hello lovely child

Whenever a paycheck with my name on it arrives in the mail, I wave it in the faces of my sons, who are now 14 and 18. Sometimes I smack the 14-year-old J. over the head with the envelope because of all the members of the family, he is the most unsupportive of my freelance writing career. He is famous for asking me, "Oh, is it another imaginary check?"

It seems J. cannot fathom that what I do—staring at an LCD screen, guzzling Diet Coke whilst tapping into creativity, and scribbling down dialogue wherever I am—is in fact, a real job.

J. (walking by my office): You’re ALWAYS on Facebook.
Me: I’m not on Facebook, babe. I’m researching a topic for an article.
J.: Oh. You mean you’re doing work for that imaginary job for one of your imaginary articles for your imaginary magazines?
Me: It’s not imaginary. Just because I work on a computer from home doesn’t mean what I do is not real.
J.: Suuuuurrre, it’s real. Except it’s imaginary…(leaves quickly).

My sons and husband tell me when I’m in work mode at my laptop, a ridiculous dramatic expression appears on my face. This mode has in fact inspired a stand-up comedy act the 18-year-old L. performed recently (I bet he'll encore the performance for you in exchange for Taco Bell--but whatever you do, don't call it Taco Bell! My kids are too cool for Taco Bell! It's T. Bell! Trust me!).

His stand-up and my response go something like this:

L. (taking drag of imaginary cigarette, delivered with a kickass Deniro) I AM A WRITER. JUST LOOK AT ME...GLANCE AROUND THE ROOM AT MY LEATHER BOUND LITERATURE COLLECTION. LOOK AT THIS COMPUTER. LOOK AT MY SCOTCH (swigs imaginary scotch from imaginary highball glass).
Me (annoyed): Why? Why? Why? Why does it bother you boys so much that I sit and think and type for my job?
L.: Because it’s imaginary.

I am a petite blonde writer of parenting articles, humor essays, and other nonfiction. I have no idea why that makes me Deniro. I just know I don't deserve this crap from kids who should be cheering me on. I highly doubt Bobbie would take it. And it's gin, not scotch.


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.

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.

Facing what it means to parent a teen.
by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.
800 wds

Raising teens while navigating the uncharted territory of midlife can be challenging for any parent. It’s confusing. Experts warn of the dangers of too permissive parenting or being their friend (“You’re an authority, not their bud!”). Yet there are plenty of moments it feels perfectly natural to be friendly—to laugh, shop, share music, and learn new things together.

Richard Weissbourd, in The Parents We Mean to Be (Mariner, 2010), explains how the issues associated with our own developmental stage can interact negatively with the issues of our adolescent’s. He writes:

“One reason that relationships between adults and teenagers can become so toxic is that adults can be caught up in the intense self-concerns of a midlife crisis at exactly the same time that their children are caught up in the intense self-concerns of adolescence.”

Changing Our Mindset

If we truly value the moral and emotional development of our teens, we cannot resign ourselves to simply “survive” this chapter raising young adults. We must be sensitive, educated, and more intentional about mentoring. About savoring what is redeeming in this season of the parent-teen relationship.

The relationship is a constantly developing one, and Weissbourd reminds “It’s vital to see ourselves not as static role models but as imperfect human beings, continually developing, in our dynamic relationships with our children, our own moral and mentoring capacities.”

As a counselor and parent who is aware of my imperfections and those of my teens, I think there are intentional ways we may improve the quality of our connections with them.

It’s the Most Important Job on the Planet. Let’s Be Intentional!

Weissbourd describes intentional parenting as “reaching for our better selves,” and I love this idea that the goal is to be reflective rather than reactive. Reflective would be the opposite of automatic responding, or getting lazy, or becoming nostalgic about how good things used to be.

Hopefully these positive reflections will soothe and fill you with hope as you continually make conscious efforts to increase the quality of interaction and learning at home with your teens.

1. Childhood was conquered.

This is no small matter. It wasn’t always rosy—recall chronic tonsillitis, family dinners they could not cut their own pork chop, or demonic temper tantrums thrown in a grocery cart? I bet you both faced and managed much greater stressors than those little snags. Bravo. You both made it.

