Erika Schickel: My girls have been away at sleep-away camp for TWO WHOLE WEEKS and it has been utterly divine.  This is the longest they've ever been away from home, and it's been long enough that I've gotten completely used to it.  My house is clean and quiet, my days are centered entirely around my own needs and desires.  I have abandoned the kitchen and eaten almost every meal out.  I have had conversations with my husband!  I have smoked dope in the house!  Damn, this child-free life really has its perks. Makes you wonder sometimes.

Neal Pollack: Doesn't it, though? Basically, children destroy our brains and our identities when they're babies and toddlers, and then we spend a few years gradually piecing our old selves back together. Of course, by then, the life we had before kids has completely evaporated, forcing us to spend our evenings eating seafood with people named Bob and Gloria. At least that's what I think is going to happen to me.

ES:  Yeah, already I'm feeling this strange yearning to play bridge ...
It's actually great to get a little snapshot of the future without kids, like this.  This whole parenting thing is but a blip in our personal timelines. It's hard to grasp that when your kids are around, but once they start going away to camp and stuff, you see that really, it's almost over.  I mean, assuming my kids matriculate smoothly into the real world between the ages of 18 to 20, I'm already over the halfway mark. A bittersweet revelation. But these two weeks have shown me that life is extremely full without my kids around.  

The ballroom dancing lessons do help with my sciatica and keep me social.   Mmm ... do I smell liver and onions?

NP:  Yes, before you know it, we'll be taking ElderHostels to Ireland, having one safe pint around 6 p.m., and then tucking in early because the bus for Galway leaves at dawn. Wait, that's what my parents are doing. We're not old yet. We're not!

ES: You know, that actually sounds kinda good to me.  Hey, Europe is Europe, after all! My girls came back since we started this conversation, and after less than 24 hours, my house is back to being a whirlwind of crap and chaos, I'm back to the routine of thinking about what everyone will eat (one of the regular chores of parenthood I most hate), and as I write this, Georgia flopped down on the bed and complained of being bored and hungry as she slung her arm over my arm while I was is trying to type this.  ElderHostel, take me away!

NP:  This brings to mind something. While I love hanging out with my kid, it does get tiring to have everything revolve around his schedule and his needs. I don't mean helping him with his homework or reading him a Tintin book before bed, but the feeding and the dressing and the laundry and, especially, the hauling around. Would our days be better without kids? Would they be fuller? I hesitate before saying yes, but I don't necessarily want to say no, either.

ES: Yeah, good question. And a brave one. Parenting is 90 percent drudgery.  It's that 10 percent -- the Tintin books, the snuggles, the unexpected laugh line -- that is our payoff. For instance, the other day Georgia figured out that I'm the tooth fairy. It was a day of processing.  In the morning, she said point blank, "You're the Tooth Fairy, right?"  I admitted it (she's 10, it's time).  Later that afternoon she came into my room and said, "So then where are all my teeth?"  I pulled two sets of baby teeth out of my shoe bag, where I have hidden them all these years, along with the "fairy dust" (glitter) that I sprinkled on her windowsill and coverlet.  Then that evening she turned to me and said, "Now I suppose you're gonna tell me that there's no Santa Claus!"  Then she paused and considered: "Oh wait, that's right, I've seen him with my own eyes.  Phew."

I loved her so much in that moment my head nearly exploded.  It made that midnight run to the store for milk and Corn Pops worthwhile.  I'm not ready for retirement yet.

NP:  Yes, yes, memories are made of this. I have to wonder, though, when my mom says stuff like, "Isn't that what it's all about? Family?" I want to say, "No, it's not supposed to all be about family. There are other themes, other relationships. We're not supposed to spend our life arguing with our kids about whether or not they should be allowed to watch commercials with the sound off. When I hear people say that they just want to spend their weekends hanging out with their kids, I want to say, "ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND? IT'S THE WEEKEND!"

This is not a popular point of view.

Wait a second. You let your kids eat Corn Pops?

To Be Continued.

Erika Schickel: So, it has happened. I have officially entered the land of the Fuddy Duddy. Today my almost-teen daughter tried to go out dressed like a tramp (a TRAMP, I tell you!), and I went apeshit. It was a classic parental spazz-out, worthy of Ed Bundy. I looked at her in her skintight cutoffs and camisole, putting on eyeliner, and I think I may have actually said something like, "If you think you're going to spend the summer putting on makeup to go to the mall, you've got another thing coming, Young Lady. And those shorts are too tight. Put something on that will allow you to digest your lunch." As the words were coming out of my mouth, I was hating me as much as she clearly was. I always swore I wouldn't battle my kids about clothes. I'm the mom who let her girls wear tap shoes to school. But this really pushes my buttons. Later, I gave her some BS lecture about making choices about how we project ourselves as women in the world, but the bottom line was, I just didn't like the idea of some horny middle-aged man looking down my 12-year-old daughter's shirt.

