Dying is Easy, Parenting is Hard

Last night The Child and I had to have a talk. She'd been caught doing something wrong and a confrontation was in order. (No, I'm not going to tell you what it was. I write a lot about my family but I don't want to someday see a tell-all book entitled "Blogged: How the Worst Mother in the World Ruined My Life"; not written by my kid, anyway). We started well. I'd had all day to think about it so I wasn't in the crazy place. She did not compound the infraction with a lie (good, she's learned the first rule of politics: the coverup is always worse than the crime). She was contrite. She was remorseful. She accepted the consequences without any of her usual pre-law arguments. But with kids this age what they do isn't nearly as important as why they did it.

Thankfully, so far, The Child and I can still talk about things and she's pretty forthcoming with me. I know kids can get sneaky but I have a fair amount of confidence in our ability to talk. My mom and I always could talk and with very few exceptions maintained that throughout my high school years. Anything can happen (and usually does), I'm just saying that I have a model that proves it isn't impossible to talk to your teens. Anyway. She starts telling me that she feels stressed about homework, that she has a lot to do, a lot of projects and she's worried she can't keep up. She tells me that she's disappointed in herself for not consistently bringing home "No Missing Assignments" rewards.

First thing I have to do is help her focus on the positive. We talk about how much better this school year is, how much improved she is in both academic attitude and performance, that she is in fact keeping up with her lessons so far. Then we move to the more philisophical ground...that she can't worry about what's looming ahead, can't worry about the rest of middle school or what high school is going to be like or where to go to college. I encourage her to focus on what she can control...doing her work, turning in her assignments, learning to be more organized. I remind her that she's bright, creative, determined and full of potential. I tell her that she can do anything with that skill set if she learns how to manage herself. I explain that every project in life can be broken down into small baby-steps and that if she learns how to do that she never need be intimidated by a big assignment. I tell her, probably most importantly, that every day her one over-riding task is just to be the best person she can be. I urge her to live each day to the fullest and not worry about the future so much. There was something corny in there about how if she does her best and uses her gifts to the fullest then her days will string together into a beautiful life. (I guess there was an image of a necklace in my head somewhere) I promised that she would always have my support and encouragement. I wanted to cry, she did. Then she wanted to watch television.

After hugs and kisses we went our separate ways and that's when I realized that I'd just witnessed The Child's first existential crisis. The kind of worry she's dealing with is so different from grownup worry. If I live as long as my maternal grandmother I've got a good 50 years left. I know that the sailing won't always be smooth but I also know what it's like to weather a storm. Whatever concerns I have from day to day, I'm dealing with them as an adult, with a wealth of history, experience and the world's best support system. I know there is always a way out. But I remember what kid worry is like. You don't yet know much of anything. You have so little control over your life. You HAVE to go to school. You HAVE to do your homework. You HAVE to listen to the grownups and be nice to people and clean up your room. It kinda sucks, really. Kid worry is full of unknowns. The other day she said, "I can't imagine what I'm going to be like when I'm a grownup". And she really can't. She can say that she wants to be a veterinarian/writer/astronaut and the mother of twelve but she can't imagine, right now, how she's going to get there. I mean, she doesn't even know what her shoe size will be.

So I guess my point is that while life is full of surprises, there's something to knowing, metaphorically, that your shoe size isn't going to change. There are some givens in adulthood, no matter what twists appear in the road. But you have to grow into those things. No one, not even Mom, can give them to you. Which is all to say that I'm really glad I'm not 11 anymore.