Salvation Mountain

Happy New Year, everyone!

Two days ago Mr. C and I took the kids for a short road trip out here to the Salton Sea. Now, before you ask what in the world is out there that we'd want to show our kids, let me answer- there's PUHLENTY of weird stuff. Like, a beach where the "sand" that crunches under your feet is made up entirely of sun-bleached-broken-up-fish bones. And a supposed "Fountain of Youth". And a man-made technicolor mountain.

Yep.  Lots of weird stuff.  In fact, there's a whole post worth of which I have aspirations for writing later on in the week.  For now I just want to write about one little piece of the trip because I think it pertains to the New Year.  At least, I think it does.  Maybe not.  Maybe this is just what happens when I drive out to the middle of the desert and start trying to think deep thoughts.  Or maybe this is what happens when I stay up late to celebrate the New Year and try to write something serious the next day.

Maybe this'll all be a load of bunk.  I don't know.  Just stick with me.

Okay.  So.  Out in the middle of the desert, off the shores of the Salton Sea near this weird place called Slab City, there's this other weird place called Salvation Mountain.  You may have heard of it.  The guy who built it was in a movie made back in 2007 called "Into the Wild" (Good movie, by the way.  It's not about Salvation Mountain, but the character in it stopped there in his travels, and so you meet the real Leonard Knight, the creator of the mountain, in the context of the movie).  There's also been a few documentaries done on Mr. Knight and his mountain.  Those, I haven't seen.  However, for the few minutes of screen time that I did see of Mr. Knight in Into the Wild, I can tell you that he comes off as very gentle, very loving, but also slightly um.... batshit.  That's okay though.  That's about what I would expect for someone who lives out in the middle of the desert and builds a monument to God from cement and window putty, all on $242 a month.  (I'm not sure if the desert attracts people who are already a little nutso, or if it turns them that way once they're there, but it sure does seem like these spots are full of people with eccentric personalities.)

At any rate, the mountain itself is a pretty impressive sight.  The story is that Leonard Knight stopped there for a few days in the 80's after a failed attempt to launch a massive hot air balloon with the words "God is Love" on it.  He decided instead to build a small monument to God, which turned into Salvation Mountain.  The first mountain actually crumbled a few years after he started it, so he started the whole thing over again from scratch.  He lived out of his truck, worked with the sun (except in the summer when it was too hot- then he'd work from dawn to 10 and take the rest of the day off), and relied on donations of paint from people who supported his cause.  (And once word got out about what he was doing, people started coming by the hundreds.)

The end result is what you see here:

I had 2 different perspectives while at Salvation Mountain.  When I first arrived there, I was just viewing it as a massive piece of folk art.  Leonard Knight was by no means a serious artist, he was simply a devoted artist.  When you walk around the mountain you can see that he poured the paint on thick, thick, thick, not minding where spatters and splatters flew.  It's folksy, it's impressive, but I wonder if most people don't look at it and think, "Well, what a wonderful wacky little piece of weirdness done by some religious yahoo. He really must have had too much sun. "

Honestly, that's kind of what my first impression was.

Then, however, we noticed that some members of the community were kind of sitting around- almost like they were keeping vigil.  One guy was sitting next to Mr. Knights' truck, another was sitting in a folding chair near a patch of used paint cans.  Brushes were just sitting on top of the cans, like they were waiting to be taken in hand and used again.  I picked up on this feeling- like I was at a wake, and this prompted me to pull out my phone and do some quick research on Mr. Knight.   I learned that he had died on Dec. 13th, just over two weeks prior to our visit.  So, his friends were, in fact, there at the mountain keeping vigil.

Now I know this kind of makes me shallow- to change the way I look at something just because death has touched it in some way, but I think I've always been pretty honest with you guys when it comes to my short comings.  So I don't feel too bad confessing that this new knowledge made me look at Salvation Mountain as more than just a piece of folk art.  Knowing that Mr. Knight had been working on his mountain just 3 short weeks ago and would never come back to it again, caused me to think about the mountain in terms of its creator's life.

