I have a friend who has two teen daughters, has been a mother to teens for years. She’s way ahead of me in experience. My friend frequently tells me of the angst, drama and emotional horrors that come with teens, especially with girls.

When she gives her speech, going on and on about said horrors and how she might not have become a mother if she had know the tears she would shed over her girls, inwardly I’ve got my hands over my ears and I’m stomping my feet in frustration. (Who did that in books? Was it Ellen Tebbits? I can just see her, droopy socks in saddle shoes, pigtails askew.)

I don’t care much to hear my friend’s negative comments on teen girls. I want to form my own opinions, have my own experiences. Why do I need to expect these years to be hell as a mother?

I think we all know some teens freak out when they get to this age. Some stay the course and remain like normal people. I expect my girl to make mistakes, to have hormones, to be in a place of figuring out who she is because that’s what young people are supposed to do.

I have no intention of hanging her out to dry here, on my public space, when she has no voice to give her side.

All this to say: my firstborn is now what is commonly referred to as in the teen years, aka a teenager. I’m going into this new area of parenting with my heart full of anticipation. I look forward to watching my girl grow into the young lady the Lord would have her to be.

I’m realistic but not defeated before the train has barely left the station.

Thirteen is not three. Three was a tough age with all my kids.

Thirteen will not be the same as fourteen. A lot happens in a year.

All the years beyond this one will only be better in the sense that the both of us will be better at this parent-and-teenager dance. Give and take. Back and forth. She grows. I grow.

We both change.

No one will be able to change my mind on that point.

Are the mom to a teen daughter? Tell me about her.

13 is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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She’s at my parents’ house. It’s not as far away as camp, but it’s still away from all of us here at home. I know at 12 years, that is the point. Being apart from your siblings and mom and dad. It’s quite the big deal.

I miss her.

Last summer, she came home from Grandma’s declaring she only wanted to do one night away from home. She couldn’t wait to get back home, to her own room, her special things. I know she missed her little sister terribly. Yesterday, she called to ask if she could stay an extra night, making it three nights total. Looks like being away from home for a week at camp has made all the difference.

No homesickness for Susan as a 12 year old.

I’m glad. She having fun with my parents taking her out to her choice of restaurant, a splurge shopping trip at the dollar store, and I think my brother is treating her at the bookstore tonight. She packed three books in her overnight bag. Lots of quiet for reading at my mom’s.

Susan is growing up.

I will miss her.

Daydreaming of the future is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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I look and I love.

I might also be thinking: How the heck did she get away with playing with my not cheap camera for so long?

Curse you, Twitter.

When your five-year-old sneaks off with the camera is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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Oh, to be that confident in yourself again!

Saturday Snapshot: She knows how to work it is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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I had three of my kids with me, my boys, 10 and 7, and my eldest girl, 12 years old next week. The night’s project was making bird feeders. A dad passed out the supplies: wood pieces, screws, metal sheeting for the roof and demonstrated how to put it together. Simple construction, easy.

The dad had two electric power drills, one by-hand screwdriver. Ten kids waited patiently.

“Why don’t you help her?” Dad said to his son, a boy well versed in power drill. The boy had just finished using it on his own bird feeder. He picked up the screw and began drilling into my daughter’s bird feeder to attach the base.

My daughter watched.

On the other side of the room, another boy, another girl, same scene.

She said nothing, watching as he began to work on her bird feeder project.

I know how to use tools. I’ve used electric saws, table saws, lathes, jigsaws. I took wood shop in 7th grade when it was required. I took wood shop as an elective in high school. I built ramshackle forts in my backyard. I built a skateboard out of old metal wheels and rough wood. I came home in tears from freshman year wood shop due to the caustic remarks from the male teacher. I never took wood shop again.

My daughter is not me. As far as I can tell, she is not interested in carpentry, power drills or building with scraps of wood. She’s more rubber spatula, cake pans and flour. But this was an easy project. All you had to do was screw straight down four times; plus I think everyone should try a tool when given the opportunity.

Make no mistake – I made sure I was gentle, yet firm.

“Wait a minute. That’s her bird feeder.”

“Excuse me. That’s her project. Let her do it.”

I had to repeat myself several times, my voice raised a bit louder each time. Eventually those boys gave way and the girls used the drills by themselves.

Moms, encourage your daughters to try the new, the unfamiliar.

Tell your sons: help doesn’t mean you do it for a girl. Show her, demonstrate. Then hand the tool to her.

Speak up for your girl so she has a turn to try.

Boys, girls and an electric drill is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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Do you have your 11 year old girl clean the bathroom once a week like I do? Clean as in: scrub and wipe down toilet. Wipe down counter and sink. Clean mirror if necessary.

