Major (In)Decisions

by Judy Merrill Larsen

You know, when I think about it, I have no clue what most jobs entail. I mean, okay, a heart surgeon probably operates on hearts (I do watch Grey's Anatomy after all.). I'd guess a ditch digger spends most of his or her time digging ditches.

When I went to college, I quickly became an English major. It meant I could read books (one of my favorite things to do) and write (another favorite thing to do). I gave very little thought to what I "would do with it." Much to my father's dismay. I still have no real idea what an English major does . . . for a living wage, anyway.

Near the end of my junior year, I called my folks and braced myself. I'd decided to double major by also getting a degree in secondary education. I worried that they'd be upset that it was going to take an extra semester and summer school. They were so thrilled that I'd be employable that the extra money never mattered. Teaching is sorta like heart surgery in that most people have a general sense for what the job entails (until you're actually in the classroom and facing those kids for the first time. Then you think, holy moly, what did I get myself into?).

This is on my mind because my younger son recently informed me that he's probably changing his major and he wondered what he should switch to. And even though I sent him an e-mail full of suggestions (mostly culled from his college's website of "available majors"), I have no idea what to suggest for him and he's at somewhat of a loss too.

Because, other than some very specific majors, we have no real sense of what jobs any given major will lead to. I mean, take "Business" for example. What does that mean? (Other, of course, something I'd have no interest in.) Or Poli Sci? (I mean he's never going to run for office.) Geography?

And even more confusing, when he thinks of a job he might want, no specific major screams out at us. Wouldn't it be nice to go back to the days of education for education's sake? When the idea was to learn things, to broaden your mind, and become a thoughtful thinker? Then, you would go and apply for a job and simply having the diploma was what mattered.

But no, now kids practically are supposed to decide in middle school. And start preparing right then and there. Am I the only one who thinks it's a little depressing that high school kids have to use their summers to pad their resumes rather than work on their tans? (Hmm, I can hear you muttering, Well, Miss-Not-Mother-of-the-Year, maybe your son wouldn't be in this quandry if he'd done something other than work at pizza parlors all through high school.)

But I'm still a big believer in kids being kids. In kids having enough free time to get bored and figure out what to do about it (hopefully without involving drugs and alcohol. Oh, and sex.).

Is it just me? And my sweet, hardworking, but slightly unfocused kid?

We're leaning to general business, but not with much excitement. And that makes me sad.

Ideas, anyone? Anybody out there have the answer? Anyone? Bueller?

"Mom" is Not Another Word for "Friend"

By Melanie Lynne Hauser

I’ve been trying to catch up with my younger son, the one still in high school. For one more year. Then he'll be gone. Then I'll cry. A lot.

Anyway, while he's still here, I thought I'd, you know - talk to him. (I know, I know - what was I thinking?!) But he's so busy this senior year, and I'm busy, and my husband's busy, and it’s all good. Because if I wasn’t busy right now I’d be drinking.

However. Being busy means I’m worried that I’m not on my game, as a mom. So the other day, I did the unthinkable. I asked my son a question or two about his day.

Oh, the horror!

We had a little showdown about this. I asked — one too many times, it seemed — how school had been. I inquired about homework. I asked about his friends.

I received one-syllable answers to my questions, but I persisted anyway, looking for signs of drug use, alcohol consumption, tobacco stains on his fingers. There were none of these — thank God! — and I didn’t think there would be, but as a parent of teenagers I’m constantly told by the media & high school counselors that these things WILL happen to my children. Even though my children are the geekiest of the geeky, the nerdiest of the nerdy; computer & videogame & anime savants who still like to play “Cranium” with their friends on Saturday nights. Doesn’t matter. I’m told that all teenagers turn into drug abusers at some time in their lives. I, as a mother, am naturally anxious about this.

So I ask questions. So sue me.

My son got a little exasperated with me the other evening, though. I explained that lately, even though we’re all in the same house, I miss him. I miss him telling me about his day; I miss knowing every little thing going on in his life. I miss him because when he is here, he's always in his room or on the computer.

He frowned, but I could see that he almost understand what I was trying to say. But then he said, “But I hate it when you ask me stupid questions about, you know — stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Like when you come up to me on the computer, and I’m playing a game, and you ask me about it. Or if I’m watching a TV show and you want to know about a character in it.”

