CONNECTICUT MOM

2010-10-27T10:39:00.000-07:00

No more hovering: You’re grounded mom and dad!

“Less is more; hovering is dangerous; failure is fruitful. You really want your children to succeed? Learn when to leave them alone. When you lighten up, they'll fly higher. We're often the ones who hold them down.” -Time magazine 2009

Are you a “helicopter parent?” Maybe even just a little bit? It’s okay to admit it. Really. That’s the first step: Recognizing it. And then learning to abstain as much as you can, or as much as possible. Heck, I have been known to strap myself into the cockpit on more then one occasion, certainly when my children were younger and I seemed convinced that they couldn’t possibly advocate for themselves (and, often, they simply couldn’t, so grabbing the wheel of the heli was the absolute best course of action; sometimes I even parachuted in).

It’s parental instinct to want to help your child, protect her, right a wrong - actual or perceived - and make sure he is doing the next right thing; basically to want the best for your kid. Sometimes, though, especially when your child is a teenager, the parent’s idea of the best may not necessarily be what’s best for the child. We need to check our motives when the situation warrants, whether it’s the grades they can or cannot achieve, which sport to play, which dance to dance, to what college - if any - they choose to apply.

Simply put, which battles do we fight for them, and when do we let them fight their own?

Here’s an anecdote I can offer: In high school, my son Kenny was the only player on the soccer team he was a part of, who after four games hadn’t seen a minute of playing time; he was upset. He was a good athlete and there didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason for the coach overlooking him. Even his fellow teammates were puzzled. The thing is, my son is quiet by nature; even though he can feel an inequity, he is not one to make waves with authority. By the time the third game came and went, we encouraged him to ask the coach to put him in or, at the very least, question why he wasn’t playing. The fourth game was also played minus Kenny. On the sidelines I was livid and the old mother bear began to growl, ready to pounce. My intellect kept reminding me that this was high school now, don’t say a peep, but my emotional self was wanting to punch the coach in the face. I joke, I joke, but I did want to say something in a kind but firm manner.

After the game I began striding towards the coach but my son grabbed my arm and cried, “Don’t!” So I told him either he says something in practice the following day, or that I would. Really, it was high time for my kid to man up, so to speak. I knew it wasn’t my battle. I hoped against hope that Kenny would find his voice, and therefore be able to stop gathering splinters on his backside. The next day he did find that voice and I could tell from the way he carried himself that it had empowered him of which I was both proud and relieved.

By high school, our children need to do things without our hand-holding, such as advocating for themselves with teachers, administrators, or guidance counselors. Certainly we can step in at times, and are on occasion even asked to by the folks at school. But we need to try and let go, loosen the reins a bit.

Just for the record, even the whole college search and application process should be something in which our teen take more of an active role. Out of that hovering habit, I began the Google and Naviance searches, informing my junior and now senior daughter of some college options which might be of interest. And then it dawned on me that I am not doing her any favors, and I cried, “Wait! I am not going to college, you are. Become invested in this process or dad and i won’t become invested in it, figuratively and literally.” Viola`! Backing off resulted in her moving ahead.

And moving ahead all on their lonesome is what they have to do in order to pilot their own course and fly into their future, whether it is the next day, or the next year.

Back like Favre: Parenting teens a bumpy ride

2010-09-27T10:31:00.000-07:00

As Eminem says: “Now I’m back...” Why do I quote Eminem instead of Arnold Schwarzenegger in terms of “I’m back?” Well... because I am back; the Brett Farve of columnists, and because Eminem is popular with teens, silly and this is going to be a column all about teens and the myriad wonderful, wacky and “oh-my-gosh-why?!” things that they do. It’s also about how you, the parent, can survive those seven years of teen-ness.

I have two teens living under my roof right now, and have two sons in their mid-to-late 20s who had to pass through the teen years in order to get to their current, mostly mature ages; “mostly” being the operative word. True, all four children also had to mosey through infancy, toddlerhood, elementary school and the sixth grade to get to those teen years, and I am therefore qualified — as it were — to discuss all of the trials and tribulations of those particular ages. But trust me: No stage, absolutely no stage of their growth and existence is as crazy-making as the teen years. None.

Those first few months of life with colicky kids, exhaustion and sleep deprivation in general? Tame compared to the sleepless nights presented by loud sleepovers that haunt, annoy and frustrate one deep into the wee hours of the next morning. And then your teen starts driving, breaking legal and parental curfews and ignoring the sound of their cell phone ringing as you frantically call to find out where the heck they are, and why. So you are forced to sit up past 11, 12 or one o’clock, fuming and frightened, until they casually and defiantly saunter through the kitchen door.

Potty training? Please. A walk in the park when confronted with the ca-ca you must occasionally clean up due to a lapse in judgement from the teenage brain; part and parcel of the teen years, and a real, scientific truth about adolescents and their brain function. Scientific or not, the mess can be more foul than the dirtiest of diapers and soiled Pull-Ups.

But, of course, it’s not all sturm und drang. It’s really wonderful when your newly minted teen begins to morph into their young man or woman-ness to be. There’s something about the manner in which they begin to carry themselves that signifies a burgeoning sense of self-confidence. Even the beginnings of pulling away from Mommy and Daddy, those baby steps of independence, while a little disconcerting to the mommy and daddy, also brought me to a new level of growth as well; they were/are growing up and becoming a more fully formed person, in turn helping me to form a new identity.

After about age 14 or 15, I also delighted in the return to a bit more pleasantness in conversation. The “I hate you’s” (yes, yes, it can happen) and “You’re so stupids” become less a mantra and more of a once-in-a-blue-moon vent. I noticed — and dear Lord, please let Jack return to his boyhood sweetness soon — that around sophomore year I was actually, if only occasionally, complimented and my opinion or help was now sought out after a few years drought.

At any rate, although I am no teenage parenting professional expert by any stretch of the imagination, I am nonetheless a seasoned veteran, and I hope to offer pointers, pondering and predicaments to aid all of us in the care and feeding of the teen wolf.

Someone once commented that “raising teenagers is like nailing Jello to a tree.” Perhaps it is an apt metaphor — and a hilarious one at that — but maybe together we can, in fact, actually nail a bit of the wiggly stuff to a tree. We’ll at least give it a shot!

2010-08-31T19:14:00.000-07:00

One Coming, One Going

My younger two kids started school today. The youngest faces his freshman year at New Canaan High, essentially beginning his journey through high school, and my daughter began her senior year, basically the commencing of the end of her journey.

It was a bittersweet, gulp-down-the-emotions morning for the mommy as I watched them get out of my car and head in the front door, with nary a glance back at me. I felt proud, anxious, relieved and flabbergasted that somehow, after 27 years of motherhood I now stand four years away from the infamous empty nest of which I hear tell.

One coming, one going. In June of 2001 I first had one coming and one going in a bit more of a spectacular and daunting fashion: My oldest son was graduating high school and a school system after 13 years, and my youngest son was going to enter kindergarten that September. I was looking at going all the way through for the fourth time; those 13 years never loomed so long and large!

But now they are wrapping up maybe faster than I am ready for? I mean I comprehend that Jack is only a freshman, but those of us who have had a child go through high school before know that the time really zips by, almost in a flash. There they are, all kinds of gangly or awkward, short or tentative as ninth graders, still rather baby-faced, and then - BAM! - they appear on the eve of senior year all grown up, whiskered and brawny, female figured, filled out and sassy and chomping at the bit to get the hell outta Dodge!

I will treasure this year though, observing Jack navigating his way around the social and academic maze of high school, and watching Jess anxiously as she tidies up her final year, emerging a more confident, settled and fully formed young woman on the cusp of, well... greatness.

One coming, one going. And one mother holding a handful of hope.

2010-07-29T16:24:00.000-07:00

Lazy kids in summer

Okay. So we are officially in those "lazy, hazy days of summer." Heat, humidity and horrendously bored kids.

I should be cutting my two teens some slack and I have been. A bit. After all, Jack spent one month at Teton Valley Ranch Camp each day riding horses and/or hiking, plus an assortment of other activities; up early, out in the sun. No phone, no computer, no television, no video games and no music. Ditto Jess, who hiked and camped in the back country of the Tetons for 12 days straight (add "no showers" to her litany), and then spent three days hiking to and summiting the Grand Teton, and back down again. They both were deserving of some R&R.

So I have given them two weeks of said rest and relaxation. And now I want them to see more action!

Jess actually needs no encouragement to contact friends and meet up with them. But it's a record that skips (please tell me, dear reader, that you are old enough to understand this metaphor? Do you remember vinyl? And how a scratch on the record would make the needle skip over the same part again and again and...again?) Anyway, her days and nights follow a never-changing pattern. She is too bored to know how boring the pattern is: sleep until Noon - even though she asks me to wake her at 8:30 or 9 a.m. and then keeps requesting the wake-up call in hourly increments (yes, I know I shouldn't allow this; maybe I'm guilty of lazy-syndrome too!); then eat, shower, check her Facebook and Jonas Brothers updates, and ask me to drive her into town to meet X, Y and Z friends for dinner. Back home at curfew. This is followed by phone calls to seemingly the same people she was just with, all the while glued to the computer and the statuses. Sleep. But not until 2 or 3 a.m. Awaken. Repeat.

"Change it up!" I cry. "Have people over here! Go to a movie! Take the train into the city!"

She did have to take a quick summer school course - online, no less, in a very flexible move provided by New Canaan public school's summer enrichment program. But even doing this simple thing was procrastinated by laziness. Ah well.

My fairly newly-minted teen, Jack, has adopted the lazy attitude, too. Wake up, waffles, ESPN; the broken record. He's certainly not interested in doing an organized activity after his time at camp, but even the suggestion of calling a couple of friends is usually met with a grunt. Of course in his defense a lot of his pals are out of town. Still.

I recall those summer days of yore when boredom would occasionally force the kids into the spirit of entrepreneurship, and rickety stands to sell lemonade or water or Gatorade would appear at the end of the driveway.

Or there were moments when Jess and Jack were younger and I could entice them to spend a little time re-arranging their bedrooms or organize their drawers in preparation for the upcoming school year. Ha! Fat chance of that now.

"Clean your room young lady, or you are not going into town!"

"But it's suuuuuuummmmmmmer!"

The clothes get rearranged from the floor of the bedroom to the floor of the closet. Ditto with Jack.

They used to beg me to go to the town pool; we now have one of our own which - oddly - they rarely use.

They are now too old to think going to Lake Compounce with mom is a viable idea, and Lord knows the movies with mommy on a hot summer's day or night is a hideous prospect.

I suppose I should lighten up a bit. Like they both say, it is summer. Better to be lazy in August then lazy come September. And I should also enjoy the down time where I am not shuttling from one child's activity to the next, nor is laundry such a must, and food shopping and cooking are additionally overrated on a soggy, muggy day, air-conditioned store or car be damned; it's still too bloody warm.

Perhaps these lazy, hazy days are Mother Nature's way of helping us to slow it down, take it easy for a month or two. I should just let the kids be, and turn off the pre-programmed tape that insists that there be structure and accountability. Several weeks of whatever the spirit moves is allowable.

See? I even chose a fairly lazy topic for this column, too!

Mom Here, Mom There...

2010-06-28T08:45:00.000-07:00

This is how last Tuesday went down: I am out here in gorgeous Jackson Hole, with two weeks alone before my husband and daughter will join me and then a week after that we pick up Jack, our youngest now 14, who attends Teton Valley Ranch Camp for a month. Older son #2 had hitched his way up from Utah to spend a couple of days with me, and in the wee hours of Tuesday's dawn, I agreed to drive him four hours to the closest major highway in Wyoming so that he could start thumbing his way back East.

Because this is what mommies do: go that extra mile (or in my case over 200 extra miles!) for their kid. Conveniently, Jack's camp was midway between where I dropped Kenny off near Casper, and Jackson Hole, so I planned on stopping by for a quick peek and a hug from Jack, and drop off a few fun items for him.

I got Kenny to his asked-for destination, snapped a picture of him with his backpack containing what he terms "his life," gave him a strong embrace and got back into the car with tears streaming down my face as I watched him in the rear-view mirror, thumb out, hopeful. And so vulnerable. Just like saying "goodbye" to his older brother, Staff Sgt. Blake Flannery (just to be official about it!), it never gets easier, as I wonder and then try to banish the fleeting thought that it might be the last time. I said a prayer and drove on, back towards Jackson.

Although it had only been 10 days since I had last been with Jack, I was still pumped to catch a few minutes with him. Minutes after arriving at the camp, I met his counselor and he led me across the green to Jack's cabin, the same one that my daughter Jess had been in during her "Wrangler" year; each summer the campers are put into adventure groups according to age and experience the prior season.

Jack's counselor, a friendly and amiable young man whose name I have somehow forgotten because I am old, haha, held open the door to the cabin. The campers were all in there, doing daily clean-up. Jack was standing there by his bunk, broom in hand, and didn't blink, didn't widen his eyes, didn't smile and generally didn't look the least surprised - not to mention pleased! - to see me pop in out of thin air. Inside I bummed out, and knew instinctively not to hug him in front of the other guys. I felt decidedly rejected. How is it that one kid was effusively thankful to have been with me for a couple of days, and the other wishing I would just disappear?

Within a minute, maybe two, we ambled back across the green to my car, chatting about his recent 4-day pack trip with the horses and the Lakers recent reclamation of the NBA title. Pushing 14-year-old boy bravado aside, I went in for a quick hug and when I pulled away he grinned the grin of the youngest child, allowing me a brief glimpse of the little boy who loves him mommy in spite of his need to break away, at least in front of his peers.

I headed back down the dusty camp road with a smile. Until I got a phone call from my husband regarding the shenanigans of our daughter, 17, and freshly freed from her junior year in high school. Turns out a small "pool party" at our house the first afternoon of her summer vacation and yielded the absence of three beers from our heretofore securely locked garage-living fridge.

"What should I do?" the other, on-site parent asked. My response was both incredulous at the inquiry and not altogether friendly and sweet.

"Are you kidding?!" was one of my responses. "Get a new lock, pronto,let her know that you have caught her and read her the riot act. Duh!"

"Maybe you should call her, too," he half-asked, half-begged though I am positive he didn't realize that was the tone he had adopted.

And so, from 2,000 miles or more away, I had to help lay down the law, in spite of the fact that in absentia, there was pretty much no way to enforce it or police it, live and in person. Still and all, the mom goes the extra mile and I gave it the old college try, insisting that daddy knows exactly how many beers are in that refrigerator and please don't put yourself, your friends and us in danger.

"Okay mommy," she suprisingly agreed. "I miss you and I love you." Awww, I can always count on my only daughter to come through with the fondness, even in the face of an mom ultimatium.

So there you have it: three of the four children settled or sent on their way or dealt with. Three kids asserting or attemting to assert their independence.

Sigh. I have said it before and I will always postulate, that raising children never gets easier. Just more, um, interesting.

High School Graduation: A Parent's Primer?

2010-06-16T09:08:00.000-07:00

Depending upon your child's status - only child or youngest - it is here, graduation, the last high school event you will attend as a spectator. Your grad-to-be is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: excited, happy, melancholic, confident, nervous, wary, maybe even a bit incredulous that the day is finally here; you of course, are containing those same feelings.

As soon as the first five or six notes of "Pomp and Circumstance" are played, you will either be swallowing a lump as big as a baseball, or you will be full on leaking tears, perhaps a fist pressed against your mouth, or dabbing a tissue about your eyes either frantically or with discretion, as you crane your neck or strain forward seeking to spot your grad walking jauntily into the stadium or auditorium.

The name for the song (actually entitled "Pomp and Circumstance Military Marches") was taken from Act III of Shakespeare's "Othello:"

"Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th'ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner and all quality
Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war!"

It may not be a total stretch to think of high school, of those teenage years from 14 to 18, as a sort of war, a war of words, of will and of wisdom. And not just between parent and child, but also between student and teacher, student and student, maybe even student and themselves.

As you sit there at the ceremony, filled with pride and awe, you might also be fast-forwarding a month, six, or eight weeks ahead to when your high school grad becomes a college freshman and you will have to face the empty, half empty, maybe a quarter empty, nest. My two oldest graduated from New Canaan High in 2001 and 2003, and so I have had a my nest emptied piecemeal; my daughter will graduate next June, and my baby will christen my nest officially empty in 2014.

Some words of advice are in order. Number 1: Seek out other moms and dads who are in the same newly rocked boat, as well as those whose children - as well as themselves - have gone before you. Support is always a good thing. Number 2: Do not turn your child's bedroom into a guest room, office or home gym. Not yet. For the next two or four years, they will still be coming home for holidays and the summer and do not need to feel as if you have discarded them, not to mention all of their stuff, their memories, their childhood. And one last recommendation: If they don't declare a major right away, or if they change from one to another, do not push them, and do not panic. All children - whether they are five or 25 - need to find their own way, feel it out. They felt enough parental and societal pressure pre-graduation. Ease up and allow them to flap their wings.

A lot of seniors may have known as freshman where they wanted to attend college, and perhaps a majority saw that goal come to fruition. Conversely, there are those who will make do with a second or third choice for the time being; or maybe they will grow to love where the fates led them. A few of you will have graduates who will be taking a 'gap" year before college, and there will be those who intend to pursue something else altogether; no matter what your child chose to do, you should be as proud of the daughter who wants to work with gardens and ivy as the son who studies at an ivy covered campus.

My oldest chose not to enter college before the military. This was not a popular, nor understood by the majority, choice at all. But I felt so fortunate that I had a child who knew - and who had known - exactly what he wanted to do with his life, even, as I said, it was an unusual, hardly traditional for our area, decision. Maybe your child has selected the road less traveled, too. Be happy.

Be happy all of you, for although we may think of the words "graduation" and "commencement" and envision an end, the meaning of the word "commencement" is: "an act or instance of commencing; beginning."

May your child's beginning be a wonder.

Stalking the Jonas Brothers

2010-05-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

Okay, I recently went way above and beyond the call of motherly duty last week. Way, way, totally astronomically above. So above that if my daughter doesn't one day realize it, then... well something unpleasant will befall her (grin).

Jess is obsessed, OBSESSED, with the Jonas Brothers. She went to meet them back in 2007 when they were playing small crowds and was hooked. I have taken her to well over a dozen of their concerts or appearances, in 2008 she camped out all night with a girlfriend in front of the studio where Regis & Kelly is taped in the hopes of scoring tickets the next morning (eventually joined at midnight with other insanely loyal fans), and it paid off with front row seats. Also in 2008 she was named the Jonas Brothers "Super Fan" by Forbes in their summer Entertainment issue. It goes on... and includes what I call - and others concur with this description - stalking.

The JoBros were to make an appearance on "Good Morning America" on May 21st, which also happened to be her 17th birthday. "I've got to go the concert! And I've got to go to their hotel the night before so I can see them!" she cried. "And then I will go line up at the entrance to Central Park at midnight."

Say what?!

"There are no guarantees that you will see them at their hotel, and, over my dead body - and maybe yours - will you be hanging out in Central Park all night! Are you crazy?" But I knew the answer. Yes, yes she is crazy, as only a teenage girl with a starstruck, large crush X3 can be.

Within moments she had convinced me to book a hotel room not far from where the Jonas Brothers usually stay (the Trump International Hotel), so that allegedly after she saw them there, she would come back to our hotel, catch some sleep for a few hours and then I would walk her over to the entrance to the Park in the wee hours, and make sure there were other insane teenage girls and their moms already camped out.

We arrived at the Trump at 4:30 in the afternoon, and clearly there were other girls just as stalkerish as she because when we arrived there were already over a dozen starry-eyed fans standing behind crowd-control type barriers on either side of the entrance to the hotel. It's like the Trump was encouraging it! I stood outside of the barrier as I knew I would need to break away from the madness from time to time, get something to eat or drink, go back to our hotel for a restroom break, etc.

For about an hour I chatted up a couple of paparazzi, the presence of whom energized the crowd into believing that the appearance of Kevin, Joe and Nick was imminent. Even I thought, "Cool. They'll be here soon and then we can leave, get room service, watch 'Grey's Anatomy..." Oh, how wrong I was. Ditto the paparazzi.

Long story short, at some point I brought Jess a sandwich and a chai tea from Starbuck's (which she didn't take more of a sip of because she didn't want to have to need to go to the bathroom and risk - gasp! - missing the brothers). I went back to the hotel about 6 p.m., returning at 7:30 because she wasn't picking up her cell phone, and I spent a good 20 minutes trying to remember exactly what she had been wearing, was her hair up or down... all the things I would need to tell the police in case she had been snatched from the stalk-the-Jonas Brothers-cage.

At 7:30 there had still been nary a sign of Kevin or Joe or Nick. Every time a black Escalade pulled up the crowd would inhale expectantly for a few seconds and then begin to squeal. Just before 8 p.m., "their" driver pulled up, but the car was empty. He hopped out and walked into the hotel which caused all manner of speculation, and primping and juggling for position behind the barriers. The front door to the hotel was held open by jazzily dressed doorman, and.... out came MRS. Jonas, their mom, no sons in tow; apparently they were still out and she was meeting them for dinner. She still rated some flashbulbs and a few cries of "Denise! Denise!" Then - poof! - she disappeared into the warm New York night.

By 10 p.m. I was growing very weary. Yet I figured I had committed X-amount of time to this already that I might as well try and stick it out for at least a half an hour more until they all came back from dinner. After only 15 minutes I told myself I would leave by 10:30, and at 10:23 the long-awaited car carrying the boys pulled up. A burly body guard jumped out first, demanding that those of us outside the barrier stand back (as if the paparazzi was going to do that!). The brothers main bodyguard Big Rob (very, very big Big Rob) opened one of the doors and stuck like glue to the middle, heartthrobby brother, Joe. And then Nick and Kevin (the oldest, newly married one) hopped from the SUV and I went momentarily deaf from the high pitched screams.

Luckily, Big Rob lead Joe right over to Jessie's barrier and since she was stuck up against it, she was able to snag a self-taken photo with the young man. And then, apropos of nothing or maybe everything, as a girl next to Jess pleaded for a photo, I stepped in front of Joe and said, "Hey, Joe. I need a picture with you. I'm her (pointing at Jess) mother." Jess poised her camera with very shaky hands and told him, "Yeah, she has gone to about 15 of your concerts, so she deserves this!" and she snapped the photo, while I stood close to the kid and grinned. Maybe it was a little creepy of me to ask for the picture, but as Jess put it, I deserved it, dammit!

Successful stalking complete, Jess and three of her new barrier friends came back to the hotel room to use the toilet and clean up a bit, before heading over to Central Park and 5th Avenue to wait through the night with about 200 other fans who came prepared with sleeping bags and even tents!

The payoff the next morning at 5:30 a.m. was a 6 rows from the stage standing position, close enough to count the beads of sweat on the Jonas Brothers and Demi Lovato.

As I waited for Jess to leave the venue, and she came happily - albeit sleepily! - walking out, she declared, "This is the best birthday ever!" And it was.

The Yin and the Yang of Prom

2010-05-10T16:33:00.000-07:00

WESTON, CT - The year is 1974. It is a week before high school graduation and the night of the Weston High School Junior-Senior prom, held - ironically, as it will turn out for me decades later - at Waveny Mansion in New Canaan. The prom planning committee has chosen to be decidedly 1970's rebellious, declaring the attire for the event as semi-formal, thereby sparing the boys from adorning powder blue tuxedos with wildly wide lapels and shirts as frilly as a pirate's. It also means that the girls are free to wear dresses that will be decisively un-gownlike (my own frock was a full length, midriff bearing polyester number featuring garish red and blue flowers on it; my date wore a brown-and-white checked blazer, chocolate brown pants that matched a ridiculously broad chocolate brown tie topped off with a tie-clip fit for a grandpa). As it is 1974, the legal drinking age is 18. Pre-prom cocktail parties are thrown by someone's parents, and after sipping on an alcoholic beverage, the prom goers drive (!) to restaurants for dinner in neighboring towns. My group went to a popular steak house in Westport where we proceeded to order at least two pitchers of beer and one of sangria. And then drive to New Canaan, no questions asked, no adult eyebrows raised, nary a parent questioning the behavior. There was no alcohol served inside the prom venue, although booze was easily available in virtually any vehicle parked in the Waveny lot. The teachers and parents chaperoning prom occasionally troll the parking lot and around the grounds, but to the best of my recollection, no incidences are reportable or reason for punishment. Now here's how you know it was really the early, free-spirited 70's: at one point, my boyfriend and I were standing outside the mansion chatting up a favorite teacher. And the boyfriend and our teacher shared a joint; true story! But that was then, and this is now. My daughter, a junior, had her prom last month. The price of her prom dress was pretty much equal to my own high school clothes budget for the year. She had her hair professionally styled. Due to unfortunate sunburn marks from spring break, she had to have a spray tan. Thank goodness we wear the same shoe size, because this whole deal was costing unfathomable amounts of coin, therefore I insisted that she sport the same heels that I had worn to my high school reunion last October; there was some poetry to that. Nine girls got ready at our house, and then their dates and assorted parents came by for pictures and refreshments. We did not serve alcohol to the parents, and - obviously - not to the kids. But I did hear the girls chatting about a post-prom party ostensibly being hosted by one girl's parents at which alcohol was to be served to the teens in attendance. I was stunned as I heard the details. Allegedly the guests were going to be sleeping over, thereby avoiding any drunk driving exploits. That tidbit hardly made the whole thing sound like a good idea. There were several of my classmates who didn't remember, still can't fully recall, exactly what occurred at the end of our prom night, and even some moments during the dance, due to the booze consumption. Which is really too bad. The prom, especially the inaugural one, is one of those special rites of passage during high school; beforehand you envision the magical-ness of it. Even if it doesn't live up to one's rose-colored projection, it is still a fun evening. Or should be. Lacing it with drugs or alcohol can often veer the experience into unfortunate and decidedly un-fun territory. I am glad that NCHS employs a breathalyzer at the prom door. You never know when the proverbial few bad apples might ruin the night for a few good eggs. As I watched my daughter and her white-tuxedo- clad date (with tails, no less!), I was at once wistful and tearful. Happy tears laced with the expected "I-can't-believe-she's-so-grown-up" mantra. And she was going to remember her prom. My wish is that your teen stays safe on Senior Prom night. Oh - and in fashionable attire as well!

Mother of the Year: Me!

2010-04-27T12:03:00.000-07:00

There needs to be a "Mother of the Year" award and I need to win it. Maybe "Mother of Many Years." Here's why:

Aside from the usual wiping of tears, lending a shoulder and an ear, going to every football/basketball/baseball game, lending (i.e. GIVING) money to whichever child may need or request it, etc. Since 2007, I have gone with my daughter to, at last count, 11 Jonas brothers concerts/events, not only in Connecituct and New Jersey, but also Washington D-frikkin'-C. The Hannah Montana concert, one Miley as Miley and not Hannah concert, the Jonas Brothers movie, the stupid Hannah Montana movie and the Miley "Last Song" movie. I have had to go because my daughter doesn't have her license (even though she is breathing down Birthday #17's neck).

I got out of seeing Nick Jonas solo this past December because: A) We could only secure one ticket, and, B) The concert was in NYC and she could take the train in.

This afternoon she has requested seeing the Miley movie for a second time, and because the theatre is a good 15-20 minutes plus from our home, and driving back and forth doesn't thrill me, I am having to endure the movie one more time; it's the lesser of two evils. I think...?

Maybe you think you deserve the award. Tell me why in the comments section!

Mom's Nite Out Event in Waterford!

