Come on over to CatholicMom.com and visit me in the Tech Talk section! This week I’m talking about why text messages and teenagers can be a GOOD combination!
Category: Parenting
Finding Some Silence
Being an introvert, I need some quiet time on a regular basis to recharge my batteries. My kids don’t know from quiet. My younger two are so extroverted that they practically have others orbiting them on a regular basis. Little Brother, in particular, needs near-constant company. And when his friends are here and it’s quiet, that’s usually not a good thing either.
Between the radio (loud enough to be heard throughout the house), the TV (at a competing decibel level) and the general kid chatter–or bickering–I feel like I’m being assaulted by noise constantly.
I’m not getting to daily Mass like I’d like to (and like I do on average of 4 days a week during the school year), and that doesn’t help. It’s hard to listen to my favorite radio show, The Catholics Next Door, because I don’t want to add one more sound source to the sensory overload I’m experiencing. It’s like the lyrics from that Harry Nilsson song, “Everybody’s Talkin’ at Me.”
And when everyone’s outside, I relish the silence for as long as I can get it.
At Catholicmom.com, Sarah Reinhard brought up the topic of summer parenting. I mentioned in the comments that with my desk in the middle of the house, in the living room, I run into a lot of sound overload (and a lot of interruptions.) I’ve been contemplating a way to find some space elsewhere in the house where I can work in quiet.
This afternoon, I got it all figured out and Middle Sister did the heavy moving. I’ve got a bookcase full of books emptied out all over the bed, so I have to get those put away, but there’s a small desk in my room near a window that has a backyard view. It’s not going to be my primary work space. But when things get Just Too Loud here in the heart of my home, it’s good to know that I’ve got a spot where I can (temporarily) retreat.
I can run, but I can’t hide. I can’t stay up there all day, tempting though it may be. That won’t do my family any good. Besides, I’m not so sure I want to be working in the same room where I sleep. We’ll see how it goes. If nothing else, I’ll have sorted through all these books–and that’s not a bad thing either.
Quite a Ride
So I need a nickname for the gang of teenagers that hangs around my house. The little guys are the Street Urchins. The sixteen-year-olds? What do I call them?
It’s been a rather difficult week in Teenage World. Parenting teenagers definitely resembles a roller-coaster ride. You’re strapped in for the duration (7 years, give or take time for those rocky pre- and post-adolescent stages). There are the ups and downs, twists and turns, and occasional spins that turn you upside down.
In the past week, we have experienced
- curfew battles
- playing one parent off another
- sulking
- plenty of eye-rolling, stomping up the stairs and slamming of the bedroom door
- The Silent Treatment
- and an ill-fated trip to the mall.
They’ve got nothing to do and way too much time to do nothing in. The bunch of them went job-hunting–together–after swimming at my house yesterday. I’m not sure that the best way to look for a job is to show up as a Six-Pack at the pizzeria or Edible Arrangements with wet hair, wearing short shorts and flip-flops. I asked the kids if any potential employer had wondered if he was expected to hire the whole crew. (They didn’t get why I thought that was funny, or even worth wondering about).
But we’ve also got a teenager who dissuades her younger brother from styling his hair like Eddie Munster, who “takes” me grocery shopping so she can do all the heavy lifting, pushing and loading that I can’t do, who takes 3 AM phone calls from friends in despair over a family member’s bad health and questioning the existence and benevolence of God. While I’m not thrilled over a 3 AM phone call, I am so gratified to know that when her friends have crises like that, they turn to her. That says a whole lot about my daughter, right there.
I’ve got to take the bad with the good here. A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Ultimately, I think I’ve got a good kid, and maybe her friends are good kids too, but I don’t know them well enough to really determine that.
Today is the feast of St. Aloysius Gonzaga, patron of teenagers. And they need his intercession and inspiration more than ever. So today, I prayed for that bunch of teenagers (and they still need a nickname). And I’m on my way to the supermarket, driven by my very own teenager, to stock the fridge with sodas so her friends will find something cold to drink when they show up later.
