hello lovely child

Seeing the joy and savoring this phase.
by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.                                                                            
670 wds





1. There’s a whole world of sweet things to enjoy together now that they’re older.  Whether it’s a sit-com you both love, baking, a sports team, scrabble, cars, a book series, or pilates—don’t forget many such activities were not options when they were little. You likely yielded to their child-related interests and developmental needs at the time (and Dora!). Now there’s new fun stuff for both of you.

2. You both navigated childhood successfully. Cue the confetti. It’s worth celebrating. Really. It wasn’t always unicorns and rainbows—remember chronic ear infections, all those meals they couldn’t cut up their pork chop, and the demonic temper tantrums in the grocery cart? Bravo. You made it.

3. Their identity crisis makes you more accountable. At first blush, this may not sound savor-worthy, but think about it. Because they are forming opinions and making discoveries about themselves, you are probably held more accountable. And that’s good for both of you. Are you worried about the dangers of alcohol and drug-use for them? If so, you are likely modeling better behavior since they are watching. Part of their process as they clarify who they are morally and ethically is influenced by interactions with you and what they observe at home.


5. You have the opportunity for meaningful discussions. It’s one thing to discuss matters of faith when they’re 10. But as young adults, the ongoing dialogue about faith, philosophy, and character has life altering potential. They may come to you for spiritual guidance or ethical dilemmas, and engaging them in such conversations (with compassion and understanding) can have soulful consequences.

6. You may have more household help. It’s nice when there are strong arms around capable of operating a vacuum, the microwave, and the washing machine. Even if you have to nag, sending them to the grocery store is a perk. And it’s easy to forget that just a short time ago you had to drag them with you on those boring errands but now they can stay behind happily.

If you pay attention only to the media and the latest best-selling nonfiction, you may be horrified and convinced our teens belong to Generation Slut, Generation Me, or worse. You could be misled since there are plenty of wonderful qualities emerging in adolescence. We just have to be sensitive enough to notice.  

Michele Ranard has a husband, two children, and a master’s in counseling.

Decoding Millennial Slang
by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.                                                                
615 words



“Check it out, look at Joe. He’s going screensaver.”




n. "The TRANQs are kept in the emergency medical locker by the gauze."







Colton: “Dude, I’m gonna make a McDonald’s run, want some?”
Jake: “Sure, dude, I’ll throw down.”

“He totally threw down in the pit.”

#3: To street fight, like “throwing down the gauntlet.” 



“Did you see that dude ask for the manager at Taco Bell? He was Tiger’s wife mad with the burrito!”

So much slang to decode, so little motivation.

by Michele Ranard
700 words

One of my teen son’s friends recently visited my blog (this one chock full of design obsessions and pretty photos) and declared it “eclectic and SICK.” It took me a second to realize he approved. “Sick” still immediately registers “freaky in a bad way” to this midlife brain.

When I was a teen, it was understood that by the time slang flowed from a parent’s conversation, the dialogue of a made-for-TV movie, or a novel it was DOA and without a doubt, uncool. Not so anymore.

Language Today

Implications of the net, Twitterature, and modern communication mean language on the street, in texts, and throughout pop culture reaches us immediately now. David Crystal, honorary professor of linguistics at the Bangor University and author of A Little Book of Language (2010) has great enthusiasm for the way language is changing as a result of the internet. As a lover of language, Crystal believes it’s important to be aware of how we shape language and how it shapes us.

Lately I’ve heard other parents express concern about whether texting is hurting our tweens and teens in terms of English skills. Crystal believes there is no need for parents to panic that texting is destroying our kids’ ability to spell. "We are rearing a generation of kids who are more equitable and more understanding about the existence of language variety and why it is there” he explained recently in an interview with The Independent (March 2010).

Breaking Their Code

Let’s face it, language is fun! Can you believe the average adult knows 40,000 words? If you have tweens or teens you may find their slang can sometimes magnify the generation gap. Which slang is still cool? When do we scrap over-saturated “over” terms? How to decode so many blessed acronyms?!?

Our teenagers are likely more successful at mastering slang because they have a little thing called “time.” Hopefully this sampling of current text/slang will give you a laugh and help you feel cooler.

20 Texts Decoded*

ES enough said

GPB gotta pee bad

H8 hate

HAHA having a heart attack

HHIS hanging head in shame

IK I know

JP just playing

KWIM know what I mean?

L8r see you later

PAW parents are watching

POS parents over shoulder

SCNR sorry could not resist

STBY sucks to be you

TSDMC tears streaming down my cheeks

TT2T too tired to talk

W8 wait

WAY who are you

WE whatever

WTMI way too much information

Y why?

