I've Had It Up to Here with Teenagers

by Melinda Rainey Thompson

  One day when I was sitting on the screened-in porch with one of my sons, I recognized his most recent crush jogging by our house with her father. “Isn’t that So-and-so?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he responded.

  “Aren’t you even going to speak to her?” I prodded.

  “I’ll see her tomorrow in school,” he said.

  “If I were a girl, that would hurt my feelings!” I said, baffled.

  “You are a girl, Mom. You’re just an old girl.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You know what I mean,” I said.

  All in all, those years were a whole lot of nothing. They were good practice, though, for high school.

  High-school dating is a different kettle of fish entirely. Things have changed a lot since I was in high school. Teenagers generally travel in packs nowadays. You don’t see as much one-on-one dating. I kind of like that. It’s hard to get into trouble in front of a big group of friends. There’s safety in numbers, and I mean that in all the ways that you can think of and probably a few more that you can’t if you don’t yet have teenagers.

  One reason kids don’t date as much as they used to is because it is so darn expensive. Taking a girl to a movie is a forty-dollar evening these days. Tickets are nearly ten bucks each. Two small drinks and popcorn, and those boys are looking at dropping half a month’s allowance in one night. That’s pretty steep. One of my boys came home after one of his first dates outraged that his companion for the evening “ordered the most expensive thing on the menu!” Another reason you see kids going out in big groups is that it allows those who are self-confident to smooth the way for their friends who are a bit shy around members of the opposite sex. That’s kind, I think.

  Eventually, of course, one of your children falls in love. It happens to everyone with reassuring regularity. All the classic signs appear. It’s more than a crush. You can see it’s the real deal, at least for the moment. From a parent’s point of view, it’s a whole new ball game. You have to bite your tongue to keep from spouting constant dire warnings like some Greek oracle of doom and gloom. As an adult, you can see the inevitable heartbreak on the horizon, but you can’t protect your teenager from the experience. It’s all part of growing up.

  No one is more irritating to take on a family vacation than a teenager in love. At that moment in time, blood ties mean nothing. No one is more important in that teen’s world than the girlfriend or boyfriend who is being left behind. There’s nothing quite like spending a small fortune on a family getaway only to have your lovelorn teenager mope through the week. The good news is that love interests wax and wane. As a parent, it’s best not to get too involved. You don’t want to know too much about who “likes” whom. It’s not your business. Plus, the cast of characters is constantly changing like something out of the Swinging Sixties. My motto: be nice to all of them. You never know who may end up with their feet under your table at Thanksgiving dinner. Your future sons-and daughters-in-law are out there somewhere right now. Think about that. I sure hope their parents are doing a good job. Somebody else’s kids are going to be my grandchildren’s parents! That’s the kind of thought that keeps me up at night.

  On the outside, teenagers look a lot more sophisticated these days. I don’t know if it’s the new dermatology drugs, better vitamins, or exposure to a world of information through the Internet, but the girls my boys date look like college-aged beauties. I’ve seen them in prom dresses that cost more than my entire winter wardrobe. I’ve watched seventeen-year-old girls stride confidently on three-inch heels that would toss me into a flower bed in mere seconds. Prom night is an extravaganza that rivals wedding-party events. There are limousines, major photography sessions, expensive dinners, breakfasts afterward, and expensive formal wear. If you’re the parent of a boy in this scenario, let’s just say you’re in for big bucks. I’m looking forward to being on the girl end of that evening with my daughter!

  When I was my daughter’s age, I looked like it. We wore knee socks and loafers, and I had bushy caterpillar eyebrows. It could have been worse. I had a friend who looked like she was growing a handlebar mustache. Back then, I had never heard of anyone who had her eyebrows or upper lip waxed, but as a brunette with porcelain-pale skin, I sure could have used some salon help. Not many girls wore makeup or nail polish either, and if they did, it was inexpertly applied and a little daring. I was a full-grown woman before I ever had a manicure or pedicure. Now, little girls do that at birthday parties!

  Times have changed. Human nature has not. Boys like girls. Girls like boys. Occasionally, boys like boys and girls like girls. It can get confusing. These days, I feel like a professional chaperon. It’s a big part of my current job description. “All your friends are welcome in our house,” I tell my teenagers, but when we entertain boys and girls together, we observe some general rules of decorum.

  1. No sitting around in the dark. Leave a light on, please.

  2.Couples will remain upright on couches and chairs. No reclining.

  3. My husband and I will make periodic passes through the living room, basement, porch, and any other areas where teenagers congregate, just to keep everyone on the up-and-up.