So tell me, as a horny, middle-aged guy, Neal -- do you think I overreacted?

Neal Pollack: Well, I may be horny, Erika, but I'm not horny enough to look at 12-year-old girls at the mall. I can certainly understand why you were reacting the way that you did, but judging from your description of how she's dressed, unless she was headed off to work in Bangkok, I don't think you have to worry much. That outfit sounds like it was designed to attract dumb, recently pubescent boys, which is part of her job description these days. There is a long Southern California tradition of girls looking like sluts at the mall, but I think you know that your daughter isn't a slut. She just has the bad fashion sense of a 12-year-old. So let it ride. Easy for me to say when my son will only wear one of two pairs of baggy cotton shorts because the rest of his clothes are too "itchy."

ES: Ah, I remember those golden days, when clothing issues all centered around itchiness...

Well, you're right, of course, Neal. But for an old feminist like me, I can't help being all: "HAS SHE LEARNED NOTHING!!??" It's funny, because I used to think about the politics of lookism a lot. I have raised my children in a logo-free environment. We shop plenty at the Goodwill (at least, that's where we go for our dress-ups) and I have always been careful to encourage her to look beyond the mirror. She is a beautiful girl, but doesn't carry any of that self-conscious yuckitude about it. She has never worked it before. In fact, Franny is so down-to-earth and Georgia is the one who has been dressing like a slut since she was two. But this puberty thing really ups the ante! And yeah, I realize it's her job to turn pubescent heads. But, in fact, I think she's dressing more to impress her girlfriends than she is to attract boys. So yeah, she's on schedule. I'm just so ashamed to have reacted like that. When did I get to be such a wet blanket? Maybe I'm the one who needs a makeover.

NP: Sluttiness, whatever that might be, isn't how you dress. It's about how you react to the way boys (or girls) react to the way you dress. With a mom like you, she's not going to grow up to be a Bratz. But we all have those elements inside us, and if she wants to dress like a hooker once in a while, it's not a big deal. If she came home with a tattoo, you probably wouldn't care, but some parents would. Just think of it as an early Halloween, ask her if she's headed off to Clown-Slut Lessons, and let it go.

Erika: Touche, Neal. Or should I say, tush-ay?

Neal Pollack: So, Erika, we made the mistake of buying a game on the Wii for Elijah called Lego Star Wars: The Complete Saga. Most gamers agree that it's an awesome game, fun for all ages, and after having the game completely dominate my life for a month, I still find myself looking forward to playing. The problem isn't with me. It's with my son. The game hasn't made him unempathetic to human suffering -- to paraphrase a common objection of anti-gaming types -- even though in life he most often finds himself feeling empathy, deep and sobbing, toward his own suffering when he stubs his toe or scrapes his knee. Rather, it seems to short-circuit his brain, so that at the end of every session, and even sometimes in the middle, he breaks down into uncontrollable hysteria. When we try to calm him, that hysteria turns to rage, and he starts swatting at us, throwing things, tormenting the dogs, or knocking over chairs. When we threaten to take the game away from him, he drops to the floor and starts moaning and sweating like a movie junkie in a rehab montage. I think we might have introduced him to video games a wee bit early.

Erika Schickel: Yikes! That does NOT sound good, Neal.  I have some experience with this phenomenon.   A few years ago I wrote a piece for LA City Beat called "Grand Theft Mommy"  (the piece is also in my book) in which I became obsessed with playing Grand Theft Auto:  San Andreas.  I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.  Well sure, it was violent, but after logging twenty hours or so playing  the game with a couple of really nice kids I concluded that video games alone can't wreck a child.  Once again, the proof is in the home life.  If the child is being encouraged to explore many interests and is getting adequate supervision from loving adults -- no amount of cyber-shooting, car thievery or Ho' running will turn him to the Dark Side.  But what you're describing does sound like a behavioral shift on a more elemental level.  Almost like your boy is having some kind of brain spazz after playing.  I did notice after playing GTA for a few hours, that my experience of reality got warped.  I'd drive recklessly and feel bolder, more invincible than I normally do.  Re-entry to the real world from the video world was tricky.  Having to downshift from warp speed was challenging -- and I was an adult with 40 years of reality-based living to ground me.  It must be really hard for a five-year-old for whom the real world and its parameters are still being figured out.  Is it just this game, or does he respond this way to other games as well?  Maybe a nice picture book would be better.

