Nicole set herself on fire yesterday. Over the last year, she has begged to take on more duties in the kitchen, graduating from mixing and measuring to working with the oven and more recently the stove. Mac and cheese has become her signature recipe, with variations added each time she makes it as she tries to expand her repertoire of recipes. But yesterday, while making ice cream, she wanted to take on the job of stirring the milk mixture in the pan while it cooked on the stove. I hesitated for a moment, but since she has been boiling the noodles for pasta for months now, I didn’t see the harm in letting her stir while the pan was over an open flame.
As she stirred, I insisted that she hold the pan so that she didn’t accidentally knock the mixture off the stove and onto herself. Having done that once when I was younger, I remember being so thankful that I had decided to wear jeans that day and that the pot of hot cream sauce hit my pants and not my bare skin. But since that day, my rule has always been, hold onto a pot when you’re stirring it. But the pot handle was hot, so Nicole used an oven mitt so that she wouldn’t have to touch the pot handle directly. I turned my back for a second to get another ingredient and that’s when it happened. And it happened very quickly.
I smelled it first – it was like the faint smell of bad incense. But then the smell grew more intense. I turned around and saw that the oven mitt Nicole was still holding in her hand was on fire. The odd thing is, she continued stirring, not realizing that it was burning. I couldn’t even speak – it seemed to happen so fast. A thousand thoughts raced through my brain in an instant…Fire, fire, fire, get it out of her hand, don’t let the pan spill on her, don’t let her hair catch on fire. I think I yelled. I’m not even sure. I know I kept saying, “The mitt, the mitt…” unable to form a full sentence. As I was babbling, I reached for the mitt, trying to take it out of her hand, but since she didn’t realize it was on fire- because she was looking at her mother going beserk instead of looking at her hand- she pulled her hand, with the burning mitt on it, away from me, trying to keep me from taking it away from her. She pulled the mitt back towards her shoulder, setting her shirt on fire.
At that point, I started hitting her arm, trying to squelch the flame, then the fire drill practice I’d been taught in second grade kicked into gear and I threw her onto the floor and started rolling her around. It was all I could remember them telling us to do as a kid, “Don’t run if you’re on fire, it will only make the flame grow. Fall to the ground and roll.” So that’s what we did. Natalie walked into the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about and saw Nicole and I rolling on the floor, trying to put out the fire on Nicole's shirt sleeve.
It was over in a second. The mitt was totaled. Nicole’s shirt slightly singed. Nicole is perfectly fine. The funny thing was, she didn’t even realize she was on fire. She thought I was jumping on her and couldn’t figure out why. I couldn't stop shaking. Even after it was all over and everything was fine, I had to sit down because my legs were shaking and I didn't let on how upset I still was thinking about what could have happened.
When we told my husband the story at dinner later that night, Nicole proudly showing him her shirt and the burned oven mitt, David looked at me and said, “You tried to put out the fire by rolling around on the WOOD floor?” Maybe he has a point. I don’t know. In an emergency, you act by instinct. Hopefully, that instinct is correct.
Natalie listened while Nicole finished telling what happened, finally interrupting to say, “After all that, that ice cream better be good.” She’s right, it better be.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Brain Drain
I want my pre-baby brain back. The brain that could remember a list of things that had more than two items on it. The brain that could remember the names of people I met for longer than ten seconds. The brain that wouldn’t force me to stop mid-sentence because I had completely lost my train of thought. I want the brain that allowed me to explore theories, understand the intricacies of language and behavior, and vigorously debate my passions with facts and figures that I had stored in my head. Instead, I struggle to remember my children’s names. I look one of them in the face and call them by the other’s name. I’ve started doing it with colleagues as well. Last week, I called a woman I was working with by the wrong name, not once, not twice, but three times in the same conversation. She probably thought there was something in my coffee until I told her that I did the same thing to my kids. She said, “Yeah, my mother did that, too.”
So it is parenting that has sucked my brain dry. I don’t know if there is any scientific research to support that conclusion. I don’t really care if there is. Anecdotally, everyone who has a parent and then became a parent knows that it is true. I used to HATE it when my mother and father called me by any name but my own. My father would call me Shirley (my mother), Karen (my cousin), Brian (my brother), before finally getting to me. I used to think that they should just rename me Shirkarian and make it easier on themselves. My mother was no better and I could see the frustration in her face as she looked at me, wanted to call me by name, but couldn’t find the name in her brain even though I was her own daughter. I vowed I would never, ever do that to my children. And then I did. When it first happened, I laughed, thinking it was just an occasional lapse in memory or that my mind was moving so quickly in an effort to get a thought out that I didn’t see it as an ongoing problem. But it was. I did it more and more. My husband does it, too. Not only were we becoming our parents, we were developing their feeble brains as well. David and I tried to turn it into a joke. Now, when we call a child by the wrong name, we follow it up with the name of someone who isn’t in our family. So if we call Natalie by Nicole’s name, we say, “Natalie…Stuart Murray, whatever your name is…” It’s become a running family joke which always makes our kids giggle and hopefully they won’t hate us for not being able to remember their names until one day they grow up and find that they are doing it themselves.
I like to think that the brain drain happens because parenting is the last straw before your body decides that you have taken on too much in life and something has to give - that something being your razor sharp memory and clear thinking. Once you become a parent, the number of things you have to think about, big and small, multiply exponentially, and your brain just decides, “I’m done.” I began to suspect that was the case when the naming issue developed into the inability to say the appropriate word in the heat of the moment. It first happened one morning while rushing to get the kids dressed and off to school. I had been up since 4am, on a conference call back east at 5, wrote a few notes until 6 and then starting the wakingthemupgettingthemdressedpackinglunchesfeedingthembreakfast routine. In the middle of trying to get a shirt that was obviously too small for her over Natalie’s head -because she insisted that at age 7 she could get one last wearing out of a size 4 shirt - Nicole ran into the room, frantically trying to tell me about something that was anything but urgent. Finally, I blew up at her and instead of yelling, “Go in the other room and brush your teeth,” I said, struggling to complete my thought, “Go in the other room and BREATHE!” Later, after both girls had recovered from laughing at me for misspeaking, Natalie came up beside me, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Poor mommy, she’s losing her mind one piece at a time.”