“But I’m interested — I’m interested in your life, I just want to know what you like and all…”

“But Mom,” he said. So patiently. “I don’t want you to be my friend.”

Ouch.

I didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t want me to be his friend? He didn’t think I was hip and cool and someone he could just hang out with? Who did he think I was? My own mother??

Oh.

Yes, I guess he did.

Double ouch.

He further explained to me that it was OK to be his mom — and as such, he understood that I HAD to ask, on occasion, about school. But to show an interest in his hobbies, his passions, to pretend to be interested in his music — that wasn’t OK. In fact, it bordered on downright creepy.

“I don’t need you to be my friend. I just need you to be my mom,” he kept insisting.

But…but…

I want to be his friend. More importantly — I want him to be MY friend.

He's smart and funny and has terrific opinions about life. On the occasions when we do just sit around and talk about stuff — occasions which I know now never, ever to mention for fear of them never occurring again — I enjoy the hell out of him. I’m OK with the fact that he no longer needs me for everything. (Well, I’m not OK with that, but I’ve learned to suppress my despair.) I thought, though, that the pay off would be this smart, funny young man with which to share my life, my thoughts, the stupid things that happen during the day. A friend, in other words.

So when my son informed me he didn’t need a friend, he just needed a mom, I was a bit, you know — devastatingly crushed.

I guess we never stop being The Mom. On the one hand, that’s comforting. On the other, it’s demoralizing. Maybe it’s just too soon. Maybe my son is just in this place where he's not quite an adult, definitely not a child, and he's just starting to figure out his own place in this new world — he doesn't need to figure out my place in it, too.

I guess, like always, it’s my place to stand back, quietly accept my role, however disappointing, but be vigilant for any hopeful sign that he's changed. Constantly watching, as I always do, and I always have. Waiting for my chance to be his friend.

But until then, I’m The Mom. Forever and ever. Amen.

How to Trap a Wild Teenager

By Melanie Lynne Hauser

Yesterday I walked into younger son’s bedroom. Well, “walked into” is kind of a euphemism, as he has recently rearranged his furniture in order to prevent this kind of thing from happening.

As soon as you open his door you’re confronted with a giant bookcase blocking further progress; only the most determined can figure out how to squeeze past it and then you risk stepping on all sorts of pointy items on the floor (like pencils and a couple of old Rubik’s cubes) or sliding on discarded clothing, flailing your arms around like a windmill. Once you’ve mastered this, though, the only thing you have to do is turn a sharp right at the guinea pig cage (in front of which is lots of straw and tiny little guinea pig food pellets, again — not so easy to walk on), then step over a giant mound of socks, and then you’re in. You’ve reached Command Central: the corner of the room that holds his computer desk and TV. If you’ve managed to reach this safely, then you might be able to actually talk to the lad, or even — gasp — touch him.

I don’t know. Is it just me, or do you think he's trying to tell me something?

Anyway, yesterday I ventured into his lair a couple of times. Mainly because I had started to forget what he looks like. And the last time I did so — just to pop my head around the corner and say, “Hey, buddy — how’s it going?” — he tugged on his hair (which he does when he’s frustrated) and said, “This is the 7th time in two days you’ve come in here.”

Now, at first I was impressed that he was keeping a running tally. That shows a certain amount of dedication, when you think of it. And obviously, I was making an impression.

But then I was a little PO’d. Excuse me for wanting to pop in and say hello now and then. Excuse me for wanting to make sure he wasn’t growing a beard, or sniffing glue back there, or ordering lots of stuff on Amazon (because he has my password, which allows someone to order stuff with “One Click,” which theoretically means he could be purchasing mass quantities of DVD’s or…or…underwear, and I’d never know it).

So I got a little huffy. I pointed out that if he voluntarily left his lair for a couple of times a day, I wouldn’t have to “pop in” like this.

He pointed out that he didn’t want to see me. So why would he voluntarily leave?

I pointed out that I was the one who was in charge of giving him his allowance.

He pointed out that I couldn’t withhold it because he did do the two or three tasks, weekly, that earned him his ten bucks. Plus he'd just started a part time job.