When I was Susan’s age, my sister and I had to dust the dining room furniture every Saturday. With polish. Even if we weren’t having fancy company that required use of the table. Friends, I HATED dusting that table. So many nooks in the woodwork. I truly believe I’ve been scared for life as a result. My husband can attest to my great aversion to dusting the house today. At least Susan is cleaning something that is much more worthy of a good cleaning.

Come on, let me have it. Am I an old meanie or is Susan getting off easy? I’m open to all criticism and advice.

Chores for girls: What do your daughters do? is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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This week I witnessed Susan’s relationship with books deepen.

We were at the library, and as chance had it (or maybe it was a God-ordained meeting?), our dear friends came in right behind us. This is the one family in our homeschool fellowship that my children adore, and I believe the feeling is mutual on their part. When we meet, there is much hugging, giggling and shouts of joy. Because we are both homeschooling families, we don’t see much of each other. Busy at home, busy with activities. So a spontaneous, accidental meet-up in the children’s section of the library is a lovely treat.

As I chatted with the mother, I noticed Susan and her friend kneeling on the floor, heads bent towards each other, in between the shelves. They were talking, sharing secrets about something, I was sure of it. I hoped it had to do with books. Usually when we go to the library, I suggest titles to my eleven year old. And she resists, unwilling to try all my old favorites and all the new titles that look appealing to me. Susan would get books about baking or collecting TY Beanie Babies, which is fine, I’m glad she’s interested in collecting and cooking. But what of the fiction? Why wasn’t she falling in love with all those characters I adored as a young girl?

I knew Susan’s friend loved fiction, her mother told me both her daughters read constantly. As I peeked around the bookshelf to watch the girls, I hoped my Susan was considering bringing home fiction this time.

Sure enough, when it came time to leave, Susan had selected several books in the Pony Club series, a Wishbone book and an American Girl title about a blond named Julie. Finally! I thought to myself.

Susan read during the drive home. I think she may have gone straight to her room to read when we got there. Needless to say, she did a lot of reading in a short period of time. Those were easy reads for her, but that’s not the point. For the first time, my girl was captured with an imaginary world found in fiction, so taken in that reading was the activity chosen above all other enticements (computer, a sibling, writing or play).

In two days, Susan had finished all her books and asked to go back to the library for more. We went and she took more books home. Again, Pony Club, American Girl and Wishbone. She read as we walked to the car.

Me again: Finally!

But the story doesn’t stop there.

Last night, the two of us were out for her 4H club meeting. The bookstore open late. Could we go? I’m never one to pass on an opportunity to be surrounded with the written word, and I want to encourage her, so we went.

And this time our visit was remarkably different.

Susan went straight to the juvenile fiction section, found City of Ember and embraced it like an old friend. No Pony Club this time. She said she wanted a “thicker chapter book.” Last night there was no plea for a Klutz book, what she usually wants; she’s crazy for the ones with the fill in the blank pages.

Right now, it’s almost 10:30 and she came out of her bedroom looking overtired. Susan fed the bunnies, ignoring food and Internet, and is now back in her bedroom, door shut. It’s a gray day and we have no plans to take us away from the house. I suspect she will be finished with her new book by nightfall.

It’s going to be a beautiful day.

Watching her read is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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My story. This was a short story Susan wrote without any help from me, and as a intentional home schooling mom, that is saying a lot. I like to think I had enough sense to stay out of her way, allowing her to discover her love for writing and words on her own.

But let me back up for a second. I’m getting ahead of the beginning of the story of how this all came to be. This is a post about my eldest – whom I refer to as Susan. I’ve recorded my son’s reading journey and how I’ve come to let go of my expectations for him. Now I want to tell you about Susan.  This is her story: her birth as a writer.

The beginning

Susan’s home schooling began at age six with math, oral grammar and lots of read alouds. (You can read earlier posts about teaching her here and here.)

By age seven, she was reading on her own. We continued with oral grammar lessons and read alouds. I assigned her books that she was interested in reading, like Little House on the Prairie or a Rod and Staff reader. We dabbled with history. She did Awana. She loved attending church. She visited with Grandma. She lived life.

The one thing Susan did not do was write. No book reports. No creative writing. No required writing of any kind. I did attempt the first level of Writing Stands, but it was quickly abandoned. “She’s not ready for this” was my reasoning. She did copy work easily. Sometimes Susan would write a letter to a friend, but it was always her idea and for fun.

Whenever we came across a writing assignment in Spelling Workout or Story of the World, I would have her skip it. The one thing I did require from her was narrations. And, how she hated those! Those narrations, done a few times a week, was the closest she ever got to a formal writing assignment.

We continued with a mix of oral and written grammar lessons. Still reading lots of books; Susan developed a fondness for non-fiction (reference books, Fandex and the dictionary are a few). We traveled. We stayed busy.

And she played a lot with her non-reading, younger siblings.

