Today I realized that, though I am a non-fiction writer, I am a creative reader and thinker. By creative I mean, well, fiction. The what-if; the could-have-beens; the change-a-factor-and-see-what-happens kind of thinker. I can probably pinpoint the beginning of such thinking to when I first read Ray Bradbury's short story, "A Sound of Thunder." In the story, a trip back in time to the dinosaur era, and the accidental killing of a single butterfly, causes a time paradox: this tiny alteration ultimately causes a domino effect of changes that carry into the future, all the way up to the year to which the travelers return.
Ever since then, I have loved the idea of the possible. What if I had taken that job in the bank instead of at the art college, where I began my journey toward becoming a writer? What if my parents had bought that apartment in co-op city instead of the house in Westchester in which to raise me? What if I had decided not to go to the restaurant with co-workers the night I met the man who would become my husband? The variations these choices could have made on my life are mind-boggling.
The interest in the topic has led me to read a series of variations on my favorite book, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (good) and also causes me to contrive horrible potential scenarios anytime my children undertake any kind of adventure, such as a class trip (bad). But overall, I have decided that such musings on what could be are just the kind of thinking I want to pass on to my children.
Giving the next generation the ability to see the best in people, to imagine the rosiest outcome and to see the great things they can achieve with the right attitude is giving them a gift. I'm not talking about being unrealistic or overly optimistic: I'm talking about teaching them how to imagine all the different ways an encounter, an opportunity or a situation could unfold, and the power that they hold to affect those possibilities. How will this person react if I smile at them instead of frowning? What emotions will fill the child who receives this toy I am donating? How much better will my street look if I pick up all of the litter I see on it, and how will it better the Earth? And best of all, how will it make me feel to do these things?
The one thing children crave, from the time they are infants right through their teenage years and even into adulthood (don't deny it--you crave it too), is control over their world. Making a difference is something we all want to do, beginning on a small scale when we are young and expanding to the world at large when we are older. Seeing the impact we make--and feeling good about it--is what makes life worth living. The earlier we can teach our children how to make positive impressions in the world, by showing them their options and illustrating the potential outcomes, the better their worlds--and ours--will be. Just imagine the possibilities!
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
First Times
There's something magical about firsts. Your first kiss. Your first apartment. Your first plane trip. Your first child. I'm still convinced that the anticipation and fear of doing something for the first time is as important as actually doing it. There is a wonder, an excitement and an air of mystery that precedes those turning points in our lives. But more than that, it is a state of being--of naiveté--that is ultimately lost through those very experiences; a stage that we later look back on with feelings of nostalgia, those sweet days of youth and the process of 'becoming.' For, of all of the experiences that will shape us into who we will become, aren't these the most memorable?
This weekend, we had our first overnight camping trip as a family. Laugh if you like, but it was surprisingly moving for me, for a few reasons. First of all, I am not an outdoor person by any means, and truly believe I was a house cat in a former life. A book, a bed, a cup of coffee and some music are all I need to make me happy, none of which is found in the wild. I despise bugs, am always cold (even indoors) and humidity makes my hair frizz. Truly, in the raising of children, nature is my husband's department. Secondly, I know my son Ben well and was convinced that he would not sleep all night. He moves around constantly in bed at home, is a very light sleeper and, when overtired, has to cry himself to sleep. For these reasons alone, a four-person tent in the woods overnight did not sound like my idea of a good time.
So I spent the day emotionally preparing myself. I asked my neighbors to walk the dog for us while we were gone, and I did minimal work to wean myself from my computer, so I wouldn't stress over being away from it for 18 hours. I packed a book and a reading light. I brought my iced coffee. The cub scout pack was going to provide food and games, and the boys were excited, so I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.
One scavenger hunt, one barbecue, one snapping turtle sighting, two caught fish, one Indian ceremony, three latrine visits and one campfire later, it was 10:15pm. After Jacob conked out and Ben cried himself to sleep next to me, I laid on the hard ground looking up at the full moon wondering how *I* was going to sleep. But the next thing I knew, it was 6:15am, and Ben was saying to my face, "Mom, did you know that dying is worse than throwing up?" and then launching into a well-thought out explanation of why.
Sugared cereal for breakfast--that we never get at home--and all the other cub scouts ready to play 'hunters and horses' and climb on the rocks made the morning even more memorable. The car was packed and ready to go by 8:00, but no one wanted to leave.
Years ago, I would have worried over whether we should take the boys camping at this age, or whether it would be too hard on them to be up so late, too much work, too cold, too scary, too something. But I have learned that, like every other first experience, it's going to happen sometime. First times are part of the growing process. As long as we know we are ready for them, and have planned well, the memories they create will be greater than any misgivings that may precede them. And that nervous anticipation? Embrace it--it's all part of the journey.
This weekend, we had our first overnight camping trip as a family. Laugh if you like, but it was surprisingly moving for me, for a few reasons. First of all, I am not an outdoor person by any means, and truly believe I was a house cat in a former life. A book, a bed, a cup of coffee and some music are all I need to make me happy, none of which is found in the wild. I despise bugs, am always cold (even indoors) and humidity makes my hair frizz. Truly, in the raising of children, nature is my husband's department. Secondly, I know my son Ben well and was convinced that he would not sleep all night. He moves around constantly in bed at home, is a very light sleeper and, when overtired, has to cry himself to sleep. For these reasons alone, a four-person tent in the woods overnight did not sound like my idea of a good time.
So I spent the day emotionally preparing myself. I asked my neighbors to walk the dog for us while we were gone, and I did minimal work to wean myself from my computer, so I wouldn't stress over being away from it for 18 hours. I packed a book and a reading light. I brought my iced coffee. The cub scout pack was going to provide food and games, and the boys were excited, so I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.
One scavenger hunt, one barbecue, one snapping turtle sighting, two caught fish, one Indian ceremony, three latrine visits and one campfire later, it was 10:15pm. After Jacob conked out and Ben cried himself to sleep next to me, I laid on the hard ground looking up at the full moon wondering how *I* was going to sleep. But the next thing I knew, it was 6:15am, and Ben was saying to my face, "Mom, did you know that dying is worse than throwing up?" and then launching into a well-thought out explanation of why.
Sugared cereal for breakfast--that we never get at home--and all the other cub scouts ready to play 'hunters and horses' and climb on the rocks made the morning even more memorable. The car was packed and ready to go by 8:00, but no one wanted to leave.
Years ago, I would have worried over whether we should take the boys camping at this age, or whether it would be too hard on them to be up so late, too much work, too cold, too scary, too something. But I have learned that, like every other first experience, it's going to happen sometime. First times are part of the growing process. As long as we know we are ready for them, and have planned well, the memories they create will be greater than any misgivings that may precede them. And that nervous anticipation? Embrace it--it's all part of the journey.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Let It Flow
One of my favorite things to do is give my kids a riddle, math problem or pun and then sit back and watch them. I can almost see the wheels working inside, and the best part is always the light in their eyes and the smiles on their faces when they figure out the answer or get the joke.
In this world where kids are spending more than 20 hours a week watching television or playing video games, and the cases of obesity, diabetes and high cholesterol levels in children are rising, one thing all of the experts are saying is, "let them be kids." This new generation--offspring of overworked parents--is under-rested, over-stimulated and over-scheduled. I'd be interested in seeing a study of how many kids lie in the grass on a regular basis and figure out what shapes the clouds are making in the blue summer sky above their heads.
As time-pressed parents become pulled in more and more directions, of course we are going to seek out entertaining ways for our kids to spend time and enjoy themselves. But maybe instead of cutting corners on the type of activities we offer them, we should be cutting out some of the things that demand so much of our time be spent away from them.
The other day, as we were riding in the car, it got quiet in the back seat. I figured both boys were reading, until I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Ben just sort of staring off into space.
"Mom? I have a question."
"Yes, Ben?"
"How come, when we're just relaxing, our brain keeps thinking about all different kinds of things?"