2. More personal time can be a blessing.

No longer requiring constant supervision (well, sort of), teens are not under your feet so you may have more time now for personal interests. You may be freed up to explore what makes your heart sing, or to devote more time to church, a career, or your spouse.

The pressure to rush home to the sitter or carve out “mommy and daddy time” has passed and is possibly a welcome change. Traveling or entertaining at home? Suddenly in the realm of possibility.

3. The potential for meaningful discussions is there.

As young adults, the ongoing dialogue about morality, faith, ethics, and character has life altering potential. They may call on you for guidance or spiritual dilemmas, and engaging them in such conversations (with compassion and openness) can have soul lifting consequences.

4. Their identity crisis makes you accountable.

As they form opinions and make discoveries about themselves, you are probably under more scrutiny. This can be beneficial for both of you if you acknowledge you too are changing and improving throughout adulthood.

Weissbourd says “Parents may learn to deal with their selfish qualities or defects because they see the damage they cause to their children, or because they see these qualities reflected in their children’s qualities or actions.”

5. Household help helps.

Strong arms around capable of operating a vacuum, the microwave, or the washing machine is a welcome change. It’s good for them to help. Even if you have to nag, sending them out to pick up a pizza 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.

6. A world of sweet things to enjoy now that they’re older.

Whether it’s a sitcom you both find hilarious, a sports team, cars, a book series, or pilates—don’t forget such activities were not options when they were younger. You likely yielded to their child-related interests and developmental needs of the time. Now new options await you.

Listen to Your Heart

Pay attention only to media often skilled at scaring you to death about teens, and you may be horrified or convinced you are raising Generation Slut, Generation Me, or the Lost Generation. But our children are counting on us to see them with loving eyes as they are: full of potential, worthy, and cherished.

We just have to be sensitive enough to notice. So notice.

Michele Ranard has two fabulous teenagers, a master’s in counseling, and a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

Resources:

Weissbourd, Richard. The Parents We Mean to Be: How Well Intentioned Adults Undermine Children’s Moral and Emotional Development. Mariner, 2010.

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.

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.

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.

Ideas to connect beyond possessions, sports, and texting.

by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.
790 words

Your tween or teen may be busier than ever with school, sports, and socializing. So as parents we have to be on our game and intentional about connecting with them. (And by connecting, I don’t mean leaving a comment on that photo they posted on FaceBook.)

I remember reading a quote from Robert Downey Jr. years ago when his child turned 13. His statement went something like “My job is now to service my teen.” I thought maybe he was kidding, and if he WAS serious, it was a beyond pathetic attitude.

Then I had tweens and teens.

It IS easy to feel that as our kids navigate adolescence, we are here to simply service them (as a chauffeur, cheerleader, and bank account). But parenting is about nurturing them in simple ways.

These suggestions offer reminders of easy efforts to strengthen bonds at home.

1. Make sure their friends feel welcome. This is one of the best ways to see more of your kids. Sometimes the presence of their friends loosens them up and better facilitates certain discussions than if you were alone, so take advantage.

2. See a movie together. Take turns choosing the film which will give you an opportunity to share your favorite movies or actors they may otherwise never see.

3. Let them help you cook. Trying a new recipe is a great way to bond, even if your culinary attempts are a disaster. My own kids love to help bake yeast breads or bagels, and because of the rising time, they linger much longer than if we were just making waffles. It is hard to be cranky when the whole house smells like heavenly fresh bread, and baking skills are a wonderful investment for the future.

4. Reminisce about old times. Tweens and teens love to hear about funny things they said and did when they were little. The stories never get old and often trigger more stories and memories you may have forgotten. Laugh it up!

5. Get hooked on one TV show. Everyone in our house is home on Wednesday nights to watch our family favorite on TV. As a bonus, the show always hits on some spiritual themes we discuss openly. We even took a family vacation to the location where our show is filmed.

6. Eat together. This can be nearly impossible as everyone heads in different directions for lessons and sports, but it is important to carve out time. It doesn’t have to be dinner. If everyone is available for a long leisurely Saturday morning breakfast, go for it. Let them take turns choosing the restaurant, and do insist they unplug.