Maybe Natalie was right about me losing my mind. Sometimes, particularly when names and words escape me, I wonder if I didn’t have a nervous breakdown but somehow I was too busy to notice. I hoped it was something dramatic like that, rather than just admitting that parenting had in some ways left my brain depleted. The breaking point came when I felt embarrassed recently because someone asked me what the last book was that I read which wasn’t something I had to read for work. I struggled to remember and couldn’t, finally blaming it on my drained brain.
So a few months ago I started a concerted effort to exercise my brain by going back to doing the intellectual things I loved to do but put aside in favor of the more immediate needs of parenting, work and family. I have a 94 year old cousin whose mind is sharper than most twentysomethings, who swears by the crossword puzzles she’s been playing daily since she retired over thirty years ago. The women on my block with older children are devoted to their book club and read things that don’t have to do with parenting or self help. Several couples we know make it a habit to go to concerts and lectures once a month. My friend whose daughter is about to go to college has returned to reading the newspaper from front to back every day. I remember doing all of those things, but it seems like a lifetime ago. And in many ways it was.
In the past few months I’ve been to three plays – Cousin Bette, King Lear and In the Heights. I had only been to the theater periodically in the last nine years of raising children and going again felt like I was exercising my brain. Trying to remember how to listen to Shakespearean language alone was a real brain twister. I actually felt more alive and more stimulated by seeing the plays than I have by anything in ages. After one of the shows, I drove my friend home and we sat in the car and discussed the themes in the drama and how they related to our own, infinitely more simple lives. I confessed to her how I was finally feeling like I was coming out from under the fog which I feel has been clouding my brain since the day I left Cedars with a newborn in a car seat. Maybe I will be able to look my children in the face and call them by the correct names one day soon! I hugged my friend and as she started to get out of the car, I said goodnight, unfortunately, calling her Nicole.
So it is parenting that has sucked my brain dry. I don’t know if there is any scientific research to support that conclusion. I don’t really care if there is. Anecdotally, everyone who has a parent and then became a parent knows that it is true. I used to HATE it when my mother and father called me by any name but my own. My father would call me Shirley (my mother), Karen (my cousin), Brian (my brother), before finally getting to me. I used to think that they should just rename me Shirkarian and make it easier on themselves. My mother was no better and I could see the frustration in her face as she looked at me, wanted to call me by name, but couldn’t find the name in her brain even though I was her own daughter. I vowed I would never, ever do that to my children. And then I did. When it first happened, I laughed, thinking it was just an occasional lapse in memory or that my mind was moving so quickly in an effort to get a thought out that I didn’t see it as an ongoing problem. But it was. I did it more and more. My husband does it, too. Not only were we becoming our parents, we were developing their feeble brains as well. David and I tried to turn it into a joke. Now, when we call a child by the wrong name, we follow it up with the name of someone who isn’t in our family. So if we call Natalie by Nicole’s name, we say, “Natalie…Stuart Murray, whatever your name is…” It’s become a running family joke which always makes our kids giggle and hopefully they won’t hate us for not being able to remember their names until one day they grow up and find that they are doing it themselves.
I like to think that the brain drain happens because parenting is the last straw before your body decides that you have taken on too much in life and something has to give - that something being your razor sharp memory and clear thinking. Once you become a parent, the number of things you have to think about, big and small, multiply exponentially, and your brain just decides, “I’m done.” I began to suspect that was the case when the naming issue developed into the inability to say the appropriate word in the heat of the moment. It first happened one morning while rushing to get the kids dressed and off to school. I had been up since 4am, on a conference call back east at 5, wrote a few notes until 6 and then starting the wakingthemupgettingthemdressedpackinglunchesfeedingthembreakfast routine. In the middle of trying to get a shirt that was obviously too small for her over Natalie’s head -because she insisted that at age 7 she could get one last wearing out of a size 4 shirt - Nicole ran into the room, frantically trying to tell me about something that was anything but urgent. Finally, I blew up at her and instead of yelling, “Go in the other room and brush your teeth,” I said, struggling to complete my thought, “Go in the other room and BREATHE!” Later, after both girls had recovered from laughing at me for misspeaking, Natalie came up beside me, patted me on the shoulder and said, “Poor mommy, she’s losing her mind one piece at a time.”
Maybe Natalie was right about me losing my mind. Sometimes, particularly when names and words escape me, I wonder if I didn’t have a nervous breakdown but somehow I was too busy to notice. I hoped it was something dramatic like that, rather than just admitting that parenting had in some ways left my brain depleted. The breaking point came when I felt embarrassed recently because someone asked me what the last book was that I read which wasn’t something I had to read for work. I struggled to remember and couldn’t, finally blaming it on my drained brain.
So a few months ago I started a concerted effort to exercise my brain by going back to doing the intellectual things I loved to do but put aside in favor of the more immediate needs of parenting, work and family. I have a 94 year old cousin whose mind is sharper than most twentysomethings, who swears by the crossword puzzles she’s been playing daily since she retired over thirty years ago. The women on my block with older children are devoted to their book club and read things that don’t have to do with parenting or self help. Several couples we know make it a habit to go to concerts and lectures once a month. My friend whose daughter is about to go to college has returned to reading the newspaper from front to back every day. I remember doing all of those things, but it seems like a lifetime ago. And in many ways it was.