I pointed out that it was tough beans, I still didn’t have to pay him and job or no job, I knew he needed those ten bucks in order to fund his VitaminWater addiction. (Those things are about $4 a bottle!)

He pointed out that that would amount to child abuse, and he would have no qualms about calling Family and Child Services and reporting me.

I pointed out that he could go ahead and do that — but then I stopped myself, looked around at his room — which does resemble one of those horrible cages that you sometimes read about, where bad parents lock up their children and keep them hidden from the world. And I figured he'd have no problem telling Family and Child Services that I kept him locked in there when, in fact, he was absolutely dying to run free outside.

So I left. I went downstairs, letting him think he had won. I waited a couple of hours. Then I got busy in the kitchen. About half an hour later, the house was filled with the aroma of fresh baked cookies. I heard a door open. A step in the upstairs hall. Another step. Then a tumble down the stairs.

“Cookies?” He asked hopefully, poking his head around the corner of the kitchen.

“Maybe,” I said coyly. Standing there with a plate of cookies in one hand, a glass of milk in another.

“I love you, Mom!” he said, sitting down at the table — not minding that I sat across from him.

He was too busy eating to notice my look of triumph. He actually lingered down there for a full five minutes, and we talked about the Olympics (he thinks Michael Phelps is a god, but thinks that men's gymnastics is the most ridiculous sport in the world, since men can't even point their toes right, like the girls can) and the Cubs (he agrees with me that Geovany Soto is our favorite player this year). Then he put his plate in the sink and went back upstairs — after first giving me a fond pat on the back.

And I smiled, knowing that I had stumbled across the key to raising teenaged boys: Set a trap. (And keep lots of cold milk on hand). I’m going to have to be careful about this, though. I can’t tip my hand; I can’t suddenly start roasting whole pigs in the kitchen every time he shuts himself off from me.

But an occasional batch of cookies or bowl of hot buttered popcorn — yeah, I think I can get away with that.

Don’t you?

Naturally Speaking

By Melanie Lynne Hauser

Well, I am happy to report that no tears were shed in the moving of my son into his very first apartment, prior to the start of his sophomore year in college.

And I have no idea if it's because it was so hot and humid on moving day that I had no moisture left inside my body, or if it's because I'm more mature than I was last year.

Actually, I do have an idea. I'm not sure if I've ever said this about myself before, but I think it's because I'm more mature. I know, I know - what a shock!

Now that I've had a weekend - and yes, a Cosmo or two! - to recuperate and reflect, I'm ready to share all my Deep Thoughts about life, liberty, and the empty nest with y'all. Ready? Too bad.
Here goes:

The first cut is really the deepest. (With apologies to Sheryl Crow.) Anyway. Last year, when my firstborn went to college as a freshman, I was a mess. My husband was a mess. We were a collective mess. We cried and grieved and just generally carried on like two little sissy girls and truly, it felt like a death.

And now I know, it was. It was the end of our family as we had known it for 18 years - the end of four of us under one roof, my husband and myself responsible for our sons' welfare and happiness and always, always teaching them - to be responsible, to work hard, be happy, close the top of the cereal box so the next person doesn't have stale Cheerios for breakfast, etc., etc. The end of our time as the parents of children. Now, we had to learn how to be the parents of adults, and we didn't know what that was like. We couldn't imagine it, and so we grieved for what we had known.

Well, now we don't have to imagine. We know that Older Son did, in fact, come home during the last year. Many times. We know that when he did, we always picked up right where we left off. We also marveled at how much he was learning, how eagerly he embraced his new experiences, how much he looked forward to more. All things he couldn't have accomplished still under our roof - and that's the most important Deep Thought I want to share:

This summer, this extended time when Older Son was home again, even though we knew it was just temporary - it was wonderful. Full of great family time, lazy days just spent hanging around and watching all three seasons, on DVD, of "Arrested Development." And of course, I rejoiced in having my family all together under one roof again. Yet...

I would look at him, hanging around on the couch, sleeping until noon, living by our rules, our schedule, our choices - just marking time - and I would say to myself, "This is not how a 19-year-old should live all the time." It was fine for the summer. Just long enough for all of us. But I knew that HE was bored sometimes; he started to chafe a bit toward the end, and suprisingly enough, so did we. Not because we were all together; that was, and will always be, a blessed time. But because this interlude felt exactly that; a holding pattern, all of us just treading water until "real life" started up again. And for my son, that couldn't happen while camping out in our family room.