2010-04-22T14:05:00.000-07:00

On Thursday evening, May 6th, the Crystal Mall in Waterford, CT is hosting a FREE "Moms Nite Out" -- a celebration of motherhood for moms and moms-to-be.

From 4 to 8 p.m. moms can enjoy free pampering, giveaways, makeup consultations, mini facials and massages, menu tastings, seminars on health and beauty and much more! The first 100 guests will receive swag bags with items and offers from event participants. In addition, guests will have the chance to enter-to-win a trip to Aruba!

The Crystal Mall is located at 850 Hartford Tpke., Waterford.

COLUMN: Watching Your Child Wheel Away

2010-04-01T12:23:00.000-07:00

Watching your child wheel away

We give our children roots and wings; often those wings come in the form of either two or four wheels of freedom.

The bicycle is our child's first taste of the thrill of the wheel. We start them on tricycles and/or "Big Wheels," sort of two-wheeled bikes-in-training. It's easy for them. Fun. They can go as fast as their chubby little legs will allow. When their legs grow a bit longer and leaner, we graduate the child to a big kid's bike with training wheels. Again, it's a relatively comfortable feat to master.

The expression, "it's as easy as riding a bike," is really kind of absurd, as any five-, six-, or seven year-old learning to ride a bike without training wheels can attest. Don't you remember your own first time those handy-dandy metal security blankets came off? Do you recall your child's first attempt to go training wheel-less? Definitely not easy. Hard falls. Nasty scrapes. Head in helmet bonking down on pavement. It's probably the first time your little cherub may mutter, "This sucks!"

But once it is mastered, when that moment of realization hits you that mom or dad is so not holding onto the the back of your seat, the joyous sensation is intoxicating: You're free! Look at you go! The breeze hits your face, you balance like a pro and you don't require no stinkin' trainers or parental palm to get you going.

With a bicycle, you don't necessarily need your mom to drive you up the road to your friend's house. Maybe you live near your town's center and there is a relatively safe route to the candy store. Or, as you progress through elementary and middle school, your parents allow you to bike to the land of academia.

And eventually, you turn 16, and you succumb to the siren song of the shiny, four-wheeled mode of transportation parked in the driveway. The automobile! So much cooler and faster than your bike, not to mention it's a better way to travel when it's raining.

And you - the parent - quickly discover that helping your child learn to ride a bike is a piece of cake compared to teaching him how to drive a car.

I have maneuvered through this process twice before and am in the midst of Driving 101 with the third child. It is frightening, thrilling, other wordly and ultimately, joyful. Such a shared milestone, not unlike that first pedal without the training wheels. When you finally get them to the DMV, they pass the test, and are standing up against the blue (or is it a pinkish hue now?) backdrop for their license photo, it's a teary-eyed moment: pride, fear and unbridled love.

At 16 or 17, your kid is on the move without you, heading down the highway that will eventually lead to college or another chapter that doesn't necessarily involve them living with you full-time anymore. They will still need you, of course, but they will not need-need you. You aren't the sole wind beneath their wings, as they learn to roll with whatever comes their way in the fresh land of freedom.

"Look ma! No hands!" cries the new bike rider with astonishment and bliss.

The new driver lowers his or her car window down, waves and gives you the thumbs up sign as they make their way down the driveway, no longer required or requiring you as co-pilot.

Or so it appears. Don't be fooled or saddened for long. For those wheels which seem made to roll away actually do the reverse as well, returning to the eager palms (and arms) of their parents.

Losing My Authority?

2010-03-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

Both of my teens just wandered into the kitchen, Jess headed for the fridge and Jack to the pantry where various chips live.

"Dinner will be ready in about an hour," I sort of whined. "Please don't eat anything!" Once upon a time they would have reluctantly, yet affirmatively, obeyed. And now? Fughettaboutit. Jack grabbed the Doritos with a flourish and an evil laugh; at least Jess sauntered out of the kitchen with a container of blueberries. Healthy. Not a totally awful "appetizer."

But... there was this parting remark from her regarding the dinner menu: "Steak?! I don't like steak! And when have you heard me say I like baked potatoes? Ugh!"

This is what my thought bubble read: "Tough nuts, sweetheart!"

Once upon a time, they started their homework when I firmly suggested it. Ate what I put on the dinner table. Went to bed and turned out the light when I told them it was bedtime. Put on a freaking coat when the temperature dipped below 60-degrees. I seem to have very little authority left. Even when I say "please," sometimes at a normal decibel level and often quite loudly.

This is getting depressing.

Can these two BE any different?!

2010-03-25T19:58:00.000-07:00

My son Jack's 14th birthday is on Monday. If he were his sister, Jess, the party or sleepover with friends would have been planned for weeks now; Jack only today got around to grunting the info to only two friends. Jess would have tried to invite at least a half dozen.

Jack's birthday gift list was short: just two items, and pretty affordable. My daughter has champagne taste.

Fridays here in New Canaan mean hoards of middle and high school kids head into town to eat, giggle, hang at Starbucks, blah blah. Jack can take it or leave it. When he does partake, and I spy him on the sidewalk in a gaggle of teens, there is jostling and loud laughing by the others, and Jack stands there with a shy smile, amused, observing. Jess never met a Friday in town she didn't like. Since 5th grade! She is the most animated sweetie pie on the planet; one of those jostling and laughing.

My older two are the same way - almost polar opposites. Kenny is the more flamboyant, outgoing one, and Blake is also the observer, keeps his thoughts close to the vest.

It never fails to cause me to scratch my head.

A College for All?

2010-03-21T16:28:00.000-07:00

Most high school juniors - or seniors in the first semester of their last year in school- are routinely asked my adults: "So, where are you looking at schools?" I admit it, I ask. But sometimes I stop myself and rephrase, "What do you think you'll do after high school?" Because not every kid takes those steps towards a college or university. Some take a "gap year." A few just go right into a job. Maybe their parents can't afford to pay for college. There are those who decide to pursue an art they are passionate about (acting, music, etc.) Or, they join the military.

I am sensitive to this because my oldest went off to Marine Corps boot camp a month after high school graduation. He and I both endured our fair share of wide eyes, some shocked and confused, when the "where are you/where is he applying/going to?" questions came fast and furious, and the answer was: "the Marines."

My second oldest when to college, but it was not a traditional ivy-covered, four-year institution. He knew where his passion lay - recording music - and his guidance counselor found an accredited school where he would - and did - four years of college in two, graduating with his Bachelors at age 20!

Now my daughter, a junior, is starting the college quest. Kind of. She's not an A student, more like a C. Or C-ish. And she too is not sure she wants a "traditional" school. Yes, I get a little uncomfortable when other parents inquire after rattling off the names of very good, great and popular colleges, and I stammer or change the subject. Or, I simply say what my daughter told her dad and I: "There's a college for anyone; why do you think it's a reflection on you if I don't go somewhere 'good'?"

Out of the mouths of babes.

Think about it: Are you going to think lesser of someone you have thought highly of, when they in passing mention the college that they attended?

Truce Called

2010-03-17T15:11:00.000-07:00

Whew!

My son and I have "let it go." It's "water under the bridge." And all things like that.
Arguing with a United States Marine isn't always the smartest thing. But I am still calling this a slight victory for the momma.

I think all children know - in their heart of hearts - when they have hurt their mother's feelings, and even if they don't come around to actually verbalizing "I'm sorry," their actions can give them away: a hug, a favor unasked for, a quick snuggle, or a meaningful look, mouth turned down the tiniest bit at the corners.

Amend made. Apology accepted. And move on with love.

Sons, Daughters, Mom's Birthday

2010-03-11T15:05:00.000-08:00

March 3: Who knew that a day that I am really not super thrilled to acknowledge on a vanity level, yet one that still makes me feel special, would actually cause me to feel pretty low?

March 3: It's my birthdate; my birthday. I like birthdays at face value - it's YOUR day! Celebrate another year of being alive! (But just don't go announcing how many years unless you are south of age 30, or north of 90.)

March 3, 2005: My mother died of ALS. I walked into her room at the hospice care center and the nurse pulled me aside and whispered, "It's probably going to be today." Her words slammed into my chest. I wanted to whimper, "But it's my birthday." Instead, I waited a couple of hours and mentioned it casually to her and we both shared a horrified stare. And so it went. My birthday would forever be linked with my mom's death. Then again, my birthday is also forever linked with my mom living, ergo, giving me life.

So, last week my birthday dawned, with the usual - and unusual - mix of emotions it now brings. There were some very random birthday cards left for me in the kitchen from my husband, youngest son, Jack, 13, and daughter, jess, 16. In the card, ostensibly "from Jess," she wrote: "Daddy picked this out; sorry!" Later on, my second oldest son, Kenny, 24, phoned me from the road - which is now his life - to wish me a happy day. When Jess came home from school, she presented me with a gaily wrapped gift: a fragranced candle which read on the outside: "What would you attempt to do if you knew you could not fail?" She knows how much I love candles and sayings like that which make one pause and consider.

By nightfall, I had not heard from my oldest son, Blake, now 26 and a Marine living in San Diego. Nada. Not a peep. And he doesn't have the excuse of being in Iraq in combat this year. In a knee-jerk reaction, I posted the following on his Facebook page: "If I weren't born, then you wouldn't have been born. That is your only hint about what today is."

Suffice it to say that we are both pretty angry with one another at this point. His last words to me were something along the line of if he can't remember his OWN birthday why should he be expected to remember anybody else's?

Clearly birthdays mean more to females than males. Or most males? Some?

Mom's special day is easier for a daughter to acknowledge, than a son?

I want to call a truce.

What do you think?

Safer to Drive High?!

2010-03-09T14:38:00.000-08:00

Heard the most absurd thing from another mom of a teenager today. My friend's daughter had two friends stop by after school while she - the mom - had left to run an errand. Upon her return, the two girls were gone and in their place were the following items in the sink: 4 bowls that had been full of Kraft Mac'n Cheese, and 2 with remnants of ice cream. On the counter sat half a dozen "Gushers" wrappers.

"What's all this?" the mom cried to her daughter. "Can't you all put these in the dishwasher? And what's with all the pigging out?"

"It wasn't me that ate all of that!" her daughter cried. "Sara and Emma were hungry!"

Then the mom paused for a light bulb moment; the visiting girls had the munchies from smoking weed. And, one of them was driving her parent's car while impaired.

"Oh, I get it. They were high? And they had the nerve to come to OUR house to satisfy their munchy cravings? And then drove?"

Her daughter looked her right in the eyes and said matter-of-factually: "Do you know that people drive safer when they're high?"

True story. It sends shivers down one's spine.

Hop to it, kids!

2010-03-08T15:01:00.000-08:00

Six long weeks ago, I fractured my ankle and tore up some tendons and ligaments, rendering me one-footed and crutch-dependent. My two teens at home have been stunned at having to do things for themselves - like laundry and dinner - and grumpy about doing simple chores that we should have had them doing all along: feeding the dogs and taking out the kitchen trash. Wah-wah kidlets! You are freakin' 13 and 16, a hair's breath away from 14 and 17: man and woman UP!

My not being able to drive has been a terrible inconvenience for all, and both Jess and Jack continue to whine about why I don't just drive with my left foot. You can imagine WHERE I want to place said foot.

My hope is that they and their father, will appreciate all that I normally do, now and after I am a two-footed human being again, sometime by the end of this month. Stay tuned for that near-impossibility. Not my walking again, but rather, the undying appreciation.

2010-02-06T10:30:00.000-08:00

Catch your kids doing something good

Everybody needs a little pat on the back, especially our children. Yet there is a fine line between praise for praise sake and an acknowledgment of real achievement or a good deed.

Pre-schoolers need to know they are doing a good job with potty training, reciting the alphabet, getting dressed, sharing toys, eating their veggies and the like, so that they keep on undertaking these essential life skills. Obvious compliments continue as a child grows for things such as homework accomplished (although at some point you kind of need to quit doing that, because completing homework is something that one simply needs to do, period), being kind to friends and/or siblings, scoring a goal, giving a good performance on stage, or winning an art, music or academic contest and the like. Even being well-mannered should be cited with a smile and exclamation of "I'm proud of you."

Applauding actual achievements or good behavior is essential for building self-esteem. But to glorify almost everything they do ("Oh honey! You remembered to chew your food!") may lead to a child's sense of entitlement or a bloated sense of self.

If your kid is clearly not cut out for singing or dancing or, say, baseball, you don't want to totally dash their hopes or tell them point blank, "You stink," (siblings, sadly, seem very capable of verbalizing that assessment), but you might want to instead gently steer them towards another venue or art or sport.

Not all of my children were the best at certain things. We encouraged and supported them when they wanted to play a particular sport, for example, but if and when it became clear that they were, uh, awkward, shall I say, we didn't overly gush and give them false hope; they almost always figured out for themselves that the sport in question may not be their forte`. The next year, we would simply suggest another sport or activity in which they might be better suited and find more success in, ergo, gain more self-esteem.

Nobody's perfect, even our children. Messes are going to be made, decisions may have "disastrous" results, grades can slip, mediocre performances in sport or in the spotlight will occur. Nagging about the negative can have long-term effects. More then once I have had to remind my kids that it is not they who are the disappointment but, rather, it is/was their action that is causing my disappointment; sometimes I can see that they have understood that distinction. When it appears that perhaps they cannot, damage control of sorts needs to be implemented.

"This may not have been terrific, but that (action, comment, etc.) was great; I'm really impressed by you on that score." A quick salute to a positive can often encourage your child to take the initiative when next they are faced with a situation that could rapidly turn from not-so-great to worse.

Nobody likes to be "yelled" at, yet eventually kids, teens and sometimes, adults, discover that doing the next right thing is the better part of valor.

Catching your child doing something good applies to offspring of all ages. Example: although I am not wild about 24-year-old Kenny's choice of rambling the country sans employment, I do offer props (and I am sincere!) about his travel web site, his creative skills and his ingenuity in general; he needs to know I love him, even if I haven't embraced the whole "hobo" thing. Last week one of my teens got an "A" on a test in one subject, and a much lesser grade on another, yet I managed to put the undesirable result out of my head, instead throwing a mini parade in regard to the "A." It's progress, not perfection.

Extol your sweetie pie's actions and accomplishments when you can - and when they are real. If you role model giving compliments and cheers, maybe, just maybe, your child will one day do the same toward you.

I'm pretty much still waiting for those "yay's," but they will be uttered. Someday. Right?

2010-01-12T13:53:00.000-08:00

Moms Gone Wild

"By and large, mothers and housewives are the only workers who do not have regular time off. They are the great vacation-less class."
Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Yes, I am a mother, to four fine children. For over 26 years now, my maternal instincts have been in overdrive and there is no foreseeable finality to that. It never gets old, this motherhood gig, but it does - on occasion - make me weary. And that is when the mom becomes the woman becomes the girl. And she goes wild.

Every year for the last decade, my college roommates and I get together for a long weekend. We have convened in such locales as Martha's Vineyard, Jackson Hole, Chicago, New York City and Las Vegas (twice). We doff our mommy hats and become 20-something college kids, sans work, husband, offspring (okay, we do check in a few times; we're not completely irresponsible!). Still. For four days we do what we want, when we want. Nobody whines "Mom!" or "Honey!" We smile at the handsome men we pass, and in Vegas we squeal at nearly-naked men at Chippendales-type clubs. We stay up way past midnight, giggling and weeping and philosophizing. We do not change diapers, or wake up early for bottles, school buses, or cranky, sleepy teenagers. We rock and we roll in the symbiotic rhythm forged long ago as girls on our college campus in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts.

The magic and memories that are created during these annual escapes help us to rejoin the sorority of motherhood with renewal and a reaffirmation that we are, in fact, women first.

"Mrs. Evans." "(Blake, Kenny, Jack, Jessie)'s mom." I am those, I am her. But first, I am Julie.

Sometimes I forget.

This past year, I enjoyed the mini-reunion with my roommates as well as a milestone high school reunion. Both were essential in reclaiming the girl within the woman within the mother.

In July, there was a warm-up of sorts to the "official" October reunion. Dozens of former students at Weston High School circa 1970's, met up in Westport at Splash bar. Two of my girlhood friends stayed at my house for the weekend, and it was as though time had stood still as we primped to leave. I poured myself into a slinky, red-salmon sundress and the three of us jumped into my Mustang convertible, leaving my two bemused teenagers in the dust, as it were, as we headed off into the sultry summer evening.

Upon our return home about one in the morning, Jess and two of her friends were still awake, a bit dumbfounded that we three old broads were nowhere near ready for sleep.

As they rehashed their own evenings, so did we, roaring with laughter out on my porch, until Jess inquired at three a.m., "Mom, when are you going to bed?!"

"When I'm good and ready!" I replied, relishing the role reversal of sorts.

At the big reunion in October, only three wayward souls brought their spouses to the event. Thanks mainly to the advent of Facebook, most of us didn't need to steer conversation in the direction of what one did for a living, marital status, or how many children one had produced, because we had already done our due diligence online. For a night, we weren't defined by career, spouse, or offspring accomplishment. Instead, we essentially transported ourselves back to a simpler time and sat lazily around linen topped tables as if it were the high school cafeteria. We casually draped ourselves across one another's laps or shoulders; this was not done in an adulterous fashion, but innocently, nearly out of old habit.

We unearthed the boy inside the man, and the girl inside the woman, in a way that no one in our present lives could or can do. It was a precious evening. And for this mom of two current teenagers, going back to the future turned a key into understanding better the teen that I was, with the teens that I had produced.

Going "wild" for a night or two is something in which I believe mothers need to indulge. I don't mean flashing your boobs in an inebriated state, of course, but rather flashing your girlhood with eyes clear and heart wide open. Mothering yourself, if you will, while not abandoning the mommy-hood that is as deeply ingrained in you as anything else.

Check back in with the girl who became the woman who became the mom. It's a priceless vacation.

2009-10-28T09:40:00.001-07:00

Mommies Who Drink Too Much This past summer, Diane Schuler sped drunkenly down the Taconic Parkway - the wrong way - tragically killing her daughter, six other people, and herself. The ensuing outrage, even bewilderment, over mothers who drink far too much, detonated for weeks. Mothers have sought relief and solace in alcohol for a very long time; Diane Schuler just put a very public face onto the excess of drinking. "My kids are driving me to drink!" exclaim many moms at times, followed by a laugh. It is not uncommon for mothers of young children - infants, toddlers, pre-schoolers - to get together for play groups and, while the kids busy themselves with one another, the mommies sip a glass of wine. Or two. And on occasion, a mom may make it a chardonnay hat-trick. She then tucks her child into his or her car seat, and drives. Full disclosure: I am not judging or nor being holier-than-thou. Because I have been there. Not there-there watching this happen to others, but there-there as in participating, by being the one mom who enjoyed the alcohol a little bit too much. By also being the mom who would eventually pick up her preschooler and kindergartner (her third and fourth children, respectively) at after-school care at five in the afternoon, with a Diet Coke can full of white wine, or beer. And get behind the wheel of her car, mercifully - and amazingly - never driving the wrong way down a one-way street. Or into a pole or a tree or a ditch. I am the mom who very shortly after a number of these trips with her wine roadie - my "mommy juice" I called it -put down the drink for good. This was over 10 years ago. The strongest thing I drink now is pure, unadulterated Diet Coke. I am far and away not the only mommy who drank too much. If you visit a local 12-step meeting you might be surprised to observe the number of mothers of young children. And they aren't the bedraggled, low income or perhaps uneducated people that society often stereotypes alcoholics to be. They are your neighbors, your small and large business owners, the ones with the Masters degrees, the multi-volunteering moms... even your friends. I am also describing the still actively drinking mothers, the ones you notice imbibe a tad too much socially, and those who fly under-the-radar; the women who couldn't possibly abuse alcohol because they - what? - seem too perfect, too together, too nice? Let me tell you, although I am far from perfect and my have-it-all-together days don't necessarily equal the headless-chicken days, I was and still am, well, nice. I didn't look as though my body and my mind had begun to crave alcohol. I lived in a decent-sized house, I had the ubiquitous Suburban, I had just sold the magazine I had founded. My drinking hadn't destroyed my marriage, hadn't made me lose my house, my job, nor my children. What it had made me lose was Julie. I had lost Julie and thought perhaps I could find her in a bottle, that maybe, too, that drink would help me feel less overwhelmed and stressed about suddenly being a stay-at-home mom to four kids under age 15. That being a little bit buzzed would make the kids' fighting, screaming and needing me less intense. The drink did none of those things. The drink just made me drunk. A drunk mommy, not a better mommy. I wasn't a daily drinker. One doesn't need to drink every day or evening to be an alcoholic. It's a disease that is cunning and baffling; insidious. And it begets denial. Which is why many people who probably should stop, simply don't. My younger two kids have never seen me drunk (that they remember). I was able to be present-and-accounted for during my older sons' teen years, and of course for the present ones. Getting sober was the best thing I could have ever done for my family. If someone reading this perhaps recognizes a little of themselves in me, please do not feel ashamed to admit to a problem. And to seek help. I know I felt more ashamed to keep on drinking; it took courage and love to stop.

2009-09-27T14:33:00.001-07:00

Ready, Set, Let Go

"Letting go doesn't mean we don't care. Letting go doesn't mean we shut down.
Letting go means we stop trying to force outcomes and make people behave." ~ Melody Beattie

Perhaps one of the hardest lessons in life a person faces is letting go; letting go of people, places, things... even ourselves at times, as well as emotions or feelings. As a parent, the ability to let go as opposed to hanging on is especially - and keenly - agonizing.

I left claw marks on Blake, 26, and Kenny, 24, not only as they left the house for the Marines and college, respectively, but also as they entered their 20's. I watched helplessly as my authority, responsibility and influence seemed to vanish as vapor. I had to reluctantly allow them to explore, perhaps flounder, face fears or dangers, and make decisions based on their needs, not my desires. Letting go completely ebbs and flows within my heart and in my inherent actions.

As a mother, I have been trained to fix. I fixed hunger by offering bottles of formula, snacks, meals. I took care of discomfort by changing a diaper, burping, administering to tummy aches and boo-boo's, proffering my shoulder to cry on, or my side of the bed in which to snuggle. I went to bat with teacher troubles, mean kids, unfortunate situations. But once a child leaves the house, after they then they reach the milestone of age 21, it is no longer my job to fix, to restore, to protect. Even for the children yet to leave the nest, it has been uncomfortably necessary for me to back off, step aside... let go.

When my daughter, Jess, went off to boarding school for a year-and-a-half, I had to turn the reigns of her day-to-day over to the school deans, headmasters and teachers, who acted "in loco parentis." It was an initial torture, and then actually, a bit of a relief (she is a teenager, after all). Now she is back at home and back at the high school. And I am trying to resist wearing a Harry Potter-like "cloak of invisibility" and be by her side as she negotiates the social and academic minefield from whence she once fled. But in letting go, I am reminded of the strength of her spirit now. I remember that when she left for boarding school I passed on to her a Carl Jung saying which in and of itself is really about letting go of what and how we may perceive ourselves: "I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become."

Jess overcame and became. And she continues to define herself and not allow others to apply their own label. I like to think that we have inspired and inspire one another to shake off that which is not important in the big scheme of things.

It is, of course, not always easy to see the forest for the trees. To recognize when to hold 'em, or when to fold 'em. Sometimes my grip on my kids is so tight that it hurts. Yet at the same time, I comprehend the word serenity and I know peace. It occurs when I loosen my hands and exhale, knowing that I am not as in control of their destinies as I once so fiercely believed.

All humans need to fail in some way, shape or form so that they may grow; become stronger, better. Sometimes sadder, but wiser. We have to learn to let go of resentments: Resentments are like taking poison and expecting the other person to die. I was harboring one against someone recently, and the result was, it was eating me up and taking up too much space in my head rent-free. The way in which I was able to let it go was to speak with the individual, who clearly hadn't died from the poison, in a calm and loving way. Was I still sadder? Yes. And wiser, too. That's the key.

It saddens me to imagine that I am an unemployed mother to Blake and Kenny, these young men well into their 20's. That image, that reality is false. Of course I am still their mother! Of course they will still consider my opinions, suggestions, offers for aid both financial and emotional. And even though my two teens at home often hallucinate that I am no longer of use (except as a chef and a taxi driver and a human ATM), my heart and sensibility reassures me that they, too, need me for so much more than that.

"Some think it's holding on that makes one strong; sometimes it's letting go."

Be a strong parent. And avoid the obvious claw marks whenever possible.

2009-09-02T08:53:00.001-07:00

Students on bored

During one of those gross, incredibly hot, humid dog days of mid-August, I asked Jack and a friend if they were looking forward to going back school, now that they were going to be eighth graders. Big Men on the Totem Pole. Kings of the School, etc. (I know, I know... as if they were going to pipe up with anything but a collective groan).

"I wish I were going to kindergarten," Jack's friend mused.

"Not me," said Jack. "Kindergarten was lame. All you did was learn that two plus two equals four and have nap-time." Spoken like my true eager-to-learn youngest. (At least that is how I have chosen to look at him through my rose-colored shades and all.)

"Actually," he amended, "we didn't need the stupid nap-time then. That was dumb. We weren't even tired. We need nap-time now because we have to get up at 6:15 in the morning! They should give us nap-time!" His friend hooted his approval of this thought.

If any members of the Board of Ed are reading this, and can rectify the matter, Jack would be pretty pleased. And nap-time might be more feasible than the later start time thing.

I believe many parents pose the same question to their offspring and friends of their offspring as I did above, because - really and honestly now - it is we who are excited and looking forward to school starting. It's not that we wouldn't mind maybe another few days of summer, but after eight-plus weeks of kids under foot, maybe whining hither and thither about being bored, the structure of a school day and the six or so hours of not being on call loom pleasantly welcome.

Even though our child may not openly (or at least enthusiastically) cop to being excited for the new year ahead, he or she is usually anticipating some aspect. There's the stunningly big-kid feel the just-entering-kindergarten child experiences; the trepidation the incoming middle schooler tastes; the relief at not being a freshman that the high school sophomore enjoys, or the pure giddy yet at the same time terrifying sensation inherent in the senior-to-be.

Just as it isn't always so easy to get a kid to admit to their anticipation of returning to school, so to is it not such a piece of cake getting them to reveal how said school days are going for them.

Ask, "How's school?," and be prepared for "good," even if it wasn't, or "boring," even - again - if it wasn't. Occasionally the response may be: "bad." But do not ask "Why?" because nine out of 10 times, you won't get an answer. At least not right away. Although your brain is screaming, "Why-why-why, omigod why, what happened?!" please resist. Instead, try in a less inquisitive, less frantic manner the following: "Oh that's too bad, honey. Well, if you want to talk about it I'm here. All ears." Either they will launch into it, or they will wait a few beats, or maybe even a few hours. Try not to pressure them, as whatever it was that is making them describe the day as "bad" is giving them pressure enough. Their definition of "bad" may more than likely equal a disappointing grade, or a confusing lecture, or a poor performance in gym class. Of course it could also be a bullying incident or an unrequited crush. When they are ready to spill, let them, resisting the urge to editorialize or "fix it" immediately (except in the case of taunting or physical bullying, of course).

The other response to "How was school?" is the ubiquitous: "School is boring." Sure. Of course it is, sweetie. You are such a brainiac that you don't need to be learning anything new. You can read, write, solve mathematical and scientific questions in your sleep. Who needs to know about the history of this country or any other for that sake! Music and art? Pishaw - you could teach the class yourself you creative king or queen of the world, you!

"Boring" my backside.

All of my kids at one time or another claimed to like recess the best. They expressed annoyance that recess stops in high school, until I would remind them of the free periods which would exist in their school schedule.

