Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Who’s the Rebel Now?

by Laura Benedict

Just now—no lie—Pomegranate came in to say that she knows that just because she doesn’t do drugs or have sex doesn’t mean she’s a good person. Also that it scares her a little because God gives her pretty much everything she asks for now, and does it mean her life is going to suck later, or will she suddenly die in a tsunami or something.

Our discussion veered well into the religious and philosophical, so I won’t delve into it here. But I will say that she is a good person. She’s nice without being sappy or condescending; she’s one of those kids who doesn’t just hang with one group of friends, but floats. She works very hard for her grades and the solos she gets in choir performances. She’s almost always kind to her unpredictable, emotion-driven little brother. And she’s occasionally grateful for what she has.

How in the hell did this happen? Where did this angel-child come from?

Oh, I have my exasperated moments: When she says, “Why do you hate me?” after realizing that I’m not going to change the whole family’s travel plans so that she can go to a party. Or when her father replaces the five gajillion gigabyte video Ipod he bought her “just because” with a refurbished one because she carelessly lost the one he gave her. Or when she asks me if she can pretty-please drive on her own to meet her boyfriend a mere three days after we revoked her driving privileges for an undetermined amount of time—and you would’ve done the same if you had seen her pull out in front of a school bus, nearly killing herself and her little brother because she hadn’t bothered to wipe off the passenger window. Or when she hurt my feelings last week, making me want to cry.  But, I digress….

Sometimes I get a little suspicious of the goodness of her in much the same way she is suspicious of the bountiful circumstances of her life. Does that sound ridiculous? I don’t understand how she is the way she is, and I certainly don’t deserve to have such a well-behaved child. It freaks me out.

I’ve probably mentioned this before, but I was a nightmare of a teenager—that girl who was always getting other kids into trouble, that girl that no mother of a son wanted to see show up on her doorstep. Ah, those were the days. I’m so tame now. For a long time I looked back on those years with intense mortification. But I confess that I’m just a smidge proud of that rebel girl who got a job taking clothes at the dry cleaner’s counter at the age of fifteen so she could support her clothes, gasoline, concert ticket, boyfriend, and—not long after—beer and Jack Daniel’s habits. My parents were generous with their car and made sure I had all the necessities and lovely vacations. Plus, they loved me. I was never grateful, though, and I treated them badly.

My father keeps warning me that Pom’s going to go off the rails someday and rebel in some catastrophic way. Presumably it’s in the genes. Maybe she will eventually rebel. But I don’t think it will be in any way that I’ll immediately recognize.

Or maybe Pom missed the gene. Maybe it’s her brother who has inherited the nightmare-teenager gene. I hadn’t thought of that. Damn.

Thank You Note Season

By Nina Rubin

Thank you note season starts a little early down here in the south.  In Georgia, school is over by late May or the first days of June, so all the end-of-year honorifics get cranking the minute the buds appear on the trees, which in Atlanta is actually late April.  Spring unleashes not only pollen, but an avalanche of graduation parties, weddings, engagement and baby showers.

This year in our little family we have Jaws graduating from college and Grumble's Confirmation.  Graduation ... well, you know what that is.  Confirmation?  In the Reform Jewish tradition, which started in 19th century Germany, Confirmation is the culmination of one's formal Jewish studies...and it's big deal.  It's usually done at the end of 10th or 11th grade, coinciding with the Jewish holiday Shavuot which commemorates the giving of the Torah on Mount Sinai and the so-called "first fruits" of the harvest.  The ritual has a deeply Lutheran high-church pomp and circumstance aesthetic -- the kids wear robes, sometimes the girls carry flowers, there is much speechifying and the kids write a "creative" service. In old historically German-Jewish congregations like The Temple, you'll hear the organ pumping out sturdy old Reform hymns.  All in all, it's the kind of "show" that prompts people to give gifts. 

But wait, this isn't about Confirmation, it's about thank you notes. See, I have a thing about hand written thank you notes.  Call me old fashioned, call me quaint, I like real thank you notes on real stationery. People have actually complimented me on my thank you notes. So I'm a major nag on the topic.  Silly me, I just don't think an e-mail thank you always cuts it.

