It’s about the word, “modeling.”

We’ve all heard the term and we’ve all been told that this is the way to properly raise a young adult.  By “modeling” correct behavior we teach them the ‘right’ way of living.  It only stands to reason.  By  modeling our “healthy relationships” and our “charitable pursuits” and our “good citizenship,”  we are showing them by setting an example, of how best to lead a life that they can believe in and be proud of.

Except that… I  just can’t do it.  It’s too dangerous. Instead of teaching my son to “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” I tell him, “Sweetheart, if someone is being ‘done unto,’ get the hell out of there as fast as humanly possible.” I’ve lived in Los Angeles wa-aaay too long to believe even for a second that by being a good citizen I will get home from work alive.

I keep a very low profile. I don’t even use my turn signals on the freeway if I’m changing lanes. It’s suicide. The moment you do, every driver behind you for six miles automatically speeds up. I lie like a dog to get an entire evening to myself alone. I swear at telemarketers. I steal handfuls of “bulk cashews” at the grocery store.

I am a bad model.

In the interest of full disclosure, here are a few other lessons I’m teaching my son.

Give people the benefit of the doubt.
( Just don’t make eye contact with them on the street.)

The world is a beautiful and loving place.
(But for God’s sake, never open the front door)

Accept yourself.
(Just not when you’re dressed like that or with that hair.)

Don’t dwell on the past.
(That’s mom’s job.)

Follow your gut.
(Oh dear God, I can’t even bring myself to say that out loud to a teenager.

Rae

My son had three friends spend the night. We really do have a perfect home for this kind of activity, as his room has no floor space, heavy dark blinds and the house next door is right up against the windows, so it’s airless. The kids just love it. About every two hours I open the door and fan it frantically, shoving air into the room and blowing the potato chips on the carpet back and forth. “No!” they scream, “Close the door!!”

But last night at about midnight I heard an odd kind of beat coming from in there. Low voices. Rhythmic voices. Hmmm. Some kind of male teenage tribal thing? Slowly I opened the door and peered in. They were sitting in a circle and passing around a Pepsi can that I soon realized was standing in for a microphone.
“What do you want, Mom?”
“Uh…”
“Can you close the door, please?”
There was no smoke. There were no bottles or lines of white powder. I closed the door.

The next morning I asked Danny what they had been doing.
“Freestyling,” he replied.

“Ah,” I nodded, then oh-so-casually slid over to the computer to look it up on Wikipedia. Apparently ‘freestyling’ is rap, but it’s when the rappers are just making it up off the top of their head… (as opposed to what must be the exhausting preparation they do for their other songs.) The description went on to say that sometimes rappers use freestyle to “battle.” One-upping each other like a blinged out, pissed-off version of the Algonquin Round Table. Trading line upon line of witty, biting repartee that mostly rhymes with Motherf…..

But the way I understand it, rap is based on the anger and hopelessness of the street. So looking at these well fed, well dressed, entitled young men, I had to wonder, what do they have to rap about? And then I couldn’t help myself. I started thinking of the rap “flows” my son might come up with.

Ch-ch-ch Charter school is killing me
Mom says no car if I get a “B”
Friends all got Lexus, Mercedes.
Screw the grades man, my license please.

And so, there they sit for hours. Making up lines about girlfriends they don’t have, drugs they don’t take and fury they can’t possibly feel. I keep trying to figure out if I’m for this or against it.

On the one hand, they are writing. Right? Rhyming. Thinking. Putting thoughts together. That’s good. On the other hand they are copying a genre that has no foundation in their actual lives. Is that like the teenagers from my generation pretending to be punk rockers? Is this their version of garage bands?

Every single summer vacation
Gotta go with them to a different nation
They say it’s for my education
But I hate freaking Italy, and screw the Croations

Wanna stay home with my three six-ty
Play Assassin’s Creed and Call of “D”
I mean, aren’t I already a legacy?
Success in life a guarantee

It could make one a little angry, you know? To be killing yourself to give these kids things that you never had… education and knowledge of the world… and to know that they are spending their evenings spitting out rhymes about how they despise their life. Makes you want to make up your own parental rap. Not to spend an entire evening on it or anything, but it could go a little something like…

You and your friends, oh you got it so rough
Think you could be a gangst’a but you ain’t got the stuff
Out on the street, I could sure call your bluff
Cause baby, I got the credit card.

I don’t care if it rhymes. I feel better.

Rae.

Bad combination: Hot flashes and Uggs.

Note to self: When speaking to a Sears Repair operator based in India, sarcasm is not your best choice.

I don’t like coming home from work anymore.

Used to be after a long day and horrific commute, I’d arrive home, and home was the reason to have gone through the miserable soul-killing day. I’d drive up to my sweet lit up house, walk in the door and my son would cry out joyously, “Mommy’s home!” He would trip all over himself racing to me from the den, shining face filled with joy and aching for the chance to throw his arms around me and welcome me back. The dogs would leap up and down around us, throwing themselves against me and then diving onto the floor slobbering and licking and crying with sheer happiness. It was, (I thought privately), an absolutely appropriate greeting for the mother. Giver of life, filler of dog bowls.

Things have calmed down just a tad in the past few years. For example, no one really bothers to turn on the porch light for me anymore. If I arrive home after dark, I stumble my way up the steps grasping my key and scratching it first all over the paint on the door and eventually into the lock. Once in, I can sometimes catch a dog looking up for a moment, and then bored out of his mind, dropping back to sleep.

I put down my stuff and walk into the den. Through the sliding glass door I see our housekeeper in the back yard, no doubt finishing up the same cell phone call I left her on this morning. My son lies on the couch, ruling the universe with a plastic controller and two double-A batteries. I stroke his head.

“Hi honey. How was your day?”
He doesn’t look up.
“The printer doesn’t work so I can’t finish my homework.”
“I can fix that. Are you sure you had paper in the …”
“When I turn on my shower it pours water all over the bathroom.”
“Did you close the shower door?”
No answer.
“Did you mop it up?”
No answer.
And then because I just can’t help myself…
“Did you actually take a shower?”
Silence. I start upstairs to look at the damage, when I hear:

“I have to wear orange tomorrow.” I stop.
“All orange or just some orange?
The question clearly annoys him. I can tell because he shoots his friend August. As August drops little “F” bombs through the X-Box headset, there is a low moan from the other dog who I see for the first time has an eye that is crusty and red and dripping some kind of horrible goo.
“Hey,” I say, “did anyone notice that Spike’s eye is…”
“The basketball hoop fell into the garage light and there is glass all over the driveway.”
“Did you step in it?”
He looks at me like I’m an idiot.
“…And someone from the city called. You have to pay two hundred and fifty dollars if your sprinklers don’t stop spraying the sidewalk by tomorrow.”
“Who asked them to monitor the sprinklers? And how do these people…”
“I have a stomach ache.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know.
“Does it feel like gas or cramps?”
“I don’t know.”

The housekeeper enters from the back yard.
“He don’t want to eat yet.”
“Well,” I say, “It’s almost 8:30, maybe you should have…”
My son has at last found a reason to turn his head slightly toward me.
“I’m hungry now.”
“I thought you had a stomach ache.”
“I’m hungry now.
I turn to the housekeeper. “He’s hungry now.”
“I gotta go.”
“Right. Of course. I’ll feed him.”
“Good.”
The housekeeper picks up her bag.
“Thank you.” I say.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, getting almost totally out the door, “Don’t use the toilet in your room.”
“Why not?”
She laughs. “I gotta go.”

Rae.