Our Time Warp and Wormhole Graduation Season

High school grads playing kickball on their childhood school field.

time warp: [noun] an anomaly, discontinuity, or suspension held to occur in the progress of time.

wormhole: [noun] A theoretical tunnel between two distant points in our universe that cuts the travel time from one point to another. See space-time continuum.

Both our daughters have graduated high school, and we now have a strange spring graduation season. We've been invited to the graduation parties of neighbors, friends, the younger siblings of friends of our children, and all of this seems like a distant memory. Not only a distant memory, but also a far-away memory.

We no longer live in the neighborhood where these parties are being held. Driving down those streets brings back all the wonderful memories of playing in the park with our then-toddlers, visiting with neighbors between yards, walking to restaurants with the family for a meal. And as much as I've stayed connected to friends and neighbors in Minneapolis, I don't return to the area too often, and it feels like a completely different world altogether. 

The graduation parties are mostly for kids graduating from Southwest High School, the school my children would have gone to had there not been mental health issues, neurodivergency, and a pandemic involved. My children stopped being these kids' classmates after 8th grade. Looking through each graduate's photo displays was a strange experience. I recognized the graduate, I recognized many of their classmates, but my children were never their classmates at this stage in life. My own kids are now 18 and 21, yet I still picture their classmates as the 1st and 2nd graders that I knew them as most. 

Paula, the parent of one of the graduates, and I.

How I remember her daughter (Sophia, far left, Lindsey and Marissa)

I recognized and re-connected with so many parents of kids, some of whom lived just a street or two away from us, but our kids were never friends. Most surreal was visiting with 3rd grade teacher for both our daughters. She is a lovely and kind person, and had such an incredible influence on both our girls. She has one more year of teaching ahead of her and then she is retiring. She said how wonderful it was to be invited to the graduation parties of the children she taught years before. If I thought I was living in a time warp, I'm sure she feels that a hundredfold. 

Miss O'Hara and I

The last grad party we went to was across the street from the lower grade school that our girls attended through 3rd grade. As the evening wore on, the new grads organized a game of kickball on the school field, the girls were in their party dresses, the boys in their good pants or dress shorts. And as I watched them play, I imagined them as little 5-year-old kindergarteners on that same field, learning the rules of of the game they so easily played now.

Maybe it's because I moved around a lot as a child, but the idea of playing on my elementary schoolyard field as an adult is an utterly foreign concept. 

That evening, driving the 40 minutes to our new home in the country, I reflected on the changes in our lives. Our children are now out of high school, one nearly done with college. We live in a completely different area, surrounded by trees and open sky. Back through the wormhole to our new little corner of the world. 

Hey Everybody! Let's market clothing to teens that reduces their self-worth!

Since Marissa's been at home doing distance learning she's no longer in her school uniform and is wearing comfy clothes every day. Her favorite sweatpants finally wore through and she did a little online shopping to replace them. She selected two pairs from PacSun and they were delivered to our door. Unfortunately they were both a little too big, so we went to the local PacSun store to return them to select a smaller size. 

After returning the clothing to a sales associate, Marissa made her way to what I thought was a tasteless display of Playboy branded materials at the front of the store. She began sorting through the sweatpants with little bunnies on them, looking for the right size. 

"Uhhh....you are not buying Playboy branded sweatpants," I told her. She looked at me with a shocked look on her face. "Playboy? What are you talking about?"

She thought the little bunny wearing a bowtie was just a cute graphic. She had no idea that it stood for the Playboy brand. And then she informed me that the sweatpants she had bought online were Playboy branded — I just hadn't seen the icon before approving the order because it was so small on the screen! 

We laughed about the fact that she didn't know they were Playboy sweats and I didn't realize she'd purchased Playboy sweats. But then we had a real discussion about why a retailer that caters to teens and young women would carry the Playboy brand and honestly, I don't get it.

The caption on the t-shirt on the far left says "Stretch Limousine Daydreams."
What exactly are we daydreaming about?  

In today's awareness of feminist issues, a soft porn magazine's brand isn't relevant or wanted in our culture. All of the things that Playboy embodies is harmful to my teen girls. I would never support their business by buying their brand. And I certainly would never want my 15-year-old daughter wearing Playboy gear. Ever. Who lets their teens buy this stuff?

I tweeted to PacSun and told them how disappointed I was that they carry the brand. Then again, PacSun also carries Brandy Melville clothing. If you don't know this clothing line, they have really cute items for teens, but they have no sizing. Really. The tags all say "one size." If you don't fit into the size they have, well then, I guess you're not the right size. 

What a great idea, market cute clothes to teen girls in their growing years when self-consciousness is its highest and self-confidence is often at its lowest, and make them feel worthless for not fitting into tailored clothing that assumes that all teen girls should be able to fit into their "one size." We looked through some of the pieces and they were tiny. Some of Marissa's short, petite friends could fit into them, but probably not the vast majority of teen girls. "One size" clothing should be reserved for scarves or hats, maybe a wrap, not jeans or tailored shirts. 

From the Brandy Melville website.

Marissa finally found some sweatpants that weren't offensive and that actually fit. selected from the fraction of the store that wasn't off limits due to its brand or its size. I'm not sure she'll want to shop at PacSun in the future. I'm grateful that she and I could have the conversation that we had on the way back home about the issues with both of these brands. 

