When it comes to communicating with my older children, I sometimes feel like Pushmi-pullyu, that antelope-ish Dr. Doolittle character with two heads turned in opposite directions. The poor animal doesn’t always know which way to go.

When I first started writing for this blog a few months ago, for example, my 16-year-old daughter had not an iota of interest in boys, even though her friends had had boyfriends since eighth grade. Then suddenly she was going to homecoming with a date. Now she is hanging out with him, and I want to know everything. Only, she wants to tell me nothing. But don’t I have the right to know something?

“Uh, Emily,” I started very tentatively the other day. “I guess you had a good time with Dalton at homecoming the other night, and I guess maybe you’re kinda sorta hanging out with him a little bit now.”

“Yeah, Mom, but it’s not a big deal,” she said, “and I don’t want anybody to make a big deal out of it.”

“I understand,” I said,, slow and steady as she goes.

“I’m not going to ask you to post all your pictures on Webshots or something,” I continued. “But it’s really no different than when you get a new girlfriend and I want to know about her. And it is a boy, and as your mother, I kind of think I need to know at least a little something,”

“We’re really just friends, Mom,” she said. ”We’re not even boyfriend-girlfriend, and the reason I don’t want to talk to you about it is because most people in this family tend to blow things like this out of proportion.”

“I know, honey,” I said. “But I’d like to think I can respect you on this. I’d like for you to know that I’m here for you, however much of me you need, and that you can trust me.”

“Well, we really are just friends, Mom. We hang out together with a lot of other people, and we’re not serious, and that’s really all there is to tell. I’ll let you know if I need you. And I do trust you, Mom.”

She trusts me! Hey, Mikey! Not only that, but she let me know where her relationship stands! Not only that, but I kept my mouth shut and didn’t press for details like did he kiss her good night and are his parents Republicans or Democrats and what are they going to name their first child? Not only that, but I think I gave her the impression that I’m here, but not prying, that I’m paying attention, but not spying. Hip hip hooray! I’m the Queen Wise Mother of Teenager Communicator Extraordinaire!!

And then I turned around and got into an argument with her 20-year-old brother.

I don’t even know what it was about, something about me not always being available to him when I’m working in my home office on deadline.

Huh?

Communication with an increasingly independent teenager is tricky. Say too too much, and you’ll get shut out. Say too little and the same thing happens. The blog Decoder offers a range of excellent articles about this attempt at balance, which always has me falling off to the too-much side, a stance which I am happy to say is supported by the aforementioned older child: “I’d much rather you keep asking, Mom, than not,” he told me recently. “I can always tell you I don’t want to talk about it.”

The key to communication with a teenager, they say, is doing more listening than talking. The key is setting your own ego off to the side and being willing to trust, respect and affirm your teenager – attributes of the parent-child relationship that should start developing way long before he ever rounds the curve into the teenaged years.

I don’t always get it right the first time. But I always try. And when I succeed, it’s cause for celebration.

For more tips on talking to your teen, check out About.com’s Talk to Your Teen, and this article, Five Tips for Talking With Teens.

- Debra-Lynn

One of the most important lessons I can teach my teenaged daughter has to do with self reliance. By this, I don’t mean stark independence. “No man is an island,” wrote the English poet John Donne in the 17th century. Humans need other humans.

By this, I mean striving to be true to oneself. By this I mean dedication to authenticity. By this, I mean living into the reality that the great American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson embraced in his famed essay on self reliance: “Nothing at last is sacred but the integrity of your own mind.”

This is not an easy concept for a teenaged girl whose very socialization involves empathy and acquiescence. The essence of femininity in our culture still means putting others before oneself, not upsetting the status quo — even and especially if it’s to one’s own gain. Nor is this an easy concept for her mother: Even though I’ve lived three times as long as my daughter, I am still and always female, too.

But recently, I lived into my desire for my daughter. I lived it for myself. I lived it for her.

My gynecologist, during my annual exam, had discovered polyps in my cervix and an enlarged uterus.

I needed a biopsy of my uterus and the polyps removed. And I was afraid.

I was afraid of cancer; my mother had uterine cancer when she was my age, my father died of colon cancer. I was afraid of the procedure, which would involve surgery and general anesthesia. I’d never had surgery before. I’d also never had general anesthesia; I’d borne my three children naturally — not because I’m Superwoman, but because I don’t like taking medication unless I find it absolutely necessary.

I was afraid, as much as anything, of going against standard medical practice.

