Tag Archive for: parenting

The One That Got Away

I knew it was a stretch. But I didn’t think that rubber band was going to snap.

By the time I was a junior in high school, I had been to a ton of rock concerts: Foreigner, REO Speedwagon, Journey, Yes, Rush, ZZ Top, Depeche Mode, 10,000 Maniacs, OMD, and Tom Petty, to name a few. I was lucky to be the younger sister of a completely devoted music fan and an indulgent mother. We lived on the Oregon Coast, less than two hours’ drive from Portland, and for some reason, my mom figured that my brother would get into less trouble (ie. refrain from smoking pot) if he was accompanied to concerts by his little sister. Drugs were not my brother’s scene, but I wasn’t about to disabuse my mother of the notion if it meant I got to tag along to such cool shows.
So when U2 announced a concert and my boyfriend’s older brother managed to get a block of ten tickets, I figured I was golden. Asking was simply a formality. Oh, did I neglect to mention that the concert was in Vancouver, BC? Roughly an eight-hour drive and requiring an overnight stay? But my boyfriend’s brother (who was at the Naval Academy and, by all accounts, a very responsible semi-adult) was going to drive and chaperone. It all seemed perfectly innocuous to me. They were my favorite band at the time – idealistic, with powerful lyrics and songs that were also fun to dance to. They were also my boyfriend’s favorite band and that would probably have been enough on its own, but I was desperate to go. This was the closest U2 had ever come to Portland and, with the intense conviction that this was probably going to be the ONLY chance I would ever have to see them LIVE in CONCERT, my mom had to say yes.
Only she said no. I was stunned. But not for long. I quickly went into negotiation mode, followed by anger, pleading, more negotiation, utter breakdown, and hatred. I’m pretty sure those are the seven stages of teenage angst: stun, negotiate, anger, plead, negotiate again, tearful breakdown, hate your parents. Yup, that’s it.
For some reason, she thought the drive across the border into another country to see a rock concert attended by tens of thousands, followed by an overnight stay in a hotel chaperoned only by my boyfriend’s college-age brother was a bad idea. Huh. I can’t say I saw her point. In fact, I don’t think I spoke to her for a week. And when my place got taken by another of our friends and I had to suffer through the description of the entire weekend they had all together without me I was certain I would dissolve in my own churning stomach acids. And my only consolation was that my mother would feel really bad if I did.

I held that grudge for about a decade. Honestly. I am certain that until the moment I first held my newborn baby girl on my chest at the hospital, feeling that fierce mother-love slip its tentacles into my every morsel, I still hated my mother for not letting me go. And now I look at Eve and get it. What the h*%# was I thinking even asking? What the h*%# was my mother thinking letting me and my brother drive to Portland alone together to go see KISS in concert? There were people sitting in the row in front of me whose gallon-sized popcorn bucket held both the salty treat and their drug stash, tucked inside a plastic baggie. They had purchased said baggie just outside the coliseum, along with several dozen others in the crowd. Am I likely to let my girls go to concerts alone? Insert snorting laughter here. Not. Bloody. Likely. I’ll drive them, drop them, and pick them up right outside, yes I will. And I won’t give a damn if they hate me for it.
But I digress. Last year, U2 announced another concert tour and, having heard this story several times before I forgave my mother, Bubba rushed out and spent a fortune on tickets for the two of us. Ahh, sweet redemption. And a sweet husband. And then, one month before they were to be in Seattle, Bono threw out his back and they cancelled the rest of the tour. WTF? Was I destined to be denied U2?
Until tomorrow, anyway. Tomorrow night, barring any magnificent horror the Universe throws at me or the band, I will be sitting outside at Qwest Field in Seattle grinning from ear to ear and soaking it all in. I’m sure there are more devoted fans. I’m certain I’m not the most fanatical U2 groupie (nor do I aspire to that). But I will finally get to see U2 live in concert, more than 20 years later. And, Mom? I forgive you.

Why I Can’t Be Happy About Osama’s Death

It’s the same reason I chose not to spank my kids. Fear is a powerful motivator, yes. But the only thing I’ve ever seen it motivate anyone to do is hide. Hide their intentions. Hide their actions. Hide their plans. And in my house, growing up, spanking was used as a tool for control because it inspired fear. “Do you want a spanking?” Heck, no! So we learned to lie. We learned to behave a little better, too, but it certainly didn’t teach us right from wrong. We learned avoidance.

