Ages and Stages

I spent the weekend alone with my fifteen year old daughter, and I have to say, I am exhausted. You know how when your kid is two or three and they have meltdowns and you don’t know why? Well, a teenager is just a larger two year old with a better vocabulary and the ability to use a toilet independently. The rest is pretty damn near the same. Let me illustrate for you.

Music. Your two year old wants to hear the same song over and over. I don’t know what the song is right now, but back when my teenager was two, it was pretty much anything by the Wiggles. I tried to throw in some Raffi or Disney soundtracks to stop my mind from melting, which backfired on me (“Boom Boom Ain’t It Great to Be Crazy?” No, it isn’t) but for the most part, it was a whole lot of “Fruit Salad (Yummy Yummy)” over and over again. The words still haunt me.

For our weekend together, we listened to Lana Del Ray and Alt-J, the Arctic Monkeys and Glass Animals. Then, for variety, we listened to more Lana Del Ray. My daughter described it as Ke$ha with more depressing music, which I do not consider to be a good sales pitch. I realize all rock and pop music has been about sex and drugs forever, but seriously, does every song have to be about sex and drugs? It’s not even sex or drugs. It’s sex and drugs, together. I had a long conversation with her about sex and drugs. Lana Del Ray played in the background.

Food. Do you fight with your two year old over eating breakfast? At least your two year old wakes up at breakfast time. My teen and I were at the beach for two nights, which meant we really only had one full day. She slept until 10:30, and that was with me waking her up every half hour, starting at 8:00, because she didn’t want to sleep away the day. But she also didn’t want to eat breakfast because she had big goals for the other meals.

Lunch was to be at her favorite sushi restaurant, which is the only place in the whole state where she will eat sushi, the place that is a mere four and a half hours from home.   We didn’t eat until two in the afternoon, and that was after a long walk on the beach and hitting her favorite surf shop. I still can’t believe I didn’t black out while driving the car.

And dinner? Well, here’s a fun one. She couldn’t decide where she wanted to eat dinner because she was too hungry. I drove for twenty minutes and named over fifty restaurants, all of which she vetoed. When she finally made a decision, a seafood restaurant we love, she ordered a bowl of French onion soup and a salad that comes with pecans and blue cheese crumbles and strawberries. She refused to eat the soup because she couldn’t figure out the melted cheese on top, and then she picked around the salad to just eat the nuts and berries and blue cheese crumbles out of the salad.  Where was the seafood, I ask you?

After eating less than a squirrel in the back yard, she declared herself full and wanted to know why it took so long to get our bill. Then, on the way back to our room, we had to stop at the grocery store so she could get a box of Drumsticks, those artificial tasting “chocolate” covered “ice cream” cones. She ate three of them before we even sat down to watch television.

Television. Yes, even television is a battle with a teenager, much as it is with a two year old. If you turn off the television, both will pitch a fit. And if you leave it on, well, forget all hopes of watching anything you want. While you parents of two year olds are watching Jake the Pirate and Mickey Mouse House or Club or wherever Mickey hangs out, the teen prefers a darker mix of programming. After the dinner and the ice cream, we hunkered down on the couch for a Netflix marathon of American Horror Story intermixed with episodes of Bob’s Burgers, just for a break from the sex and suspense. It doesn’t seem like the healthiest combination, but honestly, she saw all the seasons of American Horror Story on the iPad in her bedroom last summer before I figured out what she was doing up there. I wrongly assumed she was just touching herself inappropriately, but instead she was desensitizing herself to sex and violence by binge watching serial killers and weird sex. Oh well; chalk that one up to a big fat parenting fail.

Clothing. You know how you fight with your two year old over clothing?  Put on your shoes. Wear a jacket. No, you can’t wear your pajamas in public. Yeah, well, that is the same fight I had every time we left the condo. The teen thinks if she wears what she slept in while out in public, it’s almost the same as staying in bed. Granted, she does sleep in a sports bra and sweats, but still, at some point, those articles of clothing could stand to be washed. And when it’s freezing on the beach, a hat isn’t a bad idea. Or a jacket. Or sunglasses and sunscreen. Has she learned nothing at all about the weather and dressing appropriately in the past fifteen years? If she has, she certainly doesn’t want me to know it.

