HOSTING TEEN SEX?

No, not a nasty website nor some sort of spam aspiring to induct me into the marvels of barely-legal playthings, but a title on the front cover of that mostly sensible publication, Brain, Child.

So of course I bought it.

Not because I'm interested in sex. Though I manifestly am. Not because I'm intrigued by teen sex, because I'm not, particularly.

But I do have three children, the youngest of whom is still a teen. They're all sexually active.

Though I have never -- since my own teenage years, at any rate -- had any moral qualms about premarital sex, nor about sex, at least for older teens, being a mother has taught me that it is one thing entirely to have an intellectual stance on teenage sex, and quite another to have it happening under one's own roof.

My first must've picked that up out of the ether, because, though we never talked about the possibility of her bringing a boyfriend home, she never did. At least, not when I was in the house. When my son became sexually active, roughly four years after his sister, it did happen in the house. Discreetly, not too often, but definitely under my roof. The girlfriend was slipped into his basement bedroom after I was in bed, and slipped out again early in the morning.

I knew it was happening, of course, but opted not to say anything because:
- he was being duly respectful of my comfort level (and probably his own) by behaving in such a way that I could pretend it wasn't happening
- the girlfriend was a lovely young woman and their relationship was respectful and positive.

It was a matter of personal honesty, of putting my money, as it were, where my mouth is, of behaving in keeping with my principles. If I am not opposed to pre-marital sex, so long as it's positive, loving, respectful and mutually desired, then how could I espouse the familiar "not under MY roof, young man/woman!" strategy? That just smacks of a distinct lack of parental integrity.

Okay, I know I can't take the high road here on my parental integrity. Pretending it wasn't happening is a weaselly way around the dilemma. You learn as you go in parenting, and at this point, though I felt a bit sheepish about my less than 100% integrity, I was grateful to my son for allowing me the out.

And really, though in a very real way I would like to have done so, I could not think of one good reason to prohibit it. "You can't because it's gross!" is not a good reason, and thank God for that. My youngest still thinks it's a bit gross that I have a sex life. I'd have gone decades without. DECADES, I tell you, and I wouldn't have one yet.

My youngest child has pushed the envelope still further by entertaining her boyfriend in her room while I am awake and around the house. When he spent a few days with us over Christmas, they forgot to close the guest room door, making it abundantly clear he had not spent even a small portion of the night in that room.

They are reasonable about it. They don't kiss at the door and scamper direct upstairs to entertain the household with groans and giggles and rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. They visit with Matthew in the living room, they chat with me in the kitchen, they do homework at the dining room table. And then sometimes, but not always, they head to her room and close the door. Sometimes the conversation continues in her room, unabated for hours, and sometimes it gets very, very quiet.

And, while I am mostly at peace with this -- he is a fine young man, intelligent and kind, sensitive, respectful, interesting -- there is still that squeamishness. And I wonder about it. Not many of my friends know my position on this, and of those who do, not all approve.

"I would never let them have sex in the house! That's like condoning it."

Well, I guess I do condone it, don't I? I don't think it's morally wrong unless it's coercive or abusive. I don't believe that teen sex is by definition damaging. I don't believe that virginity should be saved for marriage. I do believe that sex is best experienced between people who care for each other... and that is what is happening here.

So why, I wonder, the squeamishness? I don't let my emotions call the shots, but I do respect their input. Does the squeamishness indicate there's some important factor my brain has missed that my emotions and subconscious are trying to push me to see?

So I bought the magazine, hoping for some insight.

The article proved to be a debate, with one essay on the "Yes", and one essay on the "No". I was particularly hoping for insight from the "No" side, some clarification of the reasons behind my reluctance, some explanation of the ick response.

I didn't find it there. Instead, the arguments on the "Yes" side all rang true, while those on the "No" side were not compelling at all.

On the "Yes" side, I particularly liked this: "I sometimes want to ask those of my friends who know their kids are having sex but who don't want it to happen in their house ... Do they really think it's wise or helpful to add the burden of furtiveness and guilt to something that might be emotionally complex enough as it is?"

To which I would add: and if your teen knows you have that degree of discomfort with it, are they likely to come to you with any problems that may arise? Or have you, by catering to your squeamishness, proven yourself unworthy of their trust? Are you letting your children swim those waters without the security of your safe harbour?

And on the "No" side? The author argued that letting it happen in the house removed layers of mystery and stripped your child of their rightful privacy. To which I respond, Um, no. Unless you're in the room with them, they have as much privacy as you do when you have sex with your spouse.

The argument that carried the least weight though, was this:

The author, as a child, had overheard her aunt and mother in conversation. "'I'm bored by sex... It was so much more fun when we did it secretly in our folks' basement.' And she swept her hand around her room in a dismissive way to indicate that her queen-sized bed was a total downer."

Wait, now. You were forced into furtive sex as a teen, and so marital sex has no spice. And this is supposed to be an argument in favour of prohibiting sex in your home -- i.e., making it more furtive? If you're going to draw any conclusions from that single example, the more obvious one would be that if you'd been allowed to have legitimate sex as a teen, your legitimate adult sex would be equally intense.

Or, as my husband noted, "If she believes that, then what she's really saying is that the 'not under MY roof!' school of parenting is precisely calibrated to not just make sex more attractive to teens, but, when they have it, actually better. What she should be saying is 'if you really want to take the pizazz out of teen sex, make it legitimate'."

It was the "Yes" writer who gave me the insight I was seeking, when she wrote,

Don't get me wrong. I understand that there's a fairly hefty 'ick factor' here. About the only thing more uncomfortable than imagining your own parents' sex lives has to be imagining your children's.

It was the juxtaposition of the idea of your parents' sex lives with that of your children's that gave me the key. The 'ick factor', I suddenly realized, is nothing more (nor less) than the incest taboo -- a highly useful, profoundly ingrained, social pressure that prevents us from wishing to have sex with either our parents (ew!) or our children (ew! ew! EW!). Because incest is bad for the gene pool, because it is bad for the propogation the species, because it increases the likelihood of birth defects, and because, well, ICK!

So, no, we don't like to be made too aware of the sex lives of our close relatives. But that is not because it's morally wrong for them to be having sex, only that it would be wrong for us to be having sex with them.

Allowing my child to have sex in the privacy of her room with a young man who treats her very well is not "involved" in her sex life, any more than she is "involved" in mine when her stepfather and I have sex in our room down the hall from hers. And so, powerful though it is, the incest taboo is irrelevant. It does not apply. It can be ignored.

I was thinking I might come to a different conclusion when I picked up that magazine... but I'm happy to have resolved that one last niggling uncertainty.

Yes, I let my teens have sex in my house. And no, that doesn't bother me.

Yeah, I'm a little surprised, myself.

"I recommend... walking around naked in your living room..."

"Thanks, Alanis. I'll do that." It seems that at sixteen, Emma approves of in-home naturism. "Though it would help," she muses, "if you lived alone."

"I'll say. It's happened now and then that Matthew and I will be sure we have the house to ourselves for a while, and decide to make out downstairs, and then someone will knock on the door. Last time, we had just -- just -- gotten back upstairs when Alex (her youngest stepbrother) walked right in the front door."

