Mid-CenturyModernMoms

Have coffee, Braille directions, and exit strategy: will travel.

I've heard it said that the Secretary of War should be an autism parent. We plan for every eventuality. We not only have a plan B, but a plan C, plan D, and more. We think through possible roadblocks and speedbumps, make exhaustive lists, prepare everyone thoroughly for the road, and we always, always, have an exit strategy.
Amigo, a teen with a vision impairment and Asperger's, is actually a very good traveler. He loves road trips. In fact, we print the route plan for ourselves and in Braille for him. He is a helpful navigator, despite his lack of usable vision. When I drive, I put him in charge of the cell phone and the radio. It keeps my mind (and eyes) on the road, and lets him explore any region's local color through its radio dial.
In order to stay the course with fewer hiccups, we plan more details than most parents. The route file for our upcoming trip includes these statements and more.
"After this stop, Mom will need to sit in the front to help watch highway signs in the big city for Dad."
"This stretch will be a long haul."
"We should get gas before we get on the tollway."
"And now we stay on highway 80 until we reach Ohio. Easy, huh?"
"If we're feeling spunky when we reach Cleveland, the Indians are playing at 7:00."
"When we cross the border into Maine, ask 'Are we there yet'?"
Amigo was an active participant in planning this trip. In fact, he suggested getting up early the first day and hitting the road by 7:00 AM. Granola bars and cappuccino for breakfast anyone? I packed my favorite travel coffee mug. After all, besides an exit strategy, what's more important to a road trip than coffee?

This post is crossposted from Compost Happens. It was part of Scribbit's Write-Away contest for June. Her theme was "Going Places."

Whine List

Out of the mouth of Amigo, age 16...across eight states and two countries.

How long will it take to get there?

Can I sit in the front again?

Should I bring my cane?

I don't have a brain.

You decide. I can't.

I can't choose.

You have to do it for me.

I can't.

I don't know how.

I have rights, you know!

Should I bring my cane?

What should I order? You order for me.

Is this food safe for me?

I can't decide. I don't have a brain.

Do you know where it is?

You didn't tell me that!

You need to tell me everything!

What should we do today?

It's my life, you know!

You need to decide. It's your decision.

Do you know how to get there?

Why can't I sit in the front?

I need to get my way, sometimes, too!

Read the trucks!

Mom, you missed a truck!

No elevator? Aw, crap. I hate stairs.

I don't know. I never know.

I don't have a brain.

Mom, let Dad do it.

Dad, let Mom do it.

Should I bring my cane?

I really need to clarify that most of these statements came up on two specific days, one being the day we had a flat tire on the way to catch our ferry back to the States from Nova Scotia. It was a very stressful day for the whole family. We had a good vacation overall. But darn that teen behavior, that Asperger's behavior, and the way they overlap!!

Yes, I'm sending my son to Israel

By Nina

It never ceases to amaze me  -- the looks of horror I get when I tell people I'm sending my 16-year-old son to Israel for the summer.  Even from Jews. 

Well, I'm in the south now and down here people think nothing of asking you straight out, when they first meet you, "What church do y'all go to?"  And then when you tell them you're Jewish and you don't actually go to church, but you belong to Congregation Shearith Israel, three minutes later they say, "Now what was the name of that church you go to?"   OK, maybe it's hard to wrap your brain around the tangle of Hebrew that is Shearith (remnant) Israel (Israel).  This stuff doesn't even rattle me.  It's almost cute.

What I hate are the looks of grave concern when you say you're sending your child to Israel.  You'd think I was sending the kid to Baghdad.  In fact I'm sending him to his homeland, the most progressive, impressive and remarkable nation in modern history.  He will be touring with other teenagers from North America, under strict supervision in what is turning out to be one of the most robust summer tourism season in a few years.  Israel needs that badly. 

