The TV Show “The Middle” is Funny! Everything Else “Middle”… Not So Much

Sure we all like the show The Middle.    But I like little else involving “The Middle”. How about you?

Middle Age is surprisingly everything everyone older than me said it was. There really are aches and pains when you wake up in the morning. You really do notice that your skin is not what it used to be. I haven’t read, I Feel Bad about My Neck: And Other Thoughts About Being a Woman, but the title makes me say, Amen Sister!

Middle of The Road or Middle Ground is not something I like to take. Although my job as a college teacher (and being a parent) forces me to accept and examine the “gray” areas of life, I like black and white. Right and wrong. I’m a rule-follower and life just seems easier when I choose one or the other. However, Middle of The Road is occasionally necessary.

The Middle of My Long-Gone Waist Line is flab and this makes me mad! I already don’t eat all the M&M’s and potato chips that I really want to, and I exercise a few times a week, and I STILL have a ridiculously soggy, mom-of-3-kids middle!

The Middle School Years… ahhhhh!!  Well, if we’re being Mommy-mushy, there are certainly priceless, beautiful moments between 6^th and 8^th grade. Lots of really nice days and fun events are now part of our family memories, but often, those years were challenging as I painstakingly sorted through daily questions, tears, and frustrations. Can we just camp on the Middle School years for a minute?

The Middle School Gym Class is where many girls decide that messing up their hair is so not worth actually trying to compete and win a game.

The Middle School Hallway is where walking to your locker feels like you’re being bounced through the center of a pin ball arcade game.

Middle School Staff sometimes forgets that the emotional maturity gap between a first-born 6^th grader and a last-born 8^th grader is the width of the Grand Canyon. Yet, we crunch them altogether and expect the 6^th graders to feel welcome and safe. Some 11 year olds haven’t been raised on Black Ops and Mortal Kombat. If you’ve read my blog awhile, you’ll remember Desensitize My Kids?! This leads me to…

Middle School Assemblies. Sometimes, good intentions are ill-timed or go too far. Kids are ready for outside world information at very different ages. If they didn’t know prior to the assemblies, these events have taught kids where the best drug dealers can be found, how to roll, inject, snort and hide drugs. They introduced alcohol frozen pops and how to hide alcohol in your flip flops. Perhaps this information would be better suited for the parent assemblies in the younger grades. The Rachel’s Challenge assembly was much too early for my kids. My daughter’s eyes blazed at me that afternoon, “How can you EVER send me back to school?  Did YOU know that kids get shot at school?!” At 11 years old, the precious lesson from Rachel’s life which was well intended by Middle School administration, was buried by guns and mental images of terrified children. After that, I requested my children not attend any assemblies without a note or call home first regarding its content.

The Middle School Cafeteria is where lunchboxes stop being cool. Thankfully, my 9^th grader still carries hers at the high school!  

The Middle School Church. Disclaimer: I delicately, respectfully and generally speak only of my small-world experiences!  We are in the Northeast and we can’t boast truly Christ-centered churches “on every corner”, as my southern friends have. Getting youth to come on a regular basis to church is challenging. That said, the desire for my kids to experience a thriving youth group led me a few years ago to visit several church kids programs, and similar organized events.  What I discovered was between nursery and 5^th grade, the spiritual growth opportunities were plentiful. At 13, the kids are sometimes dropped off the edge of a spiritual cliff.

When kids are 0-12, they have little say about whether or not they’re going to church with Mom and Dad. When kids are 13-18, they can make dental surgery preferable to Sunday mornings.  Yet, at 0-12, my kids had more VBS, Sunday morning theatre shows, holiday events, and spiritually-driven girls and boys programming in one year than they’ve ever had as middle teens.

When they are little, we smile into those cherub faces saying, “God loves you!”  At 15, we shy away from telling them they are accepted and loved, often because their serious faces scare us off!  Leaving them alone just makes it easier for them to leave. The book, Already Gone: Why your kids will quit church and what you can do to stop it, claims that approximately 90% of kids leave church in the middle teen years.

Not to mention that the best-intended parents who say church will come before sports when their kids are 5, find it terribly difficult not to break that family rule when the kids are 15 (myself included). When they do get to church, there needs to be connection. Important to note: we can be in the best spiritual environment possible and kids will still make their own choices-I know that. I’m also deeply grateful for the godly people who devote their time to the often thankless job of serving our youth at churches across this nation.

The Middle Teens: Aren’t Always “Cute”. Remember when your little ones did something mischievous or blurted out “no!!” to you? Their cuteness saved them.  During the middle teens, their moodiness and complaining is just ugly.