Journey through Motherhood

At "Time to Fly" event benefiting CCRF, 2009

In my neighborhood I am surrounded by mothers at every stage of the journey. My next-door-neighbor has an adorable soon-to-be 3-year-old, down the street are siblings 8 and younger, across the street is a teenager and down from him are recent empty nesters.

My girls will be 16 and 14 this year — we are nearing the end of the "raising" portion of parenthood. Soon we will be entering the "why doesn't she ever call" portion of parenthood, followed shortly, I've heard, by the "my kids finally appreciate me" portion.

I find this stage to be rather ironic.

I mean, when our kids are little, they are just so darn cute, but they are also so much darn work! Their fingers and faces are always sticky, they are constantly needing to be fed, changed or taken to the bathroom, bathed, reasoned with, (as much as you can reason with babies or toddlers), and so on and so forth. They are a lot of work, from which parents often need a break. If I ever had even an hour to myself in my home without my children around, what a joyous time it was! Laundry got done, floors got mopped, windows got cleaned. One time Wayne and I took advantage of a "parents night out" at KinderCare, where they stayed open until 10 p.m. so parents could have a date night, and he and I washed all the windows in our house. They hadn't been washed since our kids had been born, we were happy to have spent our child-free time that way.

Marissa decided not to smile this day. 2012

Then your kids grow and grow, and at this stage they are...people. Fascinating, interesting people! They have opinions and ideas and really big, new words to communicate them. They are absorbing the world around them, making their own decisions about what's right or what's wrong, and wow, look out world, there is some change a-coming! They are so fun to do things with, to go shopping, or out to eat. 

But just as your kids get really fun to hang out with, they don't want to hang out with you. They'd rather be with their friends, watching movies, playing soccer, going to Starbuck's, building relationships with friends their own age. 

Soccer, Summer of 2017

Lindsey, Homecoming 2018

Marissa Selfie, 2019

When they want to spend time with me, I'll be here, ready to reminisce with them about the good old days when they used to play with water tables, push the dog around in a doll baby carrier, and do other silly things. Those stories are always good for a laugh.

Happy Mother's Day. 

An Observation, by Marissa

One morning I heard a little commotion coming from the kitchen, the sound of many small objects hitting the floor (I assumed it was cereal), and shortly after the sound of it all being cleaned up.

I found Marissa in the kitchen with a look of relief on her face.

"Mom!" she says, "I just realized why you and Dad yelled at us when we were younger."

Hmmm....this seems like an odd leap.

So she explained.

For a little bit of background, Marissa takes an assortment of supplements (my favorite is the multivitamin for "healthy hair and nails"). Every Monday morning she fills her pill case with that week's doses and takes them every day.

She was filling her pill case for the week when an entire bottle of vitamins spilled, scattering little tiny pills all over the floor. Our dog, Beauty, came over to investigate. Thankfully she's been taught to not eat anything off the floor until she gets permission. She usually waits, unless it's an especially tasty-smelling piece of meat. So Marissa told her "no," and then was able to pick up all the pills before Beauty got to any of them.

Can you imagine if our dog had eaten a handful of random vitamins and supplements? I'd be using Dr. Google to try to figure out which ones are harmful or not, and probably taking her to the vet for a second opinion.

"Now I know that you and dad yelled at us, because you wanted to keep us safe," Marissa says. "You didn't want us to do things that would hurt us."

She and I recounted the cactus-touching event, when both she and Lindsey grabbed cacti on display at the local nursery. I spent the afternoon tweezing tiny little cactus needles out of both of their palms. (I believe that story is on this blog somewhere.)

Both girls also had to learn not to touch a hot stove by touching a hot stove. A couple of blisters later and neither of them ever did it again. After that, instructions like "wear your helmet" and "use a lifejacket when on a boat" went over much easier and with less argument.

I liked how Marissa made the connection between what had happened with the pills and Beauty and how her parents try to keep her safe. Now let's hope that lesson sticks when it comes to the really big lessons.

What I've Learned in 2018 (So Far)

It's been nearly two months since I hung up my corporate hat and put my parent hat on full time. What have I learned about life so far?

I've learned that my children are complicated people. I've listened to more stories of lunch time comedy and recess shenanigans in the past 2 months than I've heard in the past 5 years. Our girls have ideas, dreams, imaginations so strong, and random thoughts that are unlike anyone else's. It is truly a gift to be able to spend as much time with them as I am.

Marissa's best 80's ponytail.

Which she found hilarious.

Lindsey's favorite pasttime: reading voraciously with Beauty beside her.

My daughter's requests for a "big breakfast" on Sunday mornings is more-often-than-not met with a "yes" instead of a "no." Our version of a "big breakfast" is bacon, pancakes or waffles, scrambled eggs, all homemade, of course. It takes so little to make her happy, why would I not when I have the time and the energy?

Delicious gluten-free pancakes, after tweaking the recipe for two months.

I've seen that anxiety is a mangy beast that has one of my kids in its maw tightly, more tightly than I realized. After two months I feel like, perhaps, we are starting on a path to lightness. But no, I won't say that yet, maybe it's just another good spell that will be broken by another awful terrible no-good very bad day. And so I will continue to question, to pester, and to be there for her.

I've learned that I need the gratification of actually seeing things get clean when I clean them. This means there is no sweeping of floors once a week "just because," or dusting of mantels before they collect dust. I want to see that dust FLY, man, so it needs to accumulate good before I get after it.

