Tag Archive for: parenting

Why, Yes, I Do Think I’m Right

Thanks for asking.

Is it just me or has the notion of “it takes a village” gone awry somewhere?  I know I am not the only mother who has had a frustrated/panicked/angry/overly concerned villager give me unsolicited advice about how to raise my children and run my household.  It is rare, but those incidents are the kind that sink deep in to the psyche of a parent who is caught unaware by some random person spouting off about what they are doing wrong.  Consider this sarcastic invitation or this post on the angry reaction one mom got from a complete stranger who saw her kids climbing a tree.  Yes, climbing a tree.

Over the years I have come to the conclusion that it is critical, nee, imperative that I go forth in my life with the mostly-complete conviction that what I am choosing to do is the right thing for my children and myself.  As a brand new mother who was separated from her maternal clan by physical (and some emotional) distance, I relied mostly on what I read to determine how to raise my newborn.  The trouble with that is finding any truly universal, agreed-upon information.  I recall being immensely relieved when my first child was born a girl just so I wouldn’t have to consider whether or not to circumcise her. Hurdles that stretched out as far as the eye could discern from that point included how long to breastfeed, what the vaccine schedule should be, how soon should I feed her solids and which solids to feed her, how to deal with sleep issues, when to potty train, how to deal with the birth of a sibling, when to start preschool…I could go on but your eyes are glazing over.  Yeah.  All before she was four years old.

Frankly, the best advice I got was from a seasoned veteran. She ran the new moms’ support group at our local hospital where we got to sit around with our babies and talk about nursing issues, colic, developmental milestones, hemorrhoids, you know, the important stuff.  I will never forget what she told one mother who was worried about co-sleeping with her baby.  This mother had heard from her mother-in-law and her own mother that co-sleeping was dangerous and set a precedent that would be hard to break.  The facilitator, I’ll call her Laura, said, “I can guarantee you he won’t want to sleep in your bed when he’s fifteen and a freshman in high school. If it works for you and your family now, it’s fine. When it isn’t, you can make a change.”

We all trusted her because she didn’t judge us or laugh at us and she had kids. Four of them. She wasn’t much older than we were and she had been there.  She encouraged us all to listen to our gut.  She also told us that there was very little that couldn’t be undone over time with diligence, patience and love.

And so I learned to trust myself.  And yes, there have been things I’ve said and done that I wish I hadn’t. Things I wish I could take back.  I think.  Or maybe not, because I’m certain there are lessons I have to learn one way or the other and having a few of them under my belt already is a good thing.

I have been publicly castigated for putting my children on a gluten-free diet by people that think it is a load of crap.
I have been de-friended by people on Facebook because of my views on Western medical vaccination schedules.
I have had heated conversations with members of my own family who worked in public education because I choose to send my girls to a private school.

In every case, I feel as though I’m doing the right thing with the information I have right now.  I reserve the right to change my mind. I reserve the right to regret my decision. But for right now, so long as I am  making informed choices out of love and concern for my family, I don’t think I can go wrong.  I have written before about growing up as part of the Pop Tart Generation.  I don’t resent my mother for that. She was doing the best she could with what she had.

Whether you are a parent or not, there is some amount of mental rounding off that has to occur for us to get out of bed and make any decision at all.  Most of our major life choices come as a result of feeling that we are doing the right thing – going to college or not, choosing a life partner, choosing a career.  If we didn’t have some conviction that we knew what we were doing, we wouldn’t do much of anything. So, the next time you see me on the street with Lola or Eve and we are doing something you don’t approve of or understand (skateboarding, eating triple-decker ice cream cones, discussing body hardware or tattoos), just relax. I’ve got it under control. I know what I’m doing here and if I don’t you can rest assured that karma and/or natural consequences will come right around and bite me in the ass. I don’t need you to tell me.

Unless I ask.

Raising an Introvert

Well, at least that’s her story.  I’m not sure I’m buying it, but I am also not sure that it matters what either of us thinks. The part that is becoming crystal clear to me is the fact that Eve isn’t me. (I know, that ought to have been clear a whole lot earlier than now.)

Summer is a hard one for me.  Every year I try to find that elusive balance between down time and scheduled time. I know that this is a good problem to have. I have many friends who work full-time and have to sign their kids up for some combination of summer camps and daycare just to get through a 40-50 hour work week. I am lucky enough to work from home and have the flexibility to take my summers easy, if not entirely “off.”

And so, along about February I start perusing the options and polling the girls on which camps they would like to attend, which friends they would like to arrange schedules with, and budgeting how much money we can spend on which exorbitantly expensive summer activities.  In years past, I’ve horribly over-scheduled them and only realized it when we got to the end of August and hadn’t picked berries or gone to an outdoor movie or taken an impromptu drive to a beach.  I have also grossly under-scheduled them and been left with whiny, bickering, “bored to death” children who stare at me as though I am the world’s most negligent cruise director and demand to be entertained or they will fight over ridiculous things and sigh theatrically all day long.