At 19, 20, a person really needs to start living his own life, or learning to, anyway - and you can't do that when your mom is constantly asking you if you want her to make you a sandwich for lunch. No matter how many times you tell her not to worry about you, she'll still ask. Trust me. She just can't help it.

All this is kind of a long-winded way to say -

I didn't cry this time. Partly because I wasn't afraid I'd lose him forever - I'd learned, last year, that I wouldn't. Partly because I knew what to expect when we came back home without him - and the three of us (my husband, me, and Younger Son) have eased right back into the routine we established last year, where Younger Son clearly relishes his elevated status to One and Only.

But mainly, I didn't cry because I recognize, clearly, that we all need to move on - both Older Son, and his so-called elders. He needs to make his own decisions, establish his own traditions and routines. I need to get back to work - my writing has been non-existent this summer - and continue to look for new things, new ideas to take up the time and energy that I used to spend raising children.

He'll be back - we'll always be back together. For short times, and longer times, but never again the way it used to be, and that's OK. That's more than OK, actually - it's the natural progression of life, and when you step back, remove yourself from the equation and just look at your children and all that's ahead of them, you know that. Finally, you know that.

So there. No tears, some fears (we saw so many rat control signs in the alley where we parked the moving van!), but mainly -

Just joy. And some chuckles, as we watch our eldest grapple with life on his own (he had to wait three hours for the cable guy to show up - welcome to adulthood!). Happiness, to see him so excited about the little things we've long taken for granted. (When was the last time you announced to the world that you "couldn't wait" to put together bookshelves from Ikea??)

Thus endeth the Deep Thoughts on my son's second year in college. And I'm no fool. I completely understand that next year, when we move Younger Son into his dorm for Freshman year, there will be floods of tears again. (And more Deep Thoughts - lucky you!) Because that will be another end, as well as a beginning. And for a while, all I'll think about is the end, which is natural.

But sooner or later, I'll figure out how to be happy about the beginning...

Which is natural, too.

Am I Blue?

by Judy Merrill Larsen

Being a mom means you're gonna make mistakes with your kids. We all know that, right? I freely admit lots of screw-ups and I am also very free with my apologies (saying "I'm sorry" also makes it harder for them to stay mad at me.). Here are just a few mistakes:

~lack of vegetables. Yes, I serve plenty of salad. And fruit. But I have never served peas (other than peapods) in my kitchen and I never will. I hated them as a kid. Yuck. I also don't like many other cooked vegetables. Too mushy. If I don't like 'em, I'm not cooking 'em. Mushrooms are also on the list.

~lack of baby books/scrapbooks. I took tons of pictures. I saved report cards and "special" papers. The pictures are in photo albums up until about age 8, the rest are in boxes up in my office. But at least the boxes are labeled. The scrapbooks are pristinely new and empty.

~um, I sometimes yelled. Lost my temper when it wasn't really their fault. Cursed in their presence. Didn't always set a good example. Might have been inconsistent.

~My #1 Son (dubbed "Earthworm" by his brother; "Greenboy" by me) complains that I still don't have a compost heap in my backyard. Sorry, mea culpa, I'm just not a person who wants to trot out back with my egg shells and banana peels. I do recycle though.

But, you know what? I can totally relax now because all these things (well, except for the compost heap. And peas.) are reversible. Correctible. Unlike my cousin (distant cousin, I want to add) who turned his family blue. Yes. He really did. And it's permanent. Seriously. It can't be undone.

Now, it's not smurf blue.



It's not even as bad as that guy who was on Oprah talking to Dr. Oz a few months back who was really blue.



But, there is a distinct blue undertone to their skin nonetheless. And it won't fade or go away. It's there. Apparently, the rest of his family (but not him. That's telling.) were advocates of some dietary supplement. He felt it was too expensive. So, rather than buy it from their handy dandy local drugstore, he figured he'd make his own version. I mean, heck, why not? He'd had a chemistry set as a kid.