And I've learned that my husband, the ultimate neat-nick, doesn't mind (or at least knows not to say it if he does) if the house isn't quite up to his standards. He is a more relaxed person for not having to do laundry on weekends and wash dishes every night. Not that I wash dishes every night either — we just leave them until the next morning because time together is precious and I'll have time in the morning to do them when everyone's gone off to work and school.

We've all learned that we used to spend a ridiculous amount of money on take-out food. I never quite understood before how our family could spend so much on "dining out," yet we never went to a restaurant. Bringing home "dinner in a bag" from Chipotle one night and Noodles & Co the next, and now I get where that money was going. That money is no longer flying out the door, and suddenly we can actually go out as a family to a sit-down restaurant every once in a while, despite my lack of income.

I have time to reflect and write, take photographs and exercise, all of which makes me a better person, more patient and confident at the same time. We are a better family for the change, and for that I am infinitely grateful.

A Pause for a Health Update

Lindsey behind the lens of my Dad's camera, in Michigan.

So...how's Lindsey?

She's fine.

She went through quite a health spell this past winter/spring, missing 6 weeks of school, missing many more days after she returned, and having a not-great end to her 8th grade year.

What we discovered, through many tests and trials, discussions and theories, is that her anxiety was so high that it was affecting her physical health. It caused such severe stomach cramping and nausea that she lost 5 pounds in four weeks, the girl who doesn't have a pound to spare.

Yes, a mental illness causing a physical illness. A true, real, physical pain that has no expected, typical cause.

We already knew that Lindsey has anxiety, which we thought was under control. We learned a lot of things about nutrition, the digestive system and her anxiety triggers.

Smiling mouth, pained eyes.

We learned that eating small meals four to five times a day seems to work well for her. Sugar in excessive amounts really whacks out her system for a good 24 hours. (No desserts. No pure juices.)
While she does not have celiac disease, gluten really does a number on her system, so gluten is still off limits.

She is under the care of a team of physicians who are working together, between her nutrition and her mental health needs, to get her back on track. And now, at the end of August, I feel like she is finally back to herself.

In the meantime, her dad and I wonder...how much of what's going on is related to her anxiety and how much is related to her being 14? We have no idea, we've never parented a teen before. Poor firstborn, gets to be the first to trial-balloon every parenting technique we have.

We are grateful for all the parents who have shared their journeys with us, who have broken the code of silence to let us know what they've faced behind closed doors.

We are grateful for our friends, for Lindsey's friends, for our family who have supported us through this. And we are grateful to live in a city that has such incredible resources for health care. While it took us a while to navigate the system to figure out who to call or who to talk to, there was always someone there to help, in specialties we never knew existed.

At the end of the day, Lindsey will be stronger. More resilient. Amazing, at anything she chooses to do.

And we will be her loving parents.

Struggling in Secret

Overwhelmed. That is the only word for all the emotions I'm feeling.

Overwhelmed by the issues facing Lindsey. Overwhelmed with the amount of information I'm learning about GI conditions, about natural treatments and cures, and the impact diet may have on a person's digestive system. Overwhelmed by thinking of the possible causes of Lindsey's issues, be it a physical ailment or an emotional one that affects her physical body.

More wonderfully, overwhelmed by the support and advice of my tribe.

Here's what I've learned through sharing our family's story: lots of people have been through this. Many parents told me stories of their teenage children struggling with digestive symptoms for which no "standard answer" was found. Each of them went down different paths of doctoring, diet, supplements and therapy. Most of them eventually got to an answer, but for some, the answers took years. Years. That might be fine for adults, but for teenagers, that's their entire adolescent experience.

My question is this: Why are we all struggling in secret? Let's share our stories, pool our knowledge, and find the quickest and surest path to health. Yes, the causes are different, the ultimate answers are different, but the symptoms are the same. How are families getting their children to school when they are struck by random bouts of diarrhea? What diet changes did they find worked? What didn't work?

Keep in touch, keep talking, share knowledge to help those coming down this path after you. I can guarantee I will do the same for you.

Not the Real Mexico

The view from our balcony.

When our family took our trip to Mexico, we all were more than a bit nervous about traveling to another country. It's been years since Wayne and I had been to Mexico, and we all wondered about the language barrier.

As I expected, everyone working in the resort spoke English. We got to practice saying "gracias" and "por favor" a lot, but otherwise all transactions occurred in English. We didn't even have to change our money, we paid for any cash transactions with US dollars and tipped in dollars.  Can you imagine someone from Mexico coming to our country and trying to use pesos?

Early on in our stay Lindsey asked if Mexicans who vacation in the US can stay in places that only speak Spanish. I said, "If they vacation in an area that has a lot of Spanish-speaking people possibly, but for the most part they need to know English."

"But that's not fair!" she said., You are correct, it is not.

One day when went shopping in Playa del Carmen and had a taxi take us to "5th Avenue" (which is actually on 5th Ave), with blocks and blocks of vendors with tables out, stores and restaurants. The drive to leave our resort was a boulevard lined with lights, sculptures and palm trees. The driver then took a left and we were on a city street lined with half-tumbled down buildings and ramshackle lean-tos. A clothesline hung under a bridge held tiny t-shirts for boys and dresses for little girls. The heat was oppressive and there was no escaping it -- no pool to dip your toes into, no one to offer you a cool drink.

I felt like we had been living in Capitol City in the Hunger Games while District 13 was right outside our door.