This year I was very distracted by the sale of our house and our move and scheduled very little, hoping that moving to the city would offer us more options than carbs at Ye Old Country Buffet.

For the past three weeks, we have had nothing pre-scheduled except for a week of Math Camp that Lola attended at the last minute (and LOVED, by the way – I know, go figure).  Eve, on the other hand, is fully embracing her nearly-teenage status by staying up as late as she can get away with and sleeping until 10 AM every day.  She lounges on the couch and reads, goes for walks in the neighborhood with the dog and asks to go to the library or shopping nearly every day.  She is driving me nuts.  I ask her every day whether she wants to invite a friend to come over, sleep over, do something and she always cocks her head as if she’s considering it before declining.  She did have one sleepover with two of her best friends last week and was in the kitchen pulling me aside to make sure they left before 1 PM the next day so she could, “have the rest of my day to myself.”

I think that most of her teachers would say that Eve is gregarious, outgoing, friendly and socially engaged.  I think she is, too.  At school.  At home, she prefers to hole up in her own room for hours belting out her favorite songs or reading.  At least once per day she tromps down the stairs to find me and declare that she doesn’t know what to do. She’s bored.

I realized the other day that I was feeling responsible for her entertainment.  I was feeling all this pressure to think up things for her to do, but since she doesn’t want to hang out with her friends, this means that I have to find things for her to do with me.  Since her favorite activity is shopping and my seventh circle of Hell is shopping, that’s out.  My favorite activities involve walking in nature (or our new neighborhood) and exploring the city’s (free) cultural offerings like parks and outdoor art and farmer’s markets and she quickly tires of those, so that’s out too.  My frustration built to a crescendo the other day and I admitted that I didn’t know how to solve her problem.  Left to her own devices, she begins whining to play on the computer or watch a movie which is not going to happen since I have instituted a technology ban from 10-3:30 every day and the weather is lovely, lovely, lovely.  Foiled at every turn, she begins messing with her sister which degenerates into bickering and general nastiness on both sides.

“I don’t understand why you don’t invite some of your friends over. I’ll go get them if their parents can’t bring them.  I’ll take you guys somewhere – theater in the park or an outdoor concert or the pool.”

“I don’t want to, Mom. I’m happy just hanging out at home most of the time.”

“But you spend so much time alone. I feel like it’s my job to entertain you and that makes me mad. And I worry that you’re lonely or depressed.”

She looked at me like I was nuts.  “It’s not your job to entertain me, Mom. And I’m not lonely or depressed. I’m an introvert. I recharge away from people. It is work being around other people, especially at my age. I’m not you.“

And therein lies the rub.

You see, my issue is simply this: I’m not bored. I’m overwhelmed having them around all the time. I want to be SuperMom and have fun! exciting! stimulating! activities planned for them. And then I want them to go to someone’s house and play so I can get my book reviews written – I’m behind by two – and maybe a blog post or two.  And then I want to hang out with my friends.  I miss my friends since we moved and I want to invite someone my own size to come do something with me or just have coffee. But the problem with that is that I have to ditch my kids to do that or I have to invite a friend with kids my kids want to hang out with. Lola is always up for hanging out with other kids regardless of age or gender.  Eve not so much. She would rather be alone.

So yet again it turns out that my issues with my children are simply my issues.

Crap!

Wherever You Go, There You Are

And so, despite the fact that I am seated in a cushy lounge chair near the pool at a lovely resort in Kauai, life is still upon me.  I had no illusions that time would stop or there would be a brief window of ultimate peace while I went away and, to be honest, I am relieved to be contemplating my challenges in such a glorious place.  During my younger years, I would have been honestly surprised that coming to such a place for a vacation wouldn’t instantly put on hold any angst or difficulties I was experiencing, but I know better now.