I was blown away, and told him what an excellent question that was. I explained that our brains are always working, whether we're reading, working in school, playing a game or even sleeping (that's where dreams come from). And that got me thinking about how very important it is to make sure our kids HAVE the time to 'just relax', to let their minds wander off to unknown places and follow a thought to another thought and another. This unstructured freedom is the spring from which our imagination flows, and how children make sense of their world. It's the kind of thing they won't learn in a textbook, and I'm pretty sure they haven't invented a video game of it either.
Ben's recent jokes, comments and games show me that he is letting his thoughts flow freely, just as I did during the summers when I was a kid. As far as I'm concerned, my most important job as a parent is not to make sure I have enough money to buy my kids everything they want. It is to keep the pace of our lives slow enough that they can have these moments of relaxation, and the satisfaction that imagination and reflection brings, without ever running out of time.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
The Artist in All of Us
I learned today that there are certain portions of my brain that are just plain mush. I never use them, so trying to get them up and running is like spending 40 years lying non-stop in bed, and then trying to jump up and go jogging. Ouch.
One would think that I have the capacity to do what was asked of me: my 8-year-old asked me to play LEGOs with him. One would be wrong. Jacob has about 9,000 of these bricks, and is forever playing with them, building ships, planes, guns, forts, you name it. The other day he built a LEGO version of the robot Wall-E that we had just seen in the movie, and it was a really good representation. My son explained to me how he does it. He gets an idea for something, pictures it in his head, and then sets out to recreate it in a drawing or painting or, more often, with these little blocks. He's 8. How hard could it be for me to do some similar creating?
Pretty hard, as it turned out. What's funny is, it sounded remarkably like what I do with words. I am a builder, I figured, I just use words as my bricks. I'll take an idea, play with it, write it out, mold it, shape it and usually end up with a pretty fine piece of writing when I'm done. I can even hear a song in my head and recreate the melody on the piano. But words and music require a different lobe than paints or bricks. LEGOs are all about visual relationships and spacial coordination; indeed, there is an art to it.
What I learned is that, if I envision a place or an object, building it out of little plastic pieces is just not going to happen in a way of which I'll be proud. I gave it a go today, building something small in a very rough and clumsy manner, and I was happy that no one was watching but my son (who offered tips on how to make it better).
But what I also realized is that, regardless of the process or medium, I love these moments of learning from my children. It's not just about seeing their strengths shine through though; it's about their willingness to bring me into their world and teach me what they know, with love and patience. I may not be very good at building things out of LEGO bricks, but hopefully I'm doing an OK job of building some fine young men.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
It's Always Something
Remember being five? I remember loving being five. I had soft leather Mary Janes that were a deep maroon and I wore them everywhere. I taught myself how to read and tie my shoes (and surprised mom). Kindergarten rocked and I was friends with everyone.
The biggest thing I remember about being five is NOT being at all conscious of my body. It was all about experience, learning and socializing, as it should be.
This is key because I am trying to help my five-year-old this week as he has lost this magical ability to have out-of-body experiences. Two weeks ago, Ben had allergies and was congested. The congestion was followed by an ear infection (as it so often is with him). This led to a course of yucky tasting antibiotics which, after a week, was thankfully gone with the ear infection. But two days later, he started getting itchy and upon closer inspection I found him to be covered with hives. When I say covered, I mean they were just all over his little body.
Lo and behold, a Sunday morning doctor visit (because don't these things always show up in the middle of the night on Saturday?) revealed that he is not only allergic to penicillin (which we knew) but now allergic to cefdinir as well. Oatmeal baths; Benadryl; cool cloths; give it a week. Right.
Clearly the doctor has forgotten what it is to be five. This week, Ben has been the most physically challenged as he has ever been in his short life. He can't sleep. He's constantly itching. His eyes are swollen. He hates the medicine. He hates the baths. And through it all, his parents, big brother, grandparents and counselors keep telling him, "don't scratch." Are you freaking kidding me?
I am not lying when I say Ben has been a model and truly inspirational example of self-control. He isn't whining, he's really trying not to scratch, and is grudgingly taking his medicine every four hours. And I'm repeatedly telling him what a great job he's doing.
But as amazing as he is, I am still sad, because this week I have been missing his smile. When I picked him up from camp yesterday, he sat in the back seat wide-eyed, brow slightly furrowed, mouth set in a straight line and just looked at me. He wasn't scratching, he wasn't talking. He looked a bit sleepy, but said nothing. For Ben to be saying nothing, especially after the first day of camp, speaks volumes. He may be dealing with his lot in life right now, but it's changing him.
I can only hope that by being supportive and encouraging, helping to ease the symptoms and giving him lots of hugs that I am helping him. Maybe, if he ends up on the therapist's couch in 20 years, this will be one traumatic life event that he won't attribute to me. But more than anything, I hope this whole thing passes quickly, and isn't followed by some OTHER ailment. I hope within a few days, Ben will be once more out of his body and smiling, a happy five-year-old again.
The biggest thing I remember about being five is NOT being at all conscious of my body. It was all about experience, learning and socializing, as it should be.
This is key because I am trying to help my five-year-old this week as he has lost this magical ability to have out-of-body experiences. Two weeks ago, Ben had allergies and was congested. The congestion was followed by an ear infection (as it so often is with him). This led to a course of yucky tasting antibiotics which, after a week, was thankfully gone with the ear infection. But two days later, he started getting itchy and upon closer inspection I found him to be covered with hives. When I say covered, I mean they were just all over his little body.
Lo and behold, a Sunday morning doctor visit (because don't these things always show up in the middle of the night on Saturday?) revealed that he is not only allergic to penicillin (which we knew) but now allergic to cefdinir as well. Oatmeal baths; Benadryl; cool cloths; give it a week. Right.
Clearly the doctor has forgotten what it is to be five. This week, Ben has been the most physically challenged as he has ever been in his short life. He can't sleep. He's constantly itching. His eyes are swollen. He hates the medicine. He hates the baths. And through it all, his parents, big brother, grandparents and counselors keep telling him, "don't scratch." Are you freaking kidding me?
I am not lying when I say Ben has been a model and truly inspirational example of self-control. He isn't whining, he's really trying not to scratch, and is grudgingly taking his medicine every four hours. And I'm repeatedly telling him what a great job he's doing.
But as amazing as he is, I am still sad, because this week I have been missing his smile. When I picked him up from camp yesterday, he sat in the back seat wide-eyed, brow slightly furrowed, mouth set in a straight line and just looked at me. He wasn't scratching, he wasn't talking. He looked a bit sleepy, but said nothing. For Ben to be saying nothing, especially after the first day of camp, speaks volumes. He may be dealing with his lot in life right now, but it's changing him.
I can only hope that by being supportive and encouraging, helping to ease the symptoms and giving him lots of hugs that I am helping him. Maybe, if he ends up on the therapist's couch in 20 years, this will be one traumatic life event that he won't attribute to me. But more than anything, I hope this whole thing passes quickly, and isn't followed by some OTHER ailment. I hope within a few days, Ben will be once more out of his body and smiling, a happy five-year-old again.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Baby laughs
Oh my gosh, remember these days of heart-warming hysterics? This is great whenever I need a boost!
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
The Clearing
I can't describe the comfort I take when seeing what a true friend is made of. The most recent example of this was watching a dear friend wielding an axe, going whole-heartedly at a stubborn, hard-wooded shrub with multiple roots in my yard. This shrub had been there for over 10 years, its roots and stems twisting and intertwining with each other until they were solidly tangled. The bane of my horticultural home owner's existence, it's been on my list for removal for years, but remained because I couldn't even imagine where to begin.
After a brief discussion one day, my friend arrived at my door with gloves, saws and an axe, and we proceeded to go at the tree until we won. I say we won because the damn thing fought back with its whip-like branches, scratchy needles and a hidden bed of poison ivy beneath it that we found the hard way.
When all was said and done, I had a pile of redwood cedar for burning, a clear view of my driveway from my front door, and a big planting bed in one of the few sunny spots in my yard. It is an open space to sow something new, for beauty or nourishment, filled with moist, healthy soil and etched by smooth stones.