This guy had a message that he wanted to share: Love is Universal and God is Love. Wether you agree with his message or not, aren't you impressed that for the last 30 years of his life, he devoted himself completely to sharing that message?  When he was awake, he was mostly working on his mountain.  He didn't take vacations.  He gave up almost all worldly goods.  He had no water, gas, or electricity.   He lived out of his truck, and yet he also managed to create this community around his mountain- people who saw his message, saw his devotion, and supported him.  Twice, the vision for his message failed-when the hot air balloon rotted and when the first mountain crumbled.  Each time he just started over, simply thanking God for showing him his failure so that he could do it better.  He was 100% devoted to his passion.  Was he a little nuts?  Maybe.  But maybe not.  It takes a lot of courage to give up conventional society.  He was living his truth.  When you think about it, that's kind of....... marvelous.

As we drove away from Salvation Mountain, I found myself grateful to be given the opportunity in the last few days of the year to see an example of someone living exclusively for their own passion.  What if we all were able to do that?  Of course, I don't believe that we should all take it to the degree that Leonard Knight did- I love hot showers and kettle chips too much to do that.  But it was so good to be reminded in time for the New Year, with all its promises and new beginnings and fresh starts, of what can be waiting for us when we strip away things like finances and stress and society.  I may not be able to build a physical mountain like Mr. Leonard Knight did, but in this new year I'm hoping to keep in mind a metaphorical mountain- a truth that I can devote time to for no other reason than to feed my own soul.  I think we should all do that.  Personally, my mountain would probably take the form of this blog.  Or maybe it would just be my kids.  Both these things feed my soul. (Although there are days when it feels like the kids are actually eating my soul....but those are the bad days and I'm trying to be positive here, so forget I even brought that up.)

At any rate, I encourage you to ask yourself what your mountain would look like and then start building it.  I bet what you end up with will be wonderfully weird.  Or weirdly wonderful.

Just like Salvation Mountain.

Take My Santa License, Please

You guys.

I think I'm messing up the Santa thing for my kids.  Some of you may remember two years ago when I wrote about abusing the Power of Santa.  Well, I'm still abusing the power.  Oh yes.  I am abusing that power all over town.  And now I think I've gone too far.  As in, I'm pretty sure that me and Santa are finito.

Let me explain a little.  I thought I was using Santa the same way all you other parents use Santa.  Now I wonder.  It's like....have you ever watched a kid playing a soccer game when he gets the ball and starts taking it the wrong way down the field?  And then he kicks it in the goal and scores for the other team, but he still doesn't know it?  And then when he turns around you watch as the joy of domination, then confusion, and finally deflation play across his face in just a few split seconds?

That's me with the Santa thing.   Consider the ball the Power of Santa, and I'm just kicking it down the field, feeling all great about participating in a cultural tradition, and then something'll happen and I'll stop and say to myself, "I don't think this happens in other families."

For example, do other parents pull out their phones in the middle of their kids' tantrums and tell them that they're going to take a picture of them and email it to Santa?

This is J, in the midst of a serious fit trying to hide from my camera. He reminds me of a criminal in a high profile case when they're try to hide from the media on their way to opening arguments.

Do other kids believe that Jesus, God, and Santa Claus conspire together like some kind of Big Brother Holy Trinity?  Mine do.  They took what they learned in church about God being everywhere, and combined that with "He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake"and drew their own conclusions.

Here's the final nail in my coffin of guilt.  I almost don't want to write it because it's terrible.  Think of it as a confession, and next time you make a terrible parenting mistake, you can remember this and say to yourself "AT LEAST I DIDN'T DO WHAT THAT MEANIE TACY DID!"  You'll instantly feel better.  You can even consider this my present to you- a guilt absolver.  Just what every parent needs.  Merry Christmas.

Okay.  Here goes.

A couple of weeks ago a friend of mine passed around a website that makes personalized messages for kids from Santa.  The parent logs on, inputs their child's name, age, grade in school, city of residence, gift wish, uploads a picture, and then they have the choice of clicking on whether their child has been naughty or nice.

