You know the saying “The worst teenagers are preacher’s daughters and cop’s kids.” I have no experience with the first, but the second I can state for the record is true. A child who knows the law better than the police do plus has no fear of authority is a child to keep in your prayers. I will tell the parent whose child—right now—is dyeing their hair green and wants to pierce strange parts of their body that her child is not the teen to fear. Why? Their rebellion is right in front of your face like a neon sign. Rejoice parents!

One day while I stood at a register in a small drugstore, a young man dressed in a black duster—hair spiked with eye liner on—walked by. The older woman behind the counter asked, “Why do they do that?” her face a scrunch of disgust. I pointed to her face, “because of that.”

  • They are what we parent’s with kids who get into trouble call decoys.

The goth or artistic teenager is the camouflage that the clean-cut jock hides behind as he shows up for practice drunk. Adults are so blinded by the visual that stands out that they never see what hides in plain sight—even when it is pointed out to them.

Now don’t get me wrong, I loved raising my teenagers, and if I wasn’t married to a man who needs therapy after we babysit a puppy, I would foster teens in my home. I love a challenge. They have 24/7 to figure out how to trip you up, and you have five seconds to counter.

For example:

Andrew: Mom, I have a new girlfriend and the sex is a-maz-ing.

Me: (after blinking twice) Well that explains the lack of acne.

Not joking, the above is a true conversation between me and my nineteen-year-old son, home for the weekend from college. This led to my warning that the better the sex the crazier the partner. Unfortunately, my warning came true. He had to join the army and change his phone number to safely rid himself of her. It was one of those life lessons a person just has to learn the hard way.

Things that scare a normal parent such as picking their teenager up at the police station or at a drunken party did not faze me. It’s on the same level as a five-year-old hitting another to get the toy he wants, horrible but not life shattering. What follows as I pick up where the police left off is a stern lecture and punishment to fit the crime (meaning I need valium and an ice pack to get through it!)

  • Remember—it is not a true punishment if you don’t also suffer.

The most terrifying statement an adult with teenagers can hear coming over the telephone is “First, I am alright, Mom, don’t be mad but …” followed by, “Hey, Mom, how much cash do you have on you?”

I also had the double whammy of my children inheriting my brutal honesty and their father’s Scottish problem-solving skills. Translation: whatever was in their heads came bouncing off their tongues without a filter, and they needed a “good mad” going in order to communicate. Picture a stereotypical Italian family, as my sister-in-law has taught me, but with flying fists when irate rises to infuriated.

Unfortunately, the lack-of-a-filter in my children I could never solve because it is my problem also and at fifty-plus is still a problem. However, for the fighting, I have two solutions: 1) whoever yells first loses the argument and 2) if they get into a fist fight, I douse them with water and state, “If you two are going to act like dogs then I am going to treat you like dogs.”

  • After all it is easier to clean up a liquid, than it is to repair furniture.

When my mother gave me a parenting book for teenagers, she told me, “Sometime you need to slap that child upside the head with it in order to get their attention before anything inside will work.” No truer words were spoken.

I would like to say I read book after book on child rearing and formulated a plan, but what I read just didn’t fit. I am sure somewhere out there are children who can be guided through childhood or lead toward the path of righteousness. Mine ran in every direction. I just made sure they were headed the right way down the road of kid-dom and then batted them back in when they got too close to the white lines.

All my insecurities about parenting came to a head when I comprehended not only did I not have control, but I never had it. That is when I was thrown into the trenches of teen purgatory along with my children, and the words that came out of my mouth at times horrified me.

When confronting my son about the error of his underage drinking, I said, “You are not allowed to fuck up your life. That is my job.”

When I was losing an argument with my daughter I would say, “That is not the way to argue respectfully. Now, go to your room.”

When my middle son wanted to join the Marines instead of go to college, I said, “Marines are assholes, and I didn’t raise you to be one.” Then I hit him with the brochure. Okay that wasn’t my finest hour, but still you get the point.

In-the-trenches parenting was hard and the most hair-raising ride I have ever taken. I had power struggles with my daughter where I sometimes found myself standing with my hands on my hips and stomping my foot as I told her, “I am the adult.” There was the time I jumped over the kitchen table to stand on one of my six-foot-tall son’s toes, so I could get into his face and scold him about one evil or another he was heading into because saying “look at me” was not something I could pull off at five foot two.

My best tip on parenting is to own a clown nose and don’t be afraid to use it. Wear it while walking your offspring, (from middle school on up) to school for a quick and unforgettable punishment. I personally have never had any repeat offenders. After the first time, the threat was enough.

Then there is my whisper/yell method. I yell when frustrated and whisper when I want to actually be heard. After catching my son in bed with his girlfriend, I whispered my disappointment and the rules of my house which were to be followed. To this day I believe she is still scared of me, because Teddy Roosevelt was right, just carry a big stick and whisper.

Today I point at my children who now have children of their own, and I want to say, “Yes, I raised those adults. I rode them until the end, and now they are productive citizens without an arrest record. I rule!”  The truth is that legions of angels watched over us because no one is smart enough or stubborn enough to be able to raise a brood like mine and still be standing.

On second thought, I’m taking credit anyway.