"It's the same thing. Only better," I said.

And don't you know? Even the free period has been described as, wait for it... "boring."

Maybe if those free periods were re-designated as nap-time?

I think I'm onto something here...

2009-08-22T16:13:00.001-07:00

The "Oy!" of boys

I have three sons, two in their mid-20's and one a young teenager. That amounts to drama cubed. Heart-stopping episodes and head-scratching times three. I also have a daughter, but she is a drama of a different flavor; the sort of drama that as a fellow female I can easily relate. But the boys? Oy!

My sons have provided me with over a dozen frantic trips to hospital emergency rooms. I receive very little information about any significant females in their lives, nor even basic information on their whereabouts in the world at times. They smell funny. Ergo, their bedrooms smell funny, foreign. Their feet grew/grow at ridiculously fast paces. They eat too much, too quickly, and leave the empty boxes, wrappers, and containers in the cupboard or in the refrigerator, or lounging on end tables, or perched on window sills, which is infuriating on several levels. One of which being they will complain about there not being any more cookies, chips, cereal, or soda, et.al, yet heaven forbid they actually open their mouths to inform me of this until they are once again ravenous.

"Mom!" Kenny used to whine. "There's no food!"

I would walk into the kitchen to find him standing in front of the pantry, doors flung open. Pantry, full of food.

"What are you talking about?! Look at all of that!"

"I need good food. Food I can eat," he'd claim.

"And what would that be, pray tell?" I would ask, exasperated. "Give me details and when I go to the store next I will buy it."

"You know," he'd reply, grinning and walking away from the kitchen, "Good stuff."

This annoying and confusing scenario is currently being played out with Jack, the one boy remaining in my nest. He will become indignant that I haven't returned from the grocery store with his beloved Gushers, or pretzels or chocolate milk, yet when I checked inventory before leaving, said items were still present and accounted for. Why I am surprised that food vanishes in a whirl after raising two sons before him is a bafflement, but clearly I am constantly astonished anew.

The breaking and tearing and slicing of body parts on boys has been more drama than I believe I can handle and yet, each time it happens, I somehow manage to survive, right alongside of them. Kenny has broken his tibia twice, his wrist once, and several fingers were broken and smushed once when Blake - accidentally, on-purpose - slammed a door on Kenny's hand when they were ages eight and six, respectively.

Thirteen-year-old Jack's more dramatic injuries have included a significant, nine-stitch worthy, accidental gash to the upper forehead from a golf club-wielding Jess six years ago, the top of his middle finger being inadvertently sliced off by a heavy door two years ago (and luckily being sewn back on in the E.R. after yours truly found it smiling up from the pavement), and, most recently, he received 27 stitches to his cheek after a freak accident in his cabin at camp in Wyoming last month.

I sit or stand by them as they lie on the table in the hospital, gripping their hand as they are stitched or cast or prodded, blinking back tears as they try and do the same. I try not to vomit or faint. I smile though my heart is aching. There is no chapter on how to do this in any of those "What to Expect When..." tomes.

There has been no manual to prepare me for a son going into combat, or for one who wanders aimlessly through and around the United States, or Canada or Mexico; when Kenny is traveling outside of the U.S. he does not have a cell phone with international call capability. I am at the mercy of him perhaps gaining some internet access and posting a status that he is, blessedly, still alive.

Blake, by virtue of his profession in the military, will not communicate with me for weeks and on occasion for a couple of months, and I always feel that this is drama I could well do without.

"Boys will be boys," the adage goes, but it is not specific as to what the boy will do or say to bear out the expression. Parents of boys learn pretty early on though, I think, that boys actually do not always say, share or emote in a similar manner to girls, to daughters. Sons may tend to be a bit more spontaneous, reckless, fearless.

That said, sons are just like daughters, however, in their ability to at once break - and fully fill up - your heart. Neither the male or the female of offspring corners the market on that.

2009-07-23T06:33:00.000-07:00

It's all about the climb

As I write this from Wyoming, my younger two children are at a camp which allows them to challenge themselves and take risks. And they are literally climbing mountains. The climb is but a metaphor, really. To me, it has been an important part of my parenting to encourage them to venture outside their comfort zone, to put one foot in front of the other as they look uphill, even as it has me catching my breath with apprehension; we both grow.

My parents instilled in my brother and me a sense of adventure. My father used to exclaim to us that we should reach for, grasp, the brass ring on the merry-go-round of life. He even framed one and presented it to our mother on one of their wedding anniversaries. She was his brass ring. The risk that paid off.

Neither my parents, nor I, advocated/advocate the sort of precarious behavior that can lead to a child's self-harm or destruction. I have cheered them on to try something untried. If they fail, then they fail. If they discover that they don't like doing things that make them uncomfortable, well, then they have learned something about themselves. There's a lot behind the axiom, "You don't know unless you try."

In my experience, it has been vital to my children and me to let go when letting go presents itself. I may be gripped with fear or trepidation about something they want to attempt, but what if I persist in denying them and the thing hoped for and never tasted becomes a deep regret; a resentment?

I wonder what Blake would be like if I had not signed his enlistment papers for the Marines? If I somehow had the power to have prevented Kenny two years ago from embarking on his vagabond lifestyle? Would they be the capable, interesting, brave and courageous young men they are today? Young men with tales and strength born of risk, of facing fears neither one knew they even harbored?

It's not always about reaching the summit; it's often about how one gets there. Half-measures avail us nothing. We poise at the turning point. And then... we leap.

My daughter Jess articulates my point the best:

"Ain't about how fast I get there, ain't about what's waiting on the other side, it's the climb." ~Miley Cyrus

I have always been inspired by Miley Cyrus. However, her newest hit single, "The Climb", made me reflect on my life even more. Cyrus talks about how even though you're going to come across obstacles in life, you can overcome them if you believe. In just a matter of days, this song will constantly be playing in my head. This is because I will literally be climbing mountains in the backcountry of Wyoming. I realize that it will be tough, but as long as I keep pushing on I will eventually reach my goal and end up on top.

The program that I will be taking part in is known as TVR Expeditions, which is affiliated with Teton Valley Ranch Camp, north of Jackson Hole. I have been going to the camp for the past five years, last summer being my final as a camper, but now they offer this special program featuring an eleven day backpack, and then, finally, summiting the Grand Teton, which involves intense rock climbing.

Figuratively speaking, the climb will prepare me for what I will be experiencing in the coming school year. After about a year and a half of attending boarding school, I will be returning to New Canaan High School. I left because I couldn't handle things, but now I have the confidence to rise above them. Academically, I have not been doing so well. Junior year is the most important, in my opinion, so I will have to trust that I will succeed as long as I keep my faith. There will be ups and downs during the transition to living at home again, like not taking the freedom I will be obtaining for granted.

When I make it to the top of the Grand this summer, I will be sure to remember the feeling, and take it with me when I go back home. As Cyrus states: "There's always gonna be another mountain, I'm always gonna wanna make it move. Always gonna be an uphill battle, sometimes I'm gonna have to lose."

We all slip sometimes, but I will never fall.

2009-05-04T11:48:00.000-07:00

Facebook and the family

A few weeks before Jack turned 13, he asked me if he could have a Facebook page.

"No, you're too young," I answered.

"But Jess has a page! Blake and Kenny have a page! You have a page!" he cried. "Jeez, even Daddy has a page," he finished with a flourish of sarcasm. "You can have a page at 13 now," he told me, rattling off the names of several friends who had already turned the magical 13 and had entered into the realm of Facebook.

"Well, you have to 'friend' me. That's the only way I'll let you do it," I bargained, while promising never to embarrass him by posting on his page.

And so, when his birthday dawned, we set it up. We are now a family of Facebookers.

For the uninitiated, Facebook is a free-access social networking website, originally aimed at college-aged persons. Today, users can join networks by city, organization, workplace, school, region, etc. There are nearly 200 million people on Facebook and certainly not all are ages 18 to 24 (although they do account for over 19 million of the users). The fastest growing demographic is women over age 55 (!), and 17 million users are between 35 and 55+. That would account for a lot of us; "us" being parents.

I initially went on Facebook to spy on my daughter. Except she wouldn't "friend" me. She exclaimed that it was embarrassing and lame that I had set-up an account. Under orders, she will show me her page from time to time, and I have been able to check out a lot of her pictures whenever she "tags" one of her older brothers in a photo (I discovered that by clicking on the snapshot, it magically took me into her photo section!). But basically my daughter stalking attempts back-fired. However, her brothers are far less secretive, and I can track Kenny's whereabouts as he roams the country, and check on whether or not Blake is truly unable to have Internet access while at sea or elsewhere.

At first all was calm for me, though as I say, I was discouraged that I couldn't easily enter the realm of Jessie's high school shenanigans. Soon, however, I inexplicably found myself back in high school instead when former classmates began "friend" requesting me right and left! And then they began posting photos of me on my page - along with themselves of course - with those hideous early to mid-1970's hair, clothes... yikes! People have come out of the freaking woodwork, including those I vaguely remembered, and those who were (are) several years younger than me, of whom I have zippo memory.

Facebook users can post a status, which is a word, a sentence, and more, of what they happen to be doing at that moment or that day, etc., a la Twitter (if you want an explanation of that, ask your kid). While our childrens statuses are along the lines of:" School; eeww. Tennis after!" and "Phone broken," many older users put up a status that is more relevant to their age or being a parent: "My son turns 12 today!," or "'Supercalifragilstic!' - Off to Mary Poppins," "Who remembers the 1970 song, 'It's a Rainy Night in Georgia?'" and "Happy Spring! Can the runny noses and sniffles now go away, please?"

My words of caution for Facebook usage are simple. A) Monitor whom your child is "friending." Is it really someone they know, or might it actually be a creepy older person with ill-intentions? B) Make sure the information that they post about themselves does not include their address, or even their telephone number (see the possibilities of A), and C) Caution them in regard to the nature of the posts on their own Wall and on others, especially the content of any videos and photographs. One never knows whose parent or which faculty member has access to those pages/posts, nor how their peers will perceive what has been, essentially, published.

Word to the parent Facebooker: Choose your profile photo wisely. And even though your kid might choose to reveal their birth year, you don't necessarily have to. Or - per your profile visage - want to.

2009-03-30T06:53:00.000-07:00

When divorce comes calling

I got divorced from my first husband 22 years ago this month. My two oldest sons - products of that short-lived and mostly unfortunate union - seem to have gotten through the two decades-long aftermath pretty unscathed. But then again, this is just my opinion; I imagine having to forever explain "my parents are divorced" must carry with it some baggage.

Not to sound trite, but divorce happens; we've all seen the statistics. Sometimes all the best efforts to avoid a dissolution of a marriage aren't fruitful. And then there are vague attempts made at staying married, and, of course, steps to prevent it not even ventured: adultery, domestic abuse or abandonment may yield no forgiveness whatsoever. It goes without saying that the adults involved are cut to the core, especially when there are children as a result of the marriage. Those children are unequivocally the collateral damage of a failed relationship.

Kenny and Blake were too young - ages two and three-and-a-half, respectively - to have had the all-too-common child reaction that perhaps the decision to divorce was somehow their fault. Blake claims to have had memories of us together (not always happy), and Kenny - none. I always maintained the feeling that I wouldn't have to get into the reasons behind the split, that their father would make it clear as to why by his actions (chronically unemployed, among a few other things), and that notion did, in fact, come to fruition. As they got older, I did explain a cause or two, leaving myself in the equation; it takes two to tango after all.

Reassuring your child that a separation or divorce was none of their doing and that their relationship with both parents should remain intact is important. As much honesty as possible or, rather, as appropriate, is also key. Trying to hide the conflict may drive the child away, convinced that their parents lie and aren't to be trusted. Yet again, don't give them details that are better kept between adults, especially when the children are young.

One common by-product in separation is that of the angry or resentful parent (or parents) unwittingly taking that anger out on or through the children. To use the vernacular: "That ain't cool." Yet were my ex-husband and I 100-percent successful on that score? Sadly and uncomfortably: No. And I have heard the same, and observed it as well, from more than a dozen divorcing or divorced people over the years. The goal, nonetheless, is to keep one's frustrations between yourself and your ex. Another suggestion among the professionals (i.e. lawyers, mediators, those in the mental health field) is to help your children through the difficult task of family change with a therapist, or via support groups targeted at children of divorce. Schools may offer such groups through the guidance department - Blake and Kenny attended several of those discussion gatherings at their elementary school - and your local youth services department is another source of information. Although its been over 20 years since I divorced, it still stings somewhat; the stigma of it. Nobody enters into marriage imagining that it will collapse. My older two obviously have a different last name than myself and, of course, their two half-siblings, and I am still a tad ill-at-ease while explaining the dissimilar names to new friends. Oh - I won't even get into how I had to explain to my younger two why I was married before, and who that guy was that Blake and Kenny would spend every-other-weekend with, and why. Sure, some anecdotes are comical, but mostly it was uncomfortable for me. That and handling their pre-school and elementary-school thinking that since I divorced once, I could easily act that out again with their father. Suffice it to say that explaining a broken marriage to children is a tricky business. Sometimes, such as in my case, kids may simply be too young to truly notice a significant change in their family unit. As a friend of mine, Erin, shared with me, her now teenagers were but one and three years old when she divorced: "They didn't know any different; they don't know any different." Whether a divorce comes after five, 15, or 25 years of marriage, the end of a marriage is still uncharted territory. It is a life-altering event to be sure, but it needn't be eyed as a "life-ending" one. On the contrary, both parent and child can view - or grow to view it - as a positive solution to a chronic problem.
"Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible."

2009-03-23T11:12:00.000-07:00

Did you ever think you'd say...? Part 2

Yes, there are many things we never imagined ourselves saying or doing. And then there are words that come out of our mouths which seem to make sense to us (unlike "poopie" which was discussed last column). Until they are examined at close range. We parents - we adults, regardless of our parenting status - can utter the darndest things.

When Blake was home this past Christmas, we ran into some old family friends who had not seen him for at least 10 years. They exclaimed, as we all are wont to do: "Wow! Look at you! You got so big and grown-up!" Later on Blake commented, "Why do older people always say that?! Of course I grew up... did they actually think I'd stay a kid forever?" And his observation made me ponder, yes, why do we say those kinds of things?

All adults are guilty of crying out, "Oh, Sam! I can't believe how tall you are!" We may not have seen someones child in years or maybe just months. And it seems a natural observation to make, for in our mind's eye they are frozen at toddlerhood, or maybe third grade, or perhaps as an awkward adolescent. Now imagine them spouting back: "I'm tall Mrs. Evans because you're just getting shorter with age." What?! It could happen.

Kids usually don't know quite how to respond to our preoccupation with their bodily maturation. They will smile politely, with maybe a hint of a blush. Just as we did when we were younger. As the adult, we mistake that slight pinkening of the cheeks as modesty or even pride. But if you think back to when you were the recipient of those verdicts of appearance, the hot cheeks may have been more accurately a result of the snippy comeback we were saying to ourselves. Like, "Geez lady, no duh!"

Can you imagine a kid making some of the following analysis of us: "Holy crap, Mrs. Evans! You've gotten so many wrinkles since I saw you last; you're really getting older;" "Look at that belly pouch Mr. Evans. Guess that's what your 40's will do;" or "I can't believe you're 50! How did that happen?"

And turnabout is fair play in other ways. We love to squeeze a chubby baby's cheeks or legs. So what if a 12 -year-old we hadn't seen since infancy grabbed onto our triceps and cooed, "Look at those chubby arms. They're so cute!"

Then there are the comments we make, innocently, that teens - probably girls in particular - take the wrong way. On the occasion of my daughter Jessie's 14th birthday I cried, "You're getting so big!"

"Big?!" she wailed. "Are you saying that I've gotten fat?"

"No! No! It's just an expression," I stammered. "You know... it just means you're not a little girl anymore... not my baby." And I can't win with these observations, because when I mentioned last week that it looked as though she was getting skinnier, she spat back the whole so-you-think-I-was-fat-before thing. "That's not what I was implying," I began and then just shrugged and stopped while I was ahead. Well, not ahead, but inserting foot into mouth more didn't seem appetizing.

It just seems impossible not to chirp to a 13-year-old boy that you didn't recognize him because he's turning into a young man. I was in good company with those sort of remarks during a recent baseball evaluation, when several of us moms lamented aloud that little boy's faces were morphing into men's before our very eyes.

"Is that Justin?;" "That can't be Chris, he's not that tall!;" and "Who is that? No! How can that be Ryan?"

Their faces begin to fill out, becoming more chiseled, less adorable and decidedly handsome. Suddenly, we parents have gone from patting a boy on top of his head, to patting his shoulder, to finally a light punch in the arm because the head and shoulders are head and shoulders above us. The objects of our gushing, prodding and disbelief chuckle inside while slowly backing away from the crazy old people.

Yes, of course, time marches on. Children grow up, grow older; while adults just do the growing older part.

I leave you with two quotes:

"It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn't." ~Barbara Kingsolver

"There are only two things a child will share willingly - communicable disease and his mother's age." ~ Dr. Benjamin Spock

2009-03-05T19:29:00.001-08:00

Did You Ever Think You'd Say...?

For no reason in particular, I have been looking back at my 25 years of being a parent and I cannot believe the words and phrases that have jumped from my lips over the years in this job. I have also acted in ways and performed duties that I never, ever pictured myself doing pre-motherhood.

I mean ask yourself: When you were a free-wheeling single person, hip or edgy, did you ever think you would one day say "poopie?" As in, "Honey, did you make a poopie in your pants?" or "Don't touch the poopie!" Back when you used the F-bomb as a noun, adjective, verb and adverb at will, could you have guessed you would be using the "P" word as a noun, adjective, verb or adverb dozens of times a day? For years?! But there you are, or were. And if you are well beyond needing to employ that word in your daily vocabulary, don't get complacent about that fact. Because one day you will be a grandparent when your former poopie-provider begets one of their own, and you will need to pitch in when the child's nether regions explode.

When you were first married, perhaps mulling over the idea of becoming a parent, did you ever watch seemingly intelligent adults carrying their infants around on their hips and asking them - usually in a high-pitched voice - the following kinds of questions: "Should we buy this bread?" or "Mommy wants a coffee... do you think mommy should get a coffee?" or "Daddy wants to go to the car wash now. What do you think? What do you think?" And when you observed this, did you wonder why these parents were asking a bald, toothless, drooling tiny person their opinion? Did they really think the baby was going to pipe up with an answer, like, "No, no bread. You really need to cut back on the carbs, mom." You may have smugly promised yourself not to ever engage in that kind of insane banter. And then inexplicably found yourself having a million such conversations with your own infant and toddler: "Mommy's going to check her email now... do you want to watch? Do you? Do you?" The kid's a captive audience, and it's an excellent way to not appear like a crazy person talking to yourself; people look and see that you are actually speaking to a baby, so on a very odd level it's acceptable. Even if the questions and statements directed at said baby are well beyond that small being's comprehension. For the life of me, I never pictured myself as one of those parents who would be sniffing their teenage son or daughter from stem to stern. Like a hunting dog. "Come here," I say when my kid gets home from a night out. I start with the hair sniff, then work south demanding they open their mouth so I can take a whiff, trying to determine if there is alcohol or smoke - nicotine-tinged or sweet - on their breath. I breathe deep of their clothes for the same odors. I look ridiculous and trust me, my kids agree. But you have to do it, am I right? The same way -- going back to the beginning of this column - you have to actually pick your child up, or kneel at their tush - and thrust your nose onto the hind-end of their pants to smell if there has been an "accident." Same sort of theory when they're teens. If a mess is there, you have to clean it up. Unknowingly wearing vomit on your shoulder; standing in the chilly spring rain to watch your nine-year-old play baseball; hiding tiny teeth in your sock drawer; blotting chocolate off your child's face with your own saliva; going from rocking out to the Allman Brothers to the Jonas Brothers, or eating out of a jar of pureed bananas to show a wee one how it's done... these are just some of the things we may never expect we will do before becoming a parent. Yet, we do and we are. And just as we never pictured ourselves uttering what we do, touching things we normally would have no business touching, we also may not have counted on being able to love another human being with depth that we bestow upon our child. It almost makes up for those years of smelling things we hoped never to have smelled. Almost.

2009-02-19T14:53:00.000-08:00

"Courage is fear that has said its prayers."
Encourage your child to be brave, to be passionate about goals; to hope for a dream.

2009-02-19T14:42:00.000-08:00

The Cool Mom

I am not the "cool mom," at least not consistently. I think that I would like to be, although sometimes the "cool mom" is in reality more the aloof, "do-what-you-want-kids," lax disciplinarian mom. Considered "cool" by kids' standards, but often quite "un-cool" by other parents.

I overheard Jess and some friends talking about a party where there was indeed a parent present - a mother. I'm sure the teens parents felt reassured that the mom would police the kids to make sure no surreptitious drinking went on. However, perhaps in attempt to endear herself to the young guests, she told the half-dozen or so 15-year-old kids that they could drink, but just not "get wasted." I gasped upon hearing about this irresponsible insanity. "What a cool mom!" someone exclaimed. "My mom isn't that cool," another lamented. I wondered how neat they would have thought it was if one of the party attendees had gotten alcohol poisoning and the perceived cool mom had been arrested.

I wish our house was the kind that kids all wanted to come over to (though certainly not for the above reasons; God forbid!). No, I mean a destination that meant fun toys and apparatus, electronics and entertainment devices. I certainly see it as such, especially when compared to the house that I grew up in, and even the previous house we owned in New Canaan a scant four years ago. I recall being very excited that this new house boasted a finished basement, large playroom, including a bathroom attached; whoa! How decadent. But to my dismay, my bratty younger two have never entirely seen it that way. "It's gross," pronounced Jess when she was in seventh grade.

We have a trampoline in the back yard, a huge side yard where Jack and his sporty cohorts could have football and baseball games, plus a swimming pool. The basement features foosball and pool tables, an indoor plastic basketball hoop thing, and various video game systems. What more could a kid want, I ask? Well, according to Jack, we need an open space to play rug hockey like the trappings of his friend Eamon's basement (whose home is deemed the "cool house"). I believe Jack suffers from playroom envy. He has also complained about the television set in our playroom. So even though his dad recently won a nice sized flat screen in a raffle and replaced the offending t.v., the rec room is still not snazzy enough. Eamon's (or Drew's) is the place to be. I am always apologizing to their moms that we aren't reciprocating, but not for my lack of trying to convince Jack that it is the polite thing to do.

While Jess was in middle school our house was the go-to sleepover pad and I enjoyed getting to know her friends on a weekly basis. For one year Jess's bedroom was a very good-sized room above our garage and off the kitchen - the other side of the house from the master bedroom - so she could have the noisy nights, nab junk food at will, and we didn't have to keep imploring the gals to keep it down. So we were cool.

Perhaps a cool mom - or dad - is one who can be accessible not only to their child, but to their child's friends; not a buddy, but an easy-to-relate-to, trustworthy adult. I remember and cherish the couple of mothers of my girlfriends to whom I could confide concerns about my own mother, boyfriends, long-term wishes and goals. And yeah, a hip parent may also be the one that lets the sixth grader watch a PG-13 movie, stocks their pantry with Gushers and Oreos, offers a can of Coke over a juice box, or treats a gaggle of eighth grade girls to manicures and a meal in town unsupervised after dark. These lenient allowances may get them temporarily into hot water with the more conservative parent, but they aren't illegal, highly questionable actions.

So for now the place to hang out after-school is Eamon's and Drew's. I will embrace that fact because I think the boy's moms - Eileen and Robin, respectively - are pretty cool in and of themselves. I hope our playroom, our house, will be a draw again. My cupboards are stocked, my fridge overfloweth with soda. And in the spring, if you see me cruising around town in my convertible with a kid in every seat, please feel free to shout: "Well aren't you the cool mom!"

2009-02-06T07:19:00.000-08:00

When a Child Grows Into (or Out of) Their Name

Pop and television star Miley Cyrus - who was born Destiny Hope Cyrus – legally changed her name several months back to: Miley Ray Cyrus. Her nickname as a child was “Smiley,” which was then shortened to “Miley.” At the ripe old age of 15, she decided to chuck the “Destiny Hope.” This move in part prompted my own 15-year-old daughter to change her name this summer. But not legally. No way.

When perusing a baby name book nearly 16 years ago, my husband and I came upon the name “Jessie.” Not “Jessica” but “Jessie;” it was its own listing. The definition of which included the fact that in Scotland, Jessie is the nickname for “Janet.” My husband’s grandmother was named Janet and she was, in fact, a Scot. So although we preferred Jessie we thought it was the hand of fate and family to officially name her Janet. But call her Jessie or Jess. Stay with me here… Until she started kindergarten at age five, she was known far and wide as Jess. But there were a lot of Jessica’s running around the playground by then, so to avoid confusion, we began to call her by her given name, as did the school, friends and family members. Except for me and her oldest brother Blake. We couldn’t shake the moniker Jess. So for 10 years, my daughter has seemingly been the only “Janet” under the age of 40, which has been kind of unique.

In early July, my kid asked me if she could legally change her name to “Jess Evans.” When I queried “why” she said that “Janet Evans” has been done already (referring to former Olympic swimming gold medalist Janet Evans), and that Jess Evans sounded like a good stage name. Let me be clear here – my daughter is not on the verge of becoming a famous actress, at least not yet. So while putting the kibosh on the legal action, I happily informed her boarding school, summer camp and family far and wide of her decision. Of course old habits die hard – as they did for Blake and me – and Jon and Jack are currently struggling with the name transition. (Poor Jack, 12, has known her as “Janet” his entire life!)

As they grow, children often prefer to be known as the shorter or longer version of their given names. “Mike’s” morph into “Michael’s” and vice versa. “Katherine’s” may go for the jauntier “Kat” as a teen, and then turn back to Katherine once they begin a career. I had a friend growing up whose name was/is: Mary Frances Gannon. We all called her Mary until high school when she impulsively decided she wanted everybody to call her “Fran.” A boyfriend after college had always been known by his middle name, “Tyler,” but when he became a police officer he felt his first name “Donald” sounded tougher.

Once people get to know me, “Julie” is shortened to “Jul” or “Jules.” During my sophomore year in high school I tried writing “Jules Butler” on the top page of assignments, but it didn’t take. Like my daughter, I asked my parents about legally changing my name and received the same answer she did (don’t you cringe when you hear your parents’ voices echoing in your own?). There were some teachers who – like my pals – called me Jules anyway, but I could never get it in print. Ah well.

I drove Jess up to her boarding school a couple of weeks ago and she was thrilled upon arrival to pick up her student identification card with the name “Jess Evans” boldly imprinted on it. She began this school half way through her freshman year last January, so she is still fairly new. And the name change has given her the feeling and attitude of a fresh start. She was beaming as I drove away as her roommate cried out “Jess! I’ve missed you!”

I don’t know if one day down the line she’ll revert back to being called Janet; that’s her call. But she knows she’s really always been – and will forever be - my Jess.

2009-01-30T06:56:00.000-08:00

When Mom's Fashions Become Daughter's Fashions

A couple of weeks ago my daughter Jess was wearing my favorite sweatshirt. "Take it off," I ordered of the garment that is as old as she is - 15 - worn and soft, with holes and tears both big and small. She was leaving in a few minutes to go back to boarding school. "I'll take it off when I get to my room and give it to daddy," she promised. "That's crazy!" I cried. "You just want to wear it to ride in a car?! Take it off now!" No dice.