When Bubba and I decided, very intentionally, to get pregnant, I voiced my very strong opinion against spanking. At the time, it was naive and optimistic and borne out of my pacifist ideals. Later, when Eve would get willful or fight against napping, and when she was two and her favorite philosophical position was, “NO!” it became a question. Why can’t I spank her? Why did I think this was a bad idea? And it prompted some mental exploration on my part.
My knee-jerk reaction was that hitting another being was wrong. Period. Wrong with a capital-W. Why? Recalling my experiences with spanking, for myself and my siblings flooded my senses with fear. I don’t want my child to be afraid of me. But it was more than that. Each and every time I was spanked, it came from a place of anger. My parents were furious with me and they showed it. In some cases, that anger was nearly out of control, and it was always palpable. As a child, I vowed (for many reasons) never to be out of control. Responding to my child, or anyone else for that matter, in extreme anger, rage, or frustration was frightening to me.
I learned to step back. I learned that it is perfectly acceptable to take a time-out and breathe and consider my options. I learned that automatic consequences that were borne of rage tended to be overblown and out of proportion and they generally were incapable of being carried out: “No TV until you’re 16, young lady!” I also learned that as I took time to consider my options, I could learn a little bit about the situation and gain insights that I hadn’t noted previously. Unless I chose to hang on to the anger and let it simmer. In which case it turned to score-settling and revenge-seeking.
I remember exactly where I was on September 11, 2001. I awoke to the phone ringing and answered to hear my father-in-law’s voice telling me to turn on the television. He was rattled and I sat riveted to the news reports all morning, eighteen-month-old Eve strapped into the Baby Bjorn on my chest. I was overwhelmed with sadness. I was also confused and a little bit frightened. And since that day, our lives have changed a lot as Americans. And I completely understand the anger and hatred and rage directed at Al-Qaida and Osama bin Laden. But I don’t think his death will change anything.
Watching the news coverage last night, I took in the sight of the growing crowd in front of the White House as they chanted and held up signs. I acknowledged the notion that this provides closure for a lot of people. And I was saddened that, for many individuals, the over-riding sense was that a score had been settled. I can honestly say that I don’t think acts based in anger or rage or vengeance can ever “end” a feud. I have never seen an argument settled when the last word spoken was out of hatred. Osama bin Laden may have masterminded some atrocious acts in his life, but his death will only add fuel to the fire for those who believed in his brand of terrorism. This is not a game of Chess. Osama was not the opponent’s king who, once cleared from the board, signals the end of the match. There are no “fair” rulings here. I am not saying that a just punishment for Osama bin Laden is not warranted. I am simply saying that to take joy in the death of someone else cannot provide any sort of healing for anyone.
I am certain that my parents don’t wish they had spanked us more as children or reacted in anger more often. I know that, these days, when Eve and Lola ask my mother if she really used to spank us with a wooden spoon, she cringes. I’m pretty sure I know what that means.

Culmination


At Eve’s school, they have Culmination ceremonies instead of mid-terms or finals. The purpose of these gatherings is to demonstrate their proficiency with the material they have been studying to their peers, teachers, and families. The school very much has a “stand and deliver” philosophy that encourages the girls to truly achieve mastery of each subject and understand it in a way that they can then teach it. The point is to ensure that they aren’t simply cramming their heads full of facts that will promptly be forgotten once they lay their pencils down.

Last night, we went to the second such ceremony and, just as I was the first time, I was struck speechless. The theme last night was “Literary Salon.” The girls have been studying fairy tales, both modern and ancient, and their impact on culture and were tasked to create their own books, complete with illustrations. In addition, they have been talking about personal identity and were asked to create what Eve’s teacher calls a “river” poem, honoring many of the tributaries that flow into them to make each girl a whole. Finally, they have been studying music (guitar, keyboards, singing, and music theory) individually and as a group. The girls performed in groups, recited their poems individually, and read their stories aloud to the family and friends gathered in the room. Not only were they asked to memorize poems and music, they were asked to find their voices and their courage to speak publicly and showcase their talents and creativity.
The grand finale came as each and every girl in the class sat down with her guitar and they played and sang “Lean On Me.”

“Sometimes in our lives
We all have pain
We all have sorrow.
But if we are wise
We know that there’s
Always tomorrow.

