Teenagers get a bad rap

Reasons I love having teenagers:
(Dedicated to Froggie who is such an amazing High School teacher because she really loves teenagers)

They can give you a lift to the DVD shop when you can't drive because you had a couple of gin and tonics but you really need to watch "While You Were Sleeping."

They never heard of "While You Were Sleeping" so they cuddle up next to you on your new sofa and watch it with you.

They do chores. Even if you do have to (sometimes) ask several times and cajole a bit more, they can still DO the stuff - dishes, garbage, getting the milk from the corner store, laundries, mowing the lawn.

They sleep in. During the summer holidays the house is completely and absolutely silent until 11am. At least.

They are different from you, and that means they introduce you to a lot of stuff that happened in the world that you didn't know about, like Rosalind Franklin.

They generally have fabulous senses of humour, and because they know you really well by now they are able to make you laugh at your own peculiarities. Of which I have many, and which I need to laugh at more often.

When you argue you can use rational explanations to discuss the problem. And when things get too crazy for logic and one of you says something you regret, you can come back later and apologise and forgive.

You no longer have to supervise their personal hygiene.

You pretty much know who they are by now, so you can stop worrying so much about every.little.tiny.thing.that.happens.in.their.school.day. They go to school, they come back, they muddle through like we all do.

You can start to let go of that crippling feeling that people are judging you and that your children are reflections of how good a parent you are. Kids grow up, stuff happens, move on.

They bring their friends over to the house, and these friends are full of energy and life and general good cheer. And they are different from you, in so many different and wonderful ways, so it reminds you how amazing life is. No need to conform, colour your hair pink and wear really thick black eyeliner and study photography and hairdressing and molecular biology and bake cupcakes and live it up.

They are full of surprises, no more predictable milestones that have been written up in boring child development books but truly UNIQUE milestones that are all about the fully rounded individuals they are becoming.

Let the adventure continue!!!!

P.S. At the risk of totally overdoing the "I'm Jewish and don't celebrate Christmas" thing, I did want to link to this great post by a Sydney blogger I love. She sums up my feelings with much more wit and humour than I did, and generally her blog is a great, fun read.

So merry Christmas dear bloggie friends of mine, all my love, Eleanor from your commentbox.

Private

It's the second week of school holidays here in Sydney, a time which I used to dread because it was very hard work. I challenge any mother to deny the fact that full-time holiday care for young children is very difficult. Or perhaps I am alone in this feeling, perhaps there are mothers who sail through their children's school holidays blissfully unaware of mothers like me.

Now that my two little commentboxes are teenagers (one about to graduate) I have almost forgotten those school holidays. But this morning I listened to a radio talk-back show about some new study which has found that television is detrimental to children's development and health. "OH PHOOEY!!" I found myself shouting through the steaming water of my shower, and suddenly all of the bitterness of those years came rushing back. Not bitterness at the children, but bitterness at a society that get its kicks from endlessly researching child development and then dumping that information on innocent, unsuspecting, naive mothers.

Mothers are doing all of the hard work, they are there, on call, 24/7. Mothers put aside their own needs and desires so as to raise their families, and all they want is an hour or two every day to have a break while the kids watch some television. Give them a break, researchers. Or better yet, why don't you research the emotional and psychological well-being of mothers who DO NOT let their kids watch television, and then research the impact those mothers have on their children at the end of a long, hard working day.

There are so many things I miss about the younger years of my family, but one thing I am delighted to have left behind is the constant criticism from the media aimed at mothers. The endless arguments about breastfeeding, crying it out, thumb-sucking, circumcision, nappies, haircuts, television, schooling, organicbloodyfood etc etc etc. The minute you have a baby it seems that everyone has an opinion. Why don't they research the impact television has on 50 year old men? Or the impact of junk food on 30 year old single women? Or the environmental impact of cardboard coffee-cups?

That's what I found most difficult about mothering young children - no privacy. Suddenly, everything you do in your home becomes public property. So to all the mothers of young kids on school holidays who are feeling guilty about putting on a Wiggles video so that they can write a post or cook dinner or stare into space with a cup of tea - stop feeling guilty right now!!! You are doing a brilliant job, one for which society should be thanking you. You should be provided with a FREE Wiggles video every year as a public service, and you should be encouraged to take breaks from your work - just like every childless worker in society who enjoys endless coffee breaks, lunch breaks, entire evenings of healthy relaxation, and quiet, fulfilling weekends.

So there.

Thoughts upon attending my daughter's High School Graduation

Women I've Known

I've known many women
Having seen them for years,
Heard their words in the schoolyard,
All their hopes and their fears.

I've known women
Who worried,
I've known women
Who cried
With the joyfully fearsome
Sweet bitter goodbyes.

They would sit on the benches
(I see them there still)
And talk of the futures
Of their wants and their wills.

But their children will never
See quite what I've seen,
They'll change much of the settings
And the words
That have been.

For the women I've known
Have succumbed
(Through those years)
To a decade of handwringing
Hairsplitting cheer.

It's the cheer of the women
Who know that one day
That same schoolyard of laughter
Will pretend (far away)
To be more of what wasn't
And yet less of what was,
And a great deal of the other
With a teacher and class.

With a shoe
And a notebook,
A quite small
Pencil-case,
Something lost
And then found
On the child's small face.

And with a label so named
That it's easily seen,
Those same women I've known
Know too well
Where I've been.

It's only the beginning

This song came on the radio this afternoon as I was driving Master Commentbox home from his drum lesson. It brought back some pretty fabulous memories for me. It's such an uplifting tune, and I associate it with some gutsy decisions I've made in my life that turned out really well...like marrying Mr Commentbox when we were both quite young and naive, and also having two babies when we were quite young and naive. I looked this song up and discovered that it came out the same year Miss Commentbox was born, and I think it sums up the optimism of those early Commentbox years, so challenging and so worth it.

When I walked into the warm house this evening the divine aroma of home-baked cookies welcomed me home. Miss C is a young woman now (and a baker extraordinaire), and I still feel that it's only the beginning...so many more fabulous days and nights ahead for us.

So here's Deborah Conway with "It's Only the Beginning."

Musings on the mothering of young children

When the clouds finally lift
And the moon starts to rise,
Will you truly be ready
With wide open eyes?

Will you notice the swirls
Of stardust up there?
Or just turn a blind eye
And crawl back to your lair?

Preparation is key
And the turning is yours,
After feeding and sleeping
And a thousand dull chores.

Though your journey is long
And your battle is fierce,
The lifting of clouds
Is not to be missed.