Teenage Dream

In April, Blue and Green turned nine. Nine. I can't believe how old they are. Mostly, Michael and I are just glad that we no longer look like this:


But it's also a strange time. The boys seem to be sitting on a line that divides childhood and adolescence. At any given moment, they can be darling little cherubs OR they can be sullen, sulky, dissatisified mini-adolescents declaring that everything is disappointing. When I wake up in the morning, I'm never quite sure which kind of kids I'm going to get.

A few weeks ago, I sent some cute little boys off to school. The ones that returned brought home a full dose of swagger in their backpacks.

Blue walked in and said,

'Sup.

Then he picked up his ipod and popped in some headphones.

"Wait a minute." I said to him. "What kind of greeting is that? How was your day?"

"Boring," he said.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"What?" he answered. "I can't hear you over the music."


Sadly, I have to confess that the ipod was my idea. I was honestly just trying to deflect the continuous begging for a smart phone. Because, you know, their friend So-And-So has his very own iphone, and omigod, he can play the BEST games and download the BEST music and PLEASECANIHAVEONE?????? So I started thinking about how they could download audio books on an ipod, which, is somewhat educational, right? Surely an ipod would be both cool AND a wholesome recreational device.

Well, so far, the kids have not downloaded any audio books. Instead, it's all about music. Have I mentioned the music? Weren't we just listening to sweet songs about school buses and the occasional ode to Martin Luther King? Not anymore.

I certainly got an earful in the car the other day. I was driving along, trying to elicit more than one word answers from my kids, when they suddenly burst into song. Katy Perry's song. The one that goes like this: Let's go all the way tonight/No regrets/Just Love. Then there's a part about letting someone feel you in your skin tight jeans.

Ahem.

(For you oldsters out there, THIS is Katy Perry)

I have to say that I am all about free expression. I basically spent the whole of ninth grade writing about music and my rights to listen to whatever I wanted. At the time, we were learning the mechanics of the 500-word theme. My first opus was called, "The Walkman: Pro or Con?" In it, I had to write 5 paragraphs: an introduction, a paragraph in which I acknowledged a contrasting perspective, two supporting paragraphs, and a conclusion. I was definitively a fan of walkmen, but I did write a solid second paragraph in which I conceded that there might be times when using them could be dangerous. "Granted," I wrote, "wearing your walkman while riding your bike might make it hard to hear a car honking at you. This could result in damage to your ten speed or even injury."

(For you youngsters out there, THIS is a walkman)

I followed up with a second walkman-related essay called, "Don't Censor Music! (Keep Your Judgment Out of My Walkman)." This piece was in response to the Parental Music Resource Center's attempt to keep explicit music out of the hands of children. Remember? Tipper Gore was the head of it, and she propelled the whole movement to get ratings attached to music and videos. At the time I was outraged. Of course, now my own children are yodeling about underage sex while strapped into their booster seats. In response, I have developed a fantastic beginning for the second paragraph of that ninth grade paper: "Granted, some people are worried that their nine year-olds will sing a loud and off-key version of Katy Perry's 'Teenage Dream' at the Thanksgiving dinner table in front of their grandparents. This is a valid concern."

Mostly I am just happy that Blue and Green don't seem to understand what the song means. I know. I know. I could have used the skintight jeans episode as a teachable moment, but I was honestly too busy choking on my Diet Coke to handle it.

Some issues do indeed appear to need some clarification, however. For instance, a few months ago, the boys and I had this discussion:

Green: We learned a dirty word in school today.

Me: Oh?

Blue: It's the worst word.

Me: The worst word? What is it?

Green: It starts with the letter F.

Me: Tell me what it is.

Blue: It rhymes with "Coke."

Me: What?

Blue: You know...

Me: Foke?

Foke! The dirty word is Foke! That is fantastic! My kids learned the "dirtiest word," and they got it wrong.

But on the very same day, the boys were preparing their Easter baskets for the Easter Bunny. Michael and I are baffled about their ongoing belief that a rabbit breaks into the house in the middle of the night and brings them Easter gifts and chocolate. This year he brought an iTunes card so that they could download more Katy Perry. Now, technically, I suppose, a man in a red suit could slide down the chimney with a bag of iTunes cards. But a rabbit? Really?

Michael is worried that they are going to learn the truth about the bunny on the playground and be outraged at us for lying all these years. Frankly, I am not so sure that they will believe the person who spills the (jelly) beans on this one. I imagine the scene will unfold something like this:

Blue: Dude, I just heard from Linus and Sally that there's no Easter Bunny. They said that our parents fill the baskets.

Green: 'Sup wit dat? That can't be right.

Blue: Yeah, foke that.


I guess I have to get used to half-and-half: half little kid/half big kid; half believer/half skeptic; half delight/half ennui. (I might need a large glass of half gin/half tonic to get me through it). In the ever-so-deep words of Katy Perry: It's the lessons in our lives that make us wise/But young or old I'm told it's the same/Oh, these growing pains never go away, so I'll just keep on trying.

