What's So Special About 17?

Carter celebrated his 17^th birthday this week, but according to him, 17 is nothing special.  No big deal.  It’s not 16, it’s not 18, it’s just kinda whatever.

I disagree.  Vigorously.  For me, 17 is momentous.

First of all, as Carter himself said to me few months ago, “Look, Mom, I’m not smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.”

Thank you, Jesus.  And please don't take offense, because that’s not blasphemy.  That’s genuine gratitude.  Maybe not every mom would consider herself blessed to have a child with “declining stupidity,” but since I live with two – count ‘em, two – hormonal, impulsive, illogical, unpredictable teenagers, “declining stupidity” sounds pretty darn good.   Particularly in the face of my own hormonal, impulsive, illogical and unpredictable behavior.

Mostly though, Carter’s 17^th birthday reminds me marvel at the man he is becoming.

When he was just a toddler, and I was pregnant with Julia, a friend remarked, “I am SO glad you’re having another baby!”  Then, she shared this insight, “Now you’ll realize that you don’t get to take all the credit for what your child is or does.  And you don’t have to take all the blame, either.  They are who they are.  They just come out that way.”

They do.  For 17 years, I’ve tried to guide and shape and nurture.  I’ve tried to teach and encourage and motivate.  And I’ve tried to predict.  Lord knows how I’ve tried to predict.  Carter used to devour books:  English would be his favorite subject!  Until he was four, he wouldn’t poke a toe out of bed until I came to get him:  He would never be a risktaker!  He loved whole fruits and vegetables:  He’d never succumb to fast food!

Riiiigggghhhtt.  Or actually, wrong.  Wrong, wrong and wrong.

He's not crazy about English, he's well-acquainted with risk-taking, and more often than not, he'll drive through, rather than drive by, a Chick Fil A.  But I'm awestruck as he makes his way toward becoming the man he chooses to be.  He’s bright and funny and irreverent and opinionated.  He’s mellow and outrageous, devil-may-care and fiercely devoted.  

He just came out that way.  Or, he just chooses to be that way.

Either way, I don’t get to take the credit.  I simply get to appreciate the person he is.

Happy birthday, son.  Being a parent to you at age 17 is something special, indeed.

New Year's Traditions: Dick Clark, Hoppin' John And A Plunging Pickle

I'm a fan of holiday traditions.

I always watch Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve – although I’m not entirely averse to channel-surfing now that I recognize so few of the featured performers. (Sorry, Nicki Mirage, er, Bling-Blaj, um, Minaj. Does your mother know you left the house wearing that outfit?)

I always have Hoppin’ John (for luck), collards (for money) and ham for New Year’s dinner.

I always bet on the bowl games. (However, given that I make my picks based on teams in towns I’d to visit, or teams at schools I wish my kids would attend, or teams wearing any color other than orange – take that, Clemson -- I can’t claim much success. Although all that would change if I just ate enough collards.)

Indeed, I’m so bound to holiday traditions that the kids often use it against me.

     You never make us listen to Christmas music until after Thanksgiving!
     You always let us open at least one gift on Christmas Eve!
     You can’t go to bed early! We have to go to the 10:30 p.m. service – it’s tradition!
     But we always have sausage bread Christmas morning!

With 49 years of tradition behind me, it’s hard to consider embracing another, but for “The Pickle Drop,” I just might. That’s right, “The Pickle Drop.”

Don’t know how I hadn’t heard about this before, but it turns out that for the past 13 years, Mt. Olive, North Carolina has hosted the New Year’s Eve Pickle Drop at the corner of, no kidding, Cucumber and Vine. Partygoers feast on hot chocolate and pickles (provided by the Mt. Olive Pickle Company, natch), before watching the lighted, three-foot pickle descend a flagpole. Again, just to be clear, no kidding.

And did I mention that big event occurs at 7 p.m.? That’s right. Seven-oh-clock in the evening, which means that, provided you don't over-indulge in pickles, you get a decent-night’s sleep -- on New Year's Eve.  I’m thinking Mt. Olivians are my kind of crowd.