Well.

It had been a particularly rough day with J.  I was feeling tired, cranky, and a little bit vengeful.  So you know what I did.  I hit "naughty" and then "send".

That's not the part I feel bad about.

The next day, Santa sent J a message.  He was ecstatic.  He sat on my lap while I opened the link and hit "play".  He loved seeing Santa on the screen talking exclusively to him.  He was amazed to see his picture in Santa's book.  He was happy to hear that Santa got his letter and that he knew J wanted a 3DS.

Then Santa told his elves to go get J's file so he could see if he was on the naughty or nice list.  J leaned forward in anticipation.  The elves went to some machine and typed in J's name, and the machine whirred to life.  Right when I started having second thoughts about this whole thing, red lights flashed and the elves exchanged some concerned glances.  Santa raised his eyebrows and looked straight into the computer screen at J, whose fingers went nervously to his mouth.  Santa very gently told J that there was still time and that he knew that in the next week J could be a good enough boy to get on the nice list.  J looked at me and incredulously asked "I'm not on the nice list???"

That's not the bad part either.

After telling him that Santa didn't exactly say that he was on the naughty list, and that there was still time for him to get himself on the nice list, and blah blah blah  he got off my lap and said "I don't like that video, mom."

Then he wet his bed that night.

That's the part I feel bad about.  I made him believe that he was on the naughty list, and it's bothered him so much that he reverted to bed wetting.

All this makes me wonder...what kind of mind games am I playing on my kids?  Seriously guys, this Santa stuff is whacked.  I've lost count of the number of lies I tell every day to explain holes in the Santa myth (For example, Roo asked me the other day why Santa can't remember her name and what she wants for Christmas.  You see, we've met at least 5 different Santas over the season at various parties and festivities, and every time a Santa asks her "What's your name little girl?" I can tell that she's thinking "Don't you KNOW by now????")

I know people say that Santa is supposed to be the embodiment of the spirit of giving, and I like that EXCEPT for the fact that it's a metaphor and kids don't get metaphors.  For them, Santa is about presents and reindeer, and the North Pole, and all the other stuff we tell them- and then we attach their behavior to it as leverage.    I can't make it sit right with me.  For those of you who do Santa the right way- who get it- who can make it a good fun part of the holidays for your family, I'm envious.  Keep on keeping on is what I say.  For me though, I've decided that I'm no good at this game.  I understand now that the Power of Santa comes with a lot of responsibility, and just as irresponsible people should not be allowed to drive a car, some people just shouldn't be allowed to use the Power of Santa.  I'm one of them.  I'm turning in my license.

My friend wrote on Facebook that "A child's faith is fragile."  I've thought a lot about that and decided that I don't want to mess with that.  I'd rather have my kids, especially J (who I know I've written about a lot this year, but it's because his 5th year has given me lots of material to work with) be their naughty selves and I'll deal with it the old fashioned way- with consistency, as much patience as I can muster, and wine.  Lots o' wine.

*By the way, this doesn't mean that I'm going to tell them that Santa isn't real.  I'll ride this train out, but I'm avoiding the naughty or nice thing as much as possible.

As far as J goes, this morning we were reading a story about how Rudolph helps Santa, and the story asked "Wouldn't you help Santa if you given the opportunity?" to which J rolled his eyes and replied, "If he took me off the naughty list I would."

*Sigh.*

I have a ways to go with him, but I have to admit, his criminal mind amuses me.

Merry Christmas, you guys!

I'll Need Some Teeny Tiny Q-Tips, Stat

This is a conversation we had in our car on the way to school this morning.  Two things you should know before you read this:

1)We watched J's school Christmas performance last night, in which he and all the other kids wore elf hats.
2) I have a freaky obsession with keeping my kid's ears clean.