Lola, despite the sun and relaxation and pretty much 24/7 access to a body of water in which to swim, is struggling mightily with her SPD symptoms.  Transitions are hard for her and this absurd cliff-dive from regimented school days to completely structure-free summer days leaves her adrift every year.  No matter how much I try to impose predictable mealtimes or down-time in the middle of the afternoon it seems that the lack of scheduled activity pushes Lola to a place of discomfort in her own skin. She fights to put a name to what she is feeling, unsure of what it would take to make her comfortable. She doesn’t acknowledge hunger or thirst until it is far past the point of no-return, she flits from activity to activity, immersing herself in one or the other at some point in an effort to simply shut out the entire world around her.  
Yesterday she sat by the pool playing games on her iTouch until the battery died. I sat nearby chewing in the inside of my lips in an effort to leave her be, hating the glow of the screen on her face on such a glorious day. I wanted to ply her with a beach walk or a dip in the pool or a shopping adventure and couldn’t seem to discern whether it was because I thought it would be better for her to get up and do something or because I hate the notion of her sitting still playing video games on a sunny day in Hawaii.  Predictably, she melted down in the afternoon, hot, thirsty, hungry and weepy and I berated myself yet again for not knowing how to help her navigate this move from school to summer.  I feel as though it surprises me anew every year and I have yet to feel like I am surmounting a learning curve. Instead it looks like a series of dashed lines all on the same plane, interrupted by the blank space of the school year.  But the transition from summer to school is just as difficult and disruptive, the Monday mornings fraught with tears and hysterical pleadings to help get SOMEthing right – her hair, her shoes, the seam on her jeans – me knowing it isn’t those things at all but unable to convince Lola.  
And yet, the vacation is giving me some solace as well, if only in its distance from ‘home.’  My mother’s husband has been in the hospital since before we left, first fighting a severe infection and then undergoing two surgeries with prospects for a third today.  The solace is that, for me, setting boundaries with others who are struggling has never been easy but this, the fact that I am a five or six hour flight away from sitting by her side and the knowledge that both of my siblings are close by, means that I have artificially imposed boundaries.  I am learning to empathize and have compassion and hold space in my heart for her as she deals with her fear and the logistical challenges of running his business and their life without dashing in to fix things like I normally would.  
The first book I read on this trip was Anne Lamott’s “Some Assembly Required” and while I highlighted many, many astonishing bits of wisdom in it, one keeps coming back to me as I check in with my mother via phone every day.  “If it isn’t my problem, I don’t have the solution.”  While that may sound callous, the truth is that I don’t have the solution. I could run around giving advice, searching for answers, talking to doctors and nurses, holding my mom’s hand and generally making myself feel better because I have the illusion of “doing something,” but in the end, what is going to happen is going to happen regardless of whether I am there or not.  I know that offering my mother love and comfort over the phone is better for both of us – we will end up not resenting each other’s lack of boundaries – and the outcome will be the same.  
And so here I am.  In this lovely, lovely place with my family, warts and all.  And I shall rub sunscreen on those warts and go forth to enjoy the day, knowing that what happens is all part and parcel of this life of mine and I feel pretty damn lucky.    

You Can’t Make This S^%t Up

Imagine this:

A family of four (plus a dog, two hamsters, a cat and a fish) were moving. The new house had been purchased and would be available on June 6. The current house had been sold to a lovely couple with three small boys who wanted to take possession June 6. Sounds good, right? Perfect timing.

Until Bubba remembered he had a business trip that week (where his client was oh-so-lovingly putting him up at the Ritz Carlton).  Until I realized that in order to let the new family have our house on June 6, we had to have our house packed and emptied and cleaned by then.  Which necessitated at least one night’s stay in a hotel on our end. With the dog.

And the one hotel in our area that allows 80-pound retrievers (but not cats, hamsters or fish) charges $250.00/night.

I made a reservation anyway because, what are you going to do?

So Sunday night the girls and I packed a suitcase each (for two nights plus an additional night or two of not really knowing where our stuff was in boxes at the new house) in anticipation of moving to a hotel while our house was (THANK GOD) packed up by a moving company on Monday and loaded into a moving truck on Tuesday.

Monday after school we headed to the hotel to check in after settling the cat and the hamsters for the night in the old house. The fish, sadly, died a few days before moving. Perhaps it knew what was to come….

We arrived at the hotel only to be informed that it was under a great deal of renovation and we had been put in a room on the 6th floor. With our dog. Meaning that every time he had to pee, I had to take him out from the top floor of the hotel. Despite having requested a ground-floor room for this very reason.  But I didn’t make a fuss.  The receptionist assured me it was a lovely room at the far end of the hotel complex and she was sorry for any inconvenience.

Oh, and had someone neglected to inform me of their new policy regarding dogs? They needed an additional $100.00 non-refundable deposit since they had decided to shampoo the carpets in every room following a pet’s stay. Whether you stay 2 days or 32.

I had no choice. With two tired, hungry kids, a rambunctious dog, three suitcases and a 30# bag of dog food in tow, not to mention the fact that there was no other hotel I could likely sneak the dog in to, I paid.

We drove to the far end of the complex, unloaded the car, walked in the door and saw a prominent (read: LARGE, RED) sign on the elevator door: CLOSED FOR CONSTRUCTION.

Really?

So now every time the dog has to pee, I have to schlep down (and then back up) six flights of concrete stairs. And first, I have to lug three suitcases, a dog, and a 30# bag of dog food up them simply to get in to the room.

We made it through Monday night and the girls headed to school on Tuesday.

