Tag Archive for: parenting

Life Lessons a la Lola’s Skateboard Instructor


I love Lola’s skateboard instructor. For a kid in his mid-twenties he is surprisingly intuitive about the psyche of a nine year old girl.

Lola is a kamikaze. Sort of. She is very enthusiastic and not fearful of physical challenges. What she is afraid of is looking stupid and there are a lot of opportunities to do that on a skateboard. The first few lessons she took were at a local skate park crawling with boys of all ages skating without pads or helmets (I make her wear both) with wild abandon. They fall, skid, trip, run right off the end of their skateboards and have some of the foulest mouths I’ve heard in a long time. Most of them are consumed with perfecting their tricks and are constantly showing off for each other.
One of the first things her teacher (I’ll call him Sam) did was to change Lola’s lesson time to morning when the teenage boys are still in bed and she can have the venue to herself. But even before that he amazed me. One of his first goals was to get her to go down the biggest hill in the park. They worked for a bit on stance and balance (she’s “goofy-footed” like me which means that her opposite foot goes in the front – unusual) and then he walked her to the top of the hill. On my beach towel in the grass, I was too far away to hear what they said, but they talked for a minute, he steadied her on the board and then let her take her time deciding when to go. After about 60 seconds of hesitation, he called to her and waved his hand so she would join him in a different area of the park. Without going down the hill. They worked on some smaller hills for a bit, practiced turning, and then went back to the big hill. Another hesitation of about 45 seconds and he waved her off again.
During each of these mini-sessions, Sam challenged her and high-fived her when she conquered a task. I could see her proud grin from across the park. After four or five attempts at doing the hill, I figured out what Sam was doing. He had somehow concluded that Lola was psyching herself out by thinking too much about skating down the hill and he knew that the longer she stood there, the more fearful she would be. By waving her off, he was letting her know that it was no great disappointment that she hadn’t gone down the hill and he was redirecting her attention to something she could do. He was letting her be successful and building her confidence. Gradually, throughout the lesson, Lola came to trust Sam. She grew to believe that he wasn’t going to ask her to do anything she was not comfortable doing and she trusted that he wanted her to be successful as much as she wanted to succeed. She built a bond with him and ultimately she decided she wanted to go down that hill for herself and for him.
Before we left that first day, Lola flew down that hill twice on her board. Twice. She did it on her own terms without feeling as though she had to in order to prove herself, but the beautiful thing is that she did prove something to herself and to Sam. She showed that when you are given space and time to believe in your own abilities without judging yourself, you can soar. And Sam reminded me that overthinking things leads to fear. Often the best thing we can do for ourselves when we’re intimidated by something is to go bolster our own self-confidence by excelling at something smaller or less frightening. And then when we are ready, it is easy to tackle the bigger task without too much angst.
I love Lola’s skateboard instructor.

Mama’s Summer Camp


Summer is one benchmark I use to measure the girls’ development. Not only have they just completed another year of school, but they have generally grown an inch or so and matured a wee bit as well. In keeping with their gradual aging, summer is when I add another chore to their respective repertoires. I know. What a way to kill summer enthusiasm, huh? Buzzkill.