I’d heard the pain of cramping during the surgery could vary from mild to severe. The potential for “severe” made almost all biopsy patients, and their doctors, choose general anesthesia. The potential for “mild” made me want to attempt the procedure with a shot of Novacaine for my cervix and nothing else.

But if I was going to stay awake, I was going to have to ask for special treatment. I was going to need a second pre-surgery appointment so I could get a play-by-play of the procedure from my doctor, which would help me mentally prepare for the event. I was going to need to ask for everybody to be on board with me in the operating room, especially my doctor. There was a chance I would need emotional reassurance during the procedure. There was a chance, if the procedure ended up being uncomfortable, that I would need to ask her to take a break here and there, so I could catch my breath and resume focus on deep breathing.

All this, I knew, would upturn practice as usual.

And yet who did I think I was, going against the medical system?

Surely they wish uppity patients like me would just go away.

But then something a friend said jarred me: “Your doctor might respect you for taking your own care into your hands.”

I ended up taking my concerns to my doctor, who not only listened, she commended me for listening to my body. She not only was willing to try the procedure without drugs, she told me if she ever had to have the procedure herself, that’s what she would do.

In the end, the surgery was no more uncomfortable than a Pap test. There was a little pinching, a mild cramp and some pressure. The anesthesiologist, who had been standing by just in case, held my hand and deep-breathed with me during the rare uncomfortable moment. The whole thing, from prep to the end, when Dr. Morris smiled from behind her mask and said, “Everything looks benign,” took about 20 minutes.

In the end, I not only did not have cancer — an educated guess that later would be confirmed by tissue analysis – I was free to get up and walk out of the surgery center.

I not only had a whole day stretched out in front of me without the lingering effects of anesthesia. I had a doctor who was telling me, “This was the highlight of my day. You can challenge my standards of practice any time.”

I also had a story to hold inside my understanding, and just as importantly, to share.

My daughter called me from school a couple of hours after the procedure.

“Well?” she said.

“The short story is there is no cancer. The longer, even better story, I will save to tell you later.”

- Debra-Lynn

My 16-year-old daughter is a teenager. Her daily experience is a topsy-turvy whirlwind of teenaged girl emotions, PSAT deadlines, soccer practice and reading 17 pages of Beowulf for English.
 
When she comes home she likes to believe all is right with the world.
 
Which is one of the reasons I make soup.
                                                                  
“Mom! Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“Yep, I’m making vegetable soup.”

Seeing her mother standing at the chopping board with garlic, celery and potatoes is, for her, like being cuddled in a rocking chair with a family of Care Bears while her mother sings “Hush, Little Baby.”

A simmering soup on the stove means the world has slowed to a crawl, my daughter once told me. Soup is comfort food. Soup is healthy food. Soup can take time to prepare, which means the person preparing it cares for the people she will later serve with big steaming crockery bowls.

This time of year, of course, is the best time to bring out the soup recipes, which I almost always tweak:

– A former vegetarian, I never use meat broth for my soups, but use a powdered veggie broth I find in bulk at the local health food store.

–I often use peanut butter to add a little umph, but only a tablespoon or two, otherwise at least one of the members of my family will say, “Ew. Does this have peanut butter in it?”

–I rarely use cream if the recipe calls for it, but will use 2 percent milk.

–I almost always have miso on hand, which is a thick paste made of fermented grains or soy, which adds not only flavor but nutritional value, but should only be added at the end as the nutritional properties will otherwise boil away.

–If a veggie or bean soup comes up lacking, I will throw in a pinch or two of crushed red pepper.

Among my soup recipes are several personal favorites that are also my daughter’s favorites, to include a pumpkin nutmeg cream soup I learned to make in France a few years ago, when our family was privileged to live in Europe for a semester with a university program my husband directed.

I also like a broccoli curry soup and a butternut squash pureed soup that manages to taste rich and creamy even though the recipe is nothing but veggies.

I have enjoyed over the years trying to duplicate the “sour soup” recipe my Lebanese great grandmother used to make, a recipe that is little more than lentils and veggie broth, lots and lots and lots of garlic and fresh lemon and cracked wheat balls mixed with flour and dropped in like dumplings.

My daughter likes my chicken noodle soup, which is the ultimate comfort food, which is nothing more than chicken, celery, potatoes, onion, carrots, veggie broth and whatever noodles or leftover brown rice I have on hand.