In the past few months I’ve been to three plays – Cousin Bette, King Lear and In the Heights. I had only been to the theater periodically in the last nine years of raising children and going again felt like I was exercising my brain. Trying to remember how to listen to Shakespearean language alone was a real brain twister. I actually felt more alive and more stimulated by seeing the plays than I have by anything in ages. After one of the shows, I drove my friend home and we sat in the car and discussed the themes in the drama and how they related to our own, infinitely more simple lives. I confessed to her how I was finally feeling like I was coming out from under the fog which I feel has been clouding my brain since the day I left Cedars with a newborn in a car seat. Maybe I will be able to look my children in the face and call them by the correct names one day soon! I hugged my friend and as she started to get out of the car, I said goodnight, unfortunately, calling her Nicole.
Friday, July 9, 2010
The Meaning of Things
I sometimes forget that children are born without knowledge. Everyday, they acquire information through experience. They form impressions, develop understanding and attach meaning based on sensory information, social involvement and direct and indirect teaching. It is an acquisition of knowledge that is constant, rapid and in some ways so subtle, that it is easy to forget that it is going on until you probe deeper to see what is being learned. The process of attaching meaning to things struck me like a stray firecracker last week when we took our daughters to Tucson for the Fourth of July. Given my previous rants about Arizona and my strong feelings about their immigration law, I went with great trepidation. But my husband’s band was performing there and rather than have him drive the 14 hours round trip on his own, we tossed the entire crew in the car and went. 
As we walked around the neighborhood near the hotel and observed preparations for the evening fireworks display, my kids talked excitedly about America’s birthday party. Their conversation made me wonder exactly what they thought the celebration was about.
“America’s turning another year older,” is what my seven year old said, lamenting the fact that there was no birthday cake involved in this party.
My older daughter added with the certainty and wisdom that only a nine year old can have when trumping their younger sibling, “It’s a celebration of our country’s independence.”
I asked them who we were trying to be independent from and they both looked at me, confused, knowing they should know the answer, but realizing in that moment that it was a fact they just didn’t have in their heads. Then the wild guessing began.
“Independence from George Washington!” Natalie shouted.
“No, don’t be silly,” Nicole said, dismissing Natalie’s theory for her own. “Europe. Independence from Europe.”
Well, at least she got the continent right. David and I gave them a mini history lesson, which I swear we have given them every year prior on the same day to explain the same holiday. But for some reason the fireworks and pool parties which have come to dominate the celebration made more of an impression in their memory than the story of a bunch of guys in white wigs back in 1776, sitting around a table and signing a document saying that they no longer wanted anything to do with an English king and his increasingly unfair tax codes.
But what the exchange reminded me, other than the need to watch more programming on the history channel, was that kids get meaning from what they see around them and unless we give context to the meaning, they can go on for years, for lifetimes with impressions and ideas which neither inform or serve them well.
We were at a movie screening recently and a father with his two young children in tow, was trying to get into the event early to get the best seats, even though his wife, who had the screening passes to get them inside, was still parking the car. After being told that he needed the passes to enter, the father became angry and started swearing at the usher, eventually bullying his way in after using a few unprintable words. It was bad enough that his own children had to witness his behavior, but I didn’t appreciate mine being subjected to it as well. I know what I thought about pushy dad, but I wondered what meaning they attached to the incident. My older kid, knowing better, but also catching the disapproving mom look on my face, talked about how and why his behavior was bad – the curse words he used, breaking the rules for his own purposes, being impatient and rude. But my younger daughter pointed out that he got what he wanted while we were still waiting outside of the theater. She learned from his bad behavior that if you act up, you get what you want. That was the meaning she walked away with from the experience. She saw the exchange in a completely different light, in a way that makes perfect sense for a young child, but in a way that if I hadn’t corrected her impression, would have been behavior that she would have thought was acceptable and adopted as her own.
Both incidents reminded me of the tremendous responsibility that we have as parents to give background and meaning to what our children experience in the world around them so that they grow up with a deeper knowledge and understanding of things and the ability to be open minded, interpret interactions and ascribe their own moral and ethical compass to them. And if we don’t, I guess we can be like the mom I heard the other day on the news. Trying to explain away her son’s fifteen years of criminal activity, she finally threw up her hands and said, “Well, I did the best I could.” In the end, I guess that’s all any of us can do.
As we walked around the neighborhood near the hotel and observed preparations for the evening fireworks display, my kids talked excitedly about America’s birthday party. Their conversation made me wonder exactly what they thought the celebration was about.
“America’s turning another year older,” is what my seven year old said, lamenting the fact that there was no birthday cake involved in this party.
My older daughter added with the certainty and wisdom that only a nine year old can have when trumping their younger sibling, “It’s a celebration of our country’s independence.”
I asked them who we were trying to be independent from and they both looked at me, confused, knowing they should know the answer, but realizing in that moment that it was a fact they just didn’t have in their heads. Then the wild guessing began.
“Independence from George Washington!” Natalie shouted.
“No, don’t be silly,” Nicole said, dismissing Natalie’s theory for her own. “Europe. Independence from Europe.”
Well, at least she got the continent right. David and I gave them a mini history lesson, which I swear we have given them every year prior on the same day to explain the same holiday. But for some reason the fireworks and pool parties which have come to dominate the celebration made more of an impression in their memory than the story of a bunch of guys in white wigs back in 1776, sitting around a table and signing a document saying that they no longer wanted anything to do with an English king and his increasingly unfair tax codes.
But what the exchange reminded me, other than the need to watch more programming on the history channel, was that kids get meaning from what they see around them and unless we give context to the meaning, they can go on for years, for lifetimes with impressions and ideas which neither inform or serve them well.
