The Balance of Raising a Teen

"I'm not going to ride all summer with Dad, that's for sure!" announced Oldest. We have been frustrated at attempts to find him a place to stay this June in Fargo-Moorhead, and I'm not interested in him lying around on the couch all summer playing video games. He's just one year off from being 16, and without a sponsoring family in Fargo- Moorhead, he can't attend Trollwood Academy, a theater arts program. So Hubby and I decided that Oldest can join his old man in the semi for the summer.

"Dude, I love you. But Dad could use a cook and you could see the whole country," I said.  "If you can't find a job, and you can't find some place to live up in F/M, you've got to do something with your time."

"Fine!" he announced, getting up and heading for the stairs. "I'll go live with my cousins in Minneapolis."

His "cousins in Minneapolis?" Ah, yes. This is the fairy tale land of all people who do not want to deal with reality. This is the place where you can live all the time, run around and do what you want, and not have chores, or wash your own clothes, or clean up the kitchen. This is where the food is the best, everyone is laughing all the time, there's money growing on the tree in the backyard so you can go to museums, concerts, and playlands. In reality, his "cousins in Minneapolis" are a struggling family of five, my nephew's family,  who would struggle worse if he showed up on their doorstep one day.

Truthfully, our son is 15, and getting a job may or may not happen.  If he does get a job, and not attend the academy in Moorhead, I have to drive him to work. That's not a big deal until you consider that I have to work, too! So transportation coordination might get to be a hassle. First he has to get a job, a tough sell if he's under 16.

On Saturday, his cousin, David, from Minneapolis came for a visit. The man is 46 and has a son about Oldest's age and the boys get along great. I told David about Oldest's plan to come live with their family.

"Ah!" said David. "Where would he sleep?" he asked his son.

"Up in the attic," replied my grand-nephew. 

"Yep," said David to Oldest. "That's the only room we have for you. It gets hot in the summer and cold as the world in the winter, but you wouldn't get rain on your head."  Oldest nodded as though this were just fine.

"And, "David continued. "We can't afford much meat. So we eat beans and rice, and yogurt for our protein." Oldest hates beans.  But he nodded bravely, acquiescing that beans were food he could live on if he had to.  "And if you don't like the dinner, you have the choice of going to bed hungry. You can't just reach into the freezer and take out a pizza because there are some nights when we don't have time to cook and have to make pizza"

Again, Oldest nodded.  Maybe this experience would be good for him,  I thought. But I'd like to remain on good terms with my nephew David! 

He's in a funny age, this teen of ours. Tomorrow he could decide, "I'm outta here," and actually leave. I've learned to let him steer himself more. I'm hurrying to teach him skills I've forgotten, to make him take on more every day tasks so he can contribute to the home more. It burdens him to fit all this into his schedule since his has gotten more complicated. But we only have two years left to get him situated, and then he'll be gone, and I'm afraid I'll overlook something to teach him that he'll need. The idea of him wandering off just to avoid being underfoot is suddenly a headache to me. I want him home but not contentious, here learning but understanding that it is to ready him for the future, not to just have him as a slave.

Oldest has not mentioned spending the summer in Minneapolis since that conversation.  But the idea of vacating Mom and Dad's house for the carefree life of a hobo is still on his mind. One day he said, "I could pack my bags and go touring to California like Grandpa did when he was young."

"Then I'd have to call the police and report you as a runaway."

'How come? Grandpa took off when he was my age."

"No, he left when he was 21 because that was the age his father told him that he could be on his own."

This left Oldest mulling over the "Escape from Mom and Dad" plan further. A few days later, he said, "I'm going to live with my cousin on her farm in Iowa."

"What farm in Iowa?" I said, thinking of that particular cousin. This is Andrea, age 15, who lives with her parents in Wisconsin. They aren't about to let her go live alone in an abandon Iowan house that belongs to her grandmother. This troubled teen is not the best influence on our son, either.

"She's got a farm there," he said stubbornly.

"Ah! Well, guess what. I won't let you. She is a bad influence." I said. "Sorry."

"Have you ever considered that I might be a good influence?"

"So.  I'm not willing to risk you getting corrupted, " I answered. He slumped in defeat. No running to Iowa either. How bad can his plans go?