Ten Terms Decoded**

1. COD diet: losing weight from missing meals because of playing Call of Duty (the video game, folks). “After Black Ops came out, I went back on the COD diet.”

2. Pwn (pone): video game smack talk, meaning to power own someone or something (your kids have probably used this for years).“Dude I totally pwn-ed him in Call of Duty.”

3. Facebook Buddha: a FaceBook friend who frequently posts motivational sayings. “Man, what a crappy day ahead... wonder what my Facebook Buddha friend will have to say today?”

4. Internest: the cocoon of duvets, pillows, and comfy things gathered around self to keep warm whilst spending large amounts of time on internet. “She knew eating pizza in her internest was a bad idea, but it was just too dang snuggly.”

5. Just sayin’: term used at the end of something offensive to take the heat off you when you say it. “She’s really askin’ for it wearing that skirt—just sayin’!”

6. Page clicker: an e-book that’s hard to put down. “The e-book was a real page clicker as I became so absorbed in the story.”

7. PHOBAR: acronym for “Photoshopped beyond all recognition.” “Of course she looks perfect in that profile pic, she was PHOBAR.”

8. Ridin’ qwerty: texting while driving where it’s illegal. “Sorry I couldn’t reply to your SMS, I was ridin’ qwerty.”

9. The sh*t: awesome (this article for example).

10. Strategic dipping: chip is dipped, bitten, then turned over and dipped. “I’m not double dipping! I’m strategic dipping!”

Of course, do not delude yourself into thinking that incorporating these into texts and conversations will raise your cool quotient! At best, they may increase your understanding of your teen’s secret world just a tad.

Michele Ranard has a sick blog at hellolovelyinc.blogspot.com, two teens who never ride qwerty, and a master’s in counseling—WE. Her guilty pleasure? Spending hours in a billowy internest!

Sources:

Crystal, David. A Little Book of Language. Yale University Press. 2010.
Dico, Joy Lo. “Watch what you're saying!: Linguist David Crystal on Twitter, texting and our native tongue.” The Independent. March 2010.
*Teen Chat Decoder. Teenchatdecoder.com
**Urban Dictionary. Urbandictionary.com

It’s a phrase turned as often in this house as “there’s nothing to eat” and “I need ten bucks.” Whether Megan Fox is on the screen or there’s a new girl in class to dish about, “she’s so hot” inevitably crops up in daily conversation with me and my teen sons.

My hotness is an issue as well. Specifically, flashes of hotness, mood swings, and assorted pre-menopausal goodies the gynecologist assures will hang out for the next six years.

"I am way too young to be Kitty from That 70s Show,” I told my doctor. This was a lie.

My kids are growing up fast and consumed with the opposite sex at a time I have perhaps never felt more emotionally unstable and unequipped. The 17-year old is serious about Britney, a cheerful blonde hottie with impossibly long legs whom he has dated for more than a year. She rocks Hollister jeans so effectively, during most of her visits I feel compelled to blindfold the husband and younger son.

Britney is a farmer’s daughter—sensible, up at dawn with chores, and a blue ribbon winner at the fair with her designer goats. My son’s girlfriend could be the girlfriend of my dreams if I were not this middle aged basketcase daily brooding over premature grandchildren. If I was not this pathetic sulker dwelling on the reality I have been cast aside as my children’s former source of emotional comfort.

When the boys mention a new girl, they fork over little information so I sift through their clues like a profiler. They are lucky I am frugal and just google the young ladies. Face it. Background checks and P.I.s are expensive.

I might ask "Is she goth?"

Frequently I hear “OMG” as a response, but a “not really” raises a red flag every time.

In my frazzled, six years ‘til lift-off menopausal mind, the implications of gothic-ness run the gamut from peanuts to the paranormal. I mean, sure the hottie could be lovable free-spirited Pippy Longstocking goth-lite. But we could also have a social deviant on our hands, poised to burn the house down for her resentment of French Country design!

The more neurotic this hot mama’s thoughts turn, the more my sons seem to egg her on. The more she is egged on, the more she divides her time worrying about Satan-worshipping sexting stalkers and unwanted pregnancies. How to back off and live with peace and dignity as they date? I really have no clue. During a season I desperately need my wits I seem as emotionally overwrought as the puberty afflicted teens.

Still too young to date, the younger son has a lot to say about the ‘anas. The new girls in his section this year are Briana and Tatiana—the hottest, coolest chicks at school who share his passion for post-hardcore rock and British humor. Rather than accept the fact there will be a hot ‘ana around every corner for my young prince to discover, I instead fixate on the names of these two. It is messed up, I know, and I blame it on my dwindling estrogen supply.

The pronunciation of Briana’s name alienates all sentient beings in the North as well as anyone of European descent. The first syllable Bri is pronounced with a hard i, and the second is anna like the late Miss Smith.