I don't want to preach here or get too political on you, but this I believe.  Israel is a brilliant democracy that sits in a very bad neighborhood.  It is surrounded by neighbors who would like it to disappear from the earth.  Egypt is digging tunnels to run guns and supplies to Hamas in Gaza.  Syria and Lebanon, it's puppet state,  have rockets aimed at the Golan Heights and Tel Aviv.  And let's face it, Iran's nukes, whether you believe they exist or not,  are intended for Israel. Only Jordan, ruled by a modern and educated King, understands the utility and potential of "making it work" with Israel.

My son will start his trip in Europe.  He'll tour Prague and visit Auschwitz and see the remnants (that Hebrew word Shearith again) of once thriving Jewish communities where his ancestors  lived, learned, taught, created and prospered.  Then he'll sail into Haifa Harbor, like the Ma'apilim (immigrants)  who survived the Holocaust and made new lives in the Jewish State. He'll see the good, the beautiful, the ugly.  He'll see the security wall and the checkpoints.  He'll see Jews and Arabs struggling to coexist in a complex shared destiny.  He'll hear Hebrew, a language resurrected from the pages of the bible, as a living, breathing modern tongue with its own unique street slang and poetry.  He'll see contradictions and complexities on every street corner. 

Israel isn't neat and tidy. It's loud and messy.  It is all at once western and eastern, orthodox and progressive, secular and religious.  It is our pride and our pain. These ads express our immense pride in what Israel has achieved amidst staggering challenges.

And that's the way I want it.  I cannot protect Grumble from everything.  In truth, I think life in Israel is safer than life in America. People are connected there in ways that can barely be expressed.  When you ride the bus and someone thinks your baby might be under-dressed and chilly, 5 surrogate mothers will step in and offer their sweater as an extra blanket.  Once in a restaurant where my 5 year old wailed for pizza, the proprietor sent a waiter across the street and got my kid a slice.  When Israeli soldiers were camped out in a field near Efrat during the 2nd Intifada, my friends cooked for them as if they were their own sons and daughters.  That's the kind of place I want my son to experience. 

There will be an armed guard on Grumble's bus.  He will not travel outside the so-called "Green Line" and security reports will determine when and where his group travels.  But there will also be songs and sights and stories I cannot give him in America. For 5 weeks he'll be in a danger zone.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

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?

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.

Independence Day

By Nina Rubin

A story in the New York Sun entitled "Why I Let My 9 Year Old Ride the Subway Alone" quickly shot to this paper's "most emailed" list, and also prompted a story on Slate.com.  It all reminded me of Jaws first independent subway trip when he was 12 and in 7th grade. 

In a provoking (in a good way) account in the New York Sun, writer Lenore Skenazy outs herself as a mother who let her 9-year-old son ride home by himself on a New York subway and bus. Yes, he transferred. She reports that her son arrived "ecstatic with independence." And also that half the people she has told "want to turn me in for child abuse." Only half?

Skenazy understands why other parents recoiled at a decision that wasn't all that daring, rationally speaking. It's not simply that parents think of every horrendous kidnapping story and so decide not to take any chance—however tiny—that something unspeakably awful will happen to our children.

So when did the notion of parent-as-bodyguard begin to prevail, and does it connect to the endless tug of war over where and how mothers should spend their time?

Unlike the Manhattan mother of the 9 year old, Jaws' blow for independence was completely unpremeditated and a tad defiant, but luckily for all of us, it had a happy ending. Now that he's 21 and alive and well, I still love telling about it.  It was a turning point for all of us.  A true Independence Day.

It was a Saturday in early spring, and Jaws and a pack of 7th grade friends (boys and girls) had tickets to a Mets game.  Back then we lived in a suburb of Long Island on the same train line that stops at Shea Stadium where the Mets play.  Not every parent was comfortable sending kids alone on the train to Shea Stadium, but having grown up with parents who rode the subways and allowed me age-appropriate opportunities to strike out on my own, I was fine with it.  Going to the ball game with a group of friends seemed to me like the perfect way to give middle school kids some rope and and have a lot of fun.  Jaws and his friends would take the train. They'd get off at Flushing Meadow, walk across the pedestrian bridge to the stadium, watch the game, rinse and reverse.