But it’s when I pull out the gumbo recipe that everybody gathers around. This is a recipe that comes out different every time, that I began perfecting when my family moved to New Orleans 30 years ago. Sometimes my daughter helps me with this one, especially when I need help stirring the roux. This is one time when I go crazy with the meat - vegetarianism and healthy concerns for once be damned. The secret is the roux - that and a cast-iron skillet of buttermilk corn bread to go with.

My kids know that I, like my fellow blogger, Lisa, can get bored with the usual family fare of meat loaf, pizza and mac and cheese (with all due respect to the recipe posted a couple of weeks ago on busymom.net. This time of year, when I make soup, I call into mind a slower time, a more quaint and interesting time for food and family time, when people took time in the kitchen, when the windows fogged up with the steam of a soup slow-cooking on the hearth. I make my daughter happy when I make soup. I make myself happy, too.

Debra-Lynn’s Gumbo Recipe

One cup flour

One cup vegetable oil

One pound frozen okra or fresh if you can find it (optional)

One pound shrimp

One pound Andouille sausage

One chicken

Half a pound of whole ham

Half a pound of smoked ham hocks

Pound of bacon

Six stalks celery

Two onions

One green pepper

Four cloves garlic

One bunch parsley

Spices (Tony Chacere Cajun spice, cayenne, crushed red pepper, etc., also salt and pepper)

Boil your chicken til it falls off the bone. Chop up the chicken. Skim off the fat from the broth and save the broth. If you are lucky enough to have fresh shrimp in your locale, remove the shells from your pound of shrimp, put the shrimp meat in the fridge for later and boil down the shells to a broth. Set aside.

Chop celery, onion, parsley, green pepper, garlic. Cook with half pound of bacon. Set aside.

Chop okra. Saute in half pound of bacon. Set aside.

Make the roux, by stirring in one cup flour into one cup oil in a cast-iron skillet. Stir on medium heat for about 30 minutes, until the roux turns the shade of brown you want. This is the most intricate part of this dish and can be perfected to meet your own style. Click here for a treatise on roux.

When you think you’ve got your roux the way you want it, add the cooked veggies, everything but the okra. The liquid will halt the browning process. Stir well and cook a little longer, maybe 5-10 minutes.

Warm the chicken broth (and the shrimp broth with it, if you have any) and add the veggies and roux, along with half a pound of your sausage and your ham hocks. Cook for an hour or two, if you want. All those meat juices will be working together with the roux to make a rich and robust flavor. Add water as needed to make the consistency you want.

After an hour of cooking, throw in the rest of your sausage, your ham and your chicken. Throw in your spices of choice, understanding that the meat is going to continue to be the greatest flavor enhancer of your gumbo. Let cook for another half hour. Add water as needed.

Add your okra and your shrimp during the last 10 minutes or so.

Serve with sliced green onion and file gumbo sprinkled on top, which is powdered sassafras leaves and should be available in the bulk spice section of your grocery store. You can also put the gumbo over rice in your bowl if you want.

Now: Laissez les bons temps roulez!

- Debra-Lynn

I am certain that I have ranted on this topic before, but it struck me like a bell once again this past week. We were watching Disney Channel with the kids and they were advertising some of their ‘tween and teen programming. I will admit that I was really more zoned and glazed over with the marketing images just passing me by when my husband made a brilliant declaration to our 14-year-old.

As he watched a promotion for some show he simply stated, “…that is why you experience so much drama at school, these shows are all about drama every day.” I jerked my head up and jumped all over that bandwagon.

I have been in a multitude of conversations with our 14-year-old about her daily drama. It is very literally a different dramatic interpersonal relationship problem every week. I have to make little pneumatic devices in my head to keep all of her “BFFs” straight from story to story. I ask, “Is this Softball Ashley or New Best Friend Ashley?” It is important to know because in two weeks, Softball Ashley is the new BFF and New Best Friend Ashley will downgrade to Evil Boyfriend-Stealing Ashley.

Hearing my husband state the root of the problem so matter-of-factly put it all in perspective for me. Children who grow up watching Disney and then move on to MTV, E! and VH-1 reality shows believe that life is one big drama-fest.

I’ve always rebelled against Lizzie McGuire and the Bratz franchise because I felt it taught young girls to speak rudely to their elders and encourage them to act older than they are. Watching the current programs like Hannah Montana, The Suite Life of Zach and Cody and High School Musical, I see how much they inundate my kids with high-drama, overacting and overdone laugh tracks that do little to teach anything of value.

