On Growing a Teenager (and a mum)

We have few rites of passage in our society. Shifting from religious centers, we still marry and bury, but there are no poignant markers of other significant life transformations such as coming-of-age. Ritually deprived, I set out to take my 12-year-old daughter on a 40-hour trip in the woods to inculcate some values that might otherwise get lost in the shuffle of adolescence. I haven’t spent a significant time alone with her for ten years, so a trip together was long overdue.

Before the journey, she had to plan the meals and do all the grocery shopping within a set budget. This was exciting but also daunting to her. She knew enough to include more than just chips and chocolate, but we did end up eating a lot of processed foods. It’s a start on the trip towards self-sufficiency.

In the car ride north, I asked her to do some writing for me. “This feels like school,” she complained. And it is school. Unfortunately her schooling has taught her that learning is something to be escaped, not cherished. But she relented once I impressed upon her the importance of the lessons.

I had her list her regrets. “Brainstorm everything that has ever happen in your life that really pissed you off or made you feel sad. What do you regret? What is it hard to leave behind?” She really resisted this. It’s uncomfortable to dredge up the crap from our past, however brief. But without acknowledgement, these troubles can creep up on us and catch us unaware in a flash of anger or remorse. They already do for her. She often recounts certain events from years ago that bother her, and use them as reasons to continue being angry with various family members and friends. Better to vomit them all up for examination and possibly a final destruction than let them continue to fester within.

She listed events I knew about and a few I didn’t. Some memories she wanted to keep and cherish even though they made her sad, like how it felt to glue together a little boat in kindergarten. She worked so hard on it, and even burned her hand on the hot glue gun a little. I assured her that we're not going to destroy the memories but to try to reduce any bitterness they might cause. She remembers that on the first day of school, when I worked part time, I’d take them all out for breakfast. She remembers having fun with her dad before he remarried and had more kids. And she remembers her old room before everything was different and new. The drive up became a time to grieve her childhood.

The focus of her anger was around her brother and step-dad who both annoy her to no end. She adds to that dynamic herself by throwing out accusations of intentional meanness from years before. She saves them up to toss out when she needs more ammunition during a difficult period, like if she’s running late for school and one of them is in her way. She rages that they are between her and her shoes, but every past transgression of theirs also comes out to haunt us. She scares me a little with the intensity of her feelings. We have had suicides in our family, and she leans towards depression. It makes the exercise all the more important to me.

I don’t condone the guys’ teasing. We’ve had many family meetings about it. I hate to consider any trait as typically male or female, but most of the guys in my life are “teasers,” and most of the women hate it. Personally I don’t get the humour in making someone angry. I understand it as a power trip. But then the explanation that always follows shouldn’t be, “I was only joking” (to which I reply, “What was the punch line?”), but “I was just playing with my power.” I’m grossly generalizing here, but the men who tease also seem to be more open and honest about the dark side of themselves, and polite men seem to be more all around repressive. So we let them stay and continue to negotiate the boundaries around this vice pushing for zero tolerance, but forgiving occasional transgressions.

My adolescent dwelled on some hard lessons learned. She had said “yes” to a boy’s invitation to a dance even though she didn’t really like the boy. She was worried nobody else would ask her. Then she found out a boy she was smitten with had wanted to ask her, but it was too late. She had sold herself short. She vowed to have the courage to do the asking next time.

That night, she set up her own tent before making us dinner. She set herself up a good twenty feet away from my tent in the middle of the bush. She was separated, independent, yet still within earshot just in case. I talked her through building a fire, then she burned all those angry memories and regretful experiences.

The next morning, after breakfast, I made a mask of her face out of plaster casting. It’s a marker of how she looks at this moment in time, a three-dimensional photo. We have one of her face at five painted with gold sparkles. She's welcome to decorate this one too. We can line them up as she ages.