I remember turning 15, not because of a particular boyfriend, or wanting to run away, or a first job. No, I remember because of an incident. I was pulling weeds in our flowerbed when my father walked up to me. I'm sure my mother and I had had another row, and he particularly hated the fighting between us. "You are getting a job next summer," he said to me sternly. "That's all there is to it."

I remember feeling surprise, as though I had done something wrong. Now, looking back, I see my son struggling with the idea of independence, the square-peg feeling of being too old to sit around and do nothing, and all the while seeing others contribute. We've encouraged him to find his own work, make his own job. But he hates the lawn mowing, the finding work. He needs to work for someone else, give in to their scheduling, their rules. He needs to gain the experience of learning how nice it is to work for yourself, before he can appreciate doing it. He needs to have a boss before he can be a good one.  He needs to feel the comradeship of co-workers. I see this, and know that just about the time he is getting interesting, he needs to go.

And so he went to get his first job application. That's a story for another day. But in the meantime, if any readers know of anyone in Fargo-Moorhead that's willing to adopt a teen for thirty days in June so he can attend a theater academy, please let me know. He wants to run away, and that would be a great place to run to. 

The Gaggling Goosey Groupies

"Mom!" called Youngest as he burst through the door.  "Brother's coming home with three girls."

There are many things a mother would like to hear someone say about her son. Things like, "He's on the A honor role!" or "He's been accepted into a great college!" or "He's won the Pulitzer Prize." All of those statements would make a heart beat with pride. But what do you make of, "He's coming home with three girls?" I suppose it's better than, "He's coming home with three stray cats!"

"Aha!" I said.  Minutes earlier I had considered how nice it would be to make a few cupcakes for anyone dropping by.  I frantically scraped the batter into cupcake paper holders. 

They entered into the door behind my son, giggling and talking.  He hung up his heavier jacket, grabbed a Cary Grant style hat, and a lighter leather coat. No doubt, he looked sharp.

I finished and walked over to where they were standing in the dining room. "Hi!"  Then I felt an odd panic coming over me.   I should recognize these girls. All of them, I would bet, have been in our house before. The problem is that the girls look alike.  Skinny.  Two have blond hair that hangs down, in a flowing style with a part on the side. Those same two wear makeup. 

I took a deep breath as if to jump into a swimming pool. "Okay, I should know you. But I'm old and my mind is going. Let's see if I can remember your name."

"I'm Jenna!" said the first one.

Ah yes. The girl who had the same name as Oldest's former girlfriend.  She's got bad acne and actually natural hair color than the ones with bleached out hair.

The next one looked at me as though I were a worm.  "Victoria," she said, as if I should have know.

Inwardly I groaned. Oldest's former girlfriend. I should have known.  But after a second I found myself secretly glad I hadn't remembered. She broke up with him twice by text. What happened to the days when boys and girls broke up and never talked again?

The third introduced herself again with a gesture toward her heart.  "I'm Barb." The tone of her voice somehow assured me that she was used to memory-challenged adults. I felt reassured that the younger generation was just fine with those of us who are innundated with teens who look alike.

"It's just that so many girls come here!" quipped Youngest, who had been somewhat hopping around, chewing an apple. 

I caught Oldest shoot his little brother a poision-dart glance.  Part of me wondered how karma would address the inequity of the time when Youngest would bring home a girl and his older brother would not be here to say, "Gee, he brings home lots of girls."

Then, the most incredible two things happened. First, the girls didn't stay around for warm cupcakes.  All of the teens decided to take off . Second, my Oldest son picked up their backpacks and carried them for the girls. This from the boy that acts like the vaacuum cleaner is too heavy, grumbles when we ask him to open doors when our hands are full, or protests if directed to help with any other menial labor intensive task.  He happily went down the street, his groupies around him,  shouldering a million pounds of homework, with a grin like a ten-year-old with a new puppy. 

I haven't figured out whether it's a good thing or not for our son to have groupies.  A part of me wishes that the girls were interested in books, theater or even farming!  But giggly girls?  It goes against my very feminist core. I realize it's a teenage boy thing, a mating dance thing, a thing.  God forbid he bring one of these girls home for marriage approval.  But most of all, I hope I can better remember their names, that I can find something distinctive about each so their name information doesn't go into my "garbage in, garbage out" file in my brain. For no matter what, they deserve at least that.