Do you know why she didn't take it off, parental order and pulling on the sweatshirt notwithstanding? Because she had every intention of stealing it. I knew this, as this was hardly the first time I had discovered an article of my clothing or a pair of my shoes stuffed into her duffel bag. I also understood that she was hoping to distract her father upon arrival at her dorm, therefore my beloved and fragile sweatshirt would remain in her custody. I'm no fool, no fool at all. I've known this person for nearly 16 years; I am well-acquainted with the way she operates. And so I let her leave home thinking she was going to be successful in kidnapping my most prized apparel. I kept phoning my husband every hour of the three-hour drive reminding him to nab the finery. Once I figured they were safely back on campus, I phoned her: "Hand it over." Click. Mission accomplished.

Once upon a time she was wee and I could dress her at will, not to mention buy the fashions in which I desired to see her attired. I would lay her outfits out the night before school, the form looking like a headless and hand less figure, lying sprawled and creepy on the floor. Of course, and sort of expectantly, as she carried on through elementary school she began to develop her own tastes, some of which gave me pause. There was the Limited, Too and Abercrombie phase: tight jeans, leggings, tiny t-shirts and camisoles. Camisoles! Most of her girlfriends dressed the same; it seemed an unspoken dress code among the fourth and fifth grade set. But camisoles! Cut low enough to a point where a few years later there would actually be something there to make the neckline objectionable to parents (although 12 year-old boys and older didn't find the look risque). The fashions for 10 year olds looked uncannily like those of a 16-year-old. They still do.

"Back in the day" girls looked like, well, girls. Public school dress expectations were strict: we could not wear pants - or heaven forbid blue-jeans - until high school. Once we hit freshman year things loosened up a bit. Well, quite a bit for me actually as it was the 1970's. After years of buttons and bows all hell broke loose and as 14 year olds we let fly as if shot from a fashion cannon. So although I make Jess do the fingertip test to ensure skirts are not obscenely short, my friends and I sported "short-shorts" and micro-minis. I also hypocritically object to and often tug up on those darned camies when in fact we were somehow allowed to wear midriff shirts and halter tops (bra-less, naturally)! But I digress...

Jess caught up to me feet first. By eighth grade we were - and remain to this day - the same shoe size. Initially my heels would go missing, yet only briefly, as the art of walking in such footwear would take practice to perfect. I'd reach into the downstairs closet to grab my pair of Uggs only to discover that they were at that moment waltzing through the middle school. On a bad hair morning I would rifle though a drawer for a headband and find it too had decided to hop on the school bus. Mascaras, eyeliners, and blush would turn up missing. Then this past summer she began rifling through my tops and by autumn, my sweaters. Our pant sizes are only one apart (much to her horror and my glee at having lost weight), so I'm safe at least in that department.

Last night she ambled downstairs in a pair of my pajamas. Pajamas! Mommy jammies!

"What the heck?" I inquired both dumbfounded and amused. She just grinned and plopped herself down on the couch beside me. She leaned into me and cuddled. Aww. My little girl: My size in all respects. We have met in the middle for now, before I give in, grow up and start dressing my age, and she begins to assert her own style to a greater extent. For now, however, we seem to agree that love is in fashion.

2009-01-19T13:26:00.001-08:00

Is Ignorance Really Bliss Where Our Kids are Concerned?

The adage "ignorance is bliss" is true, to an extent. If I never knew what questionable actions my children had and have engaged in, if I believed in what they tried to pass off as truths, if I firmly believed that my angels were actually angels... Well, I would be blissfully happy. Perhaps I would be sporting no grey hairs, barely visible worry creases between my eyes, nor nagging headaches. I'd be content, peaceful and serene 24/7. I would also be a certifiable fool. And as my kids can well attest, I do not suffer fools gladly.

There is another cliche: "Nobody's perfect." I most certainly am not; not as a woman, a wife or as a mother. I was recently introduced on a local news channel as "knowing how to successfully raise children." I cringed mightily inside and had to choke back tears. "Successfully?!" When I watched the tape later with my family, I had to pause the segment after hearing those words again, excuse myself briefly, and go into the bathroom to weep. Does "successful" mean your kid never screws up? What exactly is the criteria for being "successful" as a parent? It is too large a concept for me to wrap my head around. Because not only am I not perfect, but my children are not as well. Everybody - absolutely everybody in this world - makes mistakes. Some are small, tiny, maybe imperceptible, and others are loud and bold and not easily forgivable, nor forgotten. I teared up because my kids have orchestrated their own missteps and sometimes I feel as if I might have been asleep at the wheel, or wasn't the proper role model, or assumed the best when the worst is always possible.

I had a friend in Weston who once wondered why, one by one, her nine-year-old son's friends began to decline playdates - myself included - though I never brought myself to completely cut her son out of my boy's life. Her son was a bully of sorts, whining when he didn't get his own way and prone to pushing when frustrated. If I recall, one mother had tried letting her know what was going on, gently of course, but I'm not sure if my friend brought herself to fully recognize or believe that could possibly be true. Perhaps you can see yourself in that scenario. Or maybe once your daughter was in middle school you figured she was coming home weepy due to the "mean girl syndrome," when in reality, she was the mean girl and the others were excluding her because of it. Getting to the bottom of what may actually be going on with your child, with the help of the school or friend's parents, I have found to be helpful.

I have heard rumors of, or actually witnessed, teen offspring of friends smoking cigarettes or drinking, and when their parents and I have discussed in generality such behaviors they are convinced that their son or daughter would never indulge themselves in these activities. I too have been thoroughly convinced of my own kids' innocence in such matters, until tips were offered from close friends. Though bliss was preferred a seed was nevertheless planted, I became suspicious, did some investigating, and lo and behold unhealthy and/or and unattractive experimentation was in fact part of reality. I was horrified, aghast - choose any synonym. The truth I am choosing to believe is that it has ceased. I'm no dummy though, and vigilance will continue. Another expression leaps to mind: "Once burned, twice shy." it applies to both me and my sons/daughter.

It is painful, though, not to trust your child completely. The lie can can leap out of the four-year-old's mouth: "No mommy I did not take this pack of gum from the grocery store" (when clearly a four-year-old does not boast a wallet full of cash); to an 11-year-old firmly telling you that the t.v. screen must have cracked on its own, in spite of the baseball bat lying carelessly at his feet, to your 18-year-old insisting that he is not drinking alcohol when confronted with empty beer cans discovered under his bed. What - did the beer bunny leave them there? The untruths can be head-spinningly astounding. "Just tell me the truth," I implore of them. "The consequences of lie upon lie are less - or even non-existent - if you tell me the truth." Accidents happen. So do spectacular lapses in judgment. The truth can often set you free.

And yes, the truth can hurt the parent. Upon learning of something uncomfortable, from a broken vase to a broken curfew, I have sat myself firmly upon the pity pot. I have cried for the unknown something I might have done better. I have cried for them and for the price they pay if the incident or indiscretion has harmed them in some way physically, socially or emotionally. This is not to say that my children are "bad" for they most certainly are not. Just as their dad and I slipped and fell during our time before them, so have and so shall they. The fact that mistakes are inevitable makes a parent feel helpless: We want to protect and to shield. We want bliss. We do not wish to be guilty-by-association. We want to believe that we have raised a straight edge child. Does it mean that we have failed if they occasionally flail?

Was I a happier camper when more freshly ignorant while raising my first-born? In the words of Sarah Palin, "You betcha!" But child by child my innocence has been chipped away, much like their own. Nobody expects to be disappointed or disillusioned, but it is part of the job description of "parent."

I'm not going to quit my job -- my "employees" are too precious. The bliss comes from having them in my life, warts and all.

2009-01-04T19:10:00.001-08:00

A Tall Tale: When Your Kids Sprout Up

Height happens.

Within the past two months, I have noticed that I am somehow eye-to-eye with my baby. Okay, so the baby is 12 years old. And his two brothers before him were beyond my eye level when they were his age. But still... How did I manage to become the shortest person in the house? Wait. I'm not exactly; my daughter is one inch shorter than me, and if I am to believe her pediatrician, at age 15 Jess has reached her adult height. Whew! Nevertheless...

There is something a bit disconcerting about having a child tower above you. For many years I was the towering presence: the grown-up, the authority figure, the "I'm-bigger-than-you-are" guy. When your kid suddenly sprouts up and you are literally knocking foreheads with him, well, it's a milestone of a different sort. It's not really a warm and fuzzy, get out the camera, lump-in-your-throat milestone. Maybe lump-in-your-throat because you ascertain that your baby is baby in concept only. But as I said up front, I have been on the south side of height with a child before, and it's just plain weird. it begs the question: "Can my child still look up to me without looking up at me?"

The answer to that is both yes and no. Why both? Easy -- Because when a child suddenly grow inches in stature, they are in the throes of adolescence, which by nature means that they probably aren't going to "look up to" their parent on the more constant basis that they did before they began growing into their shoe size. You can still be - and are - their role model in many ways. They know in their heart-of-hearts that you are the boss, but being teens or teens-in-training, their job is to question, question, question and push the envelope every which way that they can. It doesn't really matter if you are shorter or taller than them at this point, this is just what they do. However, if you are vertically-challenged by them it is a bit dicier to cut the figure of the hero. Blake was a six-footer when he started high school, and six-foot-two when he graduated. I am a lofty five-foot, four-and-half inches (need to get that half inch in there). He thought - and still thinks on occasion - that because we hover in different atmospheres that he is the one in charge; the smarter, better one. How annoying was this during high school? In order to put him in his place, so to speak, I would make him sit down, so we were on a level playing field, and assure him that in fact I was still the parent. "Just because you're bigger, doesn't make you better," I'd say firmly. "I still have time and experience on my side, so cool it!" Due to carrying such a heavy pack during his Iraq deployments, he has actually lost an inch or two, but clearly I still need to crane my neck to have a conversation with him when he is at home. And even though he knows I am the parent, he still finds great joy in picking me up like a worthless rag doll if I stray toward lecture mode. Fair enough, I guess, but I do miss my dignity for those few seconds. What seems not fair, though, is how stealth the growing taller process is for children. It's insidious. One day you are kissing the top of their head as they run out the door, the next day it's their nose, and the next... their chin or their chest! They are wearing your clothes, they are borrowing their father's shoes, they are accidentally hitting their heads on the car door when they duck inside for a ride. "No! No!" I want to cry. "Stop it! I want you to grow up, but not... grow up!" Get more mature, more responsible; I can emotionally handle that. But grinning at me from several inches above my grin? Now just hold on a minute! My mother - who remained taller than me, but shorter than my brother - used to jokingly tell him that he was "not too old or too big to spank" when he was sassy to her. I used that line on Jack the other day, to which he replied all five-foot-four-y: "Yeah? You gotta catch me first!" Curses! Foiled again.

2008-11-19T13:27:00.000-08:00

Boy Friendships versus Girl Friendships

One of the more fascinating and moving things for me as a parent is to watch my child befriend another. "The better part of one's life consists of his friendships," stated Abraham Lincoln. And is it ever one of the better parts.

Observing the way females friend and the manner in which males conduct a friendship was something I didn't truly begin to do until I became a mother. I believe I really started to sit up and take notice when Kenny was about 13 and I overheard him lacing a conversation with his then best friend with some choice expletives.

"You are a (expletive deleted)!" he said into the telephone. "I really hate you." I was shocked and stormed into the living room where he was on the phone, scolding him not to speak that way to Joe, or to anyone else for that matter. He just laughed at me and insisted that Joe didn't mind; he knew Kenny was joking. I refused to believe him until I called Joe's mom later to apologize, and she relayed that Joe referred to Kenny in the same sweet terms. "That's just boys," she counseled. Yikes! And yes, boys can often get away with that.

I was in recent email contact with a woman who has been one of my dearest friends since the sixth grade. Apparently I didn't respond in a timely manner to one of her messages, so she emailed back: "Are you mad at me?" Now that's a trademark of girl friendships pretty much no matter what your age or how long the friendship. We're more sensitive. We're prone to imagining that our girlfriend is "mad" at us if they even look at us cross-eyed. And we try not to use wounding words, at least when we're older and wiser. I still don't think even a 14-year-old girl could get away with calling her girlfriend some of the demeaning things boys seemingly casually lob onto one another.

A quick Googling of "children's friendships" revealed that despite the common belief that girls are better at relationships, "most boys consider their friends a vital part of their lives." Apparently a recent study of 10- to 15- year old boys and girls found that girls' friendships are actually more fragile, and, my experience to the contrary, girls allegedly say and do hurtful things to each other more frequently than boys. Girls are additionally hurt to a greater extent at the end of a friendship.

As a child morphs into a teen (or "teen wolf" as a friend of mine hilariously dubbed her daughter), friendships become even more important, with the confusion and turbulence of this period leading both sexes to form even closer bonds, not only with same sex individuals but also with members of the opposite sex. I watched this in action with my older three and now that Jack is a seventh grader, he and his male buddies have suddenly overnight formed a small posse of boys and girls. Whereas last year he would troll Elm Street with just the guys, now when I pick him up on a Friday he is lounging with a mixed group at the Outback or by Dunkin' Donuts, et al. Of course, with him being my baby, it is with a sense bitter sweet when I spy on his new set of friends; he's growing up and I'm not entirely ready. But I digress...

I look back fondly at the relationships that I formed growing up in small town Weston, where the majority of us who graduated high school with one another had been together since kindergarten and first grade; several since the sandbox in nursery school. The male friendships forged in teenage-hood were often stronger than those with my girlfriends, or at least they were a distinctive type of stalwart. I observe my daughter Jess' platonic bonds with boys and share what my experiences were. I will often pass on the knowledge that her female friendships not only with her New Canaan buddies, but also with those up at her boarding school, will more than likely still be alive and well and precious when she is old and silly like me.

My kids have chosen friends with opposite personalities than their own, they've chosen clones. And most importantly, they have by and large chosen well.

I have recently been "found" on Facebook by a dozen or so men and women (whom I still think of as boys and girls) from my youth. It has hurtled me back in time, reviving memories of how vital their friendships were as I grew; how we all helped one another grow. It makes me picture Blake, Kenny, Jess and Jack as 50-year-olds, waxing nostalgic with Sean, Jenna, Joe, Bria, Caroline, Drew or Cole or Kit. Friends then, and friends in their present time.

You can be seven with a new buddy, or 70 with a crony of decades, and -- to paraphrase Bette Midler -- "friends are the wings beneath our wings." Friends are one of the sweetest things to be thankful for. On Thanksgiving, remember and be grateful for those friends; remind your children to be indebted. Happy Thanksgiving!

2008-11-05T11:59:00.001-08:00

Persuading Our Kids That We're In Charge

How many times have you repeated the following sentence to your child or children,"Because I'm the mommy, that's why!" And on how many occasions have they muttered under their darling little breaths, "You're not the boss of me."

I have one of those platitudes-of-the-day calendars. Last Tuesday it read: "One of the hardest things about rearing children is convincing them that you have seniority." Oh my goodness; a truism if there ever was one. My kids go back and forth on recognizing that their father and I are, in fact, in charge. We are in charge of setting rules and following through on consequences when - notice I didn't day "if" - the edict is broken or bent. We have the power to overrule a decision of theirs that we feel is perhaps iffy, dangerous or not well thought out. This is in theory anyway.

Children seemed to be hard wired to challenge our authority even from a young age. During the "terrible twos" - an aptly named period if there ever was one - they begin chanting "no!" at every turn. They constantly screw their otherwise adorable faces up into a fierce visage and decry "why?!" And our response is the patented one from above:"Because I'm the mommy, that's why." Both my daughter Jess, now 15, and one of my older sons, Kenny, 23, disputed me on that one from toddlerhood through their teens (Jess I'm afraid has a few more years of the annoying line of questioning "why?"). Each whined and still whine that "because" isn't answer enough, I need to be more specific, which more times than not leaves me a bit stumped, if not also stupefied.

My litany of reasons include,"Because you're not old enough, responsible enough, because you can get hurt, because it costs too much, because I'm older than you, dammit!" Yeah, the last one is pretty lame. I don't endorse the occasional swear word, but it works sometimes. I'm older, I have been where you are now, I made mistakes and I am wiser for it. So just shut up and do as I say. Again, I don't really say "shut up" out loud, of course, except when one of my kids has really pushed my buttons too hard or campaigned for their way to excruciating proportions. This honest declaration in print is a little awkward, but something tells me that I am not alone with these particular verbal parenting indiscretions.

I don't think the phrase "You're not the boss of me" was really employed much when Kenny and Blake were younger, but Jack and Jess certainly never tired of during their stints in elementary school and perhaps through the fifth grade. In their heart of hearts they do know that I am the one with seniority, yet when has a teenager not challenged their parent's authority? It is part of their job description. But - and this is an important "but" - they can and eventually do realize that rebellion often comes with a price; left to their own devices, their own rules, situations don't routinely turn out quite the way they envisioned. Heeding mom or dad's advice might have been the better part of valor.

I can feel quite elderly and stereotypically parental when I utter the words,"When I was your age, these are the mistakes I made..." yet every so often my kid will actually pay attention. It appears that they will take in the obvious fact that yes, mom is indeed older and wiser than me, and battle-scarred. And if she didn't love me she wouldn't forbid certain behaviors or decisions I would like to act on. Sometimes even the simple one word comeback of "because" is enough.

So hang in there everyone. Do not abdicate to your offspring; do not negotiate - whenever possible - with your tiny or teenage terrorist. You are in charge, even if the whirling dervishes temporarily make you feel out-of-control.

2008-10-28T16:29:00.000-07:00

The Scary Economy and the Trick for Our Kids

This past month or two has hardly been a treat for our town and our country, to say the least. Reeling, frightened and cautious, most of us have had to cut back or cut out certain expenditures. As the grown-ups - many of who have lived through a recession or two in our lifetimes - we understand what is required to trim spending no matter how unhappy or uneasy (or both) it makes us. Our kids on the other hand, denied of "wants" for perhaps the first time in their lives, are shaking their heads: "Huh? What are you talking about?!"

Depending upon your level of wealth(and the majority of families here in New Canaan are in the upper end of the spectrum), your children have rarely had to do without the latest video game, piece of sporting equipment, footwear or fashion item, advanced piece of technology, etc. Sally needs a cell phone with numerous bells and whistles? No problem. Johnny has to have the newest version of X-Box? Why of course! Does Sara ask for $50 to purchase some must-have item along Elm Street? Consider it done. It's almost automatic. Maybe a lot of us did without during our childhood and so we want our children to have all or most of which we were unable. Probably a hefty percentage of kids age one to 21-ish feel entitled to whatever costly whim blows through their vision. And now, the gravy train has more than likely come abruptly to a screeching halt. The trick for us as parents is teaching them that less is not necessarily the end of and to their world, and that gravity can work in the reverse: What goes down can - and does eventually - go up again. They will live anew to wear $150-plus Nikes or the hottest Juicy Couture. Sometime. Just not necessarily now.

Our high school sophomore, Jess, had to settle for Target and H&M fashions to wear up at boarding school this year. We didn't even set foot inside Hollister or Abercrombie or even some of the more upscale (and coveted by her) stores in New Canaan. Her school often offers weekend trips to a local "movie-mall" and she has grown accustomed to phoning us up and asking that an extra $20 be immediately transferred into her debit account. After initial grumbling, Jon will pad over to the computer, granting her wish. She attempted this particular brand of phone call last weekend and was met with an unfamiliar "no." Jon calmly, but firmly, suggested that she needed to learn to budget the weekly $20 we already put into her account better: For instance, cut back on random junk food and yet another Jonas Brothers t-shirt for sale at the mall. Surely the 12-zillion you already posses are enough. I explained that the denied additional $20 didn't mean we were suddenly in danger of being in the poor house, but that expenses big and small needed to be pruned.

"We're not the only ones in town, honey," I reassured her. "Families all over the country need to tighten their belts a bit." And to her credit, she was sympathetic and decidedly un-whiny.

I think the key to calming our own fears, and the frustrations or anxieties of our children, is not to make drastic spending reductions (unless that is financially impossible). If our kids see us panic, well, they will certainly mimic that worry. But if we calmly curtail certain expenses while still allowing some treats it's perhaps more of a win-win situation between parent and child.

While the disposable income of many Americans is not as readily disposable, our children can still be made to feel that the shaky economy is not as mean a trick as it appears. They can learn to do their part in pruning expenses in small ways such as agreeing to rent - rather than buy - that hot, new video game, or helping with the electric bill by turning off lights, computers, televisions and game systems when not in use. My own two younger children - whose cell phones are not in perfect working order - are resigned to do their part and wait until Christmas for their upgrades and/or replacements. I was both shocked and impressed by them agreeing to delay their need for instant gratification; talk about a treat!

Wall Street has most likely (hopefully) blurted out its final "Boo!" So tomorrow night, when your child comes home laden with sweets, let them enjoy their abundance of riches. But not too much; safely saving a piece or two or three for a rainy day is always a good drill to teach. Because you never know...

2008-10-22T15:57:00.000-07:00

Parenting Twenty-Somethings

"Having babies is fun, but babies grow up into people. "
~M*A*S*H, Colonel Potter

My oldest child is 25, a United States Marine, and for the moment is stationed at a base on the island of Okinawa. My second oldest son is 23, a "professional hobo," and as such doesn't live anywhere in particular; he just lights here and there throughout the United States. I never know where his thumb is taking him. But even if these two children of mine have long since fled the New Canaan nest, I still think, worry and wonder about each of them daily. Though one might think having a child in their 20's means the job as a parent is pretty much over, that's hardly the case. The parenting part is actually a bit trickier than it was long ago, in a childhood far, far away. "Mothers do not know what to do when their children come of age... it's hard to find that they've moved on to build a life of their own. It's easy to feel rejected and lonely and to express those feelings by interfering in the life they (the child) are trying to build for themselves," states a website on family education. Although I may not be happy, for example, with Kenny's current lifestyle of living out of his backpack, I have to acknowledge that my hopes and dreams may not be his. As parents, our hopes and expectations are just that - ours. Acknowledging this is one thing, but acceptance of it with all of my being is something I find I must work on daily. I read Kenny's travel blog and I want to reach through the computer and shake him. Or we will have a conversation about where and what his next move may be and when I hang up my tongue is bloodied from biting it. Since his college graduation I have had to swallow the bitter pill that his agenda and mine are clearly not one and the same. I miss my power, as it were; my influence. Although perhaps I am not giving myself enough credit. There have been moments in both of my twenty-something sons' lives where they have turned to me for direction or input. I am the one they call first when successes - small or large - occur. It actually happens more with Kenny than with Blake, which -- given their different life experiences so far -- makes sense. Blake has certainly seen more in his 25 years than many adults see in their lifetimes. Three combat tours in Iraq will do that for a person. He has been on his own since high school graduation, existing under the wing of the military. Blake is always quick with the phrase: "I can handle it myself, mom." I suppose on many fronts that is true, and yet every so often I get that glimmer of my pre-Marine baby boy. The boy who needed my approval, helping hand or guidance, and shyly still does. It is so very odd to me to realize that Blake is only two years younger than I was when I gave birth to him. I remember how adult that life-changing event made me feel, yet also how frightened, young and uncertain. And so my mother came to stay with me for a few weeks before and after his birth, offering both that typical roll-your-eyes-behind-her-back type of advice, and also crucial and calming suggestions; the kind of motherly attention and affection every kid needs no matter what their age. There we were, the mother mothering the mother mothering the newborn child. I learned that there were- are - still plenty of opportunities to do some good mothering even when your child is north of age 20. Your adult child is going to make mistakes and will have to learn to live with and from them, often without turning to you for bail out. And although it doesn't pain us any less to see our child hurt at 22 then at two, there will be times when unsolicited pontificating is not the best course of action. Your goal as a parent at this stage in the game is to help your child feel empowered to take charge. That can be best accomplished if you make it clear that he or she always has a home and family to turn to when life gets tough. The "traumatic teens" have long passed for my older boys and have morphed into the "trials of the 20's." Their stuff is still in their room, clothes, gear and gadgets from their younger days untouched, hanging out in a closet or nestled in their dresser drawer. Both will be home for Christmas this year, a rare occurrence given Blake's career. They will pretend to chafe at my affection, but the slight pink blush that comes across their cheeks will remind me that I am still employed as their mother, even though I am not involved in their day-to-day actions as young adults. Instant availability without continuous presence is probably the best role a parent can play.

2008-09-08T15:50:00.000-07:00

NOW AVAILABLE!

"Parenting from the Trenches: Anecdotes from the Front Lines of Child Rearing" by Julie Butler Evans
$18.95 includes shipping and handling

TO ORDER CLICK HERE

2008-07-17T19:24:00.000-07:00

When a Child Grows Into (or Out of) Their Name

I don’t know if one day down the line she’ll revert back to being called Janet; that’s her call. But she knows she’s really always been – and will forever be - my Jess.

2008-06-26T10:08:00.000-07:00

Summer of Growth

Summertime isn’t just about backyard barbeques, beaches, fireflies, sunburns and heat waves that dull the senses and wilt the hair. Summer is also a time of change, especially for and in our children. And, yes: even in ourselves.

Summer is relaxation and introspection; expectation of what is to come in two to three months time. The next season is both a lifetime and a blink away. You want to stay in the day, in the moment, and yet it is nevertheless tempting to sneak a peek at the future; to project both best and worst case scenarios.

Five year olds nervously and excitedly discuss starting kindergarten (“the big school”) perhaps ad nauseum. They will brag about it when your friends ask them if they will, in fact, be a kindergartner in September. They may gloat about it to younger siblings. Your round cheeked daughter or son’s face will morph over July and August into a slightly more mature-looking visage by fall. You, too, will both rejoice over this upcoming milestone, and internally worry about your child’s readiness. And your own: Can I let go? Will I cry? What if, what if, what if?

Fourth and eighth graders – now fifth and ninth-graders-to-be – maybe plan a strategy to reinvent themselves at Saxe or NCHS. Voices will deepen, shoes sizes will enlarge. Your child may begin to attempt to break away even more from your apron strings. Fourteen-year-olds can adopt a new, cockier swagger as they stroll through town or around your summer vacation location. You will find their confidence both breathtaking and staggering.

For those parents whose kids will begin college, the melancholy is often suffocating. You are proud, you are anxious. Your son can’t wait, your daughter already wants to go shopping for her dorm room. They will live their summer to the fullest, all the while trying to push aside feelings of what if, what if, what if. You know that you will miss them, yet you may be ready to reclaim a tiny bit of freedom from doing and driving and coordinating.Your tears are firmly planted behind your eyes and your throat aches from the choking required to keep them at bay.

If your child is attending sleep-away camp for the first time, there is anxiety and fear of the unknown. How empty will the house feel without your son? Will your daughter gain a greater appreciation of all that you do, now that she will be away for a couple of weeks? You drive them to the airport, bravely wave so long, and watch the skies as your heart is strapped into a seat, a bag of stale peanuts on its lap, soaring off across the country for a month. That child will become more confident, be challenged and rise to that occasion. And you will discover that, yes, you can let go; you can survive a separation of time and space.

I’ve put four children on the bus bound for kindergarten, middle and high school. At four a.m. on the morning of July 26, 2001, I stood frozen in our front doorway while Blake hugged me goodbye as he left for Marine Corps boot camp at Parris Island, South Carolina; my first child to leave home. I made it through his birthday in August without being with him, the initial birthday of many to come.I found that I was strong enough to live through three days, then three months, without seeing his face or hearing his voice. The experience was brutal and formidable for us both. Yet, it served to show me that I was, in fact, capable. That the inevitable letting go’s with the other three were – and are – doable.

