As a 10th grader, she’s entering critical parts of her high school experience, both academic and social. Now is the time when she not only must make sure she’s taking the appropriate courses required for college, she also has to be mindful of grades. She also wants time to hang out with friends at football games and other activities. So, I figured that my daughter, who only sees the floor of her closet every few months when I insist that she clear it out, might benefit from an organizational contract.  It also would be a preventive measure for some of the issues we dealt with last school year. For example, my daughter would claim that she was studying while sending text messages to friends, who claimed they were studying too. I don’t think so.

We developed a contract outlining study time on weekdays and weekends. During these hours she must put away her IPod and cell phone. We set a daily curfew for texting and use of the internet and IPod. She got Fabulous Fridays, when she can do whatever she wants after school– go to a football game, hang out with friends, watch a movie, read a book. We figured out a schedule for weekly chores around the house and formalized family dinner at least three times during the week and on Sundays. We’ll also huddle on Sunday evenings to synchronize schedules for the upcoming week and talk about any problems. Most importantly, my daughter agreed to do her best academically.

Of course, all contracts have penalties and we included some in ours: loss of computer, IPod and texting time, for instance. There are benefits, too. My daughter wants a new cell phone, and if all goes well the first semester, she’ll be able to get one at the end of the year.

The first few days of school have gone well. Today, my daughter got back in bed after her alarm clock went off but when she finally got up, she moved in a whirlwind to dress, grab a breakfast  bar and walk out the door at 6:20 a.m. to catch the school bus. The high schools start early here in Charlotte and getting to the bus stop on time last school year was challenging for my daughter. This year, I told her, I am no longer offering  taxi service. It’s in the contract.

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My primary fear was that some criminal-minded person might try to force her to get off the train prior to her destination. Then I realized that I was exaggerating the possibility of an incident on the train and focused on the safety procedures in place for unaccompanied minors.

About 5,100 children travel alone annually on trains, according to Amtrak. None under the age of 8 are allowed without an adult. Staff are available to offer guidance and minors are not allowed to change trains during travel.

My 15-year-old daughter is starting the 10th grade in a few days so she’s not a little girl and, of course, didn’t appreciate my angst. A few of my friends teased me for being overprotective; others understood my reluctance.

My teenage daughter and I are entering  new territory, in which she wants more independence and I have to find the courage to give it to her. Her push for freedom is the essence of adolescence. There isn’t a name for this period in the life of a parent but maybe it ought to be called Parental  Puberty, the time when parents must accept the maturity of their children and learn how to endure the stress of it. The teen wants to learn to drive;  the parent has to take deep breaths, relax and learn how to start the process of letting go.  You get the idea.

My daughter listened impatiently to my instructions on what to do in case of an emergency and boarded the early morning train with ease.  I stood outside and watched until the train pulled off. She called me when she arrived about two hours later and was leaving the station with an aunt.

“How was the train ride,” I asked.

 ”All I did was read my book and I took a nap,” she responded, sounding as if she regularly traveled alone on trains.

 ”That’s great,” I told her.

 ”Mom,” she said, “it was boring.”

 Translation: Nothing happened.

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She mops and scrubs. She empties smelly pans. She gets to play with Sunshine, Minnie, Rascal, Chocolate Chip, Shiloh, Mama, Romeo, Rowdy, Minnie and other cats at an area animal shelter. She’s enjoying the experience.

My daughter is volunteering at a no-kill shelter, where shelter operators offer the cats and dogs for adoption and give them a place to live if no one takes them home. The animals have become family to the folks who take care of them. School starts in a couple weeks and my daughter is already talking about how she’ll miss going to the shelter a few days every week. But she is planning to work there some weekends during the school year.

My daughter fell for cats as a toddler, when the tabby I had owned for many years became an affectionate playmate.  Afi didn’t seem to mind too much when my growing daughter squeezed her a bit too tightly, picked her up roughly or pulled her tail.  Afi passed away when my daughter was 9-years-old and we haven’t gotten another pet.