With teenagers one has to be flexible. Teenagers and thank you notes...yeah, it's a horror movie.  Especially when you were married to a rabbi for 22 years and congregants not only sent you stuff and expected to be thanked, but were secretly rating you (and your kids) on the promptness and quality of your thank you notes. 

Imagine your child's bar mitzvah where the whole congregation had been invited...and fed. Think 400 thank you notes.  You gotta feel for clergy kids.  It's a crushing number of thank yous.  So here's what we did for our kids:  Printed up 400 generic thank you notes in the own child's handwriting that said something like: 

"I am so pleased that you could be with me when I was called to the Torah.  Thank you for honoring me with your presence and your gift." 

Friends and family got real handwritten notes, but the rest of the pack got the pre-printed generic ones.  I'm reasonable and compassionate, but in the end, there will be thank you notes.

So now let's up the ante:  we're in the South where people are Southern, make eye contact, and talk slowly. Thank you notes?  Not optional, mandatory.  Roll the soundtrack:

Me:  Sweetie, you have another package.

Grumble:  Huh?

Me:  I think it's from one of the Temple ladies in Dad's torah class, Mrs. Hutzenplutzenreuther.

Grumble:  Who?

Me:  You know, Mrs. Hutzenplutzenreuther who invited us for dinner when we first moved here?  The one who brought me roses from her garden (thank you note written).

Grumble:  Whatever.  [OPENS PACKAGE]  Oh, cool!  A travel alarm clock.  [DROPS WRAPPING PAPER ON FLOOR AND RESUMES PLAYING GRAND THEFT AUTO].

Me:  Did you send a note to the Blumenthals?  They made a donation to the youth fund in honor of your Confirmation. [Teenager has no concept that even there is a youth fund.]

Grumble:  You didn't give me their address.

Mom:  Yeah, I did.  It's listed in the synagogue directory which is on the dining room table . . . with your stationery. 

Teenager:  [THROUGH CLENCHED TEETH] I said I'd do it.  Back off, Barbie!

At times like these, it's the shrill voice of you own mother you hear.  You have morphed a shrill Harpie, a relentless nag clinging to the opinion of others, as measured through the currency of thank you notes.  You are an enforcer, a bad cop, an evil cyborg grownup who sees the rolling of eyes behind closed doors.

But here's the thing: You also know you're doing the right thing.  By insisting on something as old fashioned and Luddite as a hand-written thank you note, you are making your stand for manners and the power of the pen.  I don't know about you, but most of the time I actually think it's worth it.

 

Looking Backwards, Looking Forwards - Musings

As a first time mother, you don't know any  better.  The second time 'round, you're just too tired to care.

I hope that you had a happy Mother's Day!!!

Our dreams (plans) for our children change over the years.  A parent can keep those dreams until you get hit in the face that they must be modified.

Looking back, I can see that some of my hopes for Abe (17.5 yo, PDD, ADHD, NVLD, etc) were too expansive.  When he was born, I hoped for a wonderful kid who was going to have a wonderful life.  He's a wonderful kid (when he wants to be) who has had a hard life in terms of figuring out how to deal with his disabilities.  I still hope that when he's older, he'll think that he had a good childhood.

When Abe first started at an out-of-district, special education  placement school in the middle of 4th grade, I had dreams that he would be back in the mainstream during the high school years.  When Abe went to a high school SPED placement, I had dreams that he was going to graduate "on time" and go onto a regular college.

Now my dreams look somewhat different.  I want him to repeat 11th grade so that he can have more time in the therapeutic environment of the residential school that he's starting at the end of June.  I still dream of him going off to college and living an independent life, but I know that he is years away from that.  Abe's going to get there, but it's going to take him longer than other kids.  But I have faith that he's gonna get there (ya gotta have faith, baby).