Lean on me
When you’re not strong
And I’ll be your friend.
I’ll help you carry on.
For it won’t be long
‘Til I’m gonna need
Somebody to lean on.
Please swallow your pride
If I have things
You need to borrow.
For no one can fill
Those of your needs
That you don’t let show.

Lean on me
When you’re not strong
And I’ll be your friend.
I’ll help you carry on.
For it won’t be long
‘Til I’m gonna need
Somebody to lean on.

If there’s a load
You have to bear
That you can’t carry
I’m right up the road
I’ll share your load
If you just call me.
So just call on me, sister
When you need a hand.
We all need somebody to lean on.
I just might have a problem
That you’d understand.
We all need somebody to lean on.”

I was absolutely (to the intense mortification of Bubba and Lola) brought to tears. These girls, each of them so different, were really singing this song to each other. There are girls who come from broken homes, lesbian homes, girls being raised by extended family, African American girls, girls from Cambodia and those of Latina descent. There are girls on scholarship, a girl whose father was recently killed in Afghanistan, girls with learning disabilities and one who is repeating fifth grade. There is a girl adopted from China, another who has never met her birth father, and others who wish they hadn’t. There are girls who are proficient in mathematics and others who are great with music or art. There is a girl with a debilitating anxiety disorder and one whose mother recently battled breast cancer. These girls know all of these things and more about each other and yet they banded together when everyone was cleaning up last night after Culmination to ask their teacher to let them perform an impromptu song for us all. They have spent evenings together camping on the beach in the cold, wet Pacific Northwest, cooking meals together and pitching tents and holding each others’ hands and heads as they got seasick on a boat. Despite their differences, they are united in their accomplishments as young women of passion and humor, ideas and love for life that literally brought me to my knees. This is not a group that is concerned with gossip or fashion, boys or competition for the spotlight. This is a group of young women who are well on their way to finding out who they are as individuals and recognizing their strengths as a group. And I, for one, am honored to be a spectator of it all.

Free To Be (You, Not Me)

I don’t love one of my girls more than the other. But I do treat them differently. I wish it weren’t so, but I have to say that I am not sure it is unusual or wrong. Since the first day Eve opened the door a crack to let her personality out I saw myself. When she was two and we battled over naps or bedtime or dinnertime, the crumpling of her eyebrows, the concrete set of her intentions – that’s me. The absolute need to be Right and Win, my particular Kari cocktail running through her veins. Over the years I have worked to remind myself that these traits will serve her well in her life. They will allow her to stand her ground even when she is feeling shamed or alone in her convictions. In our daily interactions, they often lead to unpleasant stand-offs between the two of us and I am left desperately searching the recesses of my brain for ways to temper some of Eve’s most problematic qualities. As I see them.

Which leads me to the knowledge that what I consider to be her most difficult personality traits are the things I hate most about myself. I cringe in shame as I remember times when I rushed, face first into an argument with someone else, convinced I had The Answer and determined to prove the other person wrong only to discover that there were things I didn’t know. Possibilities I hadn’t considered. Or, worse yet, maybe I was “Right,” but in my quest to render that fact in indelible ink, I trampled someone else’s feelings or disregarded their self-worth. I see Eve wearing a path in that meadow, back and forth, more often than not between her bedroom and Lola’s.

Yesterday as I sat on the back porch with my book, soaking up the sunshine, Lola quietly made her way to my side and sat down, forearms crossed over her eyes in a familiar pose of misery. I put my book down and turned to her as she parted her elbows to give me a glimpse of wet, full eyes. She and Eve had fought in front of Eve’s friend and Lola, embarrassed, shoved her and stormed out of the room. Eve followed, some angry words were exchanged, and Eve slapped Lola on the arm. I don’t know how hard she hit her or what they said to each other and, frankly, as soon as I heard that Eve hit her little sister, I stopped listening. I knew I couldn’t punish her in front of her friend and I had the presence of mind to know that any consequence I came up with needed to not come from anger. And I was angry. Really angry.

The depth and breadth of my anger was out of proportion to the incident. I realized that. There was a heaviness in my lower gut that led all the way up to the set of my jaw. I was furious with Eve. Despite what went before, how could she hit her sister! Would I be this angry if she had hit someone else? Nah, that’s not even a question. She would never hit anyone else but her little sister. That realization made me even angrier. I sat on the deck steps, my arms around Lola as her tears dotted my shirt, and fumed.