How complicated could it be? So he sent away to some mail order place and ordered all the ingredients and mixed them up. Look at all the money he was saving, he probably bragged to them. But, oops, there was a glitch of sorts. Rumor has it that he ordered a slightly different version of aluminum than people are supposed to ingest. And a few weeks after they'd started taking his formula, somebody commented that they were all (except for him who didn't believe in the supplement) looking a tad blue. Just a tinge, but noticeable. Oh, and did I mention it's PERMANENT?!

So, when I'm reviewing my litany of parental offenses, I take great pride in knowing I've never changed the color of my children's skin. Perhaps I'll still get that Mother-of-the-year award after all.

p.s. I'm on the last leg of my 2200+ mile road trip in a U-Haul from St. Louis to Seattle today, so I won't be commenting until tomorrow. Road trip stories to follow!

(Not So) Deep Thoughts

by Judy Merrill Larsen

It's mid-summer and can I just say I'm tired? The kids aren't--no, they've just realized the summer's half over and they're frantically trying to fit everything in--which apparently requires no sleep, my money, and me being on a need-to-know basis.

Some questions/observations adding to my fatigue:

~Have teenagers always been nocturnal? I mean even way back in the early part of the 1900's--when everyone lived on farms and milked cows and baled hay? Because I'm just wondering if maybe global warming has affected the sleep cycles of adolescents. Perhaps it's bad parenting on my part? Should I have not let them "cry it out" when they were little? Too few yams mixed in with their rice cereal? I mean they sleep through my vacuuming right outside their doors. God help us if the smoke alarm ever goes off before noon.

~I think I'll actually have more cash on hand when the kids go back to school this fall and I'm ONLY paying for tuition rather than groceries and filling up the gas tank. Can I apply my student loan money to my local supermarket?

~Have my husband and I totally lost our sense of youthful fun when we find ourselves (earlier and earlier every summer, it seems) looking forward to schedules and regular mealtimes and school nights? Every night is Friday night when you're a teenager in the summer. But it's not for the 'rents. And we're getting tired of being tired. (Yes, I do go to bed before they get home, but they have to wake me up and let me know they are home. Really messes with my REM cycles, not to mention my beauty sleep!)

~Remember back in the good old days when we were kids and we actually spoke to one another? Instead of texts? And how is it that the same kids who can't remember to turn off the bathroom fan and consistently put empty cereal boxes back on the pantry shelf can send messages at the speed of light all the while setting different ring tones for different callers? Yet, I'm the one who gets paid (well, in a sense) to write, but my texts always look like some mix of encoded, encrypted pig latin? Are their fingers just more fit? Younger?

And, now, when I read over this, I feel like I've turned into that cranky woman around the corner who wears sensible shoes, circulation hosiery, and a sweater that pills. I need to find my inner madcap, fun, understanding mom. I'm off to look for her . . . let me know if you find her.

Declaration of Independence or, Common Sense, Baby!

by Judy Merrill Larsen


Don't worry, this isn't going to be a little history lesson. Or a quiz about who signed what and when. Uh uh. It's about the power of natural consequences and how letting those consequences take their natural course can lead everybody--parents and kids--to the independence that we all want. It's necessary, but sometimes it can be a painful struggle. Just ask the British.

As adults, we get this. If I eat less and move more I'll lose weight. Doesn't always make me do so, but that's a natural consequence I understand. Same with, oh, say, paying bills so the electricity stays on. In my fifteen years of teaching, I often found myself preaching this to my students. Especially when they'd ask about extra-credit. I'd launch into my song and dance about "Well, if you'd done the assigned work you wouldn't need extra-credit. now, would you, so why should I give you a chance to make more work for me?" That always brought them around, yes indeedy.

But as a mom, it was often much harder for me to hold to this. For a few years, when my sons were in elementary school, I was on a first-name basis with the night janitor at their school because we seemed to need to ask him to unlock a classroom door at least once a week to fetch something we needed to complete a homework assignment. Part of me knew I should let them deal with the consequences of not remembering. But it seemed so cold. Harsh.

No more. One thing teenagers teach you (and the sooner, the better) is that they often only respond to natural consequences. For example: (and I need to make a disclaimer here. Not all of these examples come from the children living under my roof. Some come from their friends. I swear. But they're all instructive.)

