Category — teenage attitude

Because I work, I only have about two hours a day to ruin my son’s life. Even that is barely enough time. From the time I walk in the door until I start screaming for him to go to bed, pretty much everything that comes out of my mouth are things he does not want to hear, pretends not to hear or has become skilled enough to actually not hear.

“How much homework do you still have?”
“Have you put your clothes in the laundry?”
“Dear God, cut your nails. You look like a coke-dealer.”

The woman who watches over him while I’m at work is from El Salvador. As far as I’ve been able to gather, in El Salvador men are Gods. You just can’t do enough for them. You certainly don’t follow them around telling them what they haven’t done. You applaud what they have done. You bring them food and lay it discreetly in front of them as they watch TV. You don’t run the vacuum while they are sleeping. As you can imagine, this is not exactly the plan I have for my son.

So I gave him some chores. Nothing outrageous. Feed the dogs. Pick up the dog poop in the backyard. Take the garbage out.

The expression on his face as I listed these chores was what I imagine people look like when they are being buried alive. Stunned. Desperate. Panicked.

“When does this start?”
“Now.”
His hand flew to his face. He took a couple steps backward, turned and staggered toward his room. On the up side, it’s the first thing I haven’t had to repeat in six months.

On Monday, I informed the babysitter of Danny’s new jobs. I told her if it became necessary she could remind him of these and I went to work.

What a maroon.

For two, maybe three weeks I actually believed that my son was doing his chores. (But for the record, I also believe that someday I will get back into the jeans I still keep from when I was 20.)

I came home early on a Friday. Danny was home. Typical conversation… how was your day? What did you have for lunch? And then… have you fed the dogs yet? I glanced over to him. He looked sharply to the El Salvadorean babysitter who gave an almost imperceptible nod. He looked back to me. “Yes,” he said.

My heart sank. Clearly he was doing FREAKING NOTHING and she was totally enabling him. Then cleverly I asked him, “And do we need more dog food?” “Yes,” the sitter jumped in quickly. She’s smarter than he is. She knows if he looks to her again it’s all over. “We need more food,” she said.

“Boy, do we,” my son chimed in.

That was it. I read them the riot act. I explained to my son that if he wants the benefits of living in this house, he needs to participate in it. I explained furiously to the babysitter that it is not her job to decide HOW to raise the kid, it is her job to make sure that the kid is raised the way I’VE DECIDED. Did they understand this? Did they understand that it is DANNY’S job to take out the trash, feed the dogs and clean up the yard?

“Yes.”
“Yeah.”

I then made it clear that if my wishes were not respected, there would be no allowance, and that every time the sitter did one of Danny’s jobs, I would deduct $50.00 from her paycheck. Was everyone clear on this?

“Yes.”
“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“But Mom, what about the next three weeks while I’m at camp?”

Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.

It was now my turn to look over to the Queen of El Salvador. You know, the one I’d just completely reamed out for what now suddenly seemed like such a kind gesture… so generously doing all these jobs. I smiled. My eyes said, “Please. Help me. I’m working 12 hour days.” Her eyes said, “Fuck you.”

“Well,” I said, “for the next three weeks… Uh… I will be taking out the trash, feeding the dogs and cleaning up the yard.”

It appears everyone is satisfied with this arrangement.

Rae.

I had an appointment with my therapist this morning. But rather than deal with what was actually on my mind, (everybody hates me) I decided to take a break. Occasionally you need to relax a little and manipulate your 50 minutes towards an easy session. One where you leave content and lying to yourself about the masterful job you’re doing with your life.

So I walked into her office armed with a golden oldie of mine that I know I can complain about for the full 50 minutes and finish feeling really self-righteous. It’s called, “My Parents Didn’t Know What The Hell They Were Doing.” I sat down and warmed up with the “Father Was Never Home,” diatribe, segued artfully into the “They-Never-Told-Me-Anything-About-Sex” lament and was sliding comfortably into my rant on how no one ever helped me with my homework, how I was forced to babysit my younger siblings, never got a car, couldn’t leave the house and had to fold the entire family’s laundry when suddenly, it hit me.

My parents were geniuses.

Oh my God. There’s no denying it. They knew exactly what they were doing and in retrospect, it was brilliant. They had the upper hand, and they used it. When they said no, it was no. If you demanded an explanation, they laughed. Why should they explain? They were the parents, we were just teenagers.

I mean what would you give for even a week of raising your kids the way your parents did? Let’s consider the possibilities:

-You could hit them.

-No seat belts. If they argued with you in the car, you could tap the brakes and throw them into the dashboard to emphasize your point.

-Parenting wasn’t an industry. You just did it. If the kid got fucked up, people felt sorry for the parents.

-You could feed them crap. Even frozen crap. Two thirds of the food pyramid was crap.

-Bad moods were just “phases.” Not signs you should have seen coming long before they hacked into the County Records and officially declared you dead. (Real funny, Danny.)

-”Friends with benefits,” meant sucking up to an unpopular kid who had a pool.

-You didn’t have to confiscate 7 goddamned devices to keep them from communicating with each other.

-You could say, “Wait ’til your father gets home.” Not, “Wait ’til your father who’s living with my ex-best friend and raising her kids by her second husband gets home.”

-And if he didn’t come home, you could hit them.

Rae.