Maybe my rigid, tradition-based mind could be a bit more flexible. In fact, I’m thinking I’ll add one more item to my New Year’s menu – this comforting corn chowder, crusted with bacon crumbles. But no pickles. At least, not until next year.

Jalapeno-Lime Corn Chowder

Four slices bacon, chopped

1 medium Vidalia onion, chopped
1 small jalapeno pepper, seeded and ribbed, minced
1 large clove garlic, minced

3 tablespoons flour

 
1 large baking potato, peeled and cubed
1 quart chicken stock
Juice of ½ lime
Corn cut from three cobs (or one 10-ounce frozen package)

1 cup heavy cream
salt
pepper

In a large, heavy, lidded skillet, sauté bacon over medium-low heat until crispy.   Remove browned bacon bits, to be used as a garnish later.  In remaining bacon grease, sauté onion until translucent, stir in jalapeno and garlic.  When vegetables are tender and fragrant, sprinkle with flour.  Continue stirring until flour is well-combined and slightly browned.  Stir in chicken broth, potato, lime juice and corn.  Bring to boil, then, reduce heat to low, and simmer, lidded until potato is very tender -- about 20 minutes.  Stir in cream, season to taste and serve hot, garnished with reserved bacon bits.

Holiday News From The Wiles. Or, At Least, The Bits We Can Share.

Julia and Carter, Christmas 2011

Dear Friends and Family,

For most people, today would be seven days too late for a holiday letter. To that, I say, bah humbug. December 31 is actually the traditional seventh day of Christmas, landing it squarely mid-merriment and prime for festive greetings, right? Provided, of course, that I am also serving up seven swans-a-swimming and figgy pudding.

Truthfully, 2011 has been terrific. However, unlike in years past, I can’t tell you much about the kids because:

1. Teenagers are keen on privacy, 
2. I respect my teenagers’ privacy, 
3. Teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable for publication,
4. Which is all to say that teenagers’ actions aren’t always suitable.

Still, we made it through 2011 without extended hospital stays or negative impact on “permanent records,” so I’m declaring the year to be success. As Carter says, “Mom, I may not be smart yet, but my stupidity is on the decline.” OK. Hardly a ringing endorsement, but OK.

Carter is in his junior year of high school, so allow me to speak on his behalf: He doesn’t know where he wants to go to college; he doesn’t know what he wants to major in, he doesn’t know his class rank, he isn’t sure of his GPA, and he doesn’t know where he’ll apply. But go ahead and ask him yourself. Every English-speaking friend, family member, casual acquaintance and complete stranger in the tri-state area does. And Carter loves it. Absolutely adores it.

In fairness, he has identified a few criteria. He likes schools with large football programs. He doesn’t like coats, hats, gloves and scarves. He likes schools with a high proportion of females to males. He doesn’t like studying. But mostly, he really, really, really wants to go to college. Otherwise, what would he do? Work? He did that this summer – as a country club lifeguard – and it was really hard. Like, they wouldn’t even let you text while five-year-olds were jumping off the diving board. Isn’t slavery supposed to be illegal in the United States?

Julia is in her freshman year of high school and can now fit in nearly all my clothes and shoes. But “gross.” Except for my boots, heels, and sweaters. On occasion, my jewelry’s not altogether hideous, either. But even so. Eww.

Seriously, Julia is a diligent student, maintaining an absolute focus on the two topics most critical to freshman success – getting her driver’s permit and finding a dress for the next dance. And shoes. Really fabulous shoes. That no one else has. They don’t have to fit. They just have to look good. Tossed in a corner of the floor. Because no one actually dances in shoes. How could you not know that?

I guess I ended up with the biggest news of the year. Cougar Bait (David Bonner) took full leave of his senses, giving me a surprise birthday party and then, proposing. Marriage. Silly him. According to all accounts, I didn’t draw a full breath before snatching the ring, slipping it on, and asking, repeatedly, “Did I say ‘yes’?” Whatever. The ring is mine. And so is he.

Plainly, 2011 has been a year of blessings for us, and we hope the same has been true for you!

Much love and happy holidays,

Cheri