A Three Pack Tissue Day

I got emotional in the car yesterday. I was driving home from the doctor's office and it hit me - my baby is going into middle school. She isn't a baby anymore (hasn't been for some time). I felt surprisingly sad, didn't think it would hit me that way at all. I spent the rest of the day trying not to tear up over even the most mundane of things - pile of laundry on the floor, school picture hanging on the refrigerator. I didn't think I was going to get all melancholy about this - elementary school culmination. Heck, even if Nicole is moving on to middle school, I still have several more years of taking my soon to be third grader, Natalie, up to that elementary school every morning.

When I arrived to pick Nicole up from school, she and her fifth grade friends had just returned from a culmination party held on the backlot of CBS studios. They had hot dogs and popcorn and snow cones with ice cream underneath the ice (talk about indulgence), a DJ and a photo booth. They danced in 90 degree heat under the blazing sun and came home exhausted, happy and slightly dehydrated. But most of all, ready to move on. As much as Nicole will miss her friends, teachers, and school, I felt like yesterday, she realized that she would okay leaving. As sad as it would be, she was excited about the future. She was ready to go to middle school.

I tucked three packs of tissues in my purse for this morning's culmination. One for me, one for her, one for everyone else who vowed they weren't going to get emotional over an elementary school ceremony. I don't believe them. I'm bringing the extra pack of tissues just in case.

Tears

There has been a lot of crying around here lately. I’ve been having health issues for the last six weeks and sometimes the pain is so intense that my eyes will tear up and I don’t even realize it. Natalie has been dropping things. A soda into her father’s favorite slippers, a full orange juice container in the back of my newly detailed car, and a nightly tipping over of whatever beverage she has for dinner. She gets so frustrated when it happens that she cries.

The other night, I heard loud cries coming from the living room and rushed from my bed to see what had happened. As I approached, David said, “You don’t want to go in there.” But I never listen. Fearing the worst, I looked around the corner and saw Natalie on the floor in tears, the table in front of her covered in red liquid. My first thought was that she’d struck her mouth on the glass table and that blood was everywhere. On closer examination, the “blood” was fruit punch and Natalie had had yet another spill, this time on the living room carpet, which prompted her crying fit. She was terrified I’d be upset that she had spilled again and ruined the rug. Actually, finding out that it was only fruit punch instead of blood, I was so relieved that I didn’t care about the rug. I was just glad she wasn’t hurt. It didn’t matter. She cried uncontrollably for ten minutes.

As I was calming Natalie down, Nicole came into the room and curled up on the bed next to me and she started crying. She’d been fine earlier and I couldn’t imagine what had sparked this emotional downpour. Natalie was still whimpering in my lap, and now this! In between crying jags, Nicole told me that she’d been thinking about fifth grade graduation and realized how much she was going to miss her friends. She said she didn’t want to grow up, go to middle school and that she wanted to stay in elementary school the rest of her life. I tried to comfort her and assure her that she would see many of her current friends in her new school. I reminded her how often she had talked about and made plans for middle school and how much she would enjoy it when she actually got there. (I should have seen this coming because she’s been listening to some song called, “Never Grow Up” endlessly for the last week or so.)

But the tears continued. So the three of us sat on the bed and had a good cry – Nicole, longing to never grow up, Natalie wishing she were more grown and not always spilling things like a little kid, and me wishing that my body weren’t growing older and betraying me in ways I never imagined. Sometimes you need a good cry and sometimes it’s just hormones. The trick is knowing the difference.

Whatever We Do

When David and I were taking prenatal classes at the hospital before Nicole was born, the nurse said something I’ll always remember. She said, “Babies are irritated by everything, and everything you do to make it better irritates them more.” I thought of those sage words the other day as I was trying to coax Nicole out of a stinky, I’m-ten-not-a-teen-but-I’m-going-to-act-like-one mood, but everything I did made her more cranky. It was then that I realized that the nurse’s advice applies to every stage of parenting.

