"Hey," I whispered to The Man Who Puts Up With Me. "Got a favor to ask."
He groaned, and I knew what he was thinking.Something to fix, something that needs doing. Something that would take all day. He's my number one fix it guy, even though he doesn't get much done around here because he's gone so much, and when he is home, he's tired and just wants to relax or mess around with the family. "What?" he asked warily.
"I think you should have the drug talk with our Youngest," I said. "He thinks you're the best, and looks up to you."
"Got it," His thumb went up. This was an easy task, something he wouldn't find work at all.
For those of you who don't have children or who engage in recreational drugs, it might come as a wonder as to why parents take the time to speak occasionally of how not to do drugs, how to look cool at parties while dumping the beer down the sink, how to say "no" in 100 different ways. Early on in our marriage, we decided it was much easier to encourage the kids to live without drugs rather than dealing with rehab, or an early death, or a lifetime of unnecessary struggle.
Now don't get me wrong. We weren't saints as kids, something we've admitted to our children. My parents never said a word to me about drugs until I was way past 17 and by then it was way too late. And although I like a beer now and then, I've come to understand that my body no longer tolerates the stuff. Most of all, I've admitted to myself that the kids who grew up in our extended family where booze was always present versus the nephews and nieces who never saw it in their homes now live very different lives. In short, I like the ones who never had the stuff around and they are far more wealthy and successful. So it doesn't matter that I probably never drew a sober breath my freshman year of college. I can just see how much those people who remained sober just did better all the way around compared to me.
I expect the boys to drink and maybe even try something they shouldn't in their life. But I don't want them to have my blessing if they get stoned. I probably will be that nagging voice in the back of their head.
All that said, The Man Who Puts Up With Me took Youngest and the dog on a walk. And this is somewhat how the conversation went:
Man: So if you get sad or depressed, and someone offers you drugs, what will you do?
Youngest: Can I still play my music?
Man: Of course!
Youngest: (putting up his thumb) Then we're all good. No problem.
Man: (stumbling to overcome his surprise) Okay. Uh....now supposed you are ticked off at Mom and Dad and you storm out of the house. You know someone who has drugs available. What do you do?
Youngest: Can I still play my music?
Man: Uh, sure!
Youngest: Then we're good!
Man: (Fumbling for ideas) Uh...well, how about if you are at a party and kids are pressuring you to drink.
Youngest: Is there music there?
And so the conversation went on. Apparently music is the ultimate drug repellent.
And besides making me laugh, I thought about it for a long time afterward. Music is his life, and now gives him a moral compass. This gift for the desire to play the piano, guitar and percussion spills over in a way too mysterious for for us to comprehend. What keeps him grounded is less about my husband and I but more of notes on a page, tuned instruments and all of us singing.
It makes me think about caroling this year, how maybe it's important in a way that I don't realize. That conversation makes that drive to boy's choir practice worth more than the time I spend on the road. The time I spend in the audience during his concerts, listening to him practice, asking strangers if he can practice on the piano in the entryway (think hospital) and sitting through hours of recitals may be a price of keeping our kid out of bigger trouble. It's a price I am willing to pay for sure. It was a surprise, but a pleasant one.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Don't Eat That!
Oldest is my culinary challenge. It's not that he won't eat certain things. It's that he seems to forever be chowing down things he shouldn't!
It started as a baby. If he went to play in the mud, we had to sit right beside him because within moments his little hand would grab a glob and drift right toward his mouth.
"I've eaten lots of dirt as a kid," people would confess to me as Oldest went through this stage. They assured me that it probably did them some good, and that all people needed to eat a little dirt now and then. I didn't find this fact as interesting as they did.
As life continued, he periodically imbimbed on things he shouldn't. Once when he was two, our little family went fishing on a remote river in western Alaska. It was a fisherwoman's dream come true. I got to catch them, and my hubby volunteered to gut them out and babysit at the same time. I lost myself in the most glorious fishing I've ever done. The Man Who Puts Up With Me let our toddler explore the little island at will, but at one point when he glanced up to check on Oldest, discovered our little boy "petting" one of the fish. Slime dripped off Oldest's hand. Mystified, our son tried to shake it off, but when that didn't work, began licking it off. Daddy couldn't get to him fast enough to prevent a little fish slime from going down the tube. The errant babysitter didn't have the heart to relate the story to me for quite some time.