7. Show them your work. Sometimes we forget that it’s okay and even beneficial for our children to see our other roles. It makes my children feel more grown up when my husband and I bring them into conversations about our careers. I’m not suggesting you bore them to tears with technical language that alienates but share a little to expose them to the world of work and you.

8. Watch their favorite youTubes. My kids have introduced me to some of the most hilarious videos only kids their age could discover. Laughing together is sweet relief from all the inescapable daily nagging.

9. Ask about their high and low. Since adolescents are notorious for grunting and mono-syllabic responses, regularly ask them to report on their high (the best thing that happened during the day) and their low (the worst). It is as healthy for them to reflect on these experiences as it is for you to be aware of them.

10. Create special memories between holidays. Do not wait for a holiday or birthday to create special moments. Light candles and play fun music on a Tuesday night when it’s just spaghetti on the menu. Bake something special on a random night, plating it creatively like a restaurant would. Surprise them on a weeknight by announcing you’re all going bowling. Treat them to a one-on-one lunch at their favorite restaurant.

11. Write a love note. It can be difficult to find the right moment to express what is on your heart, but teens need to know how much you cherish them. Take the time to write how thankful you are for them and leave it on their pillow. They may never mention it, but it will matter.

12. Be brave and take a road trip. Sometimes the best way to re-connect is by putting some miles between your family and where the daily grind happens. Even if it is a day trip, find ways to make the commute more pleasant and set ground rules i.e. no arguing or discussing sore subjects like grades and school work.

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

Decoding their slang and culture.
by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.
680 words

I live with teenagers. The other morning at breakfast, my 15-year old son mentioned sorrowfully that he may have “tossed a fork.” Because I have grown so very accustomed to feeling clueless for what my kids and their friends are talking about (“Dude, that song is way sicker with that stupid hotness yo!”), I assumed “tossed a fork” was new lingo for “blew chunks.”

In reality, my son had literally thrown a piece of our cutlery in the trash. On accident. Clearly I over-analyze, but it feels like every day new slang from their ever-evolving vocabularies is introduced. The internet sees to it. Maybe you feel my pain.

Here are a few terms with definitions gleaned from my teen sons, my experience as the parent of millenials, and the world wide web:

Awesomation: The point at which something becomes awesome. “Brah, as soon as the show started, it was total awesomation.” Enough said.

Ballin: This term has been thrown around our house for years so I am a sort of ‘ballin’ connoisseur. It means to be living the high life, to be well respected, to be wealthy OR to be a basketball player. “That dude is ballin.”

Emo: You may think you understand emo; however, according to urbandictionary.com, emo is sometimes capitalized, sometimes not, and it can mean softcore punk music for melodramatic 17 year olds who don’t smile OR an overly emotional individual. My favorite emo definition from the site? “An excuse for guys to wear tight pants.”

If you still feel unclear about emo, ask your kids to define it (after which you’ll feel more lost than ever).

Facebook Ammo: A humiliating or incriminating photo saved on a friend’s camera to be potentially posted on Facebook that could be used for blackmail purposes.

Generation TMI (Too Much Information): While not slang, it is a concept parents of teens likely understand but may need a term for. Urbandictionary.com defines it roughly as kids who are overloaded with too much information because of the rapid growth of technology and the incessant need people have to share information online.

Generation TMI kids would all understand: "Wanna come over to myspace tonight to google my yahoo and twitter all over your facebook?"

Text Anxiety: The worry after texting someone when they don’t text right back. Are they alive? Mad? What could possibly be taking so long?

Text Away Your Dignity: Familiar with drunk dialing? This is the equivalent with texting.

Throw Down: (NOTE: Pay close attention to this one—throw down or throwdown means a million different things to different teens depending on the context!)

meaning #1: To contribute money to pay for something. Colton: “Dude, I’m gonna make a McDonald’s run, want some?” Jake: “Sure, dude, I’ll throw down.”

#2: To mosh or slam dance. “He totally threw down in the pit.”

