Marketing 101

The tween is actively looking for work. Unlike her sister, who has been perfecting her role as a sloth and does in fact think money grows on trees, S has been thinking of ways to earn some money. She resolved to drum up some babysitting gigs, and asked if I would help her.

Yesterday, she pulled out her babysitting manual (yes, she is that anal, and yes, I know where she gets it from) and went to work creating a strategy. She spent a few hours last night working on a resume, which is not the easiest thing to do when you are twelve, or forty-five, for that matter.  I might hire her to work on mine, if I wasn’t so busy harvesting the money off the trees and providing a good sloth role model for my teen. She took another hour to make a flyer, adding way too much clip art, which is how you know a twelve year old girl made it.

After creating her marketing materials, S wanted to hand them out today. I told her I thought it would be better to walk the neighborhood to look for her target demographic then just sticking them in everyone’s mailbox. The truth is, we live in a maturing neighborhood, one without too many young children, and I didn’t think all the teens and adults and potential sex offenders needed my daughter’s email and phone number. I felt it would be more effective to walk instead of driving so we could pay attention to each house and how to tell what families might actually need a baby sitter. Also, we only printed twenty flyers in color, and I wasn’t about to waste them on people who don’t even have children.

We started out with a stack of flyers and began walking away from the house. I decided our walk could be a teaching opportunity, building on what she already learned yesterday with her desktop publishing. “Tell me what you are looking for.” I said to her as we walked.

“Houses with swing sets or toys in the yard,” S said.

“That’s a good place to start,” I said. “Check cars too, for stickers. Look for activities or preschool magnets. High school stickers let you know that family doesn’t need a babysitter.”

We saw a few houses with swing sets and those little pink jeeps that are all the rage in the under-five category. She opened those mailboxes and stuck in a flyer.

“These people are probably out of town. See that stack of mail?” I said to her. I tried to eyeball the post, looking for Pottery Barn Kids or Hearthsong catalogs, but decided actually going through the mail might be some sort of violation of federal law.

We walked on, and S noticed that a few houses had a bunch of SUV’s with monogrammed stickers parked outside.

“Those are probably teenagers, because they have girly stickers and aren’t in a garage,” she said.

“Good. And see that house? How long do you think they have been out of town?” I pointed to one with a pile of newspapers in the driveway.

“Hmm, looks like four days,” she said.

“I think you’re right. Don’t forget to look inside open garages, too, for clues. Look for small bikes or toys or those plastic cars.”

We continued to walk, and our observation of the houses intensified.

“Those people are doing some holiday shopping. See all the boxes on the front step?” S pointed out a house with lots of packages. “And those people look like they really enjoy boating. They even have a couple of tubes on top of their boat. Ooh, and those people must have just moved in. All those boxes.” She was really getting into it now.

As we walked along, it occurred to me that I didn’t just help S figure out where to leave her babysitting flyers. I taught her how to case the neighborhood. We knew who had young kids and whose were older. We knew which houses were vacant. We knew who was out of town and who had company. We knew who left their garage doors open and who had dogs and cats. It’s pretty amazing how much you can learn about your neighbors just by paying attention during a little stroll around the block.

“Well, if you don’t get any calls to babysit, at least you learned how to find potential houses to rob. So there’s that,” I said to her.

We stopped in front of our own house to examine a large hunk of dead tree trunk that must have fallen over some time over the past few weeks.  We don’t spend much time checking out our own front yard, so it was kind of curious to see a hollowed out tree lying across it.

“No one would stop to rob us,” S said. “Our yard is a mess. Look at it. Half a tree trunk. Leaves everywhere, and dead bushes that need to be dug up. And the grass is a weird beige color, and it isn’t even winter yet.  Clearly we don’t have enough money to hire someone to clean up this crap.”

“Very observant of you,” I said.

By the time we walked inside, S had received her first response to her ad. It was from a man who wanted her to dog sit over the holidays. Nowhere on the ad did she mention anything about pet sitting, and since she isn’t really all that comfortable or experienced with dogs, she told him no. I was proud of her for knowing her limitations.

If she doesn’t get any more calls, we might have to take another walk around. Only next time, we will be looking for unlocked cars and lots of store bags or shipping boxes. Maybe we can practice hotwiring some golf carts or something. Or maybe I can just pay her to clean up the dead tree trunk and rake the leaves and spare her a life of crime.

Anyway, if you are looking for a babysitter, just let me know. She’s Red Cross certified, and she knows where you live.

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?

On the Contrary

When my teenager, E, was a toddler, she used to like to play a game we called “dis or dis?” Basically, she would carry a random object in each hand, walk up to someone, and say, “You want dis or dis?” while holding out each hand. The player would indicate which object was preferred, and E would thrust out her other hand and shriek, “No, you want dis!” She could play it for hours, and no matter how many different choices you made, they were always the wrong ones.

