The text is a not just a critical communication device with teens - those three little dots indicating the other party is typing back are as much a proof of life as watching a deep inhale from an old pet that you aren't quite sure died in their sleep...
In the year of our Lord, 2025, parents ping teens to come to dinner after a day of silence around the house. That’s because the teen is always in a bedroom with the door shut, probably staring at a wall, plotting world domination, forgetting to do math homework until just before school, or playing Minecraft with friends.
The text is a not just a critical communication device when one has teenagers in their household- those three little dots indicating the other party is typing back are as much a proof of life as watching a deep inhale from an old pet that you aren’t quite sure died in their sleep.
But, while some dislike the text-to-communicate because “back in my day we talked to each other”, I appreciate texting with my young teen. The main reason is that I get to laugh at them in the moment, and then put the evidence here to save forever.
Here is one example, in four parts.
We asked you for holiday gift ideas, because as parents to a teenage girl, and one who loves Wednesday Addams over Glinda the Good Witch, it’s a bit more of a challenge to sort out what you would really like.
After several days, you sent us a missive:
I noted the link, the color, and the fact that this is THANKFULLY something I can send to your grand folks without a ton of explanation. No “Six SEEEEHVEN” references to explain, nothing about a skibbity or a toilet. This was a relief.
I also noted the indicator that we are truly in teen-dom, a test as old as humanity itself – the dismissive, monotone, “or, whatever.” With this text, we have officially made it through childhood and into teenage life.
Achievement unlocked.
But, as your mom, I still had to make a wisecrack. It’s part of the contract. You destroyed my bladder on your way out, and moved my spleen about 7″ to the left from using it as your personal punching back for 9 months….I get to make uncomfortable jokes from time to time.
This is going to be a little more vague, and a bit more sentimental than my usual blurbs to you, Kiddo. It’s what it’s.
You may have noticed that there has been a lack of posting in the last few years, mostly since we moved to Maine. Unfortunately, you had to overcome more than any kid should have, and I’ll leave it there. While this blog is for you, everyone can read it and this is truly your story to tell when you’re ready.
However, we are on the eve of getting a new superintendent in your school district. Your dad, after realizing he was in a unique position to help kids and families ran, and earned, a seat on our district’s school board in an effort to help our district get on course. A course that is truly inclusive and helps every kid where they are. I’m beyond proud of him, and I have no doubt that he’s in service to this district because of you, and wanting a better district for everyone.
But, at the heart of this year, going into your last run as a middle schooler, you have so many people in your corner. So many friends who have your back across two different states. That’s a testament to the kiddo you are. You don’t care about what others think of how you look or who you are, you are unapologetically you, and that is something I didn’t fully understand until you walked that path.
And while I finished up a book this year dedicated to the up and coming dog trainers around the globe, you said something that floored me. You no longer want to be a marine biologist, or video game designer, or an artist who brings nature to life for science classes…you said you wanted to do the job I do. A dog trainer. You’ll have to talk to a lot of people to do this work, but your ability to work with animals, including the day last week when you caught a hummingbird trapped in a greenhouse to save it—it was in your hand, tiny, squealing, and scared, but you saved him—will always amaze me. The patience you have with animals was something I had to learn over decades, and you just have it. It’s a gift to watch and will serve you well, wherever you end up.
For your 13th birthday party, you wanted to go to an escape room with your two best friends. We offered to host as many kids as you wanted, and you still picked two. You make relationships closely and cautiously, but once people are “in”, they are your people. Again, not a skill I have, so it’s admirable. You wore a custom dress with mushrooms all over it that your grandmother made for you (yes it had pockets!), tied a black bow in your growing red hair (as your goal is to braid said hair over one shoulder as soon as possible…which will not be soon), and you did your makeup.
All before 7:00 am. a full eight hours before everyone was going to arrive. I doubt we’ll see this enthusiasm through the school year when we typically are groggy, racing out the door in whatever clothes you happened to grab in the dark from each drawer, not caring if they match or work, or are even seasonably appropriate. But, now I know you CAN do this, and that’s a place to start
I know we only have two more birthdays before you can legally get a permit to drive in Maine, three before you’re driving us around places just to practice the skill (or, because your parents eyes are going south and we need to tap you in at night, or when we’ve had a beverage too many, or you want to drive yourself to your friend’s houses).
We only have 5 more of these celebrations before you are legally an adult.
Only five.
