Sneaky Teenagers And Their James Bond 007 $h!t

She prefers her family shaken, not stirred.  Her mind games are masterful. You can never be sure of what she's got in secret pockets, or of her intentions with whatever it is she's got. She's completely predictable... in her chaotic, sporadic, mercurial kind of way.

Why, she's the most interesting teenager in the world. She's a smuggler of the highest class, and regardless of her associates and accomplices, she's always working for herself.

No, seriously. Punkin is an expert, at a level that nearly makes me proud. I almost applaud her ingenuity, and exhausting perseverance. The way she can spin a story (and stick to it) rivals anything Shapiro or Cochran could have done.  And Capone would've been in awe of her ability to bury evidence. Maybe we should've had Geraldo excavate her bedroom.  

The Shakedown

On this occasion, certain familiar behaviors had given us probable cause, and the time had come for us to execute a parental search warrant upon the premises. The room itself was unassuming and quite typical of a teenage daughter, but during a bedroom shakedown... all things become suspect. The mattress is tossed, and we check in the webbing under the box spring, where the cat sometimes hides. The dresser drawers are emptied and turned upside down. We search the clothes in the dresser and the clothes in the closet. Even pillows and stuffed animals get the Charmin Experience.

I feel like Tommy Lee Jones in The Fugitive, when I say we "search every zipper and pocket of every purse, backpack, bookbag, suitcase, pencil case, and jewelry box." We search shoes, boots, socks, between the pages of books, as well as within CD, DVD, and various video game cases. All of it. Been there, done it.

I know it sounds extreme, but previous experience had taught us to be thorough. Think, for a moment about that law in Woodstood, New York that makes it illegal to walk your bear without a a leash. And you know, there wouldn't be a law about it, unless someone had done it. So believe me, if we are searching particular places, it's because they have been used to hide things; sometimes dangerous things. We had turned from Parents to Interpol, in an effort to protect our child.

On This Occasion

Mr. Penguin didn't stand up against this interrogation, and he turned over the contraband he was smuggling beneath his hat. Said articles were confiscated, and the mastermind of the operation was charged. For his cooperation in the matter, Mr. Penguin was released, but he would remain under surveillance, probably for the rest of his existence.

But something about that search felt a little too easy. There was little to no resistance. Where were the tears, and the angry outbursts? Something wasn't right about her compliance. After a few days, we performed a followup.

But what did we miss? All of the usual locations had been exhausted. We had to step up our game, think outside the box; something we thought we had been doing all along. We had to change our perspective. Scan with a keen eye for something out of the ordinary, but don't miss what's hidden in plain sight.

The carpet fibers... there, in the corner of the closet. They were loose. Upon inspection, they revealed a hidden chamber of contraband, tucked a few inches in.

Yeah, she was getting good. No... she had gotten good. She'd come a long way since trying to smuggle my makeup to school in her underwear. It was an eye shadow assortment, and a brand new six inch liner pencil... sticking up out of her pants, over the waistband of her jeans... like a Papuan native with a penis sheath.

Papuan Native with Koteka
(penis sheath)

She had become the personification of a highly effective parental on the job training course, especially if the parents were also interested in moonlighting as prison guards. Each room search would now include a carpet check.

When do you stop and ask yourself if the situation has gone too far? Is it when you're tearing up the carpet in your home, or do you wait until you're ripping out the drywall?

I had just began to ask myself if we had lost control of our paranoia, but before I could speak, Hubsy discovered the second hidden carpet chamber, not inches in, but expertly spread about four feet into the room; under the carpet, and the padding.  

No... you know it's gone too far well before you have to start pulling out the power tools, and roping off grids for excavation.

Yes, we had gone to extremes. After all the years of walking on that line between paranoia and parenting, we lost our balance and let our collective foot touch down on the crazy side. But on the other hand, we have always found exactly what we were afraid of finding every time we looked, because she was also walking on the crazy side, going to extremes to defy us.

Mama, we're all crazy now!

Shortly after this incident, Punkin reached the age independence and rented a room from a friend. We've closed her case here at Inter-Parent-Pol. Our mission was completed. Our jurisdiction only covered her space within our walls... we can't shake down the whole world.  

Nope, No Teenage Dramatics Here.