Whatever. My kids are not growing up without ever having had to lift a finger to help out around the house. And, since summer is devoid of homework, rigid bedtime schedules and sports/piano/guitar/horseback lessons, I figure they have all the time in the world to master this new skill, right? Usually when I introduce another chore I simply explain it, model it, tell them my expectations for how often it needs to be done, and consider it done. Given that they are already responsible for feeding the pets, taking out the garbage/recycle/compost, folding the laundry, and setting and clearing the dinner table, I was working a bit to come up with new chores. So I asked them what they thought. Suckers.
Eve decided she would like to try doing the dinner dishes.
Lola said laundry.
The month of July was reserved for housework immersion summer camp. Mama-style. The first night, I showed Eve my method for rinsing the dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher, separating the hand-wash only things out and scrubbing and rinsing them, and wiping down the counters. She was also responsible for emptying the dishwasher in the morning and putting everything away. Unfortunately for her, I love cooking and cook dinner at home from scratch nearly every night.
Lola was schooled on how to separate delicates from colors from linens from whites from handwashables and how to put each of these groups of laundry through the washer and dryer. Suspiciously, our dry cleaning bill skyrocketed in July when Bubba learned who would be responsible for caring for his work clothes.
My plan was to have the girls be solely responsible for these two tasks during the month of July. In August, they had Harry Potter camp and we were out of town for a week, so we would have to play it by ear. As soon as school started, they would only be responsible for these tasks on the weekends, leaving their weeknights free for practices and homework and family time.
Can I just say that I was terribly relieved when August 1 came? It was all I could do not to look over the girls’ shoulders and chew on my bottom lip. I offered Eve advice when it seemed as though she was rinsing more than necessary or if there was a more efficient way to get things done, but she would have none of it. I don’t blame her. I had to remind myself that she would learn more if she made her own mistakes. I wasn’t willing to let Lola make mistakes with my clothes, though, so I gave a bit more input there. Still, their timelines weren’t the same as mine.
Eve knew she had to clean the kitchen as soon as dinner was over. The problem came the following morning. Lola and I get up at the crack of dawn and my routine is to come downstairs, empty the dishwasher, make my latte and read the news. Eve discovered the joy of sleeping in this summer which meant that the dishwasher often didn’t get emptied until well after Lola and I had eaten breakfast. Which meant dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Waiting for Eve to get out of bed. Driving me nuts. Every day.
Lola’s job was much more cyclical. Not having my perspective and ability to look ahead and anticipate who would run out of underwear when or need to wear her “favorite skirt,” she quickly fell into a habit of only doing laundry when I told her to. Despite my continued warnings, she often started a load of wash and left it in there to molder for a few hours before remembering it needed to go in the dryer. She eschewed the laundry basket, preferring instead to gather up as many of the warm, dry clothes as she could in her (short, 9-year-old) arms and carry them to the couch, leaving a trail of clean items behind her in the dog and cat-hair tumbleweeds on the floor in the hall.
I spent far too much time ruminating on my frustrations – trying desperately to recall how I learned to do dishes and laundry the way I do them. I know for a fact that my mother would accept no jobs half-done, but I can’t recall any specific lessons on how to do things the way she wanted. I resigned myself to letting the girls work out their own systems and, by the end of the month, they had both learned some valuable lessons about how to be more efficient with their respective chores. That being said, on August 1st, it was an enormous relief to get back to doing the dinner dishes my own way. As for the laundry, Bubba has mysteriously decided that his clothes are safe to be washed at home once again. It was not all in vain though. At one point Eve said to me (her arms up to the elbow in dishsoapy water), “Mom, this is a lot of work. Every night after dinner, I’ll rinse my own plate and put it in the dishwasher for you. I promise.”
I’d like to say Lola had a similar revelation, but since her laundry accounts for the smallest portion in the house – given that she thinks being clean is vastly over-rated – and the fact that running large machinery combined with pouring chemicals is a dream generally reserved for her sleeping hours, she won’t likely come up with any gems. She is still more than willing to drop a load of laundry in the washer or dryer for me at my request.
Overall, it was a good experiment and it’s nice to know I can rely on the girls to help out when asked, but I am more than a little embarrassed to say that I don’t relish giving up my dominion over the kitchen or the laundry room again anytime soon.

I Love Aging!


No, really. I do. It almost sounds cliche (or maybe it’s closer than “almost”) to say this, but dang, I feel pretty good. Despite the fact that I’m 40 days away from turning 40, I can say that the revelations I’ve had in the past decade are what have made me appreciate being exactly where I am in life.

