There's No Easy Solution to Problem of Adolescence

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the Minneapolis Tribune editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

August 31, 1952

   WE DEAL TODAY  with the problem of adolescence, that golden age which puts silver in parental hair; that glorious time of confusion and romance and frustration--a subject called to mind by the early opening of the high school doors.

   Memories of adolescence are fresh with me, in a strictly vicarious sense.  Two of my progeny have but recently passed through its more virulent phases without sending their parents to the psychiatrist's couch, and I feel I can discuss the issue with feeling if not authority.

   We may have been luckier than some.  Kind providence gave us an assist--to be dealt with later--but we know no easy way to deal with kids when they reach the age where they know everything and are hellbent on proving it.

   THEY SAY the teen years are among the toughest in life, filled with uncertainty and doubt and soul-searching and self-consciousness bred of first love.  That well may be, but if these were the only complications the parent would count it a veritable paradise.  There is also a flying in the face of authority, swaggering and inflated self-importance and a general kicking up of the heels as the adolescent oats begin to stir.

   Those teen years grind parental morale to a nub.  Suddenly papa is no longer Mr. Big, no longer the wise and all-knowing.  He one day comes to realize that he is just the old man, a crotchety incompetent.  He starts losing his grip when Junior is about 14 and grows progressively dumber with the years.  He reaches his mental nadir when Sonny is about 18, his intelligence quotient then being roughly comparable to that of an ox.

   It's rather convenient to have the old boy around, of course.  You can dig into his supply of shirts and socks.  He may even own a necktie that the girl friend thinks is cute.  His car comes in handy of an evening and when you need a buck you usually can weasel it out of him.  But otherwise the old boy is a back number.  He thinks it's fun just to sit on his tail in a easy chair or lean on the lawn mower and yak with the neighbors.

   ONE CAN READ books by the hour on how to deal with the teen-age problem and gain little but astigmatism.  After long association with a son and daughter I know no rules that guarantee even partial success.  I doubt that there are any.

   They tell you to be a pal to your kids, but a guy pressing 40, which I haven't been for some time , can't easily be a buddy to a 15-year-old.  You are no match for him at eating hot dogs at Nicollet park.  He's not interested in politics and you're not interested in jet fighters or Sady Jones.  He'd rather be over at Snuffy's shooting baskets against the garage, and you can't blame him.

   WE REFERRED awhile back to the role providence can play in assuaging the pangs which come when Sonny finally sees you with knowing eyes and tabs you for what you are.  Providence visited us on the wings of the stork.  Just when adolescence was its most rampant and rebellious, just when we were beginning to think fondly of the release old age would bring, a little stranger came our way to dumbfound and dismay us.
   But the agony first wrought by our rudely changed pattern of existence soon gave way to cheers.  My better half and I suddenly discovered that we had gained new stature in the household, that approving eyes were following us and starching up our esteem, that we again were big shots, that our little bundle of joy was just that. 

   ONE IS PROUD of one's kids at any age, but having a little squirt around does fill a void.  You're back on the hit parade again, our stale gags are good again--and so are those yarns about when you were a boy.  It's nice, after the older ones grow up and achieve independence, to have one left who needs you, someone you can nuzzle and toss around and let your hair down with; someone you can take on your lap and tell a story to--a story always good for wide-eyed wonderment.

   The price you pay--the mumps and measles and interrupted sleep, the water pistols and the 

P.T.A.-- is small for what a young one gives you.

   The Mrs. and I figure we're lords of the roost now, at least until 1962.  Then we'll be too old to let another adolescent worry us much.

Copyright 2014 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

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