How to Win the Battle of Words with your Teen

Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash

Satire is not my bag, neither is the soldier story genre, but the chance to hone a new skill (plus the lure of cash and prizes) led to this lampoon, inspired by some struggles to connect with my teen. (Glad to say we enjoy more truces than active combat these days:) I didn't win Medium's Slackjaw Challenge, but I hope it gives you a laugh

How to Win the Battle of Words with Your Teen

Tired of playing cook, maid and laundress to your teenager and getting nothing in return? Feel like you’re sharing space with a month-to-month boarder who doesn’t speak English, instead of the fruit of your loins—loins marked by a C-shaped battle scar from his breech birth? I get it. It used to be like that here. But I live in a brave new world today, I conquered my teen, and I can show you how to bring yours into submission too. Attitude and timing are everything. Live by those bons mots of ‘Old Blood and Guts’ and “Do more than is required of you.” Be on the lookout for invitations to dialogue, then storm these secret bunkers below, and take communication with your adolescent from radio silence to minimal talking in no time! 

Bribery 

Your shallow teen’s no match for your booby traps—new clothing and technology, two salvos aimed straight at his mercenary core. Indulge him in yet another pair of ugly white sneakers in exchange for coming clean about what really happened in the locker room freshman year, when his post went viral on the school’s Instagram account and he got suspended. Tell him money is no object when it comes to buying him the 12k followers and million likes he needs to be cool like his cousin. Promise this, and watch him lay the spoils of victory at your slippers: a mother/son night spent making gnocchi from scratch, followed by a marathon Scrabble match, interrupted only by spontaneous confessions of the heart. 

Hunger

“Give me Food.”  Hunger is your ally.  For five hours straight now, he’s been running through back alleys, up cobblestone stairs, and across plazas, pulling daggers and switching out cartridges of ammo, then blasting terrorists to kingdom come!  Well this sort of thing really builds an appetite for a heaping bowl of reheated pasta Bolognese. And you are right there, armed with ziti, and your point of entry: “What do you think your chances are for making the tennis team this spring sweetheart?” “Shut up. Feed me,” he grabs the plate and stalks away. Only four words. A . You’ll have to regroup. 

Patton’s words ring in your ears as you think of all those nights spent reading the classics to your prodigy, tucked snug under flannel sheets: Jules Verne, L. Frank Baum, Hans Christian Anderson. Yes indeed, no dumbed down Disney versions, no Little Golden Books for your little prince—only the real Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, in the original French. Never mind that neither of you understood a word of it.  Ahh, the unabridged Jungle Book and The Swiss Family Robinson, with all their dated, sexist, racist, imperialistic nuance… So much investment in one prepubescent mind—for what? A vocabulary reduced to two word-commands. Yes, more is required of you, you’ll need to reconnoiter.

Keep him in your sights as you follow him into the dining room and wait for him to come up from his phone for the shaker of Romano you’re dangling over his head. He won’t. Pull quickly from your quiver: “You’ll make the team darling,” you lie, as you tuck a benzo into the saucy tube stuck to his fork. You seriously doubt that. One Saturday tennis lesson plus six days spent playing Counter-Strike Global Offensive won’t add up to him making the final cut on the court, but you’ll start on this wholesome subject, then cross enemy lines into direct interrogation on sex and drugs. “Shut up. I’m not talking to you.” Oh no? He grabs the cheese and starts shoveling macaroni. Suddenly, he starts spilling about the cute girl in Computer Science class, the one with the ‘80s asymmetrical bob, who he finally got up the nerve to ask out on the last day of the semester. He describes how they left school together last Friday, and made out behind the falafel cart. Aww... 

Guerrilla Warfare

Perchance, is the bathroom light switch on the outside of your bathroom door? If so, you’re in luck! Listen for when you hear the shower running, then lights out!  “What the fuck?” he’ll cry. “You think you’re so fucking funny! Turn the light on you idiot!” Fifteen easy words, expressed with integrity, and he won’t pin it on you. When he gets out, he’ll put his kid brother in a half-nelson. 

Or try this: When he finally gets off his bony ass at midnight to take out the garbage, follow him to the front door and quick—lock it behind him!  When he starts pounding, say: “What’s the password?” “You’re hilarious,” he’ll reply, “Now open the door.” You can draw this out as long as you like. “No sonny boy, the password is swordfish. Remember Horse Feathers? Remember that summer we watched Marx Brothers movies at Nana’s? Duck Soup, A Day at the Races... How old were you? Nine? Ten?...” “Shut the hell up and open the door NOW.” 17 words. Positively conversational. You’re really getting somewhere now. 

Capture an AirPod 

Of course the biggest tactical error of your whole campaign happened when you caved to his heart’s desire and bought him those AirPods Pro for Christmas. Noise cancellation mode is not your friend. Your teen can tune you out whenever he wants, which is always. You’ll need a General MacArthur maneuver to undo this mess, an amphibious invasion of the Korean peninsula, a recapture of the capital city. Your Seoul has got to be his left AirPod.  

At noon, creep to his bedside table and slip it from it’s fungal case. Don’t worry, it’ll be there. Those pricey little plugs are the only things that find their rightful homes in your teen’s universe. 

Now replace it with the one you had “tweaked” by Kiev Yegor, your neighborhood cobbler and former KGB agent. Cue the continuous loop: “RESISTANCE TO QUESTIONING IS FUTILE” alternated with John Philip Souza marches at 82 decibels. When he breaks, offer him a cool washcloth, and negotiate your terms. “When you get home from school son, mother will ask: ‘How was your day?’ And you will answer her in cheerful, complete sentences.” He will reply:  “Yes mother, I will volunteer an earful of amusing anecdotes about my colorful day, from 1st Period through 8th.”  “And what about your commute?” you press. “Yes mother. I will report any transit delays caused by sick passengers or goats on the tracks.” “AND??” you add. “And I will hang up my wet towel mom.” BATTLE OF MIDWAY!

Doves Lose*

No time to rest on your laurels. Send your  twelve-year old to the front line often. He’s expendable. Maintain aggression and start enjoying dinner table debates over the existence of God and which is the most important kitchen appliance: the panini press or the Nutribullet.

*Note to Doves

I’m throwing this one in for you olive branch wavers.  Reverse psychology is totally overrated—you do know that— but still, you could just try chillin’ sometimes, to get your teen’s attention. When he finally pulls off his gaming headphones at midnight and sits down to that warmed burrito you’ve put in front of him, you could say absolutely nothing and just dollop extra salsa right on his plate. You could pour him a tall glass of milk and offer him a brownie, then sit back and shut up. Check your IG feed. Watch a Southeast Asian food blogger go live making fresh turmeric powder. Rest your chin in your hands and close your eyes. Pretend to fall asleep. Actually fall asleep. “Mom, mom!” he may wake you. “Go to bed mom. Thanks for the brownie. I’ll take out the trash and lock up. Let’s watch an episode of The Office tomorrow night okay?  I love you mom. Good night.”  All that could  happen. It’s possible.  It hasn’t happened yet in this camp, but it could.