I was having lunch with a girlfriend the other day and we were lamenting the fact that both of our tween daughters are asking about wearing makeup. I distinctly recall seventh grade as the “magic” year for me – I started shaving my legs, had my first period, and was allowed to wear deep blue eyeshadow and Debbie Gibson-brand mascara to school. All of those things sound horrific to me now. Each and every damn one of them. But back then, I was thrilled. And Eve, entering sixth grade this year, is convinced that she ought to be able to start wearing a little makeup as well. She did make a fairly keen observation, though.
“When I am allowed to wear makeup, who is going to teach me how to put it on the right way? You don’t know how to wear it, do you?”
I could have considered that an insult. But she’s right. Somewhere around the age of 19 or 20, I realized that I was trading sleep for makeup application time. Working two jobs and going to college full-time meant that sleep was at a premium. One of my jobs started at 4:30am and required me to care for the animals who had stayed the night at the local veterinary clinic – administering their medications, taking the dogs out to pee and stretch their legs, and cleaning the kennels before the office opened for the day. Those guys certainly couldn’t care less if I had mascara on. Generally, I finished just in time for my 8:00 class, so makeup lost the battle there.
I did retain the habit of wearing a little mascara and some blush for special occasions, but by the time my wedding day rolled around, I had to go out and specifically purchase makeup for the day since the stuff I had had been rattling around in a drawer for several years.
There have been times throughout the years where I have felt bad about myself, especially as I became more sedentary upon entering the workforce and again after having the girls. I have a closet with clothing that ranges in size from 6 to 12 and I am acutely aware of which of those clothes fit me comfortably. The difference now is that I won’t force myself to wear the smaller ones because of the number on the waistband. I am much more forgiving of myself and much less tolerant of tight, uncomfortable clothes. I prefer to spend my days feeling good.
I am also much less likely to beat myself up mentally. I started jogging in June, determined to add some cardio fitness to my yoga regime so that I can keep up with the girls better. While I generally don’t like running, I find that it is much more enjoyable if I don’t treat myself like a newbie at boot camp. If I miss a day or two, I don’t berate myself. Instead, I remember all of the previous days where I ran and tell myself that tomorrow will present another opportunity to run again. I have become capable of telling myself the same thing with regard to having dessert a few days in a row or not being disciplined enough with my writing schedule. Decrying the mistakes has never been motivating for me, but remembering that skipping one workout or sharing a hot fudge sundae with Lola isn’t grounds for desertion puts things in perspective.
Saturday, we had planned our first ever family whitewater rafting trip. The girls were old enough to be excited about it and it promised to be 90 degrees out. I was really excited until the guide launched into his safety spiel about what to do when you fall out on a Class 3 or 4 rapid, how to signal that you’re okay (or not), and how your paddle should never be out of your hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lola begin to blanch and I knew I had to keep my cool. I couldn’t let on that I was nervous, if only to reassure her. By the time the four of us climbed into the raft, Lola had recovered but I was sinking deeper into apprehension. I could see Class 3 rapids right out of the chute and did some quick calculations to determine whether the girls were actually okay to do this. Neither of them even weighs 65 pounds! I envisioned backing out. What would Bubba do? Would it be a relief to one or both of the girls – they could back out, too, and save face? I forced myself to stay put and breathe. I reminded myself that I am a very strong swimmer and I only had to be in this moment right now. Nowhere else. No projections into the future. And then I heard it. That voice inside my head. The angel on my shoulder. She said:
“You do not have to be anything other than you are right now.”
What?
Really?
No shit?
So I can be a somewhat-frightened, 39-and-counting mother of two sitting in a raft in the glorious sunshine. And that’s okay?
Yup. It is. It doesn’t require action on my part. It doesn’t mean that I ought to be striving to be anything other/different/better. It will not drastically alter anyone’s life for me to be just who I am right now in this moment. It would not make anyone else’s life or experience better if I were different. I simply am.
And that, my friends, is the beauty of aging. I finally get to just be who I am and be happy with it. No excuses. No shame.

Be Careful What You Wish For: Sleepaway Camp Revelations



We all survived Harry Potter Camp. It was the girls’ first attempt at a sleepaway camp and I would not be exaggerating if I said it caused us all some anxiety. Back in March, when I signed Eva and Lola up for this week-long YMCA-sponsored camp, it was easy to be excited. The girls were thrilled at the prospect of getting to immerse themselves in all things Harry Potter for a week – trying their hand at quidditch, potion-making, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and escaping from Azkaban. Bubba and I could hardly contain our glee at the idea of getting an entire week at home without having to arrange for a babysitter if we wanted to go to the movies or dinner. I vowed not to cook or do dishes for the entire week and told Bubba if he scheduled a business trip I would wring his neck like a Thanksgiving turkey.

