In Defense of Teens

It's probably not a great idea to sit down at the computer late at night when I'm "fired up," but here's a quick message I think is important to share.

For the parents reading this, remember holding your new baby in the presence of someone who asked you how things were going?  Maybe you decided to give them a real answer instead of the canned "great" response.  Maybe you were vulnerable and replied that it was tough, the baby isn't sleeping well, he cries inconsolably during the daytime, you're exhausted.  And instead of a hug or a cup of coffee, you got the SUPER HELPFUL retort, "You think newborns are hard!?  Wait till he's a teenager."

A few years pass by and instead of a colicky baby, you have a strong-willed, cunning, bottomless-pit-of-energy and fearlessness wrapped up in a sticky, uncombed mess of a three-year-old.  You long for the time when you put the child down and he stayed there.  You have exchanged your sleepless nights for napless days.  It's all too real how much of a relief it is to know your precious angel is finally in bed for the night because you can stop wondering for a few hours if they're in peril from the inability to make wise decisions.  The stranger at the store watches as your wrangle your way across the parking lot and comments with a chuckle, "You'll miss this when he's a teenager."

In the blink of an eye after some very long days and nights, you reach the tween years.  At nine years old, your child is feeling big emotions and learning how to express them appropriately, albeit not always successfully.  Sometimes, they hit so fast you didn't see them coming.  He's not a baby anymore, but he's not an adult either.  These are more or less the overlooked years, which I guess is why we've given them the name "tweens."  You don't get as many overt reminders that the teen years will be harder, but you've been conditioned by so many to be wary of what's coming that it's always echoing as a refrain in the back of your mind.  "Just wait till he's a teenager."

Well.

Stop it.

A few years ago, I wrote a post about believing the words that I spoke only to myself about myself.  The same principle applies here.  On one hand, it doesn't seem beneficial to belittle the present-day struggles of a parent in the trenches by offering them a dismal picture of the future.  Additionally, it seems a bit like a self-fulfilling prophecy to warn of the abysmal experience of raising teens.  If we expect that, it seems most likely that's how it will go.  One must also consider that our children are always listening.  If society expects teens to be the worst, why should they behave any differently?  Generations ahead of us paint our children with broad strokes - they're lazy, disrespectful, phone-obsessed, unmotivated, sassy, inappropriately-clad.  These things might be true of some teens, but not all.  Dare I say, these things might also be true of a similar percentage of the older generation's own general population.  

To the parents of littles, I offer you this encouragement:  Stay the course.  Put in the hard work in the early years.  You won't be this tired forever.  Don't let it slide.  Let them learn lessons the hard way now.  Expect good things from your children.  Pray with and for them.  Thank the Lord for sleep and new mercies every morning.

To the parents of teens:  Just love them.  Talk to them about little stuff and big stuff.  Work through politics, faith, social issues - give them the lens through which you would have them view this world.   Laugh with them.  Pray over them.  They're not to be feared.  These people you've raised are on the cusp of adulthood, and what better time to nurture your relationship with them then when they're preparing to launch?  

To the teens:  You're awesome.  I don't think people tell you that enough.  It's been my joy to laugh and learn alongside two awesome teens (so far).  I don't want to be all "I believe the children are our future" but we're counting on you to do the things you're capable of doing.  Do hard things.  Don't settle.  Don't compromise.  (And don't listen to anyone who says your generation is a bunch of hooligans.  We know better than that.  Prove them wrong.)

To my elders:  I love you.  And I hope some day I remember the words I'm preaching to myself.  I know the world seems topsy-turvy, but I also believe the world has always been topsy-turvy.  Before you jump to conclusions about someone because of their age, just consider that you might be wrong.  

To everyone:  The good Lord knows I have a foot-in-mouth occurrence nearly six times daily (plus or minus).  I'm simply suggesting that we weigh our words and try not to diminish the struggles of others.  It doesn't help to tell someone who is having a hard time that someone else has it worse or that it will inevitably be harder later.  Be an ear.  Give advice (only) if they ask.  Coffee is usually a good idea.  