Part of That World
The Little Mermaid was Middle Sister’s favorite movie when she was around 3 or 4. I don’t think I’ve seen, heard or thought about that movie in at least 10 years.
But she borrowed it from a friend and watched it today as a break from a marathon final-exam cramming session. And really, some of its messages gave me pause.
I’ve got a beautiful 16-year-old daughter who’s strong and strong-willed, who has a bit of a rebellious streak and is definitely a risk-taker. In other words, I’m raising Ariel.
Does my Ariel think the grass is greener on the other side of some fence? Does she wish that she were somehow different–different in a way that denies a part of her true self–so that she could fit into a world that is not hers? Does she think that her life wouldn’t be complete unless she fit into that world? Would she be willing to make a Faustian bargain to get there?
Is this movie’s lesson any different from the one we learn in Grease? Boy is attracted to girl, but she’s not good enough to keep “as is.” She has to change so they can be together.
Maybe that’s what I like about the movie Legally Blonde (silly though it may be.) In that one, the girl changes because she thinks it will help her get her boyfriend back. By the time he comes around, though, she discovers that he’s not the man she thought he was–and she decides not to let him get in the way of her goals.
I want my daughter to know that she doesn’t have to be Ariel, or Sandy, or even Elle Woods. I want her to discover how wonderful she is, just because she is Middle Sister. I want her to discover and develop her unique talents, to use her strength to help others, to love her life.
Power parenting
So Little Brother is in the backyard, playing soccer with two of the Street Urchins (boys his age who live down the block.). I’m listening with half an ear to the goings-on, since twice already this week that soccer ball has scored a direct hit on the pool filter, disconnecting the hose.
And my mom had dinner all ready, so she headed out the back door to call Little Brother in. When he didn’t follow, I called him out the window and that’s when my mom told me that one of the boys was telling Little Brother to stay outside.
I’ve found this child ignoring his own mother more than once when she’s come to tell him it’s time to go. He has flat-out refused to leave with his older sisters one day when they were sent to get him.
In a few short weeks it’ll be summertime, and all the Street Urchins will want to swim in my pool. I hate being the Bad Cop all the time, but somebody has to. With a pool in the yard, there are safety issues. You have to supervise and know who’s there and who’s in the water. You have to make sure they play and swim safely. (And you have to require kids who live on your block to bring their OWN towels.)
I think, before summer, I need to come up with a game plan. Suggestions are welcome.
UPDATE: Thanks to some GENIUS suggestions in the comments and from a neighbor, I’ve worked up this template. Sharing it here for other families in my spot–and I’ll amend this as necessary. But kids will have to leave one with me before they swim here.
Overprepared?
It’s time to get ready for the first track meet of the 2012 season. I’m the recorder, or Scribe as I like to call it. I write down every runner’s time in every race. It gets hectic but I enjoy it.
This is my third season, so I’m pretty good at knowing what to bring along. I just packed my tote bag with:
collapsible camp stool
gloves
8 pencils
clipboard
Sharpie
2 pens
binder clips
map
directions to the meet
wallet
cell phone
granola bar
small “essentials” bag from my purse, containing Advil, inhaler, lip balm, Swiss Army knife and band-aids. Covers just about every emergency.
It’s going to be cold this evening, so it’s time to eat up, layer up and get out of here!
Adventures in Public Parenting
It’s Tech Week at the high school; the school play opens a week from Thursday. That means late-night rehearsals, after-school prop gathering ventures for my daughter, the Prop Mistress, and the ever-popular Tech Week Dinners. A group of over 20 parents (and a few grandparents for good measure) donates, prepares, serves and cleans up 7 nights of dinner for the whole cast, crew and orchestra.
It was much more hectic last year when the dinner group numbered 140. This year we’re only feeding about half that, so there’s really not enough work to go around for the parents who show up. It’s a lot of fun, actually, and I enjoy helping. The kids are all polite and appreciative. They pray before eating and thank the parents after with a loud cheer. And I get to meet some other parents. Tonight we were trading leads on sources for the girls’ uniform tights, including inside information on what brands stand up to the kind of punishment high-school girls dish out.