Then our hound came live with us. Had I ever known this would open up a whole other eating world for our then fourteen year old, I might have protested adding the four legged addition to our home.
One day shortly after we loaded up on possible treats for training Rikki, the hound, I put a couple of dog biscuits on the table, then went into the kitchen to cook some dinner. Within moments I heard Oldest say, "Mom, these crackers are stale!"
"What crackers?" I asked, truly puzzled.
"The ones I found on the table," he answered.
Slowly it dawned on me, and I tried to keep a straight face as I said, "Yeah, they probably don't taste real good since it's DOG BISCUITS!"
Of course, he's too cool to get upset, but I noticed he didn't eat the second half of the doggie treat.
Rikki, however continued to have competition for his treats. One afternoon Oldest rode home with Hubby in the big rig. At one point in the drive, Oldest piped up and said, "Dad, this jerky is the worst I've ever tasted!"
"Where'd you get it from?" asked The Man Who Puts Up With Me. Oldest pointed to a little cupboard. "Well, that's because it's Dog Jerky!" exclaimed Hubby. "It's rawhide!"
Dog treats apparently aren't approved by human taste testers.
Yesterday topped the culinary adventures list. While I was standing at the stove cooking dinner, Oldest walked in and came over by me. We chatted amiably, and then he picked something up from the counter. "Huh! What an odd shape for a chip!" And he popped it in his mouth.
Within seconds he said, "Whoa!" and took three steps back.
"What?" I asked, concerned now that something was either really good tasting or really bad.
He chewed several more times, and his eyes began to water. Then he gulped, and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. "What was that?"
"What?" I asked, now a little more frantically. We normally don't keep dangerous things on our counter, but I didn't want the boy to get hurt. My mind quickly went to the little dish of dog treats that I keep there, but they are bone shaped. I didn't think he'd get into those!
"This," he said, reaching back to the area where he had gotten his "snack." "Is this garlic?"
Sure enough. He had popped a garlic clove straight into his mouth.
By the time it registered into my brain, and I started to laugh, he asked, "What's going to happen to me now?"
"Well," I said, trying not to fall over from laughter, " you won't have to worry about vampires tonight. Or parasites for that matter."
He didn't turn green, but good naturedly laughed it off. He felt it all afternoon, too, and I wondered about the poor kids who had to take driver's training with him. Of all the things he has eaten, this one still cracks me up. Never a dull moment in the life of the kid who needs to explore.
It started as a baby. If he went to play in the mud, we had to sit right beside him because within moments his little hand would grab a glob and drift right toward his mouth.
"I've eaten lots of dirt as a kid," people would confess to me as Oldest went through this stage. They assured me that it probably did them some good, and that all people needed to eat a little dirt now and then. I didn't find this fact as interesting as they did.
As life continued, he periodically imbimbed on things he shouldn't. Once when he was two, our little family went fishing on a remote river in western Alaska. It was a fisherwoman's dream come true. I got to catch them, and my hubby volunteered to gut them out and babysit at the same time. I lost myself in the most glorious fishing I've ever done. The Man Who Puts Up With Me let our toddler explore the little island at will, but at one point when he glanced up to check on Oldest, discovered our little boy "petting" one of the fish. Slime dripped off Oldest's hand. Mystified, our son tried to shake it off, but when that didn't work, began licking it off. Daddy couldn't get to him fast enough to prevent a little fish slime from going down the tube. The errant babysitter didn't have the heart to relate the story to me for quite some time.
Then our hound came live with us. Had I ever known this would open up a whole other eating world for our then fourteen year old, I might have protested adding the four legged addition to our home.
One day shortly after we loaded up on possible treats for training Rikki, the hound, I put a couple of dog biscuits on the table, then went into the kitchen to cook some dinner. Within moments I heard Oldest say, "Mom, these crackers are stale!"
"What crackers?" I asked, truly puzzled.
"The ones I found on the table," he answered.
Slowly it dawned on me, and I tried to keep a straight face as I said, "Yeah, they probably don't taste real good since it's DOG BISCUITS!"
Of course, he's too cool to get upset, but I noticed he didn't eat the second half of the doggie treat.
Rikki, however continued to have competition for his treats. One afternoon Oldest rode home with Hubby in the big rig. At one point in the drive, Oldest piped up and said, "Dad, this jerky is the worst I've ever tasted!"