Anyone with a teenager has probably developed a discerning taste for dramatic sagas.  Not just any, old run of the mill, poorly planned drama will do.  It needs to be a really good one to get your attention anymore, but the simple ones have now become some of the best comedy performances you could get for free.

Like this one: "I am NOT being dramatic", (as she stomps up the stairs), "STOP saying that I'm being dramatic!", (as she slams her bedroom door).

Or the one that played out last night.

Punkin was quite perturbed that we had limited her computer use to FOUR hours. That's THREE hours more than her average day, due to her punishments, (Merry Christmas, Punkin!).  She decided to express her unhappiness by putting away the leftovers from Christmas dinner, and cleaning the two tables, and vacuuming the spillage off of the living and dining room carpets.

Hey, wait a minute, I like this temper tantrum!

Okay, so she did the chores angrily. I'll give her that.  But it was the events that transpired just a little later in the evening that had me cracking up... internally, mind you... you can't let them see you laugh, or it ruins the whole point, and then the fireworks WILL fly.

Once the cleanup was complete, we all began to settle in for the family movie.  Of course, our little rebel announced (angrily) that she had no interest in the family movie, and that she would be in her room.  

Okay, fine, but she never made it out of the kitchen.

The previews began to play... she moved like a mist into the dining room and flopped into a chair. But her earphones were on and the volume turned up, as an indication that she still was not interested in spending time with us. I can't pinpoint the exact moment, but I knew that at some point, the mp3 player was turned off... but we weren't supposed to know that.

"What movie are you guys going to watch?" she asked.

"Does it matter?" I responded.

"Maybe." she replied.

"Insidious II" I answered.  (I know, it's not the typical family style movie, especially on Christmas Day, but it's our style.

Inch by inch she made her way to her final destination, the overstuffed recliner in the living room, and we all had a lovely time.  She had forgotten about having to disconnect from her boyfriend's Skype call, and all about being angry with us.  And she thinks I've forgotten all about the temper tantrum, and how it was, first very helpful, and then very funny... keeping Mom in a nifty mood, even though Mom was exhausted at the end of the Christmas Hurricane.

You Down With O.D.D.?

Yeah, you know me!  Oh, yeah, I'm down with it... in the sense that it brings me down, I am definitely down with it.  My Punkin suffers Oppositional Defiance Disorder (according to the latest diagnosis), and thus, we all suffer from it.  It wears us down, and it breaks us down.

It is exactly what it sounds like. The child is oppositional TO and defiant OF any person that holds authority over her... correction ... any person that she perceives as having a position of authority over her. So far, for us, this list includes parents, teachers, administrators, security guards, police officers, therapists, and certain neighbors. In fact, I may go so far as to say that if she likes you at all, and shows you any form of respect, it's because she doesn't quite see you as an authority figure, or as someone who has any power over her at all.

Yes, I know it sounds like most teenagers out there, but there are other behaviors as well, many of which she began to exhibit in her precious toddler years.  The first symptoms to make itself known would have to be the anxiety, and the low self esteem.  Then came the intense anger, which must have been part of the depression.  The moods swings are worthy of ticket sales for the heart pounding exhilaration... first, the thrilling anticipation of the upswing... then the sudden, heart dropping fall... and the dizzying twists and turns in between. There's the impulsive stuff, which leads to recklessness, and self destructive behavior.  Lying to the point of having convinced her own self that the lie is real. She sees even the most ridiculous, ill conceived string of falsehoods as perfectly viable.  Even when she's already been caught, and there is actual physical proof of it... for her, the lie is still in play. Couple these symptoms with a diagnosis of OCD and ADHD, and we may be on a road to a Bipolar I diagnosis. We've gone Alpha-Numerical!

I've given you a simple symptom list, but the behaviors that stem from these thought patterns is what the illness boils down to.  Our major crisis points have been:

• Her sneaking out one night, at one in the morning, at age thirteen, to walk to a boy's house, who lived two miles away, who's parents were out of town.  At four in the morning, on her way back home, she was followed on the road by a stranger, who called police, who brought her home.
• Her pretending to suffer symptoms of schizophrenia, so she could satisfy her curiosity about the mental hospital experience, and get that much needed vacation away from parents, teachers, and those pesky rules and punishments.  She was discharged with the diagnosis of "She has no psychosis, but she does have behavioral problems."
• In a rush of anxiety and anger, she impulsively set a small fire to a wad of paper towels, in the sink, in a school bathroom.
• In an unpredictable depressive downswing, she ingested two bottles of prescription medication, which led to the confession...
• ...That she had been sexually assaulted several months prior, as a result of making an impulsive decision without thinking of consequences, and putting herself in a dangerous situation.
• The enraging frustration that leads her to "cutting" behavior. One incident had half of her body covered in shallow slashes from a razor blade that she removed from a pencil sharpener, being that she is not allowed to keep shaving razors or scissors, in her room.
• Having to go to "teen court" and do community service for a consistent habit of having other people's cellphones in her possession.
• Often disappearing for hours past curfew, up to six hours, causing us to panic, and resulting in unproductive search and rescue parties, that are typically called off as she very casually returns home, as my fingers are about to hit the 911 button.
• Her, twice, reporting her father to Child Protective Services, to have him reprimanded for punishing her. (We were investigated and cleared, and she was made to stay in therapy)
• Our discovery that she had snuck out of the surprise birthday party that we had thrown for her, to smoke marijuana with her friends.

Our minor crisis points, and merely frustrating ones, included:

• Consistently failing grades, since the second grade.
• Consistently disrespecting teachers and absolutely refusing to do any school work.
• Consistently disrespecting and outright disobeying parents (especially Dad).
• Cutting classes, and even being found and picked up by the school resource officer off campus, at the shopping center.
• Obsessively collecting, and even hoarding, useless objects, including many items that were entirely trash.
• Not doing chores and then lying about doing them.
• Pitting parents against one another, causing much family turmoil, even in extended circles.

We've worked out a few things, come up with a disciplinary program that seems to be showing some signs of progress.  It can't fix everything, but at least it keeps us moving in a forward direction.  But I'll talk more about that later.  Right now I just wanted to talk about what it's like to raise a child with this particular personality disorder.  We all seem to have a little something, and that's what makes us such a circus!

Home School is Like Playing School

When I was a little girl, I loved to play school with my neighborhood friends, or my cousin, or my little sister.  We went all out with it too... paper, pencils, and a long pointing stick for tapping at math problems on the large rolling chalkboard.  Some of us fifth and sixth graders would save old workbooks and collect extra handouts throughout the year, so that we could play some serious school with the kinder-kids over the summer break.  We would even make up permission slips for parents to sign, so that we could take the tots on a "field trip" to the local playground, or on a picnic.

As my grade levels increased, what we once referred to as "playing school", was relabeled "tutoring".  And of course, as the years marched on and my own kiddies came along, it was again renamed to "helping with the homework".

Now, in my middle age, there's a new term for it.  Home School.  And it is some serious $h!t.  I actually filed papers with the state of North Carolina, who in turn legalized my school with a registration number.  My home is now the SNB Academy, and has an enrollment of one ninth grade student.  I get to download and print lesson plans, or pre-made worksheets on any subjects I choose.  In fact, I even get to choose the subjects; the entire curriculum, for that matter.  Even though the state regulations are few, I am attempting to follow as closely as I can to the manner of our local high school, in their "block scheduling".  Each semester carries only four classes, but each class must have 130-150 hours of instruction.

Every day that we conduct some sort of educational activity, I make a mark in the attendance log.  I teach three to four subjects a day, for extended periods.  In fact, Punkin and I skipped English altogether yesterday, because we had an extended four hour Civics lesson.  We're only doing about three hours a week of P.E. (at the gym), but that's because I'm waiting for warmer weather.  Spring means hiking and paddle boating.  Summer mean swimming.  It's all counts for credit.

Credit opportunities seem to be everywhere.  When a friend of ours recently offered my girls horseback riding lessons, the first thing I did was figure out how I could turn them into a course credit.  It has since become the Equine Sciences course.  Whenever we go out to the farm, my student will rack up time with the animals.  She'll have care and grooming lessons from the owner, she'll get behavioral studies from learning to ride, and she can shadow the vet on regular checkups.  On days when we're not at the farm, we're watching Discovery Channel and National Geographic videos on the evolution and history of the modern horse.  We're printing and studying skeletal, digestion and reproduction charts and photos. 