As I watch my kids and listen to their concerns about school, friends and with our older girls with boys and other teen girls, I can see how much influence these programs have. It is now considered appropriate to talk back to parents with a raised voice like precocious Hanna or spoiled London. Or worse, it is okay for girls to be vapid, materialistic, model-looking prima-donnas because they can sing or dance or because they are famous. I have yet to identify on the Disney Channel a single strong role model who faces any real life stress or conflicts that real children have to address in their daily lives.

I know that every show doesn’t need a moral lesson and that kids like to sing, dance and laugh but does it hurt to be genuine? Can’t a character on a kids show learn to stand up for what is right and admit when they are wrong without them spending 22 minutes doing prat falls, yelling until their veins pop out or embarking on some large convoluted caper first?

My kids are smart and deserve to watch shows that don’t pander to their most immature sides with canned laughter and spit takes. By the same token, they deserve to learn what real life drama is and what it can feel like so they can deal with it if/when they face it. You don’t see anyone dealing with real illness, loss of a loved one, financial crisis if someone loses a job, or simply busy working families where everyone has to pitch in. At least not on one of the most popular cable channel for kids, that is.

As you may have guessed, I have been switching off Disney for a while and keeping a closer tab on what the kids watch. I suppose I can take some comfort in the fact that my reaction to the shows is actually more important than what the shows put out. The kids definitely know that London Timpton on the “Suite Life” makes me gag, literally… and now they know why.

- Holly

My 16-year-old daughter isn’t going to homecoming this year with the usual group of girl friends.

She’s going with a boy. His name is Dalton. He has blond, curly hair, and he’s a swimmer on the high school team. He invited Emily the other night while they were at a bonfire party, when Dalton ’s best friend, Sean, also invited Emily’s best friend, Abby. The four of them will go to the dance together.

That’s all I know about my daughter’s upcoming first date. That’s all I learned when I sat next to Abby’s mother at our daughters’ soccer game the other night.

“Guess it’s pretty cool that our daughters are double-dating for the homecoming dance,” she said.

“Huh?”

There was a time when information about my daughter’s life wasn’t delivered second-hand, when she couldn’t wait to tell me everything.

E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

“I have a new friend named Isabella,” she’d say, as we lay cuddled on her twin bed for night-night time when she was 5.

“Isabella is a pretty name,” I said.

“Yeah, and I hurt my toe today,” she’d continue, holding her foot close to my face so I could see.

“Oh, and guess what, Mom?”

“What?”

“It’s my turn to be star of the week at kindergarten!”

I was once my daughter’s No. 1 go-to person. When there was trouble, like that time when a big, tall fourth-grade boy was chasing her around the playground, it was me she sought out first to tell. When there was a good grade on a paper, or a disappointing one or a mean teacher or a hurt feeling, I was her BFF.

Now a boy has asked her to homecoming, and she didn’t rush to tell me.

“So I guess we’ve been out of touch a bit,” I said offhandedly, my eyes straight ahead, when I drove her home from soccer that night. “And I guess I’ve missed a few things. Like, um, are you going to homecoming with somebody?”

“Yeah, Mom. He’s just a friend. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”

“OK, but somewhere along the way, we need to figure out some things, like when you want to go shopping for a dress, whether you’re going out for dinner, who’s buying the pictures.”

“Yeah, but can we talk about it later?”

I’m sure I’ll eventually find out what any discerning parent needs to know, like who this boy’s family is, who’s driving to the dance, whether they plan to attend after-dance parties, that kind of thing. But the nuances — like what’s going on in her heart, like how does it feel to be going on a real date with a boy — those intimate things are hers to own now, not mine to share.

That’s okay, I tell myself. This is the natural order. This is a time for her to pull away, while I take a giant step back. She individuates while I discover that fine line between involvement and enmeshment. It is her job during this period of human adolescence to separate from me. It is my job to keep the door of our emotional connection open, while allowing her to close the door, even slam it, as needed.

I remind myself that I survived this once before — with my elder son, who is 20 now and over his adolescent aloofness.

I tell myself I can do this again.

Only this time, she’s my daughter, my own gender and as such, my favorite female in the universe.

How I long to know if her coming-of-age stories are like mine.

How I long to sit crosslegged on her bed, helping her manipulate the minefields of budding sexuality and blossoming femininity.

Instead, I must stand back, watching, waiting, marveling, missing.

