Getting My LOON On

In our eighteen years of owning and operating Sandy Point Resort, this year—2010—has been the most challenging. It started out posing a problem because my daughters and I didn’t get here until the Thursday night before Memorial Day weekend. We flew from Tucson to Minneapolis to Rhinelander, and it may as well have been a flight from the earth to the moon because of the polarized climates and lifestyles.

Mike was here waiting for us and Stu, our caretaker, had the grounds in tip-top shape. Together these two capable, hard-working men had already weathered a full house and a full turnover. But I—mama bear—had a hard time adjusting overnight.

I went from being a single parent getting her kids through finals and school-yearend activities—to preparing our beast of a house for all our summer caretakers—to packing for three months—to getting our 50-pound bags to the airport. And then it felt like we were literally dropped from the sky into a completely different world with completely different demands.

My kids ran off in one direction (away from me) and the resort guests then entered the scene and pummeled me with their expected and typical questions and needs.

Meanwhile, we’ve been here for just shy of three weeks and I haven’t seen the sun in nearly two of those weeks. And while I LOVE running in the cooler temps, the humidity has made my lungs heavy and my hair so thick, I can’t get a brush through it.

This is our first week with “regulars” here—the people whom we ALWAYS look forward to having on property. They’re like family. I have workout dates and our girls have make-out dates. Whoops! Scratch that. Make that movie dates in the recreation house.

They’re having fun—as teenagers should—however, this year I have to toil harder to reel them in and make them understand that they also WORK here. And all that spending money that comes their way is NOT an entitlement, but rather, it’s hard earned. (Read: SUMMER JOB).

This mom-n-pop operation finally has the benefit of kids on staff, and yet it also has the taxing job of teaching our kids the meaning of family business and “work ethic.” After eighteen years and just when I thought I had the guests trained, damn it, I have to once again, deal with another stage of parenting children.

I have yet to determine which is my most difficult job.

Q: How Do You Get Your Teenager to be Sweet Again?

A: Let her go on a date

She’ll be fifteen very soon—so soon, she’s planning her birthday party. But for now, she’s still fourteen. And she doesn’t look it. Ask anyone. Last month when she was trying on dresses for the Winter Formal dance, the saleswoman kept bringing sophisticated, low-cut, sexy dresses to the dressing room.

“Can you please stop bringing these little numbers that make her look like a dominatrix?” I asked. “She’s only fourteen.”

Our assistant, herself barely beyond her teens, dropped her jaw. “OMG!” she gasped. “I thought she was at least seventeen!”

I’m not sure at what age a dominatrix outfit becomes appropriate, but when we added the three-inch heels to the little black dress we ultimately chose, this six-foot blonde did not look like a freshman on her way to her first high school dance.

Every parent of teenagers will warn you how quickly they grow up. When you’re carting around sweet, little babies or have a toddler grasping your hand and smiling at strangers who admire them, you may hear the words “just wait!” a few too many times. We also heard, “You’re going to have your hands full!” and “Better get your shotgun ready for when the boys come calling.”

Our daughter was not comfortable with the attention she received when first starting high school. Not only did we feel she was too young to date, she also knew she wasn’t ready. But last night, something changed. She said “okay;” and we said “okay,” and no one had to hunt down a shotgun. All the rules were met, the formalities observed, and the only thing her daddy asked the boy was, “are you a good driver?”

“I’m an excellent driver,” he said. And he drove her home a few minutes before her curfew. Everyone was happy.

With our seventh grader away at a party and our freshman on a date, that meant we had the house to ourselves, and it was a lovely evening in front of the fireplace for mommy and daddy. We recalled how many times we’d heard the words, “Just wait!” and couldn’t help but smile.

Was this what we were waiting for?

Parenting is THE Most Difficult Job

Take this job and shove it. I’m failing miserably in my role as a mother. Why? It’s not because I don’t have great kids. I do. They’re both healthy and beautiful and SHOULD be a parent’s dream.

So, why the whine?

It’s because I can’t take any credit for it. And because of this, I feel like a failure. And unfortunately, I’ve never considered failure an option.

Here’s my problem: I can’t find a way to NOT live vicariously through my children. Their grades are my grades. Their performances are my performances. Their pimples, their laughs, their farts, their failures, their successes, their joys AND their sorrows … they ALL affect me in a way I had never anticipated.