I’m certain my daughter will always remember her first job. It is at the animal shelter this summer that she’s learning more about responsibility, following directions, doing the best she can at any task — sweeping and mopping and helping to care for the animals.

My first job was as a babysitter for the 5-year-old boy next door. I was 15 then and had plenty of experience; I had been a babysitter for my three sisters, including one who is nine years younger.  That summer, I worked nights to take care of the boy while his mother worked a late shift.  It didn’t matter that the pay was minimal. I was thrilled.

Are your teenagers working this summer, either for satisfaction or a salary?

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The stories are diverse – teens and young adults in France are protesting a law which increases the retirement age from 60 to 62, a new Indiana law targets teen for blood donations, its tough this summer for teens to find jobs. Of course, there are the usual crime stories. But teens also are chatting about the happenings.

I was surprised by the hostility that some teens shared about some of the news events. The website is a fascinating look at what some young people are thinking and how they’re reacting to what’s going on around them. Take a look when you can.

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Consider the goings-on at my house. On Sundays, my daughter and I go to the 9:30 a.m. services at a Baptist church. My daughter gets up, rushes to get dressed and then as I am applying my finishing touches starts complaining that she doesn’t want to be late. In fact, she’s intent on getting to the separate youth services early. Monday mornings, and every morning during the week, she barely gets to the school bus stop on time. Seems like the behavior of an alien to me.

A month or so ago, I took my 15-year-old daughter for her annual physical examination. I had been telling her for months that she needed to use a deep moisturizing cream on her skin every day since it is very dry. She ignored my advice and insisted doing it once a week or so was adequate. The doctor noticed the dry patches on her skin and repeated the advice. Now, my daughter applies the cream most days. Seems like the behavior of an alien to me.

One day my daughter is talkative, pleasant, sharing the stories of her life. The next she’s silent, moody and spends hours in her bedroom, behind a closed door. Sometimes she likes to tell jokes; sometimes she doesn’t smile. Seems like the behavior of an alien to me.

There are times when we act silly together. There are times when I wonder about the silliness of something she’s done.

My mother probably thought I was an alien, too.  I have plenty of stories — like the time I didn’t say anything to my parents for several weeks, except when spoken to, because they made me show them my bank book after I got my first job. I was 15 1/2. I used to spend hours in my bedroom reading books. I was moody sometimes too.   

I still give my daughter hugs. I tell her how wonderful she is. I know that she is going to come back to earth. In five years or so.

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She put her meal of barbecued chicken, mixed greens salad and the potatoes on the dinner table with pride. I could see — and hear– her growing confidence about how to approach tasks in the kitchen.

She hummed as she peeled the potatoes; I didn’t say too much about the thickness of the potato skin she was removing because I know she’ll get better with practice.  She still doesn’t like handling raw meat but she only mentioned the yuck factor a couple times. She even remembered to wipe the counters, sort of, between the various steps in preparing the food.

But, the big deal was really quite simple. I wasn’t with her in the kitchen the entire time she was cooking.

When my mother was teaching me to cook, there were no structured lessons. We were a family of six –including four daughters — and as the oldest I was the first to start helping out when my mother was preparing time consuming made-from-scratch meals. These days, you can buy a frozen meal in a bag and just about anything else at the drive-thru so many of us don’t cook the way our parents did. Our children also have plenty of other things to do. I’m now on a one-year adventure to teach my daughter to cook. My helpers are my mom, my aunts and Martha Stewart.

“Martha Stewart’s  Cooking School”  cookbook offers both basic instructions, with plenty of pictures, and facts about various foods. Just as there are many varieties of rice, for example, my daughter was surprised to learn that there also are different types of potatoes.

Anyway, I hadn’t planned to leave my daughter in the kitchen using a knife so early in our series of classes. But I had something else to do -can you say taxes – so I would demonstrate what to do, leave for a bit and then go and check on her.

Everything worked well and I’m thinking that I should continue leaving her in the kitchen alone at regular intervals as part of the lesson plan.