“The Southern Belle version might be okay for school, but she needs to eventually upgrade” I say to him.

“She has options like the Italianesque Bree-ahna, or she could even subtract the ahna and allow the lone Bree to bump her skyward in status.”

That particular conversation was accompanied by a hotflash and followed up with Kitty dialing her OB-GYN’s number FAST.

Additional condemning evidence hot-mama needs professional help surfaces a few days later. When my son reports he will be hanging out with Tatiana after school, I ask about her nickname. After all, it is inconceivable ANY adolescent is brave enough to drag those four soap opera syllables through the halls. When he reveals Tatiana is indeed that brave, I cannot help myself.

“What about the fun-loving ‘Tot’ or even ‘Tator’?”

These hormonally generated suggestions cause my son's face to contort and his lips to say “She is never coming to this house–EVER.”

Obviously I need to move up that doctor’s appointment. No matter how menopausally wigged out or erratic hot mama feels—or how cuckoo for hotpuffs my sons become—there will always be a warm welcome for the ‘itneys and ‘anas at Kitty’s place.

Supervised, but really warm.


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

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.

Lilacs are blooming. School's out for the summer. The teen-natives in our house are restless. You know what that means. Arts and crafts! Slip 'n Slide! Library central! Maybe. But not really. Actually, it’s moshing season for our highschoolers who like to thrash.

Do you speak mosh? Before I translate, you should be briefed on my current state of 'approaching menopause': a hormonal hot mess. Word on the street is moshing could be the next big thing for hotflashing hotties at midlife. We’ve got rage. We are already dripping with sweat. It's a second adolescence, and we like totally have the cash to pay the cover or whatev. Damn it, we need options beyond retail therapy, Pinot Grigio, and roller derby!

Except. Moshing is insane-o-cidal. YES, we need to blow off steam, but I’m not certain dance which ultimately seeks to cripple and maim is a worthy pharmaceutical substitute. Mosh is more than freestyle, “anything goes” body-slamming. It’s a science, and arguably, a religion. For example:

1. Footwear. If a shoe falls off while kicking it at a show, realize you are DONE dancing. Do not attempt to locate the shoe, delicately slip back into it, or busy your hands with laces. That shoe is history, and it’s best to get on with your life and resume thrashing (with a modicum of caution for the vulnerable shoeless tootsie). If the band takes a break you may have two seconds to step into the shoe. But you should honestly just resign yourself to barefootin’ it home.

2. When to Mosh. Unless you're feeling masochistic, do not EVER mosh to the sound check or the in-between band’s house music. What's wrong with you? There's a time and a place for moshlove, and while a dude recites the alphabet into the mic before showtime is not one of them. That house music before the band stumbles on stage? Also not the time for love! You could get yourself dead.

3. Injuries. Stop worrying about blood. It’s the nectar of mosh and releases mosh happy endorphins in the brain. Bleeding is under-rated! In fact, you’re not living up to your true potential if your lip is not bloodied at least once during a show. Make friends with pain. Embrace the sensation of accidentally stapling your tongue to the wall.

4. Prohibitive Busting of Moves. There’s plenty of room for originality and creativity while leaping and swatting invisible gnats in a circle pit. But do not under any circumstance decide to two-step. Trust. You’re better off strangling yourself with your intestines. Also, think twice before moshing with a drink, machete, or a cigarette in your hand. Your co-moshers don’t have to put up with that insensitive crap.

5. Gender Bias. It should be apparent by now that if you have a vagina, you have no business being anywhere near a testosteroney mosh pit. Duh. Even if you’re that free-spirited skater chick with zero fear for head injuries who believes there are worse ways to check out than death-by-mosh, stay the hayull away from the pit.

6. Circle Pit Etiquette. Inspired to join the pile-up in a mosh pit? Take heed. Do not ever pile unless (A) you know the words to the song, and (B) you intend to hit someone. Nobody wants your “pretending to know the lyrics, tentative, wussy a$$ self who can’t dish out pain” in the pile up. And just because you’re brave enough for the pile-up doesn’t mean you’re ready for the “wall of death.” As you rush at top speed with your eyes closed toward the dudes running at you, yes, there will be fleshy contact. You’ll smash another guy’s neck with your fist as hard as you can, and it’s perfectly acceptable as long as “hard as you can” is not “too friggin hard.”

One more thing. Don't become overwhelmed by the rules or overanalyze. No need to be a brain surgeon to understand or enjoy mosh...you just need to make friends with a really good one.

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

An old friend in Georgia I haven’t seen in years facebooked me a few months ago after he read an essay I wrote about the moshing antics of my sons. He wanted to know if I was just embellishing as a writer, and if not, whether my husband and I just fork over the health insurance card to the moshers on their way out the door.