What I loved most about the day, though, was not the sense of accomplishment we gained when this once-insurmountable (to me) job was completed. Rather, it was seeing my friend in a deeper sense. Metaphorically, her arriving to help me with my problem, staying on until the job was done, and repeatedly whacking away at the issue, piece by piece, was illuminating. As together we slowly removed one of my life's miseries, I saw her for the friend she really is: one who is unafraid to stand by my side and help me pull away painful elements of my life when I cannot do it alone, ripping them free from the tangles of long history. Getting rid of the bad, that which we no longer need, clears the way for new and better things to take root.
Call it therapy, or just plain loyalty. While it may sound corny, this is what friendship is all about. Connecting, helping, respecting and caring. I don't have a big circle of friends, but the ones I have are more valuable to me than I can put into words. I believe this is why we were put here on Earth: to help each other through the rough spots so that we can become the best we can be, and to make our life's journey as good and rich as it can be.
After a brief discussion one day, my friend arrived at my door with gloves, saws and an axe, and we proceeded to go at the tree until we won. I say we won because the damn thing fought back with its whip-like branches, scratchy needles and a hidden bed of poison ivy beneath it that we found the hard way.
When all was said and done, I had a pile of redwood cedar for burning, a clear view of my driveway from my front door, and a big planting bed in one of the few sunny spots in my yard. It is an open space to sow something new, for beauty or nourishment, filled with moist, healthy soil and etched by smooth stones.
What I loved most about the day, though, was not the sense of accomplishment we gained when this once-insurmountable (to me) job was completed. Rather, it was seeing my friend in a deeper sense. Metaphorically, her arriving to help me with my problem, staying on until the job was done, and repeatedly whacking away at the issue, piece by piece, was illuminating. As together we slowly removed one of my life's miseries, I saw her for the friend she really is: one who is unafraid to stand by my side and help me pull away painful elements of my life when I cannot do it alone, ripping them free from the tangles of long history. Getting rid of the bad, that which we no longer need, clears the way for new and better things to take root.
Call it therapy, or just plain loyalty. While it may sound corny, this is what friendship is all about. Connecting, helping, respecting and caring. I don't have a big circle of friends, but the ones I have are more valuable to me than I can put into words. I believe this is why we were put here on Earth: to help each other through the rough spots so that we can become the best we can be, and to make our life's journey as good and rich as it can be.
Monday, June 9, 2008
The Good, The Bad and the Germy
You've gotta love sick kids. Not because they wake you up in the middle of a summer night hot and feverish, wanting to sleep in your bed. Not because they are whiny and clingy all day long. Not because they vomit only during the hours of 2 and 5am and create more laundry by morning that you can create in a week on your own. While all these things are true, they are hardly lovable. They are also why you don't see classified ads posted by women wanting to fill the job of "mom" on bulletin boards at the supermarket or in the newspapers.
No, the thing about sick kids is that they require you to drop everything. I used to believe that was awful when I had deadlines, errands and a seemingly insurmountable to-do list, and I needed every available second to complete them while the children were in school. I used to get upset, frustrated and thrown when one of my kids woke up sick in the morning. I'd let it ruin my whole day. But something's changed.
Maybe it's me who's changed. Maybe it's because my schedule (other than caring for the kids) is no longer as pressing. Maybe it's having the same kid get sick three times in six weeks. Maybe it's hearing Ben, the kid who'll try any and every kind of food and is always ready to eat, tell me he's not hungry. Maybe it's watching him lay flushed and listless on the couch, no energy or interest in anything, and not hearing him say, "Mom, I have a question..." every 90 seconds. Or maybe it's some combination of those things that made me go "whoa. Time to slow down."
Whatever caused it, here I am, the stink of my screeching tires making me heady and filling me with worrisome thoughts about why Ben has been sick so often. The boy has a stronger constitution than his brother and me put together. Before this spring, I could count on one hand the number of times he'd been sick in his life. So what's going on?
I am a worrier by nature, a true "what if?" kind of person, but I'm doing my best to believe this is not something bigger than what it appears to be. Maybe it's because I'm spending so much time with him, in the moment and by his side, that I'm comforted in that idea. Or maybe I'm in denial and know I'll function better dealing with the here and now instead of the possible-down-the-road. Whatever it is, I've pushed negative thoughts to the background, at least for today.
What I *do* know is that building racetracks, playing cards, eating soup and watching cartoons with Ben while he's home sick is the most fun I've had in a while. His fever takes his 'edge' off, and rather than bouncing off the furniture, he's curled by my side. Having him slow down has helped me to do the same, and enjoy every breath with him. What's not to love about that?
No, the thing about sick kids is that they require you to drop everything. I used to believe that was awful when I had deadlines, errands and a seemingly insurmountable to-do list, and I needed every available second to complete them while the children were in school. I used to get upset, frustrated and thrown when one of my kids woke up sick in the morning. I'd let it ruin my whole day. But something's changed.
Maybe it's me who's changed. Maybe it's because my schedule (other than caring for the kids) is no longer as pressing. Maybe it's having the same kid get sick three times in six weeks. Maybe it's hearing Ben, the kid who'll try any and every kind of food and is always ready to eat, tell me he's not hungry. Maybe it's watching him lay flushed and listless on the couch, no energy or interest in anything, and not hearing him say, "Mom, I have a question..." every 90 seconds. Or maybe it's some combination of those things that made me go "whoa. Time to slow down."
Whatever caused it, here I am, the stink of my screeching tires making me heady and filling me with worrisome thoughts about why Ben has been sick so often. The boy has a stronger constitution than his brother and me put together. Before this spring, I could count on one hand the number of times he'd been sick in his life. So what's going on?
I am a worrier by nature, a true "what if?" kind of person, but I'm doing my best to believe this is not something bigger than what it appears to be. Maybe it's because I'm spending so much time with him, in the moment and by his side, that I'm comforted in that idea. Or maybe I'm in denial and know I'll function better dealing with the here and now instead of the possible-down-the-road. Whatever it is, I've pushed negative thoughts to the background, at least for today.
What I *do* know is that building racetracks, playing cards, eating soup and watching cartoons with Ben while he's home sick is the most fun I've had in a while. His fever takes his 'edge' off, and rather than bouncing off the furniture, he's curled by my side. Having him slow down has helped me to do the same, and enjoy every breath with him. What's not to love about that?
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Animal Magnetism
They're here again: the children of the neighbors across the street, the next door neighbors' dog. They are drawn to our house, the yard, the playroom, something. The children always want to play here; the dog, well, he just wants to come in and see what's what. Where does our dog sleep? What does it look like upstairs? Where do we keep our kitchen? What does it smell like? Who knows what goes through his mind?
Every neighborhood has a house like ours. When I was growing up, it was my house. The kid with the alcoholic father; the kids who lived with their step-mother; the kids whose mom lived alone, they always seemed to want to hang at our house. I knew it wasn't our cool toys that brought them. We had no playroom, an unfinished basement, and only seven channels on the 13" television. Boys were not allowed in my room, and girls were not allowed in my brother's. The yard was small, fenced and full of dog poop, and we didn't have "the cool parents" by any stretch of the imagination. My mom worked in the church, my dad was a cop, and just to tighten security measures, my uncle the narc lived next door in our two-family home, with my lovely, artist aunt, their Eagle Scout son and his brothers. I vividly remember my sweet 16 birthday party for two reasons: it was the first birthday party I'd ever had with friends instead of family, and nothing memorable/interesting/illegal/ immoral/unsanitary/embarrassing or noteworthy happened. And yes, it was a co-ed party.
So what was it about our home that called to the masses? Perhaps it was the security of a double family unit in one house. Maybe it was the lovable dogs, or the rowdy laughter than always seemed to emanate from our yard. By this I mean either the laughter of us climbing trees and chasing each other, or my extended family gathered for frequent barbecues to celebrate every birthday, anniversary, holiday and commemorative event that occurred. When I look back now, through rosy, nostalgic glasses, we were a very loving bunch. There were always relatives around: cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles. But I think what was most memorable were the cooking smells, since we were forever cooking something. My aunt's famous Italian gravy; burgers and steaks on the backyard grill; Armenian flatbread meat pies and Turkish coffee in our kitchen; something was always wafting from the windows, depending on which side of the family was visiting.