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I hauled my daughter around all day on Saturday, starting with a morning meeting of a teen leadership group about 40 miles across town from our house and a trek to pick up Girl Scout cookies from the troop leader. On Sunday, we stayed at church several hours longer than usual  so that my daughter could attend a meeting of a ministry she’s interested in. By the time we got home, she had homework and I needed to finish up some work on my estate plan in preparation for a meeting with a lawyer (more on that later). We ate leftovers for dinner.

We were too busy over the weekend to do our planned cooking class. My one-year effort to teach my daughter to cook is going to be challenging, not only to make it interesting and fun, but to find the time to do it every weekend. My mom is helping (she has promised to teach my daughter how to make old-fashioned biscuits and other favorite dishes) and I’m using “Martha Stewart’s Cooking School” cookbook as a guide. 

This week’s cooking lesson:  Our teens are busy and teaching  them to cook can easily fall behind other commitments.  But, there’s always next weekend.

Have you started teaching your sons and daughters to cook?

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This is one of the realities of being a Sandwich Generation mother in my mid-50s with a relatively young teenager (my daughter turns 15 this month.) It doesn’t bother me. There are plenty Baby Boomers who didn’t start families until their forties. I’ve just been noticing the age differences between other parents and me since we moved to North Carolina a few months ago. 

It’s probably because I’m no longer a part of my longtime circle of friends, who also are Baby Boomers with young teenagers. Over the years, our children grew up together, attended the same schools and were involved in many of the same activities. There were more of us in the crowd of other parents so no one stood out. 

That fact that I’m older than many other parents in my daughter’s world didn’t really hit me until the recent Girl Scout parent meeting. I was talking to one of the other moms about an upcoming outing when she called me “Miss Mae.” Here in the South such greetings are reserved for older folks in a show of respect. Call me Mae, I said.

Oh well. I’m a Sandwich Generation mom and loving it. Are you experiencing the parent age gap too?

By the way, join Soul Rhythms blogger Yvonne Shinhoster Lamb and I in the Melt the Middle Challenge. Let’s shrink our waistlines over the next six months.

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I knew the transition wouldn’t be easy for my daughter as she finds her way as a freshman in high school. She is starting to make friends at her new school but she’s not fully exploring the potential of the relationships. Outside of the classroom, she has recently joined a Girl Scout troop and a leadership development group for teen girls. 

My daughter laughed, giggled, and had plenty of girlfriend talk with her old buddies. She had a good time. I did too. 

As we were leaving the Washington area, my daughter turned to me and quietly said, “What time will we be arriving home?” Then, as if she had made some huge mistake, she quickly added, “When will we get to our apartment?”

I looked at her and smiled. She may be having a difficult time with the move but in the nearly four months we’ve been in North Carolina she’s beginning to embrace the fact that we have a new home. She just doesn’t want to admit it.

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What is the appropriate age to allow teenagers to see this movie? Or, should parents allow teenagers under the age of 18 to see it at all? 

Indeed, the movie is powerful. It opens a door into a world of disturbing suffering but also celebrates the strength of the human spirit. But it crosses the line into a distasteful voyeurism. There is a scene showing a vicious sexual assault on Precious by her father. Precious’ mother gets angry with her daughter and throws her weeks-old granddaughter down. A toddler in the role of Precious’ older daughter, who has Down’s syndrome in the story, appears to have the disorder and is actually in a scene when Precious’ mother calls the child stupid and other ugly names. I know it is acting but it’s too much. 

I’ve been asking myself what would my daughter, who turns 15 in a few weeks,  gain from seeing this movie. I know that I left it with a troubled spirit and I’ve already seen plenty of ugliness during my life, particularly as a police and court reporter when I started my career as a journalist years ago. This movie could have used much more innuendo. Did it have to slap us up beside the head? 

For the right reasons, this movie is rated R. I’m not going to allow my daughter to see it and I don’t think it is suitable for other young teenagers, even if the parents sit beside them in the movie theater. Of course, our teenagers today are exposed to harsh realities but I don’t think they will gain anything from being drenched in the pathology of this movie except a bit of emotional exhaustion.

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