Emma blinks. "Alex? When was that?"

"Last weekend."

"Ew! I'm not sitting on that couch any more, ever again!"

Mwah-ha. Teenagers are so predictable sometimes. And what is the point of having these predictable, so-conservative bodies around if you can't push their buttons, just a bit? I grin at her.

"How do you know it was the couch? How do you know we didn't use the dining table?"

"EW! You DIDN'T!"

I let my grin grow wider.

"EWWWW!"

She pauses mid-gross-out as the initial revulsion fades and a different thought strikes her. "But at least wood wipes up better than upholstery. I don't have to worry about sticking my elbow in the wet spot."

She grins back as I shout with laughter.

Yup, she's her mother's daughter.

"People don't know how to title things," the youngest grumbles as she plays with her iTunes. "Look at this. Someone's given me 'Fun, Fun, Fun' by the Beachboys, and they've..."

I join her. "...only capitalized the first word."

"Yeah!" she nods. "It's not a sentence, duh, it's a title."

I am so proud.

My daughter is in the shower upstairs. I know this not only because of the hiss of the water though the pipes in the kitchen, but because the locus of her music has shifted. Her iPod dock has moved with her.

She is fifteen, and it is 7:33 on a Saturday morning. (She heads off to work in an hour.)

Thanks to the wonder that is iPod, she is never without her music. Dock in use in her room and the shower; earbuds in at all other times.

She is not quite as bad as her brother was at that age: I'd pop my head in his room to check that he was in for the night, and see him sleeping with the earbuds in. And yes, diligent mother that I am, I'd check the volume levels. I knew from experience how much tinny drizzle I should (and should not) be hearing, seeping from the leaky earbuds. Generally I turned it right down on principle...

It was because of the brother that I made a rule: earbuds in only ONE ear in the house. One gets tired of speaking to non-responsive lumps lost in their private world of sound.

Their older sister was similar, though her technology was a mere Discman.

Just as I catch myself shaking my head in dismay -- do those kids never need quiet? does she not need to ease into her day? -- I realize I was very similar at the same age. With a radio and LPs. (Though, unlike my own children, I never had vocal music on while I did my homework. One cannot do physics or memorize French verbs while singing along, or at least, I never could, and I can't listen to vocal music and not sing along. So I listened to classical. Mozart. At 15. I'm so proud.) Still, though I was a quiet kid, I hadn't the drive for quiet that I do now, a near-physical need for it.

I hear Emma's music come on in the mornings, I tense up. It's not that she has it unduly loud. She's essentially respectful of the other residents. It's louder than I'd like it in the enclosed space of my bedroom, but it's reasonable.

But it's still noise. As I sit here, there is already the hum of the fridge in the room next to me, the more strident buzz of the dehumidifier in the basement. The water heater drums mildly. I'm enjoying the tick of the keyboard and the mild patter of rain outside, the occasional swish of tires down the wet street, but those other noises, the fridge, water heater and especially dehumidifier, I could live without. They intrude.

Add the bump, bump, bump of Emma's music, and my shoulders start to rise.

It's curious, this need for sound we have when we're young. It's not just that kids use their music to establish their identity, though of course they do, but that they seem to need to be immersed in it at all times. Is there no need for peace? No desire to be unstimulated by anything but their own thoughts?

Seems not. Seems that desire comes with maturity, mostly.

And quite honestly, when I consider that in another four or five years I will not be receiving a morning thud, thud, thud on my eardrums, I do not get wistful for times past, I get eager for times to come. Bring on the empty nest!

A peaceful home. The only music the music I choose, when I choose.

And I'll get a different damned dehumidifier.

Great excitement in the Irreverent household today! Bekah and I finally got around to trying out the cookie press we bought at the Pampered Chef party a month ago.


(Note to self: Do NOT take enthusiastic and social teen to party at which one might be tempted to spend outrageous amounts of money on luxury goods. Enthusiastic and social teens are so damned appealing that it is very hard to say "NO. No, we will NOT be purchasing the cookie press at $41.50, and we will even more so NOT be purchasing the $40.00 deep dish pie plate, even if it IS in a very pretty cranberry and even if you DO love pies and even if you WILL make pies yourself -- AND clean up the kitchen, mum, really!!!" It is very difficult to say NO to all that sweet and sincere enthusiasm without looking like a total wet-blanket drip of a mother in front of a room full of completely besotted adults. "Isn't she cute? My 14-year-old is never so sweet and enthusiastic.")

So we haul the cookie press out from under the counter. We mix up the recipe included with the kit. We ooo and aaaah over all the different shapes.

We learn a bunch of stuff, too. We learn that you need to set the press flush against the cookie sheet. Flush. And press the handle once, and only once. We learned that it is wise to scrape the exterior surface of the disk after every couple of cookies. We learned that if you tip the barrel up, you will get air bubbles in the batter. We learned that when you change disks, you need to tap the barrel to get the dough to settle against the disk again.

We learned so very, very many things!

Then we set the three dozen cookies into the pre-heated oven. And within three minutes, we have learned another, VERY important cookie-press lesson. When you are preparing cookie-press dough, you may not (NOT!) substitute margerine for butter:


Ahem.

I hear the giggles as I walk by her room. Bekah is chatting on Skype.

(She has no idea of the luxury of those limitless calls. Limitless long distance calls -- limitless because they're free. What will be the luxuries her children enjoy which bemuse her? What awaits my grandchildren?)

She is chatting with her friend Philippe. Philippe was the very likeable young man who spent a summer with us as an exchange student two years ago when he was 17 and Bekah not quite 13. English-speaking 17-year-olds from Ontario went to Quebec and New Brunswick to improve their French; French-speaking youths came here in exchange. A lanky young fellow, with an exuberant mop of red curls, Pilippe's soft-spoken easy-going ways and good humour endeared himself to the entire family.

Bekah, it seems, endeared herself particularly to him.

They've kept in touch through emails and IM, and most recently with the free phone calls. The conversation just flows between those two. Hours and hours of it. He's held her hand through a boyfriend and a breakup; she gives him (very sensible) advice re: family relationships and the appalling lack of greenery in his diet. I don't know what all else they might talk about over the hours. I'm not told.

I am of two minds about this relationship. I am not entirely comfortable with the amount of time she "spends" with him. Obviously, sex isn't an issue, which is a relief to me, because she's only 14. A physically mature 14, a very sensible and emotionally stable 14, but still fourteen. But still, she spends a lot of time on this one relationship. I worry some about balance in her life. I keep an eye on her, making sure that other activities and relationships are not suffering as a result. They don't seem to be, but I keep a cautious maternal eye on her.

On the other hand, and this hand weighs heavily, I am very pleased that one of the most significant relationships in her life revolves entirely around conversation. They have no shared activities. They have shared interests, but, separated by a thousand kilometres or so, they can't do them together. The can't watch movies together. They do occasionally play internet games together, but not often.

What they do is talk. And talk and talk and talk.

