It's official. My 12-year-old is now thirteen, and I am actually the parent of two teenagers. Sure, Annie's been acting like a teen all year, but now she's really there, and if to highlight her new status, she's gone through an incredible growth spurt so that none of last year's shorts and sandals or even the tennis shoes I bought her in January fit. Between birthday gifts, trips to the mall with friends—her favorite pastime—and quick trips to the sporting goods store, we've managed to fill in the gaps in her wardrobe. But every night when she comes into my bedroom for her goodnight kiss--a tradition that may be on its wane--I see her pointy new little breasts underneath the big t-shirt she sleeps in, and I think, OMG, she's really not my little girl anymore.
Well, of course she is, because I don't have any other girls so Annie will always been my youngest, my baby girl. But in the car on the way to the grocery store (my stuff) and the office supply store (her stuff) I said, "So, Annie since your brother isn't in the car, and you're 13 now, I've been thinking that you should be ready, you know, in case you get your period. Because there is nothing worse than being unprepared, and you probably won't have any warning the first time."
In the passenger seat next to me, my daughter grimaced and nodded simultaneously. "Yeah," she said. "Like that time that Rowan got hers at the championship basketball game. There was blood on the chair. It was so gross!"
"Well," I said, having been through such grotesqueness at a much older age and not in public, but, well, the seat of the car was pretty nasty, "It's hard to find a place to put a pad or a tampon in your basketball uniform. I'm going to give you a couple of mini-pads that are completely wrapped up, and you should keep them in your backpack and take them on sleep overs so that doesn't happen." Again, she nodded her assent and changed the subject.
Later, after she came home from a confirmation party I asked her if the boy she liked had been there. "Was he nice?" I asked dumbly. "You're so weird, Mom," said Annie. "Can I have those things we were talking about in the car?"
Thirteen. So in between, so young and so sophisticated. So hard for me to get used to even though I clearly saw it coming.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
IM = Instant gratification for Me!
Okay, so I'm addicted to the Internet. I mean, really, who isn't? The first thing I do when I come home, and since I work at home, that tends to be many times a day, is check my email. I read the news online, check the weather, browse, shop, make dinner reservations, and, of course, communicate with friends, family, colleagues, prospective employers, and naturally, my two teenagers.
The difference is: I communicate via email. Good old message sent, waiting for a reply, but not expecting one instantaneously. And that just makes me, well, old.
My kids rarely check their email boxes. They are far too busy instant messaging their friends through AIM, the most ubiquitous means of IM, or through their accounts at Facebook. Now, don't get all preachy on me, I know my not-even-quite 13-year-old isn't old enough to have a Facebook page, but I've checked it out, and since most of her friends, and all of her 15-year-old brother's friends are on Facebook, it's a battle I've chosen not to fight. And when they're not IMing, my kids are texting their friends on their cell phones, thumbs flying at the speed of light! When I text I have to stand still, not breathing for lack of concentration while I painstakingly type out a three-line message. And I'm only just becoming hip to the lingo (is "K" really that much faster than OK?)
So, what's my beef with instant messaging? It's the instant part. Again, showing my advanced years, I don't think it's all bad to have to wait for a reply when you send someone a message. If you leave a voicemail message for someone, they'll call you back, eventually. Same with regular email. Even a snail-mail letter will elicit a response unless it's a birthday card or a bill. There's something nice about that time of anticipation, looking forward to checking the mail, voicemail, email. Instant messaging allows teenagers to spend literally hours going back and forth, often in groups, about what he said and she wore and how bored am I, and now I'm logging off, or now I'm going to "poke" you, and look, I just did!
To me, IMing is a giant time sucker that stands in the way of homework getting down or a nice game of ball at the park or a real live conversation with someone in your house. And texting follows, especially when you're texting under the dinner table at a restaurant which me thinks Miss Manners would ban as do I.
This is just a little rant--things just keep getting faster out there in the world of technology, and our kids are the target market. And I'm just one step away from buying an iPhone so I can check my email in the car while I wait for my kids to finish practice or what have you. But I'll still look forward to opening the mail.
The difference is: I communicate via email. Good old message sent, waiting for a reply, but not expecting one instantaneously. And that just makes me, well, old.