And that's how it's done.  Home schooling has turned out to be easier than I expected, and we're getting so much more out of it, than public school.  By teaching to her, on her level, in the best manner for her learning abilities, we're finding a level of productivity that she's rarely experienced before.  Not only that, but her levels of anxiety, and impulsiveness are down.  She's helping out more around the house, and ... well, she's maturing.  We should have done this years ago.

           

Mama Becomes A Home School Teacher

Ladies and Gentlemen,

The Ringmaster's Family Circus is proud to present

a stunt that has never before been attempted under this big top!

Keep your eyes on the center ring

to see the amazing metamorphosis of

The Ringmaster Mama,

from family manager to home school administrator.

Watch closely

as The Ringmaster attempts to

wrestle and wrangle,

constrain and control

the wild and willful

Punkin!

Armed with nothing more than

my own wits

and every available technology,

I will take her from

Disobedient, Disrespectful, Disinterested,

(and "dis" close to becoming a ward of the Dept of Juvenile Justice)

to

Motivated, Educated, and Inspired.

Make sure you've got your popcorn,

and prepare to be dazzled!

Parenting The Unparentable

This post has been a long time coming, and I'm not just talking about my delay in writing it.  I also mean that our Punkin's latest incident has become the final straw.  They've been building and building, and now, finally, the camel's back is broken.

I'm sure no parent ever thinks that at some point in raising your child, there would come a time when a representative from a government agency would recommend to you, that you present your child to the Department of Juvenile Justice, and ask a judge to declare them "undisciplined" (which basically means "un-discipline-able").  And then to have that recommendation seconded by a representative of yet another state agency.  And then to have nearly everyone who knows you and your child, sadly agree.

I have hinted about the fact that our Punkin has been more than quite the challenge throughout the years.  The almost pathological lying.  Constant disobedience, and outright disrespect.  Sneaking out at night.  Violent tendencies toward her peers.  Cutting classes and failing grades.  Repetitive theft.  Setting fires.  Committing acts of self harm.  Since her second grade year... the endless parade of therapists and doctors.  A steady stream of medications.  An assortment of tests with no diagnoses.  School conferences, investigations, and a judge.    

Finally, it had come to this: almost two months ago, we found ourselves caught between a rock and that proverbial hard place.  On one side, we love our baby girl.  From the moment she was born, our heads filled with dreams and hopes for her future... and our future, with her.  On the other hand, loving her is now killing us.  Hubs and I are both now on medications to calm the anxiety and depression that these long years of worry, fear, frustration, and heartbreak.  Not to mention the crashing of our hopes for her, and the guilt and embarrassment she invokes.  Recently, after she once again attempted to have us investigated by child protective services,  I even began to see symptoms of emotional instability, that I learned to control years ago, trying to rear their ugly heads in my mind.  By the way, I say "attempted" because the agency declined to take the case.  You see, she's already had us investigated, and our home was found to be a safe and loving environment for all of our children.  I believe their file also indicates that Punkin uses the threat of CPS, as an act of vengeance against our authority when she's unhappy with the outcome of her own decisions.  She is an unruly child.

So, what do we do?  Take her a judge and wash our hands clean of it all?  The court will terminate our parental responsibility, and declare her a ward of the state, and she will then be sent to a foster or group home until she's eighteen.  The very thought of it takes me to the edge of those "symptoms" I mentioned earlier.  I confess, I toy with the idea.  I imagine the peace our household could experience.  A future, where I don't have to cringe when the phone rings, and Hubsy will never miss another day of work to deal with the aftermath of one of her impulsive moments.  Yes, I fantasize about it, but I just can't see it through.  Our family must stay together.  We're a team.  Family is an institution that is greater than the sum of it's parts.  We must be consistent, and reliable, even in times of torment.  Right?

So, maybe you're wondering what's been happening since this bomb went off nearly two months ago.  Well, Punkin has shaped up a bit.  Her plan to have us chastised by the state for our parenting has backfired, and the idea that the state has offered to take her off of our hands has scared her straight... I think.  She's been taking her schoolwork more seriously, and has improved some of her grades.  She's lowered her level of attitude to an acceptable degree.  Things are looking up.  So, after searching and finding no reasonable or affordable alternative placement for her, that is also therapeutic and temporary, as opposed to the Juvenile Justice Center... we've decided to just keep on keeping on.  Hubsy says "we've done it for all these years, what's two more?"  I was happy to hear him say that, but just between us, I'm still hoping for the apocalypse.

