raising teenagers

Stay-at-home moms – a supporting role, not an enabler.

Today one of my daughters texted me from school to let me know that she’d left her piano music at home.  Since she drives straight to her lesson after school, this presented a problem.  

She had done the exact same thing two weeks ago.  Lucky for her, I had some errands to run in the vicinity so I grabbed her music and dropped it off on her piano teacher’s doorstep.

Because I had done that, my daughter inevitably believed that surely I could do the same this time.  And, to be honest, I probably could have without too much sacrifice.  

However, I declined for two reasons:

  1.  She needed to pay some of the price of having forgotten her music for the second time in a month.  If I’d swooped in and saved the day (again), she wouldn’t feel the inconvenience of having forgotten and would probably just forget again.
  2. I want her to understand that stay-at-home parents are people too and that one cannot assume that I am available at her beck and call.

That last one is tricky.  I mean, after all, choosing to stay home to raise my children means that I AM mostly available to support them in any manner of things – from carpooling to volunteering in their schools, to attending sporting events and concerts, to welcoming them home from school, to helping them with homework, and so on.

But even though, for the most part, I CAN help her, I have to discern when helping is actually enabling.

Sometimes it takes pretending I have a full-time job away from home to back away a bit and let my kids suffer.  And what really stinks about that is that they KNOW I could do it but I am choosing not to.  Which inevitably makes me out to be a mean mom.

So be it.  I’ve been at this parenting gig long enough that I’m practically made of steel.  Today I told my beloved child that I would not be in the neighborhood to drop off her piano music.  But I would be making a run to the gas station that was halfway between her school and home.  She could meet me there during her lunch hour to collect the goods.

I’m sure it was a bummer to miss out on the one time during school that she actually gets to hang out with friends.  But she came.  And is hopefully better for it.

The blue dress.

It’s no secret that I like my toddlers more than more teenagers. Emphasis on the word “like”. Toddlers are just so much more agreeable, and even when they’re not, they boast a whole lot of cuteness to make up for it.

Still, I would have to say that I firmly believe that opposition spices up life. My struggle to raise teenagers and still “like” them provides the contrast I need to swell with pride at their successes. I can’t help but be their biggest fan.

Last night, Anna put on the “blue dress” for the first time. The blue dress isn’t just a pretty get-up, it is a symbol. A symbol that one has attained the highest level of choral excellence in our local high school. (Which pretty much has the best choir in the whole state).

Last night was her first concert wearing the “blue dress”. I’ve been attending these concerts for years in support of neighbors, young women I taught at church and so on. Anna came with me on many of those occasions. It surprised me how much pride I felt in my daughter, hearing her high soprano voice sailing above the others now that it was her turn to don the blue dress on that same stage.

The volatility of raising teenagers is real. But the satisfaction at observing their transformation into distinct almost-adults tops it a million times over. Watching them come into their own and magnify their talents is a parental privilege that for me defies description.

Hope for spring.

Jack and I picked a crisp day to plop ourselves down on the ground in the front yard and plant some hyacinths for early spring. I could sense his confusion when he discovered that “planting flowers” really meant digging holes, inserting a bulb bearing no resemblance to a flower, and then covering it once again with dirt.

“Where are the flowers, mom?” He’d ask. “We have to wait until the snow melts,” I replied, realizing that he failed to process such a seemingly interminable delay of gratification.

Planting bulbs is something I’ve done for years. Daffodils and hyacinths remain my favorites. Daffodils, for their bright cheery color and hyacinths for their delectable fragrance. Both for their early burst through the soil, sometimes even before the snow has melted.

After a dark winter, I need every sign of life I can get.

In my seasonal affective disorder I muddle through the winter, seizing upon every 40 plus degree moment of sun.

I shovel the driveway after each snowfall, grateful for the chance to get my heart rate moving and to enjoy the silence and awe of freshly fallen snow.

I bake rolls and cookies, infusing our home with warmth and an open invitation for friends to join us.

