I've Had It Up to Here with Teenagers (4 page)

Imagine a Middle Eastern peace summit where you and your offspring are invited to participate in negotiations. In this analogy, the parents are leaders of stable, well-respected, peaceful nations. They work well with fellow nations (other parents) in order to enforce agreed-upon curfews for the safety and benefit of all concerned. They genuinely want what is best for their people, the teenagers who live in their homes.

In direct contrast, teenagers are young, impetuous tyrants of small rogue nation-states. They are self-absorbed, unpredictable, and prone to tantrums and petty behavior. They are indifferent to the solvency of the family budget and happy to sacrifice long-term gains (money saved for college or family vacations) in exchange for short-term fun (money to pay for dinner and a movie tonight). If left unsupervised, teenagers will bankrupt their small fiefdoms in short order. They will stay up all night and sleep all day. They will eat nothing but junk food. Like their fellow tyrants in real life, if left unchecked, they will do only those things that give them pleasure. That means no schoolwork, no chores, and nothing for anyone else unless there is something in it for them. Teenagers believe that their actions should not be restricted in any way—certainly not by something as subjective and arbitrary as a curfew. Do these tyrants sound like anyone you know? I bet Kim Jong-il never had a curfew, and just look how he turned out.

The whole curfew discussion begins with the parties already divided into two extreme camps. One party takes the position that “curfews are stupid,” designed primarily to inflict further suffering on an already oppressed people. (Gag.) The opposition party is equally passionate about its platform: “Curfews save lives.” (Amen!)

For years and years of relatively smooth-sailing childhood, my kids followed my directives well. Life was good. If I said, “Let's go
swimming!” they fled down the hall to pull on their swimsuits, shedding their clothes along the way. If I said, “So sorry, the mall is closed today,” they didn't doubt my pronouncement for a moment—even if the parking lot was crammed full of holiday shoppers. They believed me, no matter what. That's the way God designed kids. It's very clever, when you think about it. I knew that if I shouted, “No!” or “Stop!” in an I-mean-business tone of voice, my children would respond immediately, no questions asked. It kept them safe on several occasions—when one more step would have sent my middle child into the marina, when my older son reached for a red-hot coal in the grill, when my daughter was just about to eat cat poop. God knew what he was doing when he built that listen-to-your-mama instinct right into their little brains.

I love how children look at your face for clues as to how they should react. Even when they hurt themselves, they check
your
face to see just how upset
they
should be. My first response was always, “You're okay!” with a big smile. It usually worked. I often saw moms rush over at the slightest skinned knee, and their kids reacted to every scrape as if it were an amputation. Kids read facial expressions well. It's one of the things that helps them live long enough to be teenagers. I think the last thing an angel tells a baby before sending her down to earth is, “Keep your eyes on the one with the breasts. She's your ticket to ride, okay?” I miss those times. I never thought I would when I was getting through each day hour by hour in a sleep-deprived fog, but I do. The grass is always greener, right?

When my children grew older, they began to question my omnipotence. This was perfectly normal for them and predictably unpleasant for me. I know that this is God's design, too, so that they can grow up to be independent people with minds of their own.
However, I'm not totally convinced God thought this part of the plan all the way through. I wish he'd checked with me first. I was quite fond of that blind obedience thing we had going on around here.

I liked being the most popular person on the planet when my kids were toddlers. If you asked my middle child, “Whom do you love best?” he always said, “Mom!” Now, he'd prefer that I wait in the car when we go somewhere together. One of my favorite things to do when my kids were babies was to walk down to the church nursery to pick them up after a service because they immediately abandoned whatever they were playing with and threw up their arms to be picked up as soon as they spotted my face. I can still see the smile curving around the edges of my younger son's pacifier. I loved that. It was the best feeling in the world. You can't tell me it isn't great to be loved so passionately that someone cries when you leave the room because it is.