Yet I don't think that's what's drawing the crowd to my house. I don't cook much. The occasional meatloaf, cupcakes for school, that's pretty much my limit, unless one of the kids is having a playdate. Then I'll whip up a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies, but it's not often and it's just for show.
No, I'd have to say it's the consistency: the light that's always on, someone always home to answer the door or the phone when help is needed, that brings them here. I'm always at the bus stop when all the kids come home. I'm always out walking the dog when the neighbors are out walking theirs. I'm a constant, an unwavering presence in these days of working parents and not knowing your neighbors. When I was growing up, we took comfort in the security that such a house offered. Maybe some things never change.
Every neighborhood has a house like ours. When I was growing up, it was my house. The kid with the alcoholic father; the kids who lived with their step-mother; the kids whose mom lived alone, they always seemed to want to hang at our house. I knew it wasn't our cool toys that brought them. We had no playroom, an unfinished basement, and only seven channels on the 13" television. Boys were not allowed in my room, and girls were not allowed in my brother's. The yard was small, fenced and full of dog poop, and we didn't have "the cool parents" by any stretch of the imagination. My mom worked in the church, my dad was a cop, and just to tighten security measures, my uncle the narc lived next door in our two-family home, with my lovely, artist aunt, their Eagle Scout son and his brothers. I vividly remember my sweet 16 birthday party for two reasons: it was the first birthday party I'd ever had with friends instead of family, and nothing memorable/interesting/illegal/ immoral/unsanitary/embarrassing or noteworthy happened. And yes, it was a co-ed party.
So what was it about our home that called to the masses? Perhaps it was the security of a double family unit in one house. Maybe it was the lovable dogs, or the rowdy laughter than always seemed to emanate from our yard. By this I mean either the laughter of us climbing trees and chasing each other, or my extended family gathered for frequent barbecues to celebrate every birthday, anniversary, holiday and commemorative event that occurred. When I look back now, through rosy, nostalgic glasses, we were a very loving bunch. There were always relatives around: cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles. But I think what was most memorable were the cooking smells, since we were forever cooking something. My aunt's famous Italian gravy; burgers and steaks on the backyard grill; Armenian flatbread meat pies and Turkish coffee in our kitchen; something was always wafting from the windows, depending on which side of the family was visiting.
Yet I don't think that's what's drawing the crowd to my house. I don't cook much. The occasional meatloaf, cupcakes for school, that's pretty much my limit, unless one of the kids is having a playdate. Then I'll whip up a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies, but it's not often and it's just for show.
No, I'd have to say it's the consistency: the light that's always on, someone always home to answer the door or the phone when help is needed, that brings them here. I'm always at the bus stop when all the kids come home. I'm always out walking the dog when the neighbors are out walking theirs. I'm a constant, an unwavering presence in these days of working parents and not knowing your neighbors. When I was growing up, we took comfort in the security that such a house offered. Maybe some things never change.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Nibble Quirks
You don't need to ask my mother about what a terrible eater I was as a child. I have no problem owning up to it, if only to help explain why my son Jacob is the way he is. Like musical aptitude or a brilliant way with words, picky eating is apparently genetic.
When I was young, I wanted nothing but the solitude of my room (so that I could read and write) and, when I had to come to the table, bread and milk. No vegetables, no fruit, no meat; my needs were simple. I would have made a great prisoner.
Jacob is the child my mother always wished upon me during mealtimes, mumbling as she set the timer for me, ostensibly giving me a deadline by which to finish my meal or go to bed. These were the meals I often finished alone, after the sun had set, the dishes had been washed and the rest of the family had retired to the living room to watch M*A*S*H. Jacob is the offspring I was to her, the one whose job it is to put me through the hell of worry over whether he is getting the nutrition he needs, whether he's got an eating disorder, whether he's going to turn out to be only five feet tall. Though she'll never say it, surely she's thinking, "it serves her right."
Ben, on the other hand, looks exactly like me, but that is where the similarities between us end. One of Ben's favorite statements as a baby was, "Mom, what's dat? I eat dat!" He has tried everything from arugula salad to yellowfin tuna (cooked and raw), and prefers steamed mussels to chicken nuggets. Eschewing all forms of processed "kiddie" food, he is the child who will clean his own plate and then ask to eat from mine. He is his father's son, without question or limitation.
Aside from food jags, which we are thankfully pretty much past, I actually enjoy watching the bizarre ways my kids go at food. Benjamin likes to eat raw carrots from the fat end to the skinny. They both prefer small pancakes so that they can boast that they each ate 21 of them for breakfast. And Ben will only eat string beans by opening the hull and pouring out the individual beans, then popping them like M&Ms. If Jacob's steak has even a shadow on it that resembles fat, it will not touch his lips, though he will eat miso soup, made from seaweed and tofu, as well as various kinds of raw fish sushi. But forget about giving him a grape because, he says, "the insides look like boogers." How do you reason with that kind of logic? "Just try a bite" doesn't fly in my house, because if it looks like a booger, he figures, I don't need to try it to know I won't like it.
My hope is that we can expand Jacob's palate by getting him to start making some meals for the family, beyond opening a jar of Ragu and adding fresh basil to it. Since Ben is up for anything edible, he's sure to go along with the kitchen staff change without argument, and will probably sign up as sous chef. In fact, I am looking forward to the day when we incorporate family game night into family sushi night, and roll our own sushi. I can just hear them now.
"Mom, how do you spell 'wasabi'?"
"W-a-s-a-b-i. And when you're done with it, pass it down this way. Oh, and don't forget the soy sauce."
Sure, their friends might think that sushi and Scrabble sound kind of quirky, but hey, we're expanding palates and vocabularies. What's not to like? If that makes us a quirky family, I'm all over it.
When I was young, I wanted nothing but the solitude of my room (so that I could read and write) and, when I had to come to the table, bread and milk. No vegetables, no fruit, no meat; my needs were simple. I would have made a great prisoner.
Jacob is the child my mother always wished upon me during mealtimes, mumbling as she set the timer for me, ostensibly giving me a deadline by which to finish my meal or go to bed. These were the meals I often finished alone, after the sun had set, the dishes had been washed and the rest of the family had retired to the living room to watch M*A*S*H. Jacob is the offspring I was to her, the one whose job it is to put me through the hell of worry over whether he is getting the nutrition he needs, whether he's got an eating disorder, whether he's going to turn out to be only five feet tall. Though she'll never say it, surely she's thinking, "it serves her right."
Ben, on the other hand, looks exactly like me, but that is where the similarities between us end. One of Ben's favorite statements as a baby was, "Mom, what's dat? I eat dat!" He has tried everything from arugula salad to yellowfin tuna (cooked and raw), and prefers steamed mussels to chicken nuggets. Eschewing all forms of processed "kiddie" food, he is the child who will clean his own plate and then ask to eat from mine. He is his father's son, without question or limitation.
Aside from food jags, which we are thankfully pretty much past, I actually enjoy watching the bizarre ways my kids go at food. Benjamin likes to eat raw carrots from the fat end to the skinny. They both prefer small pancakes so that they can boast that they each ate 21 of them for breakfast. And Ben will only eat string beans by opening the hull and pouring out the individual beans, then popping them like M&Ms. If Jacob's steak has even a shadow on it that resembles fat, it will not touch his lips, though he will eat miso soup, made from seaweed and tofu, as well as various kinds of raw fish sushi. But forget about giving him a grape because, he says, "the insides look like boogers." How do you reason with that kind of logic? "Just try a bite" doesn't fly in my house, because if it looks like a booger, he figures, I don't need to try it to know I won't like it.
My hope is that we can expand Jacob's palate by getting him to start making some meals for the family, beyond opening a jar of Ragu and adding fresh basil to it. Since Ben is up for anything edible, he's sure to go along with the kitchen staff change without argument, and will probably sign up as sous chef. In fact, I am looking forward to the day when we incorporate family game night into family sushi night, and roll our own sushi. I can just hear them now.
"Mom, how do you spell 'wasabi'?"
"W-a-s-a-b-i. And when you're done with it, pass it down this way. Oh, and don't forget the soy sauce."
