The media, which fence in our children, are not constituted by singular sensations, but by constellations of easily digestible, easily forgotten, experiences.
Children need to be able to look upon their parents as self-fulfilled. They need to see that the folks who are caring for them are also caring for themselves, i.e. that their parents arte actualizing some of their “parental potential.”
At the highest echelons, this realization could take the form of increased self-esteem, faith in lieu of fear, spontaneity in the face of challenges, and emotional maturity.
For the rest of us less-than-mystic souls, self-fulfillment could take the form of productivity.
Parental development is not limited to the office or to the kitchen, but could encompass, as well, the garden, the bike trails, the ceramics workshop, and other, individually selected venues. What matters is that some measurable “progress” takes place.
Whereas many moms might be satisfied with mastery of flossing technique, with bettered efficiency in using laundry detergent or with a morning schedule that allows for a cup of coffee after the initial school bus rush, teens are not necessarily so easily sated. Kids want their parents’ “success” to be calculable in culturally understood doses of fame or of fortune.
Our youth, people who otherwise protest social displays of their ideas, words, or behaviors, concurrently need their grownups’ lives to fit into neat media bites. If, according to my experience, Mom can produce iPhone-worthy images of her taking out the trash, or Facebook-ready tales about what it was like to wear a miniskirt in the 1960s, Mom is impressive than if she is expert at translating abstractions into certainties, or is occupied with teaching a new generation of college students.
The convergent media, which fence in our kids (or which fail to give them realistic limits), are not constituted by singular sensations, but by constellations of easily digestible, easily forgotten, experiences. It’s cool if Mom blogs, but not so interesting when she writes about the same topic in hundreds of posts (Been there. Done that; I write sometimes sumptuous prose for an international print publication and my teeny boppers would rather consume my newest, unpublished, mutant-featuring flash fiction [as long as that work is not “too extreme,” see: “Ceramics Without Teens,” May 22] than digest my highbrow rhetoric).
Analogously, the same teens who have rolled their eyes at my academic awards, have gotten very excited when I “invented” a new recipe using chocolate, especially since some of their favorite friends happen to drop by during taste testing. Aiding my adolescents in locating the “best” places for “fashion,” too, rates higher on my offsprings’ rating charts than does any amount of hours I sacrifice to personally pick out their clothes, as long as I still pay the bills.
In short, many acts, which I perceive to be drudgery, are often interpreted, by the kids, as domestic heroism. Many other acts, which I understand to be inspired or to be supported by intrepidness, are often comprehended, by the kids, as commonplace.
I have no intention to put aside my aspirations. I want to get angry less often. I want to make peace with grocery shopping. I want to get an agent for my new book.
My teens, however, believe I would be accomplished if I learned how to use my cell phone’s key pad, if I “forgot” to give them herbs for their coughs once in a while, and if I mastered French braids. I think we can work something out.