And then the week approached. We checked items off of the packing list and pretended not to be nervous around each other. Lola broke first.
“I’m gonna miss you guys a lot,” she turned her eyes down to the tablecloth, avoiding eye contact. I felt a little tear in my resolve.
“I’m going to miss you, too. But I think you’re going to be so busy every day that you won’t even remember to miss me very much.”
Two days before we dropped the girls off, Bubba told me he had to go to California for two days the next week. Before I could wrap my fingers around his thick, stocky neck he reared back, “Come with me! The girls won’t know. I’ll get a nicer hotel than I normally stay in. You can bring your laptop and hang out by the pool and we can go out at night.” Again, it sounded great.
I imagined myself as one of those mothers who could say I’d been away with my husband on a fabulous trip without the kids. I’ve always aspired to join that group, but have balked at leaving the girls behind. The truth is, I like spending time with them and traveling is a great way to have new and different adventures with them. But this, well. They were leaving us, right?
The camp counselors had the drop-off down to a science. Get everyone out of the car at the lagoon at the bottom of the hill, give hugs good-bye and load the kids into waiting paddle-boats for a trip across the lagoon. The kids were excited about a boat ride, unsure whether this was the “real” good-bye, and the parents had to climb back into the cars and drive the sleeping bags and suitcases up the hill to the cabins. Busy the parents checking their kids in, have them drop the gear in the cabin to which their child was assigned, and send them on their way.
WHAT? Oh. I guess we said good-bye. I will admit feigning a full bladder so I could use the restroom next to the campfire before driving away. This way, I got to catch a quick glimpse of Eve and Lola fully immersed in campfire chants with Ginny, Hermione, Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley.
I didn’t cry. Bubba and I didn’t look at each other and made nervous, chattering conversation for the hour and a half back home. We checked the movie listings, went to “Planet of the Apes,” and got to have sushi without ordering a veggie roll. By the time we got home, we could pretend that the girls were just on sleepovers at friends’ houses. On a Sunday night.
Monday, Bubba got to go to work. I pretended it was a school day, blissfully free of lunch-packing and prodding Eve to get out of her snug bed. I went to yoga with a friend, had coffee with another friend and drove downtown to have dinner with Bubba at a fancy restaurant.
Tuesday morning I cried. Tuesday morning I panicked. What if Lola, true to her balls-out nature, flung herself out of a tree and broke another bone? What if Eve got some food that wasn’t gluten-free and her stomach was in agony? And I blithely went to California, a two hour plane ride and a two hour drive away? Bubba managed to talk me off the edge and call his sister to ensure that she could dash to camp and get the girls if something horrible happened.
And, yet again, I was thankful for the dichotomy in our parenting relationship. As the parent who stays home with the girls, I have built my life around them. Any activities I do are scheduled during the hours when I know they don’t need me. And if they do need me during those hours, the activities don’t rest on my participation. I can leave to go get a vomiting child. I can skip a day of volunteering if Lola has a teacher inservice. I can reschedule my appointment if Eve is running a cross-country race one day.
Bubba has the option of separating himself a bit more. He knows he isn’t what I call the “primary parent.” He knows that he won’t be called upon unless it is an extreme emergency. He goes to work knowing that very few things have the potential to derail his day. And while this has prompted some resentment on my part over the years, it also affords him a different perspective. He is able to see things in a more global way and come to decisions about how to deal with tricky situations more quickly than I. I used to think that this was because I am more emotionally-driven than he, but I’m not so sure anymore.
My relationship with the kids is more need-based than his. From the beginning, they learned that I was the repository of all food, comfort, physical relief, and crisis management. For me, that set up a constant state of readiness. Even when the girls went off to school, I knew that I had to have my cell phone at the ready and not be too far away in case someone needed something. While that often made me frustrated at the restrictions it placed on me, I realize that I came to rely on it. When you learn that coloring inside the lines is important, you begin to respect the lines. Count on them.
With the girls away for a week, in a place with adults I trust to take care of them, and the likelihood that they would need me for something very slim, my lines are gone. I’m free. Like that tame bird whose cage door stands wide open, I’m a little afraid to venture outside of what I know.
In the end, the girls came home from camp filthy and exhausted and full of tales from Hogwarts. Who knew wizards could have belly-flop competitions? Who knew you could go to the Yule Ball in August? They made their own wands, were sorted into houses (Eve in Ravenclaw and Lola and Hufflepuff), and were sad to leave. They slept for two days when they got home, taking breaks only to spill tales of adventures at camp like machine gun fire.
And me? I learned that there is life beyond parenting. And it’s pretty good. Thank goodness I have several more years to figure it out.