Babies are irritated by everything and everything you do to make it better irritates them more.

Tweens are embarrassed by everything and everything you do to make it better embarrasses them more. (Note to self, do not sing Gloria Gaynor’s disco classic “I Will Survive” out loud in public with your children nearby.)

Teenagers are angered by everything and everything you do to make it better angers them more. (In other words, don’t try asking them about anything without expecting a surly response, in fact growling and hissing may even be involved.)

College students are always in need of money and the more money you give them always makes them need more. (Second note to self, change phone number, email and mailing address as soon as they head off to college. They can’t get money from you if they can’t find you.)

So if we irritate them, embarrass them, anger and enable them, why do we subject ourselves to this parenting process in the first place? It seems like it would be a win-win for kids and parents. But no one said parenting was easy. In fact, they said just the opposite. My friend Miriam once said that the divine plan was to make babies so cute so that you would forget about all the other crap you have to put up with. And they are cute, even if it can be tough going sometimes.

Culmination

When I was growing up, the only graduation ceremonies we had were from high school and college. Nowadays, there are graduation ceremonies from pre-school, kindergarten, fifth (or sixth) grade, middle school, high school and college. We celebrate accomplishment at every stage, no matter how small. I mean, really, how difficult is it to get through pre-school? But as I watch my daughter and her fifth grade friends buzzing with excitement over their upcoming (and very elaborate) culmination ceremony – the PC phase instead of graduating – I can’t help but get caught up in the energy of it all. They are thrilled, proud of themselves; really see it as a demarcation from their childhood years into being more mature young people.

They are flexing their independence in a variety of ways – from going places on their own or in small groups but with nary a parent to be found, getting and using cell phones, arranging their own study sessions and social activities. I can feel Nicole’s babyhood and childhood slipping through my fingers and have to allow myself to let it go. I can remember endless nights trying to get her to go to sleep, feeding her, changing her, and I’d often wonder, “Ugh, when is this going to end?!?” Now she gets up, gets herself washed and dressed and has even been known not only to feed herself, but the rest of the house as well – she makes a fine pancake, her grilled cheese is stellar, even if her mac and cheese still needs a little work. So those baby days have ended, replaced by chatter with girlfriends on the phone about homework, clothes and who likes who. Nicole will sit in the front seat of the car with me occasionally as I drive and has now started asking me questions about technique. I can see the wheels spinning in the back of her mind as she takes driving notes and plans her moment climbing behind the wheel. She and her best friend have already planned out their college experience. Now if only the SAT scores, college acceptance letters and financial aid all come together to support their goals, they have decided at the ripe old age of 10 that they want to go to Harvard together and be roommates. Look out Harvard.

The aisles in the stores are filled with graduation cards and decorations. And as Nicole’s big culmination draws closer, I find myself throwing an item or two in the shopping cart. I found myself in the bakery aisle debating whether to order a cake. And Natalie, Nicole’s little sister, leaned over to me and said, “don’t forget, we have to get her flowers and balloons.” I swore I was not going to make a big deal out of it, but know that I will. And I’ll cry…a lot. I’m a crier to begin with for almost no reason, so something like this just gives me license.

Don't Start the Rapture Without Me

Apparently it was the end of the world last Saturday and I almost missed it. My husband emailed me to let me know that it was coming in about two hours. I announced to our girls that some minister predicted that the end of the world was imminent. Nicole asked what imminent meant. I replied, "Any time now." Natalie cheered and said, "Tthat means quesadillas for dinner." I'm really glad my children don't take anything I say too seriously, but it’s somewhat puzzling and a little disturbing that Natalie continues to equate Armageddon with Mexican food.