"Where'd you get it from?" asked The Man Who Puts Up With Me. Oldest pointed to a little cupboard. "Well, that's because it's Dog Jerky!" exclaimed Hubby. "It's rawhide!"
Dog treats apparently aren't approved by human taste testers.
Yesterday topped the culinary adventures list. While I was standing at the stove cooking dinner, Oldest walked in and came over by me. We chatted amiably, and then he picked something up from the counter. "Huh! What an odd shape for a chip!" And he popped it in his mouth.
Within seconds he said, "Whoa!" and took three steps back.
"What?" I asked, concerned now that something was either really good tasting or really bad.
He chewed several more times, and his eyes began to water. Then he gulped, and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. "What was that?"
"What?" I asked, now a little more frantically. We normally don't keep dangerous things on our counter, but I didn't want the boy to get hurt. My mind quickly went to the little dish of dog treats that I keep there, but they are bone shaped. I didn't think he'd get into those!
"This," he said, reaching back to the area where he had gotten his "snack." "Is this garlic?"
Sure enough. He had popped a garlic clove straight into his mouth.
By the time it registered into my brain, and I started to laugh, he asked, "What's going to happen to me now?"
"Well," I said, trying not to fall over from laughter, " you won't have to worry about vampires tonight. Or parasites for that matter."
He didn't turn green, but good naturedly laughed it off. He felt it all afternoon, too, and I wondered about the poor kids who had to take driver's training with him. Of all the things he has eaten, this one still cracks me up. Never a dull moment in the life of the kid who needs to explore.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Your Radio, Your Music
"Mom, look!" Youngest sat next to the computer, typed in a few words on the navigation bar, and up popped, "Disney Radio." "You gotta hear this song." A second or two later the song from Disney channel's newest musical came rapping over the speaker. His face reflect the luminescent screen glow from his laptop. But there was no mistaking his delight at having found a website with his favorite music.
Suddenly he was the face of the boy who sat next to the shoe-box sized radio listening to the newest swing sounds from the 1940's. He was the boy who practically clung to the radio as the sounds of the Grand Ol' Oprey floated around the room, the Midwestern boy who dreamed of the sweet sands on the beaches of California as the Beach Boys sang surfing songs. I remembered my transistor radio, hand sized, the new technology of the time, that I cuddled in bed at night, waiting for my favorite hit. The technology may have changed, but what hasn't is the pull of new music that will define a young person's youth. Who can't remember the delicious time spent singing with your favorite songs?
"Do you like it, Mom?" His voice was filled with hope.
The syrupy rap lyrics floated out of my computer's speakers. Gone was the raw edge that defined the genre. I smiled and said, "It seems okay!"
He relaxed. "I thought so, too."
"You like rap?"
"Not the stuff with bad words," he said. "Not the stuff that talks about hurting people and stuff."
"Yeah." I nodded.
We listened long enough for me to understand that he could listen to song after song. "You wanted to watch "Burn Notice" tonight?" I asked. Earlier he had informed me that there was a "Burn Notice" marathon, and how great the show was because "it talks all about how to be a spy." Very cool stuff.
"Naw," he said. "Do you mind if I take your laptop and listen to these songs?"
I smiled and watched as he packed it up and slipped off to our bed, engrossed in his generation's music, like so many generations before him. And I was reminded of the words my mother liked to say, "The more things change, the more they stay the same."
Suddenly he was the face of the boy who sat next to the shoe-box sized radio listening to the newest swing sounds from the 1940's. He was the boy who practically clung to the radio as the sounds of the Grand Ol' Oprey floated around the room, the Midwestern boy who dreamed of the sweet sands on the beaches of California as the Beach Boys sang surfing songs. I remembered my transistor radio, hand sized, the new technology of the time, that I cuddled in bed at night, waiting for my favorite hit. The technology may have changed, but what hasn't is the pull of new music that will define a young person's youth. Who can't remember the delicious time spent singing with your favorite songs?
"Do you like it, Mom?" His voice was filled with hope.
The syrupy rap lyrics floated out of my computer's speakers. Gone was the raw edge that defined the genre. I smiled and said, "It seems okay!"
He relaxed. "I thought so, too."
"You like rap?"
"Not the stuff with bad words," he said. "Not the stuff that talks about hurting people and stuff."
"Yeah." I nodded.
We listened long enough for me to understand that he could listen to song after song. "You wanted to watch "Burn Notice" tonight?" I asked. Earlier he had informed me that there was a "Burn Notice" marathon, and how great the show was because "it talks all about how to be a spy." Very cool stuff.