To Glee or Not to Glee



My girls have reached the “musical” stage of their childhood. Eve got to go see “Oliver!” last year with her class and she came home singing all of the songs and begged me to get the music. Lola’s music teacher taught them most of the songs from “The Sound of Music” last year and she went around singing them until I thought I’d throw up. Repetition aside (or maybe repetition-inspired), I decided to expand their repertoire by finding some more musical soundtracks to introduce them to.

“Annie?” Check.
“Mamma Mia?” Check.
“Grease?” Triple check.
I loved that movie. It came out in 1978 and I must have been too young to see it in the theater, but I watched it a dozen times as an adolescent (we weren’t delineated into teens and tweens back then, of course). I saved my money and bought the album as soon as I could and I listened to it over and over again. In fact, I’m fairly certain that green cover with the photo of Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta sat empty in my cupboard for a long time since the record rarely came off of my record player. Twenty-five years later I still remember all of the words to all of the songs and just hearing them conjures up images of Frenchie’s pink hair and Rizzo dancing in her underwear at the slumber party as she sang “Sandra Dee.”
My girls quickly fell in love with the music to “Grease” too. And it wasn’t long before they began asking to watch the movie.
Gulp.
Eva is nearly twelve and Lola just turned nine. Are they too young? I don’t honestly remember how old I was when I first saw “Grease,” but I know that some of the concepts are pretty grown up. Even some of the song lyrics are a little edgy – “…I’m Sandra Dee, lousy with virginity.” (Mom, what’s ‘virginity?’ I can imagine Lola asking.) The boys singing “Greased Lightning” and talking about the girls “creaming their pants.” Hmmm.
I don’t recall my reaction when I heard lines like that in the movie. I know there isn’t any sex or nudity and, other than the sexual inferences and stereotypical bad behavior from teens, I don’t think there is anything objectionable. But do I want to be responsible for my girls learning concepts like “creaming your pants?” Of course, the cat’s out of the bag for a lot of it if they slow down and really listen to the song lyrics. And they already listen to a lot of music with words I don’t allow them to say – heck, even the Indigo Girls drop the f-bomb here and there.
I’m stuck wondering whether I want to let them see me squirm and, thus, set them up to pay closer attention to the movie, wondering what it is that I’m worried about. Maybe they will watch the movie, absorb the parts they care about and are developmentally able to, and chuck the rest, only realizing what was really going on sometime about the age of 20.
Eve has been pressuring me to let her watch “Glee” since most of her friends and classmates watch it and love it. It’s not that I won’t let her, but it isn’t a show I watch, so it doesn’t occur to me to record it and even see if it is okay. And then there is the logistical issue of how to let Eve watch something that Lola isn’t allowed to. Don’t get me started on that.
I suppose the worst that could happen is that they bump up against a concept they are unfamiliar with or one that makes them uncomfortable and we have to talk about it. I’m more than happy to do that, although Lola has been teasing me lately about giving her “too much information.” In my defense, the questions she asks are getting more complex. “What’s a foster home?” “Why are there so many homeless people?” “Why is Eve so cranky all the time?”


Or maybe none of these things is that complicated. Maybe I’m just seeing it that way through my complicated-colored glasses.

That’s Why This Song Has Been Rattling Around in My Head for Days…



“All this time believing love meant someone’s leaving…” Edie Carey in Easy Now from her album Bring the Sea