The Middle Teens: Puberty.  My son turned into a completely different species. Did you read, Moms of Teen Boys Be Encouraged?

Kids in the Middle of a divorce turn into adults who still identify themselves as such. Thankfully, there are programs, such as Kids in the Middle, Children in the Middle, and Divorce Care, which help children navigate the “two homes” “four parents”, etc., but living it out as a child is tough, no matter how well parents think their kids are taking it. Some interesting information is located in the book, The Unexpected Legacy of Divorce.

The Middle of the Night. Or should I say 2am?  Anyone have the occasional insomnia? Just because I know it’s always “live”, QVC keeps me company!

The Middle Finger. ‘Nuff said.

The Middle Class and being Middle Child are up for debate! Have I bummed you out or can you relate? The Middle is not always great, so I keep striving for better. Because I hate ending anything on a downer, some good things about The Middle? Middle America! Malcom in the Middle! (I never saw it, but I hear it’s good). The Middle of an Oreo…:)

Teenage Privacy…Is it OK to spy on your teens’ texts? Internet history? Surf their social media? Yep!

Is it okay to look through your kids’ bedroom drawers?
Read their texts?
Surf their internet history?

When my children first began high school, I had more interest and opportunity to do all of those things. They were still figuring out what was acceptable and what wasn’t. I was extremely attentive. I certainly didn’t check their computer histories, texts or drawers on a regular basis, but when I thought about it, or when something seemed suspicious, I certainly had no problem checking on all of it.

No, I didn’t feel bad about that at all! I didn’t feel as though I was invading their privacy and frankly, I thought of myself as far more responsible than those who refuse to check on their kids and live by the philosophy, “Kids are going to do what they are going to do”. Now that my twins are 19, I believe that is true. When they were only 13, there was still plenty of room and time to steer their moral ship.

If you’ve read much of my writing, you know I lean toward the “serious” in life and tend to way overthink anything related to raising kids. Surprisingly, this isn’t an issue I feel is too deep. I don’t believe for a second that there is any long-term damage done to a child whose Mom cares enough to peek in on their social media.

On the lighter side of this issue, I can’t help but think…

I’ve given up privacy for 19 years.

Just recently over Christmas break when my twins were home from college, I sat down on the toilet and sure enough, in two seconds there was a knock at the door followed by, “Mom?!”
Seriously? The boy just watched me walk in here!?

When I’m in the shower, there are still occasional knocks on the door by three grown teenagers. “Mom!! Do you know where the stapler went?”

My kids pick up my phone all the time.
They flip through my texts, look at my photos and check my email.
Not because they are “checking” on me. Really, they are just sitting at the counter. And, instead of just sitting—at—the—counter, they’ll pick up my phone. I don’t mind. I do however, around Christmas and birthdays, give fair warning that their gifts might be in the photos or email.

On a more serious note, in this very depraved society, for children that might be being bullied or sexually harassed or worse, isn’t it better to surf a few things out to see that everything is okay and they are not holding back something that could eventually harm them?

Choose My Battles?

Last week my husband suggested that I more carefully “choose battles” with my twin 16-year olds.  Spending so much time together during the summer apparently had me criticizing them about “stupid things”.

While I might have dismissed my husband’s comment ;), I was convicted while reading a statement from Ruth Graham, located in the book: Billy Graham in Quotes.  She writes, “Never let a single day pass without saying an encouraging word to each child…” (pg. 41).

That hit me hard because my son was nearby looking sad.  Not mad, not angry, just disappointed that I suggested he get a haircut.  His hair is one of the battles that I’ve (for the most part) kept quiet about because he is a hockey player and having “sick flow” that sticks out of the back of the helmet is quite the rage.  I looked up from my book to see his expression which probably had less to do with the haircut and more to do with the previous hour.

“Your bedroom floor is always a mess.  Why don’t you bring the laundry when you go upstairs?  Did you seriously just leave the door open again, letting out the air conditioning?!  Can you please, just once, put the wet towels in a separate laundry basket?! Did you read anything today or just watch TV?”

His response?  “Mom, I cleaned all three bathrooms, did the dishes, and took out the garbage.  Did you notice those things?”  I had, but instead of praising the good, I focused on what needed “improvement”.

I had wet eyes as Proverbs 10:19 jumped into my head.  Just to make sure I got the hint, God dropped Colossians 3:21 into my mind:  “…do not aggravate your children, or they will become discouraged.”

Leaving my kids with heavy hearts due to “unnecessary comments” is a change I need to make.  So, I decided to abandon criticism and my drill sergeant tone of voice.  Within two hours, my resolution was a vapor and I promptly had something to say about my daughter’s shirt neckline being too low.