I drag myself out of bed each morning long before the sun rises to shuttle kids to and from school and activities. I retire long after the sun has gone to bed, feeling spent from a long day of fulfilling obligations and drudgery.

Then I wait.

There are days I sit back and wonder, much like Jack after planting bulbs, at the point of it all. Will the hyacinths ever make an appearance?

Indeed, winter is not my favorite, though there are bright spots to be found.

I saw a quote on Facebook recently that inspired me to reframe my relationship with winter. It read, “If you choose not to find joy in the snow, you will have less joy in your life but still the same amount of snow.”

In my life, this quote might read, “If you choose not to find joy in the teenagers, you will have less joy in your life but still the same amount of teenagers.”

You see, teenagers resemble for me that hyacinth bulb in winter. I cultivated a spot for each one, inserted them with their pointy ends toward the sun, then covered and watered them to ensure the best possible outcome.

Likewise, I find myself shaking my head constantly as I endure the winter of raising teenagers.

I hold my tongue, hoping that the lessons of years gone by managed to sink in. That the ground I have worked so diligently to cultivate provides an adequate environment for the beautiful bulb to thrive.

Then I wait.

I muddle through the years where each interaction is on their terms, where contributions in the home are regarded as optional, where adversarial relationships abound when standards are upheld.

I enjoy the moments of laughter when happy moods happen to collide in a universe of hormones. I eat up the chance to connect when they take me up on my offer to read to them as we did in younger years. I wake up bright and early to make breakfast and dabble in conversation as each daughter walks out the door, one by one. I buy and make mountains of food to keep them happy when they invite friends over. But mostly I stay out of the way.

Indeed the efforts are staggering and the payout seems minimal.

But much like the hyacinth, the growth beneath the surface cannot be underestimated. And spring is on its way.

Truly, the instant gratification of planting annuals barely scratches the surface of the joy one feels when that first hyacinth breaks through after a long, cold winter.

And then another. And another. Within weeks my garden is bursting with color and sweetness fills the air. A gentle reminder that efforts made long ago and endurance in between were well worth it.

Winter can feel like an eternity. But spring always comes. And hope will see us through.

Toddlers and Teenagers.

I stepped out of church this morning with my three-year-old. We were knee-deep in a power struggle and the volume had escalated enough to warrant a cool-down session in the foyer.

I sat down in a chair and calmly explained to Jack that if he could sit on my lap quietly for two minutes, we could return to the chapel to sit with our family.

He wasn’t having it. We ended up outside the building to minimize witnesses to the tantrum that was unfolding. Quickly.

On my way out, a friend remarked, “Be strong, mama. I was there once.” I laughed out loud, thinking to myself. Yeah, me too.

In fact, I’ve been there for 16 years (almost without interruption), my dear. She was trying to be supportive, and I appreciated the gesture. But I couldn’t help but find the humor in a mom who is two years younger than me reminding me to “be strong”.

You see, this toddler thing. I’ve got it down. Sure, I was inconvenienced that I was missing my 14-year-old’s talk because the 3-year-old thought it would be a good time for a meltdown.

But I was calm. Collected. Just biding my time until the kid decided being inside the chapel was better than being outside. Which he did within minutes. And I was barely ruffled.

Yep, I’ve done toddlers five times over and while I don’t claim to be an expert, I’m wise enough to not lose my head over an ordinary tantrum. There’ll be another one tomorrow, after all.

It’s the teenager thing that’s got my head spinning.

Boy, oh boy.

If you ever wanted to feel like a fish out of water, try raising a teenager. Or two or three.

Raising teenagers means that sometimes you feel like a human punching bag.

Other days you’re left scratching your head at the idiocy of these creatures who sure look like adults (and think they’re adults) but are anything but.

Some of them are master manipulators, appealing to the side of you that wants to be the nice guy by saying, “everyone else’s parents let them do this. Or that.”. It’s the oldest teenage trick in the book but it still hurts.

They keep you up late at night, then claim to be too tired to go to school the next morning. They eat you out of house and home, expect you to run them to and from multiple activities almost every day of the week.