Spoiled Teenager Dreads A One Mile Walk

I sent Punkin to the store this morning to pick up some laundry detergent and kitty litter.  It was a necessity, as today is Monday, and Mondays have always (since I was a kid), been the laundry and housecleaning day.  Hubsy and I were just at the store yesterday, picking up fare for family meals, and a few other staples, but I didn't realize how low we were on these items. 

I made sure to send her first thing in the morning, before the heat index had a chance to climb to a dangerous level.  This particular grocery store is one mile, at the most, away from our home.  She certainly doesn't mind walking that far with a group of friends, or to meet up with a group of friends... to get a soda, or some makeup... or just to get away from home for a while.  Although, when she has to go at my request, for household items... OMG, you would think I just cuffed her to a chain gang.  Her "terrible ordeal" has just been posted to Facebook, and so I have chosen Blogger, as my forum of choice, to respond.

Laura Ingalls walked at least three miles to and from school every day... come rain, snow, or sweltering heat... with wild boars, bears, wolves, snakes, and bobcats.  There are children in Africa who would walk three times that distance for the opportunity to learn reading, writing, and math.  They hold out the hope that, if they survived the lions, crocs, or being abducted or raped and mutilated by guerrilla fighters, they might someday be able to move their families out of poverty.  It's the same story in some far eastern countries.  They also walk miles away from home to sell farmed goods at a street market.  Then, they'll walk miles again to find work in a factory that pays less than one would make in America simply by selling a pint of blood.

It's not as if I asked her to walk to the polluted, crocodile infested river, to beat our laundry against a rock.  All I needed was a pre-made, plastic packaged stainfighting detergent, so that I could have a machine do all the work.  It's not as if I asked her to hunt me down some small mammal that we might skin and stew up for some much needed calories.  All I needed was a box of absorbent and pretty scented sand, so that our pampered pet can do her business (indoors!), and not have to worry about a predator hunting her down.

Hmmm, I was writing this to make a point about how spoiled American teenagers are... but now... Man, even I feel so spoiled.

A Calm Approach To Discipline For A Change

Boy, we really threw Punkin for a loop yesterday.  It was only fair, since she threw me first. 

I had just come home from grocery shopping, in the early afternoon, and I was in the middle of trying to cram it all into the pantry and fridge, when I got the phone call.  It was one of the coaches from the high school, asking to speak to the parent of my only high schooler.  Then he proceeded to tell me that he was filling in for the administrator, and that he had my daughter in his office. 

"The school resource officer had returned her to the campus..." he said, when I interrupted him with ..."Whaaaaat?!".  "Yes, Ma'am," he said, "She was picked up down by the shopping center, with a friend...".  He explained that she would be given one day of out of school suspension, effective the next day, and asked me if I wanted to speak with her.  "Oooooh, I sure do."  I replied.

Of course I reamed her out.  I reminded her that her father was going to blow a fuse.  Now, in that moment, I wished I hadn't said that, because I didn't want her to think that he was the only one she had to fear.  Although I have done it in the past, I don't like to lay it all on Dad with the old "Wait until your father gets home".  I need to be seen as a disciplinarian just as well.  So, I made up for my statement by telling her that I didn't even know which one of us was going to have to hold the other one back.

Luckily for her, by the time she arrived home at the end of the day, I had been laughing hysterically, to the point of pain and tears, at an email full of catastrophic auto-corrected cellphone texts, ("Damn You, Autocorrect!"), and I was in a pretty darn good mood.  Even though I was speaking sternly (or trying to), I was having a hard time wiping the smile from my face, and out of my voice.  So, as she made her way to her room, for the first phase of her punishment, she was slightly confused.

Leaving her to the mercy of her big brother, I left to pick Hubsy up from work.  As we had already discussed over the phone, we decided to linger at his office, and plan the rest of Punkin's consequence, over a cup of coffee.  (Vanilla caramel cream, one of best Keurig flavors).  We agreed that this was not a specific "Punkin problem", but a typical "teenager problem", and decided on a different approach.