An hour later, standing at the kitchen counter chopping zucchini for dinner, it hit me. I was angry with Eva because, as the oldest sister, she is supposed to protect Lola, not hurt her. Wait. That was my life. My childhood.A door opened. The thoughts came swirling out like smoke rising from a campfire – as a kid, my siblings and I stuck together so that none of us would get hurt. And even when we did get hurt, we didn’t go it alone. We had each other. We stuck up for each other and looked out for each other and took care of each other. It kills me to see my girls fight. The thoughts bumping up against the ceiling of that hatred for their arguments tell me that, someday, they will be all each other has. Their sibling bond is stronger than anything. Through breakups and fights with close friends and disappointments they are too embarrassed to share with anyone else, they will have each other and they need to protect that bond at all costs. And Eve, as the oldest sister, is charged with being the gatekeeper. The key holder.

Or is that me? When I see so many similarities between us, I wonder if I too often mistake her for a miniature me. Despite the fact that her childhood is not mine, her life is not mine, I think I may be, in some way, reliving my childhood vicariously through her. All of the times I mentally assaulted myself for not doing enough to protect my baby sister, Eve could fix by taking care of her sister better than I took care of mine. And here was the source, the wellspring of my anger. I was upset because I would never have done anything to hurt my little sister. I had given myself the job of protecting her and couldn’t imagine doing anything to make her life more difficult or challenging than it was already.

But Eve is not me. And her childhood is not mine. And I have no right to expect her to fix the mistakes I made in my life by doing them over better. There is some Bubba in this gorgeous girl, too, and I need to honor that. But more than anything, I need to honor the Eva in Eva and allow her the freedom to explore who she wants to be outside of the boundaries I might think of for her.

Empowering and Understanding


Lola decided to play lacrosse this Spring instead of softball. She has a good friend who wanted to play and there is much more movement and action in lacrosse – simply more her style. Practices are twice a week for an hour and a half and they play two games every Saturday. It’s definitely a commitment. Especially in the Pacific NW in a La Nina year. They’ve been at it since February and I think I can count on the fingers of one hand (okay, one practice) the times it has been sunny for practice. After the first week, I took to bringing an old paper bag with me when I picked her up so she could put her muddy cleats in the bag before getting into my car. By last week, I was putting a beach towel down in her seat so that her mud-splattered backside wouldn’t ruin the upholstery. And when I say “backside” I don’t mean bottom. I mean that it looks like she stood facing a wall while someone took a paintbrush dipped in mud and flung it at her body, splatter-paint-style.

She is in Heaven.

In hail, strong winds, pouring rain and, yes, even snowfall, her solid 4’3″ frame hurtles across the field, spraying wet clumps of grass behind her as she chases the ball. Without fail, halfway through practice she slows down slightly to unzip her sweatshirt, peel it off, and fling it to the sidelines because she’s sweating from the effort. A grin adorns her face for each and every one of the 90 minutes she is on that field.

Last week as I sat in the car with the heater warming my toes and my heated seat on to its full potential, I wondered whether the coaches would call practice off. The baseball and softball players had long since gone home and the black clouds had that particular electricity to them that warned of a thunderstorm. I half-wished they would call it off so I could get home and start dinner early. But in that same moment, another thought pushed that one away. The boys weren’t going home. Their lacrosse practice was still on – I could see them in the farthest field, crashing their helmets and shoulder pads into each other with abandon, the way boys in middle school do because they know they’re too young and strong to get hurt. Yes, it was wet. Yes, it was cold. But these girls weren’t in danger of suffering anything they couldn’t handle. Of the four teams of girls, only one has a female coach, and none of the coaches, regardless of gender, was about to call off practice. Whatever their reasons, I decided I didn’t care. Knowing that Lola was out there having the time of her life and receiving the message that she was strong and capable enough to practice in inclement weather was terrific.

