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ParentsMay 1, 2017

How to be a No Matter What adult: a high school counsellor on what teenagers need from us all

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It’s harder to be a teenager today than ever before. So how can you as a parent help? By continuing to show up and support your teen, even when they seem hellbent on pushing you away, says Louisa Woods.

It’s the most common reaction I get when I tell someone I work with teenagers: ‘I don’t know how you do it’ or something along those lines. Stated like my work is in the same category as a snake wrangler or lion tamer, but dealing with a more mysterious species of wild animal, capricious and with bitey tendencies.

It’s the response from people whose understanding of today’s teens comes from sensationalist media stories and observation from afar. As far away as possible, in most cases. They generally have an awful lot to say about how rotten our teens are and they usually have various (un)helpful suggestions as to how they got that way. Think ‘PC gone mad’, ‘anti-smacking laws’, ‘schools/parents/society going soft’ – you know, those sorts of things. The amount they speak has an inverse relationship to the amount I say in response.

And then there are a second group: People who do know teenagers. Those that have no real choice but to know them on an up close and personal basis – their parents. They have the same look about them that I’m sure I had when I was (mis)managing three kids under five. Smiling, but with a haunted look in their eyes like they’re bracing themselves for the next thing that their child is going to throw at them. More often than not they give a wry little laugh to accompany their ‘I don’t know how you do it’, and then take a good swig of whatever beverage they’re clasping.

Sometimes they’ll follow up with an outpouring of tales about their particular teenager and how amazing but challenging they are. Sometimes real concerns come flooding out and there are barely restrained tears. There’s relief in meeting someone who actually chooses to deal with teenagers day in and day out and yet seems relatively sane. Parents don’t tend to condemn teenagers for their behaviour, or blame society for whatever ills may accompany the teenage years. They’re generally too busy worrying about their own contribution.

While there have been occasions when I’ve joked with colleagues about the zoo-like quality of the guidance department, often around the time of a full moon (seriously, it’s a thing) or the day following the junior dance, I’ve never found teenagers to be particularly mysterious. Complex, yes;  difficult to connect with at times, sure; frustrating, absolutely. But I’ve never felt a disconnect or any fear when it comes to teens.

In fact, I feel the opposite. I love teenagers. They are quite magnificent in their complexity.

I admire their willingness to push boundaries, to pole-vault right over them when the fancy takes them. We can all learn from their need to question and question and then question again, to seek honest answers but to let the rational go and emotion rule when need be. I love being witness to the quest for self, watching as a young person finds a place to stand in the world, a place that they will defend to the hilt and then promptly abandon in favour of a more appropriate spot. I am awed by their vulnerability as they contend with all of this growth and change, the ravages of hormones and heartbreak, and the constant pinging of text messages. They are so in need of support and genuine interest and yet strive to be so independent. They long to be seen as an individual and yet strive to be part of the group. They are contrary creatures, and that contrariness, it’s fascinating.

And yes, they’re moody, and uncommunicative, and can be self obsessed and inward looking. Undeniably angsty and dramatic at times. And then, just to mix things up a bit, the next day they’re chatty and excitable and filled with the joy of life.

But, really, isn’t that true for everyone? Adults might be better at keeping things in check and performing in a socially acceptable way because we have the advantage of a fully developed frontal cortex to fall back on, but we all channel our inner teenager at times. Some of us let them out to play every time we get a few wines on board.

I confess that I am a bit of a geek when it comes to this sort of stuff, but holy hell, the human brain is just astounding. There are three parts that make up the human brain, and the cortex, the part that allows us to learn, reason, and be empathetic, the part that sets us apart from every other species on the planet, is not fully developed in most people until we hit our mid-twenties.

While we expect teenagers to be young adults, their brains aren’t actually set up to be that until well after they’ve left school. So when a teenager does something spectacularly irrational or stupid, don’t be surprised. Don’t be surprised if they don’t have an answer for why they did it, either.

‘Dunno’ is not necessarily a teenager evading questioning – it’s often the most honest response they have.

(There’s some fantastic research being done by the Brainwave Trust and a very interesting podcast about the teenage brain here if you want to learn more.)

I can see how teenagers get such a bad rap. I look back over my list of virtues and it could equally be headed with ‘complications’ or ‘challenges’. Some strengths, when combined with the right (wrong) set of circumstances – the boundary pushing, the risk taking, being so driven by emotion – can push teenagers beyond being complex and into being downright dangerous. Not least to themselves.

And some of the teenagers that I’ve known have been tough to work with, hard to support, challenging to advocate for. Really tough in some cases. I’ve been driven to the edge of despair with a couple, regrouping by leaning against the inside of my office door, taking deep breaths so that I can open it and face the next person in need of support. I’m not all Pollyanna and rose-tinted specs about our young people. I can understand where the ‘better you than me’ comments come from. I can understand why it can be difficult being the parent of a teenager.