- Debra-Lynn

This week, 20 years ago, people were praying and meditating and pulling for me as I prepared for labor, then gave birth to my first child, a sweet boy who has grown into a sweet young man I couldn’t be prouder of.

Twenty years he’s been alive. Two decades I’ve been a mother.

And now people are praying and meditating and pulling for me again, this time as I prepare to have a uterine biopsy, four days before my 20th anniversary of giving birth.

If she had to guess, my gynecologist, the woman who delivered my third child 11 years ago, would say the one-inch mass she saw via Ultrasound is a benign polyp; I have a polyp in my cervix, which is a good indicator that what is inside the uterus is a polyp, too.

Still, she can’t be sure, especially since my mother had uterine cancer when she was 49, and my father died of colon cancer when he was 57, and my grandfather died of lung cancer, and my sister had pre-cancerous cells in her cervix when she was in her 20s.

And so she has to go in with something Google describes as a curette, take a few snips and send them off to the laboratory.

I’ve asked all the questions I could ask, done all the mental preparing I can do, as I prepare for this new development.

I’ve gathered in a surprisingly wide community of support, to include a Buddhist scholar, who is going to chant for me at the exact time of my procedure. Another friend will play African drums. One of my sisters is setting her alarm to pray.

I’ve also spoken with my two older childen, who have noticed that I’m suddenly going to the doctor a lot. I told them only as much as I thought they needed to know as without scaring them, I hope. They patted me on the back, even as I patted them on theirs, even as my 16-year-old daughter asked three times, “So the doctor is hopeful, right?”

I feel the love, support and hope all around me. I also can’t help but see the irony.

Born into a family with immature and narcissistic parents, I never learned that I was of value until I became a mother myself.

In learning how to care for my three children, I learned to care for myself.

And now, the vessel that carried the four of us to life is called into the glare of dread.

I am fully aware of the many possibilities that will present themselves after the biopsy and the subsequent laboratory analysis, which won’t come back until the second week of October.

These possibilities run the gamut — from nothing to a hysterectomy. A hysterectomy is how they fixed my mother’s cancer, which never showed itself again in the remaining 20 years of her life.

So maybe the worst case scenario is that I have to have all my female organs removed.

And poof.

The cancer, should there be any, will be gone.

As will the origins of my saving grace.

It’s just ironic timing, that’s all.

- Debra-Lynn

It was Old Home Night at the high school, also known as Open House, when parents of high schoolers get to see who among us is aging quicker and graying faster; who’s lost pounds and who’s been sneaking Rice Krispie treats; whose husband is not at the Open House but rather is a lout sitting at home watching football highlights; and which couples are collective outcasts because neither the mom, nor the dad, showed up at Open House.

There is another reason for Open House, of course, that is to meet the teachers my 11th-grade daughter will be spending the next nine months with. This is one meet-and-greet that almost always ends up being a good experience, as this particular high school usually hires mature, top-notch teachers who place a strong emphasis on critical thinking.

Usually.

“The name of our course is Rational Thinkers, Critical Thinking,” my daughter’s sociology teacher said.

Excellent!

“I tell my kids that 90 to 95 percent of what we do in pre-calc they will never, ever use in their daily lives,” said the math teacher. “But 100 percent of what I teach them about how to think, they will use.”

Yes!

“We use naked Barbies on bungee cords,” said the male physics teacher.

At that very moment, Mr. Gravity and Dynamics flashed a Power Point picture of a blonde Barbie from the breastline up, her big blonde hair poufed out around her like a brothel boarder.

“We used to use eggs to teach the theories of dynamics and gravity. But yuk, that was a mess! So a few years back, we found this box of naked Barbies at a garage sale and we said, ‘We’ll take ‘em! We don’t even need clothes! Clothes mess with the flow of air as the doll is being dropped.’ ”

Let me just say right here and now that I am not, and never have been, one of those power parents who marches into the public school, demanding a particular philosophical approach, and it had better be mine. I am no book-burning Sarah Palin. Nor am I a mom who ever banned Barbie from her daughter’s toybox. (For true Barbie-hating moms, check out antibarbie.com, also a funny post by Strollerderby blogger/mom Karen Murphy who grew up feeling overlooked by Barbie, then tried to hide Barbie from her younger daughter.)

The way I look at it, Barbie is part of our culture. If a 5-year-old child really wants a Barbie, I say get the Barbie and then spend as much time as possible talking about the fact that about 99.999999 percent of the female population does not look like that.