In the warm afternoon, we embarked on a long bike ride through trails in the forest. I had her think of how we should live our lives, what’s really important in life, while we rode. My mind works best when I’m biking. It’s hard to carry on a conversation, so my brain focuses inward. Back at the campsite, she wrote down her personal commandments:

1. Make the world a better place.
2. Don’t be selfish. Share with others.
3. Don’t complain all the time. Remember how much more you have than some.
4. Be caring; give money to people without homes.
5. Have your own opinions; don’t just go along with what other people say.
6. Act. If you don’t do it, it’s never going to happen.
7. Be someone people can look up to and remember.
8. Respect and appreciate yourself.

I’m not surprised at the social activism slant of her choices. At this stage, she’s often torn between having all the latest fashions and admonishing her friends for buying clothes at stores with poor labour relationships or ties to sweatshops. She’s got solid opinions, but isn’t always vocal with them. She’s feisty and strong, and really likes herself some days. Other days, she thinks she’s dumb. She’s like me in that we can’t keep details in our heads. We’re not stupid; it just seems that way sometimes. I’m especially hoping her own words will remind her to speak up and to appreciate her own intelligence and creativity.

That night in front of the fire, I told her about my relationship with my siblings. I’m much younger than they are, and had a difficult time feeling part of the family. My children are the same number of years apart and the same genders as me and the two siblings closest in age to me, so my current family really triggers my family of origin. I'm estranged from all my brothers and sisters. And it kills me to think that my own children could be so distant from one another.

When you’re twelve, or 41 for that matter, it’s hard to want to hang around a two-year-old that follows you everywhere. Toddlers are annoying. I can understand that. But that feeling of rising blood pressue can certainly be kept private. She does enjoy playing with her sister from time to time, and she should keep that in mind when the little monkey wants to be read the same story over and over again. I won’t allow her to be cruel or nasty to her sister no matter how difficult she is. I look at difficult tasks as a means to self-improvement and encourage her to do the same. If the baby wants to be carried everywhere, she’s giving me great biceps. And if she’s frustrated with everything I give her to play with, she’s teaching me patience.

My mother did nothing when my sibs were abusive or rude to me. She told us to work it out ourselves, perhaps a reasonable tactic on an even playing field but not with children of 4, 12, and 14. I just got pummeled regularly and could do little to help myself. I was at a friend’s BBQ when my mother died. I got home to my dad’s voice sharing the news on my answering machine. I called each sister and brother and just got machine after machine. The next day I finally was able to reach a sister. I told her how horrible it must have been for dad to have called each machine to deliver such bad news. She was confused, “He didn’t call us; the whole family was there to be with mom as she died.”

I argued, the whole family wasn’t there because I wasn’t there. She just sighed in exasperation. Here I go again thinking that it’s not a family gathering if I’m not invited. Apparently, my brother had collected everyone together when mom was nearing the end. But they forgot to call me, again.

I explained to my daughter that this is an on-going situation I have to make peace with or it will eat me alive one day. I haven’t yet figured out what I can learn from it, so it’s hard for me to develop out of it. At best, maybe this is a lesson on appreciating the experience of the outsider, the marginalized, the untouchable. And a lesson for my daughter is that this journey of wading through crap never really ends. Life doesn’t necessarily get easier, but it can become more manageable with a better attitude.

My daughter was really affected by my stories, and vowed to be kind to her sister and to stay in touch with her. It helps her to understand how her current actions might play out in future; even innocuous comments or looks that she makes might make a difference to someone's life. Many people underestimate the impact they have on others and think their words have no weight. It’s important to be reminded, from time to time, how much our lives touch so many others.

Then we talked about sex and drugs. I told her the fun and the dangers of both. I make no secret of the fact that I experimented with drugs as a teenager, but also that I had friends that never quite got out of that phase. They still do little else with their lives than work for weekends full of dope smoking in their parents’ basement. I spoke of my mother and brother’s alcoholism. Addictiveness tends to runs in families, and we need to be careful we don’t get sucked in ourselves.

I told her how much I enjoy sex, and how scary and painful it is to be raped. I don’t want her to be afraid of the world, but I do want her to know the risks of living in our society. I have no doubt right now that she’ll come to me when she’s in need of birth control, legal advice, or a safe ride home. I don’t want to lock her in her room until she’s 21, so appointed confidante is the best I can hope for.

