Our boys are such a gift. Seeing the world with new eyes each day. Laughing riotously, about everything, anything, and nothing at all. Full of big dreams and even bigger imaginations.
But in many ways, we fail our boys, too.
We don’t do enough to encourage their sensitivity. Middle school students mock boys for crying, and there are still too many parents who reinforce that message at home. I don’t want my son falling apart over a paper cut (my daughter either!), but our boys need to know that it’s okay to cry. That sometimes, sitting through the really hard stuff and letting it out is the only way to move forward.
Advice from the battlefield. With a seriously funny edge.
“Teenagers are like those cool tropical fish you get after you’ve mastered goldfish.
Who am I kidding? No one can master the keeping of goldfish. Or pre-teens. Or teenagers. You graduate only to bigger kids, but with bigger issues and bigger appetites. God help us all. Especially me?…
Keep your head up – here are tips I offer from years of battleground experience.”
#AtoZChallenge: T is for Teenagers – Coach Daddy
I’m having a wee bit of trouble wrapping my brain around the fact that Bear turns eleven today.
If you’ll bear with me for one moment, I’ve gotta do a bit of shameless mama bragging on these kids o’ mine.
These babes are the bomb diggity. They’re smart, funny, talented, and beautiful by any measure. When they’re unhappy it’s palpable. When they’re happy, joy radiates from them like warmth from the sun.
If you visited the blog yesterday you know this has been an intense week. Frankly, I’ve downed a lot of Advil and done more than my fair share of stress eating, neither of which really fixed what ailed me. Beer didn’t help either. That’s what I get for trying to self-medicate.
Bee recently talked about what it’s like to live in redneckia and it made me laugh. Then it made me cringe. Then laugh again. Because sometimes the world is so freaking distressing, so overwhelmingly frustrating and infuriating, that my only coping mechanism is to find humor in the macabre. Which is certainly how I categorize the racist sh*t we’ve run into over the last three years or so.
Are you concerned about flunking parenting? That you’re scraping by with a C- simply by clothing and feeding your offspring? Do you have the nagging feeling that you, and only you, are missing the genetic code explaining Garanimals, Lunchables, and Pokémon cards?
Fear not, brave reader. You Are Not Alone.
Ah, the beauty of middle school.
Social drama and texting. Girls and P.E. class. Low man on the totem pole, switching classes, and brand new lunch options.
Plus graduation from a fifth grade puberty discussion to the health class that spans a range of topics including – wait for it – sex education.
Let the good times roll.
One lawyer decided to break down Instagram into plain English for us.
“Afterward, the teenagers said they understood very little about privacy rights on Instagram, despite getting through the terms and conditions.
‘I don’t know due to the sheer amount of writing and lack of clarity within the document,’ a 15-year-old said, according to the report.
The group ran Instagram’s terms and conditions through a readability study and found that it registered at a postgraduate reading level, Afia said.”