There have been summers where I have conquered fears, not only emotional, but physical and spiritual. Like the summer two years ago, when I paraglided from atop the ski mountain at Jackson Hole (“jumping off the mountain” as I like to refer to it). My daughter was still in camp out there and my husband and son had returned to New Canaan. I was on my own for a week and determined to try some new things; tick off some bucket list items. Afraid of flying and of heights, I nevertheless threw caution to the winds – literally – and flew. When I revealed my feat to my husband and four children, they were duly surprised and impressed. I flew, I grew.

There is something in the air of summertime which causes our kids to reach new heights as well, whether it is emerging taller by August’s end and/or experiencing great pain, great joy, great feats of daring.

Savor the summer and the transformations which are likely to occur. The lazy, hazy days are always full of cool discoveries.

2008-05-05T05:41:00.000-07:00

Jonesing for Jonas

If you have a daughter above the age of five, who watches the Disney channel, then you most likely have heard of the teen singing sensation, the Jonas Brothers. And, if by some rare chance you have not, pay attention. They are a female addiction just waiting to happen.

From the playgrounds of the elementary schools, to the halls at New Canaan High – and Lord knows everywhere else in the country – girls are going gaga for New Jersey-raised brothers Nick, Joe and Kevin. I think the Jonas Brothers are to our daughters what the Beatles once were to those of us of a certain age (and for those younger mommies, think David Cassidy?). They are swoon-worthy, they are energetic, and they are sweet-sounding young musicians. And I know New Canaan has been bitten by the Jonas bug.

I spied quite a number of you at their recent concert up at Harbor Yard in Bridgeport. And don’t deny it – even you were held in the brothers’ thrall. They are quite the act on stage: PG, with just a hint of PG-13. It was difficult to actually hear their vocals at times during the concert, what with all the insanely high-decibel screaming going on all around, but judging from the CD which plays non-stop in our car, the boys have decent pipes.

My daughter became a fanatic a year ago, and as the Jonas Brothers have grown into more and more of a phenomenon (singing the national anthem at the White House this Easter, performing in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, on “Dancing with the Stars” and “Jimmy Kimmel, Live” to name just a few appearances), her fandamonium has grown exponentially. It’s a little scary to observe sometimes, but it’s fascinating all the same. They bring such a strong smile of joy and rapture to her face that it’s hard to deny her. And so I have become an enabler and a fan all at once! (Perhaps that fact is scarier than the depth of her passion!)

In just three month’s time, I have taken her to see them four – count ‘em – four times. My husband has seen the Allman Brothers, Radiohead, and Los Lobos during this time span; me – three moppy haired Jersey boys. Last week I literally injured my forearm sprinting down our stairs to get to the computer in order to purchase tickets for their upcoming summer concert tour. I missed some of my beloved “American Idol” to catch them singing on “Dancing with the Stars.” And I awoke at 4:00 a.m. this past Good Friday to drive her and her equally-addicted friend, Madison, to catch a 5:00 a.m. train into the city so that they could attempt to see the boys perform on CBS’ “The Early Show.” (That mission was not accomplished, unless one counts seeing their tour bus parked outside of the Hard Rock Café in Times Square; trust me – they counted it!)

It seems these lads have staying power and a brother for every age: Nick is 15, Joe, 18 and Kevin is 20. There is even a “Bonus Jonas,” seven-year-old brother, Frankie, although he doesn’t perform with his older siblings. And there could be worse things for our daughters to be obsessed with or addicted to, right? These guys are safe without being saccharine, tame without being lame, and “that’s just the way they roll.”

Janet has to get her fix everyday. I’d rather it be Joe Jonas than a joint; Nick over nicotine and Kevin rather than kegs. Long live the Jon-i!

2008-04-02T09:09:00.000-07:00

2008-01-31T14:17:00.000-08:00

Teenager on Board

My nest is now three-quarters empty.

Last weekend we drove our daughter, my third child Janet, up to a boarding school in Massachusetts to begin the second semester of her freshman year in high school. A new chapter begins for both her and the rest of the family, at least the three of us left at home: me, her dad and younger brother Jack.

My husband attended boarding school during his high school years, but I was a public high school kid. Where Janet was concerned, we had batted the idea of a boarding school back and forth over the past year, with Jon being more pro and me more-or-less on the fence. I knew it would probably be best for her academically. But I kind of enjoyed the public high school social experience and for better or worse also liked having her around. I also found pleasure in seeing her buddies both here at our house as well as in the halls of New Canaan High and on Elm Street. I miss them already.

The decision to withdraw her from the high school and enroll in boarding school happened quickly. She asked if she could go, our batting around ceased, and the search for the right school increased. And within two weeks it was done. Boom! Instant teen on board.

It’s a big decision this one of sending your child off to a private, residential secondary school. All sorts of factors – financial, academic, emotional, and social – must be considered. Often the decision isn’t so monumental. Many families come from a long line of boarding school graduates, from great grandparents down to the current generation, so the conclusion of where to spend the high school years is foregone. Jon’s family has that kind of history. Mine is mixed – mom attended Miss McGhee’s in New Orleans and my dad graduated from Mendota (Illinois) High; my brother had a boarding education as a middle-schooler. And as I said, I am a happy grad of Weston High.

Often a student needs a smaller, more concentrated classroom environment in order to succeed and private or residential schools can accomplish this more readily than a public school. A stricter dress code and/or discipline expectations may also be easier to enforce in a private school setting than at home or in the local middle or high school. Oftentimes boarding school traditions are embraced by the parent who has been down that road and they would like those customs visited on their children.

We have friends in town – in fact the mom is a former classmate of Jon’s from The Kent School – who have sent both of their children to their mother’s alma mater. Although they miss the kids, the concept of them going away to school was hardly foreign. Dad got teary initially, but I think now he’s adjusted. I may need some advice from him on how to do just that.

Our second oldest son also went away during his junior year, only to return to and graduate from New Canaan High, so this is not my maiden voyage with the whole kid-away-at-boarding-school. But it feels different. And raw.

While there are certain things I will not miss - among them being the arguments over computer curfew time, or appropriate school attire, and being tense every morning wondering whether or not she would make the school bus (If she missed it – which she was wont to do at least twice a week – I would be deprived of some extra sleep and wound up driving bleary eyed to school bed-headed and be-jammied. Won’t miss that. Not for a nano-second) - I will miss her, the Janet-ness of her on a daily basis. The unexpected hugs and giggles for me only; the sharing of friend “drama;” the scoop on the Jonas Brothers; the hormones that coincide with my own; the fact that my eye-liner or favorite pair of Uggs or body scrub will not be disappearing.

As we said goodbye to her last Sunday in front of her dorm, I was paradoxically both of full heart and heart-broken. I hugged her maybe a second longer than I think she was comfortable with and as I pulled away tears immediately filled my eyes. Janet winced.

“It’s okay, mom,” she said, turning a little pink nonetheless. I thought of the lyrics to a Billy Ray Cyrus/Miley Cyrus song (“Ready, Set, Don’t Go”) she enjoys:

(MILEY:) Lemme go now. (BILLY RAY:) Don’t go! (MILEY:) I’ll be alright, I’ll be ok. Know that I’ll be thinkin’ of you each and every day. (BILLY RAY:) She’s gotta do what she’s gotta do… (MILEY:) This is where you don't say what you want so bad to say (BILLY RAY:) This is where I want to but I won’t get in the way. Of her and her dream. And spreadin’ her wings…

(MILEY:) I'm ready to fly!

I will learn to get more on board with the child away at school. Change is good. And if nothing changes, nothing changes.

2008-01-10T06:59:00.000-08:00

Does it get any Easier?!

I don’t think it matters whether you have one child or a dozen, at some point – or at many points – you are going to wonder aloud, “How old does the kid have to be before raising them gets any easier?”

I don’t have an answer and I have four of the suckers, ages 11 to 24. So one would think I might have some sage advice. And yet I don’t. Certain ages seem easier to negotiate than others, but crucial mitigating factors sneak in there, and one mother’s easy is another mother’s walking, talking nightmare. Not comforting, I know.

I was recently moaning over the telephone to my sister-in-law out in Wyoming about some teenage trial or other. She said to me, “Well, Julie, it’s not your first time at the rodeo.” One doesn’t have to be from a western mountain state to fully appreciate that statement. And it’s a pretty great one, isn’t it? “Not your first time at the rodeo” is now taped to my computer. Perhaps it will become a new mantra. And when I say it I picture myself as either the rodeo clown – dodging and weaving and being laughed at – or as one of those fairly confident looking, really cool, fringy and fuzzy chaps- wearing cowboys sitting high and solid aboard a bucking bronc. I’m twirling my hat around my head, yee-hawing, just before I am catapulted off and up and head-first into manure.

I would have to say that the teen years are the hardest, the most challenging, but that statement seems a no-brainer. With hormones and identity-searching raging, being a teenager and RAISING a teenager is fraught with conflict and confusion. Yet as stated earlier, mitigating factors can make the teen years either a piece of cake or a piece of scat. It’s in the “lap of the gods,” as my late, great mom used to say.

Blake wasn’t an altogether awful teenager. He was and is a man of few words, friends, wants and needs. Any “age-appropriate” faux paus’ were few and far between. His younger by two years brother, Kenny however, was the opposite – more words, more social commitments and needs and wants that seemed bottomless. Where Blake erred on the side of caution, Kenny decided early into his teens that “caution” was a concept for and of which he would not have any part. My teen daughter, Janet, is not unlike her brother Kenny – right down to the same birth date – yet the factor that makes her experiences different is that she is female. That’s something we have not experienced in terms of the teenaged years, so things are at times really foreign. Are girls easier than boys, or the other way around? If I comment on the truth here either Janet or Kenny will likely poison my morning Diet Coke, so perhaps I’ll go with “it’s a toss up.”

The middle school years aren’t a walk in the park either, and my fourth and final child is right smack in the, well, middle of them. Even though it’s a been-there-done-that thing I can nonetheless occasionally be discovered curled up in the fetal position wailing, “Does it get any easier?” By now one would think I’d know the answer. I do, I do know the answer, and it is “Not yet.” Although, to be fair, Jack is hands-down the easiest child I have had to raise, but at only 11, there’s still plenty of time to terrorize. I need to be cautious not to become too complacent… he can execute a sneak attack at any moment.

“I couldn’t hit a wall with a six gun, but I can twirl one. It looks good.” ~ John Wayne

While raising children doesn’t truly get any easier, I can at least try and look as if I’m doing it in a fairly effortless manner. You know, “act as if…” Act as if I know exactly what to do when a tantrum presents itself, or a kid forgets to phone on mother’s day, or a son doesn’t feel like working full-time, a daughter doesn’t realize the meaning or purpose of a clothes hanger, or a sixth grader insists that his bedtime can be just as late as a ninth grader’s. Act as if I don’t long to escape to my own private island, sans everybody and anything but some sunscreen.

I suppose easy isn’t interesting. Which makes my life quite the rodeo indeed.

2008-01-10T05:37:00.000-08:00

The Passion of the Child

Hell hath no fury like a child scorned.

It is Major League Baseball playoff time, a time of great joy and/or sorrow, peppered with shouts of obscenities or triumph, at least in our house. Both my husband and son, Jack, are rabid Yankee fans, although I question Jack’s loyalty when the Yanks are behind; he becomes something altogether different than an adoring admirer when the chips are seemingly down for the Bronx Bombers.

When he was younger, the screams and cries – although explosive in nature – were more along the lines of: “Stupid Yankees! What the heck?!” And, now, the 11-year-old younger brother of two older male siblings with questionable vocabularies, substitutes the words “stupid” and “heck” with more colorful terms. This only results in more exasperation when he is properly parentally scolded, while I silently curse both the Yankees and my son for losing control of the game.

Jack’s buddy, Drew, is a Red Sox enthusiast, and his mom Robin reports that their house is just as tense during games. Once this past summer, Jack went over to Drew’s to watch a Yankees-Red Sox game, and Robin and I both braced for a young boy massacre of epic proportions. It never materialized.

When a person, especially a person on the left side of puberty, has a passion for some person, place or thing, it can be fabulously fierce.

Last week in Food Emporium I witnessed the meltdown of a tiny, blonde female toddler when she was not allowed to have a Scooby-Doo Pez dispenser, which hung directly at her eye level at the check-out counter. She was fondling it with longing as she simultaneously tugged on her daddy’s shorts.

“Pez, pweeze! Pez pweeze!” she implored, saucer eyes gazing pleadingly upward.

“No, honey. Not today,” answered her father, prying the Pez from her now vise-like grasp.

The accompanying scream was startling and anguished. As her red-faced dad pulled her away by the waist, her small arms outstretched achingly in Pez Scooby’s direction, as she cried “Nooooooooooo!,” sounding like a lover wailing at her paramour’s departure for war.

I recall the histrionics of my high school girlfriends and me when boyfriend disintegration would occur, as of course teenage relationships are wont to do. The physical and psychological pain seems unbearable and near-animalisitc sounding sobbing feels like the only solution to rid the body of the toxins of rejection. As heartbreaking as it is for a 14-year-old girl, it feels nearly as powerful for the powerless mother; the passion of the parent to protect is instinctive.

Often the attempt to protect a child from disappointment is futile. Losing and disenchantment and frustration are simply part and parcel of life. Without those three, joy would not seem as precious, success not nearly as sweet.

Those pithy clichés – “soldier on,” “this too shall pass,” “it could be worse,” “maybe next time” - and my husband’s favorite – “I want gets nothing,”do little to rectify a passion purged at first blush. Yet I think the child will retain these time-worn and time-honored “slogans” each time they feel thwarted in the future. I want to believe that in their heart-of-hearts that know that they will live to see another day, that the odds of a team winning again will come to fruitition that a Pez Scooby-Doo will some day make it onto the check-put conveyer belt.

The Yanks have made it to and won the World Series 20-something times before and the whole deal is a dream to be dreamed every year. I need to convince Jack to put a little more faith in the pinstriped boys of October.

Either that or move out until the playoffs are over. The latter sounds preferable.

2007-12-30T20:46:00.000-08:00

Resolution Solutions

New Year’s Resolutions are pretty much made to broken. There are good intentions behind them – or at least behind some of them – and the naming of such behavior-changing objectives at the start of a new year is a good lesson for both parent and child; it’s the follow-through in which the true lesson lies.

For my eldest child and son, Blake, I resolve to: Breathe and wait patiently – or as patiently as I can muster – when weeks go by without an email. I resolve to stop bugging him every other email about purchasing a cell phone that works internationally, so that he can call me from his base in far-off Okinawa. I additionally resolve to cease inquiring as to whether or not a marriage is in his future, either short- or long-term. Experiencing grandchildren before I am too much older and grayer and less spry would be really nice, but I will zip my lip in 2008 (can’t promise the same for 2009 however).

For my 22-year-old son Kenny, I resolve to: Keep remembering that he is just 22 and not necessarily ready to settle down with a “real” job. Any job is preferable right now, but I resolve to gently remind him of that fact, not get right in his face. The urge to lay a gigantic motherly guilt trip on his young self is strong to tremendous, yet I will endeavor to position such a trip in a more tactful, less obvious (but hopefully quite effective) manner. I additionally resolve to resist contacting him the nano-second something goes awry with my computer or I-Touch or other such similar electronic, technological device.

For my daughter, Janet, I resolve to: be less judgmental of certain actions and fashions. I may not agree with the why’s, but I will try and let her be her, whatever the metamorphosis entails this freshman year. I will also be extra careful about using words and phrases more appropriate for a teen than a middle-aged mother of four. Slang like “whatevs,” “kickin’ ,” “word up” and “hooking up.” To me, “hooking up” means meeting with someone, but apparently in teen-dom it means something altogether less innocent.

For youngest son and child, Jack, a sixth grader, I resolve to: stop asking him if he has a girlfriend, quit reminding him to do his homework while he is in the midst of doing it (only to me it doesn’t look as if he is since the television is on), and bring an end to playfully requesting he score a dozen points for me in his basketball games. I didn’t realize he took that silly suggestion to heart and the pressure was a pain, to say the least. Of course I hope he resolves to lighten up and recognize a joke when he hears one!

Kids should make resolutions too, even if they last but a day or a week or a month or two. Everyone has area for improvement, even those who are still in the process of growing, maturing and finding their way in the world.

“Stick to your guns,” “Follow through on your responsibilities,” “Finish what your started,” aren’t simply annoying parental axioms. They are time-honored and often-tested truths that we can all benefit from on the journey to becoming better, more service-oriented, more self-esteemed human beings. Actually, not just humans being, but humans doing.

In terms of much uttered wise suggestions, though, lies the ever-popular, “Do as I say, not as I do.” If you’re gonna state a resolution, model to your kids that you can actually execute it.

I resolve to resolve that oft-unresolved suggestion. How about you?

2007-12-15T14:52:00.000-08:00

InTEXTicated Kids

Tweens and teens texting all over town on their cell phones gives new meaning to the phrase, “Thumbs up!”

How do they do it? And how do they do it with such lightening fast speed? Why do they do it instead of just calling? (Probably the same reason most of us resort to email instead of picking up the old-fashioned telephone: it saves time). Somehow in this still-new millennium the written word speaks faster then, well, the spoken word.

Walking down Elm, sitting outside of Starbucks, pulling up in front of New Canaan High or Saxe or the Outback and you will find child upon child with heads bent down towards their cellular devices thumbs working feverishly. They even drive while texting! That seems to be taking things way too far.

Goodness! It was hard enough for me as a teen to learn to type with my fingers let alone use my thumbs to send a message on a keyboard as small as a cell phone’s. I am a total dork trying to use my thumb to scroll down my contacts with my right thumb, and trying to read the tiny type with my feeble eyes, and then correctly hit send with my left thumb to actually speak. I often mean to call Jon, my husband, but end up hitting “Jen,” my friend, instead. Ditto “Hoelzer” instead of “home.” It’s a malfunction of eyes and digits!

But the kids – yikes! Maybe it’s those early years of video game controllers and all of that thumb muscle toning that’s built their dexterity and swiftness. Tap-tap-tap-tap-TAP! Some message or other goes hurtling through the networks of Verizon, Sprint, Cingular and T-Mobile, et al and just as quickly a response is announced with a tune or a tone.

“Why don’t you just call him?” I ask Janet or Jack incredulously. And this generation’s “intelligent” answer is always, “Because!”

There is even a service/web site thing called “Twitter,” in which you can text dozens of your friends at any given moment: “At the beach” or “Sitting outside of Dunkin’ Donuts” or “Going hiking in Jackson.” My 22-year-old son Kenny does this. I don’t get it; who cares? Do all of your friends really need to know what you are doing at that exact moment?

The texts I receive from my daughter can be occasionally annoying and suspect. Suspect because if I get one during the school day I can picture her plain as day thumbing away beneath a desk during Mr. Dockum’s science class. Annoying because the text may read, “I have a free in half an hour. Wanna bring me a *$ ?” (That’s shorthand for “Starbucks.”) The time I received that particular ditty I texted back: “How ‘bout No!”

It is impressive and intimidating and fascinating watching these thumb typing bandits as they walk, talk, sip beverages, chew gum, snack, shop and/or watch t.v. or school sporting events. It’s simply intoxicating for them.

And we’re left scratching our heads with our fingers, opposable thumbs clumsy and slow and uncool.

2007-11-09T06:02:00.000-08:00

Real Men Say, "Ask Your Mother” by Michael Turpin

I was having one of those moments the other night with my son. We were watching a Yankee game on Friday night. He was draped across my lap like a warm comforter. “Dad,” he asked. I waited like a proud father for his profound question - - perhaps about the meaning of life or whether we can do more to stop global warming. “What’s Playgirl magazine? “

“What” I asked lurching up in my chair and vaulting him across the settee. “This kid in my class says he models for Playgirl magazine.” I hesitated. The air was thick with pregnant anticipation. While I was pretty sure no sixth grader in Saxe was doing extra curricular model work for Larry Flynt Enterprises, I decided to hedge my bets. It was the end of a long week. I was tired. “Better ask your mother….”

Like adroit wingbacks in a rugby match, husbands have for generations been skirting their duty to answer the tough questions for fear of losing their status as “the popular” parent. Moms get the grunt work - - the bitching, the cajoling, the punishments, the consequences - - they are the wardens of domesticity. Dads often act like the Red Cross coming in and meeting with the prisoners, asking how they are doing and if they need anything. They inadvertently undermine policy and morale. Dads get home later in the evening during “the witching hour” and are appalled by the suggestion that they should help after the hard day they have endured at the office or having to share a three seater on the Metro North. They are thinking, “where are the slippers, pipe and shaken martini?”

As I was speaking to a friend on the phone the other evening, I could hear some yelling in the background. I could just make out a high pitched teenaged voice…” Dad ….was fine but …ruin everything….life. You…….my life…. prevent …….going out….night”

I asked my friend what the commotion was all about. “ I told my daughter it was ok to go to town tomorrow before I checked with the boss. I think I stepped in it. She’s in arguing with her Mom”. He realized too late, there is zero upside to saying “yes” to anything. My theory is this need to make domestic decisions without consultation stems from being in control all day at the office and wanting to bring that control home at night. “I have a lot of people reporting to me at work” complains one executive. “but the way they react to my judgment at home, it’s as if they are amazed that I can find the office or get dressed each morning”.

Dad’s want rapid popularity and the kind of loyalty you get when you give someone a bonus at work. This explains agreeing to a sleep over, unaware or not paying attention to the fact that the boy has had two consecutive sleepovers, fell asleep in his mashed potatoes at dinner and was grounded less than two hours ago for going on to the computer using his sister’s email address. It could all have been avoided by just saying, “ better ask your mother “. Instead, Mom will override this uninformed intrusion, resulting in an irrational child and Mom being pegged as the bad guy. Dad’s response? “ What’d I do ?”

It is the same, day in and day out, each house a region overtaken by juvenile Taliban and Al Kidda - - irrational adolescent militants who believe in a theology of sugar, electronics and lack of accountability. Martial law seems to work best in these regions of dissent and the absence of authority creates chaos.

It has always been this way. On the battlefield of life, my Mom was the master sergeant and my father, the clueless second lieutenant right out of West Point. It was my mother who knew how to talk to the troops. She understood what they worried about and had a sixth sense about any slight change in behavior. If a kid was too quiet at dinner, something was weighing on them. She could lull anyone into a confession where you would share your deepest fears.

Doctor Ruth, as we called her, was the female incarnation of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Marple and Mrs. Freud – Sigmund’s mother. The Case of Wetted Wood is a Turpin holiday favorite recounted every year as we relive the adventures and interventions of Dr Ruth. In this particularly confounding case, the feminine sleuth could not locate the wafting odor of ammonia emanating from one of her young son’s bedrooms. The mystery was further complicated when aged shag rugs were removed in each boy’s room to be replaced with wooden floors. A rotted hole in the wood was discovered behind a bedroom door. The workers deduced that a leak from the adjacent bathroom shower was the culprit. Dr Ruth was not convinced.

Something was not right. The occupant of the room seemed too cooperative that week and very circumspect. Upon interrogation, the suspect cracked and confessed that for the last six months he had been urinating behind the door because he was too scared to walk to the toilet at night. This explained the ammonia smell, the rotten wood and the constant presence of the housecat in the boy’s room at night. Dr Ruth saved the family thousands of dollars and even went so far as to protect the identity of child - - the penalty for such an egregious act would have entailed more lashes than a conscripted sailor on a British Man Of War.

The difference between the 60’s Dad and today’s dad is that the upper case “D’s” felt no social or personal obligation to be helpful. They were the hunters. Everything else as far as they were concerned was gathering. They did not even disguise the fact that they were less engaged and basked in a sort of clueless nirvana on domestic issues. They abdicated everything and were informed on a need to know basis by their spouses. Today’s father is expected to participate more but it’s my theory that some out there secretly long for the era of less accountability and resist the siren’s call of equal duty. This breeds a passive aggressive behavior that is exhibited in eye rolls, partial listening, martyred sighs and incomplete grocery store runs. In the end, gents, we must grudgingly accept it is a new day. When it comes to movie and sports trivia, go ahead and blurt out the answer because you know it. But on all other things personal or domestic, it is the ultimate sign of self awareness to offer one pat response: “better ask your mother”.

2007-11-05T16:01:00.000-08:00

Birth Order Myths and Maybe-Truths

Since the days of Cain and Abel, birth order has fascinated us and formed who we are and perhaps what career we choose, as well as our relationships with siblings, our spouse, and with our friends. Along with the genes and personality traits that our parents pass along, the order in which they conceived and popped us out into this world helps to make us who we are.

There are variables, however, to the theories that firstborns are usually more responsible, smarter and strive to please more than second-or-third borns. Or that middle children have less of a clear-cut role in the family, or even that the youngest expects others to make decisions for him and takes on less responsibility. Often the sex of the child as well as the dynamics in blended, single or divorced families throw a wrench into the accepted birth order suppositions.

I am the eldest of two and so as the first-born of course I am smarter and more responsible than my younger brother (good thing he lives in Maryland and never reads this column; I am obviously kidding about being superior). However, according to a Dr. Spock website, the oldest are “typically responsive to the parents’ expectations” and that was certainly a truism growing up. The second-born, or youngest, says the site, is “easygoing… charming and manipulative.” That’s accurate of my brother. While he was rebelling, I felt a strong need to fulfill my mom and dad’s hopes for me as a diversion to his crazy antics of adolescence.

My own four children are a bit all over the map in terms of the birth order traits.

Blake, the first-born, enlisted in the Marines right out of New Canaan High, so clearly he took on a leadership role in life as well as in the family. He was always the peace-keeper and protector growing up and still is. Another website states that the first-born may respond to the birth of the second child by feeling unloved and neglected. I know I certainly felt that way and was constantly taunting my brother as being dropped on the door-step instead of being born to our mother, and I enjoyed trying to figure out ways to “get rid of him” as a child. Blake reacted to Kenny’s birth by chucking a Matchbox car at the baby’s face, resulting in a butterfly stitch to the forehead. There were other such incidents until each reached their teens; they are now the best of friends.

Kenny has the distinction of having been the youngest for eight years until I remarried and had his sister, Janet. Her birth catapulted him to the position of the middle child, a rank that’s often described as discouraged, becoming the “problem child.” Acting out for the middle kid is a way to garner back his or her parents’ attention. Spot on for Kenny. And Janet – who not only shares Kenny’s status as middle child, but also shares Kenny’s birth date – has revealed some of those tendencies as well, though not as strongly as her brother.

Janet, like Kenny, had/has a double place in the hierarchy of my children in that she is the oldest of the Evans’ kids, so she shares many first-born traits, too, which can counteract the characteristics of the typical middle child. Being the only girl throws in a whole different set of actions (and hormonal reactions) to the sibling mix. Her older brothers at first protected and coddled her, then felt she was a royal pain, and now for the most part have reverted back to their original nurturing ways. How we, her parents, deal with her is also a direct correlation to her birth order(s), sex, and personality traits of additionally being a part of a family with two older half-siblings. I spoil her the most by far.

“Baby” Jack really doesn’t exhibit the typical traits of the youngest in the family, but he has experienced the inevitable parental responses to being the last child born. While Blake’s baby book is filled to the brim with duly-noted milestones and dozens of photos, I couldn’t even begin to tell you where Jack’s is located in the attic (or is it the basement?), and it merely notes his size and weight and includes those inked newborn feet the hospital produces. I can recite the time of birth, birth weight and length of Blake, Kenny and Janet, but draw a blank on Jack’s vital newborn statistics. I don’t recall what his first word was and almost always forget to bring my camera to school events or to the field of play! His sibling’s landmarks are memorialized and memorized properly. The birth order experts postulate that the baby of the family usually feels smallest and weakest and is unable to take on responsibilities, but nothing could be farther than the truth for my youngest guy. In fact one quote reveals that: “unburdened by the high expectations that many parents have for their eldest children many youngest experience greater success than their siblings or they will make their mark in life in a very individualistic way.” That’s my baby!