Our luxurious bathroom.

Our family talked about it for some time after our shopping excursion. I would like to think that our visiting the country, going to a resort that employs local people and tipping generously throughout our trip helps. Yet the poverty we saw in a few blocks was no different from the poverty I saw in Honduras 15 years ago. Of the thousands of dollars we spent on our vacation -- airfare, the resort, food and shopping -- the majority of that money went to Melia, the company that owns the Paradisus line of resorts, and the airline. How much of that trickled down to the employees themselves? I can't imagine very much.

Our girls got a glimpse of how extravagantly Americans live compared to people in other countries. We talked a bit about the girl our family sponsors in the Philippines and how we can't help everyone living in poverty, but we can help one girl. And that has to count for something.

Popular

The other day Lindsey was telling me about the "popular" kids at school. Lindsey and her friends don't describe themselves as popular, and she clearly has that "I wish I were them" and "I hate them" kind of thinking that kids this age have about the in-crowd.

It seems that everyone grew up in a school where there was a "popular" group; doesn't matter your generation, class size, big town (or small) or what state you grew up in.  I just don't get it.  I decided to ask her some questions to see what's changed over the years, and perhaps impart some wisdom.

Q: So what does it take to be popular?

A: To be popular you have to be nice, wear really, really nice clothes, have neat handwriting, and have a smartphone.

Q: How do you know who the popular kids are?

A: You can just tell. They dress really nice and care about how they look. Boys too. And they're nice one-on-one, but if you come up to them as a group they're really mean.

Q: Really? Have you seem them do that?

A: Well one time my friend came up to a popular girl and asked her a question and she just turned away from her and wouldn't talk to her, even though they hang out together because they live on the same block.

Q: Maybe she didn't hear your friend.

A: I doubt that.

Q: Do the popular kids hang out with unpopular kids at school?

A: No. They all sit at the same lunch table and joke and laugh with each other.

Q: So what would happen if you came up to them, sat down at the table and joined in?

A: Are you kidding, Mom? They would look at you like "What are you doing here?" and would probably be quiet until you went away.

Q: What do you and your friends do at lunch?

A: We have a blast. We have such an awesome table, we spend the entire time trying to make each other crack up. We have so much fun.

Q: Wow, that sounds like something other kids would want to be a part of. What would happen if someone you didn't know sat down at your table and asked to join in?

A: We'd probably look at them like "What are you doing here?" and....oooohhhh!

We talked for a bit longer and then I gave her the same message I've been giving my kids for years: Be Yourself! Be your own authentic self and you will attract the kind of people you want to have in your life. It won't matter if you're popular or geeky or musical or anything else, because you'll be happy.

And then I told her not to smoke or do drugs ever or have sex before 18. I got the eyeroll AND the big sigh.

Bonus parenting points.

That Embarrassing Mom

I am that embarrassing mom. You know the one.

The one who lets her 2-year-old have a screaming tantrum in the middle of Michael's because I won't buy her a $2 cheap toy that I know will break 10 minutes after we leave the store. The mom who stands two aisles away from said temper tantrum, watching her child from a distance and making sure she's safe, while store clerks wonder who that child belongs to.

I am the one who lets her 5-year-old dress herself for kindergarten in striped tights, polka dot dress and cowgirl boots. all in colors that have absolutely nothing to do with each other, because said 5-year-old is so proud that she dressed herself.

Marissa, age 5.

I'm that mom who sings loudly when her children ask her not to. "O What a Beautiful Morning" and "The Sounds of Music" are good choices for morning drop off, when the embarrassment factor in front of peers is high.

I'm that mom who will follow her child to her locker to get a hug after dropping her off at school, when said child scooted out of the car too quickly to be with her friends.

Lindsey, age 9

I'm the one who will insist on a hug when asked to retrieve forgotten homework and bring it to my child at school. Yes, in public. Perferrably while in the classroom in front of her peers.

Oh I'm not done.

I'm going to be that mom who will make my child change her clothes if she attempts to leave the house in something too revealing. At the same time, I will let her dye her hair all kinds of crazy colors, or cut it in some odd style, so she has something to be embarrassed about when she's in her 30's.

I will be that mom who yells at my kids' friends who are driving too fast down the street, who points out all the bad, unsafe drivers on the road as an example as to how NOT to drive.

I'll be that mom who won't let my child do something even if all her friends are if I don't think she's ready for it.

I will be that mom who will insist on a curfew, take away privileges, not allow my child to go places if I don't know who else where be there or if parents will be present.

That being said, I will be that mom who will show up at a party at any hour my child calls, ready to pick her up and take her home safely. I'll be the mom who won't hesitate to calls her daughters'  friends and tell them off if their parents won't.

I will be that mom who cries at recitals. At graduation. At weddings.

Yep that one. You know her. She was probably your mom, too.

Is Society Creating Helicopter Parents?

I found this post in my drafts folder, originally written in the spring of 2012. I don't know why I didn't post it but the topic is still relevant, even though two years have gone by since originally written. So I'm posting it now, complete with pictures from two years ago. Hard to believe that much time has already flown by.

Lindsey working on an art project. By herself.

One morning this past week I went to Lindsey's school to help her get a form from her locker. While walking along the hallway in front of the 3rd grade classrooms I saw other students' research projects that had already been turned in lined up along the windows. (See previous post on my lack of sewing abilities in assisting on this project.) While most projects were dioramas, as Lindsey predicted, a few had chosen the sewing projects.

