The Understudy

I felt the question coming like a dog feels the pulse of the earth before a quake. I had tracked Monsignor's comments from, "How quickly they grow," to, "What grade are you in this year, Ann?" and I knew what came next. So did Ann. Exactly one beat before the question came, we exchanged a look that said, on her part: "Don't you dare!" and on mine: "Watch me."

A little rock to his heels, a pat of my hand, and Monsignor, with absolute confidence, asked, "So, Mom, has Ann decided where she'd like to go to college?"

Following an inaudible, "Thank you, God," I dropped my chin, blinked once (very slowly), and lowered my voice to inside-the-confessional volume. "Well, Monsignor, we're not sure that Ann is headed to college at all."

I might as well have said that Ann's plans for the future included selling crack and, if necessary, selling her eggs to support her habit. Growing up in Westchester, California, means that you go to college. Toss in the fact that her father is a philosophy professor and that we've nearly bankrupted ourselves sending her to private schools, and Monsignor couldn't have been more surprised if I'd announced a longing to share his celibate bed.

But priests are used to working with the public, and Monsignor recovered quickly.

"Well, you don't need a college degree to get into heaven." He smiled at Ann; and she, being well brought-up, smiled back and answered, "That's true."

The fall-out would come, I knew, in a minute, after Monsignor made his escape. But for the moment I just inhaled slowly, wrapped my arm around Ann's wooden shoulders, and beamed: "She has so many nice qualities. I just know she'll find something meaningful to do with her life. Not everyone is meant to go to college."

Monsignor quickly threw in something about a girl from our parish who considered the army. She decided against it -- seems she wanted to go to college instead, but it was the only precedent he could lay hold of, and I had to give him credit. "Ann would make an excellent soldier," I responded. But before I could really get going on the topic, Ann had divested herself of my arm and Monsignor had made his get-away.

"Why do you do that? That is sooo rude." Ann hissed. "You know I only said that one time. One time I said I didn't know if I wanted to go to college, and you will not let it die. What is wrong with you?"

"One time" is not exactly true. In reality, Ann proclaims her disdain for college every time a report card is mailed home and she has to confront her grades, which stubbornly insist on reflecting her effort. Her defense -- because what high school girl will admit to poor time-management, abject laziness, and wishful thinking -- is to declare, in an avant-garde kind of way, that she's not at all sure she wants to go to college anyway. So take that, Harvard!

But because she is playing into my game so beautifully, I let it go. The argument continues, of course, for many minutes. She is 17, and no argument is really over until she feels she has won. And I let her, knowing that the real victory, the one I learned about from my own mother, is mine.


"Set the bar low," my mother would advise her friends, "and watch your kids leap over it. Nothing so galls a child, so spurs him on, as being underestimated." And though her friends found her Dr. Spock-ish advice barbaric (it was the 1980s and the psychologists had just discovered self-esteem), my mother was actually right.

"Homework? That's your business," she'd say. "Lord, it's not like I didn't work all day." And, "Listen, a 'C' is a perfectly respectable grade. It's not called 'the gentleman's C' for nothing." So my brother and I realized that if we were to make anything of ourselves, it was up to us. I realized this sooner than my brother and took all honors classes in high school and signed myself up for and found rides to the SAT and later the GRE. My brother learned it later, barely graduating from high school but making up for it by becoming a doctor.

I don't expect Ann to pursue medicine -- she's afraid of needles, for one thing. "Listen," I told her, "not everyone gets vaccinated. A certain number of people take that chance every year and get away with it. Only you can weigh the risk of lockjaw against a three second poke." But I do have a suspicion that, this fall, she'll begin mentioning the SAT and showing tentative interest in the application process.

Of course, I could be wrong. She could be playing me. She is the daughter of a philosopher, after all, and is prematurely familiar with the basic syllogism. While tolerating my antics, I would not be surprised if she were thinking: "Mothers like to manipulate their daughters. I am a daughter. Therefore, my mother likes to manipulate me." But even if it turns out that way, and she decides to become a pet groomer rather than major in Russian literature, I will still contend that we've had a good run and that it was worth the risk. After all: Mothers have unconditional love for their daughters. I am Ann's mother. Therefore, I love her unconditionally.