I have abandonment issues. Not the ones you might think, though. I would actually prefer to be abandoned a hundred times over than think that I might be the one responsible for leaving someone else high and dry. The truth is, while the notion of being left behind is sad and a little lonely, I’ve been there before and I know I can handle it. There is a strong sense of power and control and core competency that shows itself when I imagine being abandoned. Almost a righteousness – “See? I don’t need you. You weren’t smart enough to recognize how much I add to your life and how much you ought to be here with me. Your loss.”
No, I am afraid of being the abandoner. From the day my dear Eva was born and I realized the magnitude of my responsibility for her, I have been plagued with occasional moments of panic when I thought I might not be able to rise to the occasion. When Lola came along and Bubba started getting sick, I insulated the ties with my girls by adding layers of steel. Something might happen to him, but I would be damned if I was leaving my girls all alone. No way! I wasn’t going to go away and let them grow up thinking I had abandoned them.
Even in the midst of my greatest depression, it was the stark reality of caring for the girls that kept me going day after day. The knowledge of what a sudden loss can do to a child. How they internalize the reasons, rational or not, and come to believe that they somehow caused this person to leave.
Two days ago Bubba and I drove the girls two hours away to a sleepover camp where they will stay for a week. They were excited, if a little nervous since this marks the first time either of them has been away from home for that long. Each of them invited a close friend to join them, and I know that Eve and Lola will take comfort in knowing that the other is there (although not sharing the same cabin, “Thank goodness!”) and our good-byes were blessedly free of tears or clinging.
Three months ago when I signed the girls up for this camp I was thrilled. The notion of having both girls away in a safe place for a week in the summertime left me with all sorts of possibilities for ways Bubba and I could enjoy time alone together. I threatened him with a thorough neck-wringing if he scheduled a business trip during this one, precious week.
He did.
In his defense, it is a very necessary trip to visit a very important client.
In his defense, it is only for two nights and he invited me to come along.
So I am.
And I sailed over the first hurdle quite cleanly, thank you. When Bubba asked me what our contingency plan was should the camp call with news that someone is sick or Lola has broken a(nother) bone, I replied that we would have their aunt go pick them up and I would immediately fly home and everything would be fine.
This second hurdle is a bitch. Last night it occurred to me that it was possible that something might happen to Bubba and I. I chose not to tell the girls that we would be away for two nights while they were gone because I knew it would only stress them out. (Who will take care of the animals? What if I need you?) So, whether it is that karma coming back to bite me in the ass, or simply the imaginings of an over-enmeshed mother, I don’t know, but images of plane crashes and earthquakes kept slicing through my thoughts last night.
I grabbed Bubba and made him promise to call his sister this morning and tell her to get the kids and bring them home if something happened to us. I contemplated writing them long letters full of love and hope and promise “just in case.” I began envisioning their utter confusion giving way to hurt as they realized we had lied to them and left home.
And the friendly angel on my other shoulder keeps whispering in my ear that I am no more likely to get hurt away from home than I am at home. She strokes my head and says that there is no law or moral code that says I have to stay home alone and hold down the fort just because they are away. It is really no different than them being at school all day or on an overnight at a friend’s house. Why should I have to stay here?
Logically, that makes sense and I love this little sweetie for telling me. But what I keep bumping up against is this: I was okay when the girls left because I don’t mind being left, but the thought that I might be the one doing the leaving is nearly unbearable. If I stay home, I’m not “leaving” anyone behind. If I go with Bubba, especially without telling the girls, I’m the one doing the leaving. And if I don’t come back for some reason, it’s my fault. I have abandoned them. And if there is anything I have ever been more frightened of in my life, I can’t name it. I cannot abide the thought that I might be responsible for abandoning someone who needs me. Period.
Clearly, I have more work to do here. And, fortunately or unfortunately, I think the first step is to pack my stuff, get on that airplane and head out with Bubba, if only to prove to myself that my fears are mere clouds of black smoke. There is some small kernel inside that truly believes everything will be fine and I will arrive home well before the girls, relaxed and happy to have had this time with my husband. ‘Scuse me while I go nurture that seed…

Summertime with SPD


That is, Sensory Processing Disorder. (Don’t get me started on the name. That’s another rant/post.)