I really wish the answer was yes, I make up this crap for good copy. But my kids truly are this insane and honestly do habitually place themselves in pits. Yes, there is the possibility at a concert they will lose teeth or their ability to procreate (the teens would shudder at the blasphemous use of “concert” here. IT’S A SHOW, MOM! NOT A CONCERT! My apologies.).

Our 17-year-old son L. was in Chicago Saturday to see Emarosa for their Squash the Beef tour. I don’t know what “squash the beef” and mosh conjure up for you, but if you have sons, I have an idea.

Of course, we worry a little when the boys head off to a show! They always meet a host of characters in line for tickets, and moshers do seem to be a relatively loving crowd of headbangers. But what about the thrashers who love happy cabbage (and happy dust) and in their wasted state may inadvertently squash the beef?

The afternoon following the show, L. proudly revealed to me an epic purple and gold souvenir across his midsection. It's this sort of stuff that widens the generation and gender gap in our house. Genuine pride! For internal bleeding from strangers kicking and smacking each other to the “music” of vomit sounds!

In spite of my preference for minimal slugging and groin kicking while grooving with fellow “Seal” fans at a concert, I do understand the infectious high energy these rockers tap into at moshfests. There are plenty of days as a mid-life mama I can relate to Emo and pent up rage. 

Sure, depression and despair are common to both middle age and adolescence. Also rage. Negative energy needs to be burned; I get it. I was right there thrashing old school at A Flock of Seagulls circa 1982. But I’ll still never fully comprehend a boy's joy for a flesh wound sustained while dancing.

L. (lifting shirt): Look at this one.

(Displays irregular bruise the size of a large hoagie on the soft flesh above waist.)

Me: Why?

L.: It was amazing. I was passed all the way up to the stage. I almost touched Johnny Craig. I really wanted to touch him.

Me: But the bruising—you didn’t get that from moshing?

L.: No. Somebody just smashed me in the side as hard as they could while I crowd surfed. Look at this one too!

Me: Yeah. Your school colors. Let’s take a picture.

Clearly a Kodak...errrrr...Ko-Wack moment. Something sacred in a gnarly, half-misunderstood, post-moshtrocity, mother-son moment to giggle about someday with his grandkids.

If the family beef is not squashed in a mosh pit.

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

Our son L. has incredible long-term memory. Although he cannot possibly be expected to remember to turn off the tap after washing his hands (THIS IS THE CRAPTASTIC TRUTH), he can indeed recall the menu selections in the cafeteria on Flag Day in second grade. Unfortunately for me and my husband, he can also recall every misstep we ever took as parents. In fact, both of our sons have peerless retention for those.

This truth became exceedingly clear on a recent car ride to the dentist when my sons revealed that because of at least one of my transgressions, they are indeed scarred for life.

Me: I’m writing a parenting article on kids and delay of gratification. I think I did a pretty decent job of teaching you guys that patience stuff, right?

The car remains silent.

Me: Like remember when I’d say, “We’re gonna run into the store real quick, so you need to be good, okay?” What do you think of when you hear that?

L. (elder son, solemnly): Two shakes. OH MY GOCK, TWO SHAKES. That is my entire CHILDHOOD in two words.

‘Gock’ is not a typo. My sons have always cursed creatively in order not to get smacked. And can I just say I think my son was being overly dramatic? His childhood was exceedingly happy. In two words, his youth could be summed up as sunshine and cookies.

J. (younger son, pained as if punched in the gut): OHHHHHHHHHHHH. SHOPPING! TWO SHAKES. TWO SHAKES. I hated you. That was the WORST. TWO SHAKES.

So now I get to hear about how the other one (who is as theatrical as his brother) hated me for simply taking the time to teach a little delay of gratification.

L. (sincerely): I think I might throw up. You said two shakes so much, and I never EVER understood it. Who says that anyway? What does two shakes even MEAN?

It is staggering to think they never understood a lick of the admittedly old fashioned ‘two shakes’ and never bothered to ask. Were they imagining Dairy Queen? Booty shakin’?

Me (in shock): It’s two shakes. Like of a lamb’s tail. Very quickly.

L.: A LAMB? A tail? That is even worse.

J.: I never knew what it meant. That is so not legit. You make no sense. Two shakes was never quick.

Me (utterly deflated): It is legit. Two shakes. Or ‘hold on just a sec.’ Like when you guys wanted a puppy, and I said ‘That’s a fantastic idea. Two shakes. First, we’ll research it.’ And then six months later, we got the puppy. Delay of gratification. Two shakes. Remember J.? I'd say ‘Mommy will get you Twizzlers in two shakes.’