However, it rained buckets that Saturday.  And as I dropped Jaws off at the train station, the bedraggled group was debating whether or not to bag the game and wondering if it would be "called" and rescheduled. I was certain the game would be called, but I suggested that they all go for pizza downtown and call me when they figured out Plan "B."  So imagine my surprise when Jaws called and hour and a half later and said, "Hi Mom. We're in Times Square."  That's 42nd Street and Broadway...the heart of New York City.

When I recovered from this startling news, stopped yelling that nobody had given anybody permission to embark on this kind of freelance adventure, and made him promise swear in blood to be home on the 5:44 train, I hung up and actually laughed. 

I had to give them credit.  They came up with quite a cool Plan "B."  And they had cell phones.

Despite its legacy as a den of iniquity and a gritty urban crossroads, Times Square circa 2000 was hardly a scary neighborhood anymore.  I should know.  I worked at 44th and Broadway for 7 years at the only major advertising agency west of Madison and north of 23rd street. I'd seen Times Square morph into a respectable commercial crossroads where rising rents had driven out most of the peep shows, the Tads $4.99 steakhouses the Cuban-Chinese restaurants and even Papaya King.  (Poor suburban kids, they'll never have the Papaya King experience.) Increasingly, hotels and chain stores like Disney, Nike and Urban Outfitters had moved in, turning the once tawdry landmark intersection into, well, a suburban mall without a roof. 

The kids had a swell time, stuck together in their little rat pack, and were indeed on the 5:44 which chugged into the Port Washington station at 6:50.  From that day onward, New York City was fair game.  Jaws took some more group forays into the city to see movies, go to museums, and just "hang."  By 10th grade he got active in the Reform Jewish youth movement, and luckily for me, once independent suburban chapters on Long Island and Westchester couldn't afford youth advisors anymore and the NY region merged.  Hallelujah!  Now there were meetings at the denominational HQ's in midtown Manhattan, and "cool" kids from NYC private schools and elite public schools like Stuyvesant and Hunter were on my kid's radar. Even better . . . no more 11:00 pm pick-ups in godforsaken Long Island suburbs like Massapequa and Plainview.  Eventually I didn't have to drive anybody anywhere but the Long Island RR train station.  Some parents were horrified, but not me.  By 10th grade my kid had the subways down pat and had bright, committed Jewish friends in Brooklyn, Queens and Riverdale, the fancy part of the Bronx. 

My kids was worldly.  A subway maven.  He pored over the subway maps as if they were the Dead Sea Scrolls. Once, when I was trying to figure out how to avoid Penn station and take the subway from midtown to Woodside, Queens where the Long Island Railroad kicks in, I called Jaws on my cell phone.  "Oh yeah Mom, it's easy," he said. "Take the Shuttle to Grand Central and then the #7 to Woodside." 

We never looked back, none of us, from that Independence Day. Riding public transportation and figuring it out, has made my kids stronger, more curious and far less "flappable."  If only Atlanta had more public transportation...well, we're working on it.  Meanwhile, Grumble is an airport pro...he's been flying to NY, Washington and Florida on his own for years and will be doing a rather daring little maneuver over Memorial Day weekend, going from L.I. to Manhattan and then taking the subway to Brooklyn.  Are you impressed?  I am.

 

Hey Little Girl! Ya Want a Ride? by Jenny Gardiner

Today we're going to talk about logistics. Moms of teens? Logistics, anyone? Ring any bells?

Okay, fasten your seatbelts, cause here we go. I've got three teens. One drives, one is mere weeks away from her official license and emancipation, and one is completely at my driving mercy for a few more years.