And yes, these 2 facts weave together in a weird way in the conversation below:

Roo: Mama, tomorrow can I be an elf?
Me: Ummm, yeah.  Sure.  How are you going to turn yourself into an elf?
J interrupts: Wait.  Do you want her to be an elf mom?
Me:  I guess.  If it makes her happy then I want her to be an elf.
Roo: It do makes me happy.
Me: Okay, but Roo- you're going to have to grow some big long pointy ears by tomorrow.
Roo: Okay.
J:WELL. Mom. I know something about that and it's going to make you VERY sad.
Me: (thinking he's going to say something along the lines of about how Roo will have to live far away with Santa at the North Pole or not be with us at Christmas or something.)  Okay, what's that J?
J: Elves have big long pointy ears so they probably have LOTS of ear wax.


Elfin earwax.  Huh.

I'm going to file this conversation under "Things that I never would have thought of had I not become a parent."

The Best Little Whorehouse In Oz

Hey all!  This post has been floating around in my head for a couple of weeks now.  I'm not quite sure where I'm going with it, but won't you walk with me while I figure it all out?

So.  A couple of weeks ago Matt and I took Roo to Target to spend some of her birthday cash.  She's been on a Wizard of Oz kick for a few months now (or as she calls it, The Lizard a Boz), so when she saw this Special Edition Dorothy Barbie doll on the shelf, she immediately wanted it.  We put it in the cart, paid for it, took it home, pulled it out of the box, let her play with it, and when she was done we propped Dorothy up on it's stand and displayed it on her dresser.  

That's when I noticed that something was very, very wrong.  

Since when does Dorothy's mid-western Kansas garb include thigh-highs?  And when did the hem of her dress rise up 6 inches?  WHEN did she walk down the yellow brick road in 6 inch heels befitting a porn star?  And OH MY WORD SHE IS OUTFITTED IN A LACE UP CORSET THAT EMPHASIZES HER BREASTS!  Really?  Really, Mattel?

Now, let me leave this topic for a short minute to say that those of you who know me know that I'm a keep-it-simple-kind of girl.  I don't put a lot of stock in analyzing things or over thinking them.  I know too many people who do this and end up making themselves sound like assholes.  (Case in point: Me in college driving in the car with my father.  American Pie comes on the radio, and I launch into a 7 minute speech about how I believe that song to be about the loss of American innocence during the Cold War era and the implications of the hippie movement.  My father listens, waits a moment, and then says "I'm pretty sure that it's just a song about Buddy Holly's death."  See? Classic case of one being a superfluous douche bag.)

 However, sometimes you just gotta go there. This is one of those times.  This kind of thing has been on my mind anyway for a month or so- ever since last month when I watched an entire female team of 5 year old soccer players take their team picture with identically curled hair and tiaras.  I questioned it on Facebook and one of my friends wrote that it was "Just another messed up message we send to our girls."  That one resonated with me, though there were a wide variety of opinions on it.  Some people said that it showed that girls could still enjoy being girly while kicking butt, and I feel that may be valid as well.  If that's true, though, what's the empowering message with the scantily clad Dorothy?  That a girl should look her best and show a lot of skin, both over the rainbow and in the real world?

I'm so confused.

I do know that every time I see Roo pick up the doll, I cringe.  I feel like every time she plays with it, Slutty Dorothy gets busy with imprinting her secret little message on my daughter's psyche. It's like she's saying "Oh, hi Roo. See my short little dress?  See my pretty little stockings with bows at the top of my thighs?  Aren't they pretty?  Don't you want to be pretty?  Be sure to dress just like this when you grow up and everyone (especially boys) will think you're pretty too!"

Yep.  I'm pretty sure that's what it is saying, even though Roo probably isn't conscious of it.  I'm not even sure she could really verbalize the difference between the looks of the doll and the more modest movie version of Dorothy...  I could ask her, but the truth is, I'm a little afraid to.   Best case scenario would be that she didn't see the difference at all, and the worst case scenario would be that I would have just pointed it out to her.

