Monday, January 30, 2017

A Sad Cookie Story

The other day, I was having a major Girl Scout cookie craving at work.  Unfortunately, there were no boxes of Girl Scout cookies anywhere near my cube. However, I knew, because I had bought them myself, that we had a box of Tagalogs at the house.  I drove home obsessing about how good that delicious creamy peanut butter and crunchy cookie covered in chocolate was going to taste after a long hard day in the cubicle.

I walked in the door, mouth watering in anticipation, and opened the door to the pantry, expecting to see that red Tagalongs box sitting on the shelf. 

Alas, the box was gone.  I stared at the shelf in utter disbelief.

What happened to the Tagalongs? I asked, indignantly. We had a whole box! Where did it go?

We have other cookies, the Dad of No said, trying to be helpful.  There's some Nilla Wafers in there.

I have nothing against Nilla Wafers; they taste lovely in banana pudding. However, no one sits in their cubicle at work, thinking, you know what, I really wish I had some Nilla Wafers right now.  I don't think I have ever had a Nilla Wafer craving.  Tagalongs, on the other hand...

The Son of Never Stops Eating wandered into the kitchen. I ate those cookies, he said. I ate all of them. They were delicious! We need to get more!

This is what it is like to be living in a house with teenagers.  If it is delicious, or chocolate, or sweet, or if it is any kind of potato chips, or salty, or covered in butter, or really, if it is at all edible and it is not tofu or raw carrot sticks, it has to be hidden or it will be consumed within minutes of purchase. 

Later, I was sitting at the kitchen table eating some Hershey's Kisses from a secret stash I had hidden away from teenager eyes and stomachs.  The Son of Never Stops Eating came over and stood next to me, looking at the table.

Son: Where did you get those?
Me:  From my secret stash.
Son: Where is it?
Me:  You think I'm telling you where my secret stash is? You'll eat everything in it!
Son:  Starts giggling uncontrollably.

Leaving Girl Scout cookies unguarded in the pantry is a bad idea. Going to the grocery store with teenagers is also a bad idea.  When I take teenagers to the store, I am constantly getting hit up for food that was not on the shopping list, like frosted sugar cookies, chips, chocolate yogurt (at least I can tell myself that might have some redeeming nutritional value, since it is called "yogurt"),  vegetable straws (they at least have the word "vegetable" on the package) that are needed as "study food" (how can a mother say no to "study food"?) and all kinds of other snacks.

This stuff is not for me, I tell the cashier.  I point to whichever teenager happens to be with me. It's for them.  The cashier usually just smiles and tells me how much cash to fork over.

Last weekend, we had to make a run to the home improvement big box store to buy a vacuum cleaner (exciting, I know).  If they are selling Girl Scout cookies in front of the store, I told the Dad of No, I'm buying a bunch. They were, and  I bought every box of Tagalongs they had. When I got home, we hid some in a secret hiding place before the Son of Never Stops Eating was aware of their presence.

No, I'm not telling anyone where that hiding place is. My teenagers read this blog.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Just a Teenager

I belong to a book club that is very loosely organized.  We meet at Starbucks, we rotate the responsibility of choosing books, we read whatever sounds good to the current decider*, we meet when we are finished with the book, and then we spend about ten minutes talking about the book and two hours talking about everything else.  It works out really well.

Recently, one of the other participants suggested bringing the Teenager along, so I invited her.  She likes Starbucks, so she readily agreed to come providing that I forked over the big bucks for the venti hot chocolate.

As I parked the car, she said, "I probably won't say very much.  After all, I'm just a teenager".

She was missing the entire point of the book club, which is to talk (and, ok, I'll admit it- to drink coffee).  We wanted her to talk. That was why we had invited her.  I love talking to teenagers.  If I had to decide between spending four hours with a group of toddlers or a group of teenagers, I would pick the teenagers every time.  I enjoy talking to most teenagers more than I like talking to some adults. Sometimes I don't get everything they're saying- I'm not exactly fluent in teenager- but I still enjoy listening to them.

When little kids start talking, it's usually cute and sometimes insightful, and they don't always get the words quite right because they're just learning, and sometimes they talk all the time and ask "why?" fifty times a day and you go hide in the bathroom just to get a break.  Then the little kids become teenagers, and all of a sudden they stop talking and start staring at the screens on their phones.  Adults complain about how the teenagers never talk to them, but when they do talk, then we tell them "you don't really know anything yet; you're just a teenager", or "wait until you grow up, and then you'll really have something to complain about, because you're just a teenager", or "you think that now, but wait until you have to start paying your own bills and then you'll change your mind, because you're just a teenager".