Had you been anywhere in the vicinity (did I mention this hotel is attached to a mall?), you would have seen a pajama-clad woman in flip-flops trudging outside in the pouring rain at 10:30pm or 6:15am, a sopping wet dog in tow and green plastic doggie-do bags in hand.

Tuesday I picked both girls up from school and we headed back to our room. This, after I spent the day helping load our earthly possessions into the moving truck and making sure the house was ready for the new owners. Both girls were tired and asked if we could have take-out for dinner and I heartily agreed. I left them doing homework and headed out, but not before realizing that the deadbolt on our newly-remodeled room’s door was stuck in the ‘on’ position, effectively rendering the door incapable of closing.  The deadbolt stuck out and slammed into the door frame despite all my efforts.  I figured I’d solve that problem later and went in search of dinner.

The girls and I sat down to a feast of Thai favorites and then worked on the door unsuccessfully for a while.  Eve offered to run down to the front desk and ask for help after I phoned them and it rang unanswered 30 or 40 times.  She returned 15 minutes later saying nobody had been at the desk.  We barred the door with our massive cooler, full of the remains of the fridge from the old house and fell asleep.

Around 3AM, I heard Eve’s alarmed voice, “Mom?!?” and sat up just in time to see her hang her head over the side of her bed and start barfing.  I leaped out of bed, pulled her long hair out of the way and watched her entire dinner make its way on to the carpet next to the pull-out couch.  After about 20 minutes she sat up and said, “Whew! I feel a lot better, now!” All I could think was, ‘Wonder when Lola and I will start regurgitating dinner…’


She fell asleep nearly instantly and I spent the next 5 minutes locking the dog in the bathroom so he wouldn’t eat her mess before I could clean it up.  Lola slept through the entire event and by 4:00 I was back in bed, having cleaned it as best I could.

The following morning, Eve assured me she felt just fine and we packed up to leave.  I headed to the front desk to retrieve a luggage cart so we wouldn’t have to make more than one trip and, while I was down there, I informed the staff of the malfunction with our room’s deadbolt.  They fell all over themselves assuring me that I was mistaken about nobody being at the desk last night, and I simply turned to walk away and said I was checking out.  I was furious at this point and, unfortunately, probably translated that to the girls as I stomped back to the room and asked them to hurry up and get their stuff together so we could get them to school on time.

As we made our way down the now-working elevator (on the day we were checking out, of course) with three suitcases, two backpacks, two lunchboxes, a massive cooler and a 30# bag of dog food on the cart, not to mention the dog and the girls, we rounded the corner and the entire bag of dog food tilted crazily off the side, spilling kibble in all directions. Just then, my phone rang.  It was Bubba, calling from the Ritz.  I silently handed the dog’s leash and the phone to Eve just as Lola burst into tears and fell to her knees to start scooping dog food.  I heard Eve tell her father, “I spent the night throwing up, Lola’s crying, Mom’s pissed, and the dog food is all over the hallway!”  Bubba wisely told her he loved her and hung up the phone.

Somehow, we made it out to the car without the help of any of the staff or other residents of the hotel (don’t ask me why – they all saw the chaos that happened. Perhaps they found the steam coming from my ears intimidating).  We missed Eve’s carpool, headed to the house to retrieve the hamsters and the cat and drove to the new house, dropping Eve at school on the way.  Lola decided to skip her last day of school and help me get the pets safely to the new house instead.

Through it all, I didn’t crack.  I wanted to, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t.  I kept thinking that something was bound to go wrong during the process of the move and, if this was it, I’d take it.  Better than broken treasures or really sick kids or financial issues.  In the end, we laughed heartily at the mishaps and craziness and after a long, very calm but pointed email to the manager of the hotel detailing our horrible stay, the cost of our entire stay was refunded to the tune of about $650.00.  I don’t feel a bit bad that they had to shampoo the carpet where Eve tossed her cookies – they were going to anyway, remember?

It could have been a whole lot worse, but when I look back on people’s pitied reactions to the news that we were moving (things like ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Moving sucks. Good luck. You poor thing. I hate moving. Etc., etc.) now I get it.  There are so many moving parts, so many balls to keep in the air, that moving is bound to have some insanity involved.  I’m just glad I’m looking at it from this side now.  And, yes, Bubba did come home after all the chaos and insanity and yes, we welcomed him with open arms despite his perfectly lovely stay in a lovely hotel.  He knows how lucky he is.

Moving Pains

I am having a little bit of seller’s remorse. I’m having a little bit of buyer’s

remorse. I know that’s perfectly typical when you sell or buy a house, and I’m
trying to keep that in mind as I navigate these difficult emotions.

At first I was caught up in the excitement of finding our new home, so it wasn’t until I started really working hard to get our current home ready to put on the market that I began feeling a little stressed.

