Adventures In Motherhood

"You believe in me, but I don't think you really know," my teenage daughter insisted as I rounded the corner on our street. I burst out laughing, "What an awesome quote. I love it!" She honestly had my attention with 'You believe in me'. Thank God, I've done something right I thought to myself, relishing my brief success as a parent before pausing terrified...hmmm, what don't I know? Admit nothing, ask questions later; I spied another CIA skill worthy of parenthood. Usually she's like a tall shot of espresso in the morning before coffee has prepared me for teenage drama. With enormous social media pressures, teenagers have a full-time job keeping up with Snapchat, Instagram, etc., in order to stay relevant before the school day even begins. Throw in the pressure of scheduling activities, hair, clothing, makeup, acne, an unfortunate glance from her brother, a coat she can't find, and our breakfast table is a chaotic board meeting daily,

I took my chances this morning; parking my mom-minivan next to a red Ozark camping tent zipped tight on the sidewalk. Eyeing my surroundings with caution, I rifled through my wallet for a credit card to plug the parking meter before the Social Security Administration line grew longer. A used syringe, empty box of handcuffs, first aid kit, dirty white crew socks and a mess of take-out food littered the pavement, just blocks from one of the wealthiest high schools in Portland. Carefully sidestepping the evidence of someone else's misfortune, I crossed the empty street. Noticing an abandoned black backpack by the tree, I surveyed the citizens of similar long-line fate rocking uncomfortably outside the SSA door. Ah, the humanity, my first thought interrupted by a barking security guard, the size of Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson wearing latex gloves. "Who's backpack is this?" he shouted. Like a jolt of caffeine, the drill sergeant got our attention making me wonder if a back

My 13-year-old daughter was sexually harassed in eighth grade following our relocation to Oregon. Transitioning as a teenager to a new school in the last year of middle school was difficult enough without the threat of sexual harassment. I'll never forget when my daughter described an eighth grade boy who asked her lewd questions about sex with farm animals, blow jobs and the size of penises; grooming her and impressing his friends, my daughter his innocent victim. What should've been an advanced math class quickly turned embarrassing and my daughter became privy to sexually explicit conversation that even tested my knowledge. I role-played responses with my daughter, "Turn your back to him," I instructed, "look him in the eyes and tell him no, please stop!" I called the middle school counselor who assured me steps would be taken. She encouraged all girls to speak out so that more serious consequences could be enforced. I persuaded my daughter to have

My parents always struggled to make ends meet when I was a child. I am quite confident they lacked disposable income to easily dole out to my brother and me for our leisure activities. Our monthly allowance amount escapes me, but it was definitely not sufficient to support the lifestyle of our high school friends, nor teenage necessities like designer Pepe jean jackets and theater movies. I insisted on working a newspaper route before school to supplement my paltry allowance and even opened my own checking account in anticipation of new wealth. I remember the route being a bike-able mile from my home in the ‘wealthy’ part of town where fancy homes with boat docks were situated around a lake. I had arrived at age 13, a tough, determined high school freshman girl, un-intimidated by the bike trek in the wee early morning hours before the sun came up. Lakeshore Drive was flat and easily navigated, despite the hefty bundle of newspapers in the orange canvas bag slung over my shoulder. E