Now, when I wake that same child in the morning by softly saying, “Morning, sweetie, it's time to get up,” the first thing he does is groan at me. That is usually followed by a roll-over in bed, an arm pulling the covers over his head, and a curt, “O
kay
, I'm up.” I miss being popular. I admit it. Nothing in the world is better than going in to pick up a baby first thing in the morning or after naptime. Babies are always glad to see you. They are always in a good mood. Even if they are burning up with fever, they still greet you with a big, drooling grin. They always want to be kissed and cuddled, and they are up for pretty much anything if you can do it with one hand while they are parked on your hip.

I was good with babies. Teenagers—not so much. I don't get many hugs anymore. Any I do receive are inevitably instigated by me while they stand there like martyrs tied to a stake. My boys
are significantly taller than I am. It's like hugging a tree trunk. Recently, when I was the rare recipient of a spontaneous hug from my seventeen-year-old, I got so excited I dropped the basket of chocolate-chip muffins in my hands. I was anxious to hug back while it was still on offer. It was totally worth the muffin loss.

My teenagers are ashamed to be seen with me. I'm just going to go ahead and say it. I don't know why! I try hard not to do anything that embarrasses them. I don't wear trendy clothes. I keep my remarks to a minimum when their friends are around. I voluntarily feed them and their friends and provide car service at all hours of the day and night. I love them with reckless abandon! How can they not like me? Other people like me. I have lots of friends. I do. I received my lowest popularity poll number the day I took a spill in the high-school parking lot. I went head over heels—a real tumble down a steep hill. I lifted my eyes to the hills from whence cometh my help just in time to see that my middle child had witnessed my unladylike wipeout. Two seconds later, I watched him laugh nervously, tuck his head, and run
toward
the school and
away
from me. That's right. He literally left me in the road to die. Well, okay, that's a slight exaggeration. I wasn't in danger of actually dying from anything except embarrassment, but that isn't the point! My feelings are still hurt. And yes, I plan to hold that against him until my dying day.

Teenagers want to talk about only the subjects of interest to them, and only when they are in the mood to vent. You can see how any discussion of curfews falls way, way down the list of topics of interest. Curfews cause friction (a nice school-counselor term for a big, ugly fight) between parents and teens. When pre-driving teens first get a taste of independence, they are free within certain parameters—a few blocks of the neighborhood, usually. It
was a big deal around here when our kids were old enough to walk to the community pool, to the library, home from school, and to the candy shop or pizza joint. (Yeah, I really do live in a Mayberry-like community with great public schools and sidewalks, and yes, I know how lucky I am.) The first curfew was dinnertime or thereabouts—sometime before dark. In the next step toward independence, my kids met their friends in neighborhood restaurants to socialize and headed home about nine or ten. My fifteen-year-old is now six-foot-one and 175 pounds. I have cautioned him repeatedly about waiting until the last minute and then running home to make his curfew. It is only a matter of time before some little old lady spies him streaking through her front yard and calls the police.

Before I shed the last of the baby weight, however, my little terrors were driving themselves, and then the curfew discussions got dicey. When they added dating to that mix, things became really interesting. When my seventeen-year-old goes out on a Friday or Saturday night, the conversation runs something like this:

“Mom, I'm going over to So-and-so's house. Where's my blue button-down? Is it ironed?”

“Your shirt is in your closet. Would you like to rephrase that first part, son?”

“What? What do you mean? I'm late! I still need to shave!”

“Ma'am?” I prompt. “You meant
ma'am
, right?”

“
Ma'am
?” Sarcastic tone and a teenage eye roll here. The tone is civil, but barely.

I take a deep breath and give my kid a hard look over the top of my reading glasses. “Did you just ask me a question? If you did, I missed it,” I say in my calmest, best passive-aggressive mama voice.

This is about the time in the dialogue for a big, dramatic sigh
from my teenager. “
Fine
. Mom,
may
I go to So-and-so's house tonight?”

“Sure. Who's going to be there?”

“I don't know! Just some guys!”