"Naw," he said. "Do you mind if I take your laptop and listen to these songs?"
I smiled and watched as he packed it up and slipped off to our bed, engrossed in his generation's music, like so many generations before him. And I was reminded of the words my mother liked to say, "The more things change, the more they stay the same."
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Watching Life in the Rear View Mirror
Oldest left for a performing arts camp last weekend and returned last night. His dance class has 39 girls- and him. When I asked him how he liked it, he said that whenever he heads over to his classroom, he tries to think of a dozen ways to get out of it. It's usually hot, he's tired, he knows he's going to have to put out some extreme energy, he's feeling lazy. But when he's done, he's super-glad he's participated. I wonder if that's because of the 39 girls or the exercise or the fun of it.
One of his more interesting classes is called "Stage Combat" where he learns about theatrical fighting. After his first day of class, I asked him excitedly, "So how are you doing tonight?"
"I'm sore."
"Why?"
"Because we spent the stage combat class time slapping each other!"
I laughed merrily. His classes sound like a huge amount of fun. He's able to make mistakes there that don't make me cringe because I can't see them. He's learning new things. No doubt about it, this time in his life is so darn cool.
I realized this morning that I was viewing his life as if I were driving in a car down the road, and looking back in the rear view mirror.
You see, I only remember chunks of my childhood and teen years, and truthfully, I walked a path that my sons will never follow. They'll never grow up on a farm as I did in my early childhood. I lived my teen years in a lakeside home; they have to drive to just go swimming. I am female; their male experiences are quite different. Disco was popular when I was in my teens. Hip hop is their dance music. The list of our different life experiences go on and on.
Yet I find myself glancing backwards in my rear view mirror as they travel down the road in life to see how they handle teenage love, high school classes, and now, going away to school. It's not quite like going off to college, but somewhat. The road, of course, is different for our boys, and watching how they handle "the road of life" is enthralling. I'm probably even more fascinated with Oldest's theater experiences because I started in performing arts when I went off to college, then took an abrupt turn left. His road in theather might actually go forward.
That's what led me to my morning epiphany. It's all right to glance back at our childrens' experiences. Where it gets to be an issue is when it encompasses my own life. Just as driving down the road requires you to glance behind you on occasion, it's critical to keep your eyes focused ahead. I can see how quickly a mother can get caught up in the lives of her children so much that her own journey gets side tracked. You know these kinds of women. Remember the mom who bought the billboard for her daughter when she was running for queen? Or how about the one who murdered a cheerleader in her daughter's class? These are fools who live with their eyes so focused on the rear view mirror that they end up driving off the road completely.
I realize now that while it's great for me to enjoy my children's experiences, I still have future adventures of my own. It's equally as important for my sons to see me toodle off down my own path as it is for me to enjoy their journey. It's a lulling thing, looking back on a path that's familiar, but it's fatal to both driver and the people coming behind. It also makes for a lousy role model.
It's both liberating and overwhelming to realize that I need to establish a new life roadmap: one that involves my family and yet gives me a course that's right for me. I don't mean just in a job, but spiritually, travel-wise, in adventure, and ways I haven't even yet comtemplated. It's more than establishing a "bucket list" to do before age 100. It's knowing the journey ahead will be filled with adventure. And that's a wonderful thought as I turn my eyes back ahead on the road.
One of his more interesting classes is called "Stage Combat" where he learns about theatrical fighting. After his first day of class, I asked him excitedly, "So how are you doing tonight?"
"I'm sore."
"Why?"
"Because we spent the stage combat class time slapping each other!"
I laughed merrily. His classes sound like a huge amount of fun. He's able to make mistakes there that don't make me cringe because I can't see them. He's learning new things. No doubt about it, this time in his life is so darn cool.
I realized this morning that I was viewing his life as if I were driving in a car down the road, and looking back in the rear view mirror.
You see, I only remember chunks of my childhood and teen years, and truthfully, I walked a path that my sons will never follow. They'll never grow up on a farm as I did in my early childhood. I lived my teen years in a lakeside home; they have to drive to just go swimming. I am female; their male experiences are quite different. Disco was popular when I was in my teens. Hip hop is their dance music. The list of our different life experiences go on and on.