~If, when you are "assigned" community service by a judge because of some hi-jinks you were caught participating in, "forgetting" to perform said hours will cause those hours to be doubled. Plus you'll be fined. So maybe next time you shouldn't ignore your mom's nagging.

~If you keep calling in sick to a job you no longer like, you'll get fired. And the company who sends you your cell phone bill doesn't care the reason, they'll stop your service. And, no, they don't have to warn you in advance.

~If you blow through all your lunch money/allowance by noon on Tuesday, you're going to be hungry (or brown-bagging it) for the rest of the week. Not to mention that you can forget about any extra-curricular fun.

~If you buy clothes that scream "Skanky crack ho" to your parents, but "sneak-wear" them under your t-shirt, the school will likely call your parents to explain they don't mesh with the dress code and you'll be assigned a detention. Also, said clothes will likely disappear the next time your mom does the laundry.

~Speaking of which, if your mom tells you to put all your dirty clothes in the laundry basket outside your door so she can get the laundry done and you don't, there will be no clean clothes for you. Deal with it. Ha.

~And, if you decide your mom isn't all that bright and why can't you just put all your dirty clothes in the wash together (because she is no longer willing to do your laundry (see above)), don't expect that same stupid mom to replace your now pink underwear. But you can expect her to laugh at you when you make your request. And, if you've blown through your lunch money/allowance this week, you'll be wearing the pink underwear to school.

~If your economics professor has told you that your homework is all to be done on-line, and you sign up for the wrong on-line program, and then notice that your classmates have homework, but miraculously you don't, that doesn't mean you're off the hook; it means you'll be retaking the class in summer school. At 8 a.m. if your mom has anything to say about it.

~If the bank explains that if you bounce a check there will be fees assessed--which will deplete your checking account even more, they really mean it. It's not like when your mom used to tell you she'd fine you for having to go up to the elementary school at night to pick up your geography book. She remembers how cute you were at age 4. The bank doesn't, and even if they did, they wouldn't care.

Natural consequences. They rock. In part because your kids can't be mad at you or blame you. Not that they won't try, but even they have to realize that they brought it on themselves. And that's where the real power comes in--they have to take responsibility.



That's a pretty powerful lesson. And it leads to independence. Possibly even adult behaviors. And all you've had to do is sit back, watch it unfold and bite your tongue. And maybe sacrifice some tea tossed into a harbor.

How My Teenagers Spent Their Summer Vacation

We just returned from a good ol’ fashioned family vacation. Me, my husband, two teenagers, ten days away. It was wonderful, we didn’t get on each other’s nerves (mainly because we were witnesses to a spectacular family meltdown at the Grand Canyon – the kind where we really thought someone might actually be killed, especially as there was a handy giant hole in the ground nearby, just perfect for shoving annoying family members into), and now that we’re home, I’m finding that I’m somewhat of a heroine among my friends.

“How did you do it?” they whisper, notepads out, ready to jot down ideas. “How did you manage to get them to agree to it?”

By them, they mean – the teenagers. My 19 and 17 year-olds. Because it’s a well-documented fact that teenagers wish to spend as little time as possible with their families, isn’t it?

Actually – it isn’t.

Our brilliant method of “getting” our teenagers to agree to a vacation was the assumptive close. As in, “We’re going on vacation in June; here are the dates, mark your calendars.” No discussion, no pleading, no bargaining.

It’s a parenting method that’s always worked well for us, but I see other parents struggle with it. Especially once they get into the teen years.

I have always scratched my head at the parents who excuse bad behavior – even before it’s begun – by saying, “Well, what can we do? They’re teenagers, you know!”

I’ve heard this said as an excuse for broken curfews, dented cars, speeding tickets, drunken parties, cell phone bills in excess of $500, failed grades, ruined holiday plans, obnoxious behavior in general. I’ve heard this said in anticipation of the same, too – parents who nervously prepare themselves to be the recipients of such behavior. Thus, I believe, granting their teenagers permission to behave as giant a$$holes.

I know it’s a scary prospect, parenting teenagers. We all have fresh memories of our own teen years, of course. And we’re a different generation; we want to be friends with our kids, not the myopic authority figures we remember our parents to be.