My kids rarely check their email boxes. They are far too busy instant messaging their friends through AIM, the most ubiquitous means of IM, or through their accounts at Facebook. Now, don't get all preachy on me, I know my not-even-quite 13-year-old isn't old enough to have a Facebook page, but I've checked it out, and since most of her friends, and all of her 15-year-old brother's friends are on Facebook, it's a battle I've chosen not to fight. And when they're not IMing, my kids are texting their friends on their cell phones, thumbs flying at the speed of light! When I text I have to stand still, not breathing for lack of concentration while I painstakingly type out a three-line message. And I'm only just becoming hip to the lingo (is "K" really that much faster than OK?)
So, what's my beef with instant messaging? It's the instant part. Again, showing my advanced years, I don't think it's all bad to have to wait for a reply when you send someone a message. If you leave a voicemail message for someone, they'll call you back, eventually. Same with regular email. Even a snail-mail letter will elicit a response unless it's a birthday card or a bill. There's something nice about that time of anticipation, looking forward to checking the mail, voicemail, email. Instant messaging allows teenagers to spend literally hours going back and forth, often in groups, about what he said and she wore and how bored am I, and now I'm logging off, or now I'm going to "poke" you, and look, I just did!
To me, IMing is a giant time sucker that stands in the way of homework getting down or a nice game of ball at the park or a real live conversation with someone in your house. And texting follows, especially when you're texting under the dinner table at a restaurant which me thinks Miss Manners would ban as do I.
This is just a little rant--things just keep getting faster out there in the world of technology, and our kids are the target market. And I'm just one step away from buying an iPhone so I can check my email in the car while I wait for my kids to finish practice or what have you. But I'll still look forward to opening the mail.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Falling from Grace
My daughter used to be a star. She used to have an unusual and fascinating talent that brought her, and her father and me, much joy.
My daughter used to be a contortionist. Yes, a real, ultra-bendable, flexible girl just like the ones in Cirque du Soleil, who can slide into a split or a straddle like silk, who can turn themselves into a human pretzel, looking at the world with their heads backwards and between their legs (literally called "pretzel" in the circus world.
Annie started summer circus camp when she was about eight, and after the second summer of tumbling and trampoline and clowning, but most of all contortion, she made the switch from gymnastics, where her natural flexibility had come in handy, to joining a youth circus. In San Francisco, we are lucky enough to have two circus schools right here in the city.
At ten, Annie was the circus's youngest member. And for two years we watched her learn to move in amazing, almost painful but beautiful ways. She was part of an ensemble; she was a performer, so she absorbed tech rehearsals and stage make up, and costume changes, and stage fright. The other kids were mostly teenagers, each with a specialty; there were just two other contortionists. Annie hung out with hand balancers, trapeze artists, acrobats, clowns, and jugglers; more than circus skills she gained confidence in herself. She was proud of her abilities. She performed in two shows a year, plus various "gigs." When she started a new grade at school or met someone and they asked her anything at all about herself, Anne would tell them she was a contortionist. She performed without fear at family gatherings and in front of her awed teachers and classmates at school.
But something changed when she entered 7th grade last fall. For one thing, her beloved coach and circus director had left in the spring, and Annie and the other kids had never taken to her replacement, a talented musician but with experience in circus or with kids. And a bigger change--Annie started puberty. Between the changes taking place in her body, and the desire to be popular and cool, being a contortionist was suddenly not so cool. It was, as her older brother had been telling her for years, just plain weird. When all of Annie' friends started going to volleyball practice after school, she felt left out. Plus her schoolwork increased, and so she convinced us to let her quit circus and go out for volleyball, for which she had unfortunately missed the deadline. I enrolled her in a yoga class with two friends, anxious not to let that incredible flexibility go. She sailed through yoga, and then it was time for basketball tryouts, and she made the JV team, along with about ten of her very best friends. Life became about after-school practices and a uniform with the school logo on it, and games in sweaty, smelly gyms.