Yes, I do haul her out of her room. She eats meals with the family, chores get done, homework is accomplished, she spends time every day chatting with me. But they talk. Every day.

I recall an occasion when her father came to visit me over Christmas break. We were in our early twenties, maybe even in our late teens, and had each gone to our respective families for the holidays. But ten days was too long for our love-struck hearts to be separated, so he drove over to visit one day.

After visiting with my family, we were desperate for some time together, so we went for a drive, chatting idly about this or that thing out the window, and ended up having a coffee in a roadside diner somewhere. We sat on opposite sides of the table ... and the conversation shrivelled. We had nothing to say to each other. Nothing.

He held my hand. We smiled at each other. But we had nothing to say.

Why did I go ahead and marry this man, when conversation is so desperately important to me? Well, at the time I didn't know that. I didn't know at lot of things at 19 or 20. It took twelve years of a conversation-free marriage to teach me how my soul craves conversation. Not just mindless words, words, words tossed out, cluttering the air -- though there's certainly a place for casual, idle, and functional chatter. But conversation: a steady flow of interest in the other, the exchange of ideas, the building-up of new ideas as a joint creative enterprise.

To me, that's the bedrock of a relationship. Fundamental, foundational, indispensible.

And for twelve years, I lived without it.

I married him because I was young and stupid and "in love". We loved each other! Conversation would come, right? I didn't realize that "in love" would not create something that didn't exist. I didn't realize that "in love" would parch to dust and blow away in the desert of silence and strictly-functional communication.

Bekah, in her room, chatters away. There is no lack of conversation with those two. Their relationship is not, as mine was with her father at the same point in the relationship timeline, built primarily on hormones and the physical.

So, though the amount of time she spends with this one friend does cause me some concern, the quality of the relationship reassures. If he is going to become someone significant in her life -- someone even more significant -- they are going about it the right way.

But I'm still glad he lives in New Brunswick.

"Agh!" The wail from the bathroom is as heart-rending as it is loud. "Look at this! I can't go to school today, I just can't!"

Welcome to the world of body drama, where pimples and body odour are social crises, where lop-sided breasts and mid-cycle spotting bring fears of cancer and early demise, where every personal quirk is viewed as an abnormality that will bring unending public scorn on the sufferer.

At any given time, there are anywhere from one to five females in my home, ranging from 14 to 22 years old. (Not including me, obviously. My hormonal challenges are of a different, more, ah, mature nature.) Let me tell you, I know from body drama ...

It's tough, being a teen. Everything is changing, and changing quickly. Your body is out of control, your emotions are all over the place -- some days it seems your entire life is out of control.

Where do you go for information, instruction, and assurance? You might consider Nancy Amanda Redd's recently released "Body Drama". Nice to look at, nice to touch, and so well-designed -- visually and conceptually.

The book is perfectly structured to deliver the maximum information with each visit, no matter how long or short.

It is divided into five categories: Shape; Skin; Down There; Boobs; Hair and Nails. (A brief tangent: You know, I can accept the usefulness of the generic and innocuous "down there", but I cringe every time I hear or read the word "boobs". Can we not just call them breasts? "Boobs" is just so ... ugly and clunky and disrespectful of such lovely objects. Ugh.)

Body Drama is chock-full of terrific, solid, factual information. That is its foundtion. What makes it work is that Ms. Redd "gets" teens. Within each drama are three subheadings including "What if they notice?" Ah, yes. Remember? The all-powerful, omniscient "they" which is presumed by teens to be morbidly fascinated by every burp and hiccup of their lives, minds, and bodies. "What if they notice?" includes practical information on how to prevent the "drama" from being public, and why it probably doesn't really matter as much as you think if it does get out there.

Where Body Drama suggests that something is a bad idea -- tongue piercing, for example -- it doesn't stop at the reasons why it's a bad idea. Recognizing its adolescent audience, the great risk-takers, the tremendous don't-bother-me-with-facts, I-know-what-I-want's of the world, it then says, "But if you're going to ignore this good information, here's how to do it the safest way possible."

This is not a cop-out, this is reality. The thing about teens is, you can't make their decisions for them. Like it or not, they will make their own decisions, and some of them will be stupid ones. All you can do is provide them with good information -- all the good information -- and hope for the best.

And then, we come to the pictures. Amongst all the excellent information the book provides, there are pictures. Pictures, pictures, and more pictures. Pictures of zits, of stretch marks and head lice and cellulite. The pictures make the book so very visually appealing, and it is with the pictures that the possibility of offense arises. Because the pictures, they are plain, they are un-airbrushed, they are real. The squeamish out there will use terms like "explicit" and "graphic" -- and they'd be right, except for the tinge of negative moral judgment that accompanies such words.

Teens are curious about their bodies, and this curiosity is not just natural, it's appropriate. If they don't have the information, they are at huge risk, because not knowing stuff has never, in the history of humankind, prevented a teen from experimenting anyway.

So, yes, there are pictures of girls in there. Naked ones. There are pictures of breasts, because how else will you know the huge range of "normal"? And, the big one: there is a dual-page spread of 24 vulvas.

I confess it was a mild jolt, even to unflappable me, opening the book to that page, but it took me about 1.4 seconds to get over it, and get interested instead. Because men, they get to compare, don't they? All their "stuff" is right out there -- and I'll bet lots of boys have been traumatized by that very reality. But girls have a different anxiety, that of not knowing. Even if you take a peek at your own, for most straight women, that will be the only one you ever see. So seeing a bunch of them, seeing the variety, is interesting.

Some, however, will be horrified, and refuse to buy the book on that basis. Others will say, "Okay for my daughter, but I can't have it in the house, because what if my son sees it?"

What then? Well, then he will get to satisfy HIS curiosity, too, in a way that does not take him to porn sites. Because he will, you know. It is simple curiosity, not deviant urges, that takes most young teen males to those places, and once they're there, they can get hooked. That is NOT where I want any son of mine either spending his time, or getting his information about female sexuality. With Body Drama, he will get high-quality information that is respectful of women, information that teaches him about his future partner's health, needs, anxieties, information that will help him be a better husband and friend. So, yes, if my son were to pick up the book, I would not be ripping it from his hands.

I love this book. Optimally, it will be used by mothers and daughters together, to promote discussion, to answer questions, to just "talk girl-stuff". If you know your daughter needs the information, but you're too squeamish to start these conversations, you can leave it lying around where she'll find it.

I hope you don't decide to ban it from your home. Like it or not, your child will one day be a sexually active adult, and, no matter how you might like it to be otherwise, THEY decide when that happens, not you. What parents do is provide a moral/ethical framework, and solid, quality information for the decisions your child will inevitably, eventually, make. Because you want, above all things, for your child to stay safe and healthy.

And Body Drama is a wealth of quality information, presented in a way that stands a pretty good chance of being heeded. Not always an easy task, with teens. Well done, Nancy!

Bekah's iPod was stolen from her locker a couple of weeks ago. She hadn't secured her combination lock sufficiently it seems, and a brisk shake was enough to loosen it. (This, at any rate, is the theory of her two older siblings, who have more recent experience than I with high school lockers and combination locks -- which, evidently they're not making as well as they did when I was in school ...)