  Teenagers in my house are under my supervision, so I feel free to offer correction on an as-needed basis. I try to be nice about it. In exchange, I offer unlimited soft drinks, pizza, and other snacks. I also promise to make my evening patrols mere drive-bys. I speak politely to my kids’ friends, indulge in a few minutes of chitchat, and then go about my business. I genuinely try not to embarrass anyone. That is sometimes hard. By the time midnight rolls around, I’m exhausted and ready for bed. I’m sporting mismatched sweats and T-shirt, and I’ve usually washed the makeup off my face and substituted my out-of-date glasses for contacts. I can be quite a vision of beauty when I come down those stairs to “do laundry” at eleven o’clock at night. I also ask that all children who enter and leave my home greet me or my husband and tell us they are leaving, so that we know who is actually on the premises. Nothing is more embarrassing than when a parent calls and asks, “Is So-and-so there?” and I say, “No, haven’t seen him tonight,” and then have to call back and report, “He’s in my basement—I didn’t know.” That does not make me a happy camper.

  One day, I want to have those precious grandchildren I always hear so much about. The point is that I want them way, way down the line, after everyone is well educated and able to support themselves and their dependents.

  Bottom line: I tell it like it is. I think that is the only way to live with teenagers without losing your mind. I often say, “I’m old and tired. I am not rearing any more children in this house! Got it?”

  THE MOM CHAPERON

  1.Teen: “We broke up.”

  Mom: “It would have been nice to know that before I ran into her mother at the grocery store.”

  2.Teen: “Try not to talk to my date too much while I finish getting dressed.”

  Mom: “No problem. Would you prefer we sit in the living room in silence?”

  3.Teen: “I’m going to wait outside for my date to pick me up.”

  Mom: “You are not a FedEx package. Your date must come to the door, knock, and be introduced.”

  4.Teen: “I like her a lot, but I can’t stand her mother.”

  Mom: “Just FYI, you probably wouldn’t like her any better as a mother-in-law.”

  5.Teen: “She’s really, really, really pretty.”

  Mom: “I don’t think you heard the question, son. I asked you what you like about her.”

  6. Teen: “He is so cute! I can’t just go up and talk to him!”

  Mom: “So you’re saying that if he were ugly you could talk to him without all the drama?”

  7.Teen: “We’ve been dating for six whole weeks!”

  Mom: “I guess it’s time to introduce him/her to all the cousins, then.”

  8.Teen: “I can’t wear that on a date!”

  Mom: “Why? Because it is tasteful and appropriate and you lo
ok charming in it?”

  9.Teen: “I can’t get my hair cut right before the dance!”

  Mom: “I see. Well groomed is bad, right?”

  10.Teen: “I don’t want to go to the party with a date if you have to drive us.”

  Mom: “Would you prefer to take a cab?”

  The Rebuttal

  Dear Reader,

  You cannot believe everything you read. You’ve heard only one side of the epic Parent v. Teenager battle in this book: the mother’s side, my mother’s side. I know her pretty well. Believe me, she’s not telling you everything. There’s more to the story. You have to consider context. Since people my age have yet to gain a foothold in the world of publishing, I can only assume that angry teenagers are an under-represented demographic. With this is mind, I take personal satisfaction in writing a small rebuttal to this book-long harangue of my people. Obviously, my mom was on a tear in these pages. That’s something to see in person, let me tell you. You do not want to be on the listening end of one of my mother’s lectures when she’s in a mood. It’s best to apologize quickly. If you let her get a full head of steam, there’s no stopping her, and you could be trapped for hours listening to her go on and on about the same old stuff.

  First of all, I would like to express my shock and dismay at the amount of name-calling in my mother’s most recent literary work. I note that she frequently uses nouns like wretch, sneak, troll, and rodent to describe the delightful children she gave birth to. I ask you, is that nice? I think that’s actually preteen behavior, don’t you? Very immature, Mother.

  Although most of the unbelievably many gripes and grievances my mother writes about in this book are factually accurate, my counterarguments and those of my siblings are not given even token representation. I assure you that if we’d told you the same stories, we’d look a lot better in them.

  Let me mention a few things about my mother. First of all, our household is proof that Kim Jong-il is on to something with that whole absolute dictator thing. Mama’s rules are the law around here, and the rules are apparently subject to change with or without the approval of the actual state judicial representative who lives under the same roof. Our dad really is a judge, but he’s not nearly as scary as Mom. The Bill of Rights means nothing in these walls. Censorship is tight. Verbal chastisement is constant. Punishments can consist of certain jobs that may fall under the category of biological terrorism (see the story about my cleaning the porch).