But naked Barbies in school? With teenaged boys and girls handling them?

Consider the prurient obsession at this age. Consider the jokes the boys will have to make to hide their embarrassment. Consider the idea of dropping the Barbie to the ground and what that suggests about domination and power. Consider the girls and their embarrassment about a facsimile of their bodies being handled in such a way.

“Yeah, and so where are the naked Kens?” I asked as I was leaving.

That was all I could eke out at the moment. But the more I think about it, the more I think I need to e-mail that teacher a long and respectful note about getting those Barbies out of there. He could use, say, Tonka trucks instead, or rocks.

What do you think?

- Debra-Lynn

Today I met a young man at my local grocery store. He was the cashier and since I had an overflowing basket of food, we had a few minutes to chat.

I’ve noticed an annoying trend in teen employees recently. Many seem to have a bored, borderline surly attitude. Almost as if I’m bothering them when I get in their checkout line.

As if! Whatever.

Anyways, I noticed from his nametag that his name was Sam. He made eye contact, smiled, and asked how my day was going. Sam asked if my kids were back to school. Is it that obvious that I’m a Mom? Perhaps the juice boxes and fruit snacks gave it away. We talked briefly about my three daughters and what grades they were entering and then I turned the conversation to Sam.

I asked Sam what grade he was in. After all, we had become buddies. He told me that he’d graduated in June and was taking a year off to figure out his future. I wanted to shake him and yell, “That’s what college is for!!!”

Does Sam really think that all of those freshman college students are solely intent on their studies and have their futures all mapped out? College is all about growing up, gaining independence, and figuring out your future (okay, and parties). Sam confided that his Mom is upset about his decision and thinks he is making a big mistake.

Sam’s Mom is right.

I don’t believe I’ve ever known anyone who went back to school fulltime after “taking some time to think.” I’ve known lots of people who go back part-time, squeezing in a night class between raising kids and trying to pay a mortgage. Not easy.

Sam is a good looking boy; lots of confidence, wide shoulders, and a handsome face. I’m sure most teen girls would love to spend some time with him. However, those same girls, four years from now, will not be quite so impressed. They’ll be comparing Sam to young men graduating from college who have impressive plans for their futures.

I hope Sam’s Mom mentioned all of that. Especially the girl part because, well, Sam is an 18-year-old boy. The kid and mortgage stuff probably seem like such distant issues to Sam that it is almost meaningless.

If Sam is working full-time, he’s bringing home about $300 a week. It probably feels like that’s a ton of cash, at this point. I hope his Mom is charging him for rent, food, and utilities, leaving him next to nothing in his pocket. He might as well get used to being broke unless he attends college or trade school.

If I had talked to Sam’s Mom five years ago, this is the advice I would have given her.

• Don’t discuss college as a choice. When talking about college, word it as “when you go,” instead of “if you go.” For my daughters, it’s already a foregone conclusion that they will attend college.

• If you attended college, drive by your alma mater. We’ve done this just to give our kids a bit of our history and also to help them become a bit familiar with colleges. We want to take the mystery out of the whole experience.

• Help your kids to appreciate their strengths. Saying things like, “you are excellent with children” or “ you are very good at fixing things” will help them when choosing a career path.

• Be involved with your child’s school. Go to events, meet the principal, e-mail teachers, become a room mom, check grades online, look over homework, etc. It will pay off in the long run.

• Steer him toward friends who have solid goals for their futures. It’s catchy.

I would also tell Sam’s Mom that she did a lot of things right because he seems like such a great kid. Hopefully, he’ll find his way.

-Kay

This year, as school begins anew, I vow:

–I will not mindlessly toss school papers on the kitchen table where where they will collect in a foreboding heap until such time that a) we have people over for dinner and have no choice but to clear the table or, worse, b) the soccer booster lady e-mails: “YOUR daughter can’t play soccer today because she hasn’t filled out her emergency medical form.”

–I will sign all permission slips, medical forms and PTA forms as soon as my children place them in my hands.

–I will be especially careful to read the fine print on any paper that says “Volunteer opportunity!”, making sure to sign up for only such activities that do not come with a one-page job description.

–I will devise a system for saving those pieces of my kids’ school work that are worth saving, and immediately throw out the rest.

–Not only that, I will sort through the boxes of papers in the basement that date back to my first child’s first preschool, circa 1990, keeping only the most significant pieces. After all, like my friend Megan says, “Do I really need page after page of my kids writing the letter ‘L’ in cursive?”