“Which guys? Is So-and-so”—a known troublemaker—“going to be there? Are the parents going to be home?”

“I don't know! Why are you asking me all these questions? You're like the Gestapo!”

“I need that information if you want to go, please. Any girls going, too?”

“What difference does that make? It's not a dating thing! We're just hanging out.”

“I think that's great, but I still need to know those things before you leave. Text and find out, please.”

“Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything, Mom? Nobody else's parents do. You make me feel like the biggest geek in America.”

“Sorry. I like geeks. They usually do rather well when they grow up. Some of the most successful people in history started out as geeks and ended up changing the world. Bill Gates, for example. Remember that. You should be nice to geeks. One day, you'll be glad you were.”

“Why do you always start these weird conversations, Mom? I don't care about geeks! I just want to go to So-and-so's house, and you turn it into a parenting moment. Can I go now?”

“Absolutely. Quick review: what time is your curfew?”

“Eleven. You don't have to tell me every time. I'm not an idiot. It's not like I'm going to forget, since I'll be the first one who has to leave. All my friends have later curfews than I do. Jack doesn't even have a curfew.”

“You know perfectly well that's because Jack doesn't have any
parenting at all. Nobody cares whether Jack comes home at night or not. Think about that for a minute. And tell him he can spend the night here if he wants to.”

“ 'kay.”

“This does not mean that you call me at eleven to tell me you are on your way. It does not mean eleven-fifteen. It means that you are in this house where I can see you, smell your breath, and ask about your evening when the clock strikes eleven, Cinderella. Got it?”

“Cinderella's curfew was
twelve
, but yes, ma'am, I got it. Can I go now?”

“That means you leave at quarter 'til. Understand? I do not want you to wait until the last minute and then have to rush home. It's not worth it. Leave yourself plenty of time. All kinds of stupid, drunk people are out there driving. And wear your seatbelt, okay?”

“Okay. I always wear my seatbelt. You know that.”

“I do know that, but I'm afraid that the one time I don't remind you will be the time you forget.”

“You know you're a little bit weird, don't you, Mom?”

“I do, actually. Have fun, son. Love you.”

“Loveyoutoobye.”

Each year of high school, my kids get little-bit-later curfews. There is a direct correlation between my kids' curfews and the dark circles under my eyes. I thought that when my children finally slept through the night as babies, I was never going to have to stay up all night again. Boy, was I ever naïve. Once you have teenagers, it's back to life as a sleep-deprived zombie. They stay out late and come home excited to tell you all the latest gossip. You stay awake or doze in bed or on the sofa so that you can examine their faces and check for damage to body, heart, or soul when they
come in. And then, while they sleep late the next morning, you get up to go to work or do the regular errand-running of life. Once that pregnancy test comes back positive, you can pretty much kiss eight hours a night goodbye. (As an interesting aside, I just read that lack of sleep causes weight gain—like I needed another thing to be mad at teenagers about.)

Of course, if you set a curfew, you know what is going to happen, don't you? It's as inevitable as teenage acne. Somebody is going to feel compelled to break that curfew, which results in consequences—a whole different chapter I'll get to in a minute. We have a standard rule here for minor infractions: every minute that you are late costs you that amount of time the next night out. It's simple and easy to calculate. For major violations, I've been known to respond more creatively. The more overdue the kid is, the longer I've had to worry and stew, and the more stringent my responses become.

I'm not the only clock-watching mama in the world either. I have several mean-mama friends. I am comforted by that. There is strength in numbers, you know. In fact, one of my friends is even more suspicious than I am about what our kids are up to. I was a goody-goody in high school. She was not. Over the years, she has solved teenage crimes that would have baffled me. She's clever like that. She once told me that she thought she could commit the perfect crime. She was at least half-serious. She meant the planning, I think. She's not big on blood. She's creative, like me. You don't want to blow off your curfew with creative mean mamas like us. We're going to make you suffer for every single one of those minutes we spend walking the floor and worrying about the ETA of your little butt.