Growing Up With Dogs

I had a dog growing up. My husband did, too. So when our children started begging for a dog two years ago, we knew that eventually we would cave and get them one. After all, we’d had the chance to have a dog when we were little, why shouldn’t they?

In an effort to put off the inevitable, we told the kids that they would have to prove that they could be responsible dog owners before they could get one. They did that and more. Natalie started reading every puppy training book she could get her hands on. They started walking, feeding and bathing a neighbor’s dog on occasion, even picking up the large dog’s poop without complaining. They researched the cost of dogs online and started holding lemonade stands for their dog fund. They declared that if we wouldn’t get them a dog, they’d buy it themselves.

When I was young, we did not do any of those things. We got our dog Benny from a breeder. No one even thought about training him. He was a wild, crazy lab who bolted when the door was open, jumped up on visitors, sometimes peeing on them if he was too excited. My mom fed Benny, my brother and I walked him from time to time, but mostly we just opened the back door and let the dog out. We didn’t boter to pick up the poop for a long time because the lot was so large we could go for weeks without visiting the waste minefield in the backyard before finally having to grab a shovel and clean it up. When we did walk Benny, he would drag us down the street. He never heeled or sat on command. He would beg at the table and get anything he wanted. He was so pampered (mostly by my mother) and so convinced he was a human that he would protest if we went to McDonald’s and he didn’t get a burger and fries. That was my experience growing up with a dog. It was hardly a learning experience for either the kids or the dog.

I realize now that my children’s experience is already much different. My brother and I have fond memories of our dog, but we didn’t really learn or grow with him. As a family, we never did anything to raise Benny – training him, correcting bad behavior, incorporating him into the family – we changed our family completely to fit him.

With my kids and their dog – a loveable rescue puppy named Frannie – the learning started even before we found her. Initially, because I have so many, many allergies, we had to find a dog that I could live with without going into anaphylactic shock every time I petted it. That sent my children directly onto the internet, researching breeds that were hypoallergenic. I received many emails from them of pictures of cute dogs that wouldn’t make me sick. The girls, like hover parents, are overly prepared and responsible for their pet (although I am waiting to see how long this lasts). I see them being responsible and thoughtful in ways that I had not seen before, engaged and playful as they train and learn about their dog. They worry about the ground being too hot for the dog to walk on (we have had 100 plus days on several occasions this summer). They even wipe her face after she eats and her bottom after she does her business (I know that is silly and won’t last either but it is a hilarious sight and I will let it continue as long as it can. I need to get my laughs where I can). They fix Frannie’s food, bathe her and brush her with great care after her grooming. Natalie turned to me the other day and said, “Mom, I love having someone to care for.” I looked at her and thought, “So do I.”

Frannie has brought a new joy to our house, in some ways familiar to the happiness, newness and apprehension we felt bringing home a new baby for the first time. And as my dear friend Carol said to me when I told her about our new puppy, “It might be a little more work, but it’s cheaper than therapy.”

Orange Tang

For those of us old enough to remember drinking orange Tang as a kid, the words bring up memories of playing with friends outside for hours on end on hot summer days and then rushing inside to quench our thirst on an ice cold, (slightly grainy tasting) beverage that we’d been convinced through clever advertising, was not only good for us, but tasted good, too. As I was driving over Beverly Glen the other day, I was reminded of that orange drink, a taste I hadn’t thought of in years. The words “Orange Tang” were on a window decal of the car in front of me. I chuckled when I saw it, couldn’t imagine why anyone would have that on their car – maybe it’s the name of a band I’m not hip enough to know about. I looked more carefully at the driver of the BMW. He was 16, if a day, with blond highlights that might have been natural, but probably weren’t…only his stylist would know. But this Justin Bieber wannabieb was weaving in his lane, the car swerving slightly back and forth as he chatted on the phone pressed up to his ear.

I assumed he was driving mom’s or dad’s beemer, on the phone bragging to his friends about the cool ride. Then I remembered, this is L.A. - It was probably his own car to drive over the edge, which he almost did on several occasions. His driving behavior triggered my fears about Nicole starting to drive. She has reminded me several times that she’ll be behind the wheel in five years. I pictured her driving the orange Tang beemer and worried that she might drive as irresponsibly as the kid in front of me.

Some friends of ours with a teenage son who just started driving described with glee how they were eager to buy him a car for his 16th birthday. As first, I couldn’t imagine why they were so excited to plunk down 20k to give their kid yet another tool for self destruction…until they explained their plan. Our friends were going to buy him a car with a standard transmission. He would have to learn to drive by shifting gears so both hands would be too busy doing that to hold a phone, text or check email. As someone who knows, when first starting to drive, having to learn to coordinate your feet and changing gears and steering all at the same time, it’s not easy. Their plan was brilliant and sneaky – they were heroes in their son’s eyes for giving him a car. Little did he know the motive behind it.

