I Matter
My 15-year-old daughter texted me a picture of my blog this week, "ok this is interesting," she wrote. Laughing aloud I learned two things in that moment, the first, that I was literally busted on Santa with enough proof to out me to her brothers, and the second, that she respects my writing enough to read it. I also realized that I matter to my teen.
In all honesty, parenting teens is like climbing Mt. Everest without a guide, doubting your abilities, being attacked by wild animals, struggling for oxygen, feeling weak, and lacking confidence in your ability to survive.
I brace myself as I grab a morning cup of coffee, not entirely sure if a mountain lion or fluffy bunny will show up at the kitchen table before school or after, if we're lucky enough to have time to eat dinner as a family. My mountain climb is never ending with four children and it's a mental Mensa game!
"You made me sound like a bratty kid," she said at the breakfast table the next morning. The mental game of chess had begun before my first cup of Joe, my queen left exposed.
"Oh did I?" my first response, followed by, "you surely read fiction in school and if you're talking about Santa, you're almost sixteen." My queen was under attack. Moving my bishop to check, my countermove would buy time to rescue my queen, as if it mattered.
Invisible, that's how I feel most days as a parent. My words echo like a Peanuts comic strip, Wah, Wah, Wah, to kids who barely acknowledge my presence until they are forced to pull their weight around the house and begin to negotiate and complain. Most of the time, I feel unneeded, unless a chauffeur or money is required. It's hard not to take their comments personally, but frankly, it's not about me.
Today I learned my children are watching. They respect my opinions and value my feedback. I am that swimming pool ledge they constantly come back to, as much as I need the oxygen mask on Mt. Everest. At least they still talk to me!
"Do you know why I write these stories?" I asked, my eyes filling with tears. Absent CIA tradecraft my emotions this time were real.
"To embarrass me," her smart counterattack. Clearly all parents of teens need a support group! I thought to myself.
"I write these stories for you. My father died when he was 47. I have no stories and few photos. I cherish the memories I can recall of my dad. Someday I want you to have stories to smile at me when I'm gone." The truth. Checkmate.
My 8-year-old beats me at chess every time. I suck at chess and mountain climbing where the thin air awakens my asthma. I'm good at resilience and rebounding from parenting daily. My children are watching my journey as a writer and as a parent. I matter to them as much as my late father to me.
The glimmer in my daughter's eye struck me as she realized the effects of her behavior. We turned a new page this week, a chapter of life in a novel I hope reflects better than my past. As parents we all matter, so put on that oxygen mask and keep climbing, there are better days ahead!
As an aside, and in case my kids read this or my memoir someday, I am reminded of a favorite Anne Lamott quote:
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better." Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life
In all honesty, parenting teens is like climbing Mt. Everest without a guide, doubting your abilities, being attacked by wild animals, struggling for oxygen, feeling weak, and lacking confidence in your ability to survive.
I brace myself as I grab a morning cup of coffee, not entirely sure if a mountain lion or fluffy bunny will show up at the kitchen table before school or after, if we're lucky enough to have time to eat dinner as a family. My mountain climb is never ending with four children and it's a mental Mensa game!
"You made me sound like a bratty kid," she said at the breakfast table the next morning. The mental game of chess had begun before my first cup of Joe, my queen left exposed.
"Oh did I?" my first response, followed by, "you surely read fiction in school and if you're talking about Santa, you're almost sixteen." My queen was under attack. Moving my bishop to check, my countermove would buy time to rescue my queen, as if it mattered.
Invisible, that's how I feel most days as a parent. My words echo like a Peanuts comic strip, Wah, Wah, Wah, to kids who barely acknowledge my presence until they are forced to pull their weight around the house and begin to negotiate and complain. Most of the time, I feel unneeded, unless a chauffeur or money is required. It's hard not to take their comments personally, but frankly, it's not about me.
Today I learned my children are watching. They respect my opinions and value my feedback. I am that swimming pool ledge they constantly come back to, as much as I need the oxygen mask on Mt. Everest. At least they still talk to me!
"Do you know why I write these stories?" I asked, my eyes filling with tears. Absent CIA tradecraft my emotions this time were real.
"To embarrass me," her smart counterattack. Clearly all parents of teens need a support group! I thought to myself.
"I write these stories for you. My father died when he was 47. I have no stories and few photos. I cherish the memories I can recall of my dad. Someday I want you to have stories to smile at me when I'm gone." The truth. Checkmate.
My 8-year-old beats me at chess every time. I suck at chess and mountain climbing where the thin air awakens my asthma. I'm good at resilience and rebounding from parenting daily. My children are watching my journey as a writer and as a parent. I matter to them as much as my late father to me.
The glimmer in my daughter's eye struck me as she realized the effects of her behavior. We turned a new page this week, a chapter of life in a novel I hope reflects better than my past. As parents we all matter, so put on that oxygen mask and keep climbing, there are better days ahead!
As an aside, and in case my kids read this or my memoir someday, I am reminded of a favorite Anne Lamott quote:
"You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should've behaved better." Anne Lamott, Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life
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