The most disturbing question for me in all this though, is why in the world didn't I see all this when I was in the store?  I mean, we were at Target to get my new phone too so it's a slight possibility that I was really preoccupied with my new toy and didn't focus properly on hers.  But I don't think so.  I'm usually too much of a feminist to let this stuff get past me.  Maybe this whore-of-a-Dorothy just didn't stand out as much when she was on a shelf amid other sluttinas Barbies?  Is that how I didn't see it?  Or has society just conditioned me to believe that girls should look this way so that even when I had her in my hand, I didn't even blink at her implied sexiness?

I don't have any answers, or even a good way to conclude this post, except with more questions: Am I over thinking this?  Ten years from now will I be sending her back to her room to change into decent attire with her screaming "For christsakes mom!  Even my freakin' Barbies are allowed to dress sluttier than me!" Should I burn the doll?  What do you all think?  

You Too May Be Suffering From This Disease

Hi.

I went to Costco on the day before Thanksgiving.

Stupid, I know.  I won't ask for your pity because I brought it on myself.  However, whilst there (love that word, 'whilst'), I learned a few things.

First, I need to make a shirt to wear specifically for when I go to Costco that says "If you stop short in front of me, I will ram my cart into your ass."  I'm also tempted to write on the back back something like "And if you block my way to slowly peruse the free food samples, it's fair to expect me to run my cart through you."

Second, I learned that the shopping carts at Costco are torture devices.  Anyone else experience painful electrical shocks to their fingertips and palms while manuevering their cart around that demon hole of a store?  I was trying to figure out if it was just me or if there were others having the same problem, but it didn't seem that anyone else was having issues.  However, it's possible that where I live is a factor in this since nearly everyone else in there was over 60 and grounded by their orthopedic rubber soled shoes.

Third, the problem does not lie with only Costco.  I had to also run to Stater Brothers for two slices of bacon and a red onion.  There I encountered a family of six who walked slowly down every aisle and blocked other customers from passing them.  They were carrying a small while ferret with a sweater on.

In a food establishment.

They were carrying a rodent.

In a food establishment.

And it was wearing a sweater.

At that point, I just got out of there fast because I was starting to feel unpredictable behavior coming on. Unpredictable behavior that I would not be able to be held accountable for on account of the fact that I suffer from a very serious, very real disease known as ESCR.  Extreme Shopping Cart Rage.  It's like road rage, except with shopping carts.  If you've had to repress urges to beat the shopper in front of you over the head with the double sized bag of brussell sprouts that you've grabbed from your cart, then you too, suffer from this terrible disease.  So there you go.  Now your pain has a name.  You're welcome.

Tis the season, all.  Happy Thanksgiving!

Love,

Tacy- sufferer of ESCR and various other made up mental illnesses (as well as a few legit ones)

October In A Bundle

Hi!

So I haven't written in a while.  I'll spare you the why because to be honest, I don't really know the reason.  Maybe it's because I haven't been feeling motivated/creative/funny/attractive/intelligent/articulate/awake/healthy/ human lately.  So there you go.  Pick a reason, any reason.  The important thing is that I'm writing now.  (Actually, what I'm going to do is just patch together paragraphs from the 5 unfinished posts that I did start writing but never finished for the aforementioned reasons.)

Also, New Girl is on in 35 minutes.  It's imperative that I finish this in time to watch that show since I believe that one of their writers did a subversive character study on me.  I mean yes, Zoey Deschanel's character is funnier and more charming than me, but the dorkiness?   I relate to it all too well.   We are soul sisters, but that's neither here nor there.  Let's get down to business, shall we?

In this month of October, we have:

prepared our house for Halloween.  Two years ago I wrote about how Mr. C and I have an annual argument over how scary we should make our courtyard for the trick or treaters.  This year I'm happy to announce that I have tamed the beast.  Our home was  relatively normal looking (and by normal I mean that there were no baby  doll heads on sticks decorating our front lawn.)

However, Mr. C had to have some kind of outlet for his dark side. One morning I walked out of the house to find this:

And when I got in my car the next morning, I found that he had moved her:

So it went for the decapitated Barbie throughout the month of October.  She has been placed in many compromising positions and is currently residing on a hook next to where we keep our mailbox key.

I don't want to admit this, but I do believe that there is a good chance that we are the weirdest family on our block. 