My dreams for Rosie (14 yo, NT, ADHD) were never different than mine for her brother.  Be a good person, be of good intelligence, learn at nice schools and have a wonderful life.  I never dreamed that I would expose my children to the harshness of both parents having cancer or to domestic discord; but that's some of my legacy to them.

A mother always has hopes and dreams for her children.  Those wishes have changed over time as to specifics, but the basics of wanting the best for your kids always stays.

When you have eight kids...

"So, mom? Nick and I are thinking of getting an apartment together in September."

Adam stands before me, all six feet of his 19-year-old self, his brown eyes calm. No anxiety, no "how will mom take this" in his face.

Between the two of us, my husband and I have eight kids.

Mothers tremble when their babies leave the nest. Good mothers do. They worry, they ache, their soul yearns for the child-turning-adult who is leaving. Because at nineteen, he thinks he's an adult, but a parent knows better. Not a child, nor yet quite an adult. So much room for disappointment, confusion, mistakes. How will he cope with the world out there? How will the world treat him?

And how will mom cope without him? The big, gaping hole in the nest. A major centre of your life, gone.

When my eldest left the nest, she was comfortably sure I'd cry. Comfortably sure. She clearly liked the idea. It was a reasonable assumption, too: all her other friends' mothers had cried, and me? I sure fit the mold of the type who'd cry. I stayed hom with my kids all their lives. At first, I had a husband to support us finanacially; I did a day or two a week supply teaching. Then, a single mother, I supported the family by working from home during the week. For the first exhausting, financially desperate year of the separation, I worked seven days a week: at home Monday - Friday, then away from home on weekends.

I homeschooled for the first ten years of their lives. I was there. A single parent, a work-at-home parent, a home-schooling parent. And I loved it. I love being a stay-at-home mom. I loved homeschooling them. I even loved being a single parent. It was a helluva lot easier than parenting in the frightening, draining emotional maelstrom that had increasingly been my first marriage. Being with my kids has always felt natural, seemed right, has been just so comfortable for me.

I'm a good mother. And good mothers cry when their babies leave home.

"So mom? Nick and I are thinking of getting an apartment together in September."

When you have eight kids, it's not so much an empty nest...

And through my head run threads of thoughts. "That gives me three and a half months to try to teach him some financial sense ... budgeting, the boy needs to learn to budget ... the basement room will be empty, wonder if his sister will want it?... good thing he has a decent job ... wonder if Nick'll get into college ... lordy, that apartment will be a pit ... no more tripping over giant boots in the entry ... how often will he come to visit ... can give him that box of china in the back porch ... will we need to rent a truck?"

All sorts of things.  But ...

I'll let you in on a secret: I don't cry. I don't even worry overmuch, and I certainly don't pine. In fact, the primary feeling in every case -- and this will be the fourth -- has been relief.

Because really, what is the goal of parenting but to raise considerate, functional, contributing adults? Considerate, functional, contributing adults who will leave home? So when they go, that's another milestone accomplished on time, another sign I'm doing it right, yes?

I have some worries. I know the boy's foibles and weaknesses. I'm fully aware of certain things that are going to cause him problems. I will observe, as much as I'm allowed, with a mother's concerned eye. I will offer, as much as I'm allowed, advice and support. But, and this causes an unadulterated bubble of glee within me:  As of September, we could possibly be down to one child in full-time residence in the house.

Imagine the freedom!

More food: no more discovering the meat for an evening's meal for the entire family has been consumed by foraging male in search of after-work "snack".

More space: no more clutter of enormous footwear in the front hall.

Less worry: he can wander in at 2 a.m., and I won't know anything about it.

More space: a freed-up basement bedroom, which my youngest will likely snatch means a freed-up bedroom on the second floor -- which means ... oh, be still my heart ... a study for me!

Less worry: he can omit to call home when he's going to be late, and I won't be the one wondering where he is.

More space: no more office in the dining room!!

I wonder how he'll do, if his inherent slovenliness and Nick's inherent tidiness can happily co-exist; if he'll be able to juggle school and work; if he has the discipline to meet deadlines in a timely fashion. I make contingency plans. If he has trouble managing his finances, I can do A, B, and C. If he fails a course, or even a term, before he learns to effectively manage his time, we can do X, Y,and Z.