Suffice it to say that Lola deals with SPD – much of the time graciously and with a large measure of acceptance, other times not so much. And much of her life is structured so that she doesn’t have to head butt the enormous invisible beast that taunts her. She has teachers who “get it” and encourage her to work in the way that suits her best. She has pared her wardrobe down to several choice items that, while they don’t allow for much variety, enable her to move through the world without feeling constantly stimulated and irritated. She has plenty of opportunities for physical activity – playing sports and riding bikes and wrestling with Bubba. Her routine, during the school year, is predictable and, when it isn’t, we are sure to accommodate with extra down time and soothing routines.
And then summer hits. And the first few days are bliss. It’s like a long weekend and so long as I make sure she eats every couple of hours to keep her blood sugar up, she is enthusiastic and cheerful.
Go beyond a few days without structure, add in a week-long trip to the mountains, follow that up with a morning sports camp and a sister with an entirely different agenda than her and we’ve got a perfect storm of SPD triggers. She starts to assert that she ISN’T HUNGRY and asks to stay up late reading and slowly begins to disintegrate into someone who turns to mush for no reason at all. The last few days have brought more tears and hysterical outbursts and agitation than we’ve had in the last nine months put together.
And there is a twin crumbling going on inside my head. The small but hopeful, insulated, pretty-in-pink place where I had harbored a hope I was afraid to admit to myself. The hope that she had “outgrown” SPD or that we had been hasty in diagnosing it. The hope that she had come to manage it so well that she had folded those “quirks” inside of her personality the way a tree grows around a wire over time. That SPD had just become part of who she is and she could either wall it off as a separate but alien piece of herself or make friends with it and entirely disarm it.
Instead, summer is here, stripping away my denial. And so the next few days will require me to steel my resolve and re-engineer some boundaries that have fallen away with the end of the school year. Lola admitted to me last night that she is raw, over-reactive, edgy. She is apologetic and contrite in moments of calm, but utterly inconsolable and manic when agitated. I know that it is impossible for me to predict and systematically eradicate everything that could possibly set her off, and I’m not even sure it is wise to try. I do want to allow her to let her true personality shine through, though. This Lola, who is so funny and compassionate and possesses such wisdom about herself and others deserves to shine.

Is There a Better Way to Talk This Out?


“Use your words.”

“Can’t we discuss this?”
“How does that make you feel?”
If I had a nickel for every time I have used one of these phrases…
And of course, those phrases are pulled out of my bag when there is conflict in the house. When things are threatening to explode or have begun exploding already. But I am convinced that, as human beings, we are afraid of differing opinions and potential conflict so much that by the time we get to this point, discussion is like trying to cut a frozen cake with a plastic knife. Merely surface.
Color me guilty.
For a while now, something has been bugging me. Something about Bubba. I’ll talk to my girlfriends about it. I’ll mention it in some slight, round-the-bend, cloaked in humor or false nonchalance to him, hoping he gets the hint and suddenly decides to change his behavior. What I haven’t chosen to do is say it outright.
And all the while, I wonder. I create dialogue in my head, imagining what he would say if I said “X.” I feel like I know him pretty well after twenty-some years, so I can fill in the blanks, right? And the thing is, I am a native Idealist from the land of Idealism, which means that I want him to change because it is the Right Thing to Do, not to appease me. I want him to feel it in his heart. But I’m afraid. Afraid that he won’t care as much as I do or that he’ll somehow mock me or that he will think the entire conversation is a waste of his time, and so I keep the dialogue in my head. And the more I pretend I’m talking to him about it, the more scared I get to actually have the conversation. Because by now, I have done a lot of assuming.
So by the time I found an opportunity to have the conversation with him, I couldn’t look at him. We had gone to bed with our books, him lying on his stomach and me sitting up against the headboard, pillows propping my head and shoulders up. I looked straight forward and dove in. And I didn’t meet his eyes the entire time we talked. Even when he gave me a perfectly Bubba, absolutely authentic, thoughtful reason for behaving the way he had that caused every cell in my body to soften and round itself in recognition that this was the man I love. This compassionate, loving person who had been missing in my imaginary discussions was, in fact, here next to me, offering a scenario I couldn’t have predicted. And while he wouldn’t have prompted the conversation, he was more than willing to engage in it.
Nearly an hour later, I was left with the solid reminder that these discussions always go better in real life than they do in my head. In real life, Bubba doesn’t belittle me or mock me or refuse to deal with difficult situations. It is my fear and anticipation that creates those stumbling blocks for me.
I wonder if there is a simpler way to learn to talk about difficult issues. Talking it out is something I encourage my kids to do all the time, but I am not sure I have properly taught them how to do that. Perhaps that ought to be the next item on my to-do list.

Of Storms and Love


The most hateful hate I have ever known erupts like lava from the volcano that is Eve. Accelerated by the steam of fear and frustration inside this eleven-year-old body it destroys all in its path indiscriminately. It is not about chores or homework or curfew, although that is the story. As her mother, I want to know what lies at the core, what is driving this fear and sadness.

“I hate you!”

“You don’t get it! Nobody understands me!”

The sneer of derision. She looks down on me for my ignorance, but beneath that is the stark terror that I might not “get it.” That it may be that nobody will ever understand how she feels.