Little Brother’s not in the play this year, but he’s at Tech Week Dinners with me because there’s no one else at home to watch him at that time. This year, he’s the only kid there. He eats with the kids, his old buddies from his Munchkin days during Wizard of Oz last spring. He’s even made a few new friends among the freshmen, including one young man who was kicking a soccer ball around with him outside the cafeteria after dinner tonight.
I was helping to put away the drink coolers when we heard a crash. Sure enough, that soccer ball had sailed through one of the cafeteria windows. And all the other parents were watching as I ran to the door, spied my son, and ordered, “Get in here.”
“Get in here,” I heard someone chuckle behind me. (Seriously? You’re going to laugh at me now?) Clearly I was on the stage, with an audience of more than 20 parents and grandparents who were clearly glad not to be in my shoes. So I took it outside, where my little boy and his soccer-playing buddy both assured me that my son wasn’t the guilty party. The young man who’d been playing soccer with him showed me his own feet, trying to convince me that Little Brother’s legs aren’t powerful enough to have kicked the ball through the window. After sending Little Brother to the car to put away the soccer ball, I took off my apron and started picking up the few shards of glass that had fallen outside the building. Did you know that aprons are good for picking up–and holding–broken glass, so you don’t cut your hands while you do that job?
The vice principal is also in charge of stage crew, so before long he was in the cafeteria talking to my son and the freshman boy. Again, lots of parents were watching as I told the vice principal that whether or not Little Brother had kicked it, he had been the one to bring the ball to the dinner, so he should share in the damages. The other student was trying to take all the blame upon himself, and I insisted (and will follow up) that we divide the bill for the glass replacement. Little Brother insisted that he would pay for it with his own money. While a custodian taped cardboard over the broken window, I returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning up. The parents wanted to know if I was OK.
Aside from a few bonus blood-pressure points, I was fine. Actually, I was impressed with the freshman who tried to deflect the blame from my child, willing to take all of it (including a financial penalty) on himself. I was more annoyed with the parents who said, “You shouldn’t have to pay for that. It’s a cost of doing business.” No. It’s not. My kid was playing soccer against the side of a building–in an area where there were windows. It was an accident waiting to happen and we’re all very lucky that no one got hurt. I was annoyed with myself for not stopping him sooner. I was annoyed with the parents who laughed at my initial reaction, which I found remarkably restrained, considering.
The soccer ball won’t be coming back to Tech Week Dinners. We will pay our half of the glass bill and Little Brother will have to contribute to that. And I can’t help but wish that the parents who seemed to think that Little Brother and I should let a 15-year-old boy shoulder all the blame for this–and the ones who seemed to think that neither soccer player was at fault at all–had taken a page from that 15-year-old’s script.
We parents have our work on display at all times, every time our child leaves the house for the day at school. “By their fruits you shall know them,” after all. I hope that Little Brother learned a lesson or two tonight. I don’t know if the Play Parents did. And if I ever get to meet the parents of a certain 15-year-old, I’ll be sure to tell them that they can be very proud of their son, who politely and immediately claimed and accepted responsibility for his role (and more than his role) in the breaking of that window.
Are We Doing Enough?
This interesting essay “Time for Liberal Catholics to Quit?” comes at a time when I’m already wondering if we’re doing enough.
My two older children (ages 16 and 20) are at that point in their lives (and faith) where Church just seems to be a bunch of rules for them to follow; rules that don’t have much meaning behind them. So I feel like we haven’t done enough. They both went to Catholic school, from pre-K through the present (Big Brother’s at a Catholic college, even).
So they didn’t get it in school.
My guess is that the kids in CCD (oops, sorry, “Faith Formation”) get even less. In our parish, they attend 14 sessions. 14 3-hour sessions, one hour of which is Mass. So they get 28 hours of instruction, less “move-around time” for a full year. Are they getting it there?
And clearly the Big Kids didn’t get it at home. We take them to Mass on Sundays and encourage them to serve in different ways. They see examples of prayer, custom, and involvement in service from us and from others in the community. But do they connect it to church?