I screeched to an abrupt halt to avoid hitting orange Tang, who had stopped short in front of me because he didn’t see that the traffic in front of him had slowed. Nearly avoiding a multi-car pile up caused by this kid in the beemer, the idea of a stick shift became much more attractive. Yes, Nicole would learn to drive stick. There would be plenty of opportunities for her to drive an automatic in her lifetime. Hopefully, by then, she can make better decisions behind the wheel than orange Tang boy. In some ways she already does. And as our friends pointed out – there are several benefits to teaching your kid to drive a stick. Yes, their hands will be too occupied to text, and they’ll be able to drive any car they jump into…just in case they need to make a quick getaway.

Ten (or More) Reasons Why My Mother-In-Law Rocks

After my well thought out summer childcare plans blew up in my face in early June and a trusted and much beloved caregiver suddenly wasn’t available, I did what any reasonable working parent would do – I buried my head in the sand, lived in denial for weeks and kept telling myself that everything would work out. Three weeks before camp was over and the kiddies would be home unattended unless I got my act together, I started to email around to all my regular, fabulous teenage sitters hoping that some of them would be available for the rest of the summer - two weeks...two long weeks.

The plan was to create a patchwork of childcare options between teen sitters and playdates. Unfortunately, everyone else was much better organized – their kids were in camp, their nannies or sitters were hired, multiple playdates weren’t an option. Most of the teen sitters had family vacations planned so they were only able to help a day here and a day there, not for the two weeks...two long weeks...that I needed.

I checked with the camp director to see if they had space in their August program and if I could extend the 4 weeks we'd originally signed up for (at the cost of just about what it costs to send a space shuttle to the International Space Station.) The director laughed, saying they booked up months ago and weren't even taking names on the waitlist. I continued going through my rolodex of sitters. I found several adult sitters who were available to watch my girls, but at $15 -18 an hour, it was going to cost me around $1,200 to $1,500 to have them watch the girls for two weeks...did I mention it was a long two weeks?

After a few sleepless nights picturing my children in a John Hughes' Home Alone movie, it occurred to me to call my mother-in-law on the off chance that she might agree, at the last minute...and I mean LAST MINUTE...to come out to Los Angeles from New York to keep my kids, her grandchildren, from living a summertime childcare nightmare. She had just come out to visit at the end of June for Nicole's graduation. She's not a fan of airports or air travel, and she'd been having health issues lately. I asked my husband if he thought it was a good idea to ask her, and all he could say was, "You can try." I asked her and the first thing she said was, "When do you need me?" Less than two weeks later my mother-in-law arrived at our house after a flight on an overcrowded red eye financed entirely by frequent flier miles. That's reason one that my mother-in-law rocks - in a time of need, she doesn't ask why, she asks when and how she can help. Always has.

I have to try not to gush about her when other women complain about their mother-in-laws. I have it lucky, I know. And I try to take note of what she's doing because she's a great role model for how I'd like to be when I hit the mother-in-law/grandma phase. Now don't get me wrong, everything isn't always perfect and we do sometimes have our disagreements. She thinks I undercook meat, whereas I think she overcooks it. She'd rather see the girls in dresses more often and I let them dress themselves - most of the time resulting in less than coordinated looks. I know she thinks I can do better with their hair and she's probably right on that one! Sometimes she speaks to me the same way she does to her own daughter, my sister-in-law. For a second I bristle, but then I realize that in a way, it's a compliment. She's treating me like she treats her own daughter, even if it makes me crazy in the same way my own mother would.

Other reasons I love my mother-in-law:

She's always game for something new – last week she ran through sprinklers in her swimsuit because it was just too darn hot! (I think that’s really cool!)

She will eat experimental food and not hold it against me if it's bad.

Rum and coke is to her as Merlot is to me.

She is always respectful of space, time and relationships.

I've been told that in her day she could drive from New York to Florida by herself and make Speed Racer look like an amateur.

We both worship coffee.

She will bite her tongue when she doesn't like something I do and yet she will also speak up when she feels it's important enough.

She is thoughtful not only to her son and grandkids, but to me as well - sending us cards, notes of encouragement, even tucking a few dollars of mad money into the girls' pockets. The last time we went to visit her, she left a hand written coupon for an ice cream cone and a manicure on my pillow :)

She can be assertive without being aggressive.

She will pick up a load of clean laundry and fold it without asking. Ditto for washing dishes. Yes, now I'm gushing...

She never complains, although I know that she is often in pain, putting others concerns ahead of her own.