May the words we say be used to build up instead of chip away.  

Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.” – Albus Dumbledore

The Best Kind of Neighbor

I grew up in a relatively small community in the Baltimore metro area.  We lived in a modest, paid-for home that my parents bought in the 70's.  Our backyard was enclosed by a chain-link fence with a privacy fence on one side to keep us delineated from the four (to six) neighbors' yards (depending on how you counted) that abutted ours.  The house to our left was nestled atop a hill.  This hill was perfect for riding bikes down for a minor thrill.  We practically wore ruts in diagonal lines across that slope, but never so badly that a good rain wouldn't fluff the grass right back up.  

The woman who lived in that house on the hill was more than a neighbor.  I would say she was more than a friend.  She was family, closer even than many of my blood relatives.  Mrs. Ruth opened her back sliding door to us every time we knocked, offering us Tastycakes and refrigerated Hostess cupcakes and anything else she had in her pantry.  She and her husband joined us for Christmas brunch every year.  Mr. Bob trekked back and forth from their door to ours carrying packages like Santa Claus.  She brought with her a feast of homemade sticky buns and pistachios, which I ate until my fingers and face were dyed red.  (I recently asked her for her sticky bun recipe, and she mailed it to me! What a treasure!)  When she needed help delivering Avon books, my sister and I trekked them around the neighborhood.  When she went out of town, we took care of her parrot, George and her dog, Brittany.  When our clothesline was full, she let us hang our extra stuff on hers.  We kept her company at the annual craft fair.  My sister was in her daughter's wedding.  When she wanted to get the house ready for a family reunion, she hired us to clean. Then, she invited the four of us to her family reunions.  She never cared, at least not out loud, if she looked out her kitchen window and saw us climbing her trees.  

Not one moment was forced.  We just did our lives together.  

Now as an adult, we live in a similar type of neighborhood.  We don't have clotheslines so there aren't as many spontaneous backyard chats.  Our yards are mostly delineated by privacy fences to keep children and pets in and riffraff out (I guess).  Most folks keep their grass and flowerbeds nicely maintained, the trees trimmed, and their homes tidy.  Then there are some folks (ahem) that are in a season where other things like caring for and educating eight kids (ahem) take priority.  For the past year, one of these things has been adding on to our home (about which I could and really want to dedicate a whole bunch of posts.  Some day, Lord willing.).  When we began our renovations, all I could think was, "Our neighbors are going to hate us."  There is noise, traffic, bad parking jobs, trash, mud, gravel, and all manner of extra people coming and going at all hours of the day.  It's been in the works since July, and it's not over yet.  As one who wishes to offend no neighbor and who gets stressed out by ridiculous things like whether my kids are making too much noise in the public right-of-way of our road while riding bikes and if we've been parked on the street offensively-too-long, it's been an interesting few months.

This afternoon, as I took a break from frantic-feeling school lessons (Would you believe we're behind? Yes. Always.) to put some lunch on the table, I heard my phone ding.  I received a message from our neighbor to the right with this picture attached:

This is a view of my Leah from her backyard running across the muddy, clay hills in our own backyard like a raving lunatic, something she has enjoyed doing almost daily since they started moving dirt.  The note she sent me was absolutely precious.  I hope she doesn't mind if I quote it here:

That is a memory maker of a hill right there. I love it! They will have memories of that just as much as they are going to have incredible memories in your pool.

I almost cried.

That simple note from our sweet, sweet neighbor melted away eight months of meaningless anxiety.  This neighbor shares my sentiments on what's important - finding joy in the mundane, appreciating beautiful messes, taking pleasure in watching children make memories.  

I've been thinking a lot about neighbors lately.  I know I'm not to any of mine what Mrs. Ruth and Mr. Bob were to me.  I don't know exactly how to fix that, but I'm willing.  We have quilt literally built a bigger table.  Maybe they will come if I just open the door.  Our church touts the slogan "Life is Better Together." I wholeheartedly believe this is true, not only in our church family, but of our closest neighbors as well.