I'm going away for six days to a writing conference. This would be a conference for that writing career of mine that doesn't exactly pay the big bucks. Suffice it to say, my value in this family comes from my kid-shuttling skills. Sure my prose is top-notch and all (I have to say that in order to bolster my self-esteem). But while my income as a writer is imminently replaceable (as in: I could get a part-time job at the Tip Top Diner and make more money), my mere existence as the means of transporting kids to and fro is what makes me needed. And badly. I'm a heartbeat with a driver's license.

Thus my absence means one of three drivers in our cadre of makeshift jitney drivers is off the list. Dad driver has this crazy thing called a day job. Son driver has this crazy thing called school, and then varsity soccer. And of course this of all possible weeks is the week in which there are four---count 'em, four---soccer matches. Three of them out of town.

So middle daughter has the lead in the school musical, performance is two weeks away. This means she can't miss play practice at all, or she'll never get a lead again. We know how tragique that would be.

And then there's youngest. Travel soccer practice, scrimmage and game. Dad is default coach since the coach blew out of town mid-way through the year. Dad's a great coach. But there's that little thing called work he keeps missing out on.

So, Jen sets about planning, strategizing, flow charts a-flowin', spread sheets a-spreadin', all viable options in play in this schedule-rides-while-mom's-gone project. Neighbor #1 has committed youngest for three rides into school this week, mornings only. Her daughter has lacrosse practice after school so no rides home there. Neighbor #2 says he can ride daughter home two days, but two days he's out of town, can we drive his son in on one of those days and then on Monday? Hmmm. This dashes neighbor #1 for one morning because we must reciprocate #2's generosity, meaning husband must drive one day in morning. In the meantime fiance of #2 says she can leave work early to drive kids home two days, so we're set.

I'm set to leave in a matter of hours. But this morning I come down to this email from neighbor #2: "I forgot I have to take son to doctor's appointment tomorrow so can't drive your daughter home."

Damn, now must find yet another link in the chain of drivers. Meantime, husband offers to drive girls in to school this morning (son still asleep; he goes in on late shift to school, a plan devised by administrators to ensure that kids don't have faces plastered to desk catching Z's all day long). On way into town husband calls: how is older daughter going to get home from play practice today? Son has away soccer game. Dad's going to game. Only person headed our way is a girl who now gets a ride home with her sketchy boyfriend. Not the one we want her driving with. Last-minute revelation! Woman in neighborhood (who I don't know--first rule of who-drives-our-kids violated) has kid with bit part in play. We're driving her kid in two weeks to the play while they vacation in the Caribbean. I scramble to find her name in my email in-box, call her, speak with her fiance (what's with the fiances with all of these middle-aged folks in my neighborhood?), who, incidentally, has been married to two other women in the neighborhood in the ten years since I've lived here. Can first daughter ride home with your fiance? Call waiting beeps in. Husband on the phone. Okay, need ride for daughter #1 Thursday as well, as son has soccer match, youngest and Dad have soccer scrimmage, thus daughter #1 would be stranded at school indefinitely. Back to fiance on hold. Will call back after contacting ride source. Ten minutes later, rides confirmed. Two more down, who knows how many more to go?

So if you're keeping up with me (as I should be packing instead of mapping out driving logistics or writing about them) here's the deal: Got rides for youngest daughter to school three mornings but have to give up third morning to concede to neighbor who is giving rides home for four afternoons but who just rescinded a ride. Now also obligated to ride his son Monday morning, which means I can't drive my fun convertible on a warm sunny day since he'd have to be folded up like an origami crane in the backseat, which isn't so neighborly. Means I have to sacrifice and drive the banged-up ho-hum silver mini-van-from-hell. The one whose ventilation system reeks of mildew, with the lingering odor of wet dog. First daughter now has ride home with quasi-stranger---who sound nice on phone---after play practice two evenings this week. For Wednesday? Oops, I forgot. She's got a regional choral concert. Mandatory attendance. In fact they tried to jam in a make-up practice, also mandatory, for this week, but I told them they'd have to pick her up from school and drop her back home afterward. They never replied to my email. So husband now has to trek into school Wednesday to get first daughter, schlep her to concert practice, wait the two hours in town because it's not worth driving home for that time. Youngest? She'll be stuck home re-heating leftover pasta for dinner. Son? Well, at least he can do his own driving when possible. This is why we don't dare use the car as a punitive weapon in our arsenal of things-to-take-away-when-kids-don't-do-what-they're-supposed-to-do. That would only serve to punish us!

