People keep saying that this parenting gig draws a lot on your own memories of being a teenager and it’s true.
Doug’s daughter Tina turned 17 on Thursday, so we all headed out to an amusement park a few hours away and spent a crazy day on go karts and bumper boats followed by chinese dinner. She scored candles and soaps from her sister, a bracelet and a nape piercing from us (she asked for a tattoo, but it’s illegal in this state if you’re under 18, even with a parent’s permission — thank the gods!) and a keyboard with light up keys from her boyfriend and his Mom. Her sister Cassie is staying with us for a week so she could be here for the party.
She’s super-excited that in one year, she’ll be 18. She starts her “senior year” in September (Year 12, for the Aussies reading).
It makes me think a lot about when I turned 17, just before I went into Year 12. I wish I had my actual diaries with me: I’d read the entries for each week for the next year, I think.
Let’s see if I can exhume it. January, 1988. Bicentennial year in Australia. I think my parents took my sisters up to Brisbane for some exhibition and I refused to go on political grounds because I disagreed with how the 200 year anniversary of the invasion of Australia was being “celebrated”. (I did mention that I’ve apologized to my parents about my teenhood, right?)
As school started, I remember my sisters in Year 10 learning their instruments (clarinet and trumpet) and how absolutely impossible it was to study with them doing scales and parts to songs I couldn’t recognize. Rather than go into the whole year here, I think I’ll try and revisit this periodically as the year goes on…