Yet I find myself glancing backwards in my rear view mirror as they travel down the road in life to see how they handle teenage love, high school classes, and now, going away to school. It's not quite like going off to college, but somewhat. The road, of course, is different for our boys, and watching how they handle "the road of life" is enthralling. I'm probably even more fascinated with Oldest's theater experiences because I started in performing arts when I went off to college, then took an abrupt turn left. His road in theather might actually go forward.
That's what led me to my morning epiphany. It's all right to glance back at our childrens' experiences. Where it gets to be an issue is when it encompasses my own life. Just as driving down the road requires you to glance behind you on occasion, it's critical to keep your eyes focused ahead. I can see how quickly a mother can get caught up in the lives of her children so much that her own journey gets side tracked. You know these kinds of women. Remember the mom who bought the billboard for her daughter when she was running for queen? Or how about the one who murdered a cheerleader in her daughter's class? These are fools who live with their eyes so focused on the rear view mirror that they end up driving off the road completely.
I realize now that while it's great for me to enjoy my children's experiences, I still have future adventures of my own. It's equally as important for my sons to see me toodle off down my own path as it is for me to enjoy their journey. It's a lulling thing, looking back on a path that's familiar, but it's fatal to both driver and the people coming behind. It also makes for a lousy role model.
It's both liberating and overwhelming to realize that I need to establish a new life roadmap: one that involves my family and yet gives me a course that's right for me. I don't mean just in a job, but spiritually, travel-wise, in adventure, and ways I haven't even yet comtemplated. It's more than establishing a "bucket list" to do before age 100. It's knowing the journey ahead will be filled with adventure. And that's a wonderful thought as I turn my eyes back ahead on the road.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
6 Things You Never Want To Hear Your Teenager Say
Living with a teen boy can be an interesting experience. Here are some things you never want to hear from him:
1. "Do you know where Dad's machete is?" (That was in a phone conversation yesterday!)
2. "Dance? What dance? I have no idea what dance everyone has been talking about!" (Response when asked if he wanted to attend the local spring dance.)
3. "What? Dad told me to accelerate around turns!" (In response to my white-knucked grab as he rounded a corner while practice driving.)
4. "You don't have to tell me about sex. I read all about it on Wikipedia."
5. "The Marine Corps Recruiter will be calling." (As I told my ex-Marine hubby, no mother wants to spend nine months carrying a child only to think he's going to get shot in some distant land some day. That's work with no reward.)
6. "I have no idea why I have so many zeroes in that class!"
1. "Do you know where Dad's machete is?" (That was in a phone conversation yesterday!)
2. "Dance? What dance? I have no idea what dance everyone has been talking about!" (Response when asked if he wanted to attend the local spring dance.)
3. "What? Dad told me to accelerate around turns!" (In response to my white-knucked grab as he rounded a corner while practice driving.)
4. "You don't have to tell me about sex. I read all about it on Wikipedia."
5. "The Marine Corps Recruiter will be calling." (As I told my ex-Marine hubby, no mother wants to spend nine months carrying a child only to think he's going to get shot in some distant land some day. That's work with no reward.)
6. "I have no idea why I have so many zeroes in that class!"
Thursday, March 22, 2012
A Good Reason To Let Kids Fail Online
I love eating dinner alone with my boys. About once a month or so, I take each out for dinner alone and listen. The key is not the food, it's the listen.
I hate the addictive nature of certain video games that have, at times, encompassed the lives of all the males in our house. I've seen everything from "Brood War" to "Runescape" to "Diablo" to "Warcraft." In fact, when I first married The Man Who Puts Up With Me, I had many fantasies of throwing the computer out the window because he disappeared into a game for hours every evening.
I know other women go through the same thing. Hubby and I had to work through this when we got married for our marriage to survive. So when our boys came along, the two of us set a rule of no more than an hour a day of video game time for each boy. Naturally, they cheat when I'm gone or whenever they can sneak it in. I know that. But for the most part, I'm pretty firm about this rule.
Likewise, I get after them about playing online games. I don't like it when they can enter a game where they can talk to another player. Oldest challenged me on this with "Runescape" by showing me that responses are preset. Players are given a choice of several prewritten responses when interacting with other characters. This leaves out any ability for a sexual preditor to engage a child in inappropriate conversations. And just in case you are wondering, no, I don't sit by their side and watch.
So you can imagine my surprise when Oldest began to talk about how he had been hustled on "Runescape." Apparently he left behind preset conversations long ago, without my knowledge. I decided to leave that issue alone, since he was actually telling me the truth and that was the behavior I wanted to reward.
