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| Love is a Battlefield |
| 10.19.04 (1:04 pm) [edit] |
|
[i][b]We are young, heartache to heartache we stand No promises, no demands Love is a battlefield We are strong, no one can tell us we're wrong Searchin' our hearts for so long, both of us knowing Love is a battlefield. --Pat Benetar [/b][/i] I was in the car today scanning radio stations when I heard a statement that made coffee come out my nose. Two men were talking on a Christian radio station when one of them, we’ll call him Jim-- said, quite matter-of-factly, "Bob, many parents struggle to understand their teens now and then." I immediately knew that this was someone who had nothing to offer me and I switched over to Gun Talk. Let’s set the record straight right now. Jim, there is no struggle to understand here. It’s all very simple; they used to be your sweet little children and now they are not. They are a walking, talking bundle of hormones trying to discover who they are and what they think outside of the sphere of their parents. Their battle cry is freedom and their every waking moment is dedicated to the cause. Giving your parents apoplexy is just a bonus. The goal should not be to understand, but to survive. [u][b]Rules of Engagement[/b][/u]: You don’t get a lot of warning. On Monday you put them to bed smelling of powder and wearing Winnie the Pooh flannel pajamas. On Friday they discover hair growing under their armpits and before you can purchase their first box of Kotex, your Victoria’s Secret underpants are missing and your daughter has been spotted in a tube top, drinking a double shot latte and smoking a cigarette outside of Starbuck’s. You are now a prisoner of war. Your captors develop this tone, this horrible, nasty tone that reeks of bravisimo and sarcasm. It is ever present and rings in your head like nails against a chalkboard. Get used to this fact, you are now the stupidest person on the face of the earth. You are to blame for their bad hair, their zits, their "D" in math, their locker jamming and world hunger. In addition, you dress like a freak. You are invisible unless they need money or a ride. It is understood that for the privilege of doing either, you will refrain from the following: parking within a 50 foot radius of the school door, waving, touching them, talking to their friends, wearing your REO Speedwagon Reunion T-shirt, or taking off your dark sun-glasses. Welcome to the pit of the un-cool. Your rules are absurd (you are the only parent that even has rules), despite the fact that you just spent $257 on groceries your refrigerator never has anything good in it and your music sucks. Where once you were the fount of wisdom, the child that kept you in labor for 14 hours before your caesarian, is now taking advice from someone who has made a conscious decision not to bathe, has pierced his penis and utilizes a vocabulary that consists primarily of the F-word. This boy, by the way, is the captain of the Football team. [u][b]The Battlefield:[/b][/u] What you need to understand is that what was, is no more. The bathroom, once a quiet place for eliminating waste and reading magazines, is now a battleground of apocalyptic proportion. It begins with a shower that has been going longer than the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown soldier, followed by fists slamming relentlessly against a locked door. It culminates in a string of four letter words and the launching of the "accidental" artillery, the "accidental" body-slam against the door, the "accidental" unplugging of the curling iron, and the "accidental" flying blowdryer. After they are in school, I walk sheepishly upstairs to search for toiletries that may have survived the carnage. I discover that there has apparently been a nuclear missile strike and among other things, what was at one time my blush is now the accent color of my new white bath rug. Still missing in action: one black bra, a tube of mascara, and the new bottle of conditioning shampoo. I got so sick of my things coming up missing that I bought a steel lock-box. Some burglar with bad luck is going to rob me only to find that my riches consist of a razor, a hairbrush, deodorant, assorted makeup and several pairs of underwear. It is a world turned upside down. Ali, for example, was at one time so neat and afraid of germs that if a friend showed up with the sniffles she would follow them around with a can of Lysol. She wouldn’t use an antique quilt because someone may have thrown up or died on it. Now, we don’t enter her room without OSHA approved work boots, rubber gloves and some sort of breathing apparatus. I threw out something in a cup the other day that looked like a giant clump of elephant snot. I remember the January that I found a piece of petrified German chocolate cake in Megan’s underwear drawer. It was from a birthday celebration in October. Never underestimate the power of filth. It is quite possible that at this very minute, the cure for cancer is growing on a half-eaten cupcake in a teenager’s underwear drawer. [b][u]Plan of Attack: Insanity [/u][/b] Most experts will tell you that consistency is the best way to raise teenagers, I however believe that your best weapon in the War on Hormones is to exhibit personal behavior so random and bizarre that they have no clue what you will do next. Case in point, one day we were driving to engage in some pleasant "family time activity". The girls began to fight over some stupid trinket. They were so loud that