Tag Archives: adolescence

Call Me Grandma

Momentous changes are afoot around here…

One minute, I was a brand new mother:

I blinked, and then this happened:

Middle School Graduation

It’s hard to believe that baby I held in my arms is now a high schooler who already towers over me.

It’s hard to face the fact that I can no longer be the one making all the decisions for him.

Like what he should wear for Halloween, for instance:

“What?! You don’t want to wear a skirt for Halloween again this year?!”

It’s hard to face the fact that I have to let this boy spread his wings and fly. It’s a daily struggle, but I’m doing the best I can.

Right after his middle school graduation ceremony, I saw him off on his own adventure. He is now at the beach for a week with friends from school and adults who are not his own mother and father. As I drove him to their house, I gave him a lecture on letting his conscience dictate his behavior and about making “good, responsible choices.”

The morning after they arrived at the beach, I got a message from one of the parent chaperones saying that my fourteen-year-old firstborn son was now himself “a proud parent.”

Attached was this photo:

My new grandchildren.

Sure, I know that every kid has to make his own mistakes. It’s all part of growing up. But had I known that sending my adolescent son off to the beach by himself would mean that I would become a grandmother overnight…I can assure you I would have locked that boy in his bedroom until he was…oh, I don’t know, 35? 40?

Obviously, what’s done is done. I had to find some way to make peace with this news. I had to regain some modicum of control over the situation. So, I reached out to him in the only way I knew how…Facebook instant messaging, of course. It hasn’t always worked out for me, as you’ll note from the message dated May 21st. This time, though, I think I really got through to him:

Oh yeah, Grandma’s still got it!

(And in case you’re wondering: UnYoung is my Korean name and NOT a reflection of my age. It means “bright like silver”…NOT old or decrepit or anything like that)!

Baby Boy

A few summers ago, we were heading to the beach to meet up with family friends with whom we were sharing a house. Our children would be sharing a bunk room for a week, and, we imagined, all the knowledge that they had amassed between them through friends, family, and sex ed classes. We knew that our friend’s son, who was going to school in another state, had already had these classes, and that even before this, his parents had dutifully taught him everything there is to know.

We, on the other hand, as usual, were woefully behind the curve. Not only had our son not yet gone through the “Family Life Education” classes as they are euphemistically called here in Virginia, we, as parents, had not given him any real information at all. I’m sure my son would say that we are overprotective parents, although he’d probably put it in a slightly different way. When he first asked me where babies came from, I flat out panicked and blurted out the first thing that came to my head, “You go to the hospital and the doctor helps you have the baby.” Period.

And so, as we drove down to the Outer Banks, my husband and I decided that at the very first opportunity, he would head things off by taking our son for a walk on the beach to have “The Talk.”

Later, he reported their conversation to me with a half grin on his face. It had been going pretty well, he told me, until he got to the actual mechanics…

“Ewww! That’s disgusting!” my son exclaimed as he recoiled in visceral horror.

“It’s really not that bad,” my husband tried to reassure him.

“Why? Does the doctor put you to sleep first?” my son asked with such sweet innocence that I really had to wonder if we had made a terrible mistake in tearing away the veil.

As a firstborn, our son has had to weather his parents’ inexperience. It’s often difficult for us to gauge how to treat him. I’ve always felt guilty about the fact that at the tender age of two, he automatically became “a big boy” in my eyes, the very minute his little brother was born. When I look back at pictures of how very little he was back then, I am filled with sorrow and regret that I didn’t baby him for longer.

On the other hand, he has always been the kind of kid who has bridled against being treated as a child. I remember one morning, when our son was a Kindergartner, my husband returned back home after seeing him onto the school bus with his shoulders slumped and a mournful expression on his face. As he had done every morning for months, he had given our son a big hug as he saw the bus pulling up to the stop. Our son bore it stoically, but as he mounted the stairs, he stopped and turned around for a moment. Gazing into the distance he said with a world-weary sigh, “I wish people wouldn’t hug me in public.”

It’s only gotten more confusing with time. He can now finally sit in the passenger seat next to me when I drive, but I usually have to remind him of the fact as he automatically heads towards the back of the minivan. I still have to nag him to do his homework and to pick up his clothes, but to do so, I have to crane my neck to look up at him as I shout my directives. Last week my husband bought our son his first razor and he shaved for the first time. He absolutely refused a tutorial, insisting that he’d figure out  how to do it “on the internet.”  This week, he’s going to get braces. And so we bumble on, hoping that he feels as cherished and loved as a newborn, while knowing that we are cheering him on as he makes his way to adulthood.

Nicholas holding up one of his baby outfits.

