hello lovely child

There's no place like the mall.

They also sell enormous cinnamon rolls.

Last night at a department store, a gorgeous cosmetics rep let me sample a liquid foundation developed in France. Then she pitched a wrinkle serum she insists will spark a revolution and re-activate my youth in just one week.

No part of me wants revolutionary French goo. Except. Every cell in my body wants the goo. It’s from France. I want ultraviolet damage and my lines erased. In one week. I am middle aged and going to die, and the sight of this beauty queen's skin reminds me of that.

Whatever. I’m more frugal than vain. I won't drop 84 bucks…wait, did she just say seven days? I won’t be consumerized, but I become as passive as a hot dog. A pump's worth of serum not unlike mustard is drizzled on my wrinkly left hand. When commanded to massage it, I obey.

Then I muse, “So it hydrates the skin…is that how it works?” I am waaaaay off.

The skincare expert clarifies: “Noooooo! It gets into your genes!”

(My hormonally-imbalanced self whispers a prayer for help. Seriously. You know you're in trouble when a chromosomal implausibility sounds so utterly COOL.)

I needed to feel less ancient. So naturally I headed to a shop with posters of barely dressed models and deafening dance muzak blaring from the speakers. The fact I know full well this bare-blare combination triggers panic attacks is beside the point.

The point is, I am always a little possessed by a demon at the mall. The point is I found a canvas tote for 70% off, and it looks French! The point is shopping for luxuries is depressing and causes mall syndrome. The point is excessive anxiety leaves me wisdom-impaired and forces me into small talk with 16-year-old goddesses ringing me up.

“I wish this bag had outside pockets like my old one! And it would be nice if more of your dresses had pockets! Ya know? You should pass that along to the powers that be.”

Some of us clearly have the spiritual gift of awkwardness.

Everybody knows "powers that be" trips an uncool-old-geezer switch when spoken loudly over muzak into mall air. It is almost as fatal as “it is what it is.” You could feel it. Mayday! Mayday! There’s an old lady in here!

Her impeccably tweezed brows shot up as she shared: “Ha ha. Yeah. I once bought this dress, and I wore it and then I found out it had pockets! And I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW.”

Her admission temporarily exorcised the demon; no prayer needed. Just sayin. She “didn’t even know.”

Before I left the mall, I passed a chubby grandpa raving to a desperately bored twenty-something guy working at the bookstore. Grandpa yelled “YOU CAN ACTUALLY TAME A TIGER WITH ONE OF THOSE THINGS! IT’S A ONE WAY TRIP TO THE MOON, BUT IT WORKS!”

Maybe he said "Tiger" and not "a tiger." Both work for me. Like free ear candy.

Malls everywhere are struggling to breathe. A sad suburban joke like the midlife me. But the souls within them still connect. Imperfect strangers—some layering on more armor than others—accidentally touch each other and have trippy conversations.

As I exited the bookstore, a young woman with many tattoos held the door. She overheard the yelling grandpa too. We were both grinning. Our eyes met as she mouthed one syllable.

“DAMN!”

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling, and a blog at hellolovelychild.com.

See, when you write about raising teens or feeling imbalanced or freaking out badly, or all three, it's kinda nice to have some time to get past whatever it is you were ranting about. It's nice in the happier, more stable-er (shut up, I like it) future--I mean present--to read and re-live that more regrettable chapter you were out of your mind with worry or rage or grief. (A BEYOND CRAZY idea just occurred...DUDE...what if I wrote about the times I get it RIGHT as a parent?????Nah.)

If things were published straight away, the wounds would be too fresh (WOUNDS? Ok, busted. I'm a rich American with sometimes rebellious kids...we'll call em 'scrapes'). A few months gives me a chance to hopefully heal and forgive...

until publication when I can feel shame all over again.

Do you think Mary had to nag teen Jesus to the point of psychotic break just to get him to hang his wet towel on the bathroom hook installed by Joseph? We know the Savior at age twelve was feisty and independent-minded (remember the disappearing act for three days in the Temple…can you even imagine the parental anxiety?) But the Bible doesn’t mention whether a fifteen-year-old Prince of Peace navigated a slovenly phase.

Holy crappin’ crap, it somehow helps to think he did.

I’m aware teenagers are famous for their untidiness and that I’m in good company as a parent. But as a hotflashing mom of highschoolers right now—at times held hostage by fluctuating hormones—the slacking pushes me to the limit. Venting, cardio, and prescriptions help calm this hormonal midlife frenzy. Yep, pharmaceuticals sometimes work so well I am too mellow to battle these kids, and you might mistake me for Christ’s mother.

{Color me DELUDED. A blasphemous lie! Though often fatigued, I confess I am never too short on energy for a battle with inconsiderate teens.}

The other day I confronted our son L. “You need to clean this room immediately! How could you possibly stand to live like this?”

L. earnestly responded with the ridiculous comeback he always delivers. “I really like to be able to see all my stuff.”

When I pointed out the 'perspiration and garlic' odor emanating from the space, he reassured me. ‘Cause see, ‘beyond stanky’ is not an issue for him. “It’s all the years of nose spray,” L. sincerely explained. “Can’t smell a thing.”