Sure, their friends might think that sushi and Scrabble sound kind of quirky, but hey, we're expanding palates and vocabularies. What's not to like? If that makes us a quirky family, I'm all over it.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Seasonal Shifts
In my suburban New York yard this morning, as we walked past the thermometer on our way to the bus, it read 39 degrees Farenheit. As Ben pointed out, "if it was seven degrees colder, it could SNOW!" Fast forward to meeting the afternoon bus, and it is now 80 degrees in the shade. Welcome, spring.
For as often as I gripe about the bitterness of New York winters, and point out to my husband that his is a global company, and I can write from anywhere (even California, hint, hint), I know that if I were ever to move to the desert or even the south, I would miss the changing of the seasons. In a sadistic sort of way, I like the potential for bizarre variations in temperatures between morning and afternoon, the kind of variations that only come with these seasonal shifts. Winter in the morning, summer in the evening--where else can you get such diversity but in New York?
Of course, my plants are very confused, I'm never really sure when the threat of frost is past, and my kids are layered like onions when they leave for school each day. Jacob actually owns pants that have zippers mid-leg. He leaves in long pants, and returns in shorts at the end of the day. Quite ingenious, actually, and likely invented by a New York mother.
But I think the real reason I love the season changes is my belief in the need to mix things up every now and then. It keeps us from getting into ruts; it keeps things interesting. After months of "here's your hat, here are your mittens," we have, "What's the temperature today?" "Short sleeves or long?" and "Sweatshirt or jacket?" It's Mother Nature's guessing game, and anyone can play. May also makes it more likely that we'll have sun, and one can practically feel the temperature rising on the short walk from the driveway to the bus stop. Seasonal transitions signify the great unknowing, and they always makes me smile.
Sure, we could move somewhere where it's warm all the time, where the sun is almost always guaranteed to shine, and I could get rid of my turtlenecks and wool sweaters. But I would miss the autumn most, when the days begin to shorten, the air turns crisp and clear, and the excitement of a new school year is bursting like spring flower buds. Besides, I'm just getting good enough at throwing snowballs that my kids want me on their team. What California mom can claim that talent?
For as often as I gripe about the bitterness of New York winters, and point out to my husband that his is a global company, and I can write from anywhere (even California, hint, hint), I know that if I were ever to move to the desert or even the south, I would miss the changing of the seasons. In a sadistic sort of way, I like the potential for bizarre variations in temperatures between morning and afternoon, the kind of variations that only come with these seasonal shifts. Winter in the morning, summer in the evening--where else can you get such diversity but in New York?
Of course, my plants are very confused, I'm never really sure when the threat of frost is past, and my kids are layered like onions when they leave for school each day. Jacob actually owns pants that have zippers mid-leg. He leaves in long pants, and returns in shorts at the end of the day. Quite ingenious, actually, and likely invented by a New York mother.
But I think the real reason I love the season changes is my belief in the need to mix things up every now and then. It keeps us from getting into ruts; it keeps things interesting. After months of "here's your hat, here are your mittens," we have, "What's the temperature today?" "Short sleeves or long?" and "Sweatshirt or jacket?" It's Mother Nature's guessing game, and anyone can play. May also makes it more likely that we'll have sun, and one can practically feel the temperature rising on the short walk from the driveway to the bus stop. Seasonal transitions signify the great unknowing, and they always makes me smile.
Sure, we could move somewhere where it's warm all the time, where the sun is almost always guaranteed to shine, and I could get rid of my turtlenecks and wool sweaters. But I would miss the autumn most, when the days begin to shorten, the air turns crisp and clear, and the excitement of a new school year is bursting like spring flower buds. Besides, I'm just getting good enough at throwing snowballs that my kids want me on their team. What California mom can claim that talent?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
This Odd Universe
In another vein of the irony post, I realized today that I don't like to cook. Not that I won't, not that I don't. We've all got to eat, and when you have kids, you have to cook since (I've read) the law frowns on giving birth to children and then not giving them nourishment enough to sustain them. So I cook, but I pretty much hate to do it.
For this reason, every afternoon, pre school bus and post lunch/work time, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. What to make for dinner for four people? Do I have to defrost something? What do we have that's defrostable in the microwave, and will everyone eat it? What dish can I make that is quick and of minimal effort? I could probably learn a lot from Rachael Ray, but she's just so damned annoying that I can't stand to watch her. So I'm on my own. Every day.
I used to be able to make pasta once a week. That was my favorite thing to make. What could be easier than boiling water? Plus, everyone ate it, so I only had to make one meal. None of this, "I don't like meatloaf," or "why does he get the last hot dog?" and doing something different for everyone, based on tastes, how much of each leftover dish there is and what time I finally turned off my computer. But then came gymnastics classes. Conveniently, both boys go on the same night, one class after the other. I was lucky enough that they're also on the same day that my husband works from home, so we can switch off--one kid stays and does homework, I take the other up to class. Then my husband brings the second child up for class, takes the first one home and makes dinner. The one major kink in this plan is that the only thing it makes sense to make on these nights is pasta. It's quick, everyone eats it and it can sit until we walk in the door an hour after they eat. So there went my favorite dinner plan, right into the hands of my husband.
One might say, "well, he's a guy, so he probably needs such a dish if he's in charge of dinner." One would be wrong. Way wrong. My husband not only cooks circles around me, owns "The Joy of Cooking" and at least a dozen other cookbooks (I own two), and handles every big holiday dinner when we have 30 of my family members over, but he loves to cook. He wooed me with food when we were dating. Homecooked. He bought me one of my two cookbooks as a gift. He owns a smoker, a dehydrator (he just made beef jerky last week), a Le Creuset dutch oven and does all the grocery shopping. And every night, he flips around between Clint Eastwood movies, Top Chef, Lydia's Kitchen and Chef Anthony Bourdain's show on the Travel channel. If that's not irony, I don't know what is.
Ideally, my goal is to become so good at my writing, and land so many great paying jobs that my husband can quit his day job (which, of course, he is great at, but less than passionate--more irony) and stay home to be domestic dad. This is his dream too, which is nice, something that we actually have in common. Truthfully, we are a perfect match for each other. He is a domestic, I am a workaholic. The problem is he has to spend all his time at work, and I have to keep interrupting my work to do things like cook, clean and take care of the kids. The irony just never ends.
Yet what would life be without these little challenges? Puzzles like this cause us to work together, make plans, tag team and make it all happen. If our dream did come true, really, what would life be? Probably a lot happier for all of us, actually, but I won't dwell on that now, because the microwave just beeped. Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.
For this reason, every afternoon, pre school bus and post lunch/work time, I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. What to make for dinner for four people? Do I have to defrost something? What do we have that's defrostable in the microwave, and will everyone eat it? What dish can I make that is quick and of minimal effort? I could probably learn a lot from Rachael Ray, but she's just so damned annoying that I can't stand to watch her. So I'm on my own. Every day.
I used to be able to make pasta once a week. That was my favorite thing to make. What could be easier than boiling water? Plus, everyone ate it, so I only had to make one meal. None of this, "I don't like meatloaf," or "why does he get the last hot dog?" and doing something different for everyone, based on tastes, how much of each leftover dish there is and what time I finally turned off my computer. But then came gymnastics classes. Conveniently, both boys go on the same night, one class after the other. I was lucky enough that they're also on the same day that my husband works from home, so we can switch off--one kid stays and does homework, I take the other up to class. Then my husband brings the second child up for class, takes the first one home and makes dinner. The one major kink in this plan is that the only thing it makes sense to make on these nights is pasta. It's quick, everyone eats it and it can sit until we walk in the door an hour after they eat. So there went my favorite dinner plan, right into the hands of my husband.
One might say, "well, he's a guy, so he probably needs such a dish if he's in charge of dinner." One would be wrong. Way wrong. My husband not only cooks circles around me, owns "The Joy of Cooking" and at least a dozen other cookbooks (I own two), and handles every big holiday dinner when we have 30 of my family members over, but he loves to cook. He wooed me with food when we were dating. Homecooked. He bought me one of my two cookbooks as a gift. He owns a smoker, a dehydrator (he just made beef jerky last week), a Le Creuset dutch oven and does all the grocery shopping. And every night, he flips around between Clint Eastwood movies, Top Chef, Lydia's Kitchen and Chef Anthony Bourdain's show on the Travel channel. If that's not irony, I don't know what is.