  Think about this for a minute: adults always talk about wanting to relive their college days, but no one ever says they wish they could relive high school. I know why. Teenagers like me have no control over anything in our everyday lives. It’s so frustrating! We don’t get much sympathy either. In our world, every part of our day consists of situations where we are treated like inferior beings or second-class citizens, people who need to be bossed around. Teachers make us read about irrelevant and monotonous subjects whether we are interested in a career involving research on electromagnetism or not. After school, coaches bark in our ears for three hours in the hot sun and give us orders in the rudest manner possible. When we come home, we are expected to be pleasant when our parents order us around in an even more hostile tone than the coaches! Excuse me, Mom, if I don’t leap to put up the clothes that seem pretty indifferent as to whether they are stored on the floor or in the dresser.

  While I am on the subject of dictators and their orders, let me summarize my ideas about the way curfews are handled around here. Like communism, curfews are a good idea in principle, but the practice just manages to tick everyone off. Sometimes, two parents give different times to be home. They don’t always check with each other. Parents often seem to forget the deal we made about the curfew before I left for the night, or they give vague, confusing instructions like, “Don’t be home too late.” What does that mean? My parents may be getting Alzheimer’s. They are old. I have an advantage in remembering exactly what was said in earlier conversations because my brain is still young and sharp.

  Unfortunately, I have learned that no matter how well one does in the opening arguments with parents, their closing statements always result in a guilty verdict for teenagers. This constant cloud of defeat probably contributes to teenagers’ frequently unpleasant and angry attitudes that my mother complains about (over and over again). Here’s the perfect analogy: imagine playing baseball all your life and never winning one game, even though you took some teams into extra innings!

  It’s not easy being a teenager, no matter what my mom says. You realize that parents are legally obligated to pay for our food, clothes, and living expenses, right? We didn’t ask to be born. I say take it up with the Supreme Court, but don’t grumble about it to us. I’m sure someone told my parents long ago that those sweet, innocent babies would at some point turn into big, hairy, mean teenagers. I think adolescence is like boot camp right before you go to real war. It’s hard on everybody.

  In a short time, I will be leaving for college. There are a few things I will miss about my teenage years under this roof. I will miss my brother and sister. I’ll miss my mom’s pound cake and my dad taking us to Alabama football games. My mother says I will miss the clean clothes that will no longer appear in my room, too. I may even miss my parents—the dictator and the judge.

  Seriously, when I have kids, I hope I am as good a parent as my parents have been for me. I’m talking about the kids I have in the distant, distant future, as I am sure my mom was thinking when she read that sentence—which is just the kind of thing to crank her up on a sex-education discussion.

  Sincerely,

  Warner Thompson

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  At the end of every statewide campaign, it is customary for politicians like my husband to give flowery, over-the-top speeches thanking the volunteers and paid staff who work behind the scenes to ensure their candidate’s success. It is a running joke in our household that I refuse to be thanked publicly by my husband. I don’t need public recognition for that. I support him because I love him. For goodness’ sake, I’ve been married to the man for twenty-five years. That number speaks volumes. I respect his work, and I think Alabama is lucky to have him on the appellate bench. However, he knows full well that if he ever plants a big, wet kiss on my lips in front of an audience, he’s going down for the count. I mean it. The very idea makes me nauseated.

  Every time I finish writing a book, I find myself in the same position as those post-campaign politicians. I want to thank people. Like me, most of them would rather not be thanked. They help me because they love me. Isn’t that lovely?

  So … regardless of the consequences, I have a few individuals I want to thank in these pages. Since this is my book, I can do what I want.

  This time, thanks especially to Vera and Rip Britton and Whitney Page. These friends read late-night, frantic emails with strange subject lines like, “Quick! Quick! Read this and tell me if it’s funny or not!” They mulled over things, encouraged me, and gave me wise counsel. I couldn’t ask for finer friends.

  Thanks to Vicki Johnson, who dragged me kicking and screaming—no modest feat—into the world of social media. That woman has the patience of a saint. She even laughed when I accidentally invited my Episcopal bishop, Kee Sloan, to be my friend on Facebook. Even better, she used her nimble fingers to fix it. She’s my kind of gal.

  A special thank-you to Renea Lucy for taking the photograph of my kids—twenty minutes and no one screamed!

  As always, thanks to my personal photographer, Brit Huckabay. Brit can make any woman look good and feel like a rock star. Feel free to book a photo session with him yourself. You’ll see what I’m talking about.

  Big news: I worked with a new editor on this book, Steve Kirk. You all know how much I love change (not at all), so I’m sure I was a little party for him. All I can say is, “Steve, you are so the man.” This book is infinitely better than it would have been without him. I now know why he has that “senior editor” title. A great editor is like
a wife (or so I imagine). Steve gets my heartfelt gratitude and a pound cake. Lord knows, he earned it.

  As always, thanks to the home team—husband, children, parents, sister, and friends—for making it possible for me to write what I love, travel to speaking events, and still keep my day job as mother and dictator. I love you all.