NP: He’s been known to throw the chess board across the room when he loses. The game just exacerbates his intense side. We don't want to take it away from him entirely, because that will shatter his heart. But we have started using it as an effective discipline technique, combined with a sticker chart. Otherwise, he's entering Veruca Salt crossed with Mike Teavee category. As for your GTA obsession, I am aware of that. I tried to get into Guitar Hero earlier this year, but just couldn't cross over into fanatic territory. I've avoided playing Madden for just that reason. There's no doubt, really, that our generation will be playing video games in the nursing home.

ES: Well, as far as I see it, the Parenting Gods have given you a gift:  a fail-safe way to bribe your child.  Such manna!!  And a sticker chart?  Pollack, I didn't know you had those moves.  I'm impressed.  We were always, "NO!  Well ... okay," around here.

I think I may have overstated my interest in GTA. Turns out, I sucked at it and therefore eventually gave up in frustration.  I was more obsessed with the notion of myself as a Badass GTA-Playing Mama.  And of course, I wanted to write the piece, which makes me a big joystick-sucking whore.  Anyway, I couldn't stay alive, drive the car, or pick up the AK, and I got killed a zillion times eventually giving up in frustration.  So I think I'll be kickin' it old skool with my knitting in the nursing home.

NP:  I had an equal experience recently with Guitar Hero III, which I bought for the Wii in anticipation of an all-night rockin’ party. I had a couple of decent sessions, but I haven’t felt compelled to challenge Tom Morello again. “Why playGuitar Hero when you can play real guitar?” my wife asks, and I have a hard time arguing. On the other hand, I can’t ask Elijah, “why have a video light-saber fight with General Grevious when you can do that in real life?” Real life just doesn’t offer the same kind of stimulation, I’m afraid. Maybe he’ll find it in books? Yes. Books. They’ll solve everything.

Erika Schickel: I just got done with a weekend at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books, where I lead a panel with several authors, one of whom was Steve Almond, who read from his latest book, Not That You Asked, a piece about how to write a sex scene.  As he read a long list of words you should never use: "No:  Flesh Kabob, Manmeat, Tube Steak, Magic Wand.  Especially No:  Hairy Taco, Sperm Puppet," I looked out to the audience to see my twelve year-old daughter laughing her ass off.  There wasn't much I could do to protect her, but then I realized it was already too late.  She is already in the know.  Now she wants to read more Almond.  I am a huge fan of his, but not sure if she's ready for his adult themes.  I'm adding this to my mental list currently under consideration.  My precocious girl also wants to read Cormack McCarthy's The Road. I'm thrilled, but frankly a little worried.  Time to censor?  I never thought I'd see the day.  

Neal Pollack:  Erika, I think it's time to let her go. Yes, Almond is a dirty boy, but so what? The onset of puberty is the end of Where The Red Fern Grows time. She may absorb some of the naughty words and sex scenes, but a lot of the really adult themes will pass right over her head. We read what we're ready to read; the rest just kind of flows in and out. As for The Road, she's totally ready for that. Yes, it's disturbing. Yes, it's mannered and pretentious. But so is most of Los Angeles, and you let her leave the house every day.

Meanwhile, other words: I would be happy never to see the terms "Dirty Sanchez" and "Cleveland Steamer" ever again. They are comedy crutches, but I don't know anyone who practices those vile habits, and can imagine that the world population that does numbers in the very low thousands.

ES:  "Dirty Sanchez?"  "Cleveland Steamer?"  Clearly I am suffering from underexposure, because I have no idea what you are talking about and what those things may be. Damn, you are so WORLDLY Pollack!

Let's coin some new ones: "Pleasure Flume?"  "Man Handle?"  I might get Franny to come up with some fresh terms, as clearly, she's ready.  As soon as she's done digesting the image of a baby being roasted on a spit in the McCarthy book.

NP:  I, of course, also worry about my son being exposed to certain things too early, but, as usual, we're operating on different planes here, since he's five and isn't going to be accompanying me to a Steve Almond reading any time soon. My worries are mostly about violence. He sees plenty of violence as it stands, but it's of the very cartoony, Superman-throws-a-bomb-into-the-sun variety. There's no bleeding, no agony, no real consequences. I guess the real dilemma, as I see it, is not when to expose your child to sex and violence (there are lots of movies where kissing doesn't lead to much else), but when to expose them to realistic depictions thereof.