Ideally, my goal is to become so good at my writing, and land so many great paying jobs that my husband can quit his day job (which, of course, he is great at, but less than passionate--more irony) and stay home to be domestic dad. This is his dream too, which is nice, something that we actually have in common. Truthfully, we are a perfect match for each other. He is a domestic, I am a workaholic. The problem is he has to spend all his time at work, and I have to keep interrupting my work to do things like cook, clean and take care of the kids. The irony just never ends.
Yet what would life be without these little challenges? Puzzles like this cause us to work together, make plans, tag team and make it all happen. If our dream did come true, really, what would life be? Probably a lot happier for all of us, actually, but I won't dwell on that now, because the microwave just beeped. Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
My Addiction
Ah, irony. I don't know if my life holds more of it, or if I've just developed a better sense of seeing it in my old(er) age, but these days it seems to be everywhere. Today, for example, I have been trying to edit a book proposal for an agent who has asked to see it, and been constantly interrupted by my children. Of course, this is a parenting book I'm proposing, so the fact that it may never get out the door because my children are not listening to me is pretty ironic.
Actually, my kids are great. The problem is me. Since quitting my editing job all of a month ago, I have sold two articles to a national magazine, have a request for more queries, and have gotten this email from a literary agent asking to see my book proposal. I hate rain, but I love it when it pours like this. I love it so much, in fact, that I've been all but neglecting everything (including meals and sleep) for as long as possible this weekend to get in more writing than ever. It's not that I'm on tight deadlines. I realized my problem at 4:30 this morning when, after giving feverish Ben some cold water, I seriously considered getting up to write. When I decided that would be crazy, I instead continued to lie in bed and write and edit in my head for a good 45 minutes. That's when I realized: I have an addiction. I am addicted to writing.
They say the first step in fixing your problem is admitting that you have one, but what do you do when you don't *want* to fix it? What if you don't consider it a problem and are merely recognizing a personality trait that you hadn't really appreciated before? You would think that by age 41, I would have learned this much about myself, but no. The truth is that before now, I have never had the luxury of being able to write full-time, committing all my energies and efforts to furthering my writing career. There were high-paying computer jobs; a new house; new babies; editing jobs; more editing jobs; T-ball; Cub Scouts; gymnastics classes. There was always something that kept me too busy. Fear of failure preventing me from making the leap? Fear of success? A nice, balanced life? Who knows.
The fact is that, now that I'm writing and submitting and getting positive responses and more opportunities to write, I'm hooked. It's an unbelievable feeling to do something you love, and have loved for as long as you can remember, and suddenly be getting praises for it, *requests* for it. They want more! I get to write more!
The problem then becomes my focus. If you could do what you loved all day long instead of what you needed to do, or what you should be doing, which would you choose? OK, Mr. Responsibility, but which one would you WANT to choose? Ah ha. So it's not just me.
If we were just talking dirty dishes in the sink, laundry, running out of milk, this compulsion to write exclusive of everything else wouldn't be a problem. These things can be put off. Food can be ordered in. I work at home and could do it in my pjs. But feverish children, dogs with small bladders and other family members who aren't all that fond of takeout or water on their cereal are hard to ignore. Not that I want to ignore them. OK, maybe a little. OK, maybe just for a few days. Just until I get this proposal out. Oh, and my next pitch to that magazine. Yikes.
OK, I admit it. I have a problem. Fortunately, a dog with a small bladder gets me out of the house several times a day, making me realize, "hey! It's really nice out today! That sun feels great!" And hungry children who are too picky to eat anything but bagels and tomato soup make sure I get up and move around the house once in a while. And while the soup is simmering, maybe I'll just throw in a load of laundry. Oh, and fever boy? He whines so much less when I read him funny books. And he smells so good after a bath that I want to cuddle with him and read to him forever.
Maybe addiction is not my problem. Maybe what's come over me is passion, and that is what makes my life so rich these days. It is filled with people, work and events that I am passionate about with my whole being. Who couldn't love a life like mine? It's filled with everything I've ever wanted.
The problem, it seems, is finding a way to go without sleep so that I can enjoy all of them as much as possible. Hmmm. Maybe I'll do a little research. If I can find a way to go without sleep, I can write an article about it....
Actually, my kids are great. The problem is me. Since quitting my editing job all of a month ago, I have sold two articles to a national magazine, have a request for more queries, and have gotten this email from a literary agent asking to see my book proposal. I hate rain, but I love it when it pours like this. I love it so much, in fact, that I've been all but neglecting everything (including meals and sleep) for as long as possible this weekend to get in more writing than ever. It's not that I'm on tight deadlines. I realized my problem at 4:30 this morning when, after giving feverish Ben some cold water, I seriously considered getting up to write. When I decided that would be crazy, I instead continued to lie in bed and write and edit in my head for a good 45 minutes. That's when I realized: I have an addiction. I am addicted to writing.
They say the first step in fixing your problem is admitting that you have one, but what do you do when you don't *want* to fix it? What if you don't consider it a problem and are merely recognizing a personality trait that you hadn't really appreciated before? You would think that by age 41, I would have learned this much about myself, but no. The truth is that before now, I have never had the luxury of being able to write full-time, committing all my energies and efforts to furthering my writing career. There were high-paying computer jobs; a new house; new babies; editing jobs; more editing jobs; T-ball; Cub Scouts; gymnastics classes. There was always something that kept me too busy. Fear of failure preventing me from making the leap? Fear of success? A nice, balanced life? Who knows.
The fact is that, now that I'm writing and submitting and getting positive responses and more opportunities to write, I'm hooked. It's an unbelievable feeling to do something you love, and have loved for as long as you can remember, and suddenly be getting praises for it, *requests* for it. They want more! I get to write more!
The problem then becomes my focus. If you could do what you loved all day long instead of what you needed to do, or what you should be doing, which would you choose? OK, Mr. Responsibility, but which one would you WANT to choose? Ah ha. So it's not just me.
If we were just talking dirty dishes in the sink, laundry, running out of milk, this compulsion to write exclusive of everything else wouldn't be a problem. These things can be put off. Food can be ordered in. I work at home and could do it in my pjs. But feverish children, dogs with small bladders and other family members who aren't all that fond of takeout or water on their cereal are hard to ignore. Not that I want to ignore them. OK, maybe a little. OK, maybe just for a few days. Just until I get this proposal out. Oh, and my next pitch to that magazine. Yikes.
OK, I admit it. I have a problem. Fortunately, a dog with a small bladder gets me out of the house several times a day, making me realize, "hey! It's really nice out today! That sun feels great!" And hungry children who are too picky to eat anything but bagels and tomato soup make sure I get up and move around the house once in a while. And while the soup is simmering, maybe I'll just throw in a load of laundry. Oh, and fever boy? He whines so much less when I read him funny books. And he smells so good after a bath that I want to cuddle with him and read to him forever.
Maybe addiction is not my problem. Maybe what's come over me is passion, and that is what makes my life so rich these days. It is filled with people, work and events that I am passionate about with my whole being. Who couldn't love a life like mine? It's filled with everything I've ever wanted.
The problem, it seems, is finding a way to go without sleep so that I can enjoy all of them as much as possible. Hmmm. Maybe I'll do a little research. If I can find a way to go without sleep, I can write an article about it....
Friday, May 23, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Don't Plug the Dam
My boys are very different from each other, as first- and second-borns tend to be. Ben wears his heart on his sleeve; if he's not sharing every thought going through his mind with me, I overhear him talking them over with himself. Jacob, though, is a different bird. He will talk endlessly (and sometimes relentlessly) about the outside world: what he has built with his LEGOs today, what it does, who drives it, its mission, and so on. Or he will go on about an historical figure he's read about or learned about in school, right down to the person's hobbies and habits. But he never talks about himself.