I couldn’t hear Glenn Beck on the radio. I held out my hand and took the item in question. I rolled down the window, tossed it out, rolled the window back up and kept on driving. Other than the line I overheard about me being completely insane, it was finally quiet. One afternoon, Megan slammed her bedroom door in my face. I said nothing. I went downstairs, got the toolbox and took her door off the hinges. I put it in my bedroom for the next two weeks where she learned to adapt to having no privacy. It never happened again. Another day, she took on an obnoxious tone and was completely ungrateful for the fact that I had been carting her around all day. We were on the way to take her friend home. It was dark and late and I thought that my head was going to explode. Rather than scream, I pulled the car into the driveway of a church at the corner of a very busy intersection. "Get out", I said. "What are you doing?" she asked indignantly. "Get out of the car", I repeated, "we’re going to rumble". She eventually realized that I was serious and soon there we were, under a streetlight on the lawn of a church, rolling around and wrestling until we both ended up laughing hysterically. We stood up and brushed ourselves off and got back in the car. Her friend said nothing. Erratic behavior gives you credibility. When you tell them that if they are late for school one more time you will personally walk them to class in your pajamas... they think to themselves... "This is the woman who served an elegant dinner in her bra and hung a condom balloon from our kitchen light", I think I’ll be on time. [u][b]Peace Treaty[/b][/u]: Understanding teenagers is not hard, surviving with a sense of humor is. I have a good relationship with my daughters. I don’t try to be their friend and I don’t pretend that I’m perfect. I try to offer them a good solid foundation for living a happy life. One morning about 4:30 a.m., for some unknown and bizarre reason, I knelt down next to Megan and said, "Megan, don’t ever do heroin because it can addict you immediately and before you know it you will be dropping out of college and dancing in a strip club to get the money for your next fix." She looked up at me with her eyes half open, "Alright mama," she said, "I won’t". I am not mainstream, but my girls know that they can come to me with anything and I will listen and be truthful. Sometimes their openness shocks me but I understand enough to know that ultimately by this time in their lives they are going to do what they want. If I yell and scream and threaten they won’t come to me anymore and I won’t be able to tell them why their decisions might be harmful. They seem to find reason in my insanity. I am not everyone’s kind of mother, but I don’t have to be. I just have to be the kind of mother that my girls need me to be. The other night, Megan told me that I was a great mom; that I was always there for them even if I had to sacrifice. On the battlefield of love, that’s equivalent to the Medal of Honor. |
posted by: Bobby Joe Thorazine (reply)
post date: 10.19.04 (12:03 pm)
Very, very nice.
posted by: shoplove (reply)
post date: 10.20.04 (12:04 pm)
Kudos to you and getting through to the ever elusive "Teenaged Girl Child". It is so hard to live in a home that you pay for where you are never right about anything and apparently know even less. I've passed this on to my friends in your boat... By the way, I still remember when my 4'11" mom jacked me up by the collar against the refrigerator for a little "rumble". I'm a better woman because of it.
posted by: LoriSchuster (reply)
post date: 10.20.04 (10:17 pm)
Reply to: shoplove
The inner hidden strength of mothers is an amazing thing! :)
posted by: newbie (reply)
post date: 10.26.04 (4:51 am)
Boy did this hit home! (This coming from a mother who is currently hiding her hair spray in her clothes closet!) I laughed out loud several times. How wonderful that you can retain your sense of humor! (I often lose mine.) It's nice to realize we're not alone - and to think I always thought I'd be a cool parent!
posted by: racha1 (reply)
post date: 10.29.04 (4:01 am)
Lori, I've read every word of your blogs. Sometimes your words are more amusing than memories of sipping beer from your cleavage outside your vacant crush's new house; sometimes they are the sobering realization that I am an island because I continue to choose to be alone because it seems so much safer. Either way, they are as phenomenally insightful and funny and beautiful as the hand that types them. :)
posted by: LoriSchuster (reply)
post date: 10.29.04 (6:54 pm)
Reply to: racha1
First Racha... I want to make it clear to everyone reading this that no one was sipping beer from my cleavage... You were quite adept at balancing the bottle in your cleavage and drinking. mine, was not up to the task and besides, I was too uncoordinated to tip it correctly. I was, however, better at peeing in the bushes... after the beer. Secondly, thank you for your very kind words-- coming from you-- well, you know. Thirdly, as I will never allow you to be an island unto yourself because I see it as my solemn duty to keep you in touch with your wild side...even if it takes a martini. what are friends for. God, you're insane. :)
posted by: LoriSchuster (reply)
post date: 11.03.04 (9:52 am)
Reply to: newbie
thank you for your nice comments. PS: Hide your hairspray near the cleaning supplies... they will NEVER look there :)
Grace, beauty, humor, strength.
Alison Haley Cloud
Nov. 16, 1987-March 1, 2005
