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11 Things About Having Kids With Jobs

Our three oldest kids are employed. How did this happen? Two have paying jobs, one has a rare and sought-after volunteer position at a major cultural attraction in Denver. These developments have changed a lot of aspects of family life around here. Most importantly, it’s changed them, too.

1. They have more money and it reveals a lot about their personalities.

One of my working kids is a saver. One is a big spender. I worry about both. I’d love for my saver to have some fun with his cache of money while he’s young and doesn’t have to pay an orthodontist anything. When asked if he has a goal he’s saving for, he replies “not really.”

The other kid is a sucker for impulse purchases. They’re small, but they add up quickly.

2. You get a behind-the-scenes looks at how their workplaces run.

What happens to leftover popcorn at the movie theater? Does the restaurant really make everything from scratch? What’s the funniest question you’ve been asked? What was the worst mess in a theater you had to clean? Do people sneak between theaters often, and does management know?

3. It’s difficult (but doable) to stay out of work-related issues.

One kid had an issue with a paycheck that never showed. Another had issues with scheduling. I had to actively fight the desire to insert myself between my kids and their employers when I felt they were being treated poorly or unfairly. I’ve doled out advice, but ultimately it is solely up to the kids to advocate for themselves in their workplaces. Unless kids are in danger or something illegal is occurring, parents need to land their helicopters.

I’m glad they’re learning these lessons as teens. They’ll be better equipped to handle uncomfortable work situations in the future. Guess what? The worrisome situations were resolved–without me!

4. They have uniforms.

Nametags and hairnets ahoy! Black pants all around! I’ve never been more focused on black pants in my life. Thank goodness for thrift shops. The uniforms are adorably dorky, especially the volunteer child’s uniform. I giggle every time I think about him wearing such a character-building configuration of polyester blend.

5. They learn how to balance school, work, and downtime.

The only musts at our house are school and downtime. If their jobs interfere too much with either, we will wave so long to the black pant brigade and try again when they’re able.

6. They bring their work home with them.

When your kid works at a bakery cafe, expect boxes of pie, cookies, cake, loaves of bread, sandwiches to randomly show up after shifts. Someone’s gotta eat those things. Popcorn is another. My kid who works at a movie theater will never, ever, ever eat popcorn again. He can have all he wants for free, which dazzled him at first but now the mere mention of the word makes his stomach want to launch itself to the moon.

This is the type of work my kid brings home. It's pretty terrible, no?

This is the type of work my kid brings home. It’s pretty terrible, no?

7. You realize how much you trust them.

They’re gone for hours at a time following the directions of other adults, serving the public, mopping floors, dealing with weird machinery, smiling broadly at the sometimes-odd (and rude) whims of customers. They manage to simply get their jobs done without mom, without a teacher, many times self-directed and it’s a strange relief to see they can actually survive out there in the big world of work.

8. When they were hired, you were ridiculously proud.

This is directly related to #7. Someone saw your kid has potential and put them on a payroll. It’s gratifying to watch their motivation and watch them overcome the nerves that come with applications, interviews, and starting something new. It’s also a huge moment when they receive their first real paycheck. The excitement quickly dampens when they realize how much is taken out by dear Uncle Sam, but it’s an unanticipated milestone moment.

9. The family calendar becomes much more complicated.

With three teenagers with three jobs (plus two different schools) it’s a rare and beautiful thing when we are all together. I jump all over having the eleven of us here at once. It’s not that I took it for granted before. It’s that I’m increasingly aware that our dynamics are going through a major shift and certain moments become more precious.

10. It’s sad to realize they’ll probably have to work on major holidays.

My kid who works at the bakery cafe will most likely have Thanksgiving and Christmas off, but not the movie theater kid. There’s a movie coming out right before Christmas that has something to do with droids and such making “pew pew pew” sounds because of a concept called The Force. I’m afraid I won’t see him until sometime into 2016. When you go to the movie on Christmas Day, think of some sad mom sitting at home missing one of her little ducks. Feel the guilt like a Darth Vader choke.

11. Discounts and perks.

Ooooohhhh! One of the first things people mentioned when the movie theater kid got his job was all the free movies we’d get to see! We haven’t seen one. Getting to see a free movie is a complicated series of requesting tickets for certain times at a certain theater. He must be present, too. I was thinking he’d just flash a badge and it would be movies! movies! movies! around here. It’s nice to know it’s there, though.

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It’s been a positive experience watching kids march off to part-time work. They get a taste of freedom, a peek at adulthood, and the reward of a paycheck. I am proud of them and what they’re learning and accomplishing.

I wake up

“Mama! I wake up!”

Ollie shouts this news nearly every morning as he picks his way down the stairs. Being awake is worthy of notice when you’re coming up on age three. Your little lids part to find night-night time has fallen away to something bright and new. Everyone must feel that way, right?

His tone suggests not only is he gobsmacked it’s morning again, he’s rejoicing and believes I’m right there with him in his love affair for something as novel as a new day.

He never complains or stomps or criticizes the cereal inventory. He’s never hunched over the printer praying it spits out that thing that’s due in an hour. Someone else will find his shoes if he can’t, but that’s rarely an issue because I’m the one who puts them away in a certain place. His size 8s are easily found and rocked onto his feet.

A new day is a fantastic opportunity to surrender to the flow. In his world, that cereal is fine. What is an outline and why are you upset there is no color ink? Who cares? “I wake up!”