#3: To street fight, like “throwing down the gauntlet.” (TRUE STORY: Definition #3 was the only definition I knew until I playfully threatened to throw down with my disrespectful 18-year-old, and his buddy remarked, “I’d love to see that at a show.”)

#4: To throw a large party. (WARNING: it may not be ‘dancing’ they’re planning to do this weekend if you hear your kid mention throwdown on the phone.)

#5: To fight and win. “Who knew that dude would have that kinda throwdown in him?”

#6: To drink excessively; see warning in #4.

#7: To perform brilliantly; my kids use it this way all the time as in, “He was epic! He threw DOWN!”

Tiger’s Wife Mad: So angry that you find the item which the object of your anger cherishes the most and proceed to beat him/her with it. “Did you see that dude ask for the manager at Taco Bell? He was Tiger’s wife mad with the burrito!”

BTW, do NOT under any circumstances try out these expressions with your teens! Trust. They could easily become TW mad and reach for…whatever. Use this knowledge solely to decode, sympathize, and delude yourself into feeling cool. (If you parent a teen, you already know a delusion is the closest you’ll come.)

Because Michele Ranard is paranoid, she still worries ‘tossed a fork’ is secret code. She is a professional counselor, academic tutor, and freelancer with a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

Sources: The Urban Dictionary (www.urbandictionary.com) and her sons

by Michele Ranard
340 wds

1. No more diaper rash, nighttime feedings, or teething.


2. Time for conversations with adults and leisurely dinners.


3. Barney has left the building!


4. No one expects you to look young, unlined, or happy.


5. Ability to shave TWO legs, as opposed to one half, in the shower.


6. Naughty chairs and time-outs? History.


7. In-house experts for all things cyber.


8. Car seats and neon orange goldfish cracker crumbs disappear from SUV.


9. Kids have probably outgrown ear infections and maybe even asthma.


10. Sharing your favorite ‘80s DVDs like “Breakfast Club” or “Say Anything.”


11. Bidding au revoir to space eating excersaucer, swing, and highchair.


12. Freshman baseball games slightly more engaging than tee-ball.


13. Pocketing the cash shelled out to babysitters to now blow on pedicures.


14. More uninterrupted minutes to read House Beautiful or Twilight.


15. Will not have to rinse another dang sippy cup until the grandkids visit.


16. Do not require a vacation when you return home from a family vacation.


17. 30-minute lunch with a friend won’t entail 30-minute packing of diaper bag.


18. Less humiliation in restaurants, at pediatrician, and during the sermon.


19. Impossible to not be aware of what is cool, hip, and trendy.


20. Not expected to help with math homework!


21. Stitches or shots may not require straight jacket or your upper body strength.


22. Re-connecting with your inner adolescent may spell personal growth.


23. You have always wanted to take a course to learn…?


24. No more settling for JUST lipstick or JUST mascara before heading out the door.


25. Tenure as room parent (when no one else signed up) is over.


26. Built-in help for driving to the store for milk, cooking meals, and figuring out the remote.


27. When you sleep in, you’re still up before the kids.


28. Fewer temper tantrums at Target.


29. Living room reads slightly more chic after losing jewel-toned molded plastic playhouse.


30. You and your child survived the seventh grade.


31. Still a hero every time you bake chocolate chip cookies.

Michele Ranard desperately needs reminding there are things to love about parenting teens. She is the mom of two sons, a professional counselor, a math tutor, and a freelance writer. Visit her at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

6 Parenting Myths About Teens, Lying & Rebellion
by Michele Ranard, M.Ed.
715 wds

Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman deconstruct the science of teen rebellion and lying in an eye-opening chapter of their groundbreaking book NurtureShock. See if any of the following myths they deconstruct apply to you then get real with the current scientific evidence.

Myth #1: I know a lot of teenagers lie, but my kid doesn’t lie to me.

According to Bronson and Merryman's book, Nancy Darling of Penn State University studied high schoolers to learn more about what they hide from their parents. One of the most shocking discoveries in her study was the sheer number of teens who lie: 96%!

Does your child struggle in school? Is she gifted? Kids who lie don’t fall into one demographic—honor students, overscheduled kids—they all reported deception. Of 36 potential topics, the average teen lies to his parents about 12 of them.