Eve is playing basketball with her classmates this season as well. She is not much of a ‘team-sport’ kid, but when her school fielded a 5th grade team and she realized she could play with girls she knows who are her own age, she got excited. This age brings with it self-criticism and a shyness borne of comparison like no other. Among her peers is one girl who is smaller in size than Eve, several who are slightly taller or bigger, and two who could pass for 7th graders. Two have played basketball before, but the rest of them are newbies. The coach treats them all the same. She mixes up the scrimmage teams, runs drills where she stops each of them at some time to make a particular correction or explain something further, and plays with them. At the beginning of practice, held in a local community center that is usually full of older boys playing the rough, NBA-style ball, she makes sure to shoo everyone out of the gym and shut the doors before beginning practice. She gets it. But while she makes that concession for them, she is tough with them in other ways. They are not allowed to sit down for the entire practice. They can rest and take water breaks as necessary, but everyone on the team works their butt off. She makes sure they know what their bodies are capable of and shows them time and time again. Eve is so proud of her ability to do things she never thought she could. She convinced herself long ago that she is more a “creative-type” than an athlete and, while she enjoys messing around on her bike and shooting baskets in the backyard, she was fairly resigned to the fact that playing a sport on a team wasn’t for her. She’s discovering just how wrong she was about that.

In very different ways, my girls are both learning that pushing themselves in a safe environment is a powerful feeling. I am terribly grateful for coaches and organizations that provide them the opportunity to spread their wings within these comfortable boundaries. It makes me that much more committed to ensuring that girls everywhere find places like these in their lives in order to empower themselves and better understand their own abilities.

What Are the Stories You Tell Yourself?

This whole lifelong learning thing is coming at me in waves! Unfortunately for me, I often plow through my days busying my brain with so many things that the Universe has to shake me or poke me or smack me upside the head to get me to pay attention from time to time. And with certain issues I prefer to avoid altogether, it is necessary to poke me repeatedly. Money is one of those issues. I am lucky enough to have what I need so that we aren’t living paycheck-to-paycheck like most of the world is and that has enabled me to continue to hide behind the black curtain, blithely continuing to ignore the cavalier way I treat financial issues.

And from time to time, I get the nagging feeling that I’m spending too much money (not on big things, I’m the nickel-and-dime-you-to-death sort: Target loves me, so do the grocery stores where I often impulse-buy, and I love getting little gifts or cards for friends as I see them). Occasionally Bubba (who is the primary money manager in our household) will throw out phrases like, “hemhorraging money,” and a little red flag pops up in my brain. But mostly, I continue on, blissfully ignorant. But last week Bubba was in Canada on business and it was the end of the month (one of those months where we had apparently been bleeding cash from every orifice) and my debit transaction was denied at Target. And later it was denied at the restaurant where I took Lola and one of her friends for lunch. So I went online and checked the balance of the account (barely recalling the password and username Bubba set up for us). Seems that Bubba did a big cash-grab for his trip, cabs and lattes being easier to pay for in cash – especially when you’re in another country. This meant that until payday, my free-wheeling debit card days were over. Wake. Up. Call.
Lying in the tub that evening, I decided that my usual modus operandi (guilt and shame at how ignorant I am about our finances leading to self-loathing and resulting in complete denial of the issue until payday when everything would return to normal) wasn’t going to cut it anymore. So I created this worksheet:
Turns out I have all sorts of “stories” I tell myself about money. That I am horrible at managing it (and so this gives me the excuse to not even try), that it isn’t important to me and I can do without it (and so this gives me the excuse to disregard it), and that I have a partner who is terrific with money and interested in managing it for our household (and so this gives me the excuse to rely on him to tell me what to do with it). Putting that in writing made my skin crawl. I felt like I had just downed an entire bowl of sea slugs in salt broth. ICK!!! I felt guilty, ashamed, lazy, and confused about where these stories came from. And I felt motivated to change them. They are not accurate, but they are ingrained.
I made ten copies of the worksheet and am keeping the original in my office. I know that, as young as they are, Eve and Lola have their own dysfunctional stories they tell themselves about difficult things. I have stories about exercise and health, relationships and conflict, and my own mental health status to name a few. But having the ability to look at the way I find trapdoors for myself and excuse behaviors that perpetuate my own negative self-image around certain things is incredibly powerful. It isn’t easy or pretty, but the simple realization that I have based a lot of my actions on inaccurate stories I tell myself is a huge catalyst for change. That doesn’t mean I’m taking any accounting classes anytime soon, but it does make me feel more empowered about my own behaviors around money and helps me think of ways to teach the girls to do the same.

Expanding Waistline! Good For The Brain?