We were at a movie screening recently and a father with his two young children in tow, was trying to get into the event early to get the best seats, even though his wife, who had the screening passes to get them inside, was still parking the car. After being told that he needed the passes to enter, the father became angry and started swearing at the usher, eventually bullying his way in after using a few unprintable words. It was bad enough that his own children had to witness his behavior, but I didn’t appreciate mine being subjected to it as well. I know what I thought about pushy dad, but I wondered what meaning they attached to the incident. My older kid, knowing better, but also catching the disapproving mom look on my face, talked about how and why his behavior was bad – the curse words he used, breaking the rules for his own purposes, being impatient and rude. But my younger daughter pointed out that he got what he wanted while we were still waiting outside of the theater. She learned from his bad behavior that if you act up, you get what you want. That was the meaning she walked away with from the experience. She saw the exchange in a completely different light, in a way that makes perfect sense for a young child, but in a way that if I hadn’t corrected her impression, would have been behavior that she would have thought was acceptable and adopted as her own.
Both incidents reminded me of the tremendous responsibility that we have as parents to give background and meaning to what our children experience in the world around them so that they grow up with a deeper knowledge and understanding of things and the ability to be open minded, interpret interactions and ascribe their own moral and ethical compass to them. And if we don’t, I guess we can be like the mom I heard the other day on the news. Trying to explain away her son’s fifteen years of criminal activity, she finally threw up her hands and said, “Well, I did the best I could.” In the end, I guess that’s all any of us can do.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Free Range Is For Chickens, Not Children
There is an article by Suzi Parker in the Woman Up section of Politics Daily which is the type of piece that is no news news. And I’ve read this writer before and I like her, so this really isn’t a slam against her. I think she was seduced by the (dare I say evil?) free range parenting movement and its founder, Lenore Skenazy, author of "Free-Range Kids." Skenazy likes to shock reporters into giving her coverage by tossing out a few anecdotes about parents who put babies in knee pads while crawling and journalists (particularly childless ones) think it is some huge story indicative of the how an entire generation is being ruined by overprotective parents. It ain’t so! BTW, in my many years frequenting pre-schools, mommy and me classes and parks, I have seen hundreds of babies crawling and not once have I run across a knee pad attired infant.
There are several reasons I found my Victoria Secret undies in a knot over this one. First, the idea of over-protective parents has been discussed and examined and explored until it has been rehashed more than corned beef. There isn’t a parent in America who hasn’t been accused of being overprotective. I’ve also been accused of being over permissive by allowing my child to do the exact same thing that I was accused of being overprotective for allowing them to do! Second, letting your children play in the streets, climb trees and get muddy does not make you any better a parent than the knee pad carrying ones. Different types of parents, yes, but exceptional, no. And the idea promoted by the free range movement is that these "free to be you and me" parents are superior to those who won’t let their kids play alone in the front yard.
The problem is, the free range parenting movement is about extremes. It is not concerned, thoughtful parenting. It is reacting, not acting, and parenting should be about taking positive actions towards teaching your children to be all the things that the free range movement claims it wants children to grow to be - "treated as a smart, young, capable individual, not an invalid who needs constant attention and help." Parenting is not about reacting to what other parents are doing around you and protesting by allowing your kids to do whatever they want and justifying it by saying that the freedom you allow them will make them better than the other parents’ kids.
Free ranger Skenazy is the woman who created a career for herself by allowing her 9 year old son to take a NYC subway alone and jump started her freelance writing career by the brouhaha that resulted from the stunt. And in my opinion, it was a stunt. Yes, maybe her son had been begging her for weeks to allow him to do it. So what? My kid has been begging me to let her swim with sharks because as she learned in school, “They don’t really like human flesh.” You think I’m dropping her in the shark tank anytime soon? Just because your kid asks you to let them do something – take a subway, climb Everest, sail a boat around the world alone - doesn’t mean you’re being an overprotective parent by not letting them do it.
And saying no doesn’t mean you are squelching their dreams and aspirations as Parker’s article suggests. After telling my six year old shark loving girl that she wasn’t swimming with her toothy friends, we talked with her about what careers would allow her to work with sharks when she grew up, what she would have to study in order to do it and set up a time to visit more aquariums and see shark programs so that she can explore her interest further. And maybe one day when she’s bigger, i.e. 18 and out of my house, she will swim with sharks. But to let her do it as child, just because she wants to, is irresponsible, reckless and sounds to me slightly like the reaction of a parent who felt over restricted in their own childhood and now is bending over backwards not to be the same as their mean old parents. Grow up…if you don’t, your children never will.
Sure, I could have promised six year old shark loving girl that the next time we go to Hawaii she could get into one of those shark cages they lower into the water and then let the sharks come at her, but I know my child and it would scare the poop out her. She’d probably be so scared that any interest she once had in sharks would disappear in her frenzied panic to get pulled out of the water. Again, when she’s older, after she’s had more exposure to sharks and the ocean, after she’s had a chance to experience more things in life, she can make her own decision about swimming with sharks or anything else. Appropriate things at appropriate ages – someone should put that on a t-shirt and make all the free range parents wear it.
Parker’s article and the free range movement makes it seem as if the majority of parents are overprotective, knee pad toters and that those who allow their kids to strive for extraordinary goals at a young age like riding the subway alone, climbing Everest and sailing around the world, are the enlightened exception who should be emulated. In fact, both are extremes. Most parents fall somewhere in the middle…and they should. It seems rather silly to raise your children according to any movement, be it the free range or the more conservative helicopter style (where parents are hovering over their children, hand holding and protecting every move). Children should be allowed to run and play and explore. They should be encouraged to get dirty, experiment and strive for their dreams but with guidance, rules, boundaries and opportunities to make decisions and mistakes within an environment that won’t kill them before the second grade. But I think allowing kids to do too much, too soon or without restriction or supervision will result in kids who don’t have a sense of when something is appropriate and safe and when it is wise and wonderful to take the risk and forge ahead. Children need good decision making skills and being able to understand situations, take appropriate action or inaction and taking risks are all part of that. Allowing them to do anything they want, and not allowing them to do anything at all deprive them of learning those skills. To me, that’s the saddest part about this effort to divide parenting into movements – the real issues about what children need get lost in all the rhetoric.