Upon arriving home, Husby's called for Punkin to join us downstairs for a meeting.  "I believe you have something to tell me", he calmly stated.  Nearly trembling with fear, she opened with an apology, and an admission of what she had done, along with an acknowledgement of the obvious stupidity of her actions.  He then spoke to her about his disappointment, and reminded her of our expectations, as well as the behavior required by the school.  The expression on her face was one of pure shock.  She anticipated an angry reaction, and something very loud to occur.  It didn't, and she really didn't know what to do with that. Together, our response was, "You did what you did, and now we have to do what we have to do.  There's no sense in getting emotional about it." 

She then began to assume her consequences.  "I expect that my current computer punishment will be extended.", she said.  (She's been banned for two weeks due a recent attempted refusal to hand over the password to her chat program).  Hubsy simply stated "No".  Punkin was floored.  Her sudden gape made her look like she had just stepped into the Twilight Zone, and I don't mean the one with glittery romantic vampires.  She continued, "I expect that my after school curfew will be moved up."  I jumped in on that one with "Absolutely".  She nodded.  Then Hubsy and I rounded out the meeting with handing her one week of solitary confinement in her room, to be broken only by family meals, and chores."  She nodded again.

As she turned to head back upstairs, she stopped and turned back to us.  "I just want to say thank you, Dad, for not yelling at me.  I was expecting you to blow up, and I was really scared, and I really appreciate that you didn't".  Hmmm.

Before going to bed, after dinner, we got our typical goodnight hugs.  Mine came with, "I'm really sorry for what I did today, and I'm really glad that you're a parent who cares."  I was quite taken aback, and I answered, "Have I ever been a parent who didn't care?"... "No", she said, "But I've been seeing lately that a lot of my friend's parents don't punish them for the stuff that they do, when they really should."  And then she went to bed.

Mission Accomplished.

The Drama of a Teenage Wasteland

"Nothing we ever do for the rest of our lives could be as important as what we're going through right now in high school."  That statement (or something like it) was made on the TV show, Robot Chicken, when they did a segment spoofing Dawson's Creek.  And yes, I remember feeling that exact same way when I was in high school.  We were young, and we were alive (even when we wished we weren't).  We were delving into new experiences, new relationships, and very new emotions.  It was all so very dramatic.  Some of us (a-hem), who had grown up on the afternoon soaps, reveled in it.  Got down,  rolled around, and covered ourselves in the dirty thick of it all.  It took me about eight years, after graduation, to learn how to rise above it.  Yeah, I slipped and fell a few times.  I got a little drama on the bottom of my shoe, and carried it around with me for about a year or so.  But for the past twelve years I have worked very hard to keep drama out of my life.  There will be no drama in my house, so wipe your feet before entering!

My eldest daughter suffered her teenage dramas while living with her father (lucky him), and so I didn't get to witness first hand the Shakespearean tragedies in which she participated.  When she did come to live with me in her senior year, I removed her from bad situations, strengthened her focus and resolve, and kept her on the straight and narrow.  Maybe that's why, after graduation, she decided to move back to her father's until joining the Navy.

My son left his father's house for mine during the summer between his freshman and sophomore year.  But he's a loner, who didn't care much for social interaction, and so there wasn't much going on in that arena.  There still isn't.  Although he is refining his skills in creating a disturbance in his sibling circle, and then making a quick exit, leaving us to deal with the aftermath.

My youngest is a small, well behaved (for the most part) gal, who plays happily with her friends, and excels in school.  I don't expect much trouble from her.  

Which leaves me now, with a cyclonic dirt devil, spinning on the precipice of fifteen.  She attracts drama like a moth to a flame... like an iron sliver to a homemade electro-magnet in a seventh grade science lab... like the lonely specs of personified dirt, in those goofy Swiffer commercials, who happily fly up to meet the mop head.  Yeah, like that.  It used to be that she created her own situations, that in turn created insomnia, anxiety, depression, and ulcers in the rest of us.  As luck would have it, there's no need for her to do that now, as she is now a freshman in high school.  Ooh, high school, you soupy mudhole of pubescent hormones and underdeveloped grey matter.  Youth is so wasted on the young.

A few nights ago, the boy next door (who is also a teenager, and from what I gather, is some sort of a hottie) brought his girlfriend home from school with him.  Said girlfriend is having trouble at home, and after breaking up with said boyfriend, announced her intention of running away, and proceeded to head for the highway.  Literally the highway... it's about forty yards from our house, but then again, so is the off ramp that leads back to our neighborhood.  Thirty minutes on the front porch chatting with said girlfriend, before her exit, and another half hour chatting with said hottie next door, and the next thing I knew, my daughter was down and rolling around it the dirty thick of it.