This news just in! Well, it isn’t exactly news and it’s not scientific. But each and every one of the following mini-epiphanies I’ve come to this week started with my own inability to fit into any of my favorite pairs of pants comfortably. It seems I’ve taken too many liberties with the carpool snacks I provide for the girls and the stash of Theo Chocolate I have in the cupboard. Add to that the crazy schedule I’ve had over the past few months that makes it difficult to get to yoga regularly, and more often than not in the past week I have found myself almost resorting to lying on my back to zip my jeans up. Not acceptable.

So I have decided to conquer this latest bulge with mindfulness. I am not very mindful about food as I’m putting it into my mouth. I am terrifically conscientious about planning and cooking meals, making sure they are healthy and well-balanced (and gluten-free), but once it comes to the eating stage, all of my thoughtfulness goes out the window. And snacks are my kryptonite. This week, I have resolved to stop and think before anything gets consumed by me. Do I need this? Do I even really want it? Why am I eating right now? Will ten of them necessarily taste ten times as heavenly as one?

Seems that mindfulness regarding food consumption is contagious to other parts of my life. Here is what I’ve discovered this week so far:
  • The things that my girls do that make me gnash my teeth the most? It turns out that they know those things make me batsh*t crazy. But even more profound is the fact that, when I examine the issue, those are the things I most despise about myself. Hmmm. Ick. Am I trying to change them so I don’t have to see them reflecting me back to me?
  • For several months at the end of last year I began wondering whether I was having early-onset Alzheimer’s disease, and that’s not a joke. Both of my grandmothers had it and it is truly frightening. I was having difficulty recalling things from my short-term memory and took to bringing a notebook with me wherever I went so that I could write down tasks I needed to remember, things I needed at the store, and writing prompts for later. Mostly I talked myself out of panicking, saying that it was normal aging, but I really was worried. Then I went off of my anti-depressants and now, four weeks off of them, my short-term memory is greatly improved. They say writers need to have some angst and while I’m doing fine off of my meds for now, I wonder if they made me a better writer or a worse one. On the meds, I didn’t begin every day wondering when the depression was going to smack me upside the head, but I had difficulty recalling simple things. Off the meds, I’m a little more nervous about impending doom, but I can at least keep track of what I wanted to write about.
  • Success (mine, anyway) can only be had one moment at a time. All I have is this, right now. I can beat myself up for the handful of dark chocolate raisins I ate last night without being mindful at all, and use that as an excuse to eat another handful or think poorly of myself. I can worry that there are more in a bag in the pantry and I will surely want them again later. Or I can sit in this moment right now and acknowledge that I don’t want them right now. This moment, right here, where I am doing what feels good to me (writing, listening to the clothes tumble around in the dryer, furry dog on my bare feet) is a success.
I don’t know if all of this is going to help me fit into my jeans better next week or next month, but I do know that each baby step I take toward living in this moment and being honest with myself about what I’m doing and why can only help.

Building Community


Everyone wants a village. In fact, I’m convinced that it takes a village to raise us all – not just our children. When I tell people about the neighborhood I live in, (six houses, fifteen kids, eight dogs, three miles from downtown, neighbors who are willing to wait for your kids at the bus stop if you’re running late…) they turn all shades of envious. We aren’t nosy or in each other’s faces, but we do know that if someone is hurt or sick or in need of a good book to read, there’s always someone willing to share. When Bubba was in the hospital, they brought meals, mowed our 1.5 acre lawn and offered to watch the girls. We carpool from time to time and have communal garage sales and care for each others’ pets when someone is out of town. It rocks. And when Bubba and I discuss moving from time to time, I am struck with worry that I might not find this again.