After looking at the quality of the craftsmanship of the sewing projects, I can guarantee you that there was significant parent involvement in the final products. I thought one of the projects was a store-bought stuffed animal, until I saw the tell-tale seam where the animal had been stuffed and then sewn shut. For real? How does a teacher grade that, it so obviously isn't the child's own work?

Marissa proudly shows off her 1st grade writing project.

This same week, Lindsey's running club, Girls on the Run, has decided that their service project will be to hold a bake sale with proceeds going to the Animal Humane Society. The GOTR coordinator sent an email home to parents, explaining the group's chosen service project and informing us all that the girls would be planning the event after school on Thursday. Instructions would be coming home to the parents on what the girl would be bringing to the bake sale.

Before you could say "peanut butter chocolate chip," emails were flying around from all of the moms volunteering to bring various baked goods, cups, signs or what have you.

The coordinator emailed the group again and kindly but firmly said, "Thanks for all your enthusiasm for this service project. This is a girl-led project. Your child will be telling you what she would like to bring to the bake sale."

In other words, butt out. Such a good reminder.

Yet at the same time, in order to keep parents involved in their children's education, kids are assigned projects that in my opinion are beyond the child's ability to complete on their own. As a parent it becomes difficult to know where to start and stop with helping with the projects.

Lindsey's recent research paper and project had a great guide for parents to help with the writing piece. It reminded parents that the paper was to be the child's own writing, and that the parent's role was only to suggest edits or revisions, not to re-write the paper. There was a list of questions parents could use to help in that process.

This part is confusing to me. How can you make that clearer? You use this word a lot of times. Is there another word you can use that means the same thing? 

Those questions were extremely helpful to make sure I didn't take over writing the paper, yet could provide good feedback. But then the actual project portion of it clearly needed parent involvement to complete.

As a parent I am in disbelief at how quickly my girls are growing. It is easy to keep doing what I've done for them when they were pre-schoolers or toddlers, because I forget that they are now nearly 7 and 9, and can and should do many things for themselves. "Mom, may I have some water?" is now met with, "Sure. You know where the cups are. The faucet still works, right?"

I do not want to be a helicopter parent but I want to be involved in our children's education and lives. I am learning that it is an easy line to cross.

"My Child's Greed is Killing Santa" -- An Update

Just in case you thought that my eldest was still in her room, sulking...

She is not.

But we did have a good conversation about the value of money. Someone who read my original post suggested that perhaps Lindsey could save up her own money to buy these Uggs that she wants so badly. Actually, she wouldn't have to save, she's already got more than $200 saved up from the last few birthdays and Christmases. If she wanted Uggs, she could go out and buy them right now.

But she won't, of course, because it would use all her money for a single pair of boots she would grow out of in just a year.

My point exactly.

I think she was actually more upset at learning in a roundabout way that Santa is not actually sending her presents, that parents spend the money for the gifts from Santa and that we are not bottomless pits.

She revised her gift list down and said that Uggs are off the list. Whew.

A day later our family was watching the news and a report came on about consumer spending for the holidays. The report said that the average American family was planning on spending around $750 for gifts. Wayne and I both looked over at our formerly greedy girl and said, "That's $750 for the entire family, not one child."

She hid her head in the blanket in embarrassment.

I think she got it.

My Child's Greed Is Killing Santa

For a month or so now my oldest daughter has been mentioning here and there some of the things she'd like for Christmas. A trendy down vest. Acrylic paints and canvas. A Kindle Fire. The Kindle Fire is a bit outside of the norm, but might be doable.

Then she mentioned the Uggs. The same Uggs she asked for last Christmas but didn't get.

Well, it's not that she didn't get them, she got "F'Uggs," or fake Uggs. She knew they weren't "real" Uggs, so authentic Uggs are back on her list at $200 for the style she wants.

I have a real problem with paying $200 for a pair of shoes. I have never in my life spent $200 for shoewear for myself. Ever. And I'm not growing, I've been the same shoe size for almost 30 years now. Our daughter is currently growing about a shoe size a year. We buy her new winter boots every year, and she's going through athletic shoes at a pace of 2 per year because she wears those year-round.

Of course we won't buy her a pair of $200 boots at age 10.

But she says "Well, Santa will bring them."

Now, we are 90% confident that she knows Santa doesn't exist. None of her friends believe anymore, and I think she just says "Santa will bring it" knowing that we won't break the news to her that Santa isn't real.

She started adding up her wish list, computer in front of her so she could look up the prices. $150 for a Kindle Fire. $200 for Ugg boots. $30 for paints and canvas. $65 for a Furby, all the way through her entire wish list.

She added up the list and came up with $285. I corrected her math, and she came up with $485.

"See? It's not even $500," she says.

Who is this child? When is the dollar amount "$500" ever preceded by the words "not even" unless you're talking about a house repair or medical bill?

Santa reviews my daughter's wish list with skepticism. So do I.

She got moody when I told her Santa would NOT be bringing her everything on her list, and that mom and dad couldn't possibly afford to buy all those things for her.

She is currently up in her room, sulking.

So we will have to break it to her that mom and dad ARE Santa, and that's why what things cost DOES matter. And then I think we're going to go volunteer at Feed My Starving Children and have her dad tell her stories of his Christmases growing up, when each child was given one gift. And they liked it.