Related posts:

Adolescence
Rite 13, Pt. 1
Rite 13, Pt. 2
I am truly evil
The Inferno
This morning…
Lost and Found
Im/maturity

I am truly evil.

In terms of my relationship with my adolescent, this past year can be summed up with a series of pictures and graphs:

rough roadThe rough road we’ve traveled this year with our son has lined my face with new wrinkles and has added gray hairs to my head.

At first there were road blocks that had to be negotiated. Eventually, the way was blocked off entirely.road closed

For a long time, there was no easy way to get through to the other side.

no bridgeBut just when I had lost all hope, the foundation of a new and stronger bridge was put in place.

rebuilding bridge

And then, one fine day:

new bridgeWhere once my son’s moods could be described by this sine wave:

fig. 1fig. 1

They are now more like this:

fig. 2fig. 2

Nowadays, when I open my mouth to say something, I can reasonably expect NOT to have my words immediately torched to cinders as if by a giant flamethrower.

Lately, I can generally get through the day without being reduced to a quivering mess of raw, exposed nerves because of some act of poor judgment or lack of impulse control on my son’s part.

It is so sweet.

It’s time to celebrate this time of intellectual and emotional growth that has come hand-in-hand with my son’s physical growth. It’s time to rejoice in the relative peace and harmony that has descended upon our household.

It’s time…for payback!

I am now going to reveal a delightful secret to those of you who may have children on the cusp of adolescence…Right now, your young adult is at the most sensitive, vulnerable time of his or her life. They are yearning for approval and acceptance by their peers. It doesn’t take much at all to embarrass them. Think of this embarrassment as the very wellspring of your own illimitable powers. Yes! Be glad! Breathe deep the heady aroma of your own might, (while at the same time willing yourself to ignore the stench of the sweaty socks strewn about your minivan and home). These days, even as my son grows taller than me by the minute, my power over him grows at an even more astonishing rate. I have in my clutches the ultimate weapon – the power to embarrass, and the shamelessness to deploy this cruel, cruel weapon.

This past weekend one of Nicholas’ friends came over for a sleepover in the middle of the night when his parents had to make an unexpected trip to the ER. I got out of bed to help Nicholas blow up the air mattress while Colin went to pick up the friend to bring him back to our house. Nicholas kept insisting that he could handle it himself, and kept urging me to go back to my room. He was getting more and more agitated about my presence and I simply couldn’t comprehend why until at last he said, “He’s going to be here soon. Don’t you think you should put some pants on, or something?”

I looked down at the ratty, oversized tee-shirt I was wearing as pajamas, and because I am an evil, evil human being, who suffered the tongues of flame in the deepest bowels of adolescent hell this year, I replied nonchalantly, “Nah. He’s just like family. He won’t mind at all.”

Oh, how I relished every second of my son’s squirming until I finally took pity on him and went to change. When I considered all the many battles we fought over his wardrobe over the course of this past year, I couldn’t help but think that I’d let him off too easily.

Later in the weekend he told me that he was going to DJ for the upcoming school dance. The perfect opportunity, once again presented to me on a gleaming silver platter! How could I possibly resist?

“So, I’m sure they’ll want parents to chaperone, right? Because I’d love to be there for your gig.”

An eerie silence immediately filled the car. The words “shock and awe” sprang unbidden to my mind.

“Mom. I love you so much, but...”

I cut him off with my wild, demonic cackling.

My God! Life really IS good!

This morning…

The past two weeks have shaken us all to the core and have left us feeling raw, exposed, and vulnerable. There was the vicious bomb attack at the Boston Marathon, the devastating fertilizer plant explosion in West, Texas, and the catastrophic earthquake in China. Closer to home there have been great sorrows that have not made it into the news cycle, but have made the people around me painfully aware of how precious life is and how cruelly capricious the tides of fate.

This morning I realized how much these events have crept into my psyche. I had been up to 2:30 am (the only time I could find to write) and had woken up at 6 am to help my son get packed for his three day school trip.The night before, when he had announced that he was too tired to pack and would wake up early to do so, I knew with absolute certainty that this was a terrible idea. I knew this morning would not be pretty, but I didn’t have the energy to argue the point or to start the packing myself.

So this morning at 6, I sat on my bedroom floor with an open suitcase and my laptop opened to the emailed packing list my son’s teacher had sent.

“Bring me three pairs of long pants and three long-sleeve shirts!” I called out to him.

He slowly shuffled into my bedroom with one pair of pants and one t-shirt.

“THREE pairs of pants and THREE LONG-sleeve shirts!'” I  bellowed with exasperation, “CHOP CHOP!”