Panic set in ... the chat lines were hot.  The phone was called into play.  Missing person's websites were scanned.  Requests for made for an all out search party.  Requests denied.  Tempers flared and tears erupted. 

"But she drank a half a bottle of Listerine!"

"So, her breath is very minty"

"She's gonna pass out on the side of the highway and be run over by a truck!"

"More likely, she'll barf on the side of the highway, and then head back here".

"You just don't understand!"

"I can write you a book on high school and dramatic teenage girls."

"But, she's my best friend!"

"You just met her today!"

"No, I met her last week, we became friends today!"

"Let's talk about this calmly and rationally."

"I don't want to talk to you, you're not listening to me!"

"Goodnight, then."

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!

Just when you think you've crawled and scratched your way out, they make it their life's mission to drag you back in.

(The neighbor hottie's ex-girlfriend turned out just fine, by the way.)

Caught Red Handed, A Rare Occurrence

Well, it took us several months, but we finally got the confession that we've been waiting for.  We were just shy of performing one of the various techniques of old Salem.  You know, filling her pockets with rocks and throwing her into the lake.  If she sinks, she's innocent, but if she floats... then she really does have a secret Facebook page that she's been logging into, for the past three months, behind our backs, and against our wishes!  Turns out, we didn't have to go that far.  It seems that getting caught red handed on the neighbor's computer, in the middle of the night, during a sleepover, is a much better tactic.

We've held our suspicions for months, regardless of her denials, elaborate explanations, and taking outright offense at our accusations.  We've kept our eye on the page that was:

- Published under an assumed identity,

-whose status updates only seemed to change when Punkin was at the public library.

-Whose friend's list was like a roll call of our neighborhood.

-Whose profile picture was... you got it... Punkin.

If I haven't said it before, let me say now, she is very intelligent, but she's NOT that smart.

Our neighbor had given us the details of how Punkin had logged into Facebook, after the other girls at the sleepover had drifted off to sleep.  Knowing that we know what we know, she had little choice but to surrender her password, which we immediately changed.  We deleted all of her photos, and all of her information, and left her readers with one final status update for them to ponder:

"Dad Found Out".

Kicking Trashy People To The Curb

taking out the trash

Today is Thursday, my son's least favorite day of the week, because he is the king of the trash in our house.  It falls upon his shoulders to monitor the level of trash, and remove it when necessary.  It is his duty, on Thursday mornings, to wheel the big green plastic bin out to the curb.  It's a race against time, and the county truck.  Unfortunately, it's a race he comes dangerously close to losing week after week, because he can't seem to distinguish a Thursday from a Tuesday from a Saturday.  I would like to believe that summer vacation is the culprit.  Without a school schedule to follow, the days of the week do seem to resemble each other.  However, even back when he had to be up by six, because he had to be somewhere, he still had to be reminded to take out the trash.  

Now that the summer days are winding down, the supply lists are being written, the open houses and tours are being scheduled, the wardrobes are being scrutinized... it means little to him, because he's not going back.  He's done his time, twelve years of hard labor (thirteen actually), and two months ago, the committee decided to release him on his own recognizance.  No, he's not a parolee, he's a high school graduate.  His days of homework may be gone with the wind, but for as long as he lives in Mama's Boarding House, he'll be standing downwind of that big green plastic bin.

Oddly enough, another duty has presented itself, for me.  On this, very literal, trash day, I will be taking out a very different kind of trash.  I will be sitting my Punkin down, and sorting through her friend's list.  Not the cyber kind, because she has yet to be allowed on Facebook, (mostly because we suspect that she's being logging on anyway, secretly, and without permission).  No, today I am going to crumble up and throw away the assortment of spoiled people that have been stinking up her life throughout the summer.  They're standing in their stagnant lives collecting flies, and misdemeanors, for so long that I suppose their parents have developed a case of nasal fatigue.  (That's when you smell the same thing for so long that the brain no longer responds to it and shuts down the receptors).  Well, Hubsy and I have recently picked up their scent, and it's nauseating.  Punkin thinks they smell like adventure, freedom, and the excitement of drama.  What they really reek of is trouble.  Let me explain:

1)  Our house was recently egged by a seventeen year old boy, that Punkin crushes on.  He is intrigued by her  infatuation, even though he has a 16 year old girlfriend, with whom he is sexually active.