You can read Parker’s article at: http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/06/22/abby-sunderland-and-other-free-range-kids-an-endangered-species/
There are several reasons I found my Victoria Secret undies in a knot over this one. First, the idea of over-protective parents has been discussed and examined and explored until it has been rehashed more than corned beef. There isn’t a parent in America who hasn’t been accused of being overprotective. I’ve also been accused of being over permissive by allowing my child to do the exact same thing that I was accused of being overprotective for allowing them to do! Second, letting your children play in the streets, climb trees and get muddy does not make you any better a parent than the knee pad carrying ones. Different types of parents, yes, but exceptional, no. And the idea promoted by the free range movement is that these "free to be you and me" parents are superior to those who won’t let their kids play alone in the front yard.
The problem is, the free range parenting movement is about extremes. It is not concerned, thoughtful parenting. It is reacting, not acting, and parenting should be about taking positive actions towards teaching your children to be all the things that the free range movement claims it wants children to grow to be - "treated as a smart, young, capable individual, not an invalid who needs constant attention and help." Parenting is not about reacting to what other parents are doing around you and protesting by allowing your kids to do whatever they want and justifying it by saying that the freedom you allow them will make them better than the other parents’ kids.
Free ranger Skenazy is the woman who created a career for herself by allowing her 9 year old son to take a NYC subway alone and jump started her freelance writing career by the brouhaha that resulted from the stunt. And in my opinion, it was a stunt. Yes, maybe her son had been begging her for weeks to allow him to do it. So what? My kid has been begging me to let her swim with sharks because as she learned in school, “They don’t really like human flesh.” You think I’m dropping her in the shark tank anytime soon? Just because your kid asks you to let them do something – take a subway, climb Everest, sail a boat around the world alone - doesn’t mean you’re being an overprotective parent by not letting them do it.
And saying no doesn’t mean you are squelching their dreams and aspirations as Parker’s article suggests. After telling my six year old shark loving girl that she wasn’t swimming with her toothy friends, we talked with her about what careers would allow her to work with sharks when she grew up, what she would have to study in order to do it and set up a time to visit more aquariums and see shark programs so that she can explore her interest further. And maybe one day when she’s bigger, i.e. 18 and out of my house, she will swim with sharks. But to let her do it as child, just because she wants to, is irresponsible, reckless and sounds to me slightly like the reaction of a parent who felt over restricted in their own childhood and now is bending over backwards not to be the same as their mean old parents. Grow up…if you don’t, your children never will.
Sure, I could have promised six year old shark loving girl that the next time we go to Hawaii she could get into one of those shark cages they lower into the water and then let the sharks come at her, but I know my child and it would scare the poop out her. She’d probably be so scared that any interest she once had in sharks would disappear in her frenzied panic to get pulled out of the water. Again, when she’s older, after she’s had more exposure to sharks and the ocean, after she’s had a chance to experience more things in life, she can make her own decision about swimming with sharks or anything else. Appropriate things at appropriate ages – someone should put that on a t-shirt and make all the free range parents wear it.
Parker’s article and the free range movement makes it seem as if the majority of parents are overprotective, knee pad toters and that those who allow their kids to strive for extraordinary goals at a young age like riding the subway alone, climbing Everest and sailing around the world, are the enlightened exception who should be emulated. In fact, both are extremes. Most parents fall somewhere in the middle…and they should. It seems rather silly to raise your children according to any movement, be it the free range or the more conservative helicopter style (where parents are hovering over their children, hand holding and protecting every move). Children should be allowed to run and play and explore. They should be encouraged to get dirty, experiment and strive for their dreams but with guidance, rules, boundaries and opportunities to make decisions and mistakes within an environment that won’t kill them before the second grade. But I think allowing kids to do too much, too soon or without restriction or supervision will result in kids who don’t have a sense of when something is appropriate and safe and when it is wise and wonderful to take the risk and forge ahead. Children need good decision making skills and being able to understand situations, take appropriate action or inaction and taking risks are all part of that. Allowing them to do anything they want, and not allowing them to do anything at all deprive them of learning those skills. To me, that’s the saddest part about this effort to divide parenting into movements – the real issues about what children need get lost in all the rhetoric.
You can read Parker’s article at: http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/06/22/abby-sunderland-and-other-free-range-kids-an-endangered-species/
Friday, June 18, 2010
Guilt and Brownies
Today is the last day of school!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So yesterday, I was up at 3:00am on Thursday morning making brownies and chocolate pound cake for the end of year class parties. Why so early? Because the night before, Wednesday, when I had planned my day so carefully to include doing everything that needed to be done including getting home in time to bake several batches of brownies and some cakes before dinner, my tire blew out. I was driving home from work, felt my car lurch and when I got out, I heard a whooshing sound as the air came out of my tire and it flattened like a pancake right there in the middle of the road. I was cursing and talking to myself and anyone who saw me probably thought I was a crazy homeless person, except for the bag and shoes. Calling AAA and getting the tire swapped out for the spare ate into most of my day and any hope of accomplishing the long list of to do’s that have been weighing on me, was gone. At first I cried…really, it was pathetic when I think about it. There are people hungry, losing their homes, so desperate they’d cause harm to themselves and their families and I’m crying over a blown tire. Then I got mad, whined to myself, “This isn’t fair! Why me? Why today? This is the last thing I needed!” I got the girls home and was in a foul mood. I tossed my bags onto the counter and pulled out the pile of things I had to get done and realized I would be up all night if I attempted to do them. So I gave up. I said, “I’m going to be the bad mommy who even though she signed up to bring in treats for the party, is going to flake.” I’d never done a mommy school flake before. I’ve either thrown myself into helping, or made a firm decision to abstain. But to say I would do something for school and then just back out – would have been a first for me. But I didn’t care. I was firm in my resolve that just this once, I’d let something go, I didn’t have to be all things to all people. I convinced myself that my daughters wouldn’t care if I didn’t make anything for them to bring in and that in the whole scheme of things, they wouldn’t be sitting up in a therapist’s office twenty years from now complaining about what a lame mother they had who always embarrassed them in school by flaking out. Trust me, there are other ways I embarrass them at school – walking them in daily, demanding kisses in front of their cool friends, singing Gloria Gaynor’s disco classic, “I Will Survive” (at full volume, in public, at school) anytime my girls complain about having to do something they deem horrible. But I didn’t think a missed brownie would cause them much pain.