A competitive will, a free spirit, a sense of superiority, a need to be babied, all of these things can – and often are – explained by birth order. So many forces collide to shape our personalities and our approach to life, and it’s spellbinding to watch it all in the faces of our children.

“Location, location, location.” It’s not just a real estate mantra, is it?

2007-09-25T06:18:00.000-07:00

My Son, the Hobo

School is beginning next week. Whether your child is entering kindergarten, his senior year of high school or her junior year of college, your thoughts most likely follow this track: “Oh! What will he/she be when they ‘grow up’?” Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief?

My son? My 22-year-old son with his valedictorian trimmed Bachelor of Arts? Well, he’s a hobo!

According to Kenny, “a hobo is defined as a migratory worker who likes to travel, a tramp travels without working, and a bum does not travel or work.” His self-proclaimed “Hobo Lifestyle 2.0” is for enjoying. As he says on his website for the chronicles of this adventure, “I intend to do that (enjoy), and experience as much as I can. Right now I have some cool ideas I've gotten started on, and none of them require me to physically be somewhere. Perfect. Now it's time to be everywhere…”

Ah, it’s every parent’s dream, right? Wait, let me adjust my aneurysm.

The kid had a full-time job for two years (he earned his B.A. in two years in an intensive, year ‘round accredited college). He has student loan payments, plus cell phone charges, and had rent and utilities and food to pay for before embarking on the hobo life earlier this summer. He had been making extra money recording demos for musicians out of his apartment in New York, and a teeny wee bit of cash on two separate web businesses which are still not completely up on the scale they need to be for, say, Google to come a ‘calling with their billions of dollars.

And now he literally carries his life on his back. There is no plan. It’s just a Jack Kerouac kind of escapade. Did I mention the lack of income? The lack of funding from his parents? The student loan payments?

When I shipped him off to kindergarten 17 years ago, he waved from behind his Teenage Ninja Turtle back pack, his smile big, bold and full of promise. Two weeks ago I left him at the Whitefish, Montana train depot, and he waved from behind his four-foot-high North Face pack, sleeping bag dangling from the side, with a smile, big, bold and full of promise. I failed miserably at not looking miserable, wildly wiping tears off my face, not unlike that clear, cool September morning of his kindergarten inauguration. Oh for crying out load (literally); why am I letting him just go like that?!

The answer: because I really have no choice.

We all need to find ourselves. Many of us do it while struggling through that first pay-your-dues job after high school or college. Some of us don’t find ourselves or our professional passion until middle age. And a few of us – like Kenny – need to literally travel in and around ourselves and our surroundings to hit upon our essence.

The good news? He has a decent and solid education under his frayed, hobo belt; he was born with a keen intelligence and a craftily creative streak. The Weston and New Canaan school systems laid the foundation and the basics. Now nature will take its course.

Our kids can be anything they want to be and sometimes what we guide them to be as well. As they board that school bus next week, please know that their journey will actually go beyond easy-readers and fractions and colonial times and chemistry. We and their teachers are the conduits on their educational, professional, social and personal quest.

And because it can be a survival of the fittest, I suggest packing them a can of bear mace, too. Kenny has his at the ready.

2007-08-10T15:22:00.000-07:00

Mountain Kids

I'm getting ready to leave the Teton mountain range area in Wyoming and drive Janet and Jack back to the sloping ridges of New Canaan. Both spent a month each at the same ranch camp (Teton Valley Ranch) southeast of Jackson Hole, and Jack additionally had a month with us at our lodge unit at the base of the Jackson Hole ski area while Janet's camp session was going on. My mountain kids; I'm grateful that we have been able to provide this gift to them.

I was basically a summer "beach child," spending upwards of six hours a day lying prone on the sand at Comp Beach, especially as a teenager. My family also spent at least two weeks a summer on a beach island off the Jersey shore. Although a couple months of our childhood winters lead us up to the mountains in and around Stowe, Vermont, my brother and I were not mountain kids (until my brother lived in Stowe year 'round during his twenties). But Janet and Jack - they're most assuredly of the mountain variety.

Both children have been spending time every summer and one week per winter out in Jackson since they were toddlers. They learned and continue to appreciate and respect the wide and varied, rugged landscapes out here, as well as the power and beauty of the Snake River that winds it's way through the Teton Valley. With their Jackson-based aunt and uncle as their first guides - and now their camp counselors - they have trekked through sage brush and shale up and around many a peak. They've stood on the tops of mountains at elevations that astound. It's all a far cry from Connecticut in many ways and that's what makes it special and unique. And Teton Valley Ranch serves to keep them grounded, if only for those 30-days and a few more 24-hours beyond the final campfire of the session.

When my sister-in-law first told us of the camp during the summer of Janet's fourth grade summer, we felt it would be a terrific way to get her away from her "safe" cocoon of New Canaan and get her unplugged from all things electronic for a month. She would meet and bunk with girls from all over the country, spend an inordinate amount of time outside, active and hopefully eager, all with the Grand Teton as a backdrop.

Since her fifth grade summer, Janet has had one month a year where the most amazing things happen. All of the other 11 months, she is a shower-a-day girl, practically panicking if it looks as though that can't happen. Her clothes must match and be oh-so-specifically purchased at the "right" store, and feminine and pretty and clean. And the hair, oh the hair! Brushed and flattened or curled and blow-dried and styled just so. The eye make-up application is an art even her 50-year-old mother hasn't managed to master. But from the middle of July through the middle of August, she is going three to four to five days without a shower when her group goes on back-packing trips and/or pack trips into the mountains with the horses. Through the wonders of e-camp I can see her wearing mismatched socks, mismatched rain gear, baseball and knit caps pulled jauntily over her pleated hair. Her knees are sometimes cut-up, her western riding wear is dusty and worn-in and decidedly not East Coast trendy. And in every photo she is wearing the biggest smile I have ever seen and she has never looked more gorgeous. On the day of the final rodeo, my pampered pet is roping like a champ, giddyapping around the ring like the cowgirl she has temporarily become and doing the "boot dance" like a pro.

For one month a year, she - and now Jack - prove that they can easily exist without cell phones, television, I-pods, and computers. I should only be so lucky the rest of the year.

And for one month a year I get to be a mountain mama, doing a lot of what the kids are doing but without cool counselors and in a more cautious manner; ah, youth!
I love the peace and serenity I find at this altitude and the sound of the fluttering aspen leaves and swaying pines is as calming as waves on the seashore. The vastness of the Wyoming sky is a marvel.

At the final campfire of the camp season, I feel as wistful as the campers, and the melancholy is palpable. There is one camp song in particular that never fails to choke me up as we take one final look around at the hills and mountain ranges and the dry, western heat sinks away into cool nip. The first lyrics haunt me and comfort me all at once, and I find that every July they spring immediately to my ears as we set our sights Westward.

"Yellowstone winds, oh they're calling me back again. 'Come here to me my friend,' they whisper to my soul..."

I love that my mountain kids' souls are also being nourished by those winds. And that in addition to New Canaan, they can call Teton Valley "home."

2007-08-06T14:05:00.000-07:00

Thank You, Harry Potter
Young muggles have united for the past 10 years in one of the oldest forms of entertainment and perhaps the keenest building block for learning - by reading. Most specifically by tucking in to the thick-paged and mysterious and magical world of a bespectacled, charming young wizard, named Harry Potter.

With the recent release of J.K. Rowling's last installment in the Harry Potter series ("Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"), many accounts that I have read and watched on the television have featured the testimonies of teens and 20-somethings - as well as their parents - extolling the virtues of the books and how they aided in the child's love of reading. Harry not only captured imaginations,but he guided young readers into the wonderful world of books.

My 9-year-old niece in Wyoming has a hard time putting her Potter books down. She reads in the car - a feat that always turns me deathly nauseous - for hours in her bedroom, at the dinner table while waiting for the main course, and even on trips to the banks of the Snake river. Her example prompted my son Jack to begin his summer sixth grade reading assignment by gobbling up the pages of two Harry Potter adventures in two weeks! I thought it would be a struggle to get him into reading a book on his post-camp vacation, but blessedly I have been proved wrong.

Summer is such an easy time to introduce young children to reading without the pressure of book reports or quizzes or peers perhaps reading at a faster pace. They can get a jump start before September. They can discover that there is just as much fun to be had between the covers of a book than a video or computer game, or t.v. show, or even dashing about the yard. It is welcome down-time and the opportunity to learn without realizing that's what is occurring.

My husband rarely, if at all, reads during the fall, winter or spring, but finds himself absorbed in a good book or two or three during the summer months. I, too, will devour novel upon novel with a greater pace in the warmer, lazier months, and I think our example lends itself to the kids' reading a tome of their own.

"It's reading time," I have announced while sitting on the beach with Jack and Janet, or hanging out in our unit in the wilds of Wyoming. Sometimes there is protest, but mostly it is welcomed and my suggestion is taken to heart and mind. And it goes without saying that the quiet time is very apreciated indeed.

Observing the types of books the kids choose is a fascination for this parent as well. Blake has always gravitated towards works of military fiction and non-fiction as well as spy thrillers; Kenny as a young boy read each and every one of the "Goosebumps" books and now chooses more short how-to's regarding entreprenurial works; Janet has only read one of the Potter novels, and instead spends time with the pages of various girlfriend-themed series (although I have been pressuring her to read my 30-something year old, dog-eared copy of "The Catcher in the Rye"), and Jack predictably loves books on sports, especially baseball, plus Harry's trials and triumphs at Hogwarts.

With a month remaining until the trill of the school bells, there is still time to get your child immersed in a book be it Harry or Mary and her little lamb. I'm sure DandyTales and Elm Street Books will reveal more than a treasure of titles for everyone, both the newbie young and older, seasoned readers.

Wave the magic wand of the written word in front of your son or daughter and watch the wizardry of reading take hold.

2007-07-06T08:36:00.000-07:00

Kids, the Country and Freedom

Yesterday we celebrated the Fourth of July, the birth of our nation and all that freedom stands for. Every year, I am hoping that my children gain a keener understanding that the initial freedom of these United States of America wasn’t “free,” and that even today, there is a price.

Given the times in which they are living – especially the years since September 11, 2001 – and the older brother who took an oath to “support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic,” I believe they are getting the gist.

The kids have been fortunate enough to have visited London, Paris and Rome (that sounds like they’re some upscale store, doesn’t it?), as well as Northern Cyprus, the place their Evans’ grandmother now calls home. These trips have provided a taste, a peek, into other cultures and customs outside of their own, and have perhaps supplied a growing appreciation of the differences between our country and others. But I think a good look at some of the United States is in order for them as well.

Two summers ago I loaded up the car with Janet, now 14, and Jack, now 11, and drove from Connecticut to Wyoming, where Janet has been attending camp, and where we spend a chunk or chunkette of the summer each year. Primarily we saw more amber waves of grain then we cared to, until we reached the purple mountain majesty of which we are already familiar. I dashed so fast across the Midwest that they really didn’t get much of a taste for what lies between sea to shining sea.

This year I hope to allow for more than a snippet of America.

At the start of next week Janet, a friend of hers from camp, my son Kenny, 22, and I will climb into my SUV in search of America. (Okay, so I exaggerate a bit; we are driving to Wyoming to pick Jack up from camp and deliver Janet to same camp for her session, and kick back in Jackson Hole for a month). But a good part of America will be searched! I want the kids to see that the diversity of America isn’t only present in the landscape but also in her citizens.

I’d like to have a leisurely lunch near Pennsylvania-Dutch country, so that they might see an Amish village, a buggy, a Lancaster county family up close. To witness in the flesh that not all teenage girls feel a need to, nor can they, dress head-to-toe in Abercrombie or Hollister or Ralph Lauren. Stop for gas and a soda in Illinois, catching a few rays of sun beside a corn field where somebody’s father works the land with nary a Blackberry in sight. Kenny and I want to drive down a piece of the infamous Route 66, starting probably from south of Chicago and then through part of Kansas. And then we’ll ramble up back north towards the Rockies and our destination state.

On the drive back with just Janet and Jack as passengers, I hope to take another meandering, spacious skies route and visit Mt. Rushmore and the Badlands, then veer off into a bit of Wisconsin and Minnesota before heading back to the fruited plains and final density of New England.

“Turn off the DVD player, kids! Look out the windows! Look at America the beautiful! We are so lucky to live here!” This is the land of the free and of the brave. This is the country that was and will always be worth fighting for, that young men and women have died and will continue dying for if they so choose to join our armed forces.

“Don’t be afraid,” I will also tell them. “That doesn’t mean your brother Blake will die, too, but if… If God forbid he did… it will be because freedom isn’t free, but it still merits defense whether it’s on our soil or another’s.”

My children already know from history lessons and from current events that not all wars make sense, that America’s involvement in battles isn’t always clear and evident. Yet I want them to understand also that a country that values liberty and justice for all is a precious place in which to live and that it is worth preserving. As corny as it may sound, I hope for them to be proud citizens.

If I can show them as much of their country as is physically and financially as possible, then maybe they’ll have a fuller picture. After driving through a dusty desert town without a national retailer or a fast-food chain in sight, maybe they’ll not take for granted the area in which they live. A big home in leafy New Canaan, filled with state-of-the-art electronic devices isn’t a right; it’s a privilege that must be appreciated.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. We give these to our children at their birth and all we can anticipate is their understanding for and of the latter two.

The search for the source is priceless.

2007-06-12T05:23:00.000-07:00

You and Me
by Michael Turpin

The spring sun hesitated for what seemed an hour or so, crouching just under the highest ridge of the valley. Everywhere, denuded trees seemed ready to burst an early season feathered green. With the twilight, came cool air that settled down into the draws and creek beds in the great Frost Valley. In the distance, there was movement like a restless breeze as hundreds of The People from every great Indian nation descended onto a gentle slope that fell easily to the edge of a midnight blue lake.

A great fire roared, crackling and swirling devils of smoke that twisted and chased away those who drew too close for warmth. The hillside slowly changed colors from deep green to restless sienna as Princesses and young Guides gathered for the final ceremony of the season. Chippewa, Omaha, Mohegan, Pequot - - the list went on and on. Each chief gave thanks to the Great Spirit and passed the mantle of leadership to another while the braves and princesses looked on in admiration, wonder and anticipation. The Nation was one and gratefully, the land still provided what the Nation needed to survive. Everyone mingled in deep appreciation and slowly retreated to their lodges, long houses and teepees for reflection and revelry.

It was my last trip to Frost Valley and Y guides with my youngest child. For the last ten years ( not withstanding a three year hiatus in London ) , we had been a link in the YMCA Princesses and Guides chain forging precious time together – “just you and me time” as my older son used to say when we would make our trips together. This annual pilgrimage to the hidden valley deep in the Catskill mountains was each boy’s favorite rite of passage - - the long drive, the cabins, the hiking, the recreation, the ghost stories and the entertainment all combining for a deeply etched memory of companionship and caring. It was the Y at its best.

The YMCA of New Canaan is rumored to have the most successful Y Guides program in the entire country. Guides and Princesses begin at kindergarten and create opportunities for time together during those tender years between ages 6 and 9. These are the years where you are still the center of the universe for your child. This is the time preceding a parent’s steady decline from sun, moon and stars to distant planet in the galaxy called “Whatever”. Growing up in Southern California, the YMCA was in many ways the center of my universe for sports, outdoors, summer camp counseling, work and midweek recreation. It was a safe and important oasis.

For a town like ours that is often stereotyped as “type A” and “self absorbed”, the community and commitment demonstrated by its consistently successful YMCA programs contradicts those labels and speaks volumes about our possibilities - - as parents, as teachers and yes, even as tribal chiefs! Each Y tribe is unique. Some tribes frankly have issues. In California, one of the Indian Princess Dads in our tribe had an affair with another Dad’s squaw. Both men stayed in the tribe. We renamed the one Dad
“Steals Another Man’s Horse”. Our New Canaan tribe, The Mohegans, is known for its games of chance, inventions, sarcasm, extremely poor nutrition and speed in which we can break camp on the last day of a sleep over. There are other tribes who are known for things such as gathering nuts, making beads and eating filet mignon. There are some that enjoy little dominion over their own tribe and descend into chaos and Game Boys whenever they gather as a group. There have been rumors of firewater in some longhouses but like so many legends of the Nation, it is hard to separate fact from fiction. Some tribes are apathetic, prone to logistical mayhem and always seem to lose their headbands. There are those rare but powerful tribes, guided by strong leaders who insist on a strong identity, loud war cries, animal skins for every season and an ice chest in every teepee. Yes, there is diversity in this Indian Nation. Although by day, the Princesses and Braves appear quite homogeneous, by night they revert to an odd panoply of behaviors stimulated by the fact that there is no squaw within a hundred miles.

As we walk along a path padded with brown pine needles, the boys stomp through dark, brackish puddles of muddy rain water, swinging walking sticks like swords and trading exaggerated stories of what might lie around the next bend of the trail. We traverse a V shaped cable bridge that hangs precipitously above a rushing stream. The trail takes us towards The Devil’s Hole - - a destination shrouded in mystery and hyperbole. Older siblings have already relayed the story of “the counselor who drowned “when he fell into the hole of rushing water. That story has now distorted into the slaughter of an entire family from Michigan. “ Wha-wha-what exactly is in the hole, anyway ?” I overheard one boy ask another. “ I think it’s a deep pool of water and there may be something down inside of it that will grab you if you get too close” said another.“ Nervous laughter and the half hearted swing of a hiking stick. “Whatever it is, if it tries to get me, I will c-c-cut off its head!” declares the bravest of the bunch as he slides back closer to his Dad. The forest is beautiful here with the path paralleling a wide trout stream that cascades down a pitched canyon. Later, we discover The Hole but upon witnessing no blood or bones, the boys lose interest and vote for returning to the campsite to catch newts.

“Look I caught two newts at the same time” screams one of the boys. Unfortunately for these amorous amphibians, it is mating season and their conjugal bliss is constantly being interrupted by nets and squeals of delight as they are lifted from the water, dropped into a plastic containers and then tossed back into the water. More hiking, and then dinner. Our tribe settles down for a dinner of hamburgers, hotdogs, chips and sodas. Later, a medicine man mercifully offers me an antacid. A fellow tribe sharing our longhouse unleashes an intimidating display of BBQs, marinated steaks and civility that makes us feel like pagans. Our boys are oblivious and have once again disappeared into the woods to satisfy some latent genetic need to sharpen sticks, throw rocks and soak their only clean pair of shoes in mud. As silky twilight gives way to night, I rest on the hillside, exhausted but content watching our great nation of people. A small hand slips into mine and a warm, exhausted little boy leans in and lays his head on my lap, “Dad ?”

“Yeah, buddy?”
“Today was my best day, ever.”
“Me, too, pal”
“The best part - - was it was just you and me.”

2007-04-27T10:01:00.000-07:00

The Dangerous World of Boys

If you’ve recently given birth to your first son, or if you’re already a mom of, say, an infant or toddler boy, this is a cautionary tale, a primer, a “buckle-your-seat-belts-you’re-in-for-a-bumpy-ride” introduction to being a mother (or father) of the young male of the species.

Boys and bumps, bruises, breaks and bloody cuts seem – in my experience – to go hand-in-hand.

Out of my three sons, so far my son Kenny takes the prize in the becoming wounded department. When Kenny was age one, Blake chucked a Matchbox car at him resulting in a butterfly stitch to the forehead. At age four, Kenny broke his tibia, and repeated that break a scant two years later. At seven, Blake accidentally (yeah, right) slammed Kenny’s fingers in a door, resulting in yet another break and half a dozen stitches. At 11, he broke his arm falling off a swing. When he was 15, he sprained that same arm, and at age 19, badly cut one hand after a freak fall on his way back to his apartment after class.

Some boys are more accident prone than others. Blake survived childhood with only a few stitches and bumps, and – considering he has been in combat three times since 2003 – has emerged with only the most minor of injuries. But the first time your child, your son, gets a bad boo-boo it’s almost as painful for you.

The first sign of a break or of blood gives new meaning to the term “adrenaline rush.”

If your son is an athlete, well, try and prepare yourself for the inevitable injury, although admittedly, I’m not entirely sure how one prepares oneself. The least of it may be a bad bruise. But there, lurking in the air on the field of play, may be the breakage of a limb, an errant ball flying into your son’s nether regions, a bloody nose or blackened eye; momentary unconsciousness. Now these are the worst cases and should not in any way, shape or form mean you prohibit sports from your child’s agenda. Because – trust me – even the most seemingly ordinary of moments at home may cause temporarily traumatic injury.

Case in point: On this past Easter Sunday evening, as I was folding laundry and my husband, Jon, was paying bills, a blood-curdling scream emanated from our garage. Janet began yelling for us: “Mom! Dad! Jack’s hurt! Jack’s hurt!” As I ran into the garage, there was Jack holding his left hand, blood spewing from one of his fingers. “I closed it in the door! Omigod! Help!” As he was going out the side door of our garage, he had accidentally slammed the door shut on his fingers, specifically, the middle finger (pretty appropriate for how he felt at that moment). We bundled his hand in a towel and ice and Jon dashed him to Norwalk Hospital. By the grace of God, I decided to immediately begin cleaning up all the blood in the garage and as I did, I looked down and there staring up at me was the top of Jack’s finger! We had no idea that it had been severed. Bottom line is that most of it was stitched back on and I’m sure he’ll be playing baseball in no time. But, mercy me – dashing part of my kid’s finger to the hospital resulted in a billion new grey hairs and a heart that nearly popped right out of me and out of my car and onto Route 123.

Ah, boys. Here’s what you need to do as soon as you birth one: Stock your medicine cabinet with bandages, gauze, Neosporin, hydrogen peroxide, a finger splint, an ace bandage, several ice packs and arnica. Stock your liquor cabinet with whiskey or wine, or load up your freezer with pints of your favorite ice cream (pick your poison) for you to ingest after the accident, Keep in mind that you should probably breathe while the initial ouchiness ensues. Don’t let your boy catch you crying, and keep reminding yourself that things will be okay; this too shall pass.

Until the next time.

2007-04-08T14:50:00.000-07:00

Waiting to Exhale

The nature of the business of being parents means that we must often endure, wait out and try to help when our child is caught up in the grip of emotional, social and/or physical pain. We gasp, we hold our breath, we pray, and we wait to exhale.

Our child may be diagnosed with a disease, an illness or an injury, and after doing all that we can possibly do to support them and aid in their recovery, often the results are left in the hands of those more knowledgeable, or in something/someone greater than ourselves. Many times it is up to our child to help themselves, and it is the waiting for that to happen which takes our breath away. The expression, “Time takes time,” is both a balm and bewilderment.

A child may impulsively quit their job with no prospects on the horizon. They may decide high school isn’t for them and we watch as their grades plummet. An undiagnosed learning disability derails our eight-year-old. As mothers and fathers of teens we pretty much have to inhale and suck it up for two, three, four years, especially if teenaged angst makes them implode. In preschool or in elementary school our child may be one of the bullies or the bullied, and we wait both patiently and impatiently for this too to pass.

A son goes to war and the anxiety is unbearable at times, yet bear it we must.

Blake has been deployed since last September, and was in Iraq for the last five months. We learned late last week that he had arrived in Kuwait. He will be there for a couple of weeks until the naval ship arrives to begin the journey of bringing the Marines and Sailors stateside. And so on that score I have begun the exhaling process, which isn’t fully complete until I can wrap my arms around the big lug sometime in June.

During a shopping trip to Bob’s Sports this week, I received a hug from owner Rob Mallozzi upon hearing the news. He commented on my big smile and the look of relief in my face.

“Yes,” I beamed, for the first time in a long time. “The breathing out is welcome.”

We all want our children safe, sane and secure. When bad or uncomfortable news visits our child, we must hang onto hope – that the cancer will go into remission; that the ADD will become under control; that he can play ball again or that her leg will heal enough so may she dance once more; that their heart will mend or their lost soul will be found; that their disability won’t impede success, or that self-destructive behaviors can morph back into self-love; that combat will not offer the ultimate sacrifice. As tempting as it is for us to run for the bedcovers or self-medicate, we must remember that what is happening is happening more to them than to us. We need to get out of our own way and try to be present for our child.

That feeling a mother gets as she watches her five-year-old first board that big yellow bus for kindergarten is repeated over and over as the child ages. It’s the “Omigosh-omigosh-are-they-going-to-be-okay” mini panic attack; the big intake of air, the flutters in the belly, and the pounding of the heart so full of love it hurts.

Holding on to hope is the tool we can use when these moments present themselves (and they will). Hope and choice: Will we let this situation crush us or our child, or will we choose to gain new strength and perspective? Will we inhale so tightly that we can never again breathe easily?

C.S. Jung once said, “I am not what happened to me; I am what I choose to become.” That is a lesson, a mantra, that we can teach our children and also, of course, ourselves.

2007-03-21T20:07:00.000-07:00

Centerfield
By Michael Turpin

“Well, beat the drum and hold the phone - the sun came out today!We're born again, there's new grass on the field.A-roundin' third, and headed for home, it's a brown-eyed handsome man;Anyone can understand the way I feel.
Oh, put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;Put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;Look at me, I can be Centerfield.”
~John Fogerty, Centerfield

At one point during a game, the coach called one of his 9-year-old baseball players aside and asked, "Do you understand what cooperation is? What a team is?" The little boy nodded in the affirmative. "Do you understand that what matters is whether we win or lose together as a team?" The little boy nodded yes. "So," the coach continued, "I'm sure you know, when an out is called, you shouldn't argue, curse, attack the umpire, or call him a butt-head. Do you understand all that? Again the little boy nodded. He continued, "And when I take you out of the game so another boy gets a chance to play, it's not good sportsmanship to call your coach 'a dumb ass' is it?" Again the little boy nodded."Good," said the coach. "Now go over there and explain all that to your dad in the stands".

It’s baseball season and for the first time in many years, my schedule has finally succeeded in not allowing me to co- head coach one of my son’s teams. I am already having withdrawals and have started to behave oddly at home. I yelled “ slide” to my eight year old as he was running to greet me at the door the other day. I asked my wife if it would be ok if we buy a radar gun. “We could clock all kinds of things - - how fast the kids get out to the bus in the morning, how quickly they come to dinner when we call. We could increase their allowance when they beat certain time thresholds …” She gave me that “you are a very troubled person” look. The sad truth is my job has finally gotten the better of my April and May and it looks like I would be too unreliable to once again become platoon leader for a small squad of budding eleven and twelve year olds. Anyone need an assistant?

Coaching is a catharsis. It’s the ultimate opportunity to be of service and help shape kids. It is also a mirror that one can hold up for self reflection. If done improperly, it can be a demoralizing experience for a child, a source of constant tension for parents and a Greek tragedy for the fatally flawed but well intentioned coach. When Reverend Joe Ehrmann came to New Canaan last fall, many coaches were introduced to the book about Joe, Seasons of Life. For some, it was given to us either as a gift or a stocking stuffer. For others, it was left surreptitiously on a front door step and in a few cases, tied to a rock and hurled through a living room window.