Bedtime. I know you are tired of fighting over bedtime with your two year old. Sometimes your little one is sleepy and admits it, but the rest of the time, your child will do anything to stay up late, even if you can’t handle a minute more. My daughter is the same way, except we aren’t having the fight at eight o clock; we are having it at eleven. I could tell her to go to bed five times between ten and eleven, but I will still be the first one asleep. While the two year old needs one more story or another stuffed animal or a drink of water, the teen needs to put on acne medicine or pluck one more stray eyebrow hair or just five more minutes of television, until the next commercial. I fell asleep before any of that was over. I have no idea what time she actually conked out, but it does make a little more sense why I can’t get her up in the morning.

 Yes, I don’t have to change diapers. I don’t have tantrums over taking away a toy or offering something other than macaroni and cheese for dinner. I don’t have to fret about biting or hitting at school. But I do have to buy overnight pads and argue over getting enough protein, dairy, and vegetables and obsess about cyberbullying and sexting, so I suppose it’s a wash.

I remember when my teen was a two year old. People would tell me that parenting doesn’t get easier, it just gets different. I don’t know; it seems pretty similar to me. It is definitely less physically demanding, but the emotional toll is greater. And the concerns are on a different level. I don’t worry if she will ever sleep through the night, and if she does, with a dry pull up. What I agonize about is things like peer pressure and drug use and inexperienced drivers and sexual assault and where is she going to go to college and how am I going to afford that.

Which makes me wonder…will I ever sleep through the night?

Bless Their Hearts

I have some very good friends with young children. Poor little things, those mothers. It’s not that their kids are bad; it is that they are just, well, three. Each of them has a three year old son, and, well, three year olds are kind of dicks.

My children, now fourteen and twelve, were three at some point, which means surely I had a taste of hell, but like any victim of PTSD, I have blocked out the majority of the trauma. I prefer to remember the positive things, like the cute clothes they used to wear and how adorable their speech impediments were.

Little did I know it at the time, my girls were easy. They mostly followed the rules. They didn’t get in trouble at school. They weren’t bundles of energy. Mostly, they dressed up and colored and played with toys and puzzles, quietly. If they were irritable, they would be soothed by a Disney movie, or at the worst, the Wiggles. Remember them? God, I’m dating myself.

My friends with the three year olds don’t have it so lucky. Their boys are much more physical than my girls ever were. For example, EL’s little boy likes to express himself with words for adults, but with his peers, he prefers biting. Chomping down on his classmates has become the go-to way for him to show his displeasure, shock, surprise, or anger, depending on the situation. Every day EL waits for the school to tell her not to bring him back anymore. So far, they are convincing her that it’s all good, mostly age-appropriate, and something he will hopefully outgrow soon. He’s only broken skin a couple of times, so he shouldn’t have to be put down, but he might need a muzzle.

My other friend with a three year old son, MJS, has a different set of issues. Her child has decided to accept the challenge that preschool is offering his immune system. This kid has been sick at least once a month since August of last year, and sometimes violently. There is not much worse than a little kid puking. They don’t quite understand what’s going on yet, not enough to run to the bathroom and hang their heads over the toilet. I can only imagine what that Restoration Hardware sofa that she had to have looks like these days.

I know someone who bought her furniture at Big Lots specifically because she knew it would be ruined in less than two years. We refer to it as disposable furniture.

Yesterday, MJS’s son refused to get dressed for school. Adamantly refused. She was late for work and basically didn’t have time for that shit. She strapped him in the car seat, buck naked, his clothing in the front seat next to her. She talked to me while on the way to his day care. I could hear him screeching like a baby dinosaur in the background. Later, she told me that he had crumbs from the car seat stuck to his bare ass. Also, she forgot his sneakers.

The other day, I saw a picture on Facebook of him pooping in the backyard, under a tree. He is literally being raised by dogs.

I’m not judging, because that’s something I prefer to do in line at Walmart. These are people I love, both my friends and their children. But every time I hear another tale of horror, I thank the gods of all the major religions that that isn’t me. I have done my time, and I don’t want to wipe anymore adorable little asses or fight over irrational things like cutting the sandwich in squares instead of triangles.

Now, if a child of mine says, “I think I am going to throw up,” I can scream back, “Don’t just stand there; do it in the toilet!”  If I make them turn off the television so we can go run an errand, they don’t throw a car at me. If no one wants to eat the fabulous Brussels sprouts I am making for dinner, then they don’t. What the fuck do I care? I like Brussels sprouts, dammit, and I am going to slice them thinly and sauté them in a good Spanish olive oil and dust them with Pecorino, and if the children don’t like it, then they don’t have to eat it. I know they aren’t going to starve. They also aren’t going to break down crying, turn their plates over their heads and collapse on the floor in a heap of kicks and flails. They can get up and make their own goddamn dinners, right after they get over their fear of knives and the toaster oven.