More Than Daughters

This summer there have been small events happening that strike me as strange, and until recently I couldn't figure out why.

First, I came across the "selfie" that Lindsey took of herself to send to a friend, showing off her new gummy bear earrings.

A friend of mine texted me a photo of Marissa and a friend on an outing together.

I found a note Marissa's friend made for her at their summer program.

Note the proper use of "you're." That's a smart friend!

At first I couldn't figure it out -- why did all these little things make me a little nostalgic, a little proud? Finally, I put it all together.  

I have known for years that they have friends. But these little signs made me realize that to others, they are friends.

I finally realized that my kids might be my daughters to me, little ones I am trying to parent, to be a good example for, to teach responsibility, kindness and all that stuff. 

To others, they will be a character in a story of other kids' lives. The funny one, the serious one, the musical one or the smart one. The "oldest" friend, the best friend.

I wasn't present for any of these interactions. I could not remind my kids of manners, guide them in sharing or behavior that makes a good friend. And yet there they are, signs that they are indeed good friends to others.

They will make memories together on class trips, before- or after-school activities, sports, music, senior skip day (if they still have those), and I will not be there.

They are becoming their own people, people who actually have lives and activities outside of the ones that happen within our family. There is a world out there, and they are playing a part in it.

Based on how they're growing up, I think they're going to be pretty good parts.

Mother's Day At That Between Age

For years Mother's Day was about the only mother in the world who mattered to me -- my own. From homemade cards to crazily made breakfasts served in bed at 6 a.m. to my sleepy-headed mom, most of us have that shared experience of celebrating our moms on Mother Day.

Then my folks got divorced and I got a new mom in my life -- my stepmom. Shortly after, I got married and yet another mom entered my life -- my mother-in-law.

And then one year, I was the mom. And because it was my first Mother's Day, I focused less on what Mother's Day meant to my mom, mother-in-law and stepmom, and focused on what it meant to me.

Now after 10 years of parenthood, I've settled in to that in-between mom stage. I toggle between being the recipient of little love notes and childish crafts, to making sure my Mother's Day cards (all of them) are in the mail on time and that phone calls are made, wishing everyone happy days. It's a rather strange place to be. We happened to be at my in-laws over Mother's Day weekend. I made dinner for the group on Saturday night, and my mother-in-law made lunch for the group on Sunday, the day that I felt like I should be lightening her load.

We returned home from our trip and I was awarded with homemade cards and well wishes from my own children. The highlight had to be the Mother's Day tribute questions that Marissa had completed. My favorite answer:

My mom looks prettiest when _________________________ and Marissa had written "ever I look at her."

I also apparently have blue eyes, and the favorite thing that I cook that she likes to eat is brussel sprouts. (Not true for her, but true for me.)

 

I also got a nice note from Lindsey, who said she loves me even when she's mad at me, and she tells me everything...almost.

 

Guess I'll keep them another year, see what they say next Mother's Day.

Follow Up to "Help Unwanted"

Thanks to everyone who commented on my last post about listening. Most comments were on my Facebook page, and it appears that this is a VERY common side effect of our busy American lives.

I have an update on my efforts to be a better listener. Last week Thursday, Lindsey had a VERY interesting day at school. There was a "contained" explosion of the boiler at her school, and the children were evacuated for some time. They first walked down to the fire department which was only a block and a half away, and then the school district's buses picked them up from there and bussed them to Southwest High School, which is their destination in their emergency evacuation plan. After a few hours they were all bussed back to the school and class resumed while the boiler was being repaired. They declared it operational and safe around 3 p.m.

I heard about this through an emergency auto-call that the school sent to all parents, as well as through a parent forum on Facebook. I knew before I came home that Lindsey would need to have a listener the minute she arrived home.

I had been considering a home-cooked pork chop or chicken dinner, but once I heard this news, I set aside my tentative plans and freed up my time by ordering pizza. Yes, we ordered pizza on a Thursday night, unheard of for our family (though not unusual for a Friday).

Lindsey had gone to a karate class with a friend right after school, and was dropped off at home by her friend's parent. She walked in the door and said, "You would NOT believe the day I had today."

And she was off and talking like it was a race. I ignored my smart phone, ignored the house phone (which rang during this time with another message from the school about the day's incident), ignored the dog and let the younger child play on the floor. She had my undivided attention.

After about 40 minutes, she had relived the experience, shared how very scary it had been, and felt a whole lot better. She even shared an essay she had written about it at her after-school program. She'd gotten about four pages written before she ran out of time. She is a ball of emotion, this girl, and she, like many people I know, feels better after having shared her experience with someone else.

I gave her a hug, thanked her for telling me about it and said that it sounded like a very scary experience. She nodded emphatically that it had been.

I was concerned that she wouldn't want to go back to school Friday morning, unsure of the safety of the school, but I think that her being able to relate the entire experience to a sympathetic audience helped her restore her confidence. She had no problems going to school the next day.

Besides, she learned some moves in her karate class, so she was ready to kick that fire's butt if it came down to that.

Help Unwanted

Our youngest was in tears during homework help earlier this week.

She rebuffed her dad's offers to help, got snappy and eventually stomped away from the table. Finally she burst out, "I didn't even ASK for help!"

And she's right.

No one asked. No one listened.

It's hard to listen sometimes. Life gets busy. Things like making lunches, cooking dinner, doing laundry, getting wet snowsuits in the dryer every night during winter take precedence over sitting down with our children eye-to-eye and listening with no distractions. I suspect most people find it difficult to find time to listen to their kids with other priorities eating in their lives.