Anyway, our house was a hit again on Halloween.  We ditched the strobe light/scary mannequin guy this year and went with a Nightmare Before Christmas Theme.  We turned the courtyard into Oogie Boogie's lair by painting a bunch of props with glow in the dark paint and investing in some black lights.  Here's a little glimpse of how it turned out:

There's someone inside that Oogie Boogie suit.  Someone who sat very, very still while we passed out candy and then jumped out at people and scared the beejezus out of them as they were leaving.  It was so fun, but I'm getting ahead of myself.  I'll tell you more about Halloween later.  

Also this month we attended the annual Palm Desert Golf Cart Parade.  Yes, you read that right.  Golf carts, in a parade.  Golf carts are big out here.  We have lanes for them, much as other cities have bike lanes. We also have designated parking spots for golf carts at certain grocery stores and businesses. So, yes.  Pasadena has the Rose Parade, NYC has the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, and we, of the Coachella Valley in this great state of California, decorate golf carts and make a parade of it.

I make fun, but it's actually a good time.  The whole valley participates.  Who doesn't love a marching band? 

Plus, there were bonus points this year because 9 walked in it.  We had extra fun embarrassing him as he went by.

This also leads me to a confession.  The day before the parade, against my better judgement, I let J watch some of Poltergeist with me and PG.  It was the televised version, so it was fairly safe.  They omitted the freaky stuff like the guys' face falling off in the mirror, which led me to believe that it would all be okay.  However, he ended up coming away from the movie with a healthy fear of clowns.  (Do you remember the Poltergeist clown in the closet? Freaky.)  And what do I, his mother,  do to him the next day?  Drag him to the Golf Cart Parade where the theme is "Circus Fun"and 9 feet tall clowns wave and leer at you as they meander past.  

He is now afraid to walk down the hallway at home in broad daylight, and I believe that besides being the weirdest family on the block, I am also the meanest mother of the weirdest family on the block-  with the poorest judgement.

Anyway.

Speaking of J, I know I've been writing about him often, but it's just that he's at this age right now where half the time he is cracking me and Mr. C up.  The other half of the time he's being an obstinate a-hole.  But the times that he's funny kinda make the other half of the time worth it.  One of those times was last week when at the bank, the teller gave him and Roo a lollipop.  On the way out he's sucking on his lollipop and this older gentleman holds the door for us.  J takes out his sucker, waves it in the direction of the guys face, and  tauntingly cheers "Bet you wish you were a kid!".

I can't wait to see what kind of adult this guy turns into.

The other thing we did in October was take the kids to the LA Museum of Modern Art to see the Tim Burton Exhibit.

It was lots'o fun and very inspiring.  Also, I learned that Tim Burton and I share a hometown of Burbank, CA.  Apparently, according to the exhibit's information,  Mr. Burton was so bored by Burbank's non-culture that he had no choice but to unleash his creative genius onto his sketch pad and wait out the time until he could leave.  I too, found myself waiting out the time until I could leave Burbank, but that had more to do with wanting to find cute boys who I didn't go to Kindergarten with and who didn't already know what a huge dork I was.  I guess you could say that though we had different motives, I believe both our paths to be equally difficult and our achievements high.  

Har har.  

The museum exhibit inspired our Halloween theme.  This year our whole family dressed up as the cast of characters from The Nightmare Before Christmas.  Matt was Jack Skellington, I was Sally, the kids were Lock, Shock, and Barrel, and 9 was Oogie Boogie.  This may be my most favorite Halloween yet.  

Not just because I made most of the costumes myself.  

And not because our house was the most fun one on the block. 

And not because my nieces, nephews, and sister provided us with hours of entertainment playing Just Dance 2. 

But because while all this was going on, my other sister was in the hospital having her baby.  You know, the one I wrote about here.  