Mother of the Year

I just had a nasty little fight with my teenaged daughter. It was pretty ugly, ugly enough for my other daughter to ask us to stop. Now we are on different floors in the house. If I had an outbuilding to go to, or a job, or some errands, any excuse to leave the house, I would. But it’s cold and raining, much like the feeling I have in my heart, and I have nowhere to go and dinner to make. So I am staying here, seething.

The fight started as many do, over nothing. My younger daughter has a sore throat and didn’t want to go for dance class, opting instead to stay home and rest. My teenager likes it when we leave the house for dance class, as she gets to be alone for a few hours in the house, doing god knows what. Normally after school when we are all home, she hibernates in her bedroom with the iPad, emerging only for more snacks or the eventual call to join us for dinner. It’s not like she would even know we were here.

But no, she had to cop attitude about us being at home during her precious alone time.  She complained about us not leaving. She rudely demanded the upstairs bonus room in which to pretend we didn’t exist, and followed her demand with a couple of eat-shit glares and some heavy sighing. So I got pissed at her.  

The more appropriate response would have been to ignore the glares and the sighs, which is what I would normally do. After all, she is a teenager, and they are prone to eye rolling and sighing and selfish demands. Today, however, I just got irritated. Her sister didn’t feel well, and as usual, all the teen could think about was herself. I also couldn’t get past the alone time thing. I haven’t had alone time in fourteen years. Fuck her alone time.

I should have been the adult. I should have either let it go or made a mature comment about being understanding and sharing and accommodating other’s needs, but instead, I played it like a bratty adolescent, which I figured would be a language she could understand.  I met her on her level, and it wasn’t pretty.

I started by staying in the car long enough to give her a head start upstairs so I could just avoid her altogether. She knew what I was doing, however, and she waited in the kitchen for me to enter so we could continue what began in the car.

I set my things on the counter and watched as she made herself a cup of hot cocoa with four giant marshmallows. This is a child who demands a healthy smoothie for breakfast and a low carb lunch every day because she wants to continue to fit into her skinny jeans rather than maybe exercising or something. While she snuck a chocolate and peppermint cookie out of the pantry, I commented that I was through buying special foods for her if she insisted on eating crap every afternoon. I know, real mature. I was fully aware I wasn’t fighting fairly, but I didn’t care. Once I started, I couldn’t stop.

She whipped out the ultimate comeback: yes ma’am. She only ma’am’s me when she is angry because she knows it drives me nuts. I cleaned up the mess she made making her cocoa and called her a princess, adding she treated me like a servant who had to clean up after Her Majesty. She said if I didn’t act like a servant, she wouldn’t treat me like one. So I told her she wasn’t just being a spoiled little princess, she was acting like a bitch. She scowled at me with eye daggers.

She countered with my need to act like an adult, that I was a grown woman and she was just a fourteen year old child, that it was offensive that I would call her an expletive. I told her I was offended by how she treated the rest of us. Also, that if there was another word for how she was acting that was more accurate than bitch, I would have used it.

After exchanging more eat shit glares, she ate the last apple muffin, getting crumbs all over the floor before storming off for the upper floor.

Now she is indeed holed up in her room, her electric keyboard on the highest volume as she angrily bangs out Lana Del Ray songs and Ben Folds Five’s “Brick,” because she knows how much I hate both. It works since her bedroom is right above my office. My other daughter is dutifully working on a homework assignment that isn’t due for another month, scared to talk to either one of us.

I would not describe this as a shining moment in parenting.

I normally do the right thing when it comes to my girls, especially compared to what I endured as a child, including my teenage years. I didn’t call her a bitch. I told her she was acting like one. It doesn’t matter, though, because in her mind I did, and that is how she will remember this argument for the next twenty or more years. It isn’t so much a defining moment as it is a scarring one, and I am the one doing the scarring. Not good. No gold star for today.

The easiest way to fix this is to go upstairs and apologize. Of course, I am not ready to do that yet. Instead, I will continue to stew in my own passive aggressive angry juices, justified in blowing up at her because I do it so rarely, because she kind of deserved it, both the words and a little reminder that I am human too and want to be treated with respect. Except that if I act like a baby, do I deserve it?

Yep, today I suck at parent. I better go say I’m sorry, and while I’m at it, maybe drop a dollar or two in the therapy jar. It’s like a swear jar, only for the no doubt countless hours of counseling that she will require as an adult to undo the trauma I caused her during her formative years. I sure wish my mother had a therapy jar for me. Maybe I wouldn’t need one today for my own kids.