And your language is exploding. Your wit is razor sharp, teetering between seasoned adult comebacks to childlike giddiness. Your ability to articulate most things is spectacular, and way more thoughtful than when I was a kid. Though, the need to make up descriptions for forgotten common words is something you’ll just have to deal with forever (like boo-boo hat from your uber-youth, and “face puffs” instead of cheeks from last week).
On the language front, we have hit a new milestone. Truthfully, I’d rather you say the F bombs, or any bombs, than say a single word of unkindness to someone hurting, someone undeserving, or someone who you have power over. You are not that kid, and I doubt very much you’ll be that adult. But, look out for them as those people who thrive on holding power over others do exist and will try to wield that power over you. While you are smaller than many of your classmates, you will hopefully be able to help others by using that voice combined with whatever language you can, to persuade, to defend, and to comfort, but never to hold power over someone else. Nothing will be more powerful than your voice. Use it wisely.
Just don’t use all your new words in front of teachers or coaches. Code-switching is a skill, too, and I suspect you’ll learn after you make some mistakes landing you in a little trouble
You may be tiny, but girl, you are mighty. I get why people say this is the longest, shortest time. But I love seeing who you are becoming, F bombs and all.
A few weeks ago we were listening to Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me – a radio quiz show. One of the questions was if it was true that someone could date the various versions of the Last Supper painting by using food clues.
(It’s true, btw. There is more food on the table depending on the period the scene is physically painted)
But, while we were listening to the podcast, I looked in the rearview mirror – you were confused.
Right. You haven’t been in church, read the stories, or know *anything* about the big guy. So, I did what I do best. Overexplain something I definitely did not understand.
“Well, Kiddo, The Last Supper is a really famous painting showing 12 dudes on one side of a really long table – which, odd seating choice – and the guy in the middle is Jesus. The rest of them are his friends. Actually, 11 are his friends. One guy was only pretending to be his friend so he could be famous in the painting.”
Nothing gets by you – observance is one of your most consistent qualities. This is great, because if you weren’t, the rest of this exchange, my new favorite exchange, never would have happened.
“Mom? Why was it called The Last Supper? Was he going somewhere?”
“Um…*snicker*, yes. Kind of.”
Realizing I’m completely out of my depth and not remembering this chapter in Agnostic Parenting 101, I explained as quickly as I could of the New Testament.
At least the last bits.
The parts I remember.
The highlights.
Well, I guess this all depends on who you ask. I bet Jesus wasn’t exactly a fan and these were more “low lights” – to each His own?
Now, keep in mind I have not touched the Bible in 2 decades. The last book I finished I couldn’t tell you the side characters’ names – and I finished that book last night. My memory is not *great* and I’m trying to recall, process, and regurgitate to a kid who has no foundation in religion about this thing that spans everything including pop culture (remember, this started with a radio quiz).
All while I was operating a vehicle.
And I’m still definitely laughing at, “Was he going somewhere?”
So I’m sure whatever I spit out was SUPER accurate.
“Well, Kiddo, yeah. He kinda went somewhere. So, some people believe Jesus was killed after this supper. After he died, they shoved him in a cave, and three days later he came out of the cave—“
“Oh, Zombie Jesus. We covered that, Mom, for Good Friday.”
“Yes, Zombie Jesus. Then in some religions, people believe he went to the sky and one day he’ll return and take all the people who believe in him up to Heaven where their spirits can live forever.”
The silence was a bit unnerving as you were processing this at 60mph. A road I’m pretty sure was only 45 but I just REALLY wanted to get home at this point. I’ll put it out there, Kiddo – you’ve never asked Dad about Zombie Jesus, or any Jesus, or the republican party, or any of “the big ones.” Please remember this in future therapy sessions. You did this to you – you asked ME for these answers, the least qualified parent and I definitely did my best.
Or, I did my not-worst.
Kiddo, I need you to know that at this moment, I had convinced myself that I fully nailed this parenting thing.
Pun not intended.
“Mom?”
I looked in the rearview. You looked white as a sheet and a little panicked. You didn’t so much speak as quiver –
“I don’t want to get in the van with Free Candy Jesus!”
So, I’m still operating a vehicle and did not go off the road when you spouted that out of your face. And for that, and for your future therapist, I need to get all the credit in the world for being a good mom.