I am not unconcerned. I will not be uninvolved. I will always, always be there for him.

But I am miles and miles and miles away from tears.

My son might be moving out in September!!!

When you have eight kids, it's not so much an empty nest as it is the light at the end of the tunnel.

Mixed Messages

So much is going on at our house that I feel the need to unburden myself or I'm gonna 'splode from all the information overload. There's good news, there's bad news, there's insanity, and there is relative calm. Oh, and there are two nutty teenagers that live to change the equilibrium at any given moment. Because, you know, they're teens!

So what's new?

The Boy made high honor roll in school. HIGH HONOR ROLL. You have no idea of the nachas this gives me. I'm so very proud of him for finally, after 11 years in school, buckling down and deciding to maybe, perhaps, um...do his work. Because that's a good idea if you're trying to get into college, isn't it?

But is he happy? Why no, because I'm a bitch to him and I never do anything nice for him and he hates me and hopes I have a heart attack and die. He's just a bundle of joy these days. I'm so sick of being screamed at I just want to duct tape his mouth shut. I won't, but don't think I don't fantasize about it. And just what is it that he's so angry about? Oh, I had the unmitigated gall to ask him to dig up some weeds in the garden. Last week. And then again every freaking day. But he won't do it, and he says that he gets no pleasure from gardening, so why should he do it? Um, maybe because you eat the food I grow from my garden? Could that be a good reason? Evidentially not.

And then there was that party. The one my darling son held while I was out of town. The one he was told not to even THINK about. But he did it anyways, and there was alcohol and probably pot and a whole bunch of kids spread all over our front hill. How did I find out about the party? Well, first I found an empty liter bottle of gin in his closet. That was a fun discussion. And because I am the suspicious type (do you wonder why?), I checked his Facebook page. Facebook is awesome for catching kids doing bad things. They're so dumb they leave up photos of the parties. All you have to do is follow the photos. I did, and lo and behold, that was our porch with my son holding a beer can looking particularly wasted on a friends photo set. Ahem. I could probably get a job with Scotland Yard. I'm that good.

Consequently, things are up and down with him. School = good. Home = bad.

The other one? The Girl? She's gonna drive me absolutely bonkers writing a paper on a book she read for school. She hated the book. So what else is new? She hates reading of all kinds. Sort of a disappointment for a serious book lover and writer like myself, but what can I do? Her father is an engineer. Say no more.

The deal is, if she persists in whining and nagging and complaining, at some point I'll come to her rescue just to shut her up. Guilty as sin, I am. But gosh, how much whining can one person take? My tolerance is low, apparently.

Her schooling is coming along despite the fact that her tutor is dyslexic (I know!) and not overly bright. Sweet as sugar and helpful as can be, but OMG, I eventually insert myself in the tutoring sessions in English because otherwise my kid would be learning the wrong stuff. Math and science, I'm not that worried about. The kid is doing fine in school.

However, the school. Well, as nice as they are about my son, they're nasty and unpleasant and totally unhelpful to my daughter. They do not like her. They do not like green eggs and ham either. Well, the feeling is mutual. Not about the green eggs, although I doubt I'd like those either. About the school administration. They are not nice to me, to her, and they're driving me beserko.

And then there's me. I'm doing ok, hanging in there. We're going as a family to Chicago in a couple of days for an event sponsored by Ford Motor Company. You would think that traveling with teenagers would be a piece of cake compared to toddlers and infants. Well... you would probably be wrong. The preparation before the trip is exhausting. We're being feted at a fancy restaurant for a Mother's Day dinner, which meant that we had some shopping to do.

The Boy has outgrown every single piece of clothing he owns, so we had to get him pants and shirts and a pair of shorts just in case the weather ever cleared up in Chicago. Apparently the weather will never clear up in Chicago. Sigh.