This can be easy to overlook. Two busy boys, a husband and a dog require a lot of organizing and generate a lot of noise. When the chatter finally ceases, I am the first to grasp at that moment of silence and claim it for myself for as long as possible. But this can be a mistake, and here's why I think so: this week a 14-year-old boy from my county stepped in front of a train. He was not a loner; he had many friends and admirers who described him as funny, happy, kind. He lived in one of the most affluent towns in this area and attended one of the best schools. But he never told anyone he was despondent. Why? Did he think his family was too busy to listen? Did he not want to bring his friends down? Was he afraid no one could understand or help? Maybe no one ever asked.
It would be very easy for me to tell myself that Jacob is only 8, that his problems are not so big that he can't work them out, that he's a smart, happy kid who would tell me if something was wrong and he needed some input. But I'd be wrong. Tucking him in the other night, I started asking him about his friends, his day, his thoughts and was surprised when he became very upset, his voice between anger and tears, and he burst with a flood of emotional turmoil. "Susan told me that John was telling everyone on the bus that I'm a nerd on the day I wasn't there. Now if I have to get braces, combined with my glasses, I'm going to be the biggest nerd in school!" Whoa.
It's already starting, the stress and worries, and it seemed clear that this was something that had been stewing inside of him for some time. So he talked, and I listened. We considered, we brainstormed. Whether he was happy with the conversation's outcome, I don't know. Whether our ideas put his mind at ease, I'm not sure. But I got a huge hug, kiss and "I love you" before I left the room, and that speaks volumes.
My kids usually tell me they love me spontaneously, when we're doing something fun or silly, bizarre or unexpected (things that are very unlike my usual way of operating). My guess is these are the times when they feel the most relaxed. They are happy to be with me and see my human side for a change. I think these moments convince them that I'm not just a farty old disciplinarian; that I really do love them. That's what I think asking, and listening, did for Jacob. Yes, he may have problems to work through, and I might not have all the answers. But while he may be reluctant to bring them up, I care enough about him to ask. And regardless of what other people think of him, I will always love AND like him. He needs to know this. All of our children do.
While raising children is a big job, it's not just about feeding their faces, paying the bills and cleaning their clothes and the house. It's about filling an emotional need in them that no one but a parent can fill, and letting them know often that we care about them, in as many ways as possible. Cuddle them, read to them, tickle them, tell them jokes, play games with them and listen to them. It seems like such a little thing, a non-productive thing (but I've got to start dinner/walk the dog/rake the yard/call the plumber). But it is critical to them. It adds another layer to the bond between parent and child, ultimately proving to them that--no matter what--they can rely on its strength, and on us, to weather whatever may come.
By the time they are teens, our children will be listening more to their friends than to us. If we want them to know then that we are always here for them, we need to start showing them now. And if we repeat it often enough, by the time it really matters, they'll know it without asking.
This can be easy to overlook. Two busy boys, a husband and a dog require a lot of organizing and generate a lot of noise. When the chatter finally ceases, I am the first to grasp at that moment of silence and claim it for myself for as long as possible. But this can be a mistake, and here's why I think so: this week a 14-year-old boy from my county stepped in front of a train. He was not a loner; he had many friends and admirers who described him as funny, happy, kind. He lived in one of the most affluent towns in this area and attended one of the best schools. But he never told anyone he was despondent. Why? Did he think his family was too busy to listen? Did he not want to bring his friends down? Was he afraid no one could understand or help? Maybe no one ever asked.
It would be very easy for me to tell myself that Jacob is only 8, that his problems are not so big that he can't work them out, that he's a smart, happy kid who would tell me if something was wrong and he needed some input. But I'd be wrong. Tucking him in the other night, I started asking him about his friends, his day, his thoughts and was surprised when he became very upset, his voice between anger and tears, and he burst with a flood of emotional turmoil. "Susan told me that John was telling everyone on the bus that I'm a nerd on the day I wasn't there. Now if I have to get braces, combined with my glasses, I'm going to be the biggest nerd in school!" Whoa.
It's already starting, the stress and worries, and it seemed clear that this was something that had been stewing inside of him for some time. So he talked, and I listened. We considered, we brainstormed. Whether he was happy with the conversation's outcome, I don't know. Whether our ideas put his mind at ease, I'm not sure. But I got a huge hug, kiss and "I love you" before I left the room, and that speaks volumes.
My kids usually tell me they love me spontaneously, when we're doing something fun or silly, bizarre or unexpected (things that are very unlike my usual way of operating). My guess is these are the times when they feel the most relaxed. They are happy to be with me and see my human side for a change. I think these moments convince them that I'm not just a farty old disciplinarian; that I really do love them. That's what I think asking, and listening, did for Jacob. Yes, he may have problems to work through, and I might not have all the answers. But while he may be reluctant to bring them up, I care enough about him to ask. And regardless of what other people think of him, I will always love AND like him. He needs to know this. All of our children do.
While raising children is a big job, it's not just about feeding their faces, paying the bills and cleaning their clothes and the house. It's about filling an emotional need in them that no one but a parent can fill, and letting them know often that we care about them, in as many ways as possible. Cuddle them, read to them, tickle them, tell them jokes, play games with them and listen to them. It seems like such a little thing, a non-productive thing (but I've got to start dinner/walk the dog/rake the yard/call the plumber). But it is critical to them. It adds another layer to the bond between parent and child, ultimately proving to them that--no matter what--they can rely on its strength, and on us, to weather whatever may come.
By the time they are teens, our children will be listening more to their friends than to us. If we want them to know then that we are always here for them, we need to start showing them now. And if we repeat it often enough, by the time it really matters, they'll know it without asking.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Nourishing the Soul
When I was in my 20s, trying to figure out who I was and where I was going, my friends and I would explore ourselves, each other and the world over food. Going out for lunch, dinner, appys and drinks and frequent sushi rolls, we fed our bellies and our minds and burned it all off chugging along toward maturity and self-actualization.
When I was in my 30s my husband and I discovered ourselves, as a couple and as individuals, over food. Chinese soups, Japanese salads, Thai dumplings, Indian nan and even the experimental moose burger were all fair game. I was daring and bold, willing to venture into unchartered epicurian territory with the plushness of new love as my safety net.
Now in my 40s, in a place where I don't quite have it all figured out but have gotten pretty good at pretenting for the sake of my children, I continue to nurture my soul at table. Unlike some cultures that offer up food as the antidote to whatever ails you, my gatherings with girlfriends are ways for us to come together and bond, share, cry, vent, laugh and comiserate. Warm mugs of coffee, bowls of sweet, seasonal fruits and steaming breads with creamy butter melting create the homey backdrops for our meetings, infusing them with all the comforting elements we remember from our mothers' kitchens. Slipping into mornings like these is, while all too infrequent, one of the bright spots of my life now. Great friends are the family we can choose, and are as essential to my soul as food is to my body.
Who knows what lies ahead for any of us? We have reached a place in our lives where the challenges are different from anything we have ever known: friends with cancer; aging parents; teenage children; troubled marriages; deaths of family members. As young as we still feel, we find ourselves facing problems that once only plagued our elders. I don't know if I have the strength it will take to weather any of it gracefully. But there's no question in my mind that I will be able to get through it all with these friends by my side.
These women bring a beauty to my life, and a richness to its tapestry, that is immeasurable. My soul is nourished, and I am truly thankful.
When I was in my 30s my husband and I discovered ourselves, as a couple and as individuals, over food. Chinese soups, Japanese salads, Thai dumplings, Indian nan and even the experimental moose burger were all fair game. I was daring and bold, willing to venture into unchartered epicurian territory with the plushness of new love as my safety net.
Now in my 40s, in a place where I don't quite have it all figured out but have gotten pretty good at pretenting for the sake of my children, I continue to nurture my soul at table. Unlike some cultures that offer up food as the antidote to whatever ails you, my gatherings with girlfriends are ways for us to come together and bond, share, cry, vent, laugh and comiserate. Warm mugs of coffee, bowls of sweet, seasonal fruits and steaming breads with creamy butter melting create the homey backdrops for our meetings, infusing them with all the comforting elements we remember from our mothers' kitchens. Slipping into mornings like these is, while all too infrequent, one of the bright spots of my life now. Great friends are the family we can choose, and are as essential to my soul as food is to my body.