So, the girl has no iPod. She loves, loves, loves her iPod. Listens to it all the time. Is never without her music. So, not surprisingly, she asks for one for Christmas. The new one. The iPod Touch. Which, having seen one owned by one of Daniel's friends, is a very snazzy gadget indeed. One can see the appeal. Hell, seeing the thing has me, who has never owned any kind of MP-3 player, wanting one, just for the extreme coolness of the thing. So sleek, so well-designed, so very clever.

However, a little quick research tells me it costs $330. Before taxes. Which puts it solidly outside my Christmas budget. I might be able to manage that for one, but not for all three of them. Bekah suggests a compromise: "It can be my only present, and I don't need a stocking." I try to picture a Christmas with one gift the size of a thickish credit card and nothing - nothing! - else. Besides, I've already bought stuff, so it's too late anyway.

We sit on my bed and have a Serious Talk, in which I explain why her suggestion, generous as it is, doesn't really resolve the difficulty, and how I just don't feel I can spend that much more on one child than I would be on the other two. I ask if she has any other ideas. At this point, however, she is mute with despair. Possibly anger. Definitely mute.

"Well, love, I'm going to go do the dishes now. You think about it, and in a little while, we can do some brainstorming." Perhaps I got a nod, but perhaps that was just her head wilting a little closer to the bedspread.

As I do the dishes, I suffer. I want to buy the damned thing for her. I have a couple of ideas, in fact, as to how it could be managed, but I'm keeping them to myself for now. I don't want to leap in and solve this problem for her. I want her to face the reality that satisfying this desire of hers would result in injustice to her siblings. I want her to wrestle with it.

But I don't want her to suffer! And I have a possible solution or two! And I could just run up there and fix it for her right now! And I sternly tell myself to Knock It Off, and I finish the damned dishes. And tidy the kitchen. And clear the dining table. And sweep the floor. And mess about with bits of paper on the end table. All the while one ear is cocked to the upstairs bedroom. I don't hear any slamming of doors and drawers. I don't hear any sobbing. Is this good or bad?

Just as I am about to pop with maternal angst, I hear her on the stairs. She swings round the newel post to face me. Her face is not blotched, though her eyes are a bit puffy. And she is smiling.

"I have decided I don't want the iPod." And she proceeds to lay out her new idea for her Christmas gift, a clever, creative, grown-up one. (Which I will not describe at the moment, so as not to distract the flow of the narrative.) And the iPod? "I can save up for one and buy it in the new year. If I get any Christmas money, I can use that towards it, too."

Imagine. A fourteen-year-old, denied her heart's desire, does not scream and rage, does not slam doors, or hurl things about her room, nor even stomp on the stairs; she does not rail against the injustice and hate me for not making enough money and her siblings for stealing resources that might otherwise be hers. Instead, she faces facts, changes direction, and comes out with a different, creative solution.

I am so proud of her.

Phone calls in the small hours are never a good thing.

My mother has been admitted to hospital due to a possible heart attack. She had one last year, following surgery. Another is always a possiblity.

At first all seemed well. Tests indicated that no, there'd been no attack. The chemical they look for was absent. Bloodwork was perfectly normal. Everyone breathes a collective sigh of relief. Mum will probably be home later that day.

More bloodwork that afternoon, however, showed signs that a heart attack might be immanent. Suddenly, the heart attack chemical, whatever it might be, was there. Not a lot, but there'd been none before. Mum would stay in overnight for observation. Everyone moves into a state of mild alert.

That evening, her blood presssure starts popping up and down. This is the thing that had me up in the small hours, worrying. When vital signs aren't stable, nothing can be relied upon. I am now in a state of red alert.

You all recall that I'm getting married soon?

With the first call, we wondered if mum could attend the wedding. With the second call, we decided she wouldn't. "That's okay," says mum. "I'll come and visit as soon as I can afterwards." I'm disappointed, but we're within days, now. The deed is almost done.

But now, in the small, dark hours of the morning, my mind is filled with dire possibilities. If she doesn't stabilize? If they can't control the blood pressure? If this attack is worse than the last one? The decision is clear: if mum is in serious danger, I will cancel the wedding. Obviously.

The wedding that was years in the making. The wedding that was so very difficult for me to accept without panic.

But my mother could be dying. There is no question.

By dawn, I am resolute. Calm, decided. I will call the hospital, speak to the nurse in charge of my mother's case.

I have to wait till after the morning shift change. I rehearse in my mind the words. I am clear. I am at peace. I will seek the information I need to make the decision.

"Hello, this is LauraA, Mrs. V's daughter. I was wondering how she's doing this morning?"

I can picture the woman behind the voice. She's of average height, broad and soft. She's mostly grey, there are wrinkles around her eyes which speak of motherly compassion. Her voice has a warm, friendly down-east twang. Cape Breton, perhaps? If she's from The Rock, she's been in Ontario a lot of years. But it's homely and comforting, her voice.

The voice is reassuring. Mum has had a good night. Her blood pressure has stabilized, the blood tests are now all normal. She's alert and in good spirits, moving about comfortably. Relief washes through me. Nonetheless, I need to ask the question. I have my script, I know what I will say, with compassionate and calm resolution.

"That's good to hear. Here's my situation: I'm supposed to be getting married this weekend, and I was wondering if -"

and suddenly my voice is out of control, soaring skyward, as sobs shake me -

"I should cancel the we-eh-eh-eh-eh-ding?"

You understand that it is not the possibility of cancelling the wedding that is causing my distress. It is the fact that I am making concrete plans that pivot on the possibility of my mother's immanent demise. If this woman says I should cancel, it means I may realistically lose my mother in a matter of days. All my rehearsing and resolution melt in a pool of tears.

The nurse's response is immediate and patently sincere.

"Oh, NO! You mustn't do that! It would be terribly upsetting to your mother!"

'Probably give her a heart attack' almost pops out of my mouth. I bite back a hysterical giggle.

Later, my sister confirms the nurse's words. "Mum was saying yesterday, 'Goodness, I hope Laura doesn't do something silly like cancel the wedding'."

So, we're all settled. I will have my wedding this weekend, which mum will not be able to attend. Nor my sister, who will stay close, just in case. They will visit me as soon as mum is able to travel.

Physically tired from my sleepless nights and wearily worn to my last frayed nerve, I decide to take a restoring evening walk by the river. I've always loved to walk by the path, see the river in its moods and colours. In the evening, you're likely to see muskrats, be serenaded by peeps and croaks. It's therapy.

Bekah asks to join me. She's generally a companionable little thing, so we set off together. We chat quietly, idly, then she begins to worry about the state of her face. She's thirteen, and her complexion is becoming a focus of concern. There are tears in her eyes. It's things like this that confirm the solidly "child" status of a teen. The poor girl is in true distress. Nothing like having a child around to pull an adult's mind out of the grubby adult world and into the small concerns of daily life. One could argue the therapeutic value of this conversation, too.

And so I say, with loving affection.

"Sweetie, it's been a very difficult couple of days, and you know what? I simply cannot find it in my heart right now to care about pimples."