J.: I HATED that. I don’t even wanna live.

L.: Ugggggh. You said it constantly. You scarred us for life.

I had no idea. I only wanted a little encouragement for the parenting article on waiting. Who knew painful wounds would be ripped open? It appears that someday these sons will lounge on a therapist’s couch and recount the horrors of a failing mommy and a lamb’s tail!

Please. I have made more than my fair share of parenting mistakes—it’s the toughest gig ever. But I stand by TWO SHAKES. I do. I’ve got to trust my gut that no matter how outdated, two shakes was a magnificent teaching moment even if these two ultimately grow up to be psychotic sociopaths.

At least they’ll be patient psychos.

(By the way, the dudes had their revenge. After the sting of their baggage, I lost all freelancing mojo and could not complete that dang parenting article.)

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.

The young J. is not old enough to officially date. Our son is, however, allowed to have supervised housedates.

Housedates are a lot like playdates of yesteryear, except now playa flat irons his hair before miss thang comes over to hang (I realize I cannot pull off charming ghettoliciousness and indeed may require professional help).

My son has become a date-i-gator. Gators? Like teens, they are creatures who lack vocal chords and terrify me.

As a mom of teens, I find supervising a date-i-gator’s housedate deeply disturbing. This may be in part due to the fact I am the territorial kind of gator mom, Plus I have anxiety and issues with control.

Sure, it’s good to know exactly what my teenangsters are up to when they are home, but it’s not as if I can casually go about my business with a housedate in progress. Time literally stands still while the wildlife roam. Even with reassurance from Mr. Gator, it’s difficult to quell the worry.

I NEED INFO to stop worrying, but the date-i-gator is tres reticent about DEFINING his relationships (as if I’d broadcast it in print or on the internet or something).

Just who are these female date-i-gators, and what is the nature of their relationship with my gator? A housedate a few weeks back may illustrate my pain:

J. (introducing a cosmetic-lovin’ gator who appears to be 20ish): Mom, this is MaybeIt’sMaybelline.

MAYBEIT’SMAYBELLINE: Nice to meet you.

Me: Hi. What’s on the agenda for you two?

J.: I dunno. We’re hangin’ out.

Super. The gators proceed to mill around the kitchen holding paws. Maybelline says not a word (interesting true tidbit from nature: even without vocal chords, males bellow loudly to attract females).

The gators are clearly crushing, and indeed echoes of bellowing may be heard for miles. My sister happens to be visiting and whispers she feels like crying seeing her little nephew with such a grown woman. I felt a combination of rage and nausea (like after consuming tainted egg salad). Mr. Gator thinks this is all classic Freud stuff.

The following day was J.'s first day of high school, and I was anxious to speak with the gator about his day.

J.: It was ok, but there’s no one in my classes.

Me: None with the girlfriend?

J. (indignant): I don’t have a girlfriend!

Me: What about Maybelline?

J.: She’s a FRIEND.

Me: That girl you held hands with yesterday? You two are not dating?

J.: No. And I won’t tell you if we DO start dating.

It’s all very confusing! His discretion is understandable. To his utter horror last summer, on a housedate I accidentally mixed up a gator girl's name with another gator girl--TWICE! She was a deadringer, and with no vocal chords, there were no auditory clues!

These days it is impossible to determine whether a visiting girl is a friend or an undefined FRIEND-friend.

I am told ‘Generation MySpace’ seems largely unable to commit to short-term relationships or even dates. Hmmmmm. Comparing them to gators is maybe being generous since the latest science on alligators reveals a monogamy bias. (interesting tidbit #2: Frisky males chomp at a mate’s neck with deadly gnarly jaws.)

All I know is my son is not yet technically DATINGdating, and I can’t keep all the ‘itneys and ‘anas who bare their fleshy necks here straight.

J. and Maybelline were an item for a few weeks before a new female appeared on the scene. A special goth gator at school whom we’ll call EMO-OF-THE-FALLEN-LEAVES. EMO hung out and bounced upon our trampoline for a season before disappearing back into the wild. Now it’s SOUTHERN BELLE with the neck hanging out.

She remains ‘undefined.’

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

Feels like 1982.

Fast Times At Ridgemont High was on cable the other night, and as I watched, it occurred to me that somehow I gave birth to not one, but two Spicolis.

My forever barefoot sons are teenagers who have only surfed once, but based on their gnarly ‘tudes, shaggy hair, and Spicoli-isms, you might mistake them for seasoned beach bums.

Remember Sean Penn’s Jeff Spicoli? “All I need are some tasty waves, a cool buzz, and I’m fine.”