Though, the shirt or stickers I will definitely make out of this image, the exact image I was imagining the *INSTANT* you conflated stranger danger, the time your friend Riker hilariously got into a van with free candy – much to the chagrin of the adults who all grew up in the 80s watching in utter fascination and horror, it’s ok, he’s fine- and the Book of Revelations – A BOOK YOU HAVE NO KNOWLEDGE ABOUT, may factor into a less-than-good mom status.
And, to my knowledge, you have watched exactly ZERO episodes of Forensic Files, so how you know this is a *thing* – how candy vans were a real touchstone of a particular period of the 1980’s yet you don’t know who Jesus Christ is, does speak to the kind of parenting you’ve received to date.
My bad. Or, you’re welcome. Tell me later.
But, I’m down with not getting in any vans promising free candy, especially if the driver is a man wearing a sheet, looking like he tried to start a cult at Coachella. Even if it’s Jesus taking the wheel, do not get in that van. If your future Uber Driver turns around and offers so much as a breath mint, just walk home. Do not take candy from men you just met who are operating a vehicle.
Also, will Uber still be a thing when you stumble onto this when you’re…..thirty? Hopefully thirty? I have no idea, we’ll see how well this ages.
If that makes me a not-the-worst mom instead of a good one, I’ll take it
Now, let’s go get some Snickers and call your Auntie Sip about all the times these stories start with a Wait Wait episode. She’ll appreciate it.
I hope when you’re older and look back at this moment, Kiddo, you’ll not think we were old parents not hip to the messaging, but instead will appreciate that we used the nickname you chose for yourself – which, is quite progressive – even though, as your dad rightfully considered outloud that it “feels like we are cat calling our own daughter”.
(You did hit a double though and are doing really well – scored a run, too! But, I did find out that hit a double and a double play are two different sport ball terms. I AM TRYING MY BEST.)
Every year, we put a large piece of paper up somewhere in the house and leave colored pencils, crayons, or markers (that don’t bleed TOO much) nearby so whenever someone is feeling thankful for something or someone, we walk over to the wall and just write it down. By the end of Thanksgiving, we have a little poster of all the things that we collectively are thankful for that year.
It’s become one of my favorite traditions that came out of the Pandemic of 2020, and I hope we keep it going forever.
You leaned in super hard with Erin Hunter who wrote your favorite 600 books (I’m guessing) – The Warrior Cats series. Just when we think it’s over, a whole new arc of 5-100 books comes out. You love reading these books, you are so immersed in the world, and it’s awesome! (Though, I’ll admit, I sort of wish you’d like other books so we can connect on some Terry Pratchett…but maybe that day will come later )
Mimi and PopPop were listed twice on the same piece of paper, and a last-minute entry was “Ant Liz and her flute” – which makes me want to see a kid’s book with an insect band, and the ant is playing the piccolo.
And in a pro-move that I absolutely appreciate – so you didn’t miss anyone at all, you wrote “Friends and LIFE. “
I think that about covers it, don’t you? Though I was quite proud of my “breakfast poopers” artwork, and your dad’s “red wave” joke made me laugh so hard when I finally noticed it – two days after he drew it.
Until next year, kiddo! Hopefully, you’ll be thankful for a much shorter bus ride as you’ll be going to the middle school.
Last night was the town’s 30th annual Pet Show. It’s catered to kids to show off their animals, but as these things tend to go, there was one very sweet elder woman with a cat in a stroller complete with (I think) a baby book for the ancient cat, and a few families with dogs in tutus. Those dogs were having the time of their lives. There was also a kiddo with a small container of water with a rabbit snail (named Bunny, because that kid had a great sense of humor) and one hero with his kitten without a leash on his back, which made everyone think, “Good god, I hope this untethered kitten doesn’t run directly into Rt 1 traffic.”
I don’t think it did, but I couldn’t watch to find out.
The Bearded Dragon made his second appearance and was, I’m told, the one to beat.
But you brought Breezy.
Breezy is a chicken.
We have a dog, but when we found out someone a few years back brought a cow, the only thing we could do at that point was one-up the normal pets one would see at these events and produce a harness-wearing chicken.
We had planned on bringing Sugar, the white puffball of a bird (a white Silkie chicken who will theoretically grow to be the size of a large banana), but Sugar, despite being bred to be a lap chicken was also a little *too* bred as she (?) has a freaky micro-toe emerging from a different toe from where I think she may have eaten her twin in the egg, and the other foot has two fused together toes. Plus the one that is curled totally under her foot. She’s also not into being held, being social, or having anything to do with you, despite all the work we did looking for social birds to be your pet chicken. Oh well, this is why inbreeding is frowned upon. One day, I hope when you are learning about the Habsburg Jaw, British royalty lines, or find yourself reading The Song of Ice and Fire, you think back to this chicken.
