Sandy Slaga

The Summer Parent sings this song
Doo-da, Doo-da
Back to school in 16 days
Oh, doo-da day!

Homework time at night
Classwork time all day
School uniforms all day long
La La doo-da day!

Just in case you were lying awake at night wondering ……….

It is, in fact, possible for a sixteen year old female to operate a lawn mower and read text messages and/or incoming caller ID numbers on her cell phone.

In the beginning, when God created the male child, the parents were naive and a perfect contentment protected their minds.

Then God said, “Let there be infancy”, and there was infancy. The parents saw how good and pleasing infancy was and desired to remain with the male child.

Then God said, “Let the male child bring forth the terrible twos: every kind of sound that yields babble and screeching.” And so it happened. God saw how good the toddler was for the parents.

Then God said, “Let the male child teem with an abundance of preschool, and all kinds of grade school adventures.” And the parents saw how good it still was, albeit a bit trying from time to time.

Then God said, “Let there be hormones.” God saw how good and necessary the hormones were, and God blessed them saying, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the male child with adolescence.” And so it happened.

Attitude came, and lip followed — the first day.

Then God said, “Let us make The Teenager in his father’s image, after his mother’s likeness. Let The Teenager have dominion over the sanity of the mother, the car insurance of the father and over both their debit cards.”

And so from the male child God created The Teenager; in his parents’ image he created him.

Attitude came, and “the look” followed — the six hundred ninety-second day.

The Teenager brought forth all manner of intelligence and wisdom: every kind of rationalization and distraction covered the cerebral abyss.

Attitude came, and moodiness followed — the fifteen hundred thirty-seventh day.

Then God looked at the male child and at the parents and all that they had done.

And God found everything as it should be.

Twenty days.

The Dog Days of summer did not earn the tag for mere heat alone. The Summer Teenager was part of the equation.

Sad, tired eyes. Drooping tails. The horizontal, coma-like form. And the crabbiness. A bit edgy, are we?

Summer Parent is positively giddy.

A little song. A little dance. A little seltzter down your pants.

It started three weeks ago. The seventeen year old announced the senior year countdown. We’re not talking mere diploma delivery date here.

The dizzying whirlwind of “lasts” begins August 23rd. Last high school book day. Last first day of school for high school. Last time to buy a student parking permit.

Last Homecoming dance. Last first, second, third and fourth quarter exams. Last semester exams. Last Prom.

Last football game. Last Homecoming foot ball game.

I pointed out that he’s been to two games tops in the past three years. Undeterred, he divulged senior year plans that include every game in full green and white body paint. Loin cloth optional.

I feel a sacramental wine moment coming on.

The seventeen year old is horizontal and still sleeping. It’s 11:45 a.m.

He awoke briefly in response to the plastic bag of dog poop camped at the foot of his bed. A helpful little reminder that poop patrol goodies are temporarily housed in the distant back yard and not in the garage garbage cans.

He’ll emerge, voluntarily by 1 p.m., or involuntarily at any time the spirit moves me. If neither parent nor paycheck requires his consciousness, he will grunt his way through the kitchen and descend to the basement, adolescent sustenance in hand. There he will remain vertical on an as needed basis, and eventually resume a parallel oneness with the couch in front of the t.v.

The sixteen year old is vertical and watching t.v. in the family room. To her credit, she emerged circa 9 a.m. She has had the ritual bowl of Capt’n Crunch Crunch Berries, the breakfast of choice for summer hiatus, while watching Regis and Kelly and The View. She’s now ascended to the upper level and commenced the late morning schedule. Shower, make up, hair.

Ok, they have summer jobs. Big deal. I did, too, at that age. One dollar per room cleaned at that Holiday Inn. Hoo boy, those were the days. On a good weekend I could rake in twenty-six, twenty-seven dollars.

The rest of my time was very well spent.

Sleeping in on days off.

Cruising up and down the main drag on nights I could sweet talk Dad in to letting me have the car.

Hanging out with friends doing nothing in particular as far away from my parents as I could get.

“Can I open it when we get home, Dad?”

“Yea, sure.”

“Oh, boy! Vvvrrrroooommmm.”

A three-year-old boy. A blue Matchbox® car. That’s all it took to help that dad sail through a late night trip to Walgreens with his son.

I smiled through tears as I avoided eye contact with the Walgreens cashier who looked young enough to have a three year old of her own.

The breakup with the boyfriend. The fair weather friends. The gossip that, thanks to instant messaging and MySpace, gets around faster than a virus at daycare. And the cell phone is just one more phone in the house that doesn’t ring.

“I wish it was still that simple,” I told the young cashier. “A ninety-nine cent toy and you’re queen of the universe in their eyes.”

And all the owies can still be fixed with Bactine and a band aid.

The only thing better than having two teens around is having three.

Having experienced the life cycle of the human from birth to seventeen (so far), I vote for the mid to late teen years. They challenge but they energize. They infuriate but they amuse. And they can feed, bathe, dress and then drive themselves to the movies.

Here’s to The Teenagers!

Phase Reality was previewed at last night’s family meeting. Summer Schedule. Summer Routine. Gasp! Curfews.

Called from the outermost corners of the free world, the Summer Teenagers emerged semi-coherent and ambled into the living room. They collapsed, the seventeen year old into a chair, the sixteen year old onto the couch. Their faces grim, shoulders slumped. Did somebody’s cell phone bite the dust?

The seventeen year old stared at the end of his nose, deep in thoughts of gratitude, I’m certain. His body was now molded into the chair frame like warm wax.
The sixteen year old, reading ahead on the agenda, promptly announced that there was no way she’d be spending a half hour cleaning her bedroom and bathroom daily. With that, she assumed the fetal position in the corner of the couch. The only additional communiques from her were unintelligible but primitive in origin.

Living martyrs, no doubt. As each item of Phase Reality was disseminated, the Summer Teenagers struggled, the weight of their encumbered freedom almost too much for a Summer Parent to bear. Almost.

I’d like to say that after a spirited yet mature discussion, the evening ended in a relaxed atmosphere, a game of Scrabble and hugs. I’d also like to weigh 120.

Damn, I love a good dose of reality.

I’m steeling myself for the invasion of the Summer Teenagers. This variety, unlike School Year Teenagers, is a strange albeit predictable lot.

Summer Teenager is physically indistinguishable from School Year Teenager, but the similarity ends there. Once we’ve left the physical realm, Summer Teenager is to School Year Teenager what Paris Hilton is to Hillary Clinton.

Summer Teenager is unaware of time and space. Freed from the shackles of the school day and the tyranny of homework, the newly liberated Summer Teenager catapults from captivity into the first few days of summer like a sailor on a three day pass. Summer Parent wisely allows this brief seasonal adjustment which will, in fact, last three days and is affectionately known as Phase Frolic.

Summer Parent’s favorite, Phase Reality, begins Monday. Stay tuned.