ES:  It’s interesting how often these issues come up for us, Neal.  Modern parenting is really about regulating exposure.  With so much information in the world, it’s tricky stuff.  I gotta believe it’s evolving a whole new kind of parent – one who is hip, savvy, plugged-in, yet constantly trying to mitigate our own kids’ exposure.  I often feel myself running an internal discussion that goes something like this:

Me:  Oh God, there’s nudity and bad language in this film/book/song that I otherwise totally approve of for my kid.

Myself: Then keep your eyes on the greater good, Schickel.  She’s an intelligent, discerning girl.  She can handle it.

I: What, are both of you NUTS?  She’s twelve.  Send her to her room and tell her to read “Where the Red Fern Grows!”

Myself:  Just because that was your favorite book when you were twelve, doesn’t mean that it’s sacred.  Listen to Pollack, let the kid go. 

I: But I’m not ready.  I’m scared of losing her to the adult world.  I want to delay that.

Myself:  Now you’re just sounding like your own mother.  Chill out.  This isn’t the 1960s.  The kid already has a boyfriend.  So what if she knows what “manmeat” means? 

I: Both of you shut up.  You’re giving me a headache!

Erika Schickel: I have a shameful secret I must share with you, Neal: I am a lazy mom.  A long time ago, around about the birth of kid #2, I realized that if I was going to survive motherhood, I would have to conserve my energy.  So in the name of teaching my kids self-sufficiency, I make them do a lot of their own work. 

For instance, this morning my almost ten-year-old said to me, "I have a disgusting pile of laundry in my closet, Mom."

"Yeah, so?" 

"So ... I guess I have to wash it. 

"Well it's not going to wash itself, Honey," was my response. 

I truly believe that the central goal of parenting is to raise capable, independent humans.  Skills must be learned.  How will my kids learn to separate the lights from the darks unless they actually do it?  But, of course, the real truth is I am trying to do the absolute minimum.  I am old and they are old enough.  Don't make me put down my magazine, get up, and do something boring, please.

Neal Pollack: You aren't obligated to do your child's laundry, and she's definitely old enough to do her own. Also, I don't believe that you're a professional housekeeper. Regina tends to do all the laundry around here, because she doesn't trust me not to ruin her clothing, and she does it when she damn well feels like it. The only real comparison is cleaning Elijah's room. Basically, it doesn't get done. I don't do it because I want to see whether or not Regina is going to do it, and for some reason we often forget to tell Elijah that he has to clean. If things get completely out of order, we have a "family clean-up," but yeah, we're servants more often than I like.

Erika: Your reference to me as "a professional housekeeper" made me laugh, Neal.  I am so unqualified for anything near that.  In fact, I was paying a professional housekeeper to come here every other week and do damage control.  The rule with my kids was they could live in filth, but had to get their rooms picked up so that Gloria could run a vacuum and dust twice a month.  Then we had to let Gloria go due to lack of funds and it's all gone to hell in a hamper around here.

But I digress, because really I'm not talking about housekeeping, but a certain, general, laissez-faire attitude I take toward parenting.  One of the most difficult challenges I face as a freelance writer/mom is how to balance time for kids and work.  And just the acute entropy I face with one or the other at any given time.  If the work is going well, the house and kids are neglected.  If I'm stuck, I'm all rubber gloves and loving nurturance.  I guess I just feel constantly torn and tired and push a lot of responsibility onto my girls in the name of fostering independence and self-sufficiency.  But maybe this isn't an issue for a dad the way it is for a mom.  Do you feel the same level of guilt and obligation? Sometimes I feel like I need me a wife.

Neal: You are not a laissez-faire mom. Your kids get more or less what they need, certainly more than most kids in the world get. They are fed and clothed and housed and loved. In the end, the only reason the world cares at ALL about what goes on inside our houses is because we write about what goes on inside our houses. If you're torn and tired, well, you're human, but not neglectful. As long as you're conscious of it, then you're doing your job. You could do what my wife does with my son, if you're really feeling a lack of connection. Right now, they're playing a video game called Endless Ocean meeting imaginary sea animals. My mom never did that with me when I was a kid.

Erika:  Thanks, I needed that little confidence bump, Neal.  Every time I think I'm the worst mom I look at my terrific kids and think: "Well, whoever is raising them can't be all bad!"

Neal: Well, I wouldn’t go that far. We’re all crappy parents in our own right. Can I really provide moral guidance to my son when, while he was just starting to walk, I recorded a song called “I Wipe My Ass On Your Novel”? I have to get stoned before I watch basketball. How am I supposed to explain that to him? Oh, let’s face it, we’re all totally screwed up, and we just have to try to screw up our kids a little less than we’re screwed up. If that includes, for you, having them do their own laundry, then you’ve done your job.