The first issues I had, actually, were panicky feelings about the damage we’ve done to this house over the years. The dinged walls, stains on the carpets, places where the kids took a Sharpie to a cupboard door or a pen to the window casing – those all became magnified in my head and seemed like total deal-breakers. The remembrances of septic tank alarms in the middle of the night and standing water in the backyard after weeks of solid rain – those things seemed insurmountable.

And then the listing agent came through the house with her critical eye and tucked all of my favorite things away.   Down came my electric tea kettle – stashed in the cupboard.  I had to pack the fragile blown Easter eggs the girls made one year in school for fear they would break if I simply put them in a drawer and the agent was certain they ought not to be on display.

“It shouldn’t look like you live here.  It should look like someone lives here – someone generic and random, not you. No personal photos. No personalized towels or jewelry, toothbrushes on the counters or worn blankies on the kids’ beds.”

I feel like I live in a model home. And not in a good way.

One day before the Open House, the agent was here with a rag and some cabinet cleaner wiping down all of my kitchen cabinets and scrubbing the wooden pillars on the deck back to white.  She mopped the dog prints off of the front door and asked if we had any touch-up paint for a few spots where the kids had missed the keyhole in their rush to get inside.

She assured me this is what she does with all of her clients and that I shouldn’t feel bad about her nit-picking.

She told me the house looks beautiful and it will show well.

And still, I feel like I am only visiting this place.  This lovely house that has been my home for over ten years.  This place we moved to before Lola was born. The only house she has ever known.

After a busy weekend of showing the house and nine families coming through for Sunday’s Open House, I collapsed in a lawn chair in the backyard yesterday for a few quiet minutes and looked around.

The beds are full of fresh barkdust – still red and cedar-scented.  The flowers the girls and I planted to add some color are all standing tall in their pots, glorious after a few days of warm sunshine.  The deck and front walk are newly pressure-washed and look lighter and fresher than I’ve ever seen them, and the outdoor kitchen is staged to look like Bubba’s heading around the corner with some thick steaks to lay on the BBQ.  This place is gorgeous. This place is home.

Why am I leaving?

I closed my eyes and picture the new house, warm and inviting with hardwoods and sturdy radiators in every room.  The magnolia tree in the front yard was blooming the last time I was there and sunlight was streaming through the leaded glass windows.

I forced myself to think back to last Thursday night when I had to pick Eve up from cross-country in the rain.  Lola and I reluctantly climbed into the car at 4:15 for the trek across the lake and a few minutes later I realized this was likely to be a long journey.  It took us the full 45 minutes to reach Eve’s school to pick her up at 5:00 and the first thing she said when she got in the car, her ponytail dripping steadily into the hood of her sweatshirt, was, “I’m starving!”

We drove back across the lake in the now-rush-hour traffic in the rain and arrived home after 6:00.

This is why I’m leaving.

The new house is 10 minutes’ drive from the school.  I could have been there and back inside

of a half an hour and Eve could have been warm and dry with her belly full by 6pm. 

But I still asked myself, “Am I doing the right thing?’

Of course it is an entirely moot point at this juncture.  We have bought the other house. Closed the deal.  Shelled out the money and the check has been cashed.

Besides that, it’s not “I,” it’s “we.” Bubba signed those papers, too. He looked at the house and fell in love, too. He agreed that moving across the lake was the right thing to do, too.

But I am still compelled to ask, and so I did.

Fortunately, I was able to recall asking myself the same question when we bought this house. And frequently over the years as we were forced to install an expensive sump pump and repair the septic tank and grieve over cats lost to coyotes who roamed the neighborhood, I had occasion to ask again.

As I sat there in the backyard looking back at the beautiful house we live in, I felt good. Ultimately, questions, concerns and all, we took this place and made it in to a home.  We put our O’Driscoll stamp

on it – expanding the outdoor living areas to fit the way we live and interact with friends and family and using every inch of space to enjoy our lives together.  In the end, I feel good that we will all grieve as we move on, that we are all so attached to this place where Lola took her first steps and Eve taught herself to ride a bike, this home where Bubba and I have played a million games of Scrabble and eaten
some of the most delicious meals of our lives.  We have spent evenings shooting baskets with the girls and wicked winters huddled inside near the fireplace when the power went out. We have cleaned up vomit at midnight and laughed until we nearly peed ourselves here.  We have barbecued with neighbors and walked their children to the bus stop and received dinners made with love when Bubba was recovering from surgery.  The girls have gone from making sandcastles and mud pies in the back yard to skateboarding and painting each other’s nails on the deck.  We came in to this place a family of
three with a cat and are leaving as a family of four with a dog, a cat, two hamsters and a fish, richer for our experiences, older and wiser, and ready to move forward to whatever adventures await us next. 