Teens lie about what they spend allowance on, whether their homework is done, whether they are dating, the clothes they wear away from home, the movie they’re seeing, and who they’re spending time with. They also lie about drinking and drug use, what music they listen to, how they spend afternoons, whether a party is being supervised, and riding in a car driven by a drunk teen.

Myth #2: My teen loves me way too much to lie.

NurtureShock reveals teens reported telling an outright lie about 25% of the time, avoiding the topic another 25% of the time, and simply withholding relevant details about half the time.

Before her research, Darling writes she believed kids probably lied to avoid getting into trouble. So it was surprising to learn the most common reason for the teens’ deception was actually: “I’M TRYING TO PROTECT THE RELATIONSHIP WITH MY PARENTS; I DON’T WANT THEM TO BE DISAPPOINTED IN ME.” In their mind, loving you might mean protecting you—by lying.

Myth #3: My kids don’t have to lie; I’m cool and give plenty of freedom.

Darling as quoted in NurtureShock was surprised by the number of parents with anxiety about pushing their kids into rebellion. She indicates “Many parents today believe the best way to get teens to disclose is to be more permissive and not set outright rules.” However, being permissive does not open the door to learning more about a teen’s life! When parents lower the standard, teens interpret the lack of rules to mean parents don’t care and don’t want the job of being a parent. It definitely does not pay to be permissive.

Myth #4: I can’t imagine how my already rebellious tween will be in high school.

You may actually not have to worry. Current research in Bronson's book suggests teens objecting to their parents’ authority peaks at around age 14 to 15. What is shocking is that this need for autonomy is stronger at age 11 than at age 18. So if you’ve been thinking the high school years are the high risk years, think again.

Myth #5: I’m a super strict parent so my kids probably don’t lie.

“The parents who are the most consistent in enforcing rules are the same parents who are most warm and have the most conversations with their kids,” indicates Darling (in NurtureShock). Such parents set a few key rules (it’s too unrealistic and impossible to enforce twenty rules) and explain why the rules are in place.

These parents demonstrate flexibility. They extend freedom to their teen so he can make his own decisions. Instead of hiding 12 areas from their parents, kids of these types of parents might only be hiding as few as five. There is a spirit of collaboration which encourages the teen to not lie.

Myth #6: I have a great relationship with my teen since we hardly argue.

Even though most parents get stressed out by arguing with their teen, Bronson and Merryman note it appears that in families with the least amount of lying, there is a higher ratio of such arguing or complaining. Why? Teens don’t necessarily see arguing and fighting as harmful or destructive.

The authors suggest the flipside to arguing for many teens is lying! So a teen can either lie to the parent and then go do what they want behind the parent’s back, or argue—negotiate with the parent—and avoid lying. More than anything else, it seems to be how an argument gets resolved and whether a teen feels heard that is most important.

Michele Ranard is the parent of two teens. She is a professional counselor, academic tutor, and freelancer with a blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

Resources:

Bronson, Po and Merryman, Ahsley. NurtureShock. Hachette, 2009.

15 REASONS TO SMILE IF YOU HAVE A TWEEN
We all need reminders now and then!
by Michele Ranard                        380 words

If you’re parenting a tween, you have probably bid goodbye to a good measure of childhood wonder and innocence. The tween years can be awkward for kids and grown-ups alike! With your child, you may also experience growing pains and even grief as they enter adolescence.

But there are plenty of positives about these in between years, and not everything about the younger ones was rosy. We tend to forget the stuff that drove us nuts. Here are some lighthearted reminders to file away and keep us optimistic.

1. Cue the confetti—Dora has left the building!

2. Remember air travel where an in-flight tantrum drove every passenger on board to the brink of insanity? Over. Plugged into an iPod or busy with Sudoku means far less mortification.

3. Now you can share an adolescent-appropriate movie then discuss its meaning—an opportunity for personal growth for both of you.

4. What a relief you are no longer expected to read the literature they are assigned in English class (which is uber cool since Othello is not your idea of “downtime” after work).

