Are you the lucky parents of a teenager? My husband, The Brit, and I are and so you have my sympathies. To be fair, we were all teens once, and I was the teenager from hell. Just ask my mother. However, living that experience doesn’t prepare you for raising one of your own. God help us all.
Most teenagers are moody, messy, hungry, sleepy, lovable creatures in hoodies, kind of like Ewoks. You Star Wars fans will get the analogy, especially if your teens are old enough to drive. Thank goodness speeders don’t exist yet.
When our Briteen entered middle school he began to think that my husband and I were idiots. Now he’s in high school and he knows we are idiots. So our lives are pretty much bliss.
Getting our kid out of bed each morning is like trying to raise the dead. Only one guy got that right and, in spite of my numerous invocations of his name, so far he hasn’t been much help.
Entering our Briteen’s bedroom to wake him is like infiltrating the lands of Mordor. Grotesque monsters stare out of the darkness, or are those just piles of clothing? Suddenly a scrawny, bug-eyed creature slithers out from under the bed and licks my ankles. I scream in terror wondering how Gollum got in here, only to realize it’s just Honey, our Shih Tzu.
My screams have awakened the Briteen who greets me with a cheery, “What is your problem?”
I cheerfully reply, “Nothing, sweetheart. It’s time to get up. Make your bed, pick up these clothes, and clean up your room, please.” I have released the Kraken.
When he returns from school we are treated to sullen stares and grunted responses. It’s like a visitation from Jim Morrison’s ghost. It’s my job to light a fire under his tuckus each day to make sure chores and homework are done.
Like Liam Neeson, I have acquired a very particular set of parenting skills. Skills that make me a nightmare for teenagers like ours. My secret weapons are warnings of embarrassment and blackmail. I never threaten my kid, I make promises, which I back up by following through. When polite requests fail, I employ this arsenal liberally and with gusto, and our Briteen knows it. Read on and learn.
Embarrassing teenagers is fun. Start by being hip. Use their favorite words and music against them. One morning I complimented my Briteen’s outfit.
“Wow, honey, you are on fleek! Swerve, dude! You look mad awesome! Let’s post a photo to your friends. Hashtag, killin’ it!”
This elicited a blank stare as he slowly closed the bathroom door to brush his teeth. “By the way, that trash isn’t going to take itself out. Just saying, dude!” I cooed through my evil grin. He promptly took the trash out.
On the drive to school I calmly remarked, “Sweetheart, your room is a mess. I want it cleaned when you get home today.”
“All right!” he hissed with a dramatic roll of the eyes and a heavy, annoyed exhalation.
At that moment one of his favorite songs, “Ride” by Twenty One Pilots, began playing on the car radio. “This song has kind of grown on me,” I said and started grooving along with my version of hip hand gestures and dance moves.
“That’s another song I can’t listen to anymore,” muttered Briteen. Then alarm set in; we were two blocks from school and I showed no sign of stopping.
“I love this song!” I exclaimed as I energetically did the Batman eye-mask gesture.
“Will you stop?” he begged.
“Why?” I asked and, one block from school, began loudly singing along as I rolled down the windows. “Oh, I’m falling, so I’m taking my time on my ri-ee-i-ee-ide!”
“Please stop!” he pleaded as we entered the parking lot.
“About your bedroom,” I mentioned quietly.
“I’ll clean it today! Just stop!”
My ploy worked. It always does. I remember acting surly during a family dinner. Mom’s brother, my Uncle Carroll, wagged his finger at me and then began mimicking The Beatles.
He combed his thick, wavy, Italianate locks forward and loudly sang, “I want to hold your hand! Yeah, yeah, yeah!” He followed this with a scream and wildly shook his hair. I wanted to just die, but only after I killed him and everyone else in the room. But I behaved myself at every family dinner after that.
I have promised to show up as a chaperone to our Briteen’s school dances, arrive at a sleepover with clean jammies and a toothbrush, and kvell on him (Yiddish for enthusiastically bragging) in front of his friends and their parents.
In March we attended the Purimpalooza at our synagogue, Congregation Beth David. The festival had a photo booth and I insisted we use it. He resisted this idea.
“Why?” he demanded to know.
“I want nice pictures of you and me,” I said.
“If I do it can I have an iTunes card?” Oh, counter-blackmail! This boy learns fast!
“OK, but only if I get really nice photos,” I bargain-countered.
We climbed in and I began to smooth my hair and get ready to pose. Click! “What was that?” I gasped.
“It’s taking the pictures, Grandma,” he said. Click!
“Wait, I’m not ready,” I squawked. Click! “Damn, make it wait!”
“It doesn’t wait! It just takes the pictures so pose already!” he rolled his eyes exasperatedly. Click!
It took three tries to get my nice pictures. The photos tell the story.
One day our Briteen will, hopefully, have teenagers of his own. I say hopefully because I’m praying for great-grandchildren so that I may cherish each moment of karma they dish out to him. May God have mercy on his soul.
Ariel Waterman is always on fleek. Send swag-money via her editor, President of Swag Joe Payne at jpayne@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 15-22, 2016.