Our younger son J. has earned the code name Surfer in my essays, but the elder son L. suffers from surfolalia as well. Both boys are lazy, laid-back, ocean lovin’ strong swimmers who draw out ‘dude’ to describe every possible emotion.

When something tickles them, we hear the happy, high tenor, sing-songy “Duuuuuuuude!” When creeped out, it is the quieter, baritone, staccato “Dude.”

Living with surfers is mostly rad, but sometimes it can be bogus. Like last week when L. forgot how to properly back the car out of the garage.

{We are fairly certain our son was neither wasted nor asleep.}

VIKING (my husband is a French-Norwegian from Minnesota): L. just wrecked the car door AND the garage. I’ll bet he was texting. That kid left the door wide open as he was backing out.

Me (scanning kitchen counter for Xanax): Wait. He smashed the garage with the door?

VIKING (exasperated): Yes. HIS door. Not the passenger side one. Driver side door. Demolished. I’m thinkin’ fifteen hundred dollars to fix it.

We do not reach for Merlot...not immediately.

I enter the garage to assess the wreckage and to determine whether our son is alive. The Honda’s door is truly mangled—not even close to shutting. My husband describes it as a wrinkled version of a Lamborghini scissor door—opening upward not outward. It’s worse than I expected.

Then I assess the boy L. who is sitting near the driveway with his head in his hands. I gently massage his back and ask if he was texting. In a broken tone, he tells me he just wasn’t thinking. Any frustration or anxiety I felt a few minutes before melts away. All I see before me is a dude I love. A cool imperfect dude created perfectly to be loved. He feels like a complete moron, and before I leave him I tell him I’m happy it is the car, not him, that is damaged.

My husband suddenly shoves up his sleeves, grabs a steel box, and begins to pry off the Honda’s door. No one says a word as he toils. I become aware that in spite of my son’s screw up, the familial vibe level is eerily calm. This is surprising given the number of similar scenes accompanied by intensity and volume. In fact I begin to worry my husband has been body snatched.

Then he says something confirming my worst suspicions.

VIKING: Remember in Fast Times at Ridgemont High when Spicoli wrecks that Z28 and says “RELAX, ALL RIGHT? MY OLD MAN IS A TELEVISION REPAIRMAN. HE’S GOT THIS ULTIMATE SET OF TOOLS. I CAN FIX IT!”?

I kid you not. Dude. Body snatched.

I wish I could paint a better picture of the Biblical poetry in our garage: the gnarly crumpled car door, the weeping repentant son, the patient, Viking pod father modeling grace. It was all nearly too much for my heart to bear. Like totally the most righteous emotional porn. I smile. My husband smiles back.

Our son L. may be Spicoli reincarnated, but the long board doesn’t fall far from the tree. Brah—his old man is the Big Kahuna! With a bitchen set of tools, the old man fixed everything—including the garage.

The car door remains wrecked but functional.

Dude.

Just like us.

***update: that same Spicoli became a repeat offender: I kid you not. He ruined the fixed door once more when he backed out of our garage AGAIN with it fully open. Rain and snow were to become his driver seat companions for several years before we located a matching door at a junk yard, and he and the Viking installed it. The car was passed down to the other surfer and lived a happy life until May 2016. RIP, surfmobile.

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

When Puberty Meets Menopause: The Hair Edition.
(published first in "My Life as a Parent" column, PARENTWISE AUSTIN)

Last week I chatted with our 17-year old son whom we'll call Deathmetal and his friend C-Squirrel in the kitchen after school. Deathmetal and C-Squirrel play electric guitar for a screamo band named for French pirates, and the band practices regularly in our basement. Ever had the pleasure of hearing emo screamo in person? Allow this midlife mama to enlighten.

Imagine: an absence of melody, volume which induces ears and spleens to bleed, repetitive vomitting sounds, machine gun fire percussion, and incoherent vocals beckoning brain hemorrhages. This genre definitely does not tingle my jingles, but then again, it wouldn’t be cool if it did. All of us here at Emo Central have grown accustomed to quaking upstairs during practices. (Almost all of us…several neighbors have relocated).

We’re happy these hormonal teens can express themselves and release pent-up energy via music. After all, I’m hormonal too and truly ‘get’ emo. My kids are happy I have prescriptions to balance the emo elements of peri-menopause—essentially a second adolescence.

But back to C-Squirrel. I guess my chemically-induced stable mood had to be wrecked eventually…

TRES IMPORTANT BACKGROUND INFO: my teen son is not a licensed cosmetologist.

DEATHMETAL: I’m gonna give C-SQUIRREL a haircut.
ME: Okay. (Like I said, I was feeling a groovy groovy pharmaceutical calm.)

30 minutes later.