Seasons changed, my skin began to sag, and more grey hairs sprouted as I waited for him to reappear. Finally he showed up bearing…another t-shirt and a sweater.

When I protested, he claimed that he couldn’t find what was asked for in his drawers.

I rifled through his drawers myself and discovered one or two of the things he needed, but confirmed the fact that the rest of the items simply weren’t there. They were buried deep in the mountain of unwashed laundry that I hadn’t been able to get to all week.

You can probably imagine the snarling and generally churlish behavior that ensued, but we finally did get him packed. Already running late, I began getting myself ready for work. As I was getting out of the shower, I could hear that my husband was about to leave the house to drop him off at school for the field trip.

"Yes?"

“Yes?”

There was one crucial thing I had forgotten, and I didn’t want to miss my chance. If I’d learned anything in these past two weeks, I’d learned that sometimes you never do get a second chance.

I raced out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around me and my hair streaming with water. At the top of the stairs, I barked out his name.

He turned around, and from the bottom of the stairs he looked up at me with a doleful stare and sighed, “Yes?”

The word was imbued with that unique teenage inflection that makes it abundantly clear that behind that monosyllable is irritation, a lifetime of  suffering, and the sure expectation of more unreasonable parental behavior…

I tried to modulate my own tone, but failed.

“I LOVE YOU!” I snapped.

A momentary flicker of surprise registered in his eyes and after the briefest pause, he muttered “Love you” and ambled out the door.

Rite 13, Pt. 2

Continued from yesterday’s post…

We did a run-through of the liturgy. While all the other parents read the words out loud, I adopted a glazed, unfocused, slack-jawed look on my face and pretended I wasn’t even there. After the rehearsal, a couple of the youth leaders (saints of the highest order!) pulled me aside to warn me not to look in their direction during the actual ceremony. They would definitely be crying and they didn’t want to set me off. Please! Did they think they were dealing with an amateur? I was totally ready for this!

During the sermon, my son kept giving me sidelong glances. I could tell he was worried. Finally, it was time for Rite 13. He was called to the front along with eight other children and their parents.

As I took my place behind my son, I disassociated. I’m not quite sure where I went, but I was definitely not in that sanctuary with the rest of those poor souls. The only time my concentration was broken was when I heard my husband start to choke up. At that point, beads of sweat gathered on my brow, but I redoubled my efforts and managed to scramble and claw my way back to the safety of my alternate reality!

Those Episcopalians really know how to work the drama. At the end of the liturgy, the youth who had been sitting with their parents at the beginning of the service now leave them and sit together with their peers for the remainder of the hour. It’s the final jagged-edged knife to the heart, symbolizing the youth’s journey to adulthood.

I made it safely through. I know what you’re probably thinking. It was wrong of me not to have shown up for this once in a lifetime event. I should have experienced it, no matter how wrenching…A couple days after the service, in the privacy and sanctity of my own home, armed with a box of Kleenex, I did experience it. I pulled the text of the liturgy out of my purse where I had stowed it away. I allowed myself to really read it through, and I wept.

Here are some of the words:

Candidates, by the grace of God, you have lived through the pains and joys of childhood and have grown strong as young men and women. It is given to you to share in the power of God’s creation. You are blessed with the ability to create new ideas, new thoughts, new hopes for the world, and indeed to create new life. [Cue screeching of brakes sound effect! WHOA! Just…whoa!!!]

(Congregation in unison):
God of mercy and love, enfold these parents with your grace. Fill them with the joy of your presence. Rejoice with them as their sons and daughters become men and women. Strengthen them that they may support their daughters and sons as they begin the journey toward adulthood. Uphold them by your Spirit, that they may comfort them, although they can neither walk their road for them nor shield them from pain. Carry parents and children together safely through this journey, so that one day they may stand side by side as adults and friends, a joy and a comfort to each other all the days of their lives. Amen [These were the killer words that were the beginning of my undoing the first time I heard them].

(Parents address their sons and daughters in unison):
We thank God for the gift of your lives. As you begin to carve out the life that will be your own, we will stand behind you and support you. May we be patient and understanding, ready to guide and forgive, that in our love for you, you may know the love of God. You are holy and wonderful and blessed, and we will not look away from you. We are your parents, and we support you on this journey.

Phew.

That’s my baby:

Hope your weekend is wonderful!

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Rite 13, Pt. 1

Rite 13. It sounds ominous, doesn’t it? It’s way scarier than you can possibly imagine.