But Breezy, now that’s a social little bird. She’s soft. She is the chicken equivalent of a food-hound, tolerates a harness, and absolutely loves sitting in people’s laps while all the other prey animals in the pen keep a healthy 3′ distance from humans. She also looks like she has a Mardi Gras inspired headpiece on her at all times, and Eugene Levy eyebrows. This chicken is the shit.
As we rolled in, it became clear, and probably obviously clear, that as the bottom of the food chain, Breezy was understandably petrified of all the people (who eat chicken), dogs (who kill chickens), cats (who prey on chickens) and the traffic sounds (because this chicken had no reason to cross the road, it was loud and terrifying). You had every opportunity to look at all these animals – the cats, the dogs, the bunny snail, the lizards, but you hung back. You seemed to *get* Breezy in that moment. You advocated for her as a responsible pet owner would do. You held her, you helped her, you gave her space, and you didn’t move her into places that would put her in danger.
Today, the Supreme Court, which was stacked by former President Trump for this reason, overturned 50 years of women’s rights. This will make it harder for people like you to get the medical care you may need down the road. Maybe not so much here in the Northeast (just steer clear of New Hampshire, which aside from the tax free liquor store, might not be the worst advice) but certainly in much of this country.
It’s critical that you know that pregnancy symptoms can be genetic. There is a chance, a good one, you may also get so sick you can’t hold water down for days on end and vomit so hard during pregnancy you tear muscles in your neck and chest, too.
You may find yourself carrying for a 5 year old kid and cannot get off the couch without passing out in front of your first grader, or have blood pressure so dangerously low the doctors can’t believe you are able to stand at all.
It should be your choice, as it was mine, to keep or terminate a pregnancy for any reason, and I have done both. The choice I made two years ago would put me in jail for murder in many states in the US as of right now. But it gave me a life with you. The way I see it, I chose life.
Yours.
And I’m so relieved I had the freedom of choice. Even while my step mother posted propaganda about abortion that was imagined and disgusting, even while pro-forced-birth protestors made the news a day after my abortion, I had the choice and I chose for me, for you and Dad, for us.
I have zero regrets.
That doesn’t mean I wish it went a different way. I wish my body could have carried that baby to term. It couldn’t, I couldn’t, and soon did what was best without regret. Others may have chose differently. Chosen to be hospitalized away from their existing kids for months, or go to the hospital every two days for fluids and nutrients by IV. That’s their choice and they can make that choice if they felt it was right for them.
Now, regardless of income, family support, preference, or ability to carry a baby to term, it doesn’t matter. With the voices of a stacked court, 6 of 9, there are no choices for people right now who needed protection, needed support, needed compassion, needed choice.
You have an obligation, Little, to vote when you can. Vote like your life depends on it, and if it doesn’t consider yourself lucky and privileged. Not everyone in the land of the free is able to have the most basic freedom… The freedom of choice. If you can use your voice to amplify those who are muzzled, you don’t speak… You roar.
LGBTQIA+ marriage and rights are next. The only thing that will be on the table are the values and preferences of those who support patriarchal norms (*cough* predominantly cis, white, voices with roots in the American flavor of judgemental, evangelical Christianity *cough*) who will find loopholes for themselves and those who listen to them- everyone else is wrong, or illegal.
That is not ok.
And it’s on us to vote and do whatever we can to stop this American cancer of misinformation that is spreading.
So today, when the country was turned back 50 years, you played on a beach, blissfully unaware of the millions of families who are right now terrified, sick, or hopeless or any other VALID feeling, You were a mighty girl, roaring on a cragly rock.
I’m so sorry for the world we are leaving you. For every person who clutches pearls while sobbing, “But the children” as they stack the school boards, stack the courts, unstack the library shelves –
-while they speak over ignored teachers, and invalidate doctors in favor of Spotify stars, and even drown out the voices of the kids themselves who are begging to be heard, begging to be saved, begging to be validated –
and the only thing that will drown the sounds of their dismantling are the overwhelming roars of the people who won’t go back, the people who won’t stand on the sidelines, and the kids themselves who have a lot to say about being muzzled.
Don’t ever let them stop your roar.
And if you can’t speak, find a pen and write.
Then vote like your life depends on it because it does.