Who knows what lies ahead for any of us? We have reached a place in our lives where the challenges are different from anything we have ever known: friends with cancer; aging parents; teenage children; troubled marriages; deaths of family members. As young as we still feel, we find ourselves facing problems that once only plagued our elders. I don't know if I have the strength it will take to weather any of it gracefully. But there's no question in my mind that I will be able to get through it all with these friends by my side.
These women bring a beauty to my life, and a richness to its tapestry, that is immeasurable. My soul is nourished, and I am truly thankful.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Inadvertent Lessons
With schools removing soda machines and fried food from their cafeterias and upping the number of phys ed classes per week, it seems like the whole nation has gotten on the bandwagon of "send healthy messages" when it comes to raising kids. I liken it to smoking: since you can't smoke in public anywhere anymore, and cigarettes are not advertised on TV or radio, I wasn't too surprised when my 5-year-old, Ben, asked me one day, "Mom, what's a cigarette?" If kids are surrounded by healthy options and messages, they'll accept them as the norm, a lifestyle, and make healthy choices. Helping them understand how the different foods impact their bodies and behaviors also helps a lot. Ben knows that if he eats too much sugar, it makes him feel "wacky" (his term). This makes it easier for me to say no when he asks for a second cookie, because he understands that he will not like what it does to his body.
So I was thrown a bit off guard one day when I was sitting in the pediatrician's office with my boys and a mother walked in with her three children, checked in with the receptionist and then sat down in the waiting room and proceeded to take donuts out of a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and give one to each of her overweight children. I had to try hard not to stare. Isn’t that akin to walking into a police station and lighting a joint? Isn't a donut the most unhealthy thing you can feed your children? This seemed to me like an outright mocking of the doctor in whose office we were sitting, not to mention extreme hypocrisy. When my youngest pointed out with great excitement, "hey mom, they have donuts!" all I could say was, "yes, they do."
Maybe I'm going a bit over the top. Have I been brainwashed by all the legislation, modifications and constant messages we've been bombarded with lately about child obesity and the need for a shift in habits? Not completely. I let my kids eat a munchkin every now and then when we're out on a shopping trip. I guess what bothered me more was the fact that this mom knew she would be out with her kids at meal or snack time, and had a choice to pack a snack. Instead she chose to make a special stop on the way to the doctor's office to buy them donuts. More than the sugar and calories, this feeds the children multiple messages: you don't need to plan ahead, since there’s always some fast food place you can stop on your way to wherever you’re going; any snack is fine, as long as it takes away the hunger; staying healthy only involves going to the doctor on schedule every year and getting your shots--it has nothing to do with how you live your life.
In fact, the mom probably didn't think too much about it. Or maybe the kids made a special request. Either way, I've been there and know that we all have those days. But I've also learned that I feel better when I eat better. What I'm hoping is that the doctor in that office saw some evidence of their snack and brought up the topic when he or she was giving the kids their physicals. If it's only a matter of educating the family, it would have been a perfect place to start. And while it may be harder for mom to change her old habits, it will be better for the kids if they don't get into the same habit now.
So I was thrown a bit off guard one day when I was sitting in the pediatrician's office with my boys and a mother walked in with her three children, checked in with the receptionist and then sat down in the waiting room and proceeded to take donuts out of a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and give one to each of her overweight children. I had to try hard not to stare. Isn’t that akin to walking into a police station and lighting a joint? Isn't a donut the most unhealthy thing you can feed your children? This seemed to me like an outright mocking of the doctor in whose office we were sitting, not to mention extreme hypocrisy. When my youngest pointed out with great excitement, "hey mom, they have donuts!" all I could say was, "yes, they do."
Maybe I'm going a bit over the top. Have I been brainwashed by all the legislation, modifications and constant messages we've been bombarded with lately about child obesity and the need for a shift in habits? Not completely. I let my kids eat a munchkin every now and then when we're out on a shopping trip. I guess what bothered me more was the fact that this mom knew she would be out with her kids at meal or snack time, and had a choice to pack a snack. Instead she chose to make a special stop on the way to the doctor's office to buy them donuts. More than the sugar and calories, this feeds the children multiple messages: you don't need to plan ahead, since there’s always some fast food place you can stop on your way to wherever you’re going; any snack is fine, as long as it takes away the hunger; staying healthy only involves going to the doctor on schedule every year and getting your shots--it has nothing to do with how you live your life.
In fact, the mom probably didn't think too much about it. Or maybe the kids made a special request. Either way, I've been there and know that we all have those days. But I've also learned that I feel better when I eat better. What I'm hoping is that the doctor in that office saw some evidence of their snack and brought up the topic when he or she was giving the kids their physicals. If it's only a matter of educating the family, it would have been a perfect place to start. And while it may be harder for mom to change her old habits, it will be better for the kids if they don't get into the same habit now.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Long, Strange Trip
Back when I was newly married and working full-time, I wondered about my sister-in-law. She had two school-aged children and didn't work outside the home. “But what does she do all day?” I asked my husband. I just couldn’t figure out how she spent her time during the day, how she kept from going crazy with boredom. After all, the kids were in school and didn't need her, right?
Then late one recent night, I got it. In a tired-but-adrenaline-fueled stupor, I set up my computer to make a karaoke CD for my 8-year-old's upcoming variety show. Then I put in a load of laundry and laid out lunch bags for the following morning, steeped some tea while I washed the dishes, and sewed three Cub Scout patches on a uniform for the next day’s den meeting. After the CD was done, I went online and confirmed both my sons' gymnastics class schedules, signed one up for baseball and sent an email to a class mom about supplies for an in-class party. All the while, the dog paced around the kitchen looking at me like I was nuts, and I started to wonder if he knew something I didn’t. “What?” I asked him. “What did I forget?”
If anyone had bothered to ask me what I wanted to be when I was a child, I would probably have said, 'alone.' A relentless young reader and oft-engrossed writer, I grew happy leaving the administrivia of daily life on the back burner for someone else to pick up or not. This m.o. worked well until I fell under the spell of a funny, family-loving man and cast my earthly existence to the wind. When I landed some 10 years later, I found myself at the center of a whirlwind household full of bills, kids, animals and noise. Now I seek writing time more than I seek sleep, eat when I feel dizzy and spend the rest of my time as tutor, chef, referee, dog walker, maid and animal feeder. Earplugs help.
While it's not the life I would have imagined for myself all those years ago, it is full of rewards and joys I could neither have fathomed nor gained had I not been dropped into it. Do I ever wonder 'what if?' About 50 times a day. But as Arthur Miller once said, "Maybe all we can hope to do is end up with the right regrets." On that count, I think I'm doing OK.
Then late one recent night, I got it. In a tired-but-adrenaline-fueled stupor, I set up my computer to make a karaoke CD for my 8-year-old's upcoming variety show. Then I put in a load of laundry and laid out lunch bags for the following morning, steeped some tea while I washed the dishes, and sewed three Cub Scout patches on a uniform for the next day’s den meeting. After the CD was done, I went online and confirmed both my sons' gymnastics class schedules, signed one up for baseball and sent an email to a class mom about supplies for an in-class party. All the while, the dog paced around the kitchen looking at me like I was nuts, and I started to wonder if he knew something I didn’t. “What?” I asked him. “What did I forget?”
If anyone had bothered to ask me what I wanted to be when I was a child, I would probably have said, 'alone.' A relentless young reader and oft-engrossed writer, I grew happy leaving the administrivia of daily life on the back burner for someone else to pick up or not. This m.o. worked well until I fell under the spell of a funny, family-loving man and cast my earthly existence to the wind. When I landed some 10 years later, I found myself at the center of a whirlwind household full of bills, kids, animals and noise. Now I seek writing time more than I seek sleep, eat when I feel dizzy and spend the rest of my time as tutor, chef, referee, dog walker, maid and animal feeder. Earplugs help.
While it's not the life I would have imagined for myself all those years ago, it is full of rewards and joys I could neither have fathomed nor gained had I not been dropped into it. Do I ever wonder 'what if?' About 50 times a day. But as Arthur Miller once said, "Maybe all we can hope to do is end up with the right regrets." On that count, I think I'm doing OK.
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