So when I was listening to an interview with Peter Lovenheim, author of the book pictured above, I was glued to my seat. His book chronicles his own attempt to create a tight-knit, invested community in his own neighborhood and the changes that came about for everyone as a result of it. Later in the conversation, the NPR commentator brought in a social anthropologist (forgive me, I forget his name) who pointed out how American communities have changed over time, citing commutes, distance from family, and dual income households as some of the reasons we have grown distant from our neighbors. Whatever the reasons for this phenomenon, it is clear to me that most Americans want what I have, but not many of us know how to go about getting it. And beyond desire, it is even more clear to me that we all need this kind of connection in our immediate backyards. Who couldn’t raise their families better with support from their neighbors?
One comment made during the program that struck me was regarding women as the social center of the family. The social anthropologist noted that, before women went into the workforce in vast numbers, it was their “job” to connect with neighbors, join the PTA, volunteer for civic organizations and plan social engagements for the family. They were the ones who spent time in the immediate vicinity of the home and had the greatest opportunity to become engaged in the life of their own community. I think that that is still true for most of us. While there are many fathers who volunteer as coaches for their children’s sports teams and who join the PTA, it is the women who tend to find ways to get entire families together to socialize or help one another out. Bubba might initiate an invitation to his co-worker’s spouse, but it is me who puts together an invitation to dinner at our house. It is me who arranges carpools to sports practices and hears about the cancer diagnosis someone’s mother just received. It is the women in our neighborhood who call around and set up meal calendars to help out the family suffering from illness or injury. I might recruit Bubba to help out, but it isn’t in him to organize a community effort like that.
I am not saying this to be disrespectful or disregard men’s efforts in social engagement. I simply know that, if Bubba were in trouble, he would not reach out to another guy for help with meals or carpools or household chores. He might, maybe, possibly ask his mother (who lives 300 miles away), but he wouldn’t think to approach a neighbor. And while he would have no problem helping a neighbor out, he isn’t likely to flat-out ask if one of them needs help. Whatever the reasons, I learned long ago that people are more than happy to help when asked. I used to feel ‘weak’ or ‘pathetic’ when I couldn’t manage my own life every second of every day and it was for that reason that I resisted asking for help. But when I was forced to, I noticed that my neighbors felt better about themselves when they could pitch in. And my kids learned to trust these “strangers” because of their willingness to help out. They also learned to ask if they could help when they saw that someone was in trouble.
It is satisfying to send a check to the Red Cross for relief efforts when some natural disaster happens. But it is so much more rewarding to head over and mow your neighbor’s lawn for them when you know that Dad is away on business for two weeks and Mom has her hands full working 40 hours a week and raising three kids. There is no tax deduction for that, but there is the knowledge that you’ve done something tangible for someone who really needed it and, without keeping score, the next time you could use an extra hand, you know that another neighbor will be there.
Beyond pitching in to help each other out, the trust that is established between neighbors like this leads to fun as well. In the summer, I often look outside to see that an impromptu soccer game has begun on our back lawn and the bucket of sidewalk chalk is splayed across the driveway as a street mural is created throughout the cul-de-sac. On any given summer evening, the girls might be out riding bikes with some of the other kids from the ‘hood and I can bring out a bottle of wine and some extra glasses. The next thing you know, there are a few other parents sharing the lawn with me as we catch up on each other’s lives and watch our kids goof off.
I’m certain that growing up with this village around them will help my girls to feel connected to their wider community and continue to seek this kind of neighborhood throughout their lives. I know that they will think nothing of asking for help when they need it and offering it when they see someone who could use it. Learning so early on that we are stronger together is one of the best things I can teach my kids. Learning to trust others and know that you have a safety net close by is so valuable.

Sex Ed


Sex Ed. Ooh, the phrase strikes fear in the hearts of so many for such a variety of reasons. I’ll admit that, as the mother of two daughters, I was a little afraid to broach the subject, too, and with Eve being the first of my girls to get any sort of formal sexual education at school, I was curious and a nervous. But, three weeks into the six week program, I have to say that I don’t even know why it is called “Sex Ed.”

Let me preface this by saying that my own personal experiences with Sex Ed are basically two: mine and Eve’s. I have no idea what the curriculum is like at most public schools these days. I only know what I got (an awkward, red-faced teacher whose attempt to educate us was limited to a thirty minute film coupled with two worksheets that basically described male and female reproductive anatomy), and what Eve is getting and the two are not even in the same universe.

Of course, any faithful reader of my blog has read my fawning words of praise for Eve’s school here and here, so I suppose none of the following should come as a surprise. But, that being said, I honestly think that even if half of the content given to Eve and her fellow students is presented in public schools today, we ought to rename the class itself and maybe douse that fear strike with a big ol’ bucket of water.