Today is E’s fifteenth birthday, and she still plays a version of her favorite childhood game. This morning’s edition involved E’s desire to dress up for Cowboy/Farmer/Redneck day at school. I don’t which was the actual theme, because E changed it every time she asked for help in finding appropriate accessories.

Her high school is celebrating spirit week, and E has mixed feelings about the whole thing. She wants to participate, since there is incentive to do so, usually in the form of extra credit points. But it comes at a cost, the potential to embarrass oneself. The school has a special event every night, special lunch food at the cafeteria sponsored by a variety of local restaurants, and even cupcakes and cookies for sale, made by a bunch of Pinterest loving teachers.  Money is collected in many of the classes, all for some sort of charity donation that E has yet to tell us. Also, every day has a dress-up theme, and while a bunch of kids really get into it, E prefers a more understated approach.

So this is how the game went today:

E (over breakfast, this morning, a half hour before she has to leave for school): Mom, I need some cowboy clothes for school today.

Me (still cooking her special birthday breakfast of turkey bacon and pumpkin spice-vanilla French toast): Sure, I can dig something out for you in a minute.

After breakfast was ready, I went to the guest room closet, the black hole of all things without a permanent home. Mostly it stores things like extra blankets and pillows, old Halloween costumes, gift boxes, and even the few stuffed animals and yearbooks I saved from my childhood bedroom. It also contains a few things that belonged to my late grandfather, Pop-pop.

Pop-pop fancied himself a cowboy. He didn’t grow up on a farm, he didn’t own a ranch; he was just a Jew from Baltimore who worked in sales. At some point in his adult life, however, he decided even if he wasn’t from the Old West, he could still look like it. He began wearing only western wear, which he continued until he passed away. Cowboy boots, tooled leather belts, scarf ties, pearly snapped shirts, and always a stiff cowboy hat, felt in the winter, straw in the summer.  He kept a horse at his friend’s house in Chicago when he moved nearby, and he loved to ride, more than anything else, except maybe a tall Jack Daniels and a nice pair of knockers. When he died, he left behind that collection of hats and belts and boots, and my sisters and I each kept a couple for ourselves, either to wear, or just because they were his.

At 7:30 this morning, I was in that closet, digging through the boxes until I found some belts and two pairs of boots, both snakeskin, one cordovan, the other a flashy red and black. I brought the boots out to show E.

Me: Look what I found!

E: I can’t wear those.

Me: Why not? Pops had small feet.

E: I will just wear my new boots.

Me: But your new boots aren’t Western.

E: Well, they still look like riding boots. Close enough. Anyway, I have boots. I really just need a hat.

Me: Why didn’t you say so?

I walked back to the guest room and continued to dig through the closet until I found a slightly crushed square Stetson box. Inside was a lightly stained grey felt hat and a pale straw hat with a dent in it. Pop-pop would have been really pissed at the condition of his hats.

I took the hats into the kitchen where E was sopping up the rest of the maple syrup with the last bite of French toast.

Me: Winter or summer?

E: Um, those are big.

Me: Of course they’re big. They’re real cowboy hats, not those fake things they sell at Target.

E: I can’t wear hats to school.

Me: Then why did you send me in the other room to look for a hat if you can’t even wear it?

E: I hoped you had one with a string around it that I could just hang on my back.

Me: Cowboy hats don’t have strings on them.  I found some belts too. I can go get those for you.

I rushed back to the closet, grabbed the handful of scarf ties and belts I found, and brought them back to the kitchen.

Me: What about these?

E: I don’t wear belts. Don’t worry about it.

Me: I am not worried about it, but I literally just produced an entire Western outfit for you, at your request, and you don’t want any of it.

E: I guess I’m just not comfortable wearing a dead man’s clothes.

Me:  It’s not like he died in these actual clothes!

E: It creeps me out. But thanks for trying.

I put everything back in the guest room, on the floor, since I am pretty sure it will take hours for me to Jenga that closet back together. Then I went upstairs to my other daughter’s bedroom. In her closet, from an old camp costume, was a small straw cowboy hat with a neck string. I took it into E’s bedroom and handed it to her.

E: Thanks, Mom. It’s perfect.

Me: Next time you want something exact, like a cowboy hat with a neck string, do me a favor and tell me. It would save me a lot of time and frustration.

She has managed to take her favorite childhood game and turn it into a more complex and narcissistic teenaged version.  And she is the master.

Happy birthday to my first born, my sweet baby girl. I know she isn’t reading this yet, but one day she will, and hopefully she will see the humor and joy and love she brings me every day, in her own special way. She is worth all of it.