A few months ago I was sitting in church, innocently zoning out in my pew. The next thing I knew a bunch of kids I’ve known since they were toddlers were called to the front along with their parents. What followed was the single most devastating ritual I’ve ever witnessed. I began weeping uncontrollably. I felt keen empathy for the poor parents, many of them good friends of mine, who were standing at the altar with their children, completely exposed as they dissolved into quivering puddles of tears. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to make the sanctuary reverberate with my ugly racking sobs.

What I was witnessing was “Rite 13,” a relatively new tradition and liturgy created in the eighties by sadistic Episcopalians in Durham, North Carolina to torture unsuspecting parents of adolescents everywhere. (As if we didn’t have enough to deal with already). It was conceived as a Protestant version of the bar and bat mitzvah of the Jewish tradition. This rite of passage has been adopted by many churches, including the Presbyterian church my family attends. Around their 13th birthday, youth are invited to participate in this liturgy with their parents.

This past Sunday my almost 13 year old son went through his Rite 13. I’ve been dreading this Sunday ever since witnessing the first one. Not wanting to make a complete spectacle of myself and embarrass him in front of all of his peers and the entire church with my ugly crying, I trained for this Sunday like it was an Olympic sport. Here’s how it all went down:

Over breakfast we discussed strategy. My son offered to piss me off so I wouldn’t cry.

“OK. That shouldn’t be too hard,” I readily agreed.

He wasn’t convinced. He kept narrowing his eyes at me and saying, “You’re not going to cry, right?”

I cracked my knuckles and said, “Nope. It’s going to be fine. I’ve got this.”

I told him he had to look respectable. I pulled out a pair of wrinkled khakis from the pile of clean, but unfolded laundry. They were horribly stained! I dug around his drawers and found an alternative: a pair of navy blue pants.

“Here, put these on!”

“Why can’t I just wear jeans?”

“PUT THEM ON!” I barked shrilly.

“Well, actually, I CAN’T, because the button’s missing.”

For the next fifteen minutes I hunted high and low for a needle. For the next ten minutes I tried to thread the needle. I swear it would have been easier to cram a camel through the eye of that needle. For the next ten minutes after that, my husband tried to thread the needle. Finally, I snatched it back from him, managed to thread the needle, find an extra button, and sew it on. We were now running late.

“OK! THEY’RE DONE! NOW PUT THEM ON, QUICK!” (Yes, from that point on, I really was speaking in all CAPS).

I ran out to the car where the rest of my family was already patiently waiting.

“WHERE IS HE?!” I asked impatiently as we waited and waited for the boy/man of the hour to make his appearance in his newly-mended pants.

My husband got out of the car and went back into the house to figure out what was taking him so long.

They both emerged from the house looking peevish and disgruntled.

“He can’t get it buttoned,” he grumbled.

It hadn’t occurred to me that the spare button I had found might not actually fit into the buttonhole.

“I’LL DO IT FOR YOU AS SOON AS WE GET THERE. NOW LET’S GO!”

We pulled into the parking lot and I managed to force the too-large button into the hole. (Are we detecting a recurring theme here)? I stood back to look at my son and only then realized that the size 16 pants he was wearing were at least two inches too short for his gangly legs. (Yep. There it is again).

“GAH!”

We made it in time for the rehearsal. The time had finally come to put my months of training to the test…

Friday: Rite 13, Pt. 2

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Adolescence

Adolescence has come galloping into our household like the wrathful four horsemen of the Apocalypse.

“Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,”
Viktor Vasnetsov, 1887

If you look closely, you can actually see both my husband and me in the painting above. I’m the one with the horror-stricken saucer-eyes underneath the guy who’s gnawing on my arm. We’re both about to get trampled by the black horse. My husband’s the cowering bearded figure to the right, futilely shielding himself from the white horse, which is about to stomp him into oblivion.

So now that we’ve oriented ourselves, I can continue…Last night my husband and I were standing in the kitchen. Our son sat in the adjoining breakfast room at the kitchen table doing (or rather not doing) his homework. He was raging, raging, raging at every word that came out of our mouths. It was like gently lofting balls into the air and then getting them smashed back at our heads at 100 miles per hour. I was facing my husband with my back turned to our son and mouthed the words, “I don’t think I can take this.”

At this juncture, I have to interrupt my narrative again to tell you a little about my husband. He is a very intelligent man. He wins awards for his brilliant ideas. He earns a living by thinking deep thoughts. And yet sometimes he comes up with ideas so stupid they take my breath away.

Trying to comfort me, he grabbed my shoulders and said reassuringly, “Think of this as a contraction.”

At this, I whisper screamed the only rational thing a mother writhing in pain could say:

“Well then get me an epidural. Where’s my @*$% – ing epidural?!”