And truly, sometimes it is HARD to listen to our children. Lindsey would chatter your ear off incessantly. Her favorite phrases that she uses to end a sentence are "and anyways" and "and then." This means her sentences never end. One time I decided to sit quietly, ignore the dinner that needed to be made, the wet, snowy mess on the floor and the lunch boxes on the countertop, and just listen. She told me about her day only stopping long enough to breathe for 10 whole minutes.

You can think about this two ways. Wow, 10 minutes, that's a lot to say about your day. I don't know if I could tell anybody about my day and take up 10 whole minutes. Or there's this: It only took 10 minutes out of my evening, and my daughter feels heard and supported.

Unfortunately, this happens at the same time that the other child is also waiting to tell about her day, or waiting for a snack or for whatever. Just because the youngest one can't go on about her day for 10 straight minutes (thank God two of them aren't like that!) doesn't mean she doesn't deserve attention also.

We have our share of communication problems. We've had arguments and disagreements with our kids about playdates, sleepovers, privileges lost and privileges gained for certain behavior. When I look back at many of these disagreements, nearly every one of them come down to one single cause: someone didn't listen.

Even if we as parents already knew that we were going to say "no," we didn't allow our children to have their voices heard. It's important that they have the chance to make their case all the way to the end of what they wanted to say, even if we already know that we will still decline whatever request they are asking for. More than anything, they get angry that they didn't get to have their say.

In cases when a child asks for something, we hear her out and then tell her no, she's usually okay with the answer. She was heard. But when we don't even hear her out before the "no" comes out of our mouths, we have problems.

I am reminded of the Braverman family on NBC's show "Parenthood," where everybody is talking over everybody else and no one is actually being heard. Every once in a while the teenage daughter will call this fact out loudly over everyone who is talking. No one pays any attention and she stomps out of the room.

Someone at work was commenting about how that drives them crazy on the show, while I was thinking in my head how much it was like real life. You mean not every family talks over each other at the same time?

Since I've been thinking on it, I now have a new little saying that I'm sticking on my mental wall, along with my two New Year's goals.

Patience
Stillness

And now this:

Don't mistake your unwillingness to listen with failure on my part to communicate.

I've been on both ends of that equation. When I find myself entering into arguments or disagreements, I will take a step back and think about what's happening -- which side of that equation am I on? If I'm not listening, then I will be still and listen. If I'm not being listened to, then I will ask the other person to listen. I might make that person mad, but at least I will have said my piece, even if it wasn't heard.

Now, to practice what I preach.

Disney Discontinued

After much gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyes, my husband and I have decided that there is no place in our family for the Disney Channel.

Let me back up.

A little over a year ago, I began thinking to myself, "Geez, Lindsey is growing up awfully fast." She was becoming rather sassy, quick to make snappy comebacks or snide remarks. "She's 9 going on 19," I thought to myself.

We've always monitored what they've watched, but hadn't really realized the impact of it. Then I sat down with her and watched an episode of "Good Luck Charlie."

Now, as far as Disney shows go, in my opinion "Good Luck Charlie" isn't even the worst of them. At least in this sitcom the parents are present. In most Disney channels, there are no parents present; kids are at boarding school, parents are continually away on business trips, or guardianship has been turned over to an older brother or nanny barely older than the kids on the show. If there are adults present, they are usually dumb, easily fooled and frequently mocked. 

At least in "Good Luck Charlie" there are parents present, and the teenagers even turn to their parents for advice and guidance. Except that apparently the parents like to respond in kind with snappy comebacks and clever one-liners. The other characters respond in kind.

I wasn't very happy with the viewing of these Disney sitcoms but had a hard time finding alternatives, even with over 1,000 channels on the TV. The cartoon channels on Disney and Nickelodeon weren't any better; the cartoon's responses to the disrespectful behavior was just more exaggerated. Both girls were beyond watching channels that they considered "kiddie" channels. No more Dora the Explorer in this home.

Then my sister came to visit in October, and mentioned that she didn't like how disrespectful the kids were to us. I talked over the source of this with Wayne, but once again, we were challenged to find other viewing options. We had already restricted TV watching to weekends only so they were only exposed to television 4 to 5 hours per week, total. (I say "only" knowing that the average American child spends 28 hours per week watching television. That's more than 1 full day per week.) 

And then in November Lindsey had a flurry of disrespectful behavior that made the characters on the Disney show look like angels.

That was it. 

I immediately blocked the Disney channel, Disney Junior, Nickelodeon and other "kids" networks. I put a plea out on Facebook asking other parents for non-Disney alternatives, and set the DVR to record "Little House on the Prairie," "Family Ties" and "I Love Lucy" whenever they played.

At first, I was met with resistance. There was much gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyes. 

And then there was some tittering. And giggling, followed by outright laughter. 

"I Love Lucy" struck a particular chord with both girls, but especially with Lindsey. Lucy's antics kept them both in stitches. They marveled at the rotary telephone, the "modern" conveniences of her 1950's kitchen, and oooh'd and aaah'd at the dresses worn by Lucy and Ethel. Having Rock Hudson or Harpo Marx guest star on the show meant nothing to them, and required explanation.

Lindsey asked for "I Love Lucy" DVDs for Christmas, and they've been played every weekend ever since Santa brought them. 

