Having just returned from a heartbreaking vacation in Africa with my teen over Christmas, I find for the first time in seven years that his summer vacation and my work vacation will have a week in common.  I was thrilled.  A week together during summer?  I must do this right.  Yes, I know I will need to take a friend for him and that the theme of the week will have to be ‘teenager friendly,”  yet I was excited, and I went onto the internet to look at the possibilities.

Disney.  Amusement Parks.  Extreme Hiking.   Atlantis…  No.   There had to be something better.  I went upstairs and took a shower.  While standing there under the hot water, I closed my eyes and began to imagine vacations that I thought would be truly valuable for both of us.  I offer to you;

“REAL LIFE” CAMP:  No reservations necessary.  One shows up and must actually work one’s way up for the right to have a room at night.  After a few nights of sleeping outside, the teen is inspired to actually find a way to earn a room and upon achieving it, enters to find there is no furniture, no t.v., and no heat or water until that too is warranted.  All the other guests are rude and a freeway runs through the center of the property.

LEARN HOW TO LISTEN” BEACH:  A beautiful sandy shore with seemingly fantastic waves.  As the afternoon goes on, there is a constant undertow, pulling the teens farther and farther out into the ocean.   As the teens call out for help, trying desperately to communicate to their parents, we stand on the sand, occasionally lifting a hand to cup our ear and yell …. “Wha?”  ”Can’t hear you.”  and “What’s for dinner?”

“D STUDENT” ADVENTURE LAND: Dozens of opportunities for your disappointing teen to experience where his life is headed.  ”Cooking with Lard and Petroleum,” Leaf Blowing for Beginners”  and “Car Wash Water Park”, are popular attractions , so make your plans ASAP!  New this year… the Paper Hat Museum.

TEEN PARENT CRUISE:  Welcome aboard the newest member of our fleet.  A two week cruise where teens come in couples and are issued their very own newborn upon boarding.  Parents are not allowed to help out or babysit.   Don’t worry about losing your teen at all the ports of call!  We have yet to see any one of them actually leave the boat.  Cabins are equipped with paper thin walls, bad plumbing, and while one is allowed to charge diapers and baby food at the on-board market, each room is hounded on an hourly basis with calls from angry creditors.  For a nominal fee, babies are guaranteed to have colic.  Teens are barred from upper decks where parents can sit in the sun, have a cocktail and laugh their asses off watching their teens on hidden cameras.

Rae

My girlfriend calls her daughter’s cell phone.  She’s startled when it rings on the counter right next to her. Even more startled when she looks down at it and sees herself I.D.’d as “The Bitch.”

If I took a razor to him while he was sleeping, do you think he’d notice?

We all know that getting a teenager to actually converse with you is the holy grail of parenting.  So imagine my delight when a couple weeks ago I tucked my kid in, started out of his room and heard:

“Guess what happened today?”

My pulse quickened.  My mind lit up with possible options.  Was he in trouble?  Seeking advice?  Trying to re-establish contact??  I turned slowly so as not to scare him off.

“What’s that, honey?”

Well, it was a story about P.E. class.  Not a very good one, but I was glad to hear it.  Then, there was a follow-up story. And a small discussion.  And an anecdote.  At eleven-thirty he finally went to bed, but hey, in my mind it was worth it.  We’d had a talk.  He was reaching out.  I was succeeding big-time as a parent.

The next day although tired, I quickly arranged a lunch with several friends who also had a teenagers.  As hard as it was, I managed to sit there for a full eleven minutes before dropping my bombshell.  ”Anyway… Danny and I were talking last night, and…”   I heard a small gasp on my left.  Food literally fell from the mouth of the woman sitting across from me.  This was turning out better than I’d even imagined.  My friend Diane squinted her eyes and leaned forward.  ”He speaks to you?”  ”Oh yes,” I replied with a look that said,  ”Doesn’t your son speak to you?”   I told them the P.E. story.  They listened in what could only be described as awed silence.  Then after I’d milked that as long as I could, I told them the anecdote.  There were questions.  All of them pleading for some kind of information on the lives of their own kids.  ”Did Danny happen to mention what they eat for lunch?”  ”Did he say anything about Matthew’s grades?  ”Does Jeffrey ever talk about me?”

That night I went in to Danny’s room to say goodnight.  He was sitting up in bed listening to music and when I walked in, he took his earphones out.  I’m going to say this again.  He-took-his-earphones-out.  He looked up at me and once again, words came from his mouth.  ”Want to hear something funny?”   Oh my God, I thought.  I’m the real deal.  He is seeking me out.  Well, can I tell you, we talked ’til midnight.  He told me an endless mind-numbing story about something that had happened on X-Box.  Then he told me the P.E. story again.  Every time I considered putting a stop to it and making him go to sleep, I knew that I’d regret it.  We had a dialogue going… a dull and repetitive one, but a dialogue nonetheless.  I didn’t want to do anything to spoil that.