I was up all night worrying about the brownies. I really didn’t want to be the mommy flake and mostly, I didn’t want my girls growing up feeling like I didn’t care enough to do that one small thing for them and their class. Ridiculous, I know, but I tossed and turned in bed for about two hours until I finally just crawled out from under the covers at 3:00am, went into the kitchen and pulled out the baking pans. I made some coffee while I baked and an hour and a half later I had about 48 mini brownie bites and a chocolate pound cake on the counter. I poured myself another cup of coffee and went into my office to write while the goodies cooled.
I realize all my emotions weren’t about a brownie at all. They were about feeling pulled in so many different ways and not feeling like I could give my best to any of them – home, work, or family. I felt guilty for not being the mom I wanted to be – the moms my children always point out at school who can stay for every assembly and put in a full work week volunteering in the classroom. But I can’t always do that. I do what I can, but I work. I like working, I like writing, and I like keeping what little of my sanity that I have left. If I devoted that much time at school as well they would have to carry me out in a straight jacket. But that being said, I had children to be a part of their lives, not to wedge them into mine. I wanted to make the brownies because it would make my children happy and show them that I cared about what they were doing at school and wanted to be a part of it. So I got up at 3:00am and baked them. My guilt assuaged, I went off to work and drank a third cup of coffee when I got there.
Afterschool, I threw myself into a chair, barely able to keep my eyes open while we ate dinner in front of the t.v. and Nicole and David yelled at the screen during the Lakers’ game. My youngest, Natalie, crawled up on my lap and kissed me on the cheek, saying, “Thanks for the brownies. Everybody loved them. There was only one left…I saved it for you.” Too bad I’m allergic to wheat because the brownie looked good and I wouldn't have felt the least bit guilty eating it.
I was up all night worrying about the brownies. I really didn’t want to be the mommy flake and mostly, I didn’t want my girls growing up feeling like I didn’t care enough to do that one small thing for them and their class. Ridiculous, I know, but I tossed and turned in bed for about two hours until I finally just crawled out from under the covers at 3:00am, went into the kitchen and pulled out the baking pans. I made some coffee while I baked and an hour and a half later I had about 48 mini brownie bites and a chocolate pound cake on the counter. I poured myself another cup of coffee and went into my office to write while the goodies cooled.
I realize all my emotions weren’t about a brownie at all. They were about feeling pulled in so many different ways and not feeling like I could give my best to any of them – home, work, or family. I felt guilty for not being the mom I wanted to be – the moms my children always point out at school who can stay for every assembly and put in a full work week volunteering in the classroom. But I can’t always do that. I do what I can, but I work. I like working, I like writing, and I like keeping what little of my sanity that I have left. If I devoted that much time at school as well they would have to carry me out in a straight jacket. But that being said, I had children to be a part of their lives, not to wedge them into mine. I wanted to make the brownies because it would make my children happy and show them that I cared about what they were doing at school and wanted to be a part of it. So I got up at 3:00am and baked them. My guilt assuaged, I went off to work and drank a third cup of coffee when I got there.
Afterschool, I threw myself into a chair, barely able to keep my eyes open while we ate dinner in front of the t.v. and Nicole and David yelled at the screen during the Lakers’ game. My youngest, Natalie, crawled up on my lap and kissed me on the cheek, saying, “Thanks for the brownies. Everybody loved them. There was only one left…I saved it for you.” Too bad I’m allergic to wheat because the brownie looked good and I wouldn't have felt the least bit guilty eating it.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Nothing But A Number
Age has a way of creeping up on you. One moment you are 20 and fearless and your body effortlessly performs amazing feats that you don’t think twice about asking it to do. Then you wake up a moment later and you’re 40 and your hair has grey in it and you reach for something on the top shelf of your kitchen cabinet and your back goes out. And I hate those people who say, “Age is nothing but a number…” they love to say it because their number is usually less than mine.
My aunt (who is actually my second or third cousin, but because of her age I call her aunt) had a birthday last week. I stopped counting when she turned 90, so impressed was I that anyone I knew had hit that landmark and was still not only mentally and physically active, but dating! I think she hit 95 this year. I tried to call her, but the line was repeatedly busy. I always seem to call in the morning, during the appointed time that she talks to her boyfriend every day. He’s in his 80s. Honestly, I really find something inspiring in the fact that they have a life in their later years…they see movies, go to luncheons and concerts, she even makes a regular appointment at the beauty salon. Not just a life, a good life, better than mine in some ways. It gives me hope that at some point my life will be more than playdates and carpools and birthday parties and fussing over what is or is not appropriate to wear to school. It’s not that I don’t adore my children and adore the ages they are at, but I sometimes miss my younger days when I had the freedom to do what I want, when I want. But my aunt has given me hope. It makes me think that one day I will return to seeing movies that aren’t rated G or PG, in first run, on screens in theaters, seated next to other adults who get to go out after dark and stay up late and not have to worry about the mounting babysitter bill or even the fact that they are just too damn tired to be out so late.
