The geek lifestyle

There's a parenting proverb that says, "Prepare not the path for the child, but prepare the child for the path." I can't find the source of it, though I once had a lovely decorative tile with this phrase that I kept in my kitchen until my son broke it. At the time he apparently was on a path of destruction.

There's a lot of wisdom in that phrase, but in our culture, it seems we parents spend a good part of our time trying to smooth out the bumps in the road for our children, rather than help them develop their own sets of internal shock absorbers. Our fixation on our children's happiness has created a perverse and unnatural reality. We're raising up a generation that expects life to always be fair and predictable; and also not too painful and not too difficult.

They say there's one in every family -- one who is different from the rest. There's the one who looks like dad's side or who has the only set of brown eyes or who uniquely displays a talent for music or art.

Usually, there's one child who's more athletic, or less; more academically inclined, or not at all; more outgoing or wouldn't say "boo" to a ghost.

Of my four children, Betsy is the different one. She's the only blonde. She's the only child who isn't easily distracted. She was the only 13-year-old who wanted a George Foreman Fat Reducing Grill for her birthday (because she was the only one who liked to cook).

Betsy is the one we dubbed "Little Miss Independent." Not only because she tried to scramble eggs on the kitchen floor

Our conversation paused just long enough to be sure the screech from the basement was a happy squeal, and not a painful wail. No tears. Score one for the moms.

"How did you do it?" my friend asks. "I only have two daughters, and I'm overwhelmed. You had four kids, and you seemed to have it all under control."

"I had help," I wink. "A great baby sitter who made it all possible." The young mom in my kitchen had been that great baby sitter some 15 years ago.

Missy says, "I learned so much from you; you'll never know."

By way of example, she recalls a time we chatted in the kitchen while my daughter Betsy shouted for me from the backyard. "You looked out the window, but we kept talking, until finally she yelled and cried so much you walked outside."

A few years ago, author Rebecca Hagelin appeared on Fox News' “O'Reilly Factor” to promote her first parenting book, “Home Invasion.” During the interview, an incredulous Mr. O'Reilly challenged Mrs. Hagelin, asking how she reacts to teens who rebel against standards in the home about media.

Mrs. Hagelin calmly explained that when children and teens understand their parents' standards and values, they tend not to rebel much - or at least, that's been her experience. Mr. O'Reilly summarized, “Well, then, you're just lucky, that's all.”

I've no doubt that Mrs. Hagelin is lucky, in the way that we all feel blessed with the embarrassment of riches that parenthood brings. But it wasn't luck that created a household in which she and her husband could expect that their children follow guidelines about media consumption; it was skill.

It's been a week of rough rides in the minivan. Midwest potholes being what they are, I wish I had a Lunar Roving Vehicle in my garage. Our roads resemble pictures of craters on Mars, or worse, the new federal budget - big, dark and dangerous.

I don't take my responsibilities in the driver's seat lightly, so I've learned to avoid the unforgiving cavities that have formed beneath the snow all winter, awaiting my aluminum wheels. The potholes I can't avoid - the ones causing all the rocky rides in my van these days - are the parenting variety.

Being the mother of three teenagers, you might assume that I'm up to my steering wheel in teen angst, anger and rebellion, but I'm not.

No, the one at the heart of all the consternation (hers, not mine) is the 11-year-old - my "tween" - and the issue that has us haggling back and forth in a familiar dance of pleading and denial:

This is what people always say when they learn that I'm the mother of three teenagers and a tween - "Whoa ... I guess you spend a lot of time hearing how stupid you are."

Usually the people who say this also are the parents of teens, and the comment comes as an attempt to bond over our presumed mutual suffering from the ill effects of our adolescent's bad attitudes.

I heard a comment like this recently at the doctor's office, when I mentioned that I have a 14-year-old son. "Oh, my kid is 15," came the reply. "I never knew how dumb I was until now. But that's just a teenager for ya. Right?"

Decision time: Do I say, "It is a dumb adult, indeed, who lets a teenager speak to him as though he is a potted plant," or do I smile and nod in deference to the needle he holds in his hand?

It must be the result of an official safety study, conducted by at least three highly trained traffic engineers, culminating in the adoption of a policy on interstate snow removal.

Said policy, because it reflects "best practices" as well as a full spectrum of litigation-avoidance measures, now must demand that the highway be cleared of snow while simultaneously being treated with an anti-icing agent — salt or sand, or more likely, some chemically perfect combination of the two.

I have no doubt this policy is dutifully followed after having been reviewed by the head of the road commission only weeks ago, when it was presented with all due authority at a meeting of professional snow-removal technicians.

This is the only explanation I can imagine for the illogical traffic jam in which I have, for the past 27 miles, crawled down the interstate while ahead of me three snowplows ride abreast across the entire expanse of expressway, slowing the midday flow of cars to a maddening 15 miles per hour.

Knee pads? Check. Low-sodium, sugar-free diet? Check.

Annual well-child physical? Check. Seat belts in the minivan and helmets on the bike? Check.

Cell phone? Not so fast.

According to a study released in Europe, your child's risk of brain cancer may jump as much as five times if he or she uses a cell phone as a youngster.

Presented in London at the conference of the Radiation Research Trust by Lennart Hardell of the University Hospital in Orebro, Sweden, the research concludes that children who start using cell phones before the age of 20 are much more likely to contract glioma, as well as two other forms of cancer. Or not.

True confession - a little over a year ago, I caved and bought a TV for the kitchen.

It's a small TV - not the sort of thing on which you'd watch an important football game or a movie - but big enough so I can see what Rachael Ray is doing across the room while I'm making my own yum-o version of mac 'n' cheese (from a box).

I didn't get the TV only because I'm a Food Network junkie. The real reason I got it was to try to keep people from taking food to various parts of the house so they could watch television while they ate. Our family room was starting to look like the dirty-dish belt at the local all-you-can-eat buffet.

So I capitulated on my longtime rule that there would be no TV while my family ate because clearly I was suffering under the delusion that anyone was obeying this rule in the first place - my husband and myself included.

I have to give my daughter credit. She's persistent. Despite my repeated denials, emphatically delivered in my most characteristic "mom" voice, she pleads for a cell phone as if there is any chance on God's green earth we will relent.

She's tried every conceivable argument. "I'll be safer," she says. "Think of the convenience when you want to call me home from Nicole's house." (Nicole lives next door.)

And my favorite - because it's so unconvincing - "I'm the only one of all my friends without a cell phone."

Amy is going into the sixth grade. She's not getting a cell phone for another three years, when, anticipating the start of high school, we will arm her with our own version of an electronic tether - a bargain phone with basic features, not to include a portable typewriter.