Husband just got back. "I still don't have ride home for youngest from practice today." Practice today? Damn, forgot about that! Husband is going to son's away game. How the hell is youngest getting home?

Oh, I forgot yet another thing in all of this confusion. Wednesday? Youngest is supposed to spend part of the day at the high school, where she'll be attending next year. Problem with this? Her ride is leaving at 8 a.m. and headed to another school. She doesn't have to be at the high school till 9. Son and daughter #1 won't be going in until the late shift. Which  means husband now has to drive daughter, wait with her for the arrival of the buses from the middle schools to ensure that she ends up in the group with her girlfriends from the neighborhood rather than some greasy-haired, cigarette-reeking rednecks in cammo. Husband then will have to return to get her at lunch time to deliver her to her school, which is across a busy road and up a long driveway from the high school. Unless...Wait! Son! Son! Son can slip out of school for a few minutes and drive---or maybe even walk!---daughter back to her school. Where husband will have to arrive a few short hours later to pick her up anyhow, unless we can find someone else who's going our way. I think another neighbor's son drives there now, but daughter tells me he's on the golf team and they go elsewhere after school to practice. Dagnabbit!

In  the meantime, I forgot to mention the haircut issue. Son says to me on Sunday: "Mom, I need a haircut. Like, badly. Like, tomorrow." Uh, son, hair salon is not open on Monday. You've got soccer all week long. How would you do this? After series of intensive and illicit text messages while he sat through AP Stats on Monday morning: text, phone salon, text, phone salon, text, phone salon, we conclude that on Thursday he can slip out of the last ten minutes of AP English, race down (though not speeding because then he'd lose his license and I'd throttle him for that!) to the hair salon, and get back in time for his mandatory presence in the stands during the JV game. Or he can go Friday after practice, at 6:45. Only problem is salon closes at 4:30 on Fridays. I guess hairdressers need happy hours (though at this point not nearly as much as I do!). We settle on the post-school, pre-game haircut. Only to have him chastise me for scheduling it then. Huh? I zipped him shut though when I told him if he didn't take that appointment, he'd have to wait at least a week, which would mean going to prom with a fresh haircut, which of course no one does...

Late yesterday school sends unexpected announcement: due to their hosting a state-wide education conference, school for older two lets out at lunchtime on Friday. What about play practice? Soccer practice? Who knows? And whatever happened to just taking the damned bus?

Saturday, youngest daughter has travel soccer match. Out of town, two hours south of here. That means dad's there too, since he's the coach. Son? Why a soccer match, of course, one hour west of here. Who schedules a high school soccer match on Saturday? In four years of his playing soccer in high school, never has there been a Saturday match. Until now. First daughter? Aside from the social life that requires transportation, and the fact that we aren't getting in her required driving time in order for her to get her official license, she has that make-up choral practice that I nixed from the get-go. And all four of them? Expected at husband's parents house for family gathering that night, two hours north of here. Which means husband will have put in six hours of driving Saturday. Make that eight, since he has to drive back that night. And in the thick of all this? I haven't even contemplated who will be tending to our needy dogs and other miscellaneous pets.

Did I mention that husband also has to be sure to feed the kids all week?

Suffice it to say Jen won't be encouraged to do any out-of-town ventures anytime soon...

It's so nice to know that I'm needed. Sort of sad that it's primarily because I am a make-shift taxi-driver, however.

The Word for the Day is: Selfish

I’m going to say something to you parents out there, and it may come as a bit of a shock, but remember, everything I say I say with love.