Teenagers possess an uncanny tunnel vision that persuades them that everyone else in the world is tuned into their every failure or moment of awkwardness. While failing to consider that others feel the exact same way.

Teens bite the hand that feeds them and place a higher value on the opinions of pretty much everyone they don’t call mom or dad.

It can be brutal.

I have friends who LOVE raising teenagers. (At least that’s what they say on their social media accounts, so I suspect it’s partly for show). Or they’re just remarkably gifted in ways that it would seem I am not.

And while I adore my teenagers I can’t say I have wrapped my head around how to shape them into the amazing humans they can become. I can barely come up for air right now.

The other day Lily (one of my teenagers, who was a very “spirited” toddler and preschooler) remarked that she felt sorry for me for how difficult they (meaning she and her sisters) were as little kids. She doesn’t know how I did it.

Neither can I. But here’s the thing. Difficult children become difficult teenagers. And they’re much bigger. And less open to suggestion (and threats, for that matter).

And yet, just like the tiny babies I cradled lovingly as infants, they are full of greatness. In fact, they’re closer to it than ever before.

I sometimes feel like the little blue engine in The Little Engine that Could when she says:

“I’m not really big. I’ve never even been over the mountain. But, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

Actually, I’m not always convinced I can. And though I would go back to having unruly preschoolers in a heartbeat, I don’t exactly have a choice. So I guess I’ll just plow through in my inadequacy until I get over this mountain.

See you on the other side.

When taking a “mental health day” just isn’t enough.

Several months ago I was chatting with a friend whose daughter had stayed home from school the day before. I asked, “Was she sick?”

“No, she just needed a mental health day,” was the reply.

Apparently, her daughter had been pushing herself too hard, not getting enough sleep and it all came to a head one night when she burst into tears at the slightest provocation. Thus warranting a “mental health day” as per mom’s orders.

Which basically meant she got to sleep in, go to brunch with mom, catch up on homework, take a nap, have a Diet Coke or two – whatever pampering was necessary to declare her good as new and send her back to school the next day.

Earlier in the school year, another friend was asking about each of my daughters. After mentioning that one of them was struggling with depression, she suggested that I pull her out of school every couple of weeks for a “mental health outing” of her choice.

After all, when her daughter was in junior high/high school, that’s what she did to mitigate the usual teenage drama. They’d spend one or two hours together shopping, getting pedicures or grabbing a bite to eat, all in an effort to get away from it all.

And all was fixed. Wham. Bam.

So tell me then. What do you do when your daughter never wants to get out of bed? When everyday life is too much to handle? When the frequency of meltdowns would warrant enough “mental health days” to make her a school dropout within a few weeks?

What to do when your best attempts to encourage your child to develop healthy habits are seen as pushy? How do you respond when despite facilitating numerous doctor and therapy appointments your kid’s attempts to implement the strategies learned there are minimal at best?

Where is the line between encouraging and enabling? Between supporting and coddling? At what point do you decide to let your child self-destruct? It’s exhausting trying to motivate another person to fulfill his/her obligations. Especially when she resents you for it anyway.

This is what depression looks like. It can’t be resolved by taking a mental health day, nor will a shopping spree or pedicure manage to make a sizable dent.

Depression clouds even the brightest of minds to believe that they are worthless. It convinces even the most talented individuals to lose hope in the future, to dwell on the mistakes of the past, to make mountains out of molehills.

And no amount of parental talk therapy can convince them otherwise.

They simply can’t see the forest for the trees. As a parent, it is heartbreaking to see and frustrating to deal with. So exasperating that one out of ten times, I lose patience with her, negating every step in the right direction we’ve made up to that point.

To be fair, my depressed daughter is incredibly high-functioning under the circumstances. She keeps plugging away, even though many days feel like an emotional marathon to her.

She is grounded in a belief that heavenly parents have a plan for her. That is huge.

She knows in her head that the world isn’t a horrible place altogether, despite the pit in her stomach that makes it seem so.