It’s undeniably tough getting up every day to parent a teen. And that’s partly because it’s tough being one.

Increasingly so.

I don’t buy the whole ‘teenagers are so different now’ argument. I’ve been working with them for fourteen years (yikes) and in that time the nature of teenagers hasn’t changed. I don’t think it’s changed in generations. What has changed is the world that our young people are having to negotiate while they’re figuring out who they are.

Expectations are higher, the future is less certain, information overload makes life more confusing than it needs to be, and they are constantly, constantly on display, contactable, and open to comment and critique. Talk about ‘better you than me’.

No wonder teenagers can be hard to deal with at times. A lot of the time, even. I know that’s poor comfort for a parent struggling with their teen, although perhaps there is a touch of reassurance in knowing that your teenager is not just a complete jerk. They’re working their way through the ups and downs of adolescence and you’re along for the ride. It just so happens that the ups go off like fireworks and the downs smash in like a wrecking ball.

I don’t know if anyone’s fully equipped to deal with teenagers in all their complexity and contrariness. I don’t know if any adult can fully understand what a teenager’s experience of the world is like. No matter how switched on we are or how well we connect to young people, no matter how well we remember our own adolescence or what we had to work through ourselves to end up as well functioning adults, there is no way we can know what it’s like to be a teenager today.

What I do know is that we can try. And they really, really want us to even though it might pain them to admit it.

We can keep showing up.

Keep asking questions.

Keep telling them how amazing they are even when they can’t see it themselves (even when they’re being so difficult it’s hard for us to see it too).

We might not always get it right, and let’s face it, with teenagers, sometimes it’s going to be wrong, no matter what. They’re as likely to flip you a big middle finger as they are to thank you for your input, but they’ll remember that you tried.

It’s easy to get frustrated and to feel inadequate as the parent of a teen. To not know what to do next. It comes with the territory when you’re a parent anyway but with teenagers it’s particularly difficult because what they need seems to be so much more complicated than when they were younger. And what they want on Monday might be a completely different thing on Friday. And because you are SO not cool.

But really, if there’s one thing teenagers do need, it’s good adults in their lives. No Matter What adults. The kind who will be there to cheer through the fireworks and pitch in for clean up after the wrecking balls. Always.

They need you.

Louisa Woods is a high school teacher and counsellor, currently filling her days looking after her own three children, writing a bit, singing a bit, and reading as much as she can.

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ParentsApril 28, 2017

Unpregnant: The story of my miscarriage

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The excitement then the pain that follows – the experience of miscarriage has devastated many families. Rebecca Lewis sheds light on the private sadness that many families suffer in silence.

Content warning: Rebecca Lewis talks about her experience of miscarriage in this post. If you have suffered a miscarriage this post may be upsetting for you. If you need support please visit SANDS New Zealand or call 0800 Sands4u (0800 726 374). Sands New Zealand is a network of parent-run, non-profit groups supporting families who have experienced the death of a baby.

Finding out you are pregnant is emotional enough, but announcing it for the first time to your husband and your mother while you have a mild panic attack in the doorway of the bathroom is less than ideal.

So, given how I announced my pregnancy to the world (or at least to a stunned husband and startled mother) I should have known it was going to leave on similar, unforeseen terms.

It was Christmas and festivities were in full swing. On Waiheke Island with all the family, there wasn’t even time to register a pregnancy. Even though it was my second, I was similarly oblivious to the signs, putting it down to being hungover, tired from holidaying with a 10-month-old, and coming down from a crazy year at work. And then it just appeared to me, as I was walking up the stairs one day. “I’m pregnant.” I just knew it.

Turns out, I was right. Two peed-on sticks later and it was confirmed, to a totally blindsided husband who wasn’t expecting me to exit the bathroom and announce such huge news to him and my mother at the same time (sorry, hun.) I panicked. What were we going to do? This wasn’t planned for, not this soon after Zoe. How would we manage work? We need a bigger apartment. Oh my god, travelling is going to be so much more difficult. Am I ready for another baby?

But then a day or two passed, and the panic subsided. We estimated I was around six weeks pregnant, and we told our family. It was hard not to when we were all together, all the time, on holiday. Not to mention, everyone would have been suspicious when I started turning down glasses of rosé. I couldn’t think about anything else, and to be honest, I needed the support and their excitement.

I don’t think the news ever fully set in for my husband. And I don’t blame him – there wasn’t time to sit and talk about it. A pregnant woman starts planning immediately – well, in my case anyway – and thinking about how her life is going to change. I don’t know how connected to it my husband felt at that point, but I was already mentally preparing myself for the weight gain, the stretch marks and the sore hips. But beyond the physical changes, I was adapting emotionally. I was already attached. It took all of two seconds for me to connect with the new life inside me. For the six nights I had between finding out about our baby and losing it, I said goodnight to my abdominal area with a tender touch to my stomach. To me it already felt real.