Leave it to a teen to paint chronic sinusitis and the abuse of decongestants as blessings in disguise.

My younger son J. can still smell but has lost his senses of order and dignity. It’s shocking in light of his history as a saintly neatnick. He was one of those obsessive ‘put every crayon back in the box perfectly’ children who finger-pressed his fresh laundry. Then J. turned thirteen. We never saw Mr. Clean again.

Knowing full well the intensity of my OCD, approaching menopause, and desperate need for an uncluttered nest, the formerly tidy teen carelessly places his backpack as NEAR as physically possible to our hall closet without scooting it inside. This lack of courtesy might be forgivable were it not for the wicked supernatural phenomenon which then occurs—his cursed backpack camouflages itself on the hardwood floor exactly long enough for a dizzy-and-low-on- estrogen-mother-of-Christ-like-female to trip.

Do you know how long it takes a toenail to grow back? I’ll let you know.

I wasn’t always this irritable about clutter and chaos. There was a season when hormonally balanced and high on Windex, I whistled through housework. But that was when my kids were still crooning Barney's clean up song.

My current mood is the result of years of listening to the same three-word adolescent responses to my protests for more household help. “NOT MY FAULT” is second only in popularity to “STOP FREAKING OUT.” It's the result of years of torturous daily teen amnesia in the house. Turning off a running faucet after washing your hands? Far too complicated a request to fulfill during adolescence. My exasperation is the result of growing pathetically aware I have lowered the bar and feel so grateful these sons are rinsing their dirty paws, I simply turn off the tap behind them and don’t even complain about the amnesia.

{Grateful? Color me deluded again. Let’s be honest. Mary was grateful. I’m just too menopausally weary and sick of the sound of my own freakin voice to deal.}

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

Navigating this phase of midlife and pre-menopause can be trippy. Moody highs and lows fluctuate moment to moment. Estrogen levels surge or bottom out, and I become the anxious and neurotic Betty Basketcase. Human contact becomes a problem (I know, I know,  the neuroscience and chemistry of imbalance is much more complicated than this, but on planet hotflash, we need simplified representations in our membrane in order to cope). Hormone levels miraculously balance, and I’m cool again. Totally cool like the other side of the pillow.

The moody mommy gig is made extra trippy living with hormonally challenged teenagers. When mommy is burning up, her teens know not to make eye contact, drop a crumb, or speak. We feel their pain when that mommy is in the house. But what kills us is when a rare, sparkly, even, happy aura--complete with unicorns and cotton candy--settles upon the mommy; when shitty attitudes move light years away, and those hormonal teens choose THIS such moment to be evil. It's as if they are possessed to send her back to Insanity Beach.

I deserve a peaceful reprieve from happy-happy-not-not disease. I do. Why stomp out my balanced buzz? This typical ‘in the kitchen’ exchange illustrates of what I rant.

Me (without any shred of a tone): Did you bring the garbage cans in yet?
L. (eldest son): STOP FREAKING OUT!
Me (calm and without a tone): I’m not freaking, sweetie. I’m asking a simple question.
L.: YOU’RE FREAKING OUT AGAIN! DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!
Me (developing a hint of a tone): The volume of my voice has not changed. You’re imagining stuff. Come back to earth and just answer the friggin question.
L.: Uggggggh! I’ll bring ‘em in later when I’m out there.

The younger son, J. enters the kitchen.

J.: ElijahWoodPeepers is gonna come over to eat pizza bagels with me and practice doin’ backflips, k? Then we’re gonna jump on the trampoline.
Me (without any tone): Is all your homework done?
J. (as if I have plunged the rotary pizza cutter into his eye socket): STOP FREAKING OUT!!!
Me: This is NOT freaking out. And I absolutely cannot have you turning into your older brother. I’m just not havin’ it. Read my lips. Do. You. Have. Homework?
J. (blank expression): I don’t have to listen to this.
Me (with a completely gone bye-bye mental TONE as I scan the room for pizza cutters or weapons of minor destruction): OHMYGOSH. NOOOOOOBODY’S COMING OVER TO THIS HOUSE. NO ONE!!! YOU WILL GET THAT HOMEWORK DONE BEFORE YOU DO YER FLIPS!! AND YER SKATING AND YER TRAMP JUMPING! And YOUUUUUUUUUU! (pointing a threatening finger at L.) GET YER LAZY BUTT OUT TO THE CURB AND BRING IN THOSE CANS!!!

And then they obey me.

I have no explanation why these offspring have lost their appetite for a mother not freaking out. Why they must upset her happy place and unleash the freak at all costs. Can we honestly keep blaming sleep deprivation (both theirs and mine)?

The combustion of puberty and menopause appears unstoppable. I'm told there will be a return to love, and this discombobulation is preparing us for their launch from the nest. But sweet mother how pathetic is it that after all my training in counseling and interpersonal dynamics, a freak show continues to be the most effective ammo in my arsenal?

