As a young adult, I never imagined the picture of raising children to involve me lying face down in the yard with turf in my teeth. And yet, here I am. I blame middle school as it is, most assuredly, a contact sport.
This fall, my youngest entered 6th grade and marked my permanent moming transition from childhood to tweendom. It’s an awkward feeling knowing the door to simpler days has been slammed shut and sealed. And so here I stand in the pantry of middle school mom choices forgetting what I came in here to retrieve.
We’ve stepped into the big leagues of sink or swim. There’s the freedom of no lines when switching classes but the temptation to run. There’s the opportunity to use the restroom on break but only a 3-minute time slot to do it. The consequence of choosing poorly can mean infractions and resulting in lunch detention. Freedom of choice also has rules for your breaking. That’s real-world stuff. The mama dilemma is our mental rolodex of pigtailed childhood images and fighting back the urge to think that she’s not ready.
The thing that’s unnerving about parenting tweens is the unpredictable nature of what’s coming next. It’s like a game of dodgeball. Shots are being fired at you constantly from all angles, and while you know that the shot from the rubber ball is not likely to be painful, you stand at the ready to bat them down.
This new phase of life has us searching for appropriate answers to awkward questions. Pat and I have settled on an “ask me anything, and I’ll tell you the truth” policy. We try to keep in mind that while explaining the details of sexuality and puberty aloud is uncomfortable, mustering the courage to not only ask the question but listening to your parent’s answer is probably worse.
I’ve found that the emotional roller coaster that comes along with changing hormones is more difficult to keep in check. I have an entirely different mental rolodex of images and words that flash through my brain when dealing with eyerolling, attitudes, and disrespectful comments. I try to remind myself that the kids are learning to test their limits, and it’s our job to show them the boundary line. Pat is much better at this than me. He stops the kids as they are approaching the line. I wait until they step on it, and I then either act like a complete maniac or take their door off the hinges.
Then there’s our responsibility to teach responsibility to the kids. Once again, Pat’s methods in this parenting category have proven more effective than mine. As the kids have grown, so has our to-do list. Today, there’s more laundry, dishes, and trash than in previous years. In an effort to spread out the chores, we’ve created the rule that the people who eat without preparing the meal have dish duty.
On one such occasion, sissy and I had spent that better part of an afternoon cooking dinner. Cam and Pat cleaned out the garage while Dakota gamed. After dinner, the rest of us carried our dishes to the sink and walked away. Dakota reluctantly slinked into the kitchen and grabbed the sprayer. He worked for several minutes, and then declared that he was finished. Pat, toting his ever-present follow through, headed to the kitchen to inspect his work.
Through an audible exhale, Pat called Dakota back to the work site. Holding up a pan, Pat calmly said, “Son, if you were going to wipe your butt…” He paused 5 seconds for effect. Pointing to the half-scrubbed dish, Pat continued, “would you leave that much trash in there?” The rest of us held our breath. You could hear a pin drop. Finally, Pat said, “This is what we called a ‘half-assed’ effort.” Our kitchen erupted into laughter. Everyone was laughing—everyone but Pat. That lesson hasn’t had to be taught again.
We’re finding that getting their attention when teaching lessons requires different tactics than before. Much like the shots being fired at us, we must be prepared to volley the ball back in relevant ways. It’s necessary that we differentiate between the times to show our vulnerability and the times to draw a boundary. It’s instructing them on how to enjoy the humor of Adam Sandler while also not repeating the behavior modeled in the movie.
The cliques and comebacks, braces and body odor, cafeteria fights and contact sports of middle school are part of the journey to adulthood. The other half of that is long division and Narnia. I’m convinced that teaching middle school is a calling much like that of the ministry. I’m thankful that God called me to serve elsewhere.
God did, however, call me into parenthood. I lovingly refer to this season of my calling as “minding the gap.” According to Wikipedia, “mind the gap” is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform. Our spatial gap is tweendom.
The best part of my parenting journey is learning to row in the same direction as my partner. So how did I end up with turf in my teeth? At our house the vulnerability / boundary balance involves a lot of play. It’s a solid outlet that recharges everyone’s batteries. On one such occasion, we engaged in a backyard kickball game.
Pat was playing all-time pitcher because 5 people won’t divide evenly into teams. Cam and I were opposing the twins. Dylan was up to bat. Cam guarded first base while I filled the short-stop gap. We were confident that the ball wouldn’t be kicked past the infield, so we positioned ourselves for the out. As expected, she popped the ball up.
“My ball,” I thought as I advanced quickly forward. “This will be great,” my thoughts continued. “Cam will be so proud. We could win this thing, and little brother could have bragging rights for the rest of the week.” I was determined to catch that ball. Just as my fingertips were in reach of the red rubber, a shadow descended over me. It was a train-barreling husband shadow. It hit me like a ping pong paddle pummels a hollow ball. My body was sent stumbling in the opposite direction toward the chain link fence.
Our kids watched in slow motion as their parents attempted to wrestle their way out of slamming into the fence. I landed face first in the dirt with Pat’s arms underneath me—his desperate attempt to break my fall. Neither of us caught the ball. Once my eyeballs stopped rolling around in my head, I sat up to see our kids standing nearby, mouths gapping open. Our laughter from reliving the moment lasted longer than our bruises. I’ve since learned to call my catches.
But that’s the way of minding the tween gap. Sometimes we’re so focused on outcomes for the kids that we run slap over our partner. Disaster can be averted if we take time to communicate with one another. It’s then that we get the win without the dirt aftertaste.
I’ve often wondered why people renew their vows. Now I know that some unexpected antonyms need to be added. The first time around did not include child-rearing before and after puberty. Although the Denneys aren’t walking down the beach dressed in white to recommit to what we started almost 20 years ago, we’re still showing up for one another. We’ve never stopped. And we’re seeing this through—in sickness and in health and as we fall apart. Now someone send me a recommendation for a chiropractor.