I got up at my usual 5:30 a.m. and women I barely knew began calling me to hear the P.E. story and the anecdote.  I threw in a few highlights from the new incomprehensible X-Box thing and before I knew it, I was receiving a call from the head of the Middle School Parent Association.  Would I consider speaking at the next meeting?  Well of course I would.  It would be so selfish to keep this kind of  skill and insight to oneself.

Friday night.  I sat down with a pad of paper.   How could I best impart my newfound child-raising expertise to these people who were begging for my help?  I pictured myself standing at the lectern, looking out into a sea of needy parents. Giving them hope that they too could break down the unnecessary barrier between themselves and their teen.  Giving them hope that they could be like me. “These are good lines,” I thought.  I started making my notes.  ”Unnecessary barrier.”  ”Be like me.”

Danny was on the computer and since it was the weekend, he planned to stay up late.  Still, I thought that before I went to sleep, I should give him a shot at our little night time chat.

“Honey?”

“Mm.”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Did you want to talk?”

“What?”

“You know.  How we’ve been kind of talking every night?”

“Oh, yah.”  He smiled up at me.  ”I just didn’t want to go to bed.”

We are in a jeep, driving across the Serengeti with our assigned safari partners, the Gurtz family.  Not only do they have an alluring and scantily clad 15 year old daughter (a fact not lost on my son) but also an energetic ten year old boy who’s new hobby is shaking up cans of Coke and spraying them all over the inside of the vehicle.

Outside there is an ostrich mommy communing with her chicks, and I’d like to be taking her picture but at this point it seems far more prudent to cram my camera up under my shirt ’til the kid runs out of soda.   I shoot a savage look at his mother.  When she looks back, I chuckle and shake my head in that way (we moms) always use to say “Gosh, he’s just adorable.

Right behind her is my son who, sitting next to the perpetually bouncing babe seems to be happy for the first time in ohhh, about seventy five weeks.  My heart begins to lift.  Maybe he’s only happy because he’s sitting next to a sexy bra-less 15 year old, but I don’t care.  He is happy IN AFRICA. Maybe the vixen has slipped him some kind of mind altering drug.  I don’t care.  He is happy IN AFRICA and so he is enjoying the trip and it was my idea and I am right and that is all that matters.   I begin to speak to Mrs. Gurtz who turns out to be fun and honestly self-deprecating.  Of her own accord, she gives me permission to physically abuse her son if I think he needs it.  I laugh but she says she’s serious. She must know what she’s doing.  She’s a psychologist.

I pull my camera out from my now dry and sugar encrusted t-shirt and begin to take pictures of grazing zebras framed by thousands of flamingos.  It is a stunning sight.  I look over and risk smiling at Danny, but when he catches my eye, an odd thing happens. His face turns from pleased to annoyed.  ”No,” I think, “this must be my imagination.  We’ve already established, he’s really happy IN AFRICA.”  I shake it off and smack the Gurtz kid on the side of his head .  Life is good.

That night, all the kids in our group migrate to a table of their own.   As I pretend to eat some kind of thick greenish-black stew, I glance over at Danny.  He doesn’t see me.  He is laughing.  He is engaged and smiling.   It’s been eight, maybe eight and a half hours since he’s groaned or whined or stared at me with sheer loathing.

After dinner, (since there’s not much to do besides wander around and become prey to some ravenous animal,)  we find our (yes, armed) chaperone and walk to the room.  I know I should just shut up. I am aware that if I push my son and ask if he’s having fun it could easily ruin what seems to have been a pleasant day … and yet…

I can’t help it.  I NEED this.  I NEED him to tell me that the two thousand hours of work I’ve done to get us here has been worth it.  That he’s finding new friends,  seeing awe inspiring sights, opening his mind to other cultures and customs.  I open my stupid mouth…

“So, it seems like you had a good day.”

Long pause.

“What?”

“I mean, you looked like you were having fun.”

His eyes become slits.  ”When?”

“Uh, today.  On the safari… (then, weakly) and, you know, at — dinner?”

“Huh.”  And he turns away.

I don’t ask again.  It’s too painful.   Day after day for two weeks I watch him dance with Masaii Warriors, flirt with girls, swim in pools surrounded by warthogs and sail in hot air balloons over charging rhinos, only to return to camp every night, stricken and giving me the silent treatment.  I have robbed him of his Christmas vacation.  Every night he becomes more defeated, crying out,  ”How many more days do we have to beeee heeere?”   Every morning he pulls himself exhausted from his bed of anguish.  Out on safari he puts on a good show, but clearly, he’s miserable.  I resign myself to believing that someday he’ll look back on this trip and maybe appreciate the effort.

Months later I’m sitting in my office writing this, and he comes up behind me and starts reading over my shoulder.

“I need an ending,” I tell him.

“I think the ending is good,” he says.

“What ending?”

“Where I refuse to let you think that I’m having a good time.”

He turns and walks out.

“Wait,” I yell,  ”Where you…What?  You refuse to…. That was on PURPOSE?”

From the hallway: “Ya, duh.”

Kill me,

Rae.