Erika Schickel:  I was reading an article in the LA Times about the Supreme Court revisiting what qualifies as an "indecent" broadcast.  Currently, every time a broadcaster lets a dirty word slip, the FCC charges them $325,000.  That's a lot of money in the swear jar!  Broadcasters want to change the rules so they don't get busted every time some miscreant like Bono lets the F-bomb drop on an awards show.

I've given the subject of cursing a lot of thought over the years.  As a new mother, I started out feeding my children nutritious, wholesome meals and making sure I never corrupted their tender ears with filthy language.  It wasn’t long before I was yelling “Shit!” from the pantry upon discovering we were out of Mallomars.  As a person who enjoys language as much as I do, I find it nearly impossible to curtail use of some of my favorite words around my children.  

The biggest problem behind cursing was explaining to my kids why it was okay for me to do it, but not them. (“Girls, let me introduce you to double standards.”)  And then I found myself questioning the whole policy top to bottom.  I wondered if, like banning sugar, banning salty talk just made it more tempting.  Of course no one wants to hear their five-year-old call them a motherfucker, but I didn’t think they would ever pick up that kind of aggressive cursing from me.  So I told them that cursing is okay, as long as you do it at home or with your friends and non-aggressively.  It’s never okay to curse in school, in front of authority figures, or in polite company. These are the basic rules I try to follow.  But I guess living with me has made them prudish about cursing.  They almost never do it.

I know you to be a pretty crude dude, Pollack.  What's the rule in your home?

Neal Pollack:  We try to limit the profanity as much as possible, but it's not always easy, particularly since 30 percent of my life involves driving around Los Angeles. It's off-limits for the boy, though. We tell him that, like drinking whiskey, cussing isn't good for you, but grownups are allowed. If we catch him, he gets scolded mildly, and if he cusses at us, he gets punished. Fortunately, he is as prudish as your girls and has a pretty clean mouth.

Of course, that means he scolds us constantly, which can be annoying when he mishears us talking about, oh, a dam or a hill. The other night he yelled at us from his bedroom: "You people punish me all the damn time!" We rebuked him very mildly, especially because it was a pretty funny context. That excuses a lot.

On the other hand, what schools call "potty mouth" runs rampant around here. We're always talking about farting in each other's faces and other matters scatological. Elijah came home from school, after learning "We Shall Overcome" for some assembly, and was singing, "Deep in my butt/I still believe." Regina eventually told him to cut it out, but I couldn't bring myself to; it was just too funny.

ES: "Deep in my butt, I still believe ..." is just hilarious.   I am 100 percent for potty humor.  Fart jokes are always funny.  We would never censor good scatological humor of any kind; in fact, we reward it with Mallomars.  

But, I disagree that cussing isn't good for you.  It's so restorative and rewarding on so many levels.  I think human beings invented profanity as an evolutionary survival tactic.  Without swearing, our heads would explode.

NP:  I don't think there's anything wrong with having a dirty mouth or a dirty mind. Lord knows I have both, and I'm still functioning. The key is to teach your kids when it's appropriate to curse and when it's not. Telling a friend to "blow me" has far different repercussions than telling, say, an assistant principal. Let's face it: Salty language and dirty talk are still transgressive in our culture, however mildly so. If they weren't, they wouldn't be considered profanity. And don't we want to teach our kids to think against the grain? Admittedly, saying "fuck" is about as transgressive as urinating on a tree, and probably about as common in certain regions, but a well-timed epithet is worth a thousand words.

That said, my son gets sent to his room when he calls me a "hell poopyhead," even though it's the greatest goddamn insult of all time.

Neal Pollack and Erika Schickel's Because We Said So column appears every other Tuesday in the MOLI View.

Erika Schickel:  I recently spent a weekend with a couple and their young son.  A very sweet boy, but lawzy, he had him some crazy issues!  The boy is almost eight, but he acts five.  He works his parents over constantly, never letting his mother out of his sight.  He makes her stay in his room with him while the rest of the group is socializing in the living room.  He won't eat anything that isn't white.  So literally, they feed him bagels, pizza, and candy all day long.

