Fiction

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The Teenage Years

One of the most difficult aspects of parenting (for a highly-anxious, prone-to-catastrophizing person like me) is that there is an endless number of potential issues to contend with, and that so many of them come up without warning or context, leaving you to wonder, Is this a normal variation that is just part of a typical childhood? Or is this pathological and requires intervention? 

I don’t even know what to give as an example, because the things seem to come entirely out of the blue and I have ZERO idea how to handle them. But things like lying or bed wetting or stuttering – all things that could be Just A Phase, or could be Signs Of A More Complex Problem, but you don’t know until you know, I guess? I hate that. I want to be able to ask my mom or go on Google and hear/read, “A small percentage (5 to 13%) of children DO tend to turn purple at some point, usually between the ages of 6 and 11, but sometimes as early as age 3. Sometimes the hue leans a bit more toward blue or a bit more toward magenta; it typically fades after six months, but can last for up to two years. Avoiding crucifers during this time can truncate the duration. If your child’s skin develops yellow polka dots during the purple phase, take them immediately to the doctor.” 

Like, just CLEAR and COMFORTING information that says, this is not super common, but it DOES happen, and here’s what to watch for if you are concerned it’s taking an atypical turn… Why can’t there be that for every possible variation of child behavior? WHY. 

(I know why.)

Anyway, what I am hoping to discuss currently is The Teenage Years. 

It seems that I have had MULTIPLE encounters lately with adults who like to say, “Just wait until she’s a teenager.” Sometimes, this is in response to Extreme Sassafras (why is there only one S on the end of this word??) on the part of my child, who sometimes turns up the sass factor because she has the mistaken impression that people find it charming/funny. Well. Some people do, in fact, find it charming and funny, which I find tiresome and irritating. But they don’t have to experience True Sass on a daily basis, so I suppose I should give them a break. Sometimes, this baffling warning comes in response to witnessing/discussing something lovely that my kid does – like how she still holds my hand (sometimes) when we’re walking, or how she’ll still sit on my lap while I read to her, or how she still loves to run up and fling herself at people she cares about for a big hug. “Just wait until she’s a teenager,” they’ll intone, this time with a tenor of pre-wistfulness or knowledgeable sadness.

I am familiar with the “cherish the moment” faction. And I am familiar with the “better sleep now, because you won’t sleep again once the baby’s born!” faction. And I am familiar with the concept of people who either forget how much they disliked being forewarned about things you can literally do nothing about or who feel in their heart of hearts that they have somehow encountered The One Person who has gone an entire lifetime without encountering the concept of a phase of life that literally all people go through. People are just… going to do this. From now until the end of time, probably. And yet, I still find this so irritating I want to scream. 

Probably it is because I am growing increasingly anxious/fearful of The Teenage Years with every passing day. 

And also, I am irritated because it feels inescapably gendered. I don’t think my friend who has sons gets “Just wait until he’s a teenager”ed every five minutes. Plus, I cannot tell you how many times I have heard people say things in knowing, faux-concerned voices about how a person (usually the father) is going to endure life with THREE TEENAGE DAUGHTERS, as if that is just the absolute worst thing that any human can live through. 

But mainly, I am irritated because I cannot do anything about it. Nothing. If we are very lucky, my daughter will grow and age and at some point become A Teenager. That is a thing that happens. I cannot prolong her not-a-teenager years any more than I can prolong my own youth. 

I am not discounting the very real effects of hormonal changes on young adults! I realize that teenagers CAN be moody and distant and disrespectful and all the terrible things! I get it! Puberty is an actual phenomenon that changes people’s behavior!  

But I am just super annoyed at the people who keep saying, “Just you wait.” WHAT am I supposed to do with that information? Cherish every non-teenage moment, I suppose. 

Today, I am going to make two lists. One list of things that I can look FORWARD to about the teenage years, and a list of things that I want to address when my daughter is a teen. Preferably, my husband and I would discuss and have a plan for these things well in advance, but to be honest, they seem both so horrifying and so far away that I am struggling to focus on them. 