Maybe it’s just their age and stage. But I think that many people never get past this stage. If the Church doesn’t form them well enough to want what is there, they’re never going to take a second look. They may stick around out of laziness, habit, a deep (but unrealized) interior need for the Eucharist and all the rest that they can only get at our church, or even out of arrogance. They may stay, but they won’t love it.
Can we teach them to love their faith? Can we teach them to live their faith? Are we doing enough?
Cave-In
And the walls came tumbling down.
Not the walls of my home (thank God!) but the emotional walls that I use to hold everything in and keep it all together. Sometimes there is just way too much for those walls to hold. And usually it’s some stupid little thing that causes them to cave in.
So I made the dinner, and when Middle Sister told me that the pasta was done, I asked her to drain it and call everyone to the table. And then I headed upstairs where I proceeded to melt down.
After she ate, Middle Sister came upstairs to ask what was wrong and to listen to me vent a bit. She just listened. She’s a good kid.
I appreciate that she was there, that she gave me the gift of her presence when I was on the edge (or over it, really.) At the same time, though, I feel like it’s not her responsibility to have to help me put the emotional pieces back together.
I’d love to hear what you have to say: would you let your 16-year-old daughter see you fall apart?
Short-Circuited
Two hours ago, I was at a funeral for Martha, a 92-year-old Secular Franciscan and mother of 7. Her son, a Franciscan priest, spoke in his homily about how his mother had dedicated her life to raising her children–so much so that when they were grown, she was at a little bit of a loss as to what to do. He remembered that although there wasn’t much money, he and his siblings were always well-taken-care-of. And I know that she became a kind of surrogate mother to many of the priests from his community, especially those whose mothers had passed away or lived very far away. But Father B’s memories of his mother were deeply rooted in her motherly care. She loved her children very much and did her best for them always.
One hour ago, I was speeding driving from the funeral to an imaging center, where I was scheduled to have an MRI at 1:00. It took a long time to get that appointment. I was two minutes away when my cell phone rang. It was the school nurse; Little Brother wasn’t feeling well, and school nurses don’t tend to take chances when kids report bellyaches when there’s a Nasty Stomach Virus going around. I explained where I was and that I would try to reach someone to pick him up.
No one answered the house phone, although Big Brother is home for spring break this week. He didn’t answer his cell phone either. And my neighbor, my emergency back-up plan, didn’t answer her home phone. TheDad works 50 miles away. So I walked into the reception area at the imaging center and explained my situation. I asked if there was any way this appointment could be rescheduled. They were able to accommodate my request, so now I have to wait almost another week to have this test done. And I’ll miss my volunteer time at the school library because of it.
For Martha, family came first. Around here, it’s got to be the same way. I left Little Brother’s birthday celebration last night for a little while so I could attend a prayer service that the Secular Franciscans have at the wake. But the rest of the family was home, friends were visiting, and he was having fun. Because we’re all alone in this part of the state, I don’t have family close by on whom I can impose with a sick child when I’ve got something else to do. Sometimes the back-up plan doesn’t work out.
A week or so ago, someone wrote about patient endurance. Of course, I can’t find it now that I’m looking for it. But that’s exactly what I’m called to have right now.
Instead, I spent the entire 15-minute drive (yes, I was speeding) from the imaging center to the school vacillating between two thoughts: “I hope Little Brother’s OK” and “He’d better really be sick after all this.” He doesn’t seem too sick, for which I am thankful and irritated all at the same time. After all, it’s not like I was heading out to yoga class or lunch with a friend. I need to get answers about this health issue, and that’s just been put off for another week.
It’s frustrating to be short-circuited, especially when you’re on your way to an MRI. (And even more especially when you get home to find that Big Brother had been there all along, but he didn’t bother picking up the house phone and his phone was set to “alarm only.”)
Father B said today that he will pray to his mother, asking her to go to bat for him in prayer just as she always had done. I think I will do the same. After all, she’s a mother too (and one with a wonderful sense of humor).
UPDATE: Finally remembered where I saw the essay on patient endurance. I need to reread it, especially since it appears more and more that I have raised The Boy Who Cried Wolf.