Joe’s message is priceless: each kid is a treasure trove of possibility and sports is a stage where we can discover each child’s potential. Coaches can cultivate each player to become a more confident and engaged citizen of our community and can help preserve and build self esteem which is the oxygen that fuels adolescence. I realize this is innate stuff to a lot of people who work with kids. Yet for others, including myself, Ehrmann’s talk was a great reminder of the gift that is coaching kids.

There are coaches, and yes I am one of them, that occasionally forget that it is really just a game and become a little obsessed with winning. It’s sort of like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom where two alpha males make eye contact across the watering hole (in this case the baseball diamond). I can almost see his antlers growing. I scratch the ground with my cleat. He picks up a bat and takes a few half swings. The rut is on. It’s a curse, really, thinking that the other coach is going home at night and instead of catching up on bills or reading to their four year old, he/she is calculating batting averages and comparing first to second base sprint times. Each season there is always one coach that “challenges my objectivity. “ Whether it is having their runner steal second while enjoying an eight run lead or invoking some double secret rule like the “Speed of Play” clause from the Cal Ripkin Official rules book that I get handed every year but never read.

At this point, I have to beg forgiveness from my pastor who views me as a “work in progress” as he preaches understanding and tolerance. There’s just something about that mixture of red dirt, chalk, and eye black that makes a guy a little, how should we say, less spiritual? I have had to learn the key to being a good coach is to realize that it is not about me. It’s not about the parents. It’s about every kid that I have been entrusted with- - every single one. It means taking pride in each kid’s progress and teaching them something new. It means telling them the story about when I was a kid and how I pretended to go to football practice but would instead hide in the bushes, in full pads , smear dirt on my pants and wait for two hours before going home, hoping a passing dog did not lift his leg on my hiding place. It’s me remembering when my son makes an error or strikes out and looks at me that I do not cringe, shake my head or make a face but smile and clap and say “ go get ‘em “ It’s finding humor in everything. Whether it is a food shack that is listed in Zagats and is rumored to be selling foie gras or the way people park their cars at Mead Park as if they have spilled an extra hot latte in their lap.

We all want our children to respect one another, try their best, work hard, and come back to play another year. We need to remember that great television commercial that appears during most NCAA games that says, “There are 30,000 athletes in American universities and most of them will major in something other than sports after college.” It’s a great time of year - - the smell of freshly cut grass, chalk lines faithfully edged around a red dust diamond, and the sharp ping of a well hit line drive mixing with the roar of a hometown crowd. Somewhere a kid rounds third base and tries to beat the throw to home while another player tugs on his/her coach’s arm and says, “Hey coach, put me in. I can play centerfield!”

2007-03-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

Party On, Dude!

Today is my youngest child’s 11th birthday (Jack). Last year I figured that after 22 years of throwing parties for my one to four children, we were done. But apparently the rumors of their birthday parties’ demise were greatly exaggerated.

Over the years, I’ve thrown parties where magicians appeared, both young (age 13) and old (a 75-year-old magician). Barney, a Ninja Turtle, Captain Hook and Blue from Blue’s Clues have attended, as well as various clowns. We’ve had baseball themed parties, basketball parties, worker truck parties, Ghostbuster parties, 1950’s themed parties, gold-mining parties, pony rides, bowling, karate and manicure celebrations, and parties held at My Three Sons, Discovery Zone, the late great Mattie’s, and a semi-professional ballpark. Parties, parties everywhere and no relief in sight!

When publishing County Kids magazine, I began to feel like so much the party “expert” that we began putting out an annual party guide called “Partyline.” The tips and trends therein served to give me more fuel for the birthday party fever and fervor of my children. Over the years I practiced insanity as far as these age celebrations were concerned (the definition of insanity as doing the same things over and over again, expecting different results). I expected the events to be quieter, more manageable. I also expected my children to stop desiring them.

Kenny and Blake eventually conceded around age 16; Jack and Janet have yet to give up the ghost, no matter how hard I plead. And it’s probably because they have grown up with the myriad party people, places and things that have always existed in their world.

Last year when Janet turned 13, she had 30 of her nearest and dearest friends over for a swimming party. She had told us she was inviting 20, but that number morphed by party time and Jon and I sprouted more grey hair instantly.

“That’s it!” I cried insistently after the big to-do. “No more birthday parties!” I’m done, I thought. Put a fork in me, totally justifying – however – that Jon had thrown me a 50th birthday bash two months earlier.

But no… Jack’s wanting a gathering of buddies this year and all of my whining hadn’t stopped the planning.

Gone are the days of girls in starched party dresses, boys in blue blazers, a home-baked cake and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. In are paintball and laser tag parties; girls and boys in shorts and t-shirts wild with cake-induced frenzy. Goody bags cost a small fortune and are considered de rigueur; the quest for a new and different party venue is exhausting, yet always do-able. It’s frightening.

So I guess it’s party on, dude time once again.

2007-02-27T06:29:00.000-08:00

Dad With a Capital “ D “
by Michael Turpin

I recall growing up in a house with four boys where neighbors routinely referred to my mother as “ that poor woman “ and my father would walk in each night at 7 p.m. and calmly ask , “ Who gets the belt “ ?

“Let’s see” she would begin. “Michael and his friends lobbed oranges at what they thought was a slow moving group of cars that turned out to be a funeral procession.
Our garage is full of audio visual equipment that was stolen from the middle school after YOUR son used the glass cutter art kit we gave him for Christmas to cut a hole in the audio visual room window. The boys were not sure what to do with the merchandise. Apparently your son does not have someone to fence the goods yet. Miles was suspended for streaking what he thought was an all girl’s high school but mistakenly turned out to be the all girls elementary school and Patrick’s school counselor thinks he may have some form of personality disorder as it is the only acceptable excuse for his behavior…..Otherwise, it was a pretty good day. ” My father, un-phased and a firm believer in corporal punishment, would swiftly mete out his justice in hopes that his boys would grow up to be stewards of the community and not wards of the criminal justice system.

My father was a Dad with a capital “ D “. He would routinely break into tirades over politics, any form of incompetence, and “liberals “ including our local minister who he was convinced was an agent for the KGB. He never apologized. Empathy was something “liberals” used as Trojan Horse term for income redistribution. He never shared his feelings or cried, except perhaps at the collapse of the 1969 Cubs. He was the king of his castle and while his boys gave him a run for his money, our kingdom was under the martial law of a benevolent dictatorship. He was the illegitimate offspring of Pinochet and Tito. While no one questioned for a minute that my mother was the real genius behind my father’s “ success “, both as a businessman and a parent, he was the executive and judicial branch of the family. While Mom’s intuition could detect a fire, fight, any form of alcohol, illicit material or inappropriate behavior within a five mile radius, he was the man. Their partnership celebrated its 50th year this past summer.

Yet, “ The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit “ generation carried obvious inequities. Its chronic chauvinism and silent martyrdom had its flaws and dysfunctions. Later mothers and society with the help of Gloria Steinem (another Russian Spy ) broke through to celebrate equality and liberate women to apply their cunning intuition across a broader field of personal and professional opportunities. The fathers, the Dad’s with a big “ D” were left behind. They grumbled, swore and continued to lament the erosion of societal values and the slow emasculation of the American male. As their sons wed and became a next generation of fathers, the sons quickly realized they were entering un-chartered waters and Dad with the capital “ D” appeared to be an outdated point of reference.

“I never changed as many damned diapers with all four of you boys as you do for her “ my father mumbled as I nimbly replaced my newborn daughter’s diaper.” I knew we were both in new territory. He, thinking I had been neutered in some UFO secret experiment and me, wondering when my wife would offer him a sprig of hemlock to stir his ice tea. However, as I got older, I regained an appreciation for the big “ D’.

Let’s face it, being today’s dad carries a lot of benefits but also is spelled with a lower case “d ”. While I see growing up in Big D’s house like France under Napoleon, he looks at my house like a twisted version of Lord of the Flies. In my home, dad gets home from work to a wife and teenaged daughter locked in a mortal combat over the amount of midriff her outfit is showing. Like a UN peace keeper, I don my blue helmet and try to break up the brutal internecine fighting, only to have them both turn on me and chase me into my office. When disciplining my two boys, I am supposed to use intimidating language like, “let’s use our inside voices “and the brutally decisive “Ok, mister, this time you really have lost a privilege.” Dad with a big D wants to vomit. The boys react to me as if I have the retaliatory power of Luxembourg and continue with their misbehavior. You know what finally works? A page out of the old Big D’s playbook - - the occasional yell, the immediate intervention, the threat always followed up with determined consequences.

Evolution is a funny thing. The old big “D” dad had to go but the little “d” dad has to develop new tricks and methods to ensure his survival. Occasionally activating those less politically correct genes to keep the herd moving west isn’t always a bad thing. It’s nice to remember you can combine the soft skin of restraint and compassion with the hard sinews of being decisive, fair and tough - - that’s little “ d” and Big “D” combining to make a better man.

2007-02-23T05:48:00.000-08:00

Instantly Gratified Kids
by Julie Butler Evans

“Good things come to those who wait,” is a concept that seems to fly right over the current generation’s head. “I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now” no longer seems to apply to addicts, unless you count the tiny and not-so-tiny pod of children growing up in today’s world. They are addicted to NOW.

With a bastion of micro-waveable treats, instant music via i-tunes; cell phones; movies-on-demand (apt moniker); Amazon.com overnight delivery; digital and cell-phone cameras allowing immediate glossy photos in hand or to the eye and a myriad of additional conveniences and electronics of the 21st century, getting on-the-spot satisfaction is easy.

As I was mulling over this column’s theme, my daughter unwittingly illustrated the topic perfectly. She asked me to blow-dry her hair for her (because doing it herself would be too timely and too much work?) and as she complained about how long it was taking (are you kidding me?!), I offered sarcastically that perhaps someone could create a dryer that zaps the hair dry and straight 30 seconds. “Oh!” she exclaimed excitedly, “that would be soooo cool! Awesome! Do you think someone will invent that?” “Probably,” I muttered under my breath, eyes rolling in my head.

Whatever happened to waiting, to going to a store to buy an album/CD; to needing to get home before calling a friend?

“Can we go to Grammaphone now? I want the Star Wars video game;” “Just order take-out, mom. It takes too long for you to cook;” “I don’t want to do temp jobs, My website will make a million immediately;” “I need new jeans. Can you go get some at Rugby when I’m in school?” Last time I checked I was a parent, not a manservant. Or are they one and the same now and I have I enabled myself to act as such?

I recall almost with fondness how my friends and I needed to wait to save our allowance to go to Main Street in Westport to buy an album at Klein’s record department, or purchase some hoop earrings from Country Gal. Once the money was saved we may have to bide our time a bit longer until one of our parents was available able to drop us off downtown. Getting pictures from Homecoming took about a week to be developed. Fast food meant a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It’s not only the kids who are used to instant gratification; we adults have hopped on the magic carpet ride to immediacy. Because it’s available. With a click of the mouse we can avoid driving to the shoe store and instead find a pair of Uggs boxed on our doorstep within 24 hours. Netflix provides movies in the mail instead of searching for a parking space downtown. I can log on to the computer at any time of day or night and search out what’s going on in Iraq, or read a quick email from Blake, rather than wait an interminable amount of time as did my military family predecessors during World War 2 and Vietnam. An email “thank you” replaces – as my good friend Michael Turpin pointed out in a column in the other New Canaan newspaper – the “lost art of letter writing.”

Even though the tools and technologies of without-delay exist in our world, maybe we can still take the time (all puns intended on that phrase) to model delayed gratification and engage in some old-fashioned methods to retrieve and acquire an object of desire or necessity. Drive into town to rent a movie. Once in a while disallow cell phones and laptops on vacation (come on; you can do it Mr. or Mrs. Busy-pants). Let your pre-driving teen to cool their heels for half an hour when they call and proclaim that you pick them up NOW – there’s no need for you to drop what you were doing unless it’s an emergency. Diet pills, starving and incessant exercise, and/or liposuction to attain a rail-thin body isn’t nearly as healthy as simply eating smaller meals and running a few miles a week to teach our daughters that skinny doesn’t equal self-esteem. Blue jean, sneakers or video game buying can wait until the weekend.

In a nutshell, we can teach this: Gratification can be achieved the old-fashioned way - by earning it.

2007-01-15T16:21:00.000-08:00

Embarrassing Our Offspring

by Julie Butler Evans

Kids have been “embarrassed” by their parents forever, especially teenagers. I know for a fact that my daughter will feel completely humiliated by this column, for instance, although let me reassure you, Janet, that is not my intent. And your brothers will not be spared by my examples, so, you’re in good company.

From the time I hit age 11 I was prone to the whiny-phrased, “Daaaadddy! You’re embarrassing me!” He would shimmy and shake in public to the music of the Supremes and Crystal Gale and an assortment of other 1960’s-1970’s recording industry artists. He was also prone to calling me “Baby Julie” in front of my friends. There was an array of other awkward moments, some real and most in all probability, imagined.

Here’s an example of both. The other night I took Janet up to Hartford to attend the popular phenomenon “High School Musical” in concert. As the first song burst into life a mere four rows in front of us, I began to sway my arms back and forth with the rest of the audience. In a flash she was slapping my arms down. “You are NOT allowed to do that, mom. No!” Anytime I began to clap or try to move my body to the infectious rhythms I was met with a determined and deadly look that clearly translated to “Do not embarrass me.”

It’s fun though.

When Kenny and Blake were in middle school I apparently mortified them as they played in basketball games by shouting their names, followed by the supportive words “Yay!”, “Go!” and “Alright!” They told me in no uncertain terms that I was to sit on my hands and zip my lip; mostly I applied their edict, but occasionally I would let the enthusiasm fly if for no other reason than to watch them wince or squirm. Jack has taken over where they left off, yet since he’s only 10 he seems to be cutting me some slack.

My sense of fashion now and again is a deep well of embarrassment for not only my daughter but also for my sons. And I love it. “What are you wearing?!” can leap from all four of their lips. Of course, their sense of fashion has embarrassed ME on occasion. Take the mid-to-late ‘90s when Blake and Kenny insisted on wearing these baggy jeans half way across their nether regions so that one could eyeball the tops to the midway of their boxers. Even when wearing dress shirts their khakis would sit casually at their hips, the hint of undergarments peaking from atop their waistband.

I wear my ability to embarrass like a badge of honor. To me, it means I am doing my job. My biggest “stunt” to date? Last Christmas, for our annual holiday party, I came downstairs wearing the following get-up: A “Sexy Santa” costume. It was a low-cut short red dress trimmed in white fur, black fish net stockings, boots and accessorized with red stain gloves also with white trim. Not only did my husband have a coronary (and not in a good, “va-va-vavoom” way), but my kids either screamed in horror (Janet), laughed (Jack) or shook their heads, turned pink and denied I was their mother (Blake and Kenny). All five members of my family requested that I change my attire.

No way. I was 49 years old at the time and I reserved the right to do as I pleased; I’d earned it. And guess what? All the men at the party appreciated the look, the women laughed in a good way and I am hoping that my husband felt more embarrassed for not cherishing the look more.

There’s nothing embarrassing about realizing one can still turn a male head or two, four decades and four children later.

2007-01-09T05:57:00.000-08:00

Surviving “Snow Days”
by Julie Butler Evans

I look forward with such unmitigated glee to the end of the holiday vacation. That first week of January promises that children will be back in school and I will have at least six hours of “Julie-time.” But, inevitably, that euphoria is cut excruciatingly short thanks to another mother – Mother Nature. The snow begins to dribble or dump and suddenly the kids are home early, go in later or are home for the entire day altogether.

I’m not such an old fuddy-duddy that I don’t remember the thrill of a “snow day” as a child. Except “back in the day” we didn’t have nearly as many days off as my children have had during their school career. My friends and I waited for the bus in bundles of clothes and boots while the snow flew around us. There were plenty of mornings where we would watch the flakes come down thick outside our classroom window, but the school day was never cut short. I have to admit it was sort of exciting to be on the bus during snowstorms, going slowly down the windy roads of Weston, the chains on the bus tires jingling like bells on Santa’s sleigh. But that was then and this is now.

Now means even the report of a possible snowstorm can cause school to be cancelled. During the winter the kids watch the weather channel as if the best cartoon in the universe were on it. Even if it snows on a Saturday they are convinced that school won’t be in session come Monday morning.

I practically break out in a sweat on snow-draped mornings watching the local television stations’ school closing scroll across the bottom of the t.v. set. As soon as the schools beginning with “M’s” start my heartbeat quickens and I hold my breath and cross my fingers. If New Canaan is indeed cancelled I let out a guttural cry and flop back onto the bed. There go all my plans and appointments for the day.

So, how to survive a snow day? I actually don’t have any concrete advice and survival all depends upon the ages of your children. When any and all of mine were of nursery school and younger elementary-school age making it through the day without losing my mind and my hair meant bundling all of us up and playing out in the snowy yard for a while, hot soup and hot chocolate, board games and a couple hours of Nickelodeon. As they have gotten older – and if the driving conditions permit – we will take in a matinee, or failing that, rent a movie or two. I know it’s not ideal to depend on the television as a babysitter, but it nevertheless allows me to get some writing done, return phone calls and perform house chores uninterrupted. And always, dividing and conquering means less conflicts between siblings, so I will arrange to swap one of my kids for a friend’s kids (i.e. Janet’s friend Brooke will come over and Jack will go over to her house to play with her brother Cole). Everybody’s happy.

Well, not exactly everybody. I am happier and more productive when the kids are in school Monday through Friday. January seems unusually full of school delays, early dismissals and out and out no school. And then, before you know it, February break rolls around!

Winter should be a time to appreciate snow – tranquility! Skiing! Cozy fires! – but for this mom it more often than not causes cringing and crankiness, not my more attractive traits to be sure.

Luckily, the kids find the cringe and the crank hilarious. Perhaps that’s their way of surviving ME!

2007-01-09T05:52:00.000-08:00

Ode to the Baby of the Family
by Julie Butler Evans

“I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.” I used to recite that line from the book, Love You Forever, to Kenny as a boy at bedtime. Heck, I think I have even uttered it to him in young adulthood. But I also repeat it to Jack, the real baby of our family.

Jack Butler Evans, nearly 10, was my 40th birthday present; albeit three weeks after my birth certificate states I actually turned into a 40-year-old. He was born in the year we learned my father was to die, so his arrival was made even more significant and precious. As the baby of the family, he is at once coddled and carefree. As the youngest of four, I give him a lot more leeway, yet I am a veteran of the trickery children try to pull, so it’s harder for him to execute the fake illness, the white lie about homework, or the false angelic smile when questioned as to what he’s doing in a room in which he shouldn’t be playing.

My friends who are the youngest recount tales of both woe and wonder – they feel that they “got away” with more things than their older siblings and were left to fend for themselves often -- yet also received seemingly more of their parents’ attention, even if that love didn’t translate into boxes and boxes of childhood pictures and keepsakes on their behalf. (Jack has a lot less to show in the way of baby pictures and records of milestones).

I am the oldest of two and so my baby-of-the-family days amounted to just two years, a status I share with my oldest child, Blake. Kenny was the baby for eight years before his younger sister, Janet, came on the scene. I would assure him that he was still my “baby” because he was my baby son and my baby Flannery (my former surname when married to his father). But then along came Jack so Kenny has officially been a middle kid for a decade. Janet was the baby for three years and I promise her that as our only daughter she is forever the baby girl. I am not certain why I feel the need to have each of my kids believe as if they have never lost their “baby-of-the-family” status. Maybe I am still frustrated that even after almost 48 years, my brother usurped my reign and horned in on my parent’s attention.

Back to Jack. Several other friends of mine in town with sons as their youngest child share that the boys still like to snuggle with them, even as middle schoolers. It’s not that they’re “momma’s boys,” but there is just an instinct to continue to feel protected, loved, and special. Jack possesses what I call the “puppieness;” he enjoys falling asleep curled next to me in bed while I watch television or sitting close to me on the couch or on an airplane. He usually seems genuinely happy to see me and I fully intend to enjoy it while it lasts.

I think that parents with multiple children realize that the baby will not break, that hanging out in a dirty diaper a bit longer won’t scar it for life, that hand-me-downs are every bit as good as the newest-latest-and-greatest contraption and that a skinned knee is not worth phoning 9-1-1. We know our youngest are equally as fallible as the oldest we once believed was not. We found that our first-born child learned primarily from us, but that the next-born learn also from those siblings who came before (both a good and a not-so-good thing I have discovered). We can count on the older kids to help watch out for the younger ones, which frees us up somewhat.

I still have a good eight years to go until I am able to be a parent without a school age child in the house, but I do look forward to those last three, when Jack, the youngest, will essentially be Jack, the only, as soon as Janet goes off to college. He’ll have a little taste of what it was like for us first-born kids. Then again, as long as I’m living, my baby he’ll be.

2006-12-04T07:01:00.000-08:00

Yes, Jack, there is a Santa Claus

(Writer’s note: With much credit and apologies to newsman Francis Pharcellus Church, circa 1897)

Last Christmas brought with it THE question, as it had done three preceding times before at about the same age. It made the holidays especially bittersweet as the baby of the family took his place Christmas morn with his older siblings, four sets of eyes filled with a little less magic. My heart heaved. The reign was over. Or was it? Santa Claus, or no Santa Claus?

Jack, your little friends were wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical and electronically charged age. They do not believe except (what) they see online, on television and in the movies. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds.

Yes, Jack, there is a Santa Claus. Who else would sprinkle that magic dust on you and Janet and Kenny and Blake? Who but Santa would leave that same shower of fine and twinkly silver on the hearth? Santa exists certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. (No -- video games and computers and balls of all shapes and sizes are not what give you your highest joy.) Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Jacks. And if there were no Jacks, there would be no childlike faith then, no Mother’s Day poetry and no random pats on my back to make this existence tolerable. With no Jacks, we should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light which childhood fills the world be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in the ghosts of Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig! You might get dad to hire men to watch all the chimneys in New Canaan on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, or get Blake to stand guard in green and red cammies, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men (or women!) can see. Did you ever see Babe or Lou dancing in the outfield or by the plate, ready to help you hit a homer or catch a fly ball? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not here. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders of the world there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Ah, Jack - No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

You can Google him and think you have the proof, you can sneak around my closets this month, you can smirk in the malls at the helper Claus, but you will never discover tangible evidence of his non-existence. For he is in your heart, your memory; in the unseen, magical December air. And he’s as close as that soft kiss on your cheek while you sleep.

So don’t pout and please don’t shout. Santa is SO comin’ to town.

Just Say "No"

2006-11-06T10:48:00.000-08:00

If you remember being a teenager, which you probably do, then you’ll remember how many things you tried to pull off without being caught by your parents or – heaven forbid – the police. These things included, but were not limited to, smoking, drinking, drugging and canoodling with the opposite sex.

It has been said that our generation of parents have tried to be more friend than foe with our children. Guilty as charged on some accounts. My head was more in the sand that out with my two older ones, but only up to a point. Around the time that Kenny turned 14 I suddenly chucked friendly mode for Gestapo.

If he would announce his intentions to go to a party, or even just that he wanted to go to a friend’s house after school, I would call the home of his proposed appointment to make sure an adult would be present. This would cause major embarrassment and much sulking on his part. But I’m blonde, not stupid. I remember keenly what I was doing at that age; hanging out in a parentless dwelling was Nirvana. I wouldn’t have the sins of the mother (or father or step-father for that matter) visited on the son.

This is not to mean that he wasn’t successful on occasion. If one wants what one wants they’ll get it somehow. But I tried my best, even through his senior year at New Canaan High, to remind him about rules, responsibility and the rage of a mother nearly-fooled.

I now have to be Rambo-mom to Janet. Technically, eighth grade was a very long time ago for me, and yet, having a 13-year-old daughter keeps it quite green. She hosted a party recently and I probably made my presence known to her guests more than I should have, but as I said, she keeps my memory sharp. She vacillates between being Teen Wolf and Teen Angel, so when I announce that I will be calling so-and-so’s parents to make sure they’ll be home for whatever party or small get-together she wants to attend, the Angel pretty quickly grows fangs. Good thing I’m not afraid of the big, bad wolf.

Of course there will be a time or times when even the good kid is in the wrong place at the wrong time, or that they will inevitably make the off-center decision. As we have done as parents since toddlerhood, we can assure them that we will be there should they fall, even if a consequence needs to be handed down.

We have to learn to say “no” early on. “No” to the trip to the toy store; to the third play date of the week; to the ice cream; to the extra half hour before bed. Then it’s “no” to the second sleep-over of the weekend, or wandering aimlessly around downtown; to constant IM-ing; or chauffeuring to and from movies in Norwalk or Wilton every weekend. And “no” to un-chaperoned gatherings at other person’s homes.

New Canaan CARES addressed this issue for middle school parents yesterday – “Navigating the Teen Party Scene.” For first-time parents of teens, navigating the whole stretch of teenage years can be fraught with fog and stormy seas. Yet having made the treacherous journey twice already, I can report that eventually the water calms and the sun does come out again.

But just for the record-- and previous teen parenting experience aside -- I am so not psyched about doing it all again, two more times. There’s not enough grey hair-ridding coloring in the world!

Roots, Wings and Other Things

2006-11-04T19:17:00.000-08:00

The phrase, “there are two things we must give our children, roots and wings,” has been dancing around in my head lately. As I hit the streets and the Internet in search of the perfect holiday gifts for my four kids, I ponder if I have given enough roots and wings; something money can’t buy and Santa can’t deliver.

Sometimes guilt overwhelms me when I think about my older two, Blake (21) and Kenny (19). I divorced their father when they were just ages two and nearly four. For five years I struggled and survived as a single parent; we were fairly rootless for a while. But when I remarried 12 years ago I, along with Jon, my husband, was able to start providing them with family traditions. As a real hands-on stepfather, Jon instilled in them a sense of responsibility as well as a living illustration of setting and attaining goals. I in turn was able to involve them in the creative process associated with my then-business (County Kids magazine) and of the joy and hard work involved in seeing a dream through to fruition.

The actual physical roots my children had were first planted in Weston, the town of my girlhood; we also lived in the same house in which I had grown. But five years ago, knowing instinctively that it was time for me to “graduate” from Weston, we pulled up roots and settled here in New Canaan. Now firmly planted, they – and we – are thriving in our new environment. Blake and Kenny will always have a pull towards Weston, as will I, and it is another bond the three of us share.

Giving our children wings is a more emotionally difficult task. Do we push them out of the nest or nudge them gently? I believe each child is unique and the method for teaching them about freedom can vary. Partly, we teach by example, by flying solo with determination or by breaking away with hesitation i.e. not taking many trips without them. Neither way is the better way, but each way helps them develop the wings they will need. Wings that invariably appear to flap when we are least prepared.

When Blake began talking about a career in the military during his sophomore year in high school the flutters caught me unawares. And on that morning in July of 2001 when the doorbell rang at 4 a.m. and his Marine recruiter arrived to drive him to boot camp, my heart couldn’t have been fuller or more broken. Blake was ready to soar and I let go, but not without holding on to a couple more feathers.

Kenny has since grown strong and creative wings after a few false starts and crash landings. Although Janet and Jack are still here, continuing to grow their roots and wings, I miss my older birds and have been adjusting slowly but surely to my half-empty nest.

Traditions, family in-jokes and certain “formats” during the holidays remind our family of its roots. But the moment I cherish most in this world – where roots and wings come together for this mommy – is on Christmas morning.