"So this guy told me there's a glitch in the game and if I put a certain amount, it would double in my account. I did it, and he took my million gold pieces."
Huh? Doesn't this sound like the Nigerian internet scam? What a great teachable moment! Soon we were talking about what it meant to be hustled, who in our family had lost huge amounts of money, and how to spot other scams.
Then he said, "You know, there's these party hats that everyone wants on Runescape. They are really expensive, and they do nothing for you other than make you look like you are wearing a party hat."
Sounds like expensive jeans, Izod shirts, Rebok shoes. Is it possible this online game is actually teaching my son similar money values?
"It's so dumb," he continued. "Why would anyone want to spend millions on a hat that doesn't help you with your defense or make money?"
Holy cow! Get my youngest online NOW!
Then, the answer to my prayers came true. When he was done telling me all about that, he actually changed topics. This is an amazing thing because there were times in the past when I've actually had to ask him to talk about something else besides his video game. Truly, I consider there to be nothing less interesting than listening about a computer game. But suddenly he was talking about ancient armor and crafting. It was related to the scamming issue, but soon it led to discussion about historical armor and crafts. This from the boy that I was convinced would never be able to carry on a normal conversation with other adults.
We agreed later how nice it was for him to lose a million gold pieces online rather than thousands of real dollars he spent a lifetime accruing. For a boy who lives in a small town where there isn't even a stoplight, it's a great way to get some street smarts. No doubt about it, my perspective about online games has changed. But mostly, I've gained a great appreciation of how a $20 meal has brought personal growth in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I hate the addictive nature of certain video games that have, at times, encompassed the lives of all the males in our house. I've seen everything from "Brood War" to "Runescape" to "Diablo" to "Warcraft." In fact, when I first married The Man Who Puts Up With Me, I had many fantasies of throwing the computer out the window because he disappeared into a game for hours every evening.
I know other women go through the same thing. Hubby and I had to work through this when we got married for our marriage to survive. So when our boys came along, the two of us set a rule of no more than an hour a day of video game time for each boy. Naturally, they cheat when I'm gone or whenever they can sneak it in. I know that. But for the most part, I'm pretty firm about this rule.
Likewise, I get after them about playing online games. I don't like it when they can enter a game where they can talk to another player. Oldest challenged me on this with "Runescape" by showing me that responses are preset. Players are given a choice of several prewritten responses when interacting with other characters. This leaves out any ability for a sexual preditor to engage a child in inappropriate conversations. And just in case you are wondering, no, I don't sit by their side and watch.
So you can imagine my surprise when Oldest began to talk about how he had been hustled on "Runescape." Apparently he left behind preset conversations long ago, without my knowledge. I decided to leave that issue alone, since he was actually telling me the truth and that was the behavior I wanted to reward.
"So this guy told me there's a glitch in the game and if I put a certain amount, it would double in my account. I did it, and he took my million gold pieces."
Huh? Doesn't this sound like the Nigerian internet scam? What a great teachable moment! Soon we were talking about what it meant to be hustled, who in our family had lost huge amounts of money, and how to spot other scams.
Then he said, "You know, there's these party hats that everyone wants on Runescape. They are really expensive, and they do nothing for you other than make you look like you are wearing a party hat."
Sounds like expensive jeans, Izod shirts, Rebok shoes. Is it possible this online game is actually teaching my son similar money values?
"It's so dumb," he continued. "Why would anyone want to spend millions on a hat that doesn't help you with your defense or make money?"
Holy cow! Get my youngest online NOW!
Then, the answer to my prayers came true. When he was done telling me all about that, he actually changed topics. This is an amazing thing because there were times in the past when I've actually had to ask him to talk about something else besides his video game. Truly, I consider there to be nothing less interesting than listening about a computer game. But suddenly he was talking about ancient armor and crafting. It was related to the scamming issue, but soon it led to discussion about historical armor and crafts. This from the boy that I was convinced would never be able to carry on a normal conversation with other adults.
We agreed later how nice it was for him to lose a million gold pieces online rather than thousands of real dollars he spent a lifetime accruing. For a boy who lives in a small town where there isn't even a stoplight, it's a great way to get some street smarts. No doubt about it, my perspective about online games has changed. But mostly, I've gained a great appreciation of how a $20 meal has brought personal growth in a way I hadn't anticipated.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
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.
"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.
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