Susan Sands: Teen Girls. Need I Say More?

She is beautiful. She owns my whole heart. She used to think I was the most wonderful person on the planet and called me "Mommy."

Things have changed in my household since then. My daughter is sixteen. She is driving. She is dating a little. She doesn't think I'm nearly as smart or wonderful as she did when she was in diapers, or preschool, for that matter.  I'm the constant heavy. I'm wholly embarrassing to her in front of her friends. I question her choices, I warn her about everything from traffic safety to watching her cup at every possible social event. I'm infinitely less fun than I was when I planned her birthday parties at venues like Build-a-Bear and the pottery painting studio.

I love her to the moon and beyond. Oh, but I worry about her coming of age in this society where things are so much the same, and so very different than they were when I was her age. Boys are still highly motivated and will say anything to have sex with girls. That hasn't changed. Communicating that fact is still a challenge without taking all the excitement and thrill out of the first blush of young romance. Does it still exist for more than a date or two these days?

They text and snapchat rather than talk to one another now. Communication between the sexes seems to be dwindling. It's easier to hide behind devices rather than get to know someone's heart. Technology is etching away social skills and manners with its abbreviated form of conversation-making. The wall between people is building, one slow brick at a time because of it.

I wonder about this upcoming teen generation and the complexities of their lives. Life has always been complex, but this added component truly worries me, as it will affect these kids as nothing has before.

I teach my kids manners, respect, and to make good choices. They make mistakes, learn lessons and move forward with hope for the future. So far, so good. Tonight is her first homecoming dance and I'm having a day of excitement mixed with worry. What will happen at the party after the dance? Will the kids make good choices? Not just mine, but all of them. Some will, and some, not so much, I suppose.

I just received a text with an apology from her for leaving her things in a huge mess as she dashed out the door, my strong words ringing in her ears. It's a hard thing...apologizing, for both of us. Neither wants to admit we're wrong.

She's getting her nails done.  I'm heading out to pick up boutonnieres. There will be lots of pictures. Wish us both luck on this exciting and big "first."

I'll be the mom (one of many, most likely) waiting for the text saying she got there safely and that all is well.

Best to all the mommies and daddies! It's truly the hardest job I've ever loved!

Susan Sands
Author of AGAIN, ALABAMA
The Tule Publishing Group

Susan Sands grew up in a tiny town in North Louisiana and graduated with a degree in education from Northwestern State University.   She and her husband, Doug, an Alpharetta dentist, live in Johns Creek with their three nearly grown children. Her debut novel, AGAIN, ALABAMA is a Southern small-town coming home story filled with fun, nutty family, and lots of heart and humor. Grey and Cammie show us that it’s never too late for second chances and healing old wounds. 

"AGAIN, ALABAMA full of Southern charm and beauty pageants, coiffed hair and pecan pie competitions. The story keeps the reader turning pages.” ~Library Journal

Susan loves to connect with readers! She can be found at the following fun places:

snsands@gmail.com

Facebook Author Page:  https://www.facebook.com/susannsandsauthor

Twitter:  @SusanNoelSands

Blog:  Sweet Home Alpharetta at: http://susansands.com

ALL WASHED UP

Wet towels have become the bane of my existence. I’m practically drowning in wet towels. I find them everywhere. Damp towels on the bathroom floor, saturated swimming pool towels on the hardwood floors. Dripping hair towels soaking into the carpets.

With my three kids home all summer, the soggy towel factor has increased exponentially. It’s almost out of control. By my calculations I am faced with at the very least nine wet towels a day, and that’s if the kids only go to the pool once. If they go to swim team practice in the morning, that’s three more soaking wet towels. Don’t even get me started on swim meet days: two to three more sodden towels per kid (that is if they don’t lose them at the meet), bringing me to a grand total of six thousand four hundred and twenty four soggy towels per week, give or take a few.

I try to encourage the kids to hang up the towels, give them a chance to air dry. But they’re just so darned wet. The towels, not the kids. So even assuming the kids did hang their towels regularly, which they’re not, the damp towel dilemma has taken over my life.

I’m washing, and drying, drying and washing. But I don’t seem to make any headway.

And supposing I do get all my wet towels washed, there’s the other problem of the towels in the closet. Every day, I wash those towels. Fold them neatly. Place them in an orderly manner on the shelves of the linen closet. And every day I find the clean towel pile overturned. In an effort to get to their favorite towels, the kids pull from the bottom of the pile, allowing the stack to tumble. Dead soldier towels, strewn about the floor. At least they’re not wet.

My husband came up with a solution to our towel problem. Unfortunately he announced it at 11 o’clock at night to an audience of overly tired kids.

The idea was this: pit each kid against the other. Whoever finds a wet towel on the floor can confront the towel offender, and force a payment of 25 cents. My teen-aged son, who never met a get-rich-quick scheme he didn’t like, started to gleefully calculate how much money he could make annually off of his sisters by merely busting them violating the towel rule.

My older daughter, our number one towel offender--but aside from that all-around wonderful helper--burst into tears, feeling persecuted. We couldn’t calm her down for thirty minutes.

My other daughter, another towel violator, stomped off to her room, slamming the door shut.

Today, my son, the mercenary, happened into his sister’s room in search of our kitten, when what did he come upon, but a wet towel. Now mind you, at least it wasn’t heaped on the carpet. It was draped across a chair. But nevertheless, it was not in its designated spot on the towel rack. Excitedly he thrust the towel in his sister’s face. She shrieked at him, accusing him of sneaking into her room, her private space. He leered at her, that ire-inducing smirk that every brother in the world knows will elicit hatred, venom, retribution from a sister. Usually in the form of a slap, smack, pinch, punch or kick.

There’s a lot more noise in my house today. Whereas yesterday, I spent the day in relative peace, stooping to pick up the myriad of wet towels laying about, today, I had to don my striped shirt, secure my whistle over my neck, and adopt the role of referee. It hasn’t allowed me much time for washing towels.

I think my life was easier when all I had to worry about was picking up wet towels off of every horizontal surface in my house. Excuse me while I go run interference with my kids, I think it’s getting violent.