I told them, honestly, if the end of the world were coming, I would have tried to have been better prepared. You can't let something that momentous that happen without preparation. Nicole asked me what I’d prepare. I told her I’d pack my favorite clothes, some comfortable shoes and some heels (just in case). I’d pack a little snack for us as well. Natalie started suggesting treats we could bring when Nicole burst our little end of the world plans with real facts learned in science class. She announced that the end of the world would only happen when the sun died out, which was in about a couple of million (or did she say billion?) years. Natalie chewed on that fact and asked me if I intended on being around then. I informed her that I would not. Natalie thought about it for a moment and decided that she too was going to miss the sun dying out event. Nicole, again with the facts, assured Natalie that none of us would be around to witness it, not unless they froze our bodies and then defrosted us just in time for the end. I let them both know that there would be no freezing of my body under any circumstances (although I think I better put that in writing). I went to college in Chicago, I know what cold is. I’m not going through that again, especially not for a few million (or possibly) billion years.

One of the things that I love about kids is that you can have nonsensical, theoretical conversations like our doomsday discussion and they will present their arguments and opinions and look at all sides of the issue even if the issue makes absolutely no sense at all. Adults like to call it “out of the box” thinking. Kids were born out of the box. We’re the ones who put them in there when they’re young and then they spend the rest of their lives trying to relearn how to think outside it again.

But enough about that…I have lots of packing to do. Apparently that minister has discovered that he made a miscalculation. The end of the world wasn’t May 21st; it is going to be on October 21st! Now I still have time to get the fixings for quesadillas.

That’s So Porno: Part 2

The tweenager shock jock talk continues at my daughter’s school. Last week, Nicole came home and asked me for a definition of porn because some friends in her fifth grade class were tossing the word around and mocking her for not knowing what it meant. This week’s word starts with a “c” ends with a “t” and I don’t really have to tell you the letters in between. Why do I feel like I’m on an X-rated version of Sesame Street? Her two friends (both of whom have older siblings) were using the word to describe another girl and when Nicole asked what the word meant, they again laughed at her and walked off. Now, knowing that I’m a fountain of information when it comes to defining four letter words (all those years bantering with Teamsters on set weren’t wasted), Nicole came home and immediately asked me to make things clear.

I gave her a very clinical definition, told her my opinion of the word, and of the use of curse words in general. The next day she came home and said that she’d told the kids that she now knew what the word meant. When they asked who told her, she said to their shock, “my mom.” She went on to tell them, bragging ever so slightly, that she can ask me anything. I told Nicole I was glad that she felt she could ask me/tell me about anything and encouraged her to continue to do so, no matter what my response was.

I both love and hate that my daughter feels like she can talk to me about anything. She should be able to and I want her to feel like there is nothing she can’t say to me. That’s my grown up side talking. Sounds so adult and together, right? But what I really want to say is, “OMG, I don’t want to deal with it! Don’t ask me those things! Don’t make me explain that stuff to you! I want to get mad at you and your little friends for growing up too fast – IMO - and already starting to talk about that stuff! La,la,la,la…I’m not listening!” Whatever happening to picking up this stuff in the street instead of asking your parents about it? Damn this progressive, 21st century, uber communicative childrearing. Can’t we go back to the days were misinformation was passed around in school restrooms and you learned about cursing and sex from your friends gossiping at sleepovers or at boy girl parties where the fast kids couple always disappeared into darkened basement bedrooms and whispered details of it later? Oh, yeah, remember those days and they weren’t all that informative. Most of what was said, rumored and done was incorrect or just plain stupid. I still giggle when I think of my seven year old friend who said in all earnestness that her big sister claimed you could get pregnant touching a doorknob. That must have been a hell of a doorknob.

I have no doubt that Nicole’s friends will test her theory that she can tell me anything by feeding her more salacious words to bring home and ask me about. I will continue to keep informing and correcting Nicole when she comes to me with these questions, even at the risk of being labeled the foul mouth dictionary mom - I’ve been called worse…starts with “c” ends with…you get the idea.