What I’m going to say to you is this:

Be selfish. Forget the kids. Think about yourselves.

I realize these are uncomfortable sentiments to hear. Unpopular, even. Just uttering them will probably result in my lifetime PTA membership being revoked.

But they are important and necessary and some day you will wish you had heeded them.

Because some day, you will be sitting at home on a Saturday night watching reruns of “Flip This House” while your kids are out doing whatever they fancy because they have been selfish all along. And you’ll say to yourself, “Oh! This is what Melanie meant!”

Kids grow up, you see. And move on. And leave you – alone.

My family just returned from a weekend together; my brother got married for the first time at the ripe old age of 50 (who says middle-aged love isn’t possible??), and we journeyed to Minneapolis for the wedding. On Friday we woke up my younger son – he’s a high school junior – and shoved him in the car, then we drove a couple of hours to pick up our older son from college, and we had a little family road trip. It was lots of fun; the boys were joshing each other and requiring massive quantities of junk food and playing their music too loud on the radio. Just like every other family road trip we’ve ever taken.

The whole weekend was fun; it was lovely to be with family, the happy couple looked, well – happy, and again, my boys were just perfectly delightful company. We had an equally jolly road trip back, then we dropped off the older one and the younger one bade us farewell the minute after we pulled into the driveway. He hadn’t seen his girlfriend in a few days and they had plans, you see.

And all of a sudden it was just me and my husband. Together. Alone. 

The thing about raising kids is - you cannot become used to the fact of your togetherness. Because it necessarily has to change as these children, into whom you have poured your heart and mind and wallet in order to make sure they grow up healthy and happy do just that. They grow up. Healthy and happy and eager to pursue their own lives. 

But since you – the unselfish parent – have not done that, you’re left a little bewildered and a lot sad and wondering if maybe, just maybe, you should have thought of the kids a little less, and yourself a little more.

And you know what? You should have.

Our parents did. Remember them? Remember the Sixties, when children were left alone, left to hang out in the basement untended (where we usually did stupid things like see how many rusty nails we could shove up our noses, or throw things into the sump pump to see if they would float), while the parents all got together and did the Twist and drank cocktails and basically did grown up things? 

But our generation was different (maybe it was all those rusty nails?); we worked more, we invented the phrase “quality time,” and we spent every spare moment with our kids. I know my husband and I did; our weekends were full of soccer games and family game nights and movie matinees (God, how I regret some of those; raise your hand if you suffered through “Space Jam” more than once.). 

Our friendships with other adults were mainly limited to other soccer parents, room parents; we had nothing in common with most of them save for the fact that we all had procreated more or less at the same time, and in the same geographical area. 

But now the soccer games are over, and we have neglected to cultivate friendships with people we actually like, actually share interests with. And so we sit at home on Saturday nights watching reruns of “Flip this House” while our kids are out partying and I say to myself, “This is so unfair.”

We’re trying to rectify this. Fortunately, my husband and I like each other, so there’s a start; at least we have each other. We’re also trying to be more social, initiating parties and activities and trying to get to know neighbors, reconnect with relatives and friends, who do not have children, and it’s been surprising. There are some pretty neat people out there who have never heard of Bozo Buckets. Who knew?

But it’s hard, you know. Hard, when you’re in your forties.  It’s hard to put aside your insecurities which, after all, are pretty well entrenched by now, and reach out to other people. 

But it’s necessary. And the sooner you start, the easier it will be.

Which is why I’m telling you now – stop thinking about the kids! Stop planning your life around them! Stop making them your best friends. Because for sure, there will come a time when they will stop planning their lives around you. 

And then where will you be?

Trust me. You can only watch so many episodes of “Flip this House” before you want to take a hammer to your television.

Because those people are absolute idiots.

Separation Anxiety

Pomegranate, my fifteen year-old, is off on the trip of a lifetime this week: three weeks in Europe with my in-laws. A mini Grand Tour.

I’m a wreck.

