A L S O_ T O D A Y

Drama Queen for a Day
Wherefore art thou, wierdo? Send us your tales of the strangest declarations of love you've received for a chance to win a $100 gift certificate from barnesandnoble.com.

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E D I T O R ' S_N O T E

Look for excerpts from Anne Lamott's new book, "Traveling Mercies," on Fridays; Word by Word, Lamott's biweekly Thursday column, will return March 4.

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T A B L E_T A L K

Are your children learning about judicial process through "AllyMcBeal"? Talk about the influence of TV on kids in the Mothers area of TableTalk

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Search barnesandnoble.comfor books about parenting and the family
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R E C E N T L Y

Momcat
By Anne Lamott
Believing in a radical Christian Scientist named Lee
(01/22/99)

Girly girl
By Mona Gable
If you spent your girlhood learning to toughen up, what happens when your daughter is the sensitive type who makes flower stews?
(01/21/99)

Better ead than uck
By Polly Shulman
New ABC books are breathing life into an old genre by making letters vanish, get lost and pop up in unexpected places
(01/20/99)

The bento chronicles
By Jane Singer
An expatriate mom in Japan learns that a dewhiskered Hello Kitty rice ball in her child's lunch could forever condemn her as a rotten mother
(01/19/99)

Great expectations
By Joanna Scott
Faced with the cruel suspense of an endangered pregnancy, a novelist found that her greatest comfort came from hearing stories, especially the scary ones
(01/18/99)

BROWSE THE MOTHERS WHO THINK FEATURE ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

When I gave birth at nearly 40, I never considered the fact that 12years later my son and I would both be having hot flashes.

BY CELESTE FREMON | Last year my son entered adolescence at exactly the same time that I slammedinto menopause. For a while, it seemed doubtful either of us would make itout of our respective hormonal passages alive. Will was 12 at the time, sonot technically a teenager. But all the signs of testosterone surges were inevidence. His upper lip was sprouting darkish fuzz. Without daily showers, heexuded the odor of an overripe compost heap. And there were the mood swings.One moment he was a perfectly normal human being capable of rational thought.Seconds later, he'd have morphed into a creature with fewer social skills thanthat slobbering, mandible-gnashing insect from "Men in Black."

Some random behavioral examples: Last September he purchased and installed alocking doorknob for his bedroom door. (I permitted said knob on thecondition that I retain a key.) Concurrent with the lock installation, he tookto beginning and ending most conversations with the phrase "close my door and leave me alone!" which he chanted mantralike as one long, eight-syllableword with the kind of intensity one might use when shouting a spell to wardoff demons. Then, whenever I actually did leave him alone for a while, he'demerge from his lair blinking cheerily and plead with me to keep him companywhile he did his homework. However, Will's notion of "company" didn't meansitting next to him doing my own writing. It meant just sitting there period,holding myself in a perfect state of silent, earnest fellowship, staringfixedly (but not too fixedly) in his direction.

As for my mood swings ... Well, we'll get to that later.

Like many boomer women, I spent much of the 1970s building a career andhaving the kind of personal adventures that make for a satisfyingly checkeredpast. Midway through the '80s, I realized it was time to get down tobusiness, reproductively speaking. Will was born a month before my 38thbirthday.

Most of my closest girlfriends also had their kids late in the game, a choicethat we considered largely advantageous. We were, after all, calmer, wisermothers than we would have been in our 20s. We were still in good enoughphysical shape to outrun a toddler. And waiting meant that our careers wereestablished enough to withstand the body blow having a baby inevitablydelivers. There was, however, one teensy fact of belated prima-parenthood wesomehow failed to consider: If you have your child at 38, when he or sheis 12 years old, you will be 50 years old. Therefore, just when your belovedoffspring's hormones are raging, chancesare yours will be too.

Due to naiveté and/or denial, I completely ignored any approaching biochemicalconvergence and assumed I'd do fine raising a teenager. As a journalist, I'doften written about gang members and prided myself on my ability to get alongwith adolescents, tattooed or otherwise. In addition, Will and I had a closerelationship that, together with a healthy sense of humor and avivid memory of my own rebellious years, I figured would stand me in goodstead as he entered the tumultuous teens.

There was a rough patch at the beginning of the school term as Will made thetransition from our low-key community elementary school to the big, rigorouslyacademic junior high where he was attending sixth grade. Yet we were coping, atleast until my own Hurricane Hormone came ashore. First it was hot flashesand interrupted sleep. Soon my emotions also started going haywire, andgarden-variety rejections from my budding adolescent that I had previouslyjust ignored began to hurt my feelings intolerably. Petty kid issues such asfailure to change the cat litter or fresh mud tracks on the new carpet leftme wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth.

Then, at mid-year, Will's grades started to slide. His response to theproblem was pure flight. Every afternoon he devised ever more creative meansto avoid starting his homework. When avoidance was no longer feasible, hewould freeze deer-in-the-headlights style for hours in front of his schoolbooks, refusing any suggestions or help, shrieking, "I'm getting it done!"whenever challenged.

Had I been a sensible, non-midlife parent, I would have simply set firmboundaries for study times and offered calming support when he struggled.Instead I was convinced that the skywas falling. I attempted to jump-start his productivity by issuing stupidthreats I never intended to enforce. ("If you don't finish reading thathistory chapter in the next 11 minutes, I'm going to take away your skateboardfor the rest of your life!") Predictably, such tactics did zero for his self-confidence but amped up his "close my door and leave me alone" urges to the100th power. The more he withdrew, the more furious and panicky I becameuntil, night after night, even minor homework skirmishes escalated into theverbal equivalent of carpet-bombing.

The situation was exacerbated by the fact that I'm raising Will on my own.His dad had a cerebral aneurysm a few years after our divorce and isstill unavailable for active parenting. Sothere was no demilitarized zone, no other adult around who could take the heat off. There was just me. And I was getting crazier by the minute.

N E X T_ P A G E: Losing control of the tiller

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