On the last day of our trip, we played together. We biked and swam and played badminton and catch on the beach and in the water. Stretched out on our backs, we let the sun dry us off as we made shapes of the clouds. I don’t want her to confuse playfulness and immaturity, accidentally leaving the best of childhood behind. Forgetting how to play and wonder and giggle is what makes us stagnant and old before our years.

At the campsite a final time, she cleaned the mess we had made. She washed all the dishes in boiled lake water. She cleaned out her tent, packed it up, and carried all our gear to the car, then did a final check for forgotten items. At home, she put everything away and had a shower. Cleaning has important ritual properties. It’s a purification, a way of clearing the field for a new experience.

This morning, to complete the ritual, I’ll be taking her to a spa to get her long hair cut off: a new look to mark a new stage of life. Then a shopping trip for new clothes will be our way to celebrate her step over the threshold from childhood to teenager.

Her step-dad, brother and I wrote a list of our memories* of her to remind her that she is special and loved. Then I compiled some ideas** to keep her above water in the teen years. I took pictures during the trip, before and after the haircut, and put those photos, a montage of my favourite pictures from each year of her life, her commandments, our memories, and my advice to her all in a scrapbook for her to keep.

I can’t control who she is or what she does, I can only try to guide her like I’m flying a kite, giving her lots of room to pull in every direction, yet hoping to be able to tug her back if she goes too far astray. And I’m always near to pick up the pieces if she crashes to the ground. Or, at the very least, this ritual allows me the illusion that I did something along the way.

*****

* How we see you…

* She’s compassionate. At two, when my mom died, she weaseled out of her high-chair to hug me as I cried into my dinner.
* She’s a leader who gets things done. At four, when I ran a day-care, she’d get all the kids into their snowsuits to play outside with her.
* She will take charge in an emergency. At five, after I cut my finger to the bone on a jack-knife carving my kids’ names in a tree on a picnic, she gathered up all our stuff, buckled up her brother in his car seat, dug my car keys out of my pocket and started the car for me, and got herself buckled up so we could get to the hospital in no time.
* She delights in doing things for others without expectation of reward or recognition. At nine she made all sorts of Easter surprises for her little brother, and never let on she had done any of it.
* She’s a trooper. On a road trip to Bar Harbor (hereafter known as Barf Harbor), she got car sick on the winding roads in Vermont, then again on the whale watching trip in fog as thick as pea soup, yet she never complained or slowed down.
* She’s very creative. She can draw beautifully, and also writes. And I remember several years back she made herself a dress without any help and actually wore it to school.
* She’s has a depth of intelligence. She berates herself for not remembering details, yet has a mind that makes wise connections between things and can grasp the implication of ideas. That’s a mind that is not well appreciated until later in life.
* She's dedicated and strong-willed. She worked hard to master control over the largest horse in the stable.

**Be the best you can be with…

Forgiveness. Let go of little transgressions against you. Try to understand why people act the way they do rather than chastise them for perceived annoyances. Anger can feel powerful, but it can also be a burden. Letting it go diminishes your threat over others, but allows you to better live in peace. The flip side of anger is almost always fear. When you’re angry, consider what it is that you’re afraid of happening. What’s your concern with the situation? Understanding your fears can sometimes help to dissipate your anger. If the threat is real, then exploring it can help to motivate you to change the situation.

Perseverance. Life’s a page-turner. Sometimes there are boring bits or painful bits that you have to get through, but eventually there’s a funny part or an exciting part that recaptures your interest. Don’t close the book before it’s finished.

Strength. Be strong, not thin. Keep your body healthy enough to do what you want it to do. Don’t count calories or pounds; count the number of flights you can walk up before getting winded.

Adventurousness. Look for things in life to explore and examine more fully. Be in awe of the world around you and the ideas within you.

Self-Respect. If you think someone might be treating you poorly, but you find yourself making excuses for the person, consider how you’d react if this person were acting this way towards a best friend. Don’t tolerate abuse.

Courage. Be who you are, and help when you can. Speak up against injustice against others. And take care of yourself; you’re special.