These thoughts gave me hope that no matter where we end up, we will manage to make a home for ourselves that reflects who we are as a family and as individuals.  And while the stage may be different and we may wish we could take some parts of this place with us, it will be exciting to create new spaces where we can live and laugh and play together.  This house, this home, holds a special place in all of our hearts and it will be hard to not be here anymore. It will be difficult to say good-bye.  But like Bubba says, “Once you’ve made a decision, it’s the right one,” and so we will look forward to making our newhouse in the city a home for us as we feel the bittersweet sadness that comes with saying good-bye to this one.

BlogHer: Life Well Lived Series

Once again, I have been asked by BlogHer staff to answer a couple of questions about finding balance and happiness in life. The inquiry this go-around was:


How do you put yourself first? How does taking time for yourself help make you happier?

Wow. Tough question. As a mother of small children whose husband traveled nearly every week, I didn’t used to think putting myself first was even an option. It wasn’t until I literally began losing my sense of self and hit a crisis point that I realized I hadn’t even put myself on the list, much less anywhere near the top.

As girls and then women, so many of us were steeped in the tradition of caring for others above all else. We have a biological disadvantage that further complicates the matter, because our brains actually give us a shot of oxytocin (a hormone that reduces anxiety and promotes connection between us and others) when we empathize or take care of someone or something else. We literally feel better when we are nurturing something other than ourselves. Great for promoting motherly love and bonding. Not so much for promoting self-care.

It took a lot of therapy and some really vocal people in my life to convince me that taking care of myself was actually a way to continue to take care of other people better. If I’m a broken-down shell of a human, I’m not much use to my kids or my husband or that cause I so fervently believe in. If I am so depressed I can’t manage to get out of bed in the morning, I’m not doing anybody any good.

Ultimately, though, the most important, most penetrating message I received was from someone who pointed out that I am raising daughters. Daughters who are watching me wear myself out in the unending pursuit of caring for everyone else around me – anticipating and meeting their needs and smoothing out wrinkles wherever I go. Daughters who are learning by osmosis, like little tea bags absorbing all of my “I will take care of everyone else before myself” liquid, that this is the highest, best use of one’s self. Especially if you are a mom. Is that what I want for my girls? To grow up and be of service to everyone else at their own expense?

HOLD
THE
PHONE

No, it’s not what I want. And so when I put my own little girl self in their place and ask what I want for her, it is that she feel loved. Honored. Free to follow her dreams. Comfortable in her own skin.

It took months, but I made it a point to sit down for at least five minutes every day and ask myself what I wanted. What would make me happy? And what could I do toward that today? What small step could I take both for myself and in an effort to be an example for my girls that I am important, too? That my needs are just as vital as anyone else’s.

Over the years I have gone back to writing, making sure to take time every day to ignore paperwork, housework, the whining of the dog, and just write. Because that is one thing that makes me happy. I have also made my health a priority, getting together with a friend at least once a week to walk or take a yoga class and taking cooking classes at the local organic food co-op. More than anything, though, I have given myself permission to have fun. No longer do I watch my children with envy as they scale the jungle gym or sprawl out in a fort they made and stocked with books and snacks. Just as I make sure they have time to play every day in addition to the practices and schoolwork and chores they do, I give myself the same consideration. Some days that means hiding in the corner with my iPad playing solitaire or reading. Other days I crank up the music and dance through the kitchen or get out the fingerpaints and make a mess.

What I have learned is that I am the only person who can choose to make me happy. And while nurturing my growing family and caring for others gives me a great deal of satisfaction, affirming that I am one of the most important people I know and nurturing myself is just as pleasurable. The more self-worth I have, the better others treat me and taking time out to honor myself and all my hard work lets my girls know they can do the same for themselves.

As before, you can click on this link to enter the sweepstakes and win a Kindle Fire.
You can also read BlogHer’s expert’s answer to the question.

Gender-ation Gap

My girls are addicted to the show “Cupcake Wars.” Bubba is not much of a fan. He claims to be disinterested, but I think it is just that every episode makes him crave cupcakes and, given that he lives with three gluten-intolerant women, he’s not likely to get one anytime soon. Last night we all sat down to watch an episode I taped several weeks ago. Bubba only agreed to watch the show with us because it constituted ‘family time.’
As the first four contestants were being introduced, Bubba was finishing up some work on his laptop and just listening to the commentary. When the final contestant began talking and it was clear he was a man, Bubba folded the top down on his computer to watch intently. The man was a very large, physically fit African American who looked as though he might be more comfortable wearing a Dallas Cowboys uniform than an apron. Big, thick neck, broad shoulders, deep voice. Formidable. Bubba turned to me.
“Not exactly what I expected.”
Lola didn’t take any notice. He pressed on.
“So, girls. What would you think if I spent my days baking cupcakes instead of running a consulting business? Would that make you feel differently about me?”
Lola barely twitched.
“That question doesn’t even make sense, Dad. Is a boy butterfly any less male than a boy tiger?”
I haven’t seen Bubba smile that big in a long time.
Photo courtesy of Cupcake Wars

Not Exactly a Movie Review


Last Sunday I took Eve and one of her friends to see “A Thousand Words.” They had seen the previews in the theater and thought it sounded really funny. The premise of the movie is that the main character, Eddie Murphy, has a tree growing in his backyard that drops a leaf for every word he utters. When the leaves all fall, the tree (and Murphy’s character) will die.

