichokes might be something to consider depending on the day.
That being said, I consistently and successfully broil, braise and grill. I slow cook and stir fry. I follow recipes and I wing it. I can make different meals with the same ingredients and the same meals with different ingredients.
But I’ve never entertained the idea of a cooking blog. I’ve written posts about food and nutrition, of my whatever philosophy that has led my kids to make a lot of good choices. But cook online? On display?
No.
I don’t have pretty, matching mixing bowls or vintage measuring spoons. My mix-master is white and dusty, and my hand-held mixer has one blade. I have cabinets with stacked pots, pans and nary a pull out drawer that gives me easy access. I have lids that almost fit most of my casseroles dishes and my Tupperware collection has no real Tupperware.
I don’t clean up as I go, which means that every bag, box, package and bowl is on the counter when the cooking is done. It lends itself to little more than an overwhelming clean-up - which often means that I leave it until morning especially if I need to watch The Bachelorette or The Next Food Network Star.
While none of those things have effected my enthusiasm for creating a meal that meshes — it has tempered my ability to cook in a group - and to share my passion on a blog.
I will offer you a word of advice though - without the benefit of step-by-step instructions or a litany of colorful photographs showcasing antique stoneware bowls with bright yellow neatly whisked, bubbly egg yolks.
When you want artichokes, just open a can.
Just beachy (now with an addendum)
Last night my daughter confirmed plans to spend today at the beach with a friend.
“I have to be at [her] house at 8:30,” she said.
“OK.”
Summer has been schedule-less thus far for me and my daughter. Getting up and out before 8:30 will require her alarm clock and gentle nudging. Her mornings have consisted of sleeping in, toaster waffles and TV in bed under a blanket. She has had plenty of outings with me and her girlfriends but they are usually afternoon and evening. What this means is that unlike the school year when the house is kidless from 8 - 3; the summer has left me without my prime time to myself. I’m a morning and early afternoon gal. For me, it’s the best time for writing, exercising, cleaning and anything else. So with my son gone for summer school by 7:45 every day, I realized that this meant one thing.
“You’ll be gone the whole day? Starting at 8:30?”
“I go away for a month in a couple of weeks.”
“Yes you do, so this is like a warm-up for me, huh?”
I feigned sad and left her bedroom, checked behind me and on both sides — and did a little jig.
*Edited to add:
As my daughter skulks around getting ready for the day, I prod my son wondering why he’s not awake, eating his morning Lean Pocket, drinking coffee as he’s taking to doing and getting his lunch together for summer school.
There is no summer school today.
Nix that jig.