Recently, I saw an article someone posted on Facebook about how young millennials aren't very involved in civic life.  Perhaps one reason is because they still have "well, you're just a teenager, what do you know?" ringing in their ears. 

Sometimes, teenagers have a way of bringing up uncomfortable subjects, like the time that the Teenager informed me that her generation is really annoyed with the rest of us, because we are leaving them a big mess to clean up.  Ouch.  I suspect that I felt the same way when I was a teenager, although that was a long time ago.  Looking around at the world right now, I can see why adolescents might feel a little resentment towards their elders. 

I'm not saying that the teenagers are always right, or that I am not guilty of the "you might feel a bit differently when you're older" answer myself, but I also remember the feeling of dismissal that I got from my own elders, back in the prehistoric cave days when I was a teenager and I would say that when I had my own cave, I was going to use another kind of firewood or paint different animals on the walls** and the adults would all roll their eyes and tell me to go off and do the cave chores.

So, to the Teenager: you are not just a teenager.  I may not always agree with you, or think that you're right, but I still want to hear what you have to say- or read what you have to text.


*  If you're wondering what we are currently reading, it's "The Underground Railroad" by Colson Whitehead. My selection.

**I'm not really that old.  I was a teenager in the 1980's. But some days it feels like I'm a lot older.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Basketball

Several years ago, the Teenager tried her hand at basketball.  She was a decent player, but she decided after a few seasons that basketball wasn't for her and that was the end of her basketball career.  While she was playing, however, the Son of Never Stops Eating and I would go watch the games.  He would cover his ears and wince in pain at the sound of the ball being dribbled on the gym floor.  The Grandfather of No went to an industrial supply store and purchased a pair of industrial strength noise cancelling phones, solving that problem.

We tried various sports with the Son of Never Stops Eating- an early attempt at soccer had me running around the playing field trying to catch him as he ran around laughing. Baseball was slightly more successful; bowling was a miserable failure (too noisy in the bowling alley).  Swimming turned out to be a great success, but the season was limited to the summer.

Finally, last fall, we decided to try basketball again. He had played some basketball in school and in a Buddy Sports league, so he had some skills.  However, we were going to up the game on him: a basketball team, playing against other basketball teams, in the local Special Olympics league. 

I want to think about it, he said, when we suggested it.  The next day, he agreed. We went to tryouts.  He was placed on a team.  He started practice.

Then someone stole my kid and put a basketball fanatic in his place.

I honestly have a love-hate relationship with organized kids' sports.  I was proud of the Teenager when she was placed on a summer softball All-Stars team, and then I sat in the blazing summer heat feeling guilty because I really wanted her team to lose the game so that we could all go home and sit in the air conditioning.  When she'd finally stopped playing softball, I had been sad and glad at the same time.

Now, apparently, I was going to be a basketball mom.  Bring it on.

Right before Christmas, the Son of Never Stops Eating made it known that he'd like to have his own basketball.  I had been telling everyone for weeks that the shopping was done, the wrapping was done, and if there was something else you wanted you could just suck it up and wait until Christmas 2017.  Yet here I was in Academy Sports three days before Christmas, perusing the basketball section, still in disbelief that he had actually requested something that was not Legos. 

He was thrilled with the basketball.  He took it with him when we went to visit the Grandparents of No after Christmas, and dribbled up and down their driveway.  He played basketball with his cousins.  He tried to shoot baskets from far away.  The Grandpa of No told him that if he broke anything, he was paying for it, and not to wake up his grandmother. 

He can't wait for his first game.

Unlike softball, which I know nothing about, and marching band, which I also know nothing about, I do know something about basketball.  One day, I was outside with the basketball fanatic, shooting hoops and feeling confident in my skills.  We were playing some basketball! I blocked him! he blocked me! I stole the ball! I dribbled towards the goal! I made my shot!.....and it bounced off the rim and into someone's yard.

The Son of Never Stops Eating stood there, shaking his head, and finally sighed deeply.

Mom, he said, your skills need some work.

Then he made a shot, which went in without even touching the rim.

Yes, I am a basketball mom. 

Friday, January 13, 2017

It's OK to say NO!

You know who is really, really good at saying "NO"?

Toddlers.  Toddlers are fantastic at saying "NO".  Sometimes they even say "NO" when they really mean "YES", just because it's one of the first words they learn and what could possibly be more fun when you are two years old than running around the house half-naked yelling "NO! NO!" while your mother tries to get you to put on your shoes and socks, or brush your teeth? When toddlers use "no", they often get a reaction, and there is not much, besides maybe cookies and going to the park, that toddlers like better than watching adults' reactions to things they do and say.