I wake up, too, but have nobody in particular to bestow with an announcement. It’s obvious. The stairs creak. I come down them because that’s where the coffee lives. If the stairs don’t reveal I’m awake, the sound of coffee mugs clattering as I hunt for the one that suits my mood will do the trick.

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I wake up.

My father’s death in June knocked me out. I’ve been functioning okay. I’m getting things done, moving forward, enjoying activities, laughing too. Naturally, there are tough minutes, hours, days. They come in waves. His death fundamentally changed me and shuffled my priorities. Writing—anywhere—was suddenly difficult and utterly trite. I struggled because I had the desire to expel my reeling astonishment through writing while wanting to keep everything to myself. My dad was an intensely private man and I want to honor him while telling my own story and that is practically impossible.

The days leading up to his death were the most raw, gritty, real days I’ve ever experienced. I hope to never find myself in that situation again and I hope anyone reading this never does, either. But if I do, I will be armed with the experience of knowing there are moments of sublime beauty, spontaneous humor, and sustaining grace that are unexplainable and probably unbelievable to anyone who was not there.

Sunflowers remind me of my dad. They didn't before.

Sunflowers remind me of my dad. They didn’t before.

But now, I wake up. My dad was proud of my writing and the places it has taken me. I can feel his hand on my shoulder as I move forward. I might not tell his stories, but I can tell my own and in that way honor him. He’d want to hear about the zoo. He’d want to see the first day of school photos. He’d love seeing his grandchildren’s birthday cakes, their antics, their energy.

Most of all, he’d be mad if his death meant the death of something I love: Writing.

I wake up!

The Smoking Baby

For two years, I was proud to be a contributor at A Deeper Story. I wrote alongside many amazing authors, writers, and poets, often wondering how on earth I got so lucky. I often felt unworthy. They were the Alice Coopers to my Wayne.

Nish Wiseth, the founder and chief editor, has decided the time has come to move on, so she is closing up shop. I’ve decided to re-post my work from there, with her blessing. These posts often focus on issues of faith, culture, church, and how they intersect through story. I am very fond of these posts and don’t want them disappearing. Folding them into Lifenut is like folding chocolate chips into cookie dough.

This particular post was written nearly a year ago. I had no idea how dramatically different life would look exactly one year later.

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The Smoking Baby
(originally published on July 22, 2014)

My mom had a bizarre, painful accident that required surgery, so I drove 250 miles over the Colorado mountains to help her avoid a rocky recovery. She is famous for dropping everything to help in times of trouble, so it seemed completely natural I would do the same for her. I left my husband and children at home with their blessings to go help their beloved grandma. After spending four days in the hospital, she came home and claimed the big recliner with the best TV watching angle and a table nearby for a pile of books.

My brother and I made a big dinner of linguini and meatballs. After, full of good food and happy to have her home safely, we agreed to watch a DVD made from converted, soundless home movies. They were originally filmed in the early 1970s. “They’re funny!” my mom promised. I was okay with watching them because they heavily featured Baby Me, spanning my first few days to about age three. Apparently, I cried a lot. I wore handmade bonnets and a lot of yellow.

I also smoked Marlboros and drank Budweiser.

I was about six months old in the snippet. My dad was holding me. He had a wild, full crop of thick black hair and mutton chops from his high cheek bones to lower jawline. 70s Elvis would have sneered with jealousy. My daddy smiled and his eyes were bright, his dimples deep. He bounced me around and made me laugh. “Watch this,” my mom said, dryly.

dadandme

The clip of me bouncing in my dad’s arm ended abruptly. After a beat of black, I popped back onto the TV screen with a cigarette dangling from my mouth. It kept falling out but my dad kept replacing it. He must have given up because the clip ended brusquely. Maybe I needed a beer? Boom, little me mouthing the rim of a beer can, tasting, cringing, but tasting again. I glanced at my dad. He shook his head and shrugged. Things were different back then. I rode home from the hospital in my mom’s arms. I traveled in a stroller that looked like a bear trap decorated with jaunty orange daisies stolen from Jan Brady’s closet. Poor Jan. It was 96% metal hinges and angles. 3% was a small vinyl sling to sit inside. 1% were decorative teething beads painted with lead and poorly attached.

The DVD started a new chapter. I was suddenly six months older and celebrating my first birthday with a Raggedy Ann cake. As I stuffed frosting into my mouth, my beaming parents flanked me. I recognized pride. They looked at me, looked at each other, smiled at the camera, back at me, back to each other. Meanwhile, I was absorbed in the cake decorated with a freaky red-curled clown doll, oblivious to their affection.

Oddly, when I watched the parts where I mouthed a cigarette and beer, I could taste the cigarette and beer. When I watched myself eat cake, I could taste the buttercream. When I was knocked down on screen by an Irish Setter puppy into short green grass, I knew how it felt. The gutter water tasted like rain and dirt, my grandmother’s kisses were soft, my grandpa’s hand was big and calloused. I was slipping back to a very distant past and filling in blanks I didn’t know I had as a child. No child does. They feel, taste, and smell their worlds. But it isn’t until later when senses build memories and memories build stories and stories build an autobiography.

There is fire on the tip and a slurring swerve in your step. You are the one who put them in your mouth.

You finally noticed you’re an apple of an eye because you looked up from a cloying maniacal distraction frosted with buttercream.

You click off the soundless, garish past.