I am nearly jealous. At her age, such a volatile, emotional display was acceptable only within the walls of my head. Never to be uttered aloud.

I can remember wishing for confrontation to appear in my daily life. Any situation where I would be clearly justified in getting angry – an explosion that everyone would condone and agree with. I worked through scripts in my head, Dad or Mom or random strangers in the store doing me Wrong and eliciting rage like they never anticipated. I would stop them in their tracks with cold, calculating comebacks, catching their breath in their throats as sudden illumination flooded their brains – they were Wrong. I was Right.

As a teenager, I was quick to anger in the driver’s seat, honking, flashing lights, raising my middle finger. I was courageous within the steel frame of my Datsun 310, stomping on the gas as I passed little old ladies holding up traffic on Highway 101.

On sick days I would lounge on the couch watching “Days of Our Lives.” Inhabiting the diva, wishing for a chance to become indignant and furious, clever barbs and speeches designed to wound sitting lightly on my tongue.

I never imagined being the recipient of such anger. And I’m sure she feels justified, or if she doesn’t, she would never let on. And now I know that her bravado is surely false, its roots deep in fear and uncertainty and an overwhelming rush of emotion that is too much to contain. When I ask her to sit with this anger and fear and frustration, her body sheds kinetic energy – her feet stamp the ground like a wild stallion and she twists in her chair as if being wrung out to dry. Her teeth grind and she begs to be let go. This emotion is too much to bear. “Please let me go!” she screams.

It is all I can do to deflect the energy instead of letting it penetrate. This lovely, perfect creature, flesh arisen from mine, whose heart beats with a measure of my blood, is in such pain and to take it on would only destroy us both. My gift to her lies in attempting to shed this incredible energy and replace the void with love and light.

I wish it were easier.

Is Anyone Else Pissed Off at Justin Timberlake?


I am. And my kids don’t even really listen to his music. But I’m pissed off for the kids that do. And their parents.


One of the headlines on MSNBC today announced that, in an interview with Playboy Magazine, the boy band wonder turned actor admitted he regularly smokes marijuana and justified it by saying, “…it gets me to stop thinking….Sometimes I have a brain that needs to be turned off. Some people are just better high.” Huh. You know, there are other ways to accomplish the same thing. More challenging ways, I admit, but other ways. Fully legal, free ways to clear your mind. Like physical exercise. Yoga. Meditation.

Just last week I saw a special on television produced by our local NBC affiliate that featured a panel of pediatric specialists fielding questions from parents of teenagers. Not surprisingly, one of the topics that came up was drug use. The doctors unanimously agreed that marijuana is known as a “gateway” drug – one that has seemingly few negative consequences and is cheap enough that most kids feel okay trying it. The ‘gateway’ connotation comes from the known fact that many of these kids are emboldened by their experimentation with pot and begin using other, more dangerous drugs as a result. For a number of reasons, pot seems fairly innocuous to many teens. It comes from a naturally occurring substance versus being manufactured in a lab, it is relatively inexpensive and easy to acquire, and doesn’t require needles or fancy equipment to get high. Even kids who don’t want to smoke it can simply ingest it in baked goods and get high.

Unfortunately, these physicians also universally agreed that marijuana has been shown to affect the brains of teenagers by impairing their brain development. “Studies of normal brain development reveal critical areas of the brain that develop during late adolescence, and our study shows that heavy cannabis use is associated with damage in those brain regions,” says one brain researcher whose findings were published in the Journal of Psychiatric Research. Some of the functions that could potentially be damaged by marijuana use? Memory. Attention. Decision-making. Language. Executive functions. (You can find the report on this study here). These are fairly important, no?

So I’m pissed off. At someone who, while getting publicity for himself, would say something so irresponsible. Something that could prove so harmful to so many of his fans. I don’t care if he smokes pot. I don’t care if he shoots up. I don’t care if he engages in any other kind of illegal activities so long as they only cause harm to himself. But I do resent him justifying his immature behavior with such a lame excuse when it could provide just the justification a teenager needs to either begin or continue using drugs, “to clear my mind.” Do what you want in your own time, JT, but don’t pretend that your desire to get high stems from some Zen-like need for clarity. And don’t give my kid an excuse to follow in your footsteps.