It's so obvious to everyone what's going on, and the parents (who are wonderful, smart, accomplished, funny, lovely people) are under house arrest to this kid.  The boy bounces from shit fit to crying jag whenever he senses he is losing their focus. Nobody ever lays down the law around there and it sucks for everyone, the boy most of all.  Furthermore, it is ruining everyone else's good time.  It got to the point where I wanted to give the boy a tongue-lashing, just because he was being rude to me, but I didn’t, because of course the first rule is you don’t tell people how to parent.  But sometimes that rule is so hard to follow.  Do you think there is ever a time for intervention in your opinion?  Or is it all just utterly, across-the-board verboten?

Neal Pollack:  You've got be very careful disciplining other people's kids. The circumstances have to be completely appropriate, or else you'll look like a jerk or a lunatic. To wit: Last week I took my son and his best friend to the park. I know the kid's parents pretty well, and we're comfortable talking about discipline and other parenting-related matters, though far apart on certain key aspects. So last week, Elijah fell and bonked his head on the concrete. After affirming that his brains weren't oozing out of his ears, I picked him up, carried him to the car, and drove him home.

Then I took the friend home. When I parked the car, the kid unbuckled his seatbelt, ran out of the car, slammed the door, bolted up the steps, and went inside without looking at or speaking to me. Now that is some rude shit. I stewed for about 30 seconds, and then I went upstairs, knocked, and the kid answered. I looked at him and said, "If someone gives you a ride home, you say thank you. And if you ever do that to me again, it will be the last time you ever play with Elijah. Do you understand me?"  The dad was inside, on the couch, clacking on his laptop. He nodded with approval and mouthed a "thank you." And then the kid said "thank you" to me. He looked pissed, but he did it. So basically, you can discipline other people's kids if you know the parents pretty well, and if the kid is misbehaving to you, or in your house. Does that seem reasonable?

Erika:  What you're saying is reasonable, but what I'm getting at here is less so. This dad you dealt with sounds very cool, but I think that he may be the exception to a more tricky rule.  What I'm getting at is less a moment of bad, correctable behavior, and more when you see a chronic, endemic parenting problem.  When you love the parents but see that they've become enslaved to their bad choices, i.e., letting Junior stay up eating candy until all hours until Junior falls apart.  Or letting Junior habitually abuse others, or spoil the fun for everybody.  What to do then?  I have been in this situation several times, where I love the parents, but feel like they're creating this hideous dynamic with their kids.  Do you say something or just eternally suck it up?

Neal:  There's nothing you can do. The aforementioned kid and his brother have a "candy drawer" that they can access at all times, and their parents allow them to watch the "Halloween" movies. All I can do is nod and tell Elijah that's not the way things work in our house. Occasionally, if the kid is misbehaving on your turf, you can lay down the hammer. When I was a kid, some friends of my parents had a bratty little boy, and he was being really bratty at our house one Passover. My dad got fed up and locked him in the pantry for about five minutes. The kid later told my dad it was one of the most important things that ever happened to him. And my parents are still friends with his parents. You risk ruining a friendship of your own if you do something like that, but it's also possible -- and let me emphasize possible -- that the parents will be grateful.

Erika: Hmm … locking another person’s kid in a closet.  Why didn’t I think of that? It’s brilliant!  Send Elijah over any time!

Erika:  I can't believe this is happening to me -- my daughter is going through puberty!  (Sorry, moment of uncontrolled narcissism there.)   But really, I've barely recovered from my own adolescence, and here she is, moody and lovely, zitty and bubbly, secretive and wide open.  It's like watching cement dry, different shadings of light and dark, still impressionable, but quickly hardening and easy to get stuck in.  One day during winter break Franny woke up on the wrong side of the bed.  She was cranky and solitary.  I kept asking her what was wrong and she kept saying, "Nothing, I'm just tired."  But I couldn't believe her.  I thought, '"It's over.  My baby is pulling away from me and I'll never get her back."  She went to bed early and when she woke up the next day she was her old, sweet self.   Turns out she really was just tired.  Doh!  I'm finding the hardest part of parenting a pubescent is not taking it personally.  I know your son is still a mere lad, but can you feel my pain, Neal?

Neal: I wish I had the problem of dealing with a cranky and solitary kid. Of late, I've been putting up with untrammeled defiance and violent, unpredictable mood swings. Not to mention what my kid is doing. Ba da dum. Seriously, though, is it true what they say, that the three-to-five-year age range is a decent preview of what you get when puberty hits? After all, the mental changes at that age almost equal the sudden, almost violent physical changes of the pubescent years. If this is my preview, my kid is going to have to be fighting girls off with a rake. He bats those eyelashes, and the ladies go bonkers over him. And I'll have to be fighting him off with a rake too. I had to go on antidepressants as an adult to keep myself under control, and he's more emotional than I was at my worst. I get tired even thinking about puberty.