– I will, once and for all maintain a bottomless cache of cash in the little pottery cup in the kitchen cupboard, so that when my daughter suddenly remembers she forgot to pack her lunch as she is running out the door, there will be money to give. And give. And give.

–When school lunches are remembered, they will be healthy and yummy and made before 8 a.m. with slim-to-no supervision from me.

–There will be no midnight oil, as bedtimes will be at healthy times for each age group. Mornings will be organized so that nobody is running out the door with cereal in a coffee cup, screaming, “I didn’t have time to brush my teeth.” Afternoons will be calm and all-knowing, not like last year when I couldn’t remember which day I pick up my daughter from school and which day she has soccer practice.

–I will remain steady and calm for all my children. This includes the aforementioned 16-year-old. This year, I vow to know when she needs me and when she wishes I lived in a different time zone. I will know when to stay in the kitchen and when to bound up the stairs to her room, where I will sit on the side of her bed and ask, “What’s wrong, honey?” in the sweetest voice known to humankind, even if it is 11 at night and my own eyeballs are moving to the back of my head with my own fatigue and overwhelmedness.

This year, I vow not only to be a calm, steady and all-knowing mother, but the calmest, steadiest, most all-knowingest among all.

Instead of my daughter coming to me and telling me how Abby’s mother never complains about driving back and forth and back and forth - did I say back and forth to the high school enough? - every other half hour after school, I will be the mom who gets put on the pedestal.

My daughter’s friends will talk about how Mrs. Hook always has hot zucchini bread on the table after school, a really cool shirt on her bod and a smile on her face, even when the papers start piling up on the table and there’s no lunch money in the pottery cup.

If only.

-Debra-Lynn

So for my book club, I read this “young adult” novel, Little Brother, by Cory Doctorow. (Don’t ask me, a 26-year-old, hard-working, harder-playing bachelor, why I belong to a book club comprised mainly of leathery men two decades my senior. It’s beside the point of this post, so don’t ask. It just works.)

This book is really important. Maybe the most important I’ve read in years. Buy it for your young adult ASAP. The premise: a high-school kid gets mistaken for a terrorist in a post-9/11 near future and is “disappeared” by the TSA. He and his friends wage an underground campaign to combat the ever- Orwellian tactics the TSA are implementing as part of a post-terrorist-incident.

The key to this book isn’t the plot though, it’s the substance of it. The book provides a convincing counterargument to the knee-jerk, reactionary fearmongering prevalent in today’s mainstream media. Every teen could use a primer in the freedoms guaranteed us by our Bill of Rights & Constitution. Truly, I cannot find a better written rebuttal to the age-old flawed tautology: “If you’ve got nothing to hide then why do you need privacy?” If you think America’s forgetting what it means to be American, getting a young person this book will be a direct countermove to this trend.

It’s also a very useful real-world tool that will teach your teens to cover their digital tracks in an ever-less-private mediascape. Tools for data encryption, online identity management, and more are profferred by futurist Doctorow (of boingboing.net fame), in the spirit of empowerment rather than mischief. If indeed the future our kids will inherit is as much or more entrenched in the online world than it is today, mastery of these tools won’t just be for the fringe power-users but fundamentals in staving off the prying eyes of a plethora of entities, not necessarily Uncle Sam.

As someone who lived very near the WTC on 9/11 and during its aftermath, some scenes in the book depicting the palpable sense of panic and terror on or around such events hit home very intensely, which, to me, is a good thing. Not many fictional accounts have nailed the sense of confusion and helplessness, and as a firsthand witness, I’ve got to say Doctorow nailed it, and it’s a healthy thing to relive through the medium of fiction.

The prose is easy-to-read (took me a few hours cover to cover), solid though maybe not worthy of poetry awards… but to look at this aspect of the book misses the point.
It’s a novel of ideas, which is something that strikes me as strangely absent from the Young Adult genre. Truly, get this book for any 12-year-old in your life. It transcends politics, so it doesn’t matter if you’re red or blue. It’s highly entertaining. And most importantly, it’s just a remarkable effective method of delivery for important discussions of privacy and liberty versus security in both the digital and post-9/11 age, which may or may not be the most important issue of our times… ambitious for a Young Adult novel, but ultimately successful in its mission. NOW GO BUY IT! SERIOUSLY!

Little Brother
By Cory Doctorow

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