The movie started out true to it’s comedic preview but quickly morphed into a spiritual lesson of sorts, with Murphy’s character befriending a guru who was trying to help him enjoy what was left of his life.
While it wasn’t anywhere near the best movie I’ve ever seen, I appreciate the things it made me think about. Like the main character, the first thing my mind tried to do was find a workaround. Can’t talk? Okay, I’ll write everything down. No such luck. The tree still recognized those words for what they were and leaves came down in droves.
It comes as no surprise that communication is one of the most important parts of any relationship, and not being able to get your message across is frustrating for all parties involved. I found myself struggling to identify those words that are so packed with meaning that they don’t need an entire sentence surrounding them. I was, like the main character, attempting to minimize the number of words used in order to lengthen the life of the tree. As a writer, finding ways to express myself that are concise and clear is important, but so is embellishment. Fleshing out the landscape. Adding detail.
Ultimately, though, the tree would run out of leaves and one thousand words is nowhere near enough for a lifetime. The character’s relationships suffered and he was left frantically trying to find ways to heal the tree instead of accepting the inevitable.
Because this is Hollywood, there was of course a way to reverse the process, but I was struck by the message underneath. The guru was encouraging Murphy’s character to sit quietly and spend time in solitude in an effort to find calm within. It became clear that his constant communication with others was a way to distract himself from the pain he held and the writers had a clever way of showing that he identified himself with some people in his past that he would rather not be like.
The tree had become an external representation of the need for him to heal that part of himself that was most damaged. An undeniable sign that the damaged part and the other parts of himself were forever linked and that without addressing the ugliest portions of his experience, he could never hope to live a full life.
Unfortunately, the film was a very glossed-over, mass-produced one that touched on the issues in a way that would be easy to dismiss, especially in the face of the goofy Eddie Murphy-ness of it all. I appreciated being able to find something redeeming in it, however, that enabled me to start a conversation with Eve about what it is like to sit in silence with yourself and why it is often so uncomfortable.
I was able to dig into my own experiences with self-acceptance and appreciate a scene where Murphy’s character embraces the tree quite literally in a moment of understanding, bridging the gap between the two pieces of himself that make up the whole.
I don’t know that I’d recommend the movie, but I was certainly pleased with the message.

Funny Girl


Last week Lola was on edge off and on for a few days. She has trouble with transitions and the weather has been crazy around here – sunny one day and snowing the next – and basketball season ended on a Saturday with lacrosse starting a mere two days later. She expressed her discomfort with the upheavals in her routine by erupting in to hysterical outbursts of screaming about seemingly pathetically small upsets (like being told she had to put her laundry away before watching TV). She was unpredictable – teary one minute and her normal, smiley self the next.

Thursday morning she woke up slowly which is terribly unlike her. She normally bounces out of bed with enthusiasm and a rush to greet the new day. She balked at being asked to eat breakfast and gather her schoolwork up and just wanted to sit on the couch and watch television. She moped out to the car and when we arrived at school, burst into tears when she remembered that her least favorite teacher was teaching that day, substituting for her favorite teacher who would normally be there.
I asked her to climb in to the front seat of the car and close her eyes. I turned on the seat warmer, told her to place her feet on the floor of the car and take a few deep breaths. I guided her through a simple chakra-energizing routine (she loves visualizing the colors of her chakras and sending energy from one to the next) and then asked her to sit quietly and think of a few things that make her unique and special. Is she generous? Funny? Loving? Clever? Artistic? Musical? When she had a short list in her head (I didn’t ask her to share them with me or justify them in any way), I asked her to choose one of her favorites and hold it in her mind, surrounded by a color of her own choosing. I asked her to think of a few examples or ways she exhibits this trait in her daily life and sit with those for a moment. When she was done, I had her breathe deeply one more time and open her eyes. The whole thing took about five minutes.
She seemed much more calm and relaxed when I walked her into the classroom and said goodbye.
At the end of the day when I came to get her, she bounced into the car with her normal mile-wide grin, clamoring for a snack as she rattled off details from her day. Mid-sentence, she stopped and said,
“Hey, Mom! You know that meditation we did this morning? You know what I chose? Funny. I’m funny. And I swear that I was the funniest today I’ve ever been. Just congratulating myself this morning for being funny in my head made me more likely to be funny all day long. I swear I cracked everyone up all day long. It was awesome!”
We agreed that this was a cool new meditation to keep in our bag of tricks and I tried it myself the following morning. The trait I chose was generosity and you know what? Lola was right. I found myself being more generous than normal all day long. Simply because I had recognized that generosity was one of the things about myself I like the best.
What trait would you choose?