Good mothering involves giving your child the Larger Picture. We can call it Reality Therapy.

We threw a surprise party for Daniel's eighteenth birthday last week.

Daniel is in the 'gifted' stream at his high school, as are his friends, with only one exception. When I was offered the option of having Daniel apply to gifted, I was only partially convinced of the merits of the programme, but decided he'd enjoy the extra intellectual stimulation. He's academically lazy (sigh), but he's very bright.

What I didn't understand at first was just how grouping these bright kids together would change the social dynamic of high school for him.

These kids? They are so accepting of so many idiosyncracies. They shriek and yell and indulge in brainless mayhem, as all teens do, but they also converse. They think, and, more important, they don't have to hide this from their friends.

Here are some snippets:

(No, I didn't stay and party with the children. I figure that puts me in one of two camps: the pathetic forty-something trying desperately to be cool and with it, or the parent who trusts her children so little she can't afford to leave them alone for a second. I was around for the first hour, while guests arrived and before Daniel showed up, and then for the last hour, to ensure they left on schedule. A reasonable compromise, I figure.)

So, the snippets:

One of the girls came wearing a tutu skirt and carrying a magic wand. No one gave it a second's thought. ("Julia's in drama. They all do stuff like that.")

Discussing a scene in the cafeteria earlier in the week:
"She just uses indignation to get her way."
"Yeah. Pre-emptive outrage."
"Well, more like proactive outrage, because she's manipulating the outcome by going all hysterical."

Twenty minutes of computer talk which went completely over my head. They weren't talking about computer games, but about motherboards and processors and various other inner workings of the machines. (Daniel's long-time friend who isn't in the programme sits on the end of the couch with his girlfriend. "Do you know what they're talking about?" she asks him. "Nah." he says with his easy-going grin. "You get used to it.")

"Have you finished your presentation for [science teacher]?"
"I thought I was done, but then I found out about some research they're doing at McGill that takes it in a whole new direction, and he's given me an extension so I can try to contact the research team."

"Ian! Hey, Ian, I didn't know you'd be coming!"
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Hey, man, you know you don't come to half these things."
"Nothing wrong with being anti-social."
"He's a misanthrope."
"Misanthropy rules, dude!"

[Catch this? Words of more than two syllables - and they ALL know what they mean.]

One girl, who's in a theatre troup that gives sex and sexuality presentations in junior and senior high schools, was telling the group how a certain principal had not allowed them to present part of their show. "It was 'too mature a subject' for his students."

"How old were the students?" I asked.
"Grade nine."
Someone else wanted to know which part had been prohibited. She suggested they guess.

"Abortion?"
nope.
"Homosexuality?"
nope
"Sexual assault?"
nope

Ummm... so what was it?

"Masturbation."

"WHAT?" One boy shouts out. "The one aspect of the whole presentation that they have the most experience with??"

General roar of laughter.

[So sensible. No tittering, no squeamishness, but not prurience, either. Such a great bunch.]

And the movie they chose to watch? Monty Python's Holy Grail. Heh. In other circles, they'd be the geeks and the outcasts. Here, 'geek' is normal -- "normal" is boring.

I love these kids.

I do not understand my husband's ex.

She's ultra-religious. To church twice on a Sunday, and in various church groups through the week. Most of her friends are church folk. Now, no faith-bashing, Christian-mocking here. I consider myself a Christian. I was even 'born again' as a teenager, though my beliefs have changed a helluva lot since then.

The ex-wife is what Andrew Sullivan terms a 'Christianist'. She doesn't have much in the way of a genuine, vibrant, giving faith; she seems to have no Christian principles at all, certainly not in her dealing with people she doesn't like. (I am counted among that number.)

What she does have are a lot of Rules. (Rules which only really count when someone whose opinion she values is watching, mind you. Which does not include her ex, and certainly not me. However, it seems not to God either, who, one would think, is always watching...)

So. The Rules say, "No sex before marriage."

Which had been no problem for the eight or nine or so years following her divorce, because there were no takers for Her Bitchiness. Meantime, her ex (my sweetie) and I were shacked up without the blessings of Holy Matrimony. The self-righteousness that came our way via the children and various comments and emails for the first year or so were sickening in their moral superiority.

And then - wonder of wonders! - she found herself a boyfriend.

After two or three years of steady dating, they are still not having sex! We know, because the children assure us of this fact. Their mother has told them so. They are not having sex. Even when they go away for weekends together. Even though they spent an entire week at his cottage last summer. Imagine the self-control! Even though mom's boyfriend not a Christianist, even though they each have their own home, even though they have every other weekend child-free -- the relationship is platonic.

We don't argue, obviously. One doesn't undermine a parent to the children, and there'd be no point in it, anyway. They wouldn't believe us.

However, the mother does believe that sex before marriage is wrong. (Which justifies lying about it to one's children, because of course, lying isn't a sin...)

So, when her children get to be sexually mature, ready for dating, she of course impresses upon them the importance of modesty, caution, self-restraint.

Well, no. Those are Principles, and this is the Rule Lady.

I must explain for those who've just popped in for this one post. I am not opposed to adolescent, pre-marital sex, providing it's respectful, loving, and they take appropriate precautions. It makes me a bit nervous, of course, because teens are young and make stupid mistakes. But I don't think it's a sin. I don't think it's a moral evil. It's just sex.

So, the Rule Lady tells her kids:

1. Pre-marital sex is wrong.
2. Don't ever come home telling me you're pregnant, or the girlfriend is.

That's about it. Useful guidance for a teen who's sure he/she has met the love of their life, but is under legal marrying age, don't you think?

I understand all that, though. Despite the hypcrisy of her position, it's consistent with a life lived guided by Rules and other's opinions rather than by principles and internal integrity. I've seen lots and lots of people like her.

But here's the part I don't understand.

Her just-turned-seventeen-year-old daughter has a boyfriend. They've been going out three weeks or so. He's nineteen, a university student. With his own apartment. When she was out with him earlier this weekend, she phoned an hour after she was expected home, asking if she could spend the night. We said no.

(We refused because:
- we had hardly seen her all weekend, and a sleepover means we wouldn't see her till early afternoon the next day.
- we have not had a serious sex talk with her, and have no idea where she is on the subject.)

We've talked about sex and birth control with all our teens, of course, his and mine, but it hasn't gotten personal with this one yet. It's all been theoretical information, and she's poo-pooh'ed the possibility. Her expressed intention was to "save it for marriage". (Just like her mother!!!) Naive girls who think they "aren't that kind" are thus unprepared for the eventuality are the ones who end up pregnant. Duh. So, before she's allowed an overnight at the boyfriend's, we need to know she's prepared for the eventuality.

In the ensuing conversation, we discovered:

1. The girl has no curfew on weekends at mom's house. (We're not stupid; we double-checked this claim with the girl's mother.) The girl has NO curfew.

2. The girl has already spent at least one night at the boyfriend's house during a weekend with her mother. (We double-checked this one, too.) She has indeed spent an entire night with him.