You know who is not good at saying "NO"?

Grown-up women.

I've noticed that one of the biggest angst-causing issues among the grown up women I know is the reluctance to use the word "no".  When we do get up the courage to say "no", we feel compelled to add explanations to our "no", so that we're not disappointing the person that we're saying no to, or sounding like a slacker, and then we feel guilty about saying "no". "Yes" is the always the default response; "No" always requires a justification.  Some reasons are socially allowable (sick children, working spouse) and some, not so much (ever tried "no, I don't want to", or "I just want to stay home and read Game of Thrones"?) . 

Do you ever get roped into stuff that you didn't really want to do because you didn't want to say "no", and then you spent the entire time thinking about other stuff you would rather have been doing (or not doing), but you felt like if you said "no" you would be letting someone down, or possibly missing out on something, or you didn't feel like you had a good reason to say no?  Me too.

It took me a long time to figure out that I could say no to things, and that I didn't owe anyone an explanation for why I was saying no.  Would I like to be in charge of the craft table at the church picnic? No, I would not. (No one in their right mind would actually ask me this question, given my ineptitude at projects requiring glitter and glue; it's just an example). Would I like the black pants that go with the shirt I'm buying? No, but thank you for asking.  A justification is not required; the saleslady does not need a detailed explanation of the Household of No's clothing budget. 

The perceived requirement to say "yes" to everything gets really bad when you have kids in school, because almost every activity your family is involved in requires volunteers, and the pressure can be strong to volunteer for everything, especially for Mom. When my kids were younger, I frequently felt like I might actually be an unwitting participant in a competitive reality show called "Who is the Best Volunteer Mom".  I did not win, in case you are wondering.  Not even close.

I know volunteering is important, and I absolutely believe that people should be involved in their community, but saying "yes" to everything will make you feel burned out and resentful. Sometimes, we have to get up the guts to say "Yes!"; sometimes we need to get up the guts to say "No".  Say yes to what calls you (band concession stand, anything involving iNaturalist, or guiding hikes at the nature preserve- YES!, anything involving glue guns, the unpaid use of Excel spreadsheets to keep track of other peoples' money, or the words "fashion show", probably not, but thanks for asking).  Figure out what your priorities are, and say no to the other things.

The good news is, hope exists.  The older and crankier I get, the more comfortable I feel using the word "no".  It's as if I'm rediscovering my inner toddler, just with a bit more restraint.  Just remember: it's okay to say no. You don't have to explain the no (unless you want to).  Game of Thrones is calling your name. 


Friday, January 6, 2017

Uphill Both Ways

The other day, the Teenager registered for the SAT.

As a middle aged person who grew up pre-internet, back in the olden days when kids walked to school even when it was pouring rain outside and there were three channels on TV (maybe four) instead of hundreds, sometimes I'm tempted to pull out that old line about "back in my day, we had to walk uphill both ways in the snow for miles to get to school" when the Teenager or the Son of Never Stops Eating complains about some aspect of life they find frustrating.

In this case, however, I'd have to say the complaints are justified.

I took the SAT many, many years ago.  When I took the SAT, big hair was in, I was absolutely convinced a Duran Duran band member was going to show up at my house and ask my father for my hand in marriage, and neon was a hot fashion statement.  This is what I remember about signing up to take the SAT:

1.  I filled out a paper form with a writing implement.
2.  My mother wrote a check for the fee.
3.  We sent it in through the U.S. Postal Service.
4.  I went and took the exam.

The Teenager sat down at the family computer, and pulled up the SAT website.  Be aware, the website instructed, the process will take about forty-five minutes.  Forty-five minutes to register for a test? We looked at each other in dismay. Apparently registering for the SAT requires much information, including the name of your second grade PE instructor, your paternal grandfather's blood type, and a copy of your dental records*.  The Teenager started to express frustration at the information she was being asked to provide, much of which was requested in a somewhat nebulous way.  Perhaps that was actually part of the testing process. 

I wasn't required to provide that much information about myself the last time I bought a car. These SAT people take this testing stuff seriously. 

The Teenager muttered and mumbled her way through the registration process, occasionally stopping to ask me a question that I did not know the answer to 100% of the time.  I sat and observed her, while thinking to myself that this is good practice for adulthood.  It's your first introduction to mandatory paperwork (maybe I should say data entry) that seemingly makes no sense. 