Things About the Teenage Years to Look Forward To

  • Having a kid who can drive herself to / from places (I recognize that this is also a negative point, because I cannot fathom my precious baby a) operating an enormous motor vehicle or b) driving around in the world with so many oblivious idiots)
  • Being able to watch ALL (most) movies together
  • Prom
  • Having more time to myself / more silence (“Just you wait,” says the knowing post-teenage parent, “When she’s a teenager you’ll find yourself LONGING for the days when she talked nonstop for four straight hours.”)
  • Fewer toys cluttering up the house
  • Real conversations 
  • No need for a babysitter
  • Another cook in the house
  • No more playdates – or, at least, not being in charge of scheduling/organizing playdates and enduring the unbearable awkwardness of interacting with parents I don’t know 
  • No longer needing to be the communication bridge between my kid and her friends

Things I Want to Figure Out How to Address

  • Social media
  • Phone / screen time
  • Peer pressure around sex / drugs / alcohol / social media / appearance
  • Sexual assault
  • Driving, with and without friends
  • Spending the night at other kids’ houses
  • Romantic relationships

Well, these lists both seem too short. I did consult a few online lists along the lines of “Great Things About Having a Teen!” Some of them – like enjoying shopping together, or sharing clothing and makeup – seem difficult to predict; I don’t know if Carla will care about shopping or clothing or makeup. And I want to emphasize academics and career-planning, but I’m not sure how to do so in a way that prioritizes Carla’s personality/goals rather than emphasizing the values I grew up with, so I’m not putting it on the list currently. I will continue to think about these topics and add to the lists as I come up with new items. Let me know what you would include. (And if you have any good books about anticipating / raising teenagers, I would be interested in those!)

In the meantime, I ordered this book over the weekend: 

image from amazon.com

While Carla is not quite nine, we are knocking on nine’s door. I am really hoping that the heretofore kind, measured Louise Bates Ames doesn’t say anything akin to, “Just WAIT until she’s a teenager.”

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What I’ve Got Going On the Side…

Between writing for my clients and writing this blog, well, I write a LOT. As in hundreds of thousands of words a week. (I am being not at all hyperbolic.)

And while all that writing is wonderful and satisfying and allows me to tell people, quite truthfully, that I am A WRITER… well, I do hold onto some silly delusions of grandeur. As in, I want someday to write a novel. And to wander into Barnes & Noble and be able to grab my novel off the shelf, hold it up high, and squeal “I wrote this! Buy it now!” to all the taken aback patrons searching through the stacks.

To that end, I joined an online writing group.  It’s hugely intimidating because the other members? Are STELLAR writers.

But I keep telling myself to get over myself and stop being insecure… That having awesome writers reading your work and telling you how to make it stronger is HUGE. That even if they think your writing is silly or immature or just plain sucky, they are nice people who will scrape up something constructive to offer you.

And, well, I wanted to share what I’ve been doing with you. Not every day, I assure you. I will continue to update you with the ridiculousness of my life on a regular basis. But… In case you wanted to make any comments… Or suggestions… Or totally ignore my foolish attempts at writing fiction and tell me about what’s going on with you… Well, have at it.

Here’s what I wrote for our first assignment. I hope you enjoy it. And if you don’t, well, let me down gently won’t you?

Shrodinger’s Cat

I’ve never been one for physics.

But when Mr. Koppler taught us about Shrodinger’s Cat – which involves poison, a box, and a cat – I couldn’t wait to call Grandpa.

A retired engineer with two sons and three grandsons – all lawyers – my grandfather has always taken particular pleasure in phone calls from his only granddaughter.

We’ve spent hours talking: Me reading him short stories. Recounting the adventures of Polly, my apricot puggle. Reconstructing long narratives between me and my not-quite best friend Melissa. Asking for opinions on school clothes (will the red-checkered skirt look better with the blue sweater or the white blouse?).

We’ve also spent hours discussing speed and velocity and acceleration. In Mr. Koppler’s classroom, the numbers and letters might as well be Japanese. But Grandpa makes everything simple.

Melissa is dithering about Joey Miley who pinched her arm in gym class and isn’t that a sign that he likes her? But I can’t wait to hear Grandpa’s voice. To find out exactly how in the wide world a cat could be dead and alive at the same time.

When the bus creaks to a stop at my street, I flap a hand at Melissa, shout a quick goodbye to the driver, and run-skip-run down the sidewalk to my house. Inside, I holler hello to mom, fling my backpack into the closet, and yank the phone off the hook.

The phone rings once and I twist the curly telephone cord around my hand. Polly belatedly senses my presence and hurtles into the kitchen.

The phone rings twice and a memory bursts like a little bubble in my brain: Church on a Tuesday afternoon. Magnolia blossoms on the tree outside, stained blue and yellow through the window glass. A big photo of Grandpa – his hair white and stiff as a meringue – on an easel near the pulpit, surrounded by bright explosions of lilies and roses.  My father, hands clasped and face drawn; my mother rubbing small circles on his knee.

I sink down to the cool kitchen floor, fending off Polly’s puppy kisses.

I picture Grandpa’s cozy bungalow near the ocean, dust drifting in motes of sunlight. (Does anyone live there now?)

The phone rings a third time and I think maybe, just maybe, he’ll pick up. Say, “Hiya Cupcake” like he always does. And tell me how a cat can hang, suspended, between life and death… both and neither simultaneously.