So, we have a mother who believes pre-marital sex is wrong, who would offer no support if a pregnancy occured, who has not provided sex education, but who allows her teenage daughter to spend the night at her boyfriend.

What the HELL is she thinking?

Last summer, Daniel had a bit of a personal crisis. Though I got the bare bones of it, he didn't want to talk about it with His Mother. Could he please go see Dr. D, the psychologist his older sister had seen for a few months after the separation? (Who his sister still chats with once in a while.)

The sessions cost $155 an hour. This is not small change for me. However, my children's well-being... And maybe the boy will learn some useful emotional and life skills.

After a couple of months, I asked how it was going. The crisis was over. $155 every week...

Well, he said, I like talking to her. It's nice.

("It's nice?" Um, no. NOT worth $155/week.) Okay, son. Can you give me some idea what you're talking about?

Well, mostly about communication.

COMMUNICATION!!!!! My son was discussing COMMUNICATION! My son, my cheerful, easy-going, largely cooperative son, who can and will talk your ear off about a quirky cartoon or a computer game, becomes completely mute when conversation threatens to become personal. My boy is getting an hour a week's tutorial in COMMUNICATING??

Worth every penny. Every single penny. Worth it even more when, by dint of a doctor's prescription for psychotherapy, our insurance started paying the lion's share.

However, I'm still forking out a chunk of money every month. Six months now. Time to check in with the boy.

Me: How are your sessions with Dr. D going?
Daniel: Fiiine. (Tones of mild suspicion.)
Me: Are you enjoying them?
Daniel: Yes. (Suspicion rising.)
Me: Are you getting anything out of them?
Daniel: Yeees. (Hint of defensive, self-protective edge to the voice.)

Longish pause. Will he divulge?
Pause continues. Apparently not.

Me: So, what do you think you’re getting out of them?
Pause.
Daniel: Well, that’s hard to say, really.

Ah, yes. Money well spent, wouldn't you say?

Teens. Value their privacy, they do. Don't want adults, parents in particular, knowing the ins and outs of their private lives.

For the most part, I don't want to. I remember the soap opera that is high school, and I don't miss it. I have no interest in plunging back into that seething slough of hormones and angst, not even vicariously. Bad enough when they bring their seething slough of hormones and angst home.

Still, a parent does get curious as to what the kids are up to... And I'll always know. Always. It's not that the kids are so open and honest with me. It's not a mystical connection. It's not that I have a mother's second sight, ESP, nor even eyes in the back of my head.

Nope. My secret? My kids never pick up after themselves.

I can tell at a glance what they had for their afternoon snack. (Orange juice, bagel with cheese, banana.) I know where they shop. I know how much junk food they eat. I know about teacher interviews they'd rather I didn't. Because they leave the evidence everywhere. On the counter, on the couch, on the floor of the front hall. While I despair of their slovenly ways (and blame my lack of strict training in their early years), I'd miss all this insight if they became suddenly tidy.

My son (almost 18) has a girlfriend. Lovely girl. They've been together four months or so. So, being a responsible parent, I casually remind the boy young man of our safe sex talks, and further remind the boy young man where the condoms are kept. (In a cosmetics bag on a shelf by the bathroom door, refilled without counting. He knows this.)

"Don't worry, mom. I know where they are, but we haven't gotten there yet."

Do I believe him? Not really. It's possible, but, given how they spend any private moment so thoroughly entwined, not likely. But it's his business. As long as he's using the damned condoms!

My kids are responsible for their own laundry. The girl on Tuesday, the boy on Thursday. Thus, if I decide to pick up a few items from one room or another to make up a full load when I do my laundry, they know I'm doing them a favour. It's a good system. I scoop up a pair of the boy's jeans and a couple of t-shirts and boxers. (From the floor, of course. Why dirty a perfectly nice laundry basket?)

An hour later, there at the bottom of the drum, under the wet darkness of the laundry I'm hauling out, I catch a glimmer of something white and shiny. Oooo, look! A tidy little condom-packet. Not one of the dark foil packs from the cosmetic bag on the shelf by the bathroom. White plastic, and - ugh - banana-flavoured. Definitely not one of the house stock. Guess he doesn't believe me when I say we don't count them. Hell, I wouldn't believe me, either.

But now I know.

Normally I am a quiet, understated, and overall kindly person. Four or five days a month? A transformation occurs. That PMS thing I so loved to mock when I was a young and symptom-free woman? It's hit, with a vengeance, these last few years. Coming as it has so late in the game, I am mature enough that I don't take it out on the people around me. I just get quieter, following my gran's sage advice, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Quiet, but not silent. I mutter. Quietly. When I'm alone. Mutter, mutter, mutter.

It's Sunday of a weekend when the stepkids have been here, bringing the household total of teens to six(ish). Join with me, if you will, on a pre-menstrual, muttered, tour of my home.

Laundry room:
What moron left a kleenex in their pocket?
My, GOD, look at these underwear. That girl's ass is IMMENSE.
Three odd socks. Again. Bah.

Kitchen:
Why am I the ONLY person who ever notices the Britta needs to be refilled? Ever?
Ants? Again?
Another damned puddle by the fridge! God, I wish we could afford a new one.
Who has been using their socks to wipe up the fridge puddle?
And if they want to do that, can't they put the sock in the laundry?
And why only one sock?
Which ridiculous child is walking around wearing one sock? And when I find you, you little fucker...

Living Room:
Why is wrong with the couch cushions?
Why are they askew like that?
Ah. Because we are storing dirty socks under there. Of course!
What is that stench?
Ah. Why did I ever agree to a hamster?
'It's okay, mummy. I'll keep it clean, I promise.' HA.

Dining Room:
For the love of Pete. Is the six feet to the kitchen sink too far to take the dirty plates?
Why is there a sock in this glass? Why?
Who puts a sock in a glass half-full of water? Guess I could be grateful it's not milk...

Front Hall:
Is is truly that difficult to place shoes on the rack rather than kick them off in a heap? It couldn't be that hard, since someone's managed to get a sock on one shelf. Two socks. No, three.
When do teenagers' feet stop growing?
Any why do they stink so fucking much?
Why are there socks on the shoe rack?

Bathroom:
What the fuck is this, a breeding program for towels?!?
Must be, and here's how: Place damp towels on bathroom floor, at least four to a heap, making sure to leave the light on and fan off for maximum growth, and a couple of dirty (and odd) socks as fertilizer.
Who didn't pull the shower curtain to? Not to worry, though - all those towels and socks are sucking up the excess, no problem.
Do they not realize what the strainer is for? So why is it on the side of the tub and I'm pulling foot-long hanks of slimy hair from the drain?

Can they not, even once, leave the fucking seat DOWN?

And put the new roll ON the spindle, not perched precariously on the side of the sink, where it will almost certainly fall into the toi -- damn! Where it now floats alongside someone's purple toothbrush. Lovely. You know what? I think I'll just put the toothbrush back in the cup and say nothing. Serve 'em right.

Bedrooms:
I'm speechless. Nothing to be done but close the door.
And turn off the damned lights!

My room:
WHERE is the garbage can?
Who walked off with the garbage can from MY bedroom?
And WHY?