The Girl only owns summer dresses that fit well. And no decent pants. More shopping. Like the Girl, my only dress that is currently in style and that fits after a major weight loss is a strapless summer frock. Off to another store to get me something springy but with sleeves and a bit of skin coverage. I hate to shop, I hate to spend money on clothes, and I hate to take my kids shopping. So this week was really swell. 

Oh, and the allergies. The allergies! We all are suffering. The sniffles, the nosebleeds, the itchy eyes, the rashes.

All in all, a jolly good time at our house! So what's going on with you?

It's all political. And I mean ALL political.

When I opened the package Monday, I knew it was my new clutch bag, a prize from the  MOMocrats' drawing last week. The bag is as sweet as can be, letting me show off my political preferences with class -- at least until the Democratic convention, and perhaps longer.

The cute little clutch was full of miscellaneous swag, too. A MOMocrats magnet and bumper sticker, a tiny hand sanitizer (you know, to use after shaking hands ad nauseum at a rally), and the piece that made me laugh, honestly, out loud.

Of course, the saga continued. Husband asked, "Are those what I think they are?" La Petite -- well, she's 21, and our "chat" went something like this.

La Petite: "OMG THATS HILARIOUS! Can i pin them onto my bulletin board? since you clearly can not properly display them anywhere at your work or home, but me on the other hand, well its almost so cliche i have to do it..."

Me (the serious mother): "Now, my gifted and talented and intelligent offspring (yes, I really did address her in that manner), you realize that if you put a pin through them they become unusable."

La Petite: "Yes, thank you Mrs. Teacher Mom. I realize they forced you to teach sex ed last year, but don't worry, you don't have to anymore."

She's right. I don't have to teach sex ed any more! W00T!! And just because I can, I'm going to mail a package of, shall we say, "unique campaign material" to her campus apartment's mailbox.

Not Quite Malibu Barbie, but Darn Close!

written by Judy Merrill Larsen

For the past twenty-one years, I've driven mom cars.  You know the type--they can haul car seats, little league teams, coolers and ice for lacrosse practice, 7th grade social studies projects, and all sorts of car pool arrangements.  Not to mention juice boxes, happy meals, and pizzas.  Once the juice stains have faded (for the most part), you can load the car up for that first drive to the dorm.  And then back home that summer.  Then, load it up for that first apartment.  Oh, and trips to the vet for the dogs so they can cover the windows that aren't open with nose prints and the ones that are open with drool.  It's a car that screams MOM.  MIDDLE-AGE.  SUBURBS.

 

 

I went from a Taurus wagon for the first 7 years, to mini-vans (two!) for the next 6 years, to a Saturn wagon for the past 8 years.  It's what my kids affectionately refer to as "The Silver Bullet."  It's what my sons drove to learn to drive.  They less affectionately asked if I paid extra for all the squeaks and pings it makes as I motor along.  It shouts "practical" and "paid for."

 

 

 

What it doesn't shout (or even whisper or sing) is "fun" or "sexy" or "carefree."

But, this does.

 

And, for the past two weeks, I've been behind the wheel of my first ever convertible.  Now, I'm not a car person (exhibits A through C above!).  But, there's something about a convertible that fills me with glee.  It's impractical, I know.  I'm 48 for cryin' out loud.  Some of you might be wondering if maybe I'm having  little mid-life-menopausal-type crisis.  Nope.  I'm just finally at a point in my life where what I drive doesn't have to take into consideration my kids.  It can be, dare I say, for me.  For fun.  And when a friend mentioned a few weeks after we'd had lunch that the lease on her 2005 convertible was up and it had fewer than 9000 miles on it (Yes.  You read that correctly) and that she had a good deal to buy it but she wanted something else, I casually mentioned it to my husband that night at dinner (because, we'd been talking that perhaps it was time to hand down the Silver Bullet to one of our more-or-less deserving children) and the next day we took it for a test-drive on one of the first sunny, warm days we'd had since last October.  And I felt like Malibu Barbie--only with brains and not in a bikini.

And no, the kids cannot borrow it.  There's a perfectly good 2000 Saturn wagon they can use.