5. Suddenly you and your spouse dress more fashionably as a matter of THEIR survival.

6. Glimpsing your tween’s joy and skill on the football/soccer/baseball field invigorates the soul.

7. Every once in awhile they cross the room just to bend and give you a hug, and your heart grows three sizes.

8. Forwarding that hilarious youTube they introduced you to elevates you to coolest cat at the office.

9. Twelve-year-olds do a significantly better job vacuuming than toddlers.

10. Sippy cups, diaper genies, and rectal thermometers are history.

11. Shelling out $20 for the concert tee they’ll wear for two years is considerably easier to swallow than the $20 onesie which fit for two weeks.

12. Your dream of seeing Europe, taking up golf, or reading the classics? It’s within the realm of possibilities now.

13. When they’re sick, they probably don’t have to be wrestled to the ground for the grape flavored syrup that stains white onesies.

14. They’re not yet driving which means you may still be sleeping at night!

15. You finally have a few minutes to scrapbook baby photos—a task leading you to fall in love with your tween all over again.

Disco? Emo? We're the same-o.
by Michele Ranard
600 wds
Connecting with your inner adolescent just happens when you’re raising teens. The thirteen year old who lived for dance is alive and well in this mom. She is still a craver of drama, an open wound, and a dreamer like her sons.

In 1979, ten of us eighth-graders were recruited to make a dance video for our school. Burgundy and gold polyester skirts and tunics were home sewn, and a “Studio 54” routine choreographed. My dance partner was the foxy Steve, who reminded me of Mick Jagger. My status on Earth had peaked as we lost ourselves in darkness under a glittery disco sphere.

There are days I still long to shake it on the stage, but opportunities for disco have thinned out like my pre-menopausal eyelashes. Sure, there’s the occasional wedding reception or step aerobics, but a Charleston step at the Y always turns my hair prematurely blue.

I love the night life; I like to boogie, but my children insist Donna Summer and these living room moves are irrelevant. In fact, my sons don’t dance. They mosh. They thrash. They bleed.

The 13-year-old son attended his first hardcore concert days ago and proudly parades assorted bruises sustained in the pit. The screamo band was sweet, but for him the evening’s highlight was his buddy’s knuckles connecting with the jaw of a fellow mosher. The mosher fell to the dance floor knocked out cold. My son reports it was awesome as the dude was helped to stand before again collapsing unconscious.

Wow. Perhaps thirteen is too young for slamming in the pits. As a fresh thrasher, he might inadvertently bloody the wrong brow or tug the wrong piercing. His older brother is a veteran mosher and celebrator of mild concussions. He is fearless for the “wall of death” where moshers near the stage are encouraged to part the waters then rush each other at full speed.

I’m told the energy and adrenaline in such arenas is otherworldly, but me, I like to jam with my American Bandstanders Red Bull-free.

The genre of music my eldest son’s band plays is bone chilling and sends most adults sprinting for Xanax or the Bible. Practicing downstairs several times a week, I have yet to hear syncopation tempting me to shake my groove thing. It does beckon more insulation for unfinished basement walls.

Our dance practices before the video shoot were enchanting. Twirled and dipped by Jagger, I lived my PG-13 Saturday Night Fever out loud. Pages in my Judy Blume diary were flooded with “STEVE AND I WILL HAVE THREE CHILDREN AND A PUG!”

But hormones and newfound glamour rattled my fragile angsty soul. Maybe the pressure to dance in my first film is why I crashed and burned, annihilating any chance of adopting a pug with Mick.

A trace of DNA on the gene I would someday pass to male offspring with a preference for physical damage mixed with dance—showed up in one critically mortifying moment during dress rehearsal.

My inner mosh princess drilled a bony elbow backwards into Steve’s eye socket.

Somewhere Judy Blume echoed, “No teen ever dies of embarrassment. Awkward and aimless, you’re still beautiful.”

But freekin' Judy Blume was full of crap. Even with icepacks, the swelling of his eye was fast and furious. I wanted to die.

Maybe I share more in common with my teens than I imagined. I remember living for Friday nights and losing myself in dance. Their stage diving, crowd surfing, and headbanging are what the hustle and freak were for us.

I just wear my mosh scars on the inside.