Why is there a dirty sock on my pillow? Whose is it?

Children. Who'd want to have children? Biology's a bitch. That damned biological imperative, I tell you...

AND WHAT IS WITH THE FUCKING SOCKS EVERY FUCKING WHERE???

Teenage boys have to be one of the most oblivious critters on God's green earth. They're even worse than teenage girls. Who knew it was possible?

Three days ago, my already-slow computer gets even slower. Particularly when I'm online. "Connection has been reset. ABC site is taking too long to load." Again and again.

I stick my head into my computer nerd genius son's room. "Hey, Daniel. Anything I can do to speed up my computer? It's getting reeeeallly slow." He proffers a few words about more memory. Probably true. I know I'm getting critically low. The most obvious solution is often the right one.

Two days ago, My Man complains that his computer is also slow. We run virus scans on both machines, just in case. They're both clean. We ask Son how his computer is working. Just fine, thanks. We chat a bit about how the slow seems to be contagious.

This morning, my computer is even SLOWER. Son says, "Oh, I'm downloading a brgufzlzx file, and it's big, about $@^# gigs, so I use accelerators [was that the word? I think so] which means it takes up a lot of bandwidth. It'll be done in a couple of hours." An hour later, the boy heads off to work. I head out to run some errands.

Tangent:

" *%#& gigs, for one download?!? How much memory do you have on that thing, anyway?" (It won't be standard. He and his dad custom-built it together. Computer genius-ness is in the DNA, it seems.)

"Well, I have three hard drives," he says. "One's 15 gigs, to run Windows and for school stuff; one's 30 for my music; one's 40 for games."

Good Lord.

Six hours later, son still at work, I try my computer again. Molasses.

Hmmm...

Walk upstairs to son's room. Stare at quietly humming machine for a moment. Walk across the floor. Take in the blinking blue lights, the flickering green ones. A lot of activity happening in here.

Reach out, and...

Click. Whirrrr... the beast subsides to silent dark.

And...?

Houston, we have internet!

Crazymumma, the trusting soul, tagged me for a meme. Little did she know that she gave a TV meme to a woman who never watches television. No, I have no moral superiority about this; I don't not watch because I think it's an evil, brain-sucking machine. I just... don't watch. I used to (back when Magnum PI was in its very first reruns.) Now I don't. Not sure why.

Which makes be basically useless as far as this meme goes, but it's the first time anyone's asked, and I hate to disappoint! Sooo...

So I decided to consult with my kids. Lord knows Bekah spends enough time in front of it; she should have some input! Or so I thought. Here we go. Five male and female favourites, as chosen by one of the more delightful 13-year-olds of my acquaintance.

Male:
1. House, from House
2. Chase, from House
3. Seth Cohen, from The OC
4. Chandler, from Friends
5. Luke, from Gilmore Girls

Female:
1. Lorelei, from Gilmore Girls
2. Susan, from Desperate Housewives
3. Marissa from The OC
.
.
.
.
3a. Uuhhhh.....
.
.
.
3b. I need to watch more TV. (Well, we could just stop here.)
.
.
3c. No, no! I will think of one! Muuuummmm!!! DON'T WRITE THIS DOWN! MUM!
4. Ava (Eva?) from Canadian Idol
4a. Oh, that's only four!
5. Stacey from What Not to Wear

Phew. Harder than we thought. Now, male leads as dictated by my seventeen-year-old son, Daniel, who watches about as much television as his mother. However, he does watch weird computer shows.

Male:
1. Invader Zim
2. Gir
3. Gaz
4. Bugs Bunny
5. Strongbad

Female:

"I dunno. That's all I can think of. Can I go back to my computer now?"

Bekah reads "Brain, Child" and complains, "There's an article here that says that middle school is all pain and suffering. Hmph. I liked school last year."

"Grade seven is a tough year for a lot of people, sweetie. I wonder if you were able to enjoy it because you have self-confidence, especially socially. If you were trying to make it to the top of the social heirarchy, up there with the 'popular' girls, Chloe and Valerie, you might have been miserable all year."

"Well, I don't want to be at the bottom!"

"No, of course not. And you're not! They don't pick on you, do they?"

"No, they mostly ignore me."

"Probably because you don't try to make them like you."

"I have friends I like and trust. You can't trust those two. Actually, Valerie came over one day and asked if I'd like to eat lunch with them, and the girls at my table were all 'Oh, wow! Valerie invited you!!'"

"So what did you do?"

"I said 'no, thanks, I'm sitting with my friends right now'. She went off all put out, because nobody says 'No' to them! I don't think they could actually believe it had happened!"

Bekah pauses, unable to speak over my laughter. "They like to do that. Invite someone in for a week or two, then spit them out. Then that person is really at the bottom!" She muses for a minute. "I just don't know how people like that end up popular, mom! Why do the kids give them that kind of power?"

Me, I'm left wondering how I ended up with such a wise, wise child. "Give them that power", she says. She sees that it is given, not earned nor deserved, merely given. No one will have that kind of power over my Bekah, because she sees this stuff so clearly. She doesn't buy into the system mindlessly. She thinks about it - and strives only for what she can see is good for her.

I am so fucking proud of her!

Jubilation!

We are having a birthday party here this afternoon. Not just any kind of party! An uber-cool Beach Party!! For Bekah and sixteen friends. A thirteenth birthday party. Seventeen thirteen-year-olds. Yee-haw. But Bekah is exultant. Sixteen people are coming to her Beach Party! It will be So. Cool!!!!!!

Tragedy!

We wake to a forecast of thunderstorms. Thunderstorms!

Hope battles Despair!

An almost thirteen-year-old tackles the forces of nature through sheer force of desperate will.

"The radio says 60% chance, mummy. That's 40% chance of not thunderstorms! Can we go? We can go, right!"

Mum is at the computer, checking in. "The Weather Network says 75%, sweetie."

"But it's sunny now!"

The skies darken ominously. The phone rings. "Are you guys getting hail where you are?" The voice of one of the invitees' mother chirrups. "I'm on the 21st floor here, and we're really being battered!"

The skies open. Water falls in sheets.

Ten minutes later, the sun breaks through. Steam rises from the streets.

"Can we go, mummy? Can we go? It's sunny again!"

The clear blue hole in the sky is about 50 meters in diameter, but for the moment, it is indeed sunny. The forces of nature and the forces of adolescent will wrangle for another ten minutes before Daniel comes downstairs.

"Did you guys hear? Environment Canada has issued a severe thunderstorm watch for our area."

Hope is Defeated! Despair Overcomes!

Bekah wilts in resignation. The forces of nature have won. She takes to the phone and bravely makes all sixteen calls. The party will be at our home. She puts the phone down after the last call. Social-chirpy vanishes under the wash of despair.

"We wanted a beach party, mummy! I'm going to have a CRAP party! CRAP!"

Momma speaks words of encouragement and comfort. The guests begin to arrive. The kids are unsettled, it is true. They had their hormone-ridden hearts set on a beach party, complete with bikinis. Thankfully, Daniel sticks around. Nothing perks up a roomful of thirteen-year-old girls like the presence of a seventeen-year-old boy.