I try to imagine my life at 95 and it is tough for me to get a visual. My aunt is amazing, having retired about thirty years ago, she has crafted a life for herself that includes regular exercise, watching what she eats and working on all those projects in and out of the house that never seemed to get done with kids, job and spouse to tend to. I would love that. All me time, all the time. She’s involved with her church, civic and social groups and loves to support the up and coming youth not only financially through donations, but by just being there. My girls and I sometimes pass her house on our way to run errands and we like to do what we call drive-by huggings – where we just show up unannounced, ring the doorbell, give her a hug, then jump back in the car and drive off a few minutes later. I’m always surprised when we do that and find some young person there visiting my aunt. One time the driveway was full of college students who had stopped in to say hello. My aunt had helped out the mother of one of the girls by watching her afterschool and they girl had returned with her college friends to visit. People ranging in age from six year olds to forty years olds had all flocked to see this nonagenarian and say hello. It was a testament to how many different lives she had touched over the years.
I thought of my aunt the other day when my husband made some comment that almost got him the Al Green treatment (if you don’t know what that is, Google Al Green and grits and see what comes up). For dinner, I decided to make an elaborate taco bar. I cooked up two kinds of meat – chicken and beef - seasoned them to perfection, cut up onions, avocados, tomatoes, shredded cheese, and then fried several corn tortillas until they were crispy brown. I had margaritas chilling in the refrigerator. I placed the food in various serving dishes on the stove and announced that everyone should come and fix their plates. David looked at me and said, “What is this…I like being served.” I waited a moment, expecting him to break into a grin. When he didn’t, I realized he was serious. I angrily snapped back something very uncomeback worthy, like, “Yeah, me, to,” fixed my plate and deliberately left those margaritas in the fridge. He could get them himself if he wanted them, damnit. As I sat stewing and eating my muy delicious make your own tacos, I remember one of the many words of wisdom my aunt had given to me over the years. When I got married, she said, “Make sure your husband knows he’s not marrying to get an indentured servant.” I was surprised by her words because I would have expected an older woman, she was in her late eighties when I got married, to ascribe to the serve your man a plate and clean his boots mentality. But I was wrong. She continued, “If he wants a housekeeper, cook and servant, he can go out and hire one. He’s marrying you because he loves you, not because he wants someone to wait on him.” That’s not to say she didn’t have other words of wisdom that completely contradicted her tough stance. She also dropped these pearls of advice, suggesting that I have a potato heating in the oven when my husband got home from work because the potato would fill the house with a delicious smell and make him associate coming home with wonderful things. When my sister-in-law got married, my aunt advised her to always keep a small towel by the bed. Need I say more. I’m grateful I missed the sex advice talk. I’m not sure I could have taken it. You really don’t want to think that the seniors in your life ever engaged in sex, let alone have them give you advice about it. David and I had traveled together so much before we were married, I guess she figured I was a lost cause in terms of the towel advice.
So whenever I complain about feeling old, my little seven year old, Natalie, who I’ve tricked into believing that I’m decades younger than I am (although I think at this point she knows the truth and is humoring me), cuddles up next to me and says, “You’re not old, mama, you’re only 21.” Like I said, age, just a number…even if it’s the wrong one.
My aunt (who is actually my second or third cousin, but because of her age I call her aunt) had a birthday last week. I stopped counting when she turned 90, so impressed was I that anyone I knew had hit that landmark and was still not only mentally and physically active, but dating! I think she hit 95 this year. I tried to call her, but the line was repeatedly busy. I always seem to call in the morning, during the appointed time that she talks to her boyfriend every day. He’s in his 80s. Honestly, I really find something inspiring in the fact that they have a life in their later years…they see movies, go to luncheons and concerts, she even makes a regular appointment at the beauty salon. Not just a life, a good life, better than mine in some ways. It gives me hope that at some point my life will be more than playdates and carpools and birthday parties and fussing over what is or is not appropriate to wear to school. It’s not that I don’t adore my children and adore the ages they are at, but I sometimes miss my younger days when I had the freedom to do what I want, when I want. But my aunt has given me hope. It makes me think that one day I will return to seeing movies that aren’t rated G or PG, in first run, on screens in theaters, seated next to other adults who get to go out after dark and stay up late and not have to worry about the mounting babysitter bill or even the fact that they are just too damn tired to be out so late.
I try to imagine my life at 95 and it is tough for me to get a visual. My aunt is amazing, having retired about thirty years ago, she has crafted a life for herself that includes regular exercise, watching what she eats and working on all those projects in and out of the house that never seemed to get done with kids, job and spouse to tend to. I would love that. All me time, all the time. She’s involved with her church, civic and social groups and loves to support the up and coming youth not only financially through donations, but by just being there. My girls and I sometimes pass her house on our way to run errands and we like to do what we call drive-by huggings – where we just show up unannounced, ring the doorbell, give her a hug, then jump back in the car and drive off a few minutes later. I’m always surprised when we do that and find some young person there visiting my aunt. One time the driveway was full of college students who had stopped in to say hello. My aunt had helped out the mother of one of the girls by watching her afterschool and they girl had returned with her college friends to visit. People ranging in age from six year olds to forty years olds had all flocked to see this nonagenarian and say hello. It was a testament to how many different lives she had touched over the years.
I thought of my aunt the other day when my husband made some comment that almost got him the Al Green treatment (if you don’t know what that is, Google Al Green and grits and see what comes up). For dinner, I decided to make an elaborate taco bar. I cooked up two kinds of meat – chicken and beef - seasoned them to perfection, cut up onions, avocados, tomatoes, shredded cheese, and then fried several corn tortillas until they were crispy brown. I had margaritas chilling in the refrigerator. I placed the food in various serving dishes on the stove and announced that everyone should come and fix their plates. David looked at me and said, “What is this…I like being served.” I waited a moment, expecting him to break into a grin. When he didn’t, I realized he was serious. I angrily snapped back something very uncomeback worthy, like, “Yeah, me, to,” fixed my plate and deliberately left those margaritas in the fridge. He could get them himself if he wanted them, damnit. As I sat stewing and eating my muy delicious make your own tacos, I remember one of the many words of wisdom my aunt had given to me over the years. When I got married, she said, “Make sure your husband knows he’s not marrying to get an indentured servant.” I was surprised by her words because I would have expected an older woman, she was in her late eighties when I got married, to ascribe to the serve your man a plate and clean his boots mentality. But I was wrong. She continued, “If he wants a housekeeper, cook and servant, he can go out and hire one. He’s marrying you because he loves you, not because he wants someone to wait on him.” That’s not to say she didn’t have other words of wisdom that completely contradicted her tough stance. She also dropped these pearls of advice, suggesting that I have a potato heating in the oven when my husband got home from work because the potato would fill the house with a delicious smell and make him associate coming home with wonderful things. When my sister-in-law got married, my aunt advised her to always keep a small towel by the bed. Need I say more. I’m grateful I missed the sex advice talk. I’m not sure I could have taken it. You really don’t want to think that the seniors in your life ever engaged in sex, let alone have them give you advice about it. David and I had traveled together so much before we were married, I guess she figured I was a lost cause in terms of the towel advice.