2)  One boy has recently returned to the group after a mysterious absence.  Turns out that he had been in Juvenile Detention for not only using, but selling, marijuana and crashing his parents car into their house!

3)  Another boy of 14, has an uncle, of 16, who hangs around his house, and talks openly about his continued drug use, even though he's on probation.  Rumor has it that his probation officer recently caught him in the act, and hauled him off.

4)  Last night, Hubsy and I received numerous prank phone calls, from an obvious young girl, pretending to be a guy, delivering love messages to our Punkin, who was not home at the time.  (she was spending the night with a friend, who had already been mother tested-father approved).  The prankster had no respect, no fear, and no qualms about making sexually explicit statements to my husband, about our Punkin.

I guess I'll have to admit that some of the family rules have loosened up over the summer break.  It's not something that I intended, but something that seems to have happened so gradually that I hadn't really noticed.  But these recent incidents, and the fact that school starts again in a mere three weeks, have gotten my attention.  It's time to tighten things back up, and cut off the loose ends.  I'm not racing against the county truck, but I am racing against time.  There's precious little of it left to get Punkin back on the right track, before a different sort of county vehicle comes to haul her away!

A Road Map Disguised As Home Therapy

Well, it's been a hec of a trip, but at the end of the week, we will be reaching the end of a journey.  It's been a long six month ride filled with some of the typical traveling headaches, like not having enough room for all of our baggage, and some scary turbulence that makes you wonder if you're going to come out alive in the end.  But there was also some interesting scenery along the way, like watching five people reshape their habits, and transform aspects of their personalities, to be able to grasp at some sense of mental stability.

You may be wondering how we happened to acquire tickets for such an excursion.  Well, they're not available at any airport, train station, or bus depot.  You can't get them from a travel agent, or even win them off of a radio contest.  The way we got them... the only way I know of to get them... is to be raising a child with ADHD, coupled with severe anxiety and OCD.  Oh, and you have to go through years of living with their aggressive personality, self destructive behavior,  and the ramifications of impulsive activity.  When you find yourself frantically phoning your child's therapist on her private cellphone at 2 in the morning on a weekend... guess what, you just earned yourself a referral ticket to Home Based Family Crisis Counseling Program.  Ta-daaaah.

These were some of the troubles we had with our troubled child.

• Inappropriate internet behavior.
• Failing grades, cutting class.
• Repeated thefts from classmates, then family members.
• Making a false report to Child Protective Services.
• Experiences with the police and the court system.
• Temporary commitment to a mental health hospital.
• Sneaking out of the house, day or night.
• Constant breaking of curfew, day or night.

So, for the past six months, we've been on a journey to modify our family, and get this train wreck back on the right track.  Like the ghosts of Family Past, Present, and Future, we were visited by a team of three therapists, three to four times a week, to help us deal with her serious emotional and behavioral issues. We had three or four, two hour sessions a week. One step at a time, we traveled miles from where we were, when we first started.  We've learned how to establish and enforce the family rules, and to deliver much more effective forms of discipline.  We've learned how to keep our buttons from being pushed so easily, and to remain calm and decisive when a button pushing finger slips through. We've learned how to stop facing off with conflicting parenting styles, and get back on the same page.  More importantly, we've learned how to come back together as a couple, and to nurture ourselves and our relationship, as well as our children.  That's a lot of learnin'. There have been relationship exercises, role play, game play, negotiations, and compromises.  We've refined communication, and defined personal space.  And most importantly, we're rebuilding broken trust.

So, now we say goodbye to the three apparitions of the long six month night, and when we wake up Friday morning, it will be the proverbial "Christmas Day".  We'll give ourselves a raise, throw more coal on the fire, and buy the big goose that hangs in the butcher's window. But the road doesn't end there.  Even Scrooge had to wake up on the day after Christmas, and countless more beyond that, and put into practice the things that he learned.  So will we.  We'll know how to be more prepared, while traveling a little lighter. We'll remain calm during turbulent flights.  We'll appreciate the scenery on the smooth stretches of highway.  But what we won't do is get lost... because now we have a road map.  But if we do get detoured ... it's easy enough to ask for directions.