I am Afraid of my Twelve-Year-Old Daughter


There, I said it. It occurred to me yesterday that this is what that feeling is, but it took a while to say it. I tried to couch it in different terms like “intimidated” or “nervous,” but it turns out I’m afraid of her.

She isn’t violent or mean, physically abusive or bullying in any way. And even if she were, she’s petite, so I could totally take her.
She is … well, certain.
Determined.
Fiercely independent.
This child taught herself to walk. Bit by bit, methodically and with a decided refusal of assistance from any other human being, she pulled herself to standing, shimmied along the couch on her own, practiced standing in the middle of the room to catch her balance. For days she seemed on the verge of walking, but made certain she could do it without incident by standing and clapping one day, standing and waving her arms another. It is the same when I’m in a yoga class working on eagle pose, starting with the arms and then lifting one leg to wrap around the other. Once I’ve got that steady, I center myself and lift my gaze molecule by molecule to ensure I won’t fall. Eve did that with walking. Two weeks after she had begun standing and perfecting her balance, she took a few steps. She practiced sitting down slowly so she wouldn’t topple over. She never fell. She was not one of those toddlers you see with bruises on her face and arms because she was overconfident. She didn’t have that drunken gait most eighteen-month-olds do. She took it slowly, step by step on her own and worked it out.
She also potty-trained herself and refused all offers of help. When she was learning to read, she was adamant about not letting me look at the book with her. We had to sit cross-legged on the floor, facing each other so that I could only see the cover of the book and she read out loud to me if I was lucky.
The day she noticed that the neighbor kids all rode their bikes without training wheels, she banished me to the house after asking me to remove hers. She put her helmet on, pushed her bike out to the cul-de-sac, and fought that thing for 30 minutes. I know because I was hiding under the living room window stealing glances every once in a while. She fell, got up and tried again. I knew enough to not go outside and offer assistance. Even then I was afraid. Not that she would get hurt, but that she would be angry with me. From the day she was born, Eve has known somewhere deep in her soul that asking for help means she can’t do something herself. That she isn’t capable. God I hope I didn’t somehow instill that in to her DNA. That’s what I was taught by my parents. Asking for help is a sign of weakness.
She did it. And the entire neighborhood heard about it when she began whooping with joy as she rode that tiny bicycle back and forth like it was Seabiscuit in the Kentucky Derby. The smile on her face was absolutely the best thing I have ever seen in my entire life. Pure pride. Joy of accomplishment. Triumph.
And so we come to middle school. Where she struggles to convince Bubba and me that she is an adult. She can handle it. She understands more sophisticated inside jokes now and reads more adult books and is certain she knows how to deal with anything that comes her way. But she isn’t. She’s twelve. And offering to help her with anything is throwing down the gauntlet. It infuriates her despite the fact that I spend hours crafting my speeches to her in order to not make her feel ‘stupid’ or ‘juvenile.’ Trying to tell her that I am here to support her in any way she deems fit, not show her how superior my intellect or experience is. It doesn’t matter. She’s not buying it.
I have set up a cozy place in the kitchen for her to do homework while I cook dinner. Bought scented candles to light while she does it. Offered to put on any music she likes and ban Lola and her boundless energy from the room so we can have a peaceful place to work together. None of it works. She prefers to head straight up to her room and blast Taylor Swift and reappear fifteen minutes later to announce, “I’m done. Can I play on the computer now?” Occasionally, she will admit she is struggling with a particular assignment and, in the same breath, say that she’ll save it and ask the teacher the following day at lunch. Rather than have me sit with her for five minutes to figure it out.
And therein lies the rub. I want her to feel successful. I want her to know that there are many people in her life that she can reach out to. But I want one of them to be me. And it isn’t. And that hurts. And I wish I could say that this is a tween-girl phase, but it isn’t. Eve has always been fiercely independent and stubbornly refused my assistance. I have been rebuffed so many times I am afraid to offer, but I know that this isn’t about me and my feelings. There are times when I am the only person available to her and she is only twelve. We have to find a way to work together without anger or resentment, but I’ll be darned if I know how to do that.
I suppose if I’m being ‘enlightened’ about all of this, the first step is admitting that I’m afraid of her. Okay, did that. Now what?