"The Understudy" appeared first on Inside Catholic.

Trouble with a Teenage Padawan

My daughter is a good girl. That’s why it’s such a shame that she has hormones. Ryan, her “boyfriend,” might be a good boy too. I don’t know since he’s not allowed to call our home or really, even, to exist on the planet with my daughter because, you see, he has hormones, too. And, I have reason to believe that he is trying to turn my daughter to the dark side.

We found out that our 14-year-old daughter had a boyfriend the old-fashioned way. We read her journal. Before you tsk tsk me, you should know that she left it in plain view and the first line read: “So. . . I guess I have a boyfriend.” We decided this was an obvious plea for help, and so read on. We found out that Ryan had declared his love and that our daughter thought it a bit much. We discovered that Ryan did not think he could live without Ann and that Ann reasoned if he’d made it the first 15 years without her, he’d surely manage another. And, to our celestial delight, Ann wrote that if Ryan thought he was “getting any” from her, he was a fool and in need of another girlfriend. We learned, in short, that we were excellent parents and that the Force ran strong in our family.

Then Ryan’s mother called. Did I know that they were meeting at the movies, the Promenade, and at school dances? I did not. Did I know that they were talking via Ann's cell phone until after midnight? I did not. Did I know that they had been kissing? Oh god, I did not! Did I consider myself a good mother? I did not.

But I was also not easily defeated. She may have the verbal agility of a teenager, I thought, but I am a mother — and it is time for Ann to hear me roar.

“You will not see him unsupervised!” I bellowed. “Supervision is defined as parents being within ten feet of you and your beloved.” I cautioned. “You will hand your cell phone over at 4 P.M. every day,” I commissioned. And then I patted myself on the back, joked with my husband that we were now in the driver’s seat, and went to bed.

Only to be awakened by the ring of our land line. It was Louise, Ryan’s mother, wanting to know why I had suddenly decided it was okay for the twosome to meet at the movies. And, by the way, even if Ann didn’t need to study, Ryan did, and the 10 P.M. phone calls had to stop.

Apparently I had only meowed. Did I even know how to roar? I, who could use my Jedi mind tricks to stop a two-year-old tantrum in its tracks, or turn a distracted fifth grader suddenly studious. Maybe the Force didn’t run strong within me. I’d battled four year old clones and two year old droids and always won, but this apprentice, this was something new. If Ann was going to battle me with the ferocity of a Darth Maul, I’d need a better plan.

And then it hit me. I had to disarm her. I had to get her light saber — and destroy it.

In typical Jedi fashion, Ann kept her glowing pink weapon at her side. If I asked her for it, she wouldn’t defy me. As much as it pained her, she had to recognize herself as still part Padawan learner. And so, last Tuesday, at 3:00, when I expected her home from her all girls’ Catholic high school (don’t tell me I’m not trying!) I waited, sedately, on the porch for her arrival.

Looking darling in her khaki skirt, white knee highs, maroon sweater, and classic loafers, Ann climbed the front stairs and flashed me a smile that told me her world was running way too smoothly.

With steady eyes and a controlled voice, I commanded, “hand me your cell phone.” The pink razor was obediently pressed into my palm, upon which I opened it and saw, for the last time, the glow of the miniature screen, before I broke it in two and threw it away.

Last night I got up at 1:30 in the morning to use the restroom and grab a chocolate covered pretzel to munch on my way back to bed. Ann was nowhere to be seen, but the kitchen light was on, the computer was glowing, and there, on the screen, was Ann’s latest communication:

Ryan: “Your mom sucks. What a *#!*!.”

Ann: “Whatever. See you tomorrow.”

This article first appeared at National Review Online.
http://article.nationalreview.com/327116/trouble-with-a-teenage-padawan/jennifer-kaczor

seventeen year old sluts

"Goodbye" my seventeen year old daughter waved to me as she headed out the door for a first date. "You look like a hooker." I yelled back. "Well, so did you last Friday night." she countered. "That may be," I allowed, "But the difference is, your father pays me very well to look dress like a hooker whereas this boy has yet to buy you dinner. Put on a sweater and raise your price." I advised. And I am happy to report that she did.