milk money

"Do they expect me to read that little bitty print all the way at the bottom of the page?"

Well, yeah, honey, they do. I try, again, to teach her. Because the consequence of not following instructions, as she's learning, maybe, is not a zero in the gradebook but a blank spot in the refrigerator where the WIC-provided milk should be. An unnecessary crisis. A real-life lesson.

I state the facts but try not to scold. Chastising accomplishes nothing, at least not with her. And the baby needs milk. These are the things that I know. So I agree with her that her teen parent meeting is a good place to inquire, and we talk about food pantries, and I e-mail the nurse to try to ensure this girl follows through and gets help. Life is more expensive than her paycheck can cover. The baby needs milk. It seems the thing to do.

And then. And then today she's all excited. Something good has happened, or is about to.

"Guess what?" I play along with the query that usually makes me smile.

"I'm finally going to get an iPod!"

"You're going to what?!" I do not say.

As I consider my reply, she notices neither my silence nor the consternation I feel spreading over my face. She rattles on about her coming conspicuous consumption as I hesitate. She's a mother, but she's also a teenager. No excuse, but a reality. I know what to tell her; I have no qualms. But how to explain the obvious so she won't reject it? It's time for class, so I take the easy way, and I feel as if I'm playing hooky even as I teach. As if welfare reform is my job.

In her story I see the arguments against government help lining up to be counted, I see the appeal of snap judgment. I resist, even in my exasperation. She needs to learn about priorities and responsibility. The baby needs milk. They both need help, one way or the other. I need to find the words.