Integrity

The new academic quarter began last week, and I once again delighted the students with my Academic Honesty speech. I've written before about my problem with various cheater-pants. I have a list of favorites: the girl who blamed her cheating on an infection she got from her Brazilian wax; the girl who said that her ovaries made her do it; and, of course, there's the student who said that she had no idea that her essay came from the internet, because she had her DAD WRITE IT FOR HER.

In response, I have developed an Academy Award-worthy performance that starts with me moving in close and lowering my voice. The various Ashleys and Brianas lean forward in anticipation. I blink rapidly as if the topic fills me with emotion. I swallow loudly. And I tell the story of a student who had BIG DREAMS to MAKE A DIFFERENCE. She WORKED SO HARD, but then one quarter she got DESPERATE. She couldn't make it all work. She was overwhelmed. She made a bad decision. She copied her paper from the internet, and she GOT CAUGHT. And it was so sad -- all her dreams were dashed, and now she's a clerk in a widget factory, earning minimum wage.

OK, I confess that this story is not really true. There are no lost dreams. No widget factory. The girl with the wax issues and the other with the ovary problems probably have more exciting and lucrative careers than I do. So, essentially, I am lying in order to describe the evils of cheating, which is problematic in so many ways.

But, whatever. Ethics are overrated.

(Note to college students out there: Read this blog entry. If you're going to cheat, you should definitely improve your skills.)

After I gave my cheating speech, I had to come home and help my third graders with their homework. No longer does homework involve sorting leaves or estimating how long it takes for an ice-cube to melt. It increasingly requires me to be a calm and persistent nag. Our afternoons go like this:

Me (with fake enthusiasm): Time for story problems! Yay!

Kid (looking briefly at worksheets): I don't get it.

Me (irritated): You haven't even tried.

Kid: But I already know I don't get it.

Me (after reading the first problem): I don't either.

Here is a version of our daily struggles:

Priscilla, Keisha, and Juan are riding on a train going south at 75 miles an hour. Priscilla is wearing a yellow sweater. Keisha is wearing a blue sweater. If the train breaks down, and everyone has to get on a Greyhound bus going north at 35 miles an hour, what color sweater will Juan be wearing when they reach their destination?

If only it were warm enough that Juan didn't need a sweater. Damn it!

But let me tell you, the math was the least of my homework issues last week. Over the past few months, Blue has been preparing a report called, "The Book of Knowledge." Sounds impressive, doesn't it? In reality, not so much. Apparently, the students had to pick a country and write 10 paragraphs about its many fine qualities. Blue chose Austria, mostly because he already did a project on Austria this year and didn't want to do any extra learning.

Just before winter break, Blue brought home his "rough draft," claiming that he was done with the paper and just needed to type it up. I gave him a congratulatory smack on the back and stopped thinking about it.

The project was due last Friday. On Wednesday, I said, "Blue, isn't it time for you to finish up that report?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll get it done," he said.

I rustled up his papers and took a look. One paragraph began like this: "Austria lies at the nexus of modernity and history."

Wait.

What?

I read the paragraph again. And again. And I thought about my kid's eight year old vocabulary. It slowly dawned on me -- Blue copied this report from a book. Word for word. He PLAGIARIZED it.

Fantastic.

And now I had to give my Academic Honesty speech to my child. "Blue," I said, "Do you want to have all your dreams dashed? Do you want to work in a widget factory, earning minimum wage?" He gave me a blank look, which is essentially the same look I get from his 20-year-old cheating counterparts.

The pisser was that Blue had to re-write the whole report. Plus, he kinda forgot to mention that he needed to illustrate each fabulous page. In one day. The whole thing reminded me of that time in college where I neglected to read Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov as assigned, but then tried to consume it all in one evening in preparation for the test (Additional note to college students: That particular strategy, it turns out, is not the best way to appreciate Russian literature).

So on Thursday morning, I sent Blue off to school and started obsessing about how we were going to accomplish this task. First, I re-read this article in the New York Times and mentally prepared a letter to the district about the evils of homework for children. Then I began to bite my nails. If I got Blue to sit down and start working at 4 pm, could he get through it? Was it too early to introduce him to the concept of an all-nighter? Would that be teaching him good study skills, or would it be child abuse?

Then it occurred to me -- I had the whole day free. I could quickly rewrite Blue's Austria report in his own words...er, my own words. I could turn "majestic" into "pretty." I could turn "goods and services" into "stuff." And who would know the difference?

ACK! What was happening to me? I stopped for a moment to contemplate this story problem:

If Blue copied his paper word-for-word from a book while riding on a train going south at 75 miles an hour, and then his mother re-wrote his paper to make it seem like his, would the paper be more original or even less original by the time Blue reached his destination?

In the end, I stepped away from the abyss. I handed Blue's report, and his integrity, over to him. He worked for 5 hours. He did the illustrations, designed a cover, and signed his name by 9 p.m. His brow was sweaty, and his fingers were cramped. He said, "I think I'm ready for college."

Actually, I believe he's right.