While the staff at Eve’s school do tackle those big scary concepts of anatomy and development and *gasp* sex, there is so much more involved. Like discussing how we make decisions and why. Like understanding that, in the heat of the moment, we often can’t rely on our brains to give us accurate enough information so it’s important to build a moral framework that will carry us through. Like learning to accept that our bodies and minds are changing and making friends and staying true to ourselves during those shifts is really, really hard. They ask the girls to think about whether the pediatrician they’ve seen since the day they were born is someone who they can comfortably talk to about their period and their body image. If not, they want the girls to explore whether they feel like they can talk to their parents or guardians about that and find someone who they can trust and talk to. They talk about peer pressure and nutrition and how they can take care of their bodies and cherish them, no matter the package they come in.

The lessons are also broken down into developmentally appropriate classes so that the eighth graders are getting slightly more sophisticated information than the 5th graders that makes sense to their lives and acknowledges the fact that they are moving on to high school where relationships are vastly different. Last week, the sixth graders wanted to talk about their periods, and the teacher divided the class into groups of three or four and asked the girls to put on skits about having their periods to demonstrate what they already knew, or thought they knew. One group of girls designed a show around a girl who lives with her dad and was mortified to have him take her to the local drugstore to buy tampons. The third member of their group was the nearly-deaf cashier who insisted on hollering, “TAMPONS? I THINK TAMPONS ARE ON AISLE THREE!” in the middle of the store. Another group showcased a young girl who desperately wanted to cancel a sleepover she was going to because she was having her period and was embarrassed to think about throwing away soiled maxi pads in someone else’s bathroom or leaking blood onto her pajamas unknowingly. Once she found the courage to confide in her girlfriend, it turns out they were both cycling right then and everyone had a good, hearty laugh.

These girls astound me with their cleverness and honesty. And the staff bring tears to my eyes with their willingness to listen to the concerns these young ladies have. There is an anonymous question box that has served to enlighten everyone simply because nobody has to raise their hand and ask the embarrassing question everyone wants the answer to.

More than anything, though, I am pleased that “Sex Ed” is treated like just another subject at Eve’s school. These girls are given information that they need just as much as long division or social studies and encouraged to participate by asking questions and exploring ideas outside of school. Eve asked me the other day, as I was driving her and five of her classmates in the carpool, about my first period. I told her honestly: I was in seventh grade and went to the bathroom during the break between Algebra and PE to discover a lot of blood in my underwear. Nobody had ever talked to me about menstruation, so the blood that showed up after a morning of back cramps told me one of two things – either I had some horrible childhood cancer, or God was smiting me for making doe-eyes at Eric during math class instead of listening to the teacher. Either way, I was going to die, but first I had to stuff half a roll of toilet paper into my pants before heading off to PE. The girls were mortified and they all vowed to bring pads to stash in their lockers the next day in case they started their periods at school.

When I think about the things these girls are learning that have nothing (or at least, very little) to do with actually having sex with anyone, it makes me sad to know that there are families in my neighborhood who purposely keep their own children home on the days Sex Ed is scheduled. I am disheartened that the curriculum is even saddled with that particular name, given that these are tremendously important life skills that are being offered, but that the politicization of sex has frightened so many into thinking that we are, instead, encouraging our children to think about sexual intercourse by teaching them about their bodies. What I see them learning is how to understand and care for their bodies, how to ask questions that are important to them (even if they prompt blushing), and the notion that adults in their lives trust them enough to give them this information that is vital to their well-being.

Miracles: Contest Entry


This is the 400-word essay I entered as part of a contest with the prompt “miracles.”

A man who came home from war in Vietnam so scarred that his wife didn’t know him.

A mother of two whose doctor told her that if she got pregnant again, it would kill her.

A baby girl living in an orphanage in Saigon whose best chance for a good life lay in America.

This five pound baby whose identification bracelet is so small it fits my adult-size thumb like a ring, was strapped onto an airplane with some 300 other orphans and nurses to find her way to the promised land. The plane skidded through a rice paddy after taking off and burst into flames as it crashed, but this little fighter managed to survive.

An American businessman who opened his heart and his personal bank account to fly the survivors to the US despite the fact that they didn’t all have homes to go to.

The pilot who knew that his buddy from Vietnam was a good man with a wife who desperately wanted more children. He put in a call for help to see if they might who might agree to foster one of the children.

This is the story of a tiny baby girl, suffering from malnutrition and desperate for a family, who ended up bringing love to my mother, hope to my father that something good could come of the war, and a precious playmate to my brother and me. She has brought laughter, redemption, and a world of acceptance to our family and today she has her own little girl whose wide-eyed wonder at the world brings each one of us joy.