Erika: I was just talking with a mom the other day who said kids go through three-year cycles -- 3, 6, 9, 12, etc. -- where kids go a little batshit, and it's true in my experience.  I remember when Franny turned three thinking, "Jeez, the two's weren't so terrible.  This is gonna be a cakewalk."   Then BOOM, three was a whole other ball of wax.   So hard.  But what was hard about it?  For us, it was our girls reaching for independence, testing limits, torn between the desire for freedom and the need for security.  Same issues with adolescence, right?  The growth is so fast at these ages, it's scary for everyone, especially the person doing the growing.

I'm trying to keep a positive attitude and not condemn my daughter to adolescence. There’s so much babble about how tough it is, and it's easy to assume that the teen years will be hell.  I'm trying to remember that under the attitude and Abercrombie, the bad moods and benzoyl peroxide, is my sweet, kind, loving girl.  Even on the days I can't see her, I have to remember that she'll be back. 

Neal: See, this brings up a related rant. I'm lamenting the Return of the Sympathetic Teen Protagonist, or The Juno Syndrome. Suddenly, an entire generation of hipster parents thinks their sons are going to grow up to be Michael Cera, and their daughters Ellen Page. Do we forget our own childhoods? Do we forget that most teenagers are either morons, assholes, or self-righteous, grade-grubbing prigs? In my case, I was all three. Your daughters, I'm sure, will be excluded from this, as will be my son, but all of the sudden we're walking around with the fantasy of skinny nerds wearing retro clothing, and sassy gals who listen to the Stooges and read McSweeney's.

Erika: Yeah, good luck with that.  We got a Juno screener and Franny has watched it six times.  She's quoting full scenes verbatim.  Ellen Page is as a goddess to her at the moment.  I, of course, was neither as pithy nor as self-assured as Juno (or as Franny, for that matter).  In fact, I was a walking wound, full of angst and rebellion and questions. The reason this is so on my mind is because I’m doing a Mortified reading next week (little plug there, for you LA readers).  Mortified is that series where people read from their dorky middle and high school journals.  The geekier the better.  It's all very braces-and-knee socks cool.  Mortified revels in dorkery, because now it's hip to have been a geek.   But I wasn't a geek.  I've been going through all my journals from 8th to 12th grades looking for material and realizing I made Sylvia Plath look like the frikkin' Rose Queen.  There's nothing postmodern to be found in my teenage years, just gnawing self-doubt, macking for love at every turn, putting on airs, making bad choices.  Ugh.  I think what scares me about my daughters' adolescence is my own. 

Neal: My adolescence was nasty-bad on the front end, full of getting bullied and playground fights and general misery, followed by a pretty enjoyable 15-to-18 run where I was happy, self-confident, directed, in good physical shape, and sexually active. I mean, sure, I'm all of those things now, but there were about two lost decades in between. All I can hope for, for my son, is that he keeps his head down and avoids the jocks and the assholes, treats girls with as much respect as possible, and enjoys the part of his life where he comes into his own. As for quoting Juno verbatim, I quoted The Breakfast Club verbatim when I was a teenager (of course, I also quoted Monty Python and the Holy Grail), and thought John Hughes captured my reality better than anyone on earth. In retrospect, I had more of a Barry Levinson boyhood. But what am I getting at here? Oh, yeah. My son would be bored out of his mind watching Juno. However, that episode of The Tick where they fight the multiple robot Santa Clauses? He's all over that one.

Neal Pollack and Erika Schickel's "Because We Said So" column appears every other Tuesday in the MOLI View.

Erika Schickel: Hi MOLI-World, I'm Erika Schickel, the author of You're Not the Boss of Me: Adventures of a Modern Mom. I write book reviews for The Los Angeles Times and freelance around like the big writing 'ho I am.  I'm also mom to Frances, 12, and Georgia, 9.

Neal Pollack: I'm the author of Alternadad, called by one critic "the most offbeat parenting memoir ever written" and by another "indescribably dull." Also, I'm the founder of Offsprung, a web community for "parents who don't suck." I've written several other books and have done lots of professional writing. I'm father to Elijah, age 5.

Erika: Together we are two "alternative parenting" poster grownups, though  honestly, you wouldn't know it to look at us.  We're probably just like you: approaching middle age, under-funded, over-worked, suffering from some boredom and cabin fever, and in love with our kids.  We're  pretty average, we're just painfully honest about ourselves and like to make funny hash out of ordinary life.  Some may see our books as self-indulgent claptrap espousing a decidedly laissez-faire approach to parenting, and they'd be mostly right (and I invite them to go read one of those pink mommy blogs instead of this one -- get some tips on organizing your playroom!).  But Neal and I are  also a team of super-dicey "parenting experts."  In the months ahead you can look forward to some pretty B-grade, sub-par, inexpert advice from people who are figuring it out one day at a time.