Her response? “Go ahead, make me feel bad again about the clothes I wear!”  All I heard was “again…”  I immediately tried to diffuse the situation, but she waved me off and stormed down the hall.

I have three really good teenagers and the four of us are particularly close.  This fact makes it especially terrible that I don’t always think before I talk.  I questioned why I am continually in their business and realized that although they have grown into young adults, often, I still attend to them as if they were ten.  There’s a major mind shift required by parents when kids become “upper-teens”.  Where monitoring the amount of texting and TV time was previously a sign of good parenting, during these years, such things become “battles”.

My daughter was recently watching “baby videos”, as we’ve been transferring old VHS tapes into DVDs of the kids when they were little.  All you hear are praises and encouragements spewing out of my husband and I on those tapes.  “Good boy!” “Great job!” given with serious enthusiasm from both of our “big” personalities.  Staring at the screen, I was reminded that those adorable cherub faces at 4 years old are the same people, just in bigger bodies…needing the same encouragement but less micro-management.  I again resolved to eliminate criticism.

It’s been a week since my resolution went into effect and it has been exceedingly more influential upon me than my kids.  I’ve picked up the laundry several times to find wet towels on top of good clothes.  The door is continuously left open on 80+ degree days.  They’ve plopped down to watch television while a mountain of clean laundry the size of Everest sat directly in front of them, waiting to be folded.  My mouth has either remained zipped or I’ve gently asked they take the clothes upstairs to their rooms.

What an enormous exercise in self-control.  About “choosing battles”?  There is already a societal and spiritual battle raging to destroy our kids.  I’m not “choosing battles”.  While I’m still making suggestions, I’m “choosing encouragement”.  1Thess5:11

My face through my son’s hockey helmet

Throwback Thursday: 5/23/13

My son’s wide, blue eyes beamed through the cage of his hockey helmet, and I noticed he was really looking at me.  I was standing over him in the Emergency Room, as he lay on a stretcher, still in full uniform from the concussion he suffered an hour earlier.  He almost seemed to be studying my face for reassurance, so I leaned in closer, tenderly comforting him that everything was going to be fine.

“Mama?” he beckoned quietly, still intensely staring at me through the metal bars.

I gently touched his sweaty, disgusting shoulder pad, as if it was a soft, delicate rose.  “Yes, sweetheart?”  My tone dripping with Motherly devotion toward her only son.

“You have a lot of holes in your face.”

The sweet smile froze to my cheeks supernaturally, though my eyebrows rose higher and I blinked a few times, attempting to process the comment.  Understand that I was experiencing that every-now-and-then moment Moms have when our children are hurting and we gaze upon them as if they are angels with halos, lavishing affection and adoration, leaving our hearts utterly exposed.  I was stunned.  Then hurt.  Then, a little annoyed.

Did he not see how cute I looked when we left for the rink?  Did he somehow not hear the ear-piercing sound of my heart beating wildly out of my chest as the rink medical staff ran onto the ice tending to his motionless body?  Did he miss the sweat pouring down my face in the ambulance, although I felt cold and was violently shaking?

Drips of love fell from those outrageous numbers of pores while he was being hauled off of an ice rink floor!  The iron will that prevented me from launching into my perspective of the last 60 minutes was only recently developed, after fielding unnecessary remarks made by my son since he became a teenager.

The nurse began taking off his uniform, freeing me up to scan my face in the paper towel holder on the wall.  No visible pores.  We stopped to buy him a taco on the way home from the hospital and I ducked into the ladies room for a quick peek.  Not the skin of a 30-year old, but no cavernous valleys were apparent.  After three hours, five x-rays, a CT, two doctors, and a $1,573 bill, all I could focus on was how to reduce the size of my pores!

Promptly the next day, I pulled out a facial gift certificate that I hadn’t used in the 10 months since it was given to me.  The spa had an opening, and I jumped in the car.  The aesthetician handed me a questionnaire in the dimly lit room.  After 20 silly questions peculiarly unrelated to my face, the form got down to business.  “What brings you in for a facial today?”  Answer:  enlarged pores.  “What is your #1 concern that you would like addressed?”  Answer: pores diminished.  “If you would purchase one product from our line today, what do you hope it would accomplish?”  You know.

As the 40-something beauty began working on my face, I asked whether she read the form I filled out.  “Shhh….just relax.”  I shifted irritably under my pretty little towel.  My pores didn’t feel any tighter and we were in there at least five minutes already.

“So, how do my pores look?” I asked casually.

She pushed down my shoulders.  “Relax.”

Relax?!  Who can relax now that we are 20 minutes into this and she may not have even read the sheet?!