We were asked questions about additional items that we might want to purchase.  Seriously?  I just want the Teenager to take the test.  I definitely didn't remember being asked if I wanted all that extra stuff back in 1986. Even if I had been, I grew up in the Household of Frugal so my mother would have said "no".  As the Mom of No, I said "no" as well.  I'm still not sure what we said "no" to. I hope we didn't say "no" to anything important.  I guess we'll find out.

Right before we were asked for payment, the Teenager was asked to upload a photo.  The photo had requirements, which the Teenager studied carefully.  Apparently a state-issued learner's permit is not enough ID for the SAT; your picture also goes on your entry ticket.  This precipitated some selfie-taking, some uploading to Facebook, and some other technical maneuvers to get the photo where it needed to go.  I sat and observed placidly while the Teenager expressed annoyance and irritation at the process.  Today, registering for the SAT.  Tomorrow, filing your first 1040.  My baby is growing up.

Finally, we got to the payment page.  We had successfully registered for the SAT!  Instead of writing a check, I entered my credit card number and the Teenager clicked "Submit payment".  We both sighed with relief. 

What about the ACT? I asked her.  Do you want to go ahead and sign up for that, too?

She looked at me with horror.  I think I'll wait a few days, she said.  I think this was enough for one night.  She fled from the room.

Yes, we are definitely now on the roller coaster ride that is graduating from high school and applying for college.  Rumor has it that the rest of the process is just as exciting (and here, I am being the Mom of Sarcasm). 


*Just kidding about the dental records.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

Memories

Recently I experienced a spell of temporary craziness known as "it is time to declutter and organize my wardrobe".  The goal of this project is always the same: to assess every item of apparel I own and ruthlessly sort out the good from the bad, then expel the bad from my home forever.   This project always appears simple during the planning stages. I envision inspirational music playing in the background as I start my day by easily picking out a coordinated outfit for the day from my well-organized and clutter-free closet, and then go forth to conquer the world, no longer earth-bound by excess clothing items. 

In real life, it does not work like this. I encounter various roadblocks in my wardrobe culling: This will fit if I lose 10 pounds.  I might need this if I go to the Opera some day.  One can never own too many t-shirts.  

The hardest reason to overcome: My mom bought this for me so I can't get rid of it.

Even once I became a real adult, complete with a mortgage and dependents on my income tax return, and was completely able to buy my own clothes, my mother would, from time to time, buy me a shirt or a pair of holiday-themed socks and send it to me. She'd usually include a note that said something like "I found this on sale and I thought it would look good on you but don't feel obligated to wear it".  Most of those items eventually found their way to the Goodwill basket (even I know that I will never need another maternity jumper, ever) but I still have several Mom-selected items hanging in the closet or in my sock drawer and I cannot bear to part with them.

Recently, the tables were turned on me in regards to buying clothes. I e-mailed the Grandpa of No to ask him what he thought my mother would like for Christmas.  Let me think about it, he replied.  A couple of days later, he e-mailed me.  She needs clothes. A new nightgown, or a sweatshirt. Blue is a good color.  It felt odd, buying clothes for my mother. If it had been something extravagant or special, it wouldn't have felt weird, but these were utilitarian items.  I was buying her a nightgown because she couldn't buy one for herself anymore.

My mother has Alzheimer's.  She has no idea that it's Christmas, let alone that she would want a gift, or what she would like that gift to be.  Her birthday is right after Christmas. As I completed my shopping, I stood in the card aisle of the store, trying to decide if I should get her a card to go along with the gifts (one nightgown, for Christmas; one sweatshirt, for her birthday).  What kind of card would she like? Flowers? Cake? Kittens? I couldn't find one that seemed appropriate.

In the end I opted not to get a card at all.  When I saw how she struggled to open the wrapping on her Christmas gift, requiring the assistance of the Son of Never Stops Eating (Mom, how come Grandma doesn't even know how to open a present?), I knew I'd made the right choice.

That's why I can't get rid of the shirts that she bought me, even though I suspect I may never wear some of them again.  It's for the same reason I sometimes run my hand slowly over the quilts that she made me, years ago, and think about the hours and labor and mental planning that my mother put into her quilts.  When I see the clothes she bought me hanging in my closet, I think about how she had stood in the aisle of a store, looking at a shirt or a cardigan (or for several months back in 2000 and 2002- maternity clothes) and wondered, should I buy this and send it to my daughter? Will she like the color? The style? Will it fit? I remember the way she was, not the way she is now, and just for a minute she is there with me.  These clothes, like her quilts, are remnants of the way she used to be, and in my closet they will stay.