Michele Ranard sincerely hopes moshing is just a phase. She is a professional counselor/tutor and freelancer with a twisted blog at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.

The 14-year-old hippie surfer son and I had a date two days ago. With lunch and the mall on the agenda, I was over-enthusiastic since these outings are infrequent. He was uncharacteristically shy accompanying me in public, lagged ten paces behind, and became catatonic when asked the simplest question in Hot Topic.

“Do you like this thing with the skulls?”

Eyes grow wide with no response.

“Hey—aren’t these skulls way cute? And look, it’s your size.”

Eyes grow crazy terrified and jaw tenses as he scans Hot Topic for hiding places.

“How ‘bout this studded belt…?”

Ditches me for Urban Outfitters.

When I catch up, he whispers “I’ve NEVER liked skulls. YOU like them. Plus they’re green. I will NEVER wear green skulls.”

His rolling eyes never fail to catch me off guard. Internally, all kinds of questions bubble up.

Did I ditch MY mother when shopping at 14? Did I cruelly treat her like toxic waste for favoring skulls? When did I become the completely obnoxious mom limping past Cinnabon in beaded Indian platforms with untreated scoliosis and a pedicure wound? When did the kids begin to be disgusted by the "sexy rose” lip stain which now strangely stripes my front teeth 90% of the time? And when did I morph into this suffocating nag, bribing her kids for their time?

Maybe the metamorphosis occurred around the time we discovered my parental love language. It is “smothering control freak.”

"Where would you like to eat, sweetie?”

“I don’t care.”

“Panera it is then.”

“Not Panera.”

“It’s your pick – what sounds good?”

“I’m hooked on Crunchwrap-Supremes.”

“Dude, that is so unhealthy. How badly is your heart set on a Crunchwrap?”

“Panera is fine. Whatev’.”

“No, Taco Bell’s okay. We’ll have more time to shop.”

I concede to live dangerously so it’s Crunchwraps all around. We listen to Bless the Fall while devouring over-sized grilled envelopes of processed cheese, and I feel better about how our date is going.

We head out for more shopping, and I become a hero when I say yes to new headphones he cannot live without at T. J. Maxx. Though I am still limping with the pedicure lesion, I swear he is glaring less. Then it happens.

It bears mentioning my son is pretty von pretty like Rob Lowe in St. Elmo’s Fire. He has shoulder length hair he tosses for dramatic effect. As we approach the fitting rooms to try on jeans, I make it a point to say "HE would like to try these," stressing HEEEE to the fitting room attendant. She misses the gender identification entirely and leads him to the ladies’side.

Mortified, the eighth grader doubles back to the men’s area as I shout “Boy! He needs a boy room!” The poor woman’s perplexed expression told us she remained unconvinced.

The jeans he selects are not my favorite, but I graciously give them the green light. I say “graciously” since I agreed to them without ever having seen them modeled which is breaking momcode as far as I am concerned. In addition to being fatally frugal, it is difficult for me to agree to any apparel purchase without a virtual fashion show. I need the catwalk, some Zoolander blue steel, and a few spins before I am convinced.

Last on our “to do” list was a Target run for underwear. We throw boxers and Bandaids into the cart since the bloody skater goes through bandages quicker than grass through a goose. We nearly escape without issue.

Ahead of us in line, a petite 60ish blonde smiles then flings an arm around my sons' shoulders, sneaking a peek into the cart. “Look who we have here!” Ambushed by his Honors English teacher, the surfer immediately regrets ever leaving the house.

I am a slow study, but some parenting wisdom is taking root. For example, there appears NOT to be a no-fail formula for bonding with adolescents. Who knew this?

One-on-one time? An admirable concept ON PAPER, but mano-a-mano in public places without disguises? At your own risk for non-sadist types.

I am no parenting expert, but I will leave you with one more lesson learned. Teenagers prefer expensive techie gadgets, new headphones, smoking weed, and even decapitation to a public drive-by parent-teacher conference in the express lane at Target.

You're welcome.

Michele Ranard loves shopping online. She has a husband, two sons, and a master’s in counseling. Visit her at hellolovelychild.blogspot.com.