So whenever I complain about feeling old, my little seven year old, Natalie, who I’ve tricked into believing that I’m decades younger than I am (although I think at this point she knows the truth and is humoring me), cuddles up next to me and says, “You’re not old, mama, you’re only 21.” Like I said, age, just a number…even if it’s the wrong one.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Unbearable Lightness of Being Tired
At a certain stage, you reach the point where you are so tired, you stop caring anymore…about anything. Big things, little things that used to send me into a rage or make me cringe become things I shrug off in my exhaustion. They are not worth me expending an ounce of energy (that I don’t have left anyway) to fret over. There is a certain freedom that comes with being so very tired that you have to pause for a moment to remember vital statistics about yourself, such as your phone number or your age or the name of the child you’re looking at blankly in the face getting ready to yell at for leaving some crappy little McDonald’s toy in the middle of the floor for someone to trip over. I read an article which said that the average mother works approximately 90 plus hours a week just being a mother (whose job duties ranged anywhere from CEO to housekeeper to psychologist). Ninety hours a week, and that’s not counting any hours spent outside of the home working at a job. Ninety hours a week is more hours logged than most attorneys I know. No wonder parents are tired.
The other day, my younger daughter, Natalie, saw me sprawled on the sofa and it surprised her. She is used to seeing me in almost constant parent motion, doing any one of the nine million things we have to do to get through the day as we juggle work, family business, household things and oh yeah, carving out a minute for ourselves. Natalie crawled up onto the sofa and burrowed herself next to me, and asked “Is everything okay?” Before I could answer, my older daughter, Nicole, said, “Mommy’s fine, she’s just tired.” Clearly I had repeated it so many times that now my children can parrot that catch phrase for me. I rolled over, turning my back to them, trying to grab a few minutes more of peace. Yeah, right. Nicole joined Natalie on the sofa, both of them using me as a human pillow and turned on iCarly. So much for getting rest.
Whenever my husband, David, hears about some pop star on tour who has to cancel their shows because of exhaustion, he often asks how tired do you really have to be to pass out from exhaustion. It is tough to imagine that a pop star’s schedule is actually more grueling than a parent working a 9 to 5, dealing with a couple of kids, career, a mortgage, grandparents with health and aging issues, not to mention three neighborhood biddies who have dubbed me a jerk because I asked them (nicely – I knew my mother would disapprove if I did otherwise) not to let their dogs play and poop on my lawn. I know pop stars work hard, but let’s face it, if I had someone to drive me places, run my errands, answer my mail, pay my bills, deal with the biddies and their pooping dogs, dress me, do my hair and make up, cook my meals, book my travel, care for my kids, house and any assorted pets we haven’t yet managed to kill (those three goldfish who went belly up weigh heavy on Natalie’s heart even to this day), what would I have left to do to make me tired…get up on stage and sing and dance? Sign me up!
I’m beginning to wonder if the end result of being so tired is that I’m actually becoming calm. All these years, I’ve tried meditation, stress reduction techniques, yoga, all in an effort to slow down. Screw meditation and all those other things you have to work at…just become so tired that you have no choice but to slow down and be calm.
The other day, my younger daughter, Natalie, saw me sprawled on the sofa and it surprised her. She is used to seeing me in almost constant parent motion, doing any one of the nine million things we have to do to get through the day as we juggle work, family business, household things and oh yeah, carving out a minute for ourselves. Natalie crawled up onto the sofa and burrowed herself next to me, and asked “Is everything okay?” Before I could answer, my older daughter, Nicole, said, “Mommy’s fine, she’s just tired.” Clearly I had repeated it so many times that now my children can parrot that catch phrase for me. I rolled over, turning my back to them, trying to grab a few minutes more of peace. Yeah, right. Nicole joined Natalie on the sofa, both of them using me as a human pillow and turned on iCarly. So much for getting rest.
Whenever my husband, David, hears about some pop star on tour who has to cancel their shows because of exhaustion, he often asks how tired do you really have to be to pass out from exhaustion. It is tough to imagine that a pop star’s schedule is actually more grueling than a parent working a 9 to 5, dealing with a couple of kids, career, a mortgage, grandparents with health and aging issues, not to mention three neighborhood biddies who have dubbed me a jerk because I asked them (nicely – I knew my mother would disapprove if I did otherwise) not to let their dogs play and poop on my lawn. I know pop stars work hard, but let’s face it, if I had someone to drive me places, run my errands, answer my mail, pay my bills, deal with the biddies and their pooping dogs, dress me, do my hair and make up, cook my meals, book my travel, care for my kids, house and any assorted pets we haven’t yet managed to kill (those three goldfish who went belly up weigh heavy on Natalie’s heart even to this day), what would I have left to do to make me tired…get up on stage and sing and dance? Sign me up!
I’m beginning to wonder if the end result of being so tired is that I’m actually becoming calm. All these years, I’ve tried meditation, stress reduction techniques, yoga, all in an effort to slow down. Screw meditation and all those other things you have to work at…just become so tired that you have no choice but to slow down and be calm.
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