Suddenly, the aroma of something I never smell at home filled my senses.  It was gentle, calming, forcing me against my will to sink deeper into the soft bed beneath me.  The smell was definitely not the sweaty hockey equipment my husband tends to dry over the heater vents in my kitchen.

My sweet boy actually did me a favor.  I decided to release his remark and my foolish reaction.  He was a teenager who called it like he saw it, albeit a supremely poor time to announce a flaw in his indulgent Mother.  I searched my memory for the last time I had a facial.  Surely it had been years and after all that child put me through over the weekend, I decided to enjoy what time was left of the rare pampering experience.

Moms of Teen Boys Be Encouraged!

I got longer than most Moms.  More hugs, more “I love you’s”, more devotion from my son than any other Mom I know.  That was, until he turned 14 years and two months old.  In one overnight sleep from Tuesday to Wednesday, an uneventful week by anyone’s standards, my son woke up one day…a teenager.

On paper he’d been a teen for over a year, but he was still in my arms, or hanging by my side, and filled the house daily-often hourly-with professions of love.  He would literally yell from another room, “Mom!”  “What?”  “I love you!”  Apparently, if you’ve experienced this type of sensitive, loving boy at all in your home, it usually only lasts until about age twelve.

So, as I said, I got longer than most.  Instead of being grateful, I was appalled.  At his scoffs at dinner food, at his rolling of eyes, and barely-there embraces before going to sleep at night.  The grunts which replaced the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’ were maddening!  Usually one to laugh easily and often, he began purposely moving his mouth around in contorted ways to avoid any expression of having fun with his family.  He would leave the room rather than let us see him smile.  If you asked me then, the friends who said that his behavior was “normal” should have be put into therapy.  “This is not normal!” I would wail.

Approximately 14 years and three months into my new son’s existence, we traveled to Florida for spring break.  I only had one rule: no texting.  This vacation was for us as a family.  Guess who broke the rule the first day and every day until the phone died?  Guess who forgot that I have access to verizonwireless.com and can see all texts?  After revoking the beloved phone privileges, I fully expected instant remorse on my son’s face.  After all, this was a child whose heart-on-the-sleeve sweetness was the envy of my girlfriends.  This time, all I saw was pure anger.  He was angry?  Who broke the rule here?  Again, my friend reminded me, “This is perfectly normal.”

For weeks following the consequence, my son schlepped around without picking up his feet.  He barely spoke to any of us in the house.  He complained about everything.  At nausea.  He needed a new folder and asked if I would go out and pick it up – that night.  I said we could both jump in the car and go get one.  “Ugh.  Can’t you just go get it?!”  I laughed.  Loud.  He opted to search out a munched, crunched, written-all-over, used folder from the mountain of “teaching supplies” my younger daughter keeps in her playroom.

Alien-like behavior ensued for a really –l–o–n–g–  18 months.  Our entire family was tortured by his nasal grunting, shuffling feet, excessively loud exhales accompanied by eye rolls, and a daily “who-gives-a-poop” attitude (this was the most irritating).  He made his sisters cry.  There were cyclical periods of disobedience followed by the exhausting task of disciplining.  I experienced floods of anger right back at him.  Other days, I would remain eerily calm in spite of his nastiness.  Many mornings, I wept on my knees upon his departure for school.  Throughout the 18 months I still said, “I love you” when he left for school, but he said nothing in response.  I murmured, cried, and sometimes yelled countless prayers to God, filled with unease that he was “on the wrong path”.  Anxiety plagued me:  Had I babied him?  Should I have made him do his own laundry?  Make his own sandwiches?  Should I have prayed more since his birth?  Was I to blame?

Then, as suddenly as the foreigner entered our home, he just as swiftly exited.  Inexplicably, without warning, another regular day by anyone’s standards, my son said, “I love you” in response to my “I love you” when he was leaving for school.  He climbed into my husband’s car and I shut the door.

Only a Mom can understand the overwhelming flood of emotion that instantly rose up from my stomach to my throat, forcing me to turn around, choking out a cheerful “goodbye!”, as if nothing out-of-the-ordinary had occurred.  Walking into the house, my face contorted.  I covered my mouth with my hand, and water poured down my cheeks.  Emotion ensued for a good, long time that morning, thankfulness to God overwhelming me.

My son wouldn’t become an empty, hardened criminal after all.  The casual “I love you” expanded nearly overnight, into doing chores without complaint, picking up his feet, laughing again with his sisters….

As I finish typing this, my now 16-year old son yelled from the basement, “Mom!”

“What?”

“I love you!”

Ugh, the joy and the pain.

This post was originally published on 5/16/13: Throwback Thursday!