She pushes through the hard days, (albeit scowling) because she knows that to do otherwise would be giving in.

She navigates the inevitable disappointments of teenage life with a distorted view attributable to her brain chemistry. But she still keeps at it.

Some parents worry about their kids getting into an elite college(some will even pay good money to make sure they do).

Other parents spend insane amounts of time supporting their kids as athletes, or instrumentalists, or actors, all in the hopes that they achieve their highest potential.

This parent just wants her kid to be happy. She has more talent in her little finger than most people acquire after a lifetime of effort. If only her head would let her believe it.

PSA: If you are the parent of a depressed teenager, know you are not alone. Teenage depression is on the rise. We’re still figuring it out in our home, obviously, but here are a few places to start, if you’re wondering what has worked for us.

  1. Resist the urge to blame yourself and your parenting. Let’s be honest, we all have sucky parenting moments. Those parenting fails cannot be considered in a vacuum. If all parents zeroed in on only our worst moments as the most influential, every kid in the world would have cause for depression. Instead, move forward in the knowledge that this child was born into your family, and you have unique gifts to help them through their struggles.
  2. Listen. Need I say more? Depressed kids don’t need to hear how faulty their thinking is. At least not at first. Some of the things they say may shock you. Listen first. Then wait until the right moment to give advice.
  3. Work with your doctor to find the right course of treatment. Do not rule out certain forms of treatment (like medication) because of your own ideology.
  4. Therapy helps. Kids need to talk. They need to know they’ve got someone in their corner (besides their parents). It doesn’t hurt when that person has a fancy degree behind their name that says “I am qualified to treat this ailment.” Even if a therapist simply repeats what you as a parent have said over and over again, I guarantee it will be like your child is hearing it for the first time. Don’t be offended by that. Just be grateful they heard it.
  5. Don’t treat mental health like an ugly secret. If you tiptoe around the issue, it perpetuates the stigma. Having said that, it is important to be sensitive to your child’s need for privacy regarding the issue. It is her/his decision whether or not to be open about it. In fact, I invited my daughter to read this post and approve it before publishing. She agrees that openness helps others know they are not alone. And that is priceless for a person struggling with depression.

I’m going to miss this someday.

Every time we moms are out in public with our littles we hear it from older parents.

“They grow up SO fast.” “Cherish this time.” “They won’t stay little forever.”

Beneath a strained smile, we brush off the comment as patronizing. We roll our eyes to ourselves, convinced that this phase will never end. The sleep deprivation, the babes weighing down our arms, the constant messes, the power struggles, the depleted sense of “self”.

To be sure, the baby/toddler/preschooler phase can wear down the best of us.

But you know what?

The old ladies are right. One day I was stuffing four little bodies into a Costco cart and the next I was sending the youngest of them off to kindergarten.

One day I counted down the hours until my husband came home from work and the next I was so busy shuttling my school-age children around that I was surprised at how early he walked in the door.

One day I was battling the two-year-old tantrums and the next I was helping one of my daughters grapple with teenage depression.

One day I was arranging play dates left and right and the next I was hosting 10-12 girls for a Halloween party that my daughter had planned and prepared entirely by herself.

One day I was whipping up macaroni and cheese for the kids on a regular basis and the next day they were whipping it up so that Tim and I could go out for dinner.

One day they went from this:

To this:

Overnight.

I’d like to think I followed the advice of more experienced moms and enjoyed those earlier days. I did my best to not shrug off the comments at the grocery store about how short this time is. I gave it my best shot.

It didn’t make the time slow down any. Lucky for me, though, I get another chance at this stage of life. Four years ago when I found out I had a viable pregnancy almost seven years after the last one, I pretty much laughed out loud. Pushing the reset button at the ripe old age of 38 was never part of the plan.

Fortunately, for me, a mother of advanced age, I had the perspective I didn’t have the first time around (try though I did to cultivate it). “They grow up SO fast.” “Cherish this time.” “They won’t stay little forever.”