Did I just blame my mother? I believe so. I knew somehow this was all her fault.

Lassoing Babies at the Food Truck Rodeo

If you think it’s easy to feed a baby dinner in a parking lot, think again. Babies don’t understand how parking lots work. They don’t get the inherent danger in running free amongst two- to three-ton instruments of death. They don’t care much about table manners in general, so the idea of enforcing manners when there isn’t even a table is, well, you get the idea.

My friend MJ came to visit me a couple of weeks ago, and like a good mother should, she brought along her baby, KS, for the ride. KS is technically a toddler now. He is about thirty pounds of pure wide open boy, and neither MJ nor I have any idea how to control such a creature. She has another child, a twelve year old daughter, whose innate peace and femininity did nothing to prepare MJ for mothering the little cyclone she has swirling around her. No child proof door knobs can deter him. No baby gate can contain him. No stroller can subdue him. He has to explore everything he can see, reach, smell, or find, and he will find a way, no matter what obstacles the world puts in his way, damn it. He approaches life on tippy toes and upstretched arms.

We spent  the first part of our day shopping with an angry baby strapped in a stroller, trying to limit his access to fragile items on low shelves and high end garments on flimsy hangers. The second part we spent hoping he would nap while visiting a friend. KS was able to occupy himself by throwing fistfuls of dog food at our friend’s pooch, who was confused by the unusual method of feeding, but since he was not one to question such an opportunity,he went along with it. By the time dinner rolled around, we were too tired to think clearly. Babies take a lot of energy. I know young moms can handle it, but MJ and I are hardly that. I am now wondering how grandparents do it.

We were too tired to cook. We were too tired to go out. We didn’t feel like picking up. Then we remembered that neither of us had tried the new food truck in town, and immediately got excited. We looked online to find out where it was parked and to scan the menu. I quickly made a turkey and cheese sandwich for KS, grabbed him something to drink, and threw it all in a bag while MJ wrestled him into his shorts and shoes. Babies don’t like shoes and shorts. They like the barefoot bottomless look, which allows for freestyle bathroom habits and easy hose downs. We were trying for civilized, though, so KS lost the battle and howled his frustration from his POW car seat behind us as we drove in search of the food truck.

We found it parked conveniently in the lot of one of those local tap rooms, the kind where you bring your growler jugs back for refills, not exactly what you would call young child friendly.  MJ and I were excited to try the deep fried Brussels sprouts, the schnitzel sandwich, the banh mi, whatever had yet to sell out, so we left common sense in the car and got in line with KS, who immediately demanded to be put down so he could take off running across the parking lot. MJ ran after him and I ordered and paid for our food.

The modern day food truck craze is all about culinary creativity with low overhead; the food is great if you can overlook the ambiance of oil leak stains on parking spaces and car exhaust. Food trucks have been around forever (remember the Good Humor man?) but only recently have they come into their own as a source of really unique food.  If you are looking for a kid’s menu and some free packs of crackers to entertain your young progeny, however, you are probably better off at a national chain. We got our food and moseyed over to a patch of sidewalk, where we proceeded to dine out of our environmentally friendly takeout containers while keeping KS entertained with food so he wouldn’t run away again.

He had no interest in the sprouts. I guess he wasn’t a fan of the cider vinegar gastrique. He didn't care about the sandwiches. He did enjoy his sandwich and milk, and then he enjoyed open mouthing my water bottle and allowing his precious particles of food to float inside.

While MJ and I fought over the last Brussels sprout, KS took off to introduce himself to the puppy on the other side of the parking lot. And much to our surprise, a car came barreling out of nowhere to fly across the lot, right in the direction of the baby. Okay, that’s probably not how it went down, but it sure felt that way. Time stood still, but MJ demonstrated supermother reflexes and snatched him up before any harm could come to him, either from the canine or the car. She earned that last sprout.

The food was great. The baby wrangling was a bit of a downer. Next time, if there is indeed a next time, we will have to strongly consider eating in the car, like all the other hipster parents who had created a den atmosphere in the backs of their SUVs, movies playing on the built in DVD’s, organic cotton blankets on the floors. It was almost like a modern day drive in, only everyone was watching their own movie, and no one was dry humping.

Dinner in the parking lot was exhausting. Both MJ and her baby were out cold about a minute after we got home. Who can blame her, really? You try shoving food in your pie hole and corralling a toddler in a parking space at the same time.

Those Brussels sprouts were totally worth it.