And some of that is fine. I look back at my teenage years and I realize, now, that my father just did not have a clue as to what a typical teenager was like. He’d had to help support his family from the age of twelve, you see. He never had time to be a teenager himself. But I did, and I remember my frustrations with him, so I do think I’m a little more understanding.

But that doesn’t mean I excuse my children from a responsible, respectful life. It doesn’t mean I grant them permission to ignore all the rules just because “they’re teenagers, you know!”

I think some of this is based in fear – fear of what they’ll do, fear of being the bad parent, fear of losing control. So it’s easier to absolve them – absolve ourselves – of responsibility in advance.

But the truth is, teenagers crave direction and guidance and – gasp! – rules. Every time I hear a teenager grumble, with an eye roll and a toss of the hair, “My mom said I have to be home by midnight,” I also detect a little whisper of relief. Because being home by midnight means less decisions that teenager has to make – decisions that teenager probably doesn’t want to make, even though he doth protest too much.

The young adult years are scary. They’re full of decisions to make, questions to ask, boundaries to test. We’re doing our kids a favor by not giving them free reign over their lives, at least in part, where it matters most – at home.

So instead of asking my teenagers permission to include them in our lives – something too many parents do – we just assume that they will. And because we’ve always assumed this, the funny thing is – they do. With no questions asked, no cell phones thrown in frustration.

And I think it bodes well for our future, as they truly do leave the nest. We assume they’ll come back, and particularly, we assume we’ll always make time for each other in the summer for some kind of vacation. They know this, we know this.

So it is written, so it is done.

And that’s my miraculous way of “getting” my kids to spend their summer vacation with us.

Time for a Mom Makeover

by Judy Merrill Larsen

With the house full of kids home from college and/or on vacation for the summer, I didn't really think there'd be much time for self-improvement.  And, I must admit, I was sort of at a point in my life where I didn't think I needed much.  Sure, I could lose 20 pounds (well, perhaps "could" is the wrong word since the pounds seem quite firmly affixed), but I take pretty good care of myself and am about as evolved as I'm probably ever going to get.   

At least that's what I thought.

But I was oh, so wrong.  Because my kids, God love 'em, decided it must be time for a Mom Makeover.

I know what you're thinking:  "Lucky her.  Spas.  Make-up applications.  Wardrobe evaluations."

But no.  Not exactly.

My kids went more organic.

They simply took it upon themselves to make me over.  No gift certificates for facials.  No personal shopper for me.  No.  The kids must have called a meeting and made a list of my imperfections and flaws and divvied them up so they could each help me overcome each and every one of them.

Because it's apparently a miracle to them (or they see me as a freak of nature) that somehow I've made it to nearly the half-century mark without more of their input.

It's recently been pointed out to me that:

1.) I really should make a grocery list so I don't have to go to the store everyday and waste all that gas.  Yeah, I muttered to myself, and at the top of the list it should read "get rid of the kids."  Because I did make a list, I do make lists, but these dang kids eat 24/7.

2.) I should carry around a water bottle with me all day so I remain fully hydrated and then wouldn't need so much coffee.  Uh huh, I thought, I already gave up coffee for 9 stinkin' months when I was toting you around while you kicked my bladder and jabbed at my liver and hiccupped all night. 

There have also been discussions about:

~ the way I do laundry, specifically the dryer settings I was selecting. (That one got nipped in the bud when I simply handed over the wet clothes and explained I'd done all the kid laundry I was ever going to do, thank you very much.)

~what I'm choosing to eat for lunch. (Yes, I know a taffy apple loses some of its fruit value but all the other fruit had been consumed by the younger generation and I hadn't yet had a chance to make my daily grocery run.  For which I'd later be criticized.)

~that if I'd weeded the garden more completely last spring, it would be much easier to keep up with it now. (Ah, yes, but then what rotten job would I be able to give you for coming home late?)

I could go on, of course, but as I've also been told, my memory is NOT what it used to be.  So, hey, if any of you work up a hankering for a makeover, just holler.  They work for cheap.  Just be sure the fridge is stocked.  I'll send one or two of the little experts right on over, along with some earplugs for you.  I've discovered that my hearing is just about shot.  Now, I'm going to go pour another cup of coffee which will get me through until it's time to put my feet up and start sipping wine.  I'm just exhausted from all this self-improvement.