C-SQUIRREL: How do I look?
ME (overenthusiastic*): GREAT!

***genuine relief C-Squirrel required no First Aid.

Oddly, C-Squirrel needs to now hop in the shower. Hmmmmm. So his hair was dirty and dry for the cut? I retreat to the kitchen to grill pork chops for dinner. Things turn ugly when I discover two things:

(A.) Blunt tiny school scissors on the counter used by Death to cut off his friend’s mop
and
(B.) an evilicious three foot diameter nest of dark hair in a heap upon the kitchen floor.

Have I mentioned my OCD?

MY INNER-BITCHY VON BITCHY: Eff NOOOOOOO! They did not just cut hair near my kitchen! This is not happening! Why dearlord did I get the idiot son?

Deep cleansing breath. It’s too late. We did our best. College is soooo right around the corner. Yes. We. Can. Make the nest. Disappear.

I proceed to sweep.

Something through the French doors catches my eye—is it more hair on the screen porch floor? Utterly terrified it becomes clear every friggin inch of the porch and the wraparound deck is littered with dirty hair! No breeze in sight.

It’s as if the porch has been raped.

Again with the INNER-BITCHY VON BITCHY: Sweet mother, hair is evvvvverywhere! How is this possible? There is no undoing this crappiest of messes! Both parties must die! They know I can’t stomach crapstorms! I have problems. I have problems! Why do they hate me? What would Jackie O do? Who am I kidding? John-John would never make crapshackle of Jackie’s veranda. That kid loved his mama. Hair! All that hair! Those slackers should be out here, BUT THEY’D NEVER GET IT CLEAN.

The next 75 nauseating minutes were spent trembling, quietly cursing, and sweeping dirty hair. When I regained a modicum of maternal composure I demanded the boys sweep for another half hour. The following day I spoke calmly with Death on the phone.

ME: You cannot give another haircut in our home again.
DEATH: It was a HAIRCUT, mom. No big deal. I didn’t know you’d be THAT bothered.
ME: You used school scissors and plastered our porch and deck with hair. I have problems. Didn’t I tell you about my problems?
DEATH: Yeah. But I didn’t think they were that bad.
ME: They are.

They are.


illustration: Aaron Romo - thank you!

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

I admit it. My memory for names and facts is frequently impaired these days (feels a lot like the seasons when I was preg-o-licious). Definitely hormonal pre-menopausal voodoo. Still. I’m fairly certain our teen son was not raised by wolves.

One of the most annoying questions he asks is "Why do I have to clean my room?" Then he adds, "It's just gonna get messed up again, and I like seeing things."

Truly I have failed. This is messed up.

The following is a summary of the flurry of erratic thoughts overcoming me upon entering the 17-year-old's room the other day. (WARNING: do not EVER enter a 17-year old's room/deathcave without your therapist on speed-dial.).

1. Quick! Shirt-mask for the stench. Think damp towels molding on wool carpet and an unidentifiable smell that triggers memories of the zoo.

2. Is that…butter or Velveeta? My children know they are not allowed to bring snacks into their bedroom. Wait. Suddenly I'm not sure it's food.

3. It was ALL the husband’s idea to be fruitful and multiply. Well, that's not exactly true. But I thought multiplying would also multiply my household HELP.

4. Mowing this laundry makes more sense. (I'll be away from office for the next three weeks and won't be able to return your calls or emails. I'm sorting whites.)

5. What a relief my child didn’t break the bank for the candynecklace thong in the open drawer! (p.s. Tag reads $9.99). (p.s.s. Wonder if this is a gift for himself or a lucky someone?). (p.s.s. Sweet mother, raising teens is terrifying.).

6. In the spirit of eco-living, a joyful thought springs to mind: to protect the survival of siblings, some animals must kill their young.

7. The deeply disturbed person who sleeps here used to sing Barney’s cleanup song with utter conviction. This is the thought that will haunt me for days.

8. Pretty sure if I split now I can reach Betty Ford by dawn.

9. Wow...some sweet sensitive lyrics from a soulful composer on the bedside post-it note: “I’ll stop stabbing when you stop screaming.” Wonder where he gets that gnarly edgy vibe?

10. Where’d I put that emergency Xanax? Just joking. I know EXACTLY where that prescription is.

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

During last night’s carpool to a high school dodgeball game, this brilliant exchange between my 14-year-old son, J. and his three friends ensued in my SUV.

Friend w/ Elijah Wood peepers: Dude—I love the pockets in these jeans. Your hands like totally don’t get stuck in them or whatev.
J.: Dude—I know. (dramatic pause) They’re pocket-y.
Pierced Friend (to Elijah): Dude—I like yer Abercrombie jeans. They’re all stretchy.
ELIJAH WOOD: I KNOW. My jeans are so awesome, I’m jealous of myself.