Can I tell you, first of all, the "coincidences" that surround this situation?  When I found out I was pregnant with Roo, my sister had just, days before, been in Florida going through her first failed adoption.  I felt so guilty and ended up waiting for 12 weeks before I told her and the rest of my family about my pregnancy.  My sister, instead of being upset- which would have been a completely understandable and NORMAL reaction- was extremely excited and happy for me.  So we had her be a part of the pregnancy as much as we could.  She came with us to the ultrasounds and was in the room with me when I was giving birth.  She and Roo have a special bond.  3 years later, she called me within weeks of the anniversary of the failed adoption to inform me that I'm going to be an aunt.  She went into labor on my birthday, and although she missed it by 23 minutes, Elianna Tacy Alvarez was born on Nov.1, 2011.... right between my birthday and Baby Roo's- who was born on Nov. 5.   

If you don't want to call that Divine, than call it magic, because there's no way you can tell me all that is a coincidence.   

Besides, I've never had anyone named after me before.  And you know what? 

It feels really good.  

You all have a good night! 

  

Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Facebook Addicts

Have I mentioned to you all that my mom is a therapist?  I think I've talked about it before.  I'm not sure though.  Lots of times when I tell people what she does, they remark that that must come in handy for me.  (Apparently other people see me as someone who would need a therapist to talk to often.  Go figure.)  I'll admit that nowadays it is handy, especially when I need to know (usually on a daily basis) if something that my kids are doing is weird or not.  It was not handy when I was a teenager and she was in the midst of earning her therapy license.   Me and my hormones would throw some teenage drama emotional vomit her way and she'd respond with a cool "And how do you feel about that?", which drove me and my hormones crazy.  We hated her.

So to sum it up: back then mom therapist= bad, now=good.  I'm only telling you all this because I wanted to talk about a trend she told me that she saw occurring in her practice.  Apparently more and more parents are bringing their kids in for addiction problems.  Not addiction to drugs, or alcohol, or any of the usual stuff that we're used to hearing about.  No.  Parents nowadays are bringing their kids in because they are addicted to technology.  Facebook, video games, texting- these things are becoming number one priorities in the lives of kids and grades, health, and social lives are going by the wayside.  Not only that, but she thinks we're going to hear more about this kind of problem in the future.  Apparently, Facebook Addiction is going to be what cutting and childhood obesity were for the last decade.  I believe that someone should call the program directors at Maury and The View to let them know so they can start booking addicts now.

So when she told me this, I was all "HAHAHAHAHAHA.  OH PLEASE!  HOW HARD IS IT TO UNPLUG YOUR KID????"

HAHA.

HA.

Heh.

Um.  How hard can it be to unplug your teenager?  Well.  Let's speak hypothetically for a moment.  Let's say hypothetically we have a teenager in this house with that kind of problem.  If I was going to really get into it, I could write a really good (hypothetical) tale with several good examples of what NOT to do in order to raise a teenager who isn't addicted to his phone/computer/video games.  I could probably make it kind of funny too.  But I won't.  Because hypothetically, if there was a teenager like that around here, his life would be his and not for me to write about.

Hypothetically.

However, I will say this: A couple of months ago a friend of mine on Facebook wrote this: "I'd rather give birth to a ten pound baby while hanging upside down from a tree branch than have to raise another teenager."

The image made me laugh.  Then it made me cry because I know only too well how she feels- how she probably just wants to do what's best for her kid, and he thinks she's stupid, and how she knows she's not only not stupid, but that she knows exactly what he's thinking because she once thought it too, and she tries to tell him and he doesn't believe that there's any way in the universe she could understand what he's thinking, and then she gets frustrated because she sees him making mistakes that she has the foresight to stop, but he, in his vast experience with life, thinks her foresight is just lame and wishes that she would just go away because he doesn't believe that he's ruining anything for himself long term.

Or maybe I'm just projecting.

Anyway.  Before I go, I wanted to ask you if know how before you enter a momentous stage of life like marriage or parenting, and people seem to like to offer little tidbits of advice like,  "marriage is work" or "having kids is hard"? You say "Yeah, yeah", not because you don't believe them, but because you know it's something you just have to experience before you can understand it? Yes?  Well.  Having teenagers will age you.

There you go.  Consider yourself warned.