Bekah, however, is still fraught with Hostess Anxiety. At each lull in the proceedings, she races into the kitchen. "Mummmm! They're bored! They want to go home! My party is CRAP!" More words of encouragement from mum.

"You're the hostess, sweetie. The momentum has to come from you. Out you go."

"But mummmmmmy!!!!"

"Away you go." But she's right, you know. They have a wave of enthusiasm, the volume rises, then the energy ebbs away.

It is my practice to stay in the background at these things, but clearly something has to be done. I enter the fray, issue a few friendly but non-contestable directives, and get a game going. All the signs of Successful Early Teen Party are there, the prime one being outrageous noise. The game ends. The party pauses. The shrieking subsides.

What's with these kids? Why can't they get any momentum happening? Sheesh. This is my youngest child. I've done a tonne of parties. Never have I had to work the room like this!

Despair gets a Smack-Down!

Zoe, my eldest, walks in. Bekah races to greet her, drags her off to the kitchen. Two minutes later, Bekah returns, turns on the music, gets out the Twister game, and finally, finally, the party takes off. They shriek, they giggle, they scream. Twenty minutes later they decide they are going to the park, and off they go shrieking down the street. (The park is a couple of blocks away. If it rains again, they can be home in minutes.)

Jubilation Triumphs!

An hour later, they return. Bekah and one of the boys have gone into the river. Much shrieking over whose fault that was, each party laying the blame firmly at the feet of the other.

They have pizza, they shriek, they have cake, they shriek, they read Seventeen magazine, they shriek, they open gifts, they shriek, they put nail polish on everyone, including the boys. Much shriekage.

By the ringing in my ears, I gauge this a successful party.

How the Smack-down of Despair and the Return of Jubilation?
Epilogue:

After the last guest leaves, I pull Zoe aside. "So what did you say to Bekah, out there in the kitchen?"

"Oh, she was going on about how her party was CRAP, and I said, 'You know why? Because all your guests are out there, and you're in the kitchen, whining.' "

HA! THIS is why you have more than one kid, I tell you.

If I'd said that, she'd have melted into a pool of misery right there on the kitchen floor. Right there, right then. Send the guests home, mother, you've slain the hostess.

But big sisters, they can say this stuff. Moreover, they can say this stuff, and the little sisters, they take it right on the chin, and get out there, and make a great party.

Thank God for big sisters!

"Hey, mom! Come look at this!" My son's manly bellow from the computer upstairs. He sounds happy, so up I go. Broody or petulant adolescent bellows I ignore. I was right to go. See what he's found?

Where the hell is Matt?

The longer I watched, the more I grinned, until, when he was rushed by the seal (or are those things walruses?), I laughed out loud. Oh, and the elephants? Those cute kids in Rwanda? That bolder in Norway - my God! Antarctica?

Ha! I'd dance, too, if I could go all those places!

I'd like to give you a sense of my son, Daniel, a lovely young man. At seventeen, he towers over my 5'6". His voice is man-deep. His frame is still boy-slender, though, and given his paternal gene pool, may stay that way till he hits his forties.

He's generally a quiet boy, keeps himself to himself. He's not unfriendly, but he doesn't spend much time in the communal areas of the house. He does his homework in his room, or in the bedroom with the computer. (No computer in his room - that would be deadly for the boy.) Unlike last year (The Sullen Year) he eats meals with us, he phones home to let me know his plans, he arrives home at the time required, he does his chores without complaining. Often, he does them cheerfully. (I know. I can hear your gasps of wonder from here. I share the feeling!) His marks aren't as good as he's capable, but they're not bad, either. I have few complaints with the boy.

Once in a while, he gets to feeling social. Often - how strange! - this is when both computers are occupied... Tonight, a stepsibling is at the family computer upstairs, and I am using the laptop. My laptop. Daniel doesn't mind chatting with someone who's on a computer; if you spend as much time as he does facing a screen, you learn to multi-task. He sees me as capable of the same skills, and sits on the loveseat facing me, chattering away. I've learned with teens to be receptive when they feel like opening up - so I sit up and make eye contact, and attempt to enter into the discussion intelligently.

Tonight's conversation is about a show he likes, Invader Zim. I've heard about Zim before. And his sidekick Gir. On television for one season, apparently, before Nickelodeon canned it, now on DVD. Mostly Daniel watches them on his computer.

Daniel's memory is phenomenal. Episode after episode, quote after quote rolls from him. What follows is as much of ten minutes' worth (ten minutes!) as I could transcribe, typing furiously:

Zim is an Irken Invader. The Invaders infiltrate a planet prior to taking it over, but Zim is such a handicap to his nation, they send him on this goose-chase mission to a planet no one is sure is really there, just to get rid of him. Turns out the planet does exist - hey! it's earth - so here he is on earth, thinking he's on a secret mission, and doing his best to take us over.
....
The Christmas episode where Zim creates a fake, evil Santa, and a classroom is talking about it after the evil Santa has been vanquished.

"Santa lives on," says the teacher.

"In our hearts?" asks a student.

"No, stupid, in outer space."
...
The Hallowe'en episode where Dib (Zim's main enemy) uses a dimensional scope to find a spooky costume idea, and somehow it gives him a brain lapses, and he pops into earth where he gets put in an asylum, somehow with Zim, but they escape to a parallel dimension. In Dib's head.
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Zim's side-kick robot, Gir. "We've got a top-secret model for you, Zim". Gir's artificial intelligence chip is defective one: cobbled together somehow with a gumball, a screw, two coins, and a paperclip.
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Zim at school. Teacher: "Class, I'd like you to meet the newest, hopeless appendage to the student body. His name is Zim."

Zim speaks: "At first I thought I'd vanish you [his classmates] to a dimension of pure itchiness. [Daniel describes the scene.] You can't tell, but that stuff is really itchy. But we came up with a better idea. We're sending you to a room. With a moose. And that is all."

Zim stands up on his desk and waves his hand, asks a question. The teacher stares at him in silence for a second, then continues what he'd been saving before. "As I say, the universe is just doomed. Doomed, doomed, doomed! Now. Go home."
....
Apparently Gir's defectiveness has him functioning at the level of a four or five year old. Cute in a kid, not so helpful as the sidekick to a megalomaniac world conqueror. The Waffle episode shows Gir's happy brainlessness:

Gir comes bouncing in. "Guess who made waffles??"

Zim doesn't want to eat them, but when Gir threatens to throw a tantrum, he agrees to try them, to get used to "human's vile food".

Zim eats, and enjoys them! Gir keeps bringing more and more, and as he runs out of ingredients, they keep getting weirder and weirder. "These ones gots peanuts and soap in them." Daniel's voice is chirpy, evidently a mimic of the Gir-voice.
....
Daniel comments: I'm fairly certain the writer of this comic was on something, or how else would he have come up with the idea of an army of cyborg zombie soldiers built by a demon squid?

"It's a very weird show," says Daniel.

Indeed. And I have a very weird son. Which is one of the things, of course, I love so much about him!