WE PAUSE FROM THIS INTELLECTUAL BANTER FOR AN IMPORTANT PRE-MENOPAUSAL UPDATE FROM THE MAMA:

Prescriptions are working nicely! Thanks for asking! I am enjoying more calm laid back moments like this one with these precious teen guys in my car. BTW, I'm fairly certain all were sober.

BACK TO THE STIMULATING SCHOLARS in SUV CHAT:

PIERCED (to a 'pretty boy' resembling foxy Kristy McNichol in her prime): Stop bouncing, dude.
KRISTY: Dude—I love this song.
J.: Ahhhhh! I’m gonna kick the crap outta him! Colton just texted. Dude is eatin’ a crunchwrap supreme at Taco Bell. I love those things with no tomatoes!!!

'Just right' pockety jeans, dodge ball, Taco Bell, music, and texting. They make the world go 'round for my teenangster and his buds at the moment.

ELIJAH WOOD: Dude—why do you hate black jeans so much?
J.: I don’t HATE ‘em, hate ‘em. I just hate ‘em becuuuuzzzz they’re black.

{Followed by a lengthy silence as the sk8rs ponder dark denim Jedi wisdom.}

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

My son J. is fifteen. He and the rest of his shaggy-haired, Generation Text posse are adorable right now. The MySpacers listen to Screamo. They skate, snowboard, and videotape each other’s backflips.

They value the hotness of high school girls but truly value each other more.

With ninth grade just about under their belts, they have been sufficiently humbled (read: pummeled, wedgied, and degraded by upperclassmen) and have yet to score drivers’ licenses. Hence, they’re still decent to their parents.

Dude! Everything J. and his friends do and say makes outstanding copy I can’t ignore.

A few days ago, they had a shortened school day, and I was asked to pick up a few freshman friends and deliver them to old stomping grounds—middle school. A faculty member had requested they speak to naïve graduating eighth graders about what to expect in high school. They were stoked to be chosen to scare straight incoming freshman, and it was gratifying to see them enthusiastic to share their newfound wisdom.

A craptastic snag occurs upon this chauffeur’s arrival to high school.

Eight exuberantly hopeful backpack toting adolescents greeted my SUV--which seats just five. At this point, all responsible law abiding parents with half a brain would have hatched a plan B for transport. Those same wise parents would see an ideal “teaching moment” about safety to benefit the teens for a lifetime.

Most days I’m on my game. But at this particular juncture I was a pile of dumb. Paralyzed by a temporary lapse of smartitude. Trapped within the revolving doors of the bad mommy idiot zone.

Trapped? Sixteen friggin PUPPY EYES held me captive! Eight sincere, sweet, skinny matchstick jeaned boys just five minutes from manhood! The strength of the bond between Generation Me brothers proved too much! (Less caffeine is undoubtedly in my future.)

In my head, I rationalized the car abuse: IT’S A SHORT TRIP! In…out…NOBODY GETS HURT! OH THE GENIUS OF BOLDNESS! (Fairly sure Goethe was not referencing criminal carpools.)

I channeled my inner cool mom (who looks great in a skintight DIP ME IN CHOCOLATE AND THROW ME TO THE SWIM TEAM t-shirt, btw.) and let them board. Indeed my coolness was reflected in their irises.

That’s when my son said it.

J.: Dude, it’s like the Underground Railroad!
POSSE: Totally!

Eight bright young men and one renegade mommy wondered how we would ever fit in the vehicle. At first, four boys shared space in the trunk area with a large laundry basket filled with crap; but, alas, the hatch would not shut. The smallest manchild of the trunk then squeezed in ever so close to my steering wheel, while the basket-o-crap moved to a lap in the backseat. The hatch latched.

I instructed the boys to both hide and cease breathing, lest attention be drawn to the Promised Land car-tastrophe. Just before departing, I glanced over my right shoulder, spying the darkest-skinned bud literally crushed between two friends, weighted down thoroughly with the laundry basket.

CRUSHED: (hushed and barely breathing) I feel just like Harriet Tubman.

OMG, I love these Underground Railroad kids who nearly suffocated in my car.

Freedom! No one was busted in spite of my impaired judgment. Harriet and the boys escaped, sailing into middle school unscathed. It was an ignorant move this dumb-as-toast mom will not repeat, but SWEET William Still ON A WAFFLE CONE, she drove them north safely.

As safely and cautiously as ‘a cool mom clandestinely transporting skaters to free states or Canada or middle school to make the world a more awesomacious place’ could possibly drive.

Michele is rarely mistaken for a cool mom or Harriet Tubman. She has a husband, two children, a master's in counseling and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.