I guess I thought that in order to be a good mother—an involved mother—I had to give up my own ambitions and concentrate primarily on the health and wellbeing of my children. And how can anyone blame me? I got pregnant, right? They weren’t accidents. They were planned. I know we were lucky because the traditional methods worked and I got to have the moment of discovery and conveyance to their daddy. Twice. And during my pregnancies, I gave my body—my entire life—over to the growing fetuses within me. I ate well. I ate A LOT. I gave up wine. I did normal exercise until I fell and couldn’t get up. I delivered both children naturally. I even pulled out the second one myself. My doctor asked me, “Do you want to reach down and do this yourself?” Of course, I said “yes!” And every minute since bringing these children into my home, I dedicated myself to their existence.

Giving birth to them, as it turns out, was easy. No one told me how difficult raising them would be. No one talked about all the curve balls life has to offer. They didn’t tell me about bullies or bad grades—the unremarkable, even disappointing performances. They didn’t tell me about diseases or death. They didn’t tell me about the lies or the myriad of bullshit modern day existence would roll down my alley … all the while aiming for my pins of perfection.

And even if they did, hmmmm, did I listen? Wait, did I miss that class?

I want you all to listen and to know, I’m not just talking about me, and MY kids. I have friends who have faced and are facing far worse shit brought on during the course of parenthood than I’m facing. [[This isn’t just a completely self-serving rant.]] Some of the things I’ve learned in recent years—even in recent days—for example, have sent my mind reeling.

Know this: You have a child and you step into a world you simply cannot predict.

I NEVER thought I’d miss the days of diapers and car seats. NEVER. But if any young parents are out there reading this lapse into helpless, self-pitying puke of parenthood—ENJOY YOUR BABIES. When all they can do is fall down and skin their knees, when they are still under your control and you are still paying 100% attention and thinking of yourself as THEIR mom rather than YOURself, mark my words: life is a blessing. You are lucky to have them and you won’t regret it.

As for the rest of us? Get a grip. They’re not perfect and neither are we.

BTW: I realize I’m talking to myself.

When Your Teenager Treats You Like the Chauffeur

The other day we went to our annual neighborhood watch block party. It’s an opportunity to have real conversations with the people with whom you share the roads and to whom you wave everyday as you drive in and out of the hood. Let’s face it. Suburban living—even in our rural desert oasis—is all about driving in and out of the hood.

In addition to talking about safety and the overdue asphalt sealing of the three main roads comprising our subdivision, we asked about one another’s kids. Who is now in junior high? High School? How’s your son handling his first year away at college? The conversations are mostly mundane and predictable. We answer things like: “She’s fine. Still playing soccer.” And “yes, he made the basketball team.” Or “she’s great—just got her acceptance letter from the U.” Occasionally, however, someone decides to be perfectly frank.

“How’s your son handling his first year away at college?”

“Well, he’s enjoying it a little too much.”

“Going off the deep end a bit, is he?”

“Oh yes! We had to have the ‘Come to Jesus Talk’ the other night.”

Come to Jesus? I wasn’t exactly sure what my neighbor meant by that, but his general meaning was quite clear. I have another friend who calls those heart-to-heart-parent-to-child talks, “the blue chair talks.” When her kids are called to the blue chair, it’s serious business.

My husband and I have these talks with our kids, too. We simply refer to the process as “reeling them in.”  We’d like to give them a long leash, allow them privileges and reward them for good behavior, but the ole ‘give-‘em-an-inch-and-they-take-a-mile behavior comes into play ALL THE TIME.  

This morning I had to have one of those Come to Jesus, Blue Chair, Reel ‘em In conversations with my teenager while driving her to school. Without going into all the details, the main subject was about her expectations and assumptions that she could make all the plans in the world about this party and that performance, this practice and that meeting, and leave it up to me to not only gather the times and locations, but also arrange my schedule to get her to and fro.

This kid has NO clue that I have a life beyond chauffeuring her all over town. I’ve seemingly become a non-person to her—something without value except how it can be of service to her.

Lately I’ve found myself counting the days until her sixteenth birthday and wondering what kind of car we’re going to get her so she can do the driving herself. Granted that leash extension may open up a whole new set of Come to Jesus criteria . . . but at least I’ll retain the power to not only take away her cell phone, but her car keys as well.

And yes, I realize, that even though these teenage years are taxing, they go by very quickly. My mother, who I miss dearly, went to Jesus over ten years ago. And I’d give just about anything to have her wake me up, make my breakfast, and drive me to cheerleading practice just one more time.

Meanwhile, if anyone has a trick to penetrate the teenage mind—something that gets through—please let me know. My gas tank is about empty.