And just as unexpectedly as it began, it ended. On New Year’s Eve, no less. Like a cruel cosmic joke – as one thing was beginning another was ending.

I went to bed that night feeling normal. Pregnant. Happy. Zoe had been waking up at 5am, but even that wasn’t bothering me. And then… wetness. I woke up with a jolt and a completely sunken heart. Blood becomes the enemy when you are pregnant, and I was swimming in it.

It’s not a pleasant scene, but I think it’s important for women (and men) that I address what happens. Like a period, there is blood, and like a period, there is pain. As anyone who has been pregnant before knows, blood and pain together are a big cause for concern. I found my way to the bathroom in the dark, hand cupped between my legs and praying that the damage wasn’t as bad as it felt – and also that I wasn’t leaking all over my mother-in-law’s floors.

But with the flick of the light switch, my worries became founded. Bright red blood was all over my pyjamas and down my legs. Dark blood is often okay – “old blood”, as the doctors say, can sometimes just “pass” when you are pregnant (and it’s often what women assume to be a period on those I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant TV shows.) But bright red blood is “new” blood, and that’s often (but not always, please note) a bad sign. Coupled with the cramping pains in my abdomen, I knew I was in trouble, and yet through strained tears I tried my damnedest to think positively.

I bled when I was pregnant with Zoe; it’s probably okay.

Lots of women bleed during pregnancy, I’m sure it’s nothing.

But then…

Shit, this is a lot more blood than what’s normal. Why won’t it stop?

Eventually, it did stop. And I went back to bed and cried. The next couple of days were a blur of doctor’s appointments and lying down trying not to do anything in case (please, please) this was all just a mere hiccup. Doctors have to call it a ‘threat of miscarriage’, which they did, and it’s scary. To suddenly be labelled with the M word feels like a punch to the gut. This happens to millions of women all over the world, but you still never think it’s going to happen to you.

And yet, there was still hope. I hadn’t had blood tests yet (because it was New Year’s on Waiheke Island, which means labs are closed and doctors are getting pissed on their decks like the rest of us) and I hadn’t had an ultrasound. I Googled “bleeding + successful pregnancy” just to read stories of other women who had bled and succeeded in carrying a baby to term. “It was just one of those things!” said one woman. “I bled lots but heard the heartbeat, and now my little cause for concern is four years old!” said another.

But then… another night, another soaked sanitary pad. It was time to go to the hospital.

I could go on about what happened there, but in a nutshell it was this: blood tests, an internal exam, one lovely junior doctor, an awful Attending with a shit bedside manner, and no need for an ultrasound because “there was no point”.

No point. No hope. And definitely no baby.

And then, it actually felt real. I didn’t even realise how much I wanted the baby until I was told I wouldn’t be having it. I sat on the hospital bed and sobbed, and almost immediately, I felt stupid for crying. A voice somewhere in my head piped up to tell me that it’s silly to cry. For some reason, our “pick yourself up and get on with it” societal mentality tells you that you are wrong for wallowing. The fetus was barely there, and it wasn’t a ‘real’ baby, anyhow.

And then people tell you:

If you hadn’t done a pregnancy test, you would have just thought the bleeding was your period.

At least you miscarried early, rather than late term.

At least you know you can get pregnant.

All these things people say to you… they mean well, they really do. But they don’t help, or least they didn’t help to alleviate the gigantic hole left by this baby’s departure.

Don’t worry, I’m sure you can have another baby.

This is said a lot to women who miscarry, I have found. It might be true, and if that’s the case, I will count myself incredibly fortunate, but it’s not the point. Another baby is not this baby, and this baby is gone. Out my body, down a toilet, and flushed away in the most silent death.

Having absolutely lucked out with a daughter already, I know that at six weeks’ gestation, a fetus has has the beginnings of a face. It has little buds for arms and legs, and it has a heartbeat. It had a damned heartbeat, and it doesn’t help to dismiss that as being unimportant, insignificant or nonexistent.

What helps is to recognise my miscarriage for what it was: a life lost.

What helps is to acknowledge that I am sad, and always will be, for what never was.

What helps is to recognise that saying goodbye before I even got to say hello really, really sucks.

What helps is to remind myself that if love alone could have saved you, little one, then you would have never died.

Rebecca Lewis is a Kiwi abroad, running a PR agency with her husband and raising 14-month-old wild child, Zoe, in the equatorial hotspot that is Singapore. Wine and mum guilt feature equally and consistently in her daily life.

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This content is entirely funded by Flick, New Zealand’s fairest power deal. In the past year, their customers saved $417 on average, which would buy enough nappies for months… and months. Please support us by switching to them right now.

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