Neal: Basically, we conceived of this blog/column/e-mail exchange passing for freelance work as a discussion of parenting issues that you don't see discussed elsewhere, at least not with a sense of humor, but that are always on the minds of parents. Yes, we worry about discipline and nutrition, but you never see anyone talk about what to do if you disagree with the rules at your child's school, or if your propaganda has worked too well and your child proclaims that he thinks McDonald's is "evil." Also, we have cranky opinions about popular culture. I am America's foremost dissenter on the topic of The Backyardigans, and don't get us started on High School Musical.

Erika:  Aaaaarrgggh!  Zack Ephron is like a thumbtack in my frontal lobe!

Neal:  Agreed, though he was pretty cute in Hairspray. Let’s get back to  "laissez-faire" parenting. I'm not always perfect when it comes to keeping my kid in line, but I do try, and I do have a fairly consistent set of values and beliefs that I espouse to him. He doesn't lie, he doesn't talk back (or if he does, he gets into big trouble), and he always says "please" and "thank you." The fact that I also try to explain to him why Dora and Diego suck ass is just a sidelight.

Erika:  Okay, maybe "laissez-faire" was the wrong Frenchism.  Because if you ask my kids, I'm a hard-ass.  If you ask my mother, I'm just one love-bead away from being a total hippie. I'm with you Neal, rudeness sucks no matter what your age and shouldn't be tolerated.  However, I see parents put their toddlers through these endless "please" and "thank you" drills and I just don't get it.  There's no magic in an empty "thank you" from a hollow-eyed tot who doesn't know the meaning of the word but is saying it because he has to.

Neal: Okay, I disagree with you. Obviously, I don't encourage disingenuousness in a person of any age, but I think it's important to teach a child the concept of gratitude. So if you combine the "magic words" with a subtle education in appreciating what's given to you, then I think they have a lot of value. And even if it's a little phony, if I have to get up from what I'm doing to get my son another stinkin' yogurt popsicle from the freezer, he'd damn well better say, "Thanks, daddy." Common courtesy means something.

Erika:  Here's  a thing I've noticed about children: They are highly sentient creatures adept at picking up social cues.  Both my children are polite and exhibit appropriate manners without any formal training from me.  I model it, they get the idea.  Why put yourself through all the hassle of making them say "please" and "thank you" every two minutes when chances are they'll figure it out on their own, if only to meet their own nefarious, self-centered objectives?

Look, I agree  with you Neal: Gratitude and manners are required in polite society, but all bets are off at home. When we decided to have kids, we knew that by bringing dependents into the world we were basically signing up for a long period of indentured servitude.  When I cook my kids dinner, I am not doing them a favor, I am doing myself a favor by ensuring their survival.  Shall our kids say, "Thank you Mommy, for wiping my crusty ass"?  No. You're in it for the ass-wiping, the popsicle-retrieving, and whatever other horrors should present themselves. I feel that the contract between parents and kids is as follows:  "I have brought you into the world and I will facilitate your comfort and satisfy your needs until you are old enough to satisfy them yourself. Further, I agree to patiently teach you all the skills necessary to satisfy said needs.  No formal thanks is necessary as we're all on the same team here.  However, in exchange, you will diligently try to master the skills necessary to execute successful popsicle retrieval without me as soon as possible, the primary goal being your independence and my tired, saggy ass remaining planted on this sofa."  Hence my kids never have to say "thank you" for a meal, but they do have to set the table and load the dishwasher (for which they, in turn, will receive little thanks).  Now, of course, if you've gone and raised yourself a spoiled, imperious little imp who treats you like chattel, then I'm all for putting him or her through whatever retroactive paces you deem necessary.  

Neal: No way, man. If I get up from playing an important game of Internet scrabble to get my kid a refill of chocolate milk, I want to hear thanks. Upon bringing the boy into the world, I agreed to feed, clothe, house, educate, and love him. I didn’t agree  to continually dump refills of shredded mozzarella into his bowl while he watched The Spongebob Squarepants Movie for the 25th time. That’s a bonus that deserves an expression of gratitude.

And now you can all see the seeds of our children’s future therapy bills.

Neal Pollack and Erika Schickel’s “Because We Said So” column will appear every other Tuesday in the MOLI View.