She'll tell me funny stories about my husband when he was a kid even if it pisses him off.

And most importantly, I know that she would throw herself in front of a train if she had to in order to protect my children.

I'm lucky, I know. I try to remember that when my mother-in-law cuts out self-help articles from newspapers or magazines and leaves them on the table for us to read...It makes my husband crazy. Me, I’m used to it. My mother used to do the same thing.

Lying Children

I have a hard time with lying children. Don’t get me wrong, my children lie, but right now, thankfully, they lie badly. There is no question when a whopper is coming out of their mouths. Nicole will pause awkwardly between every other word, thinking up her tale as she goes along and then force a smile when the lie is complete. Natalie will lie with more finesse, but the guilt factor is too high for her. She breaks down almost immediately after the lie has flawlessly slipped her lips and tearfully confess to even the most harmless of tales – I really didn’t brush my teeth, I did take a bite out of the cookie. Then she’ll beg for forgiveness in a way that always makes me worry that I’ve been too hard on her.

My girls have a long way to go in perfecting the art of deception or even telling the little white lie. They will, however, question at every turn when mommy tells one. The other day they were with me when a man approached asking if we needed any home repairs. I waved him off, saying “we just remodeled recently…” granted, we remodeled 9 years ago when we moved in, but that’s still recently in some ‘hoods. The girls immediately pounced on me for telling a lie. I tried to explain to them the difference between why my lying was okay and theirs isn’t and found myself in an ethical debate with two people who’s ages combined barely make them old enough to vote. Explaining the difference between lying to spare someone’s feelings, to be diplomatic or to fend off unwanted advances and telling a lie for personal gain is a difficult distinction to make. It’s one of the eternal parenting challenges like trying to help your kids recognize the difference between good strangers and dangerous ones. They are still all strangers in the end, right?

So the other day, some kids were over playing and every time I asked them a question they had a direct, straight forward answer. Both kids said the same thing and there was no sign that a tale was being told. In fact, when they left, I remember thinking, “Wow, what nice polite kids they are…” That night a received an angry call from their mother, furious that I allowed them to do the things they told me they were allowed to do at home. My children are so poor at lying that I’ve grown sloppy at detecting dishonestly in other people’s children. That’s not good. Having kids who don’t lie well has left me at a disadvantage. I have to sharpen my internal mommy lie detector and remember that other kids might be better versed than mine at the art of deception. It is one of those parent survival tools that you have to have when dealing not only with your own children, but more importantly, with other people’s kids. If not, they’ll eat you alive.

The One Who Lags Behind

My ten year old daughter Nicole can’t seem to keep up with the rest of us when we are walking. She is always about three to six feet behind us. Sometimes she’s just strolling, sometimes she’s dancing, but usually she’s just in her own world. She does this on the sidewalk, crossing the street, in parking lots. I worry that a car will come around the corner and clip her, not seeing her because she isn’t walking with the group. Or that once she starts hanging out with friends on her own, she might fall behind from the crowd and lose the safety that comes in numbers. I also just want her to keep up with us and stop strolling so much in a world where others are walking as if they have someplace to go.

Nicole has recently become interested in horror movies, even though the most horrific thing she’s seen is some Disney show about vampire babysitters. So, in order to get her to keep up with the group, I explained to her how in those horror movies, it’s always the one who strays from the group, ventures into the empty basement or lags behind who gets eaten by the monster. Natalie, my eight year old, finds that particularly amusing, so whenever Nicole is walking behind us, she warns her, “Remember, the one who lags behind…” In our family, it’s become a funny reminder about safety. Until it isn’t funny anymore. In a summer full of horrific happenings – the Caylee Anthony case, the case of the teen who killed his parents with a hammer then threw a party that night inviting his friends over via Facebook or the mother and daughter found beheaded in their home – the story of the murder and dismemberment of an eight year old boy from Brooklyn, Leiby Kletzky, moved me so that it caused me to rethink, as a parent, how I talk to my own children about being safe.

Leiby, like my girls, wanted to have more freedom to be on his own. Mine are constantly asking when I’ll let them walk home from school, visit a friend or go to the mall on their own. Leiby’s parents agreed to his request to walk home from his first day of camp on his own, and seemingly did all the right things to keep him safe. They did a practice run with him on the day before, walking the route home. But the next day, when he tried to walk home alone, he got lost, turned around in his own neighborhood, and asked the wrong person for help.