Each day brings a new show, one more hostile tone, one more conflict between Generation Me and a momwitch. More cruelty. More mood shifts. And since estrogen is a diurnal cycling beast, moody momwitch occasionally frets herself to sleep. Of all things in the friggin universe to lament, she wonders how in the world she'll manage someday to be separated from the very children who torture her.

She's no masochist. Probably. She simply understands that Unicorn Paradise or Hormonal Chernobyl, someday she'll be lost without these young men.

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

We left for a few days of pleasure. We left two teens behind with threats of random drop-ins from grandparents. We had our phones on us. We left specific verbal and written instructions for the highschoolers so everyone could be clear about expectations and consequences. We're very evolved like that.

We also left our beloved pooch in the custody of trustworthy minors who consistently earn the "conscientious and charming" stamp of approval by their friends' parents. My husband and I are not complete idiots,* but we naively believed our kids care about us and the nest we work so hard to maintain.

Since it was the first time the 15- and 17-year-olds were left alone, I was a little anxious. I comforted myself, reassuring my inner Betty Basketcase that (A) The weekend would be a much needed mini test of adolescent maturity and integrity and (B) That it was pure awesomeness to now have kids of an age where Mommy and Daddy could escape for precious Mommy and Daddy time.

There is a side of me who is extremely Optimistic Olive and Count-your-blessings Cate. Really. Those fine ladies are in there. The improbable (C) Dude! Let’s screw up every instruction they left us on the list and MORE! honestly never occurred to Betty, Olive, or Cate.

Our getaway encompassed an NFL playoff game and The Mall of America (you cannot return from MOA with feet resembling anything but blister-fied bubble wrap, BTW). I let Daddy do all the checking in with the youngsters. Our escape from reality concluded, and upon our return we were reminded of why we needed the break in the first place.

Our house had somehow transformed into a LOOTER’S PARADISE. By that I mean the front doors (which are heavy South American distressed walnut and frame the entrance to our home) were wide open. Not simply unlocked or left ajar—but rather, O.P. E.N. to the great outdoors with nobody home.

Had we been robbed? Of course not. It’s as if the boys, high on crack, schemed, “In one fell swoop let’s run the utility bill skyyyyyy high and for extra terror in the joint, let’s get the shihtzu run over! Yo! Random passerbyers, why not jack our major appliances? See the doorway? Extra wide for your convenience! And what the blue monkey hell? Enjoy a muffin! Memorize the floorplan! Cruise on back next week to hide under my mom’s side of the bed before you torch her.”

I'm sure they were not high the whole time. I know they love our dog. I know Betty Basketcase has a vivid imagination. But even Optimistic Olive concedes her sons can be complete idiots in their sobriety.

Trash and recycling bins we reminded our exceptionally-courteous-to-other-adults children to promptly bring in from the curb, remained where they were parked for days. The empy trash bins at the end of the driveway gleamed like a beacon for freaks roaming the hood. “Hey, look here, creepy dudes—look! See the cans? The family is still not home yet.  Come snag the TVs and my mom’s vintage creamware collection! We’re wasted on happy cabbage and resent her for the pageboy haircuts of our childhood. Have another muffin! Cruise back later to hide under her bed.”

I have to remind myself that today's teens are deeply burdened with demands. It IS difficult to simultaneously respond to texts, check your FaceBook inbox, and straighten your hair with a titanium-plated flat iron while toting large lightweight plastic containers on casters. The plastic could like melt. Duh.

Why had I assumed our eldest could handle the responsibility of house-sitting? After all, we had only recently discovered he was not always available to attend school. A message on the answering machine from the principal confirmed our senior can now proudly add truancy to his college-prep resume. It should not annoy me, but could he not have pulled off a more slacker-iffic Ferris Bueller in leopard print vest and parade instead of twelve straight hours of Final Fantasy? (I do sound ungrateful. Cate doesn't like it when we forget our blessings, so scratch everything about Ferris.)

While we were gone, both males suffered amnesia for the dishwasher we are so fortunate to own and also the casseroles I lovingly prepared. Their grimy plates were tossed carelessly into an overflowing sink next to the invisible appliance while healthy delicious food remained untouched in the frig.

Let's not obsess about teens, dishwashers, and casserole here. It makes me feel hypocritical and ancient. I remember my own mom ranting: RINSE YOUR DISH! DO YOU HONESTLY THINK THERE ARE LITTLE HANDS IN THAT MACHINE SCRUBBING YOUR STICKY PLATE CLEAN?

In fact (and I was rarely high on crack), that is EXACTLY what I needed to believe and prefer to think to this day. Yes. Little fairies inside the dishwashing machine cheerfully scrubbing their tiny fingers to the bone to erase my baked-on Nacho cheese. But fairies cannot do heavy lifting. They are counting on us to deposit the dishware.

Thank goodness we left that emergency cash. Bail is never cheap! Kidding. Our sons are actually quite gifted for eluding the law. Still, they're cursed with superhuman appetites so every last cent was blown on emergencies at Buffalo Wild Wings and Hooters.

It's forgivable.

Betty, Olive, and Cate agree hunger totally triggers temporary insanity when you suffer from excess responsibility, amnesia for casserole, and weakness for happy cabbage munchies.

Michele has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.