And this is the thing: my petite and beautiful contortionist is a crummy basketball player. I mean, she sucks. She's great at the practices as all of that conditioning from the circus has made her strong. She has great drive and stamina; she wants to please her coaches. But she is afraid of the ball, she doesn't know how to shoot, and she frequently passes the ball to the other team.
At first, I kept asking her if she missed circus, her friends, there, performing, anything at all, and she resolutely said, no. Finally, she asked me to stop bugging her about it, and so I did. And I sit through positively painful games where she struggles and misses, and other taller, faster girls race past her, and it's such a different experience from watching that confident, amazingly graceful girl up on stage glide from pose into pose. I want to cry every time I think about it. But despite her fumbles on the court, Annie is a happy girl. She's one of the most popular kids in her grade, and the coaches love her spirit, and there's a lot of togetherness among the team. So, I've had to let go. Maybe she'll go back to circus, and maybe she won't. She won't make the high school basketball team, that I know. But maybe there's something else out there that she'll excel at, and she just hasn't figured it out yet. Still, it's been a rough year for me, falling from grace.
My daughter used to be a contortionist. Yes, a real, ultra-bendable, flexible girl just like the ones in Cirque du Soleil, who can slide into a split or a straddle like silk, who can turn themselves into a human pretzel, looking at the world with their heads backwards and between their legs (literally called "pretzel" in the circus world.
Annie started summer circus camp when she was about eight, and after the second summer of tumbling and trampoline and clowning, but most of all contortion, she made the switch from gymnastics, where her natural flexibility had come in handy, to joining a youth circus. In San Francisco, we are lucky enough to have two circus schools right here in the city.
At ten, Annie was the circus's youngest member. And for two years we watched her learn to move in amazing, almost painful but beautiful ways. She was part of an ensemble; she was a performer, so she absorbed tech rehearsals and stage make up, and costume changes, and stage fright. The other kids were mostly teenagers, each with a specialty; there were just two other contortionists. Annie hung out with hand balancers, trapeze artists, acrobats, clowns, and jugglers; more than circus skills she gained confidence in herself. She was proud of her abilities. She performed in two shows a year, plus various "gigs." When she started a new grade at school or met someone and they asked her anything at all about herself, Anne would tell them she was a contortionist. She performed without fear at family gatherings and in front of her awed teachers and classmates at school.
But something changed when she entered 7th grade last fall. For one thing, her beloved coach and circus director had left in the spring, and Annie and the other kids had never taken to her replacement, a talented musician but with experience in circus or with kids. And a bigger change--Annie started puberty. Between the changes taking place in her body, and the desire to be popular and cool, being a contortionist was suddenly not so cool. It was, as her older brother had been telling her for years, just plain weird. When all of Annie' friends started going to volleyball practice after school, she felt left out. Plus her schoolwork increased, and so she convinced us to let her quit circus and go out for volleyball, for which she had unfortunately missed the deadline. I enrolled her in a yoga class with two friends, anxious not to let that incredible flexibility go. She sailed through yoga, and then it was time for basketball tryouts, and she made the JV team, along with about ten of her very best friends. Life became about after-school practices and a uniform with the school logo on it, and games in sweaty, smelly gyms.
And this is the thing: my petite and beautiful contortionist is a crummy basketball player. I mean, she sucks. She's great at the practices as all of that conditioning from the circus has made her strong. She has great drive and stamina; she wants to please her coaches. But she is afraid of the ball, she doesn't know how to shoot, and she frequently passes the ball to the other team.
At first, I kept asking her if she missed circus, her friends, there, performing, anything at all, and she resolutely said, no. Finally, she asked me to stop bugging her about it, and so I did. And I sit through positively painful games where she struggles and misses, and other taller, faster girls race past her, and it's such a different experience from watching that confident, amazingly graceful girl up on stage glide from pose into pose. I want to cry every time I think about it. But despite her fumbles on the court, Annie is a happy girl. She's one of the most popular kids in her grade, and the coaches love her spirit, and there's a lot of togetherness among the team. So, I've had to let go. Maybe she'll go back to circus, and maybe she won't. She won't make the high school basketball team, that I know. But maybe there's something else out there that she'll excel at, and she just hasn't figured it out yet. Still, it's been a rough year for me, falling from grace.
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