Connecting it all

Susan read books and magazines to her brothers and sister; sometimes the text they shared would become part of their imaginary play. Susan began making up her own stories based on toys and imaginary creatures of their playtime. This oral storytelling, along with input from her siblings, morphed into her forming her own stories in the privacy of her room, or in the backyard, away from interruptions – a talkative toddler and pesky boys (and perhaps even me, her hovering, homeschooling mother.)

Needless to say, it wasn’t much of a leap to begin writing these stories down on to the computer.

All of this without formal writing lesson from me.

This week, at age of 11, she proudly read me a short story she submitted to a kid’s website, thrilled with the comments she gets from her peers. My girl is a confident writer. Her grammar and punctuation are excellent; spelling fine. The art of well-crafted fiction she will be learning for the rest of her life, but for now – most importantly – she enjoys writing. It’s fun, bringing her joy and a sense of accomplishment.

Now if only I can transfer that passion to fractions…

The birth of a writer is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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“Look, mommy! It looks like a shot gun!”

And it did.

Seen and heard: comment on toast crust is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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Cooking up fun is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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Getting her to brush her long hair is a battle I always lose. There is that knot in the back of her head that she can’t seem to reach, or maybe it’s that she doesn’t care much. She can go for days with dirt under her fingernails. But determining eye color, that’s different. She’ll stare wide-eyed at herself, inches from the bathroom mirror looking for any hint of green. She emerges, happy to announce to us she has hazel eyes, not brown like the rest of us.

Her favorite yellow and pink Crocs are mud stained. One of her front teeth is crooked – like a mini-marshmellow askew. When embarrassed or shy from certain attentions, she hides her grin behind closed fists, an impulse I’m sure has nothing to do with her teeth. She embarrasses easily, yet will willingly sing strong on Friday at the VBS closing program. She wants to be in a stage play.

I gave her the gray owl Webkinz today for her birthday. She told me she wanted this particular Webkinz to be a surprise, so I picked the owl. She named it Who.  All 14 of her other Webkinz are tucked away in her room in a secret place. She plays with them, and when finished, puts them back immediately. No messy room for her. Each stuffed friend she calls by name, reciting each animals’ birthday, best friend and hobby when asked.

She loves stamps, rocks, purses and tote bags, TY Beanie Babies, National Geographic for Kids, and decorative pillows for her bed. Never have I asked her to compose any lengthy writing assignment, yet she produces story after story at the computer. Each composition one immense  chunk of writing with no paragraph breaks.

I stand on the other side of the room careful not to get too close. I know she doesn’t want me to read it. So I won’t. I suggest paragraphs. She ignores me and keeps writing.

When not at the computer, she disappears for hours, either into her bedroom or outside. I watch her from the window as she talks to herself, walking in a wide circle by the swing set. She’s still writing, telling herself the story. Anyone approaching – especially me -  she stops mid-thought until she’s assured of her privacy again.

She has no idea how much we are alike.

She’s my firstborn and the natural leader to her three younger siblings. Her brothers beg her to come out of her room to play, they don’t understand her need for solitude. When she does join them, I can hear her dictating their imaginary play, often telling a brother what the stuffed animal or Lego creature should say. She is the queen bee in the little hive of their busy activity.

“You are my sweet girl,” she sings to her only sister. I wonder what their relationship would be like if public school kept them from each other most days. She is eleven. Lucy is only four. That’s light years apart in every way, yet they share a bedroom easily, often cuddling in bed together when I go in for a final goodnight.

Today she is eleven. She’s at the twilight of her childhood. The final act of being a child, a place of wonder and imagination and innocence. She claims she never wants to grow up. I remember saying the same thing. Her body is already denying her that wish; soon she will be more young lady than preteen. The gangly limbs and clear skin will not, can not, last forever.

I want her to grow up. I want her to stay young forever. She longs to be her own person, to fly away from my constant presence in her life. She doesn’t want me hovering nearby when baking brownies or cake in the kitchen. Then in the next moment wants to come home early from a sleep-over at Grandma’s because she misses home.

She has only one year left to be in Children’s Church.

She is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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A sea serpent is a sea serpent.

Jesus is Jesus and God is God.

It’s amazing the things you learn on this blog, isn’t it?

True wisdom, that. Especially the bit about the sea serpent.

You can’t get anything past my four-year-old.

Seen and heard: Lucy just out of the bathtub is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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How mommy exercises without going to the gym is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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The larger toad is named Chicken. Why? No, it’s not because a toad might taste like chicken (you cruel people! we love our backyard critters). Our new friend really does sound like a baby chicken with the (surprisingly loud) chirping sound she makes.

I wonder what Susan named the little one?

Chick, perhaps?

A toad called Chicken is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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“And this is us loving each other” is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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Anyone else welcome spring like we do, with salamanders and crayfish swimming in a plastic container in the kitchen?

In this house, we welcome spring not with flowers is a post from: Paper Bridges, © 2005-2010 Monica Brand

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