I've Got My Teen By the Keys

by John Ettorre

Parents of teenagers, like citizens of the former Soviet Union, share an abiding bond that often results in cementing their lifelong emotional ties.

Okay, so our connections may not have been formed by shared memories of waiting in long bread lines during sub-zero temperatures, nor by recalling the fear that internal security forces could swoop down any second to arrest a loved one and sentence them to a lifetime of hard labor in a gulag prison.

No, nothing that mild.

What ties us together are the assorted traumas of raising teenagers in contemporary America. And so we parents of teens obsessively share tips and resources, trading ideas about how to reach our surly youngsters. Like a couple of chattering babushkas (Russian grandmothers), we’ll trade the latest titles of helpful magazine articles and books as if they were some sizzling samizdat literature banned by the police. When the subject of our teenage boys came up recently, my friend Maureen, a longtime librarian, eagerly recommended a book. The title: Yes, Your Teen Is Crazy! We shared a knowing chuckle, and then I promptly went in search of that book.

In this giant survivor’s network, if you will, you’ll hear one key bit of wisdom passed along. Teenage boys will go through a period when they’re all but lost to their family of origin. Whenever it happens, simply expect it, prepare for it, and try not to overreact. Above all, try not to take it personally. One day, when they’re ready, you’ll get them back. So until then, take a deep breath and try to relax. Just go on with your life.

But the parental water cooler somehow overlooked one crucial exception: it never mentioned the thaw, a kind of teenage perestroika, when your teen first acquires his driver’s license.

I got my first whiff of this curious phenomenon just the other day, barely a week after my oldest had secured his license. There I was, sitting in our splendid backyard, enjoying a glorious weekend summer afternoon. I was perched on the hammock, with a good book open, a cool drink by my side, and the headphones playing some lovely tunes. I was living the good life.

Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I noticed a figure approaching. Even before I made full eye contact, however, I could tell something was different. My eldest son was the only one home that day, and yet this couldn’t be him coming out to see me. Aside from the fact that no self-respecting teen would ordinarily approach their parents without being coerced, the body language was all wrong. There was no rapper’s slouch, and the shorts were pulled up to the waist. As I swiveled my head and we made rare intergenerational eye contact, I noticed other oddities that suggested this couldn’t be my first-born. There was no glazed-eye look, no studied indifference. And when this person opened his mouth to talk, that seemed all wrong, too. Where had the mumble gone, that maddening form of half-English/half-Latvian that teens use to feign communication with their parents?

No, instead I now watched in awe, drinking in the spectacle of a teenage version of an Amway salesman, a kid oozing a personable brand of energy and verve, a charismatic youth ready to take on the world.

"Dad, could I have the car tonight? I talked to Mom, and she says it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you." The English was crisp, the eye contact unerring. What had they done with my son? I thought.

I’ll have you know, gentle reader, that this dad has decided not to be a preening victor, not to use this sudden opening to the West in an improper manner. Like a wise American president humbly accepting the implosion of the Soviet Union, I have decided to be magnanimous in victory.

Rather than dangling the keys in his face, employing them as bait, as leverage for better behavior, I’ve decided that I’ll use this new influence to open a whole new loving dialogue with my son. We’ll have long chats out in the back yard, my kid and I. We’ll go on fishing trips together (after someone teaches me how to fish), where he’ll tell me all about his favorite girls, his dreams for the future, and his innermost thoughts about life. We’ll get to know each other in entirely new ways, form the kind of bond that most American fathers can only dream of having with their teenaged sons.

But as long as we’re coming to a fresh appreciation of each other, dear son, could you please clean up that room before you take the car? And by the way, please pull up those pants, would you, dearest? It’s not for me, really. But I know your mother would be so very proud if you did.

John Ettorre is a Cleveland-based writer and editor who has also worked in Washington, D.C. and Chicago. Over a 20-year career, his writing has appeared in more than 70 publications, including the New York Times. His online weblog, Working With Words, can be found at www.workingwithwords.blogspot.com. To reach John, send e-mail to: jettorre@voyager.net or leave a message at (440) 708-2994.