Consequently, raising little Jack has been an absolute joy. Sure, I am older, and even more exhausted than the first time around. But I’m wiser, too. Wise enough to know that I’m going to miss this someday.

We would all do well to remind ourselves of that fact, in every stage of life. “I’m going to miss this someday”.

I may not love that I have to accompany my teenage daughter every single time she gets behind the wheel of a car until she gets her license. But I can have the foresight that when she does, I’m going to miss the hours we got to spend one-on-one in the car during those critical teenage years.

Planning birthday parties for my ten-year-old may tax my creativity (and wallet) but I may miss the day that she valued my input on her activities.

I may be exasperated that every waking hour encompasses meeting the needs of each of my five children but I will likely long for that sense of purpose behind my life and activities when those kiddos are up and out.

It’s good to look to the future with hope and anticipation. It’s also beneficial to recognize the possibility that our current circumstances are equally worthy of enjoyment. That in hindsight, we might actually miss the moments we are living right now.

But the question is, how?

  1. Remember when you were almost due with your first child and all the older moms told you to “sleep when the baby sleeps”? I do. You know what’s great about sleeping when the baby sleeps (within reason, because, as we all know, it isn’t realistic to sleep 15 plus hours a day)? You can give your best, well-rested self to your child during their waking hours. And you’ll enjoy each moment a lot more when you’re not constantly nodding off during play time. Try napping when your kid does. It might surprise you how much your life and energy improve.
  2. When my babes were little, a more experienced mom told me that at the end of every night, she would sneak into her kids’ bedrooms and watch them sleep for a moment. Let’s face it, kids are adorable when they sleep. The sight of their angelic little faces reawakens that sense of love and gratitude for the opportunity to be their mother, despite the challenges of the day. Try it out.
  3. Write it down. I started a blog when my oldest was four years old (I had three kids at the time). Had I not, I would never remember that she had asked me to rename her “Cinderella”. Or that her younger sister had swallowed a penny. I certainly wouldn’t remember that all of my children managed to climb out on the roof one night. Scratch that. You don’t forget stuff like that. Point is, reading about those early parenting days is a whole lot more enjoyable than living them. So keep a record.

“They grow up SO fast.” The old ladies are right. So let’s quit rolling our eyes and enjoy those little ones.

The birthday that never ends.

Anna’s birthday falls on spring break almost every single year.  This occasionally poses a problem when trying to schedule a birthday party, or when your friends want to decorate your locker, or give you an embarrassing tiara to wear at school all day long.  So a month ago in family council we asked Anna what she would prefer: Skip a half day of school to drive to Portland on her birthday?  Or go to school and leave the next day to drive all the way to the coast?  (We’d booked a campsite for the following night).  She opted for Portland.  She apparently got the “introvert” genes in the family.  Or the “avoid embarrassment at all costs” genes.

Either way, we had to space our birthday traditions over several days to accommodate our plans.  Early Friday morning, we ate her birthday breakfast, sang “happy birthday”, ate a Costco cake (clearly not the “real, homemade” cake that was still to come), opened presents and went around the table telling what we love about her.  We then headed out the door to Oregon.

The following Friday night, we took her out to eat for her birthday dinner.  Then, finally, on Sunday, we indulged in her chosen birthday cake – a brownie chocolate chip cookie dough cheesecake.  Thank heaven Pinterest did not fail me on this one.  Delish.

As a bonus, her young women leaders invaded her room the day before her birthday to decorate it with streamers, balloons and chocolate.  Lots of it.  Boy, this girl is LOVED.

As a parent, I knew I would love the baby/toddler/preschool years.  And I have.  Little ones are so easy to love.  What I didn’t anticipate is how fun having teenagers can be.  Anna is a gem.  She’s steady, diligent, and has a solid knowledge of who she is gained through faithful study of the word of God.  In a world where many teens couldn’t care less about what really matters, Anna has got her head on straight.  She is a joy to raise and I look forward to seeing where her desire to seek out the good will take her.  Happy Birthday to my beautiful firstborn!