I joke with my girls about the horror movie stereotype of bad things happening to the one who lags behind. But after hearing about Leiby, even though I normally shield them from hearing those types of stories on the news, I decided to tell them about what happened to him – not in gruesome detail, but enough so that we could take our conversation about safety to a different level. I want them to know that sometimes the one that lags behind does get devoured by the monster. I want them to know that the monsters aren’t only in the movies and that most of the time they don’t even look like monsters. I want them to understand that the monsters can be very clever or very crazy or both. And I want them to have the mental, emotional and physical tools to avoid the monsters or do battle with them if they have to.

So I told them about what happened to Leiby and explained that I was telling them because I wanted to make sure that they understood that things do happen and the need to be careful. We used it as an opportunity, another “teachable moment” to talk about what you do when you’re out on your own, how you ask for help, how you protect yourselves. Yes, we’ve had all these conversations before, but in a much more theoretical way. But this was something real that happened and in that same situation, with the stakes at life and death, I wanted them to think about what they would do and how they would react. We talked a lot, and cried a little, thinking about the young boy from Brooklyn, his family and his community. Wishing that no child, no parent, no family would ever have to deal with such unimaginable pain again. But knowing that more than likely, tomorrow’s news would bring another story and that the best we can do as parents is try again and again to remind our children what to do to be safe and how not to be the one who lags behind.

Instant Family…Just Add Water

My daughters and I went to a family reunion in Indiana last weekend. It was my mother’s side of the family and she grew up in a small, rural town called Crawfordsville, less than an hour from Indianapolis. We flew into Chicago and drove several hours to get there. As we passed cows, corn, and rivers cutting through forests of lush trees, Nicole and Natalie questioned me about everything. They are L.A. girls and their journeys from home have been limited mostly to cities, Cape Cod, or tropical resorts. The Midwest was a whole other world to them. I very much wanted them to come home with me and meet my mom’s family, especially since they never knew my mother, who died from breast cancer at the age of 59, long before I was married and had kids. I spent vacations in Indiana when I was young, in both Crawfordsville and East Chicago, and I remember fondly visiting grandparents, playing with cousins, setting off fireworks (which are legal there) and chasing fireflies on humid summer evenings when everyone would sit on the porch late into the night waiting for the house inside to cool. I wanted my kids to have those same experiences, if only for a weekend.

At the reunion, we’d all come together and I was both excited and concerned about how my kids would fit in. They didn’t know their cousins – 1st through 4th generation were there – and most of them were from the area and many knew each other already. We arrived at the hotel and checked in. When the girls met their cousins in the conference room set up for the reunion, they were shy at first. My Aunt suggested we go swimming in the hotel’s indoor pool. She asked me to chaperone because she and my older cousins didn’t know how to swim.

We hit the pool with five kids and a couple of teens – some kids were in floaties, some splashed about and a few of the older cousins dared to take the impromptu swimming lessons I decided to offer. With my daughters serving as assistant instructors, we taught back floats and dog paddles, how to fall in and swim to the edge, how to tread water. In no time, all the cousins who had been strangers were more than friends, they were family. They did canon balls into the pool, lounged in the hot tub, played Marco Polo in the shallow end of the pool as if they'd known each other for a lifetime.

The rest of the weekend my girls carried around their little cousins, ran between rooms with their cousins playing games, fussed with each other about who would hold the baby of the family. The boy cousins teased the girl cousins and the girl cousins pranked them back. From strangers to friends to cousins…All it took was a little water.

Small Town in the Big City

I live in a neighborhood full of delusional people. I am one of them. We like to believe that our four block radius is actually a small town, even though we are in the middle of a big city. Kids run in and out of each other’s homes as if all the homes on are street are one big house that all the kids share. People watch out for each other’s children and pets and property as if it were their own. We pass down outgrown clothes to the next youngest child on the block, do dinner trains when someone is sick or there has been a death in a family. We have group trips to the beach, picnics in the park, and potlucks throughout the year.

The way our neighborhood celebrates the Fourth of July reminds me most of our small town longings. There is a big, neighborhood-wide block party with hot dogs and sack races and pie contests. An antique fire truck leads a parade up and down the street. Mini flags are placed on lawns, children decorate their bikes or scooters and themselves in anything red, white and blue. Last year, a mom on the block used her artistry, face painting our children’s faces with stars and fireworks and flags.

After the block party, we gather at someone’s house for a potluck and the musicians in the neighborhood bring out their guitars and drums and even a violin and play as the rest of us sing Beatles songs off key and the kids splash around in the pool, completely ignoring any warning not to swim until 30 minutes after eating.

As evening falls, a group of us from our street will walk together carrying folding chairs, pulling little red wagons full of children or juice boxes or jug wine, and we will go down to the wash where the street dead ends and set up an area to view the fireworks. We’ll sit there until it is dark and then marvel at the streaks of color lighting the sky. I glance over at our children, thrilled, happy, safe, and try to keep our small town delusion going a little bit longer.