Narrative of a Debate Mom

From http://www.kansascity.com/news/neighborhood/northland/story/878485.html

Jennifer Brown: Where’s my debate trophy?

Jennifer Brown for Northland Zone
Some parenting decisions just need to be better thought-out. For example, last year when I encouraged Teen Goddess to give debate class a try, I figured it would be a good academic pursuit, one that would polish her research, reasoning and public speaking skills.

Had I thought it through, I might have realized my error: In essence, I had encouraged my teenager to take a class in which she would be taught to argue.

What was I thinking?!

If there is one activity in which teenagers don’t need instruction, it’s argumentation. And teaching them to argue more effectively, with passion and fluidity… now, that’s just cruel to parents. Why couldn’t I have pushed her to join the Compliance Club?

What’s worse, Hubby was a debater in high school, and lives to mentor his little girl. Thus, during debate season, our kitchen is headquarters of the Fraternal Order of the Conversationally Obnoxious. I just try to stay away while they spend hours saying things like “morally permissible” and “four fundamental principles” and “according to Aristotle.”

I took Philosophy as a summer course so I wouldn’t have to retain phrases like “morally permissible,” “four fundamental principles” and “according to Aristotle” for longer than a few weeks.

But occasionally I’ll have to interrupt with a mom request, and I find it best if I do it in her language:

“I’d like to argue affirmatively,” I’ll say, “that it is morally permissible for you to clean your bedroom right now. First, evidence shows that, while the task may require an individual — in this case, you — to sacrifice on the short term, pulling the dirty dishes with the fuzz growing on them out from under your bed before they come alive and eat people in the night is beneficial for the greater good. Furthermore, not cleaning your room will result in grounding, which will cause overcrowding in the Brown Family Weekend Prison system. And let me quote the great philosopher, Bill Cosby, who said… is that a legal pad in your lap?”

She smiles patronizingly. “There are flaws in your case.”

Hubby leans in, points to a note she’s written, and whispers something in her ear. She nods, scribbles more notes.

“Whose side are you on?” I ask him, hands on hips.

He shrugs. “Your case is weak. I think she can win this one.” Teen Goddess nods in that you-will-never-get-it way that only debaters understand.

No, I probably won’t ever truly get it. My toughest debate in high school was whether to spend my allowance on blue mascara or an industrial-sized can of hairspray (Hey, it was the ’80s). But I do understand the Four Fundamental Principles of Being a Debate Mom during debate season:

Debaters spend a lot of their tournament downtime eating. Send lots of snack money.

Debaters like to pace and mumble a lot when there’s a tournament going on and they’re not there. They also like to pace and mumble when a tournament’s coming up and they will be there. Plan to refinish your floors in March.

Drink plenty of caffeine on Saturdays; 1 a.m. feels a lot later to parents than to debaters coming home on a tournament high.

For the next four years, the trophy shelf will be your debater’s most valued piece of furniture in the house.

I suppose it could be worse. After all, she may be a masterful arguer, but she has to follow rules of debate that I don’t.

“OK,” I say, giving her the Mom Stare. “How about this for a case? Clean your room or you don’t go to the next tournament.”

“I forfeit!” she says, and rushes off, leaving Hubby in a cloud of legal pad paper, clipped newspaper articles and highlighters. I glare at him. He squirms, then jumps up and wordlessly rushes out of the room behind her.

Now, where’s my trophy?