Maybe it's my imagination, but it seems that we are getting less backtalk, fewer snappy remarks and more actual conversation and fewer obnoxious reactions.

And now, if you say something to Lindsey like "You need to practice your viola, Lindsey," instead of being met with stomping of feet and histrionics, you may hear "Eeeooooo...." with a little lip curl the way Lucy Ricardo does it and some slightly crossed eyes.

And that's okay with me.

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Radiothon

This morning I volunteered to work the phone bank at the KS95 for Kids radiothon*. This radiothon benefits my employer, Gillette Children's Specialty Healthcare, and Children's Cancer Research Fund.

It was 4:55 a.m. in the empty, dark and quiet mall. I got on the elevator to get to the volunteer check-in room, and saw another person walking towards the elevators as well, so I held the door. Who else is in the mall at this hour, anyways, besides other people volunteering for the radiothon?

The man got in, took one look at me and said, "Jenny?"

I have to be honest, I didn't recognize him at first. He wasn't from any of the organizations I knew involved with the radiothon, but he clearly knew me. Turns out he and I worked together nearly 7 years ago at my former place of employment. He had only worked there for a year before life took him in a different direction and he had to leave the job, but he still remembered me and eventually I remembered him.

We talked about what we'd been doing in the years between -- jobs, kids, moving, trips. The last time we had seen each other my kids were ages 1 and 3 and he didn't yet have children. He has two boys now, ages 3 and 5.

Nothing like a conversation like that to make you realize how quickly your kids are growing up.

I asked him how he came to volunteer his time at the radiothon, knowing that we had lots of corporate sponsors whose employees volunteer at the phone bank. But he was doing this on his own because his older son is seen at Gillette. He was just diagnosed with muscular dystrophy a year and a half ago, and they've been incredibly grateful for their care at Gillette.

I said I was sorry for his diagnosis, but he waved it off. "He's just a normal kid, like anybody else." He went on to tell me stories of how easy-going he is, how he loves to play with his friends, loves swimming in the lake close to their house and has embraced kindergarten.

We kept talking, and later on came back to his son's diagnosis. I asked how they discovered he had MD, and he said that his wife noticed that their son seemed to struggle in comparison to other kids to do "normal kid things," like climb the monkey bars or run around the playground. They had taken him to their pediatrician a few times and finally, when the differences became more pronounced, the doctor ordered a few tests. That's when the diagnosis of muscular dystrophy came back.

Then he told me something that made my heart jump into my throat. The average life expectancy for a child with his type of muscular dystrophy is 25 years. His muscles will deterioriate with age. They know that as he grows his mobility will decrease, he will eventually need a wheelchair and this disease will eventually result in his death.

They already know they are going to outlive their son.

He said that his wife's parents are having a really hard time with the diagnosis, and even a year and a half later they struggle to believe that this beautiful little boy, so bright and fun, will not live long into adulthood.

But really, he said, what are we going to do, mope around and waste the time we do have with him? No, he said, we're going to live every day to the fullest, give him every life experience we can and love him for as long as we have him.

And then he told me not to cry, but it was too late.

*I feel compelled to remind my readers that I write this blog from my own personal perspective and not on behalf of my employer or any of Gillette's partners.

What Counts as Bullying?

When Lindsey came home from school feeling picked on and sad after her bike riding and name-calling day, I made the mistake of venting my own frustration about the incident on my Facebook wall. I didn't name the culprits and didn't blame the school, just said how sad I was that my daughter was so hurt.

Here's some of the feedback I heard (in fewer words than what was used):

• Kids are cruel, bullying happens. Tell her to suck it up.
• Soy Sauce is the tamest nickname I've heard, why does it even bother her?
• That's too bad but there are worse things in life.
• That's terrible and you need to get on that teacher.
• Shame on those other kids' parents.
• You should get those other kids in trouble.

I also found it interesting that some people jumped to the conclusion that the bullies were either boys or girls. I hadn't stated one way or the other, and can only assume that people jumped to those conclusions based on their own personal experiences.

The most telling comments were the ones in which people recounted their own experiences in being bullied. They could remember every word, every action like it was yesterday. For some of them the bullying had happened 40 years ago, but they still remembered the hurt that it caused. Those wounds stayed with them for a lifetime, to be recalled at a moment's notice.

Why would we think it's okay for that to continue on, generation after generation?

The parents of bullies, for the most part, would probably be appalled if they realized their children had reputations as bullies. I would be more upset if a teacher had to call me to tell me that Lindsey had been picking on other kids than on the other end of that equation.

The official district policy states that intimidation and teasing count as bullying. To me, bullying is any action that makes someone feel bad about him or herself. The fact that Lindsey was not looking forward to going to school the next day was the limit for me, because that impacts her education.

As a parent, it is my job to raise children who will become independent, confident, caring adults (add any other positive adjectives you like to that statement.) It is also my job to be their advocate, to fight for their rights where they are not able to advocate for themselves.

I asked Lindsey's permission before I contacted her teacher because I want to balance those two responsibilities. I don't ever want to be accused of being a "helicopter parent" but don't want to leave my child defenseless. If Lindsey had not given me permission I would have said nothing to her teacher and let her continue to try to deal with the situation on her own. I was relieved when she told me it was okay if I speak to her teacher, and the behavior was handled.

This situation made me realize how very tough parenting can be. I'd better start saving for my kids' therapy now.