That's So Porno

Porno, porno everywhere…it was found in Bin Laden’s compound, and now in the classroom at my kids’ elementary school. This week, while the news reports continued to come out of Washington that the treasure trove of information seized from the raid in Pakistan included large quantities of pornographic films, my daughter’s fifth grade class was shown a “maturation” film. The film is something they have been showing to the graduating fifth graders for decades, one for boys and one for girls, which talks about how their bodies mature, sexuality and personal responsibility. The parents had to sign a release form to allow their kids to view it. Nicole was more excited about the promise of goody bags at the end of the screening which were rumored to contain tampons, pads and deodorant – all in a nice little carrying case for girls, than she was about actually seeing the movie.

The reports of porno films in Bin Ladenville had already intrigued me as I grappled with the irony of a religious sect hoarding skin flicks when Nicole came to me and asked, “Mommy, what is porno?” Surprisingly, I didn’t freak out about how to respond to the question as much as I thought I would. We have had the ongoing conversation about where babies come from, body maturation and sexuality ever since she first started asking at age six. I always tried to answer only what was asked, not elaborate unless she wanted more information, be direct, honest and non-judgmental in my responses. My husband, David, would rather our girls not get any information at all because in his mind, that means they are growing up, something I don’t think he’s quite ready to face. He cringes when Nicole comes out dressed for school looking more mature than her 10 years only by virtue of how clothes are now fitting her and he often sends her back into her room to make her change out of skirts and tank tops into sweats and camp shirts. So when Nicole asked me the porno question, several questions of my own raced through my head. I wondered where she had heard the term – assuming at first that she had picked it up from the news reports I’d been watching. But then, the thought popped into my head that maybe someone had exposed her to it. Before I could start imaging the worst, I said, “Why do you ask?” Nicole explained that after they’d seen the maturation video, the boys and girls were exchanging notes about it and one of the boys said to her, “Oh that film, that was so porno.” I smiled, relieved that she hadn’t been pulled into some back alley somewhere by persons unknown to watch Debbie Does Dallas.

I back-tracked, asking her what she thought of the girls’ maturation film. As expected, she said that we had already talked about almost everything that was in it. I asked her if she had any questions about what we hadn’t discussed or what she had seen. She circled back to the porno question, clearly the only part (which wasn’t even in the school film) which confused her. I searched for the appropriate words (I’d gone over in my head a million times how to answer the where do babies come from question, but this one was off my radar in terms of questions I’d be asked) and finally said, “It’s a movie that exploits people having sex.” She thought what I said for a moment and then asked, “What’s exploit mean?” I gave her a Merriam Webster response for the word. She didn’t ask for any more details about porn and I didn’t offer any. Finally, she shook her head knowingly and said, “He was so wrong about the movie.” She went on to tell me that when she didn’t know what the word porno meant, the boy waved her off dismissively and went to chat with the other girls who were up on their porno definition. Rather than being upset or bothered by the concept of porn, she was more frustrated by not knowing a word that everyone else seemed to know. Although I suspect a lot of those girls were smiling and nodded without having a clue. I explained to her that different people learned about (say/do) different things at different times (a mantra in my house that my girls make fun of me for saying) and that if he was rude enough to dismiss her for not knowing the word, that it was his problem not hers.

Fifth graders, who are generally 10, 11 or in some cases even 12, are so conflicted at this age. They want to be grown, and like this boy, toss around titillating words or phrases, pushing to see movies or listen to music which is probably too mature for them, asking for cell phones and solo visits to the mall or ice cream shop – all things which they think prove how grown they are or that they are in the know, while at the same time, they are still so little, wanting a hug or a cuddle. They struggle daily, caught between the desire to remain a kid and the wish to be adults.

So now, at the ripe old age of 10, Nicole knows what porno is. Not really, but at least she has a sense of the word and she knows it is not the maturation movie shown at school. But she was disappointed; they didn’t get the tampon-pad-deodorant goody bags this year because of budget cuts. The economic crisis strikes again.