Pom is the child who didn’t speak a word or phrase of whose origin I wasn’t completely certain until she was three years old. This is the girl who, last spring, called me within twenty minutes of receiving her first kiss. She used to talk about how she wanted to build a house in our backyard where she could live with her husband and children—a detail she now denies, of course, but that’s probably a healthy thing.

The first leg of her trip was a one-hour, direct flight, and the airline people were kind enough to let me see her to the gate. When we got there we found that the flight was delayed an hour and I was tempted to hang around. But something told me that it was important that I leave her there, alone. To say there was a knot in my stomach would be an understatement. Of course, I was the one who had to fight back tears (and didn’t do such a great job). She hugged me and told me that everything would be okay with condescension befitting a queen.

I want to believe that, when she’s in Europe, she’ll always get on the right trains, she won’t go off sightseeing with some nineteen year-old cad named Paolo, she won’t leave her purse on the back of her chair and have her passport stolen, she won’t be run over by a fruit truck, she won’t be kidnapped and sold into slavery because of her beautiful blue eyes. My in-laws will be nearby, but they are not worriers. When their own children were young, they encouraged them to have their own adventures when they traveled in foreign lands.  Pom is thinking a lot more for herself these days, and I can tell that she has that same certain feeling of ultimate invincibility that all teenagers have.  It would stun her to even know that I know she has that feeling.

I am exhausted now. I know this is an important step for both of us. She needs me to trust her, and needs her independence. I know teenagers who have gone on trips without their parents that were filled with much greater risk: mission trips to China and India, mountain-climbing in Switzerland, building houses in Katrina-ravaged New Orleans. A trip to Europe with Grandma and Grandpa should be cake of the most delightful sort. And it is, for her.

Who knew that separation anxiety wasn’t just for three year-olds? I need to remember to breathe. Breathing will be important, too, when Pom turns sixteen and gets her driver’s license next month. (Uh, two weeks after her birthday because she stopped at but then turned left on a red light with the whole family in the car!) I have a feeling that this is just the beginning.

Parent-child communication

Posted by Daisy

Ah, technology. Can't live with it, can't live without it -- but mostly, how did we live before email and cell phones?

My daughter "La Petite", barely 21, was traveling with her roommate during their winter break. She watched the Packers/Seahawks divisional playoff game from a sports bar in the Orlando area. Typical Green Bay Packer fan, she ended up meeting up with Packer fans from all over the country. The native Floridians were, well, awed and astonished by the game being played in an incredible snowstorm. La Petite, good Wisconsinite, told them she lived in that climate and knew how to shovel!
We text messaged throughout the game. I don't know about her, but it helped me channel some of the nervous energy that comes with an exciting game that actually has implications for our family.
Just a taste of our "conversations" --
La Petite, after first touchdown: High-fiving strangers!
Me: High-fiving Amigo! (her 16-year-old brother)
La Petite: Eat it, Seahawks!
Me: It's hardly snowing here (thirty miles south of Lambeau Field).
La Petite: The Floridians are freaking out!
Me: (after another touchdown) Dancing with Amigo!
La Petite: Dancing with Strangers!
La Petite: Guess what: two of the strangers are from (insert town in) Wisconsin!
Me: Ask them if they know (insert relative's name here)
La Petite: You're silly. I loved the snowball fight!
Me: Favre throws hard, even snowballs.
La Petite: We're chanting "Go, Pack, Go!"

...and more irrelevant but fun text messages.

Then a few days later...
Husband: La Petite just called. They missed their flight. They'll try again tomorrow.
Me: Do we know any more details?
Husband: Hmm. (cell phone chimes) Incoming text message! She says, "We got another flight!"
We waited, thought, wondered, and then --
He responded: When?
Her answer: Tonight!

Well, we shook our heads, but we didn't respond asking for details. We figure she'll get here when she gets here.
The bunnies, at least, will be awake!

Labels: Family: Never a dull moment, parenting, travel