It has been a tradition for many years now that on December 25th whichever child wakes up first must come to our room and tell us that he/she thinks or knows (by peeking) that Santa has come. That child then gently wakes up the other three and then all four of them pile into our bed for at least another half an hour of “sleep.” Christmas of ’02 is the last time all four children were home, as Blake was in Japan last year. That morning is etched in my mind and in my heart. There we were, from then three foot tall Jack to 6’2” Blake, all snuggled together in the silent still of the morning, anticipatory and sleepy, giggling and lovingly making fun of one another; my winged and my still wingless birds safe in my embrace if for but a temporary slice of time.

I envision this tradition in years to come, with grandchildren and daughters and sons in law, all piled onto our bed in the wee hours of Christmas morn. Roots going back deeply and feathers floating lightly above the bed. It is my favorite Christmas gift. It is simple and it is priceless.

Happy holidays from our family to yours!

Coaching or Encroaching?

2006-11-04T19:14:00.000-08:00

“Winning isn’t everything; it’s the only thing,” famed professional football coach Vince Lombardi is quoted as saying. Maybe that sentiment is true at the professional level, or even high school or college. But at the elementary and middle school level, winning shouldn’t be the only thing. And most of the volunteer coaches in town seem to understand that.
Sports coaches should assist athletes in developing to their full potential and are there to provide encouragement. According to a web site on sports coaches, “the role of the coach is to create the right conditions for learning to happen and to find ways of motivating the athletes. Most athletes are highly motivated and therefore the task is to maintain that motivation and to generate excitement and enthusiasm.”
From what I understand -- as a former cheerleading coach at the Pop Warner football level as well as at high school, and as the wife of a past volunteer coach-- the role of the coach of young children and adolescents is to introduce them to and instruct them in the particular sport at hand. Allowing them to play or try-out different positions in the hope of finding their strengths is key. And encouraging them to play their best with an eye on the prize (winning) is also valuable.
But what happens to the 8, 9, 10-year-old child who shows up at every practice, sits through games without getting much out of it (i.e. playing time) and is not receiving the return on their efforts? Although as adults we know that self-worth comes from within, as children we seek it initially from outside, grown-up sources.
Joe Ehrmann, a former NFL football star, and the subject of the book, “Season of Life,” and referred to "The Most Important Coach in America" is described in one passage of the book as saying to a team he was coaching before a game:

"What is our job as coaches?" he asked. "To love us," the boys yelled back in unison. "What is your job?" Joe shot back. "To love each other," the boys responded.

Mr. Ehrmann spoke last night at New Canaan High School during a program sponsored in part by New Canaan CARES. On November 7th, Mr. Ehrmann will return to speak with all coaches and physical education teachers during their in service day. His message is significant, especially to volunteer parent coaches.

Within the past year, Jack -- who eats, sleeps and breathes sports -- has had the good fortune to be coached by several New Canaan fathers (thank you Doug Hart, Joe Radecki, Tom Sands, Bruce Wilson and Rick Condon) who not only recognized his athletic ability, but sought to help him hone it. Each young player was taught his worth, no matter what the level of his athletic ability. Doug Hart and Tom Sands notably had the ability to turn individual baseball and football players into a team – a team whose main priority was having fun, win or lose.

“Hold your heads up high,” exclaimed Tom Sands to his young charges after a baseball loss. “You were great out there; be proud. You’re the ‘A- Train’ (a team nickname)!” The boys were only momentarily discouraged by the loss, and although they would go on to lose a few more games, they also wound up in the finals of the 10-year-old championship. Because they were good baseball players? Absolutely. Because they had fun playing the game? You bet. And, equally as vital, they knew they were cared about.

Being relegated to the sidelines -- first in sport -- may translate into sitting things out, sidelining oneself, sooner or later, in life. Encroaching upon the growing child’s sense of worth isn’t the coach’s job. For a kid, discovering and feeling that some adult other than their mom or dad finds them essential on the field or on the court of play is priceless. Right now our children’s self-esteem and their self-assurance are being built; it shouldn’t be torn down. That strategy works fine at military boot camp, but these are just kids; pre-teens.

The voluntary coach needs to understand how critical they are to the development of every kid. It is a great act of trust for parents to turn their child over to these coaches, and the quid pro quo is that the coach will approach their role with objectivity, compassion and an eye toward developing a sense of community and worth among every child.

Now that’s a winning season.

The "What If's"

2006-10-30T05:56:00.000-08:00

All of us – parents or non-parents – suffer in varying degrees from the “What Ifs:” What If my plane crashes? What If I don’t get that job? What If I never get married? What If there’s no butter at the store?

But once you become a parent, actually before you even eyeball the apple of your eye, the “What Ifs” intensify. It all begins with the sobering thought, “What If I’m not ready to be a parent?”

Who is ever totally ready, really? For the responsibility, the sleep deprivation, the aggravation, the love that swells to bursting and the worrying. Those nagging, insane, trivial and terrifying “What If’s?” But ready-or-not, the child comes along with everything listed above and it is up to us parents, new and not-so-much, to determine which “What Ifs” are worth losing some hair over and which are quite simply beyond our control and not worth another sleepless night.

I have suffered, chin-upped and chocolate-powered my way through some pretty legitimate What Ifs, but at the same time I gave the What Ifs more power than they deserved. The most obvious of these was “What If Blake gets wounded or killed in Iraq?” I would watch and hear the reports of casualties or bloody confrontations and my imagination went whirling into overdrive. It’s happened twice and is scheduled to happen again in the fall. “What If I can’t do it a third time?” I ask myself. “What If it’s worse?” And yet, with each of his deployments, I realize that dwelling on the things I cannot change is futile. I am still playing the tapes, even now, and wondering if I will be able to fully concentrate on my position in the PTC; my responsibilities for an autumn disease fund-raiser; writing this column; Janet and Jack and Jon.

My second oldest son, Kenny, lives in Queens and works in Manhattan. We usually speak on the phone two or three times a week. Last week, I hadn’t heard from him and kept getting his voicemail. I heard on the radio that there were subway stabbings on the line that he uses to get to and from the city, so I went straight to “He’s in some hospital unconscious or worse and since his last name is different from mine nobody knows to contact me!” I left more frantic voicemails. He called me the next morning.

“Jeez, Mom! Every crime that is committed in New York City does not involve me as the victim, just as every Marine killed in Iraq is not Blake!” I laughed at his observation while at the same time remarking, “But you’re not a mom!”
Some of the What Ifs of being a mom or dad are just not reality-based nor should they even merit the strength of their contemplation. These from my own family include, “What If Jack doesn’t win the baseball championship?;” “What If Janet(age 13) doesn’t want to go to college?;” “What If Janet loses her cell phone?;” “What If Jack conks his head on the side of the swimming pool?;” “What If Kenny’s web business doesn’t take off?;” “What If Blake can’t get his truck fixed?”

There is a prayer said in certain circles that never fails to ground me when these wild feelings threaten to consume an otherwise sensible mind. It is called the Serenity Prayer: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” It’s a great assemblage of words to remember and repeat whether you are a recovering whatever or not. Anyone can and frankly, should, use it when times get tough and perplexing parental thoughts run amuck.

I cannot change our government’s policies nor should I challenge Blake’s choice of career. I cannot, could not, change the fact that Jack’s baseball team didn’t make enough hits to win. I cannot change the stone landscape of our pool, instead I have to trust that the kids won’t be too foolish, and if they are, well, Norwalk Hospital isn’t too far away. I cannot change the fact that the grocery store may be out of butter, but I can adjust and make another choice.

Parents can choose to be paranoid or they can change the level of their anxiety accordingly. We love our children fiercely, desiring passionately to shelter them from storm or pain or humiliation or confusion. But there is always courage and wisdom in changing the “What If (negative thought)” to “What If (positive thought).”

What If you tried that today?

Doggone Predictable

2006-10-30T05:52:00.000-08:00

Kids and pets: they’re pretty much an inevitable. It could be a golden retriever or a gold fish, but at some point, your child is going to ask for a pet. Most likely you will buy one, and you may be fooled into believing that your kid will take on the lion’s share of the caring and feeding for said pet. But really, mom (or dad) – the onus is all yours.

I am sure there are families who may strongly disagree with me, yet from my 22 years of experience, I have been the one who has cleaned up more pet poop, doled out more kibble and cleaned up more crates and cages and fish bowls than I ever thought imaginable.

Kenny and Blake had rabbits and Beta fighting fish and a likable, but hyper dog that we got from Adopt-a-Pet. The rabbits eventually died (not my fault; I was a good caretaker), ditto the fish. The dog, named Eli seemed like a good idea. We bought her ostensibly for Blake’s 10th birthday, and he was pretty consistent with feeding and the occasional dog-walk around the neighborhood. But it was I who would have to leave my office twice a day to check on her and she was so revved up that she would wind up dragging me across the yard on my stomach; I was three months pregnant at the time. After being our family pet for about four months – many stomach rides and chewed up drapes, chair legs and shoes later – we arranged for her to be re-adopted by a wealthy family who week ended in the Hamptons; Eli made out well.

Janet pleaded for a puppy just before turning 9, and so four years ago, Glory, a black lab, came into our family. While Janet has for the most part lived up to her promise to love, honor and feed Glory, she refused to clean up after the puppy’s accidents, which left that charming detail to yours truly. I can’t blame her for not following through; it’s gross. The training and the disciplining of Glory also fell on my shoulders, as does, of course, the majority of training and disciplining the children themselves.

This past Christmas, Jack was presented with a red fox lab that he named Joey. Here’s the insane part – getting a new puppy was my idea. I am a martyr! Yes, Jack feeds Joey, plays with Joey and tries to help me with various behavior commands, but I am still president of the poop-and-pee patrol, the only member of our family that spends at least six to seven hours looking after Glory and Joey.

For all my griping here, caring for a pet is an important ritual for a child; it kind of prepares one for being a parent. Letting your kid choose a name, snuggle with, play with, feed and help with any training of a pet gives a boost to their maturity, and in a way, their self-esteem. They are loved unconditionally and know that their pet is dependent upon them for love in return.

I have a close friend here in New Canaan with a virtual menagerie of pets, from the furry to the feathered. Her twin boys are well-versed in respecting and caring for the pets in their family zoo, and this respect and caring has been ingrained into their personalities. Their mom-- who like me works from home -- is responsible during the school day for the assortment of pets, and one would think that she has had her fill of animals and aviary- dwelling friends. But she too recently joined the puppy brigade!

Doggone it; like kids, moms can still be a sucker for a furry little face.

The Lowdown on Crushes

2006-10-26T13:36:00.000-07:00

School’s well underway and there are new boys or girls in your child’s class, and/or members of their grade who heretofore were invisible, yet somewhere between June and September they emerged from their ugly duckling stage and will be whispered about in small groups as looking “so hot.”

I cringe when I hear the adjective “hot” come out of a 12 or 13-year-old’s mouth to portray another 12 or 13-year-old. I don’t remember hearing that depiction of a handsome boy or a beautiful girl until somewhere in my 20’s, yet even then the word was mostly employed when speaking about porn stars. Yeah, yeah, it’s a new millennium and all of that. But really – that description coming from a middle or high schooler’s mouth?!

Adolescent crushes will begin forming, people, as sure as yellow buses appearing ‘round the bend and new textbooks cracking open. You may even overhear your sweet little daughter referred to as “hot” while passing a pod of boys on Elm Street after school. The crushes will last for days or weeks, or maybe just until lunch period. Your son or daughter will blush or stammer or stutter and shyly tell you about the cute person, hoping for your discretion.

I recall Blake and Kenny’s first crushes with fondness even though they remember my reaction quite differently. Kenny’s was with an adorable girl who was in his third grade class; her name was Stacey. She was tiny and perky and a ballet dancer with long brownish-blond hair who would giggle whenever she was near Kenny. He would alternate between ignoring her and chasing her around the playground trying to kiss her.

Because I was then publishing County Kids, I thought it would be nice to put her on the cover for our annual dance issue. Wouldn’t Kenny be thrilled? He could frame the cover and pine over her in the privacy of his own home. When her mother accepted the offer I was pleased and Kenny was perplexed. To him, it seemed a public admission of his crush. No sooner had the issue hit the stands than he announced that he “hated” her. I had crushed the crush and he’s never let me forget it.

“Don’t ever do to Janet and Jack what you did to me with Stacey!,” he screamed at me at age 15 apropos of nothing. Blake echoed his brother’s thoughts, as one year after the Stacy incident I had put Blake, his buddy and the object of his affection on the cover of County Kids. Needless to say, neither son confides in me the existence of a romantic relationship lest now I start planning a wedding and imagining what my grandchild might look like.

Crushes are fun (although unrequited ones aren’t as gleeful), they’re innocent and they produce the kind of butterflies that make one’s heart soar. Even adults can develop crushes; I have a number of female friends who have admitted harmless crushes on tennis instructors, or the cute father they see in the school hallway or on the football field, or the handsome New Canaan police officer. Even my male friends will cop to the occasional attraction towards the adorable wife of a friend of theirs. As long as the crushes don’t progress to something more adulterous, it seems okay.

Your child’s object of fascination may reciprocate the affection and become a boyfriend or girlfriend which is another rite of passage entirely. (Don’t worry neophytes of this phenomenon, all it means is that they instant message one another and perhaps hang out downtown on Friday afternoons.)

So gear up. Along with fresh pencils and pens, your child may acquire the pre-teen or teenage crush. It’s your job not to squash their foray into “love.” Today’s hot crush is tomorrow’s in-law.

I may not like the word “hot,” but no matter what you call it, crushes are cool.

Do I Make You Proud?

2006-10-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

My children complain that I tend to malign them too often in this column. That is not my intention, of course, and I hope that interpretation is due to familial sensitivity. Although the kids and their exploits are seemingly an endless source of tongue-in-cheek as well as serious topic inspiration, they are also the supply of oceans of pride.

Jack and I recently went to see the “American Idols” in concert. This year’s winner, Taylor Hicks, dedicated his song, “Do I Make You Proud?” to all those serving in the military here and around the world. I immediately welled up and Jack gently took my hand and squeezed it and smiled up at me: I was proud on two levels – for Blake due to the obvious, motherly and patriotic reasons, and for Jack because of his maturity and protective instincts.

Of course our children make us proud. And naturally, we may not always show that support to them as often as we may imagine. Somehow and sometimes the need to correct, to question, to challenge comes spewing out of us. There is the verbal disclaimer of which we aren’t even conscious: “That was a great hit, but…;” “Well a B-plus is fine, but…;” “Thank you for saying ‘thank you,’ but…;” “Wouldn’t you be happier at this college?”; or “I know you tried your best, but…”

To provide some “balanced journalism,” I offer up some moments of pride for my four babies. I think it will get your own wheels whirling regarding your own child’s shining moments.

With Jack, many “wow!” moments involve sporting events: Jack intercepting the football and running 20 yards for a touchdown; a game winning catch in center field; sprinting to the top of a portable rock climbing wall. He’s also solved puzzles that stump an adult and shoveled snow without being asked or even expected to be asked. He saves every penny of allowance, holiday money and birthday checks.

Janet gave me goose bumps in elementary school when she and a friend sang and danced in the West School variety show, bringing down the house. Three summers ago she roped a calf at her camp’s final rodeo, and although seeing a tiny spider will cause her panic, she nevertheless rides horses in the Tetons amongst black bears. Janet amazes me when she runs to a friend’s aid, either literally or via phone or email; her loyalty can be fierce. And her creative writing is top notch.

Kenny had many a basketball game-saving dunk or three-pointer, the show-stopping lead in a middle school musical, and the ability to solve a Rubik’s cube blindfolded and in less than three minutes in a talent show. He was valedictorian of his recording arts college class and gave the commencement speech during his entertainment business graduation. And currently he is about to launch an online music source, musicslice.com. His entrepreneurial side gives me more pride than pause.

As a child, Blake dove into a pool in October to save a frog that was headed toward certain death-by-pool-filter. An accomplished artist in high school, he often had his drawings on display in the lobby. He will defend me and protect me emotionally when push comes to shove. And I needn’t go into his courage and bravery and commitment as a member of the United States Marine Corps.

Gaining and maintaining self-esteem is a tricky entity with children, adolescents and young adults. Reminding our kids of their worth, of our pride, of how terrific they are even when they may stumble is crucial. So they strike out; big deal. Or they find a “C’ on their report card; encourage them anyway.

Catch them doing something good every now and again. It’s always happening.

Alcohol Use: Facts, Feelings and Family

2006-10-26T06:17:00.000-07:00

One evening 13 years ago, Jon, Kenny, Blake and I sat down for a celebratory dinner. I had just found out that I was pregnant (with Janet). We toasted – the boys with their milks and Jon and me with a glass of beer. Blake, then 9, stopped us mid-toast and cried, “Mommy! You can’t drink beer when you’re pregnant! Stop it!”

“You’re right, Blake,” I replied sheepishly, and I put my glass down and pushed it to the center of the table. Kenny, then 7, quickly picked it up, and before we knew it he had taken a sip.

“Ahhh,” he said, “When I grow up I want to be a drunk!”

We all laughed a horrified laugh, but nobody was more horrified than me, who – at that point – was steeped deep in denial that I might actually be a “drunk,” an alcoholic, and, coming from a childhood where one of my parents was an alcoholic, I certainly didn’t want one of my children becoming one.

Fact: Children of drinking parents are less likely to see drinking as harmful and are more likely to start drinking earlier.

Fact: Alcohol is the number one drug of choice among our nation’s youth.

These facts, from the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration, have been facts long before they were seriously looked into and surveys were taken. But that doesn’t lessen the truth. And the truth is certain students at Saxe, the high school and even the private schools in town, experiment with and/or use alcohol. Some of their parents know it and many haven’t a clue.

I have shared in this column before about how I am like white on rice with my kids about alcohol use and abuse. I easily and instinctively discovered Kenny’s hiding places for booze back in high school, and lectured and still lecture him and Blake about drinking and driving. Janet is in sixth grade and I weekly remind her that she shouldn’t smoke a cigarette or drink alcohol just because a friend might offer either one. I am hyper-vigilant because I am a recovering alcoholic and of course do not want to see any of my children tailspin into abuse and dependency on alcohol.

Does that fact mean that my children might be spared? Of course not. Will a non-alcoholic parent be spared a child using alcohol or drugs? Of course not as well.

Parents can exert a moderating influence on the drinking behavior of their adolescent children by monitoring their own alcohol use and that, too, is a studied fact. It might also be helpful to reach back into your memory of your own drinking or drugging history from high school in the 70’s or ‘80’s (if you had one) and use that knowledge to be aware of where your child might be hiding the evidence or where he or she might choose to use right there in your own home.

Jon caught Kenny and a buddy red-handed several years ago in our basement crawl space. We are moving into a new home and I have already done some reconnaissance work on key locations on our property and in the home where secret drinking could occur (and according to the previous owner, did occur when her kids were teens.)

Feeling: This knowledge may or may not prevent my younger children from taking a drink or two in the woods of Waveny or at a home with absent parents or in a bathroom stall at school.

But we are luckier than our own parents were because we are armed with the facts. We have organizations such as New Canaan CARES at our beck and call. And we should charge ourselves with acting upon those statistics and in making sure that we equip our offspring with consequences.

I have heard it is best not to engage a drunken child (or adult) with those punishments, those consequences, when they are in an inebriated state. Save it for morning when the natural consequences are raging around in their head and their body and remorse is more easily available. I certainly wish that had been so for me back in high school. As it was, neither parent made a peep, and it is only by grace that I am still here to tell the story.

Spring fever is in the air. Remember how that felt when you were a teenager, and try not to be too smug if you didn’t use or abuse alcohol; your child isn’t you. And knowledge is power.

Family Summer Memories

2006-10-26T06:16:00.000-07:00

Summer – fun, sun, fireflies, barbeques and family trips or traditions. Summer is a bit of downtime for everyone in the family, and the downtime allows for some significant memories later on along the road of life.

To me, the olfactory moments of summer come in the form of Coppertone suntan lotion. I know that I should be using fancier, better wrinkle-reducing sunscreen to keep that road map of lines around my eyes and forehead at bay, but Coppertone’s memories are comfort to me. One whiff and I am transported back to the Jersey shore or the rocky beaches of Compo in Westport. The sounds of gulls and sandpipers, waves crashing or caressing the shore, motor boats shooting through the waves, always bring me smiles and serenity.

My father had a Sailfish (sort of a surf board with a sail) and he’d take our family out each summer Sunday for hours of exploration on the Long Island Sound or the bay off of Long Beach Island in New Jersey. Freedom to me still feels like salt water spray and wind, and sand in my scalp and places in my bathing-suit that I never knew sand could get into.

My brother and I weren’t off at day camps back then, but my four kids have certainly had that experience. YMCA camp, town rec programs, the New Canaan Nature Center (which is awesome for the pre-school set by the way), and sports camps have all added to their summer memory banks. Janet graduated to sleep-away camp last year, which brings me to our family’s new summer experience.

Janet’s camp is just outside Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where our family has been spending two weeks every summer for the past 10 years. Her camp features a month of western horseback riding and rodeos, hiking, and backpacking among the Teton mountain range. This year – for some reason – I thought it might be fun to drive her out to camp from Connecticut, so she and Jack could see some of America along the way. Two kids, one mom, driving for 8 to 10 hours a day for four days. Can I survive? Stayed tuned.

This will be the summer of “Jul and Jack’s Most Excellent Adventure.” Because once we drop Janet off at camp, it will be three weeks of mother-and-son bopping around Wyoming and the West, before daddy joins us for the fourth week. This may be one family memory for the books (or one book if I could find an agent)!

Whether your child is a toddler or a teen, they will carry their summer moments with them over into their own future families. It could be the summer they broke their arm falling out of a tree house and how mom and/or dad took care of them afterwards. Or the summer they had their heart broken and you kept your distance while still letting them know your arms were always open for a hug. It will be the sounds and smells of the ocean or the grandeur of a mountain, or the snaps of twigs under foot, or the stickiness of popsicles on a warm summer eve, which will evoke their parent’s laughter and voices.

My own parents are now dead, but all I have to do is pop open a tube of Coppertone and they come swirling out, alive as can be, with all the summer lessons and levity intact.

Create and embrace your own family memories in this summer of 2005. You will never regret doing so.

The Uninformed Child in the Information Age

2006-10-21T14:22:00.001-07:00

"Mind your manners!” “Be polite, honey!”

I heard this non-stop from my parents and my grandparents as a child. I recall being sent to an etiquette type program along with my friends to try and perfect the art of the curtsey, the hand shake and placing my napkin on my lap (all with spiffy white gloves on, mind you!). “Please,” “Thank you,” and “May I” were phrases that became ingrained. Maybe I could have recoiled from it all, but I didn’t dare: I had too much respect and fear of adults to do anything otherwise.

As a child in the late 1950’s and 1960’s, I got my information on manners and everything else from my parents, my teachers and maybe Captain Kangaroo on the television. That was then and this is now. Today’s children receive information from a much wider variety of people, places and things.

I think, however, from personal experience and observation, that today’s child can and is apt to recoil more than their parents did; to question often; to defy the adult suggestions on basic interpersonal manners.

About 10 or 12 years ago, when Kenny and Blake were young, a friend of Kenny’s who lived in our neighborhood in Weston, used to walk in to our house not only uninvited, but unannounced. I would turn around and jump when I found him plopped down in front of our t.v. or on the floor of our playroom, sans Kenny or Blake.

“Hello Matthew,” I’d say. “What are you doing here?”

He’d merely shrug. No “Hello Mrs. Evans. How lovely you look today ”or “Oh, hi! Kenny invited me over. Thanks!” The child would then proceed to open our fridge as if it were his own, hang about for a couple of hours and leave as stealthily as he had arrived. It goes without saying that he left without a “thank you.”

Jack had a buddy over a while back who didn’t care for the snack I had prepared, and, in making no bones about it, inquired as to whether he could have something else. Since I’m not a short order cook, I explained that that was it; sorry.

“Well, do you have cherry juice boxes? I don’t like the grape kind.”

It took all of my years of being informed not to conk the kid on the head.

Trust me: my own kids have manner slips and faux paus all the time. And it is frustrating as we have informed them – sit up straight, say “please” and “thank you,” announce when you come in the door from school, look adults in the eye when you speak with them, shake hands, etc. Yet they don’t do it as instinctively as I believe their father and I did as children, or perhaps we’re not banging it into them as often as our parents did with us. Or maybe Jon and I are sub-consciously rebelling about the repetitiveness to which we learned manners as children; maybe we are being more “friend” than parent. And, of course, there is all the other information on the television, movie and computer screens our children view to the contrary: kids speaking rudely to authority figures, running amuck, questioning the point of being polite.

It is most likely a stew of all of the above. I know it’s not 1965 anymore, nor would I want it to be. But when I sneeze in the company of my children – even the 20-something year olds – it would be nice to hear, “Bless you.” After all, it’s just polite!

How About Some Cheese With That Whine?

2006-10-21T14:21:00.002-07:00

Our February school break was a whine fest and I feel positively hung-over. The whining began just as a child thing but by the end of the ski vacation even my husband’s baritone voice went into low whine (mine was more of the high pitched variety).

What is it with whining? Kids learn early on that it “works,” even though as intelligent adults we know that it shouldn’t. Exhausted or desperate for peace, we give in to the incessancy of the whining. We may say, “Stop whining! Whining won’t get you your way,” but minutes later we’re handing over the cookie or changing the channel or searching for the misplaced or unpurchased toy that is the subject of the whining. Child-rearing books advise parents to ignore the whining, but have the authors actually experienced whining at its finest? I kind of think not.

Whining begets whining. Example from our trip: My daughter, Janet, 11, announced one morning that didn’t want to ski that day; she was tired. “ Pleeeaaase! You said it was my vacation too! Come oooooonnnn!” Her dad replied in a deep whine, “Come ooooonnn, Janet! I paaaaaiiiid for the ticket; you haaaaavvvvve to.” Then Jack pitches in with a half-whine, “ That’s not faiiiiiirrr! How come she can stay in and I can’t?!” My turn: “ Jaaaack! You can ski with me, pleeeeaaaase!” Jon: “ Juuuuulllllles. Don’t encourage her not to goooo.” Goodness, what a noisy scene.

We had Jon’s step-sister and family staying with us on our trip. They have two children, a girl, 6 and a boy, 9. They were big-time whiners and they are British, so the sounds of the whines were pretty intense.

“ Muuuuummy! Daadddy! Edward’s being awfully, awfully rude!” The English accent just intensified the annoyingness of the whine. (Note: I happen to adore English accents but in a whiny voice I am not a fan).

We were out in Jackson, Wyoming and it was pretty darn cold there the week of February 14, so there was a fair amount of complaining and whining about the crispness of the air (even from yours truly, though I was highly grateful that at least the sun was shining). Whenever Janet or Jack would start the whine about the cold I’d ask them if they wanted cheese with their whine. At first it made them stop the piercing sounds and ask what on earth I meant by that. I explained about wine and cheese and the rather clever play on words (wine-whine). And so whenever they started I’d say “want some cheese?” and they would invariably smile or laugh or tell me that I wasn’t very clever and to stop saying that. That said ,it also would cease the whining for a blessed ten minutes or so.

Although whining seems to be primarily a province of the young female of the species, it seems that boys are catching up. Blake (now 21) and Kenny (19) were not big whiners at all, but Jack and even some of his friends, can be real champs at it, which is both interesting as well as cringe-worthy.

I truly wish I could pass on some sound parenting advice here on the topic, but woefully, I cannot. Why? I doooonnn’t knnnoooowwww!

The Keeping Room

2006-10-21T14:21:00.001-07:00

I have a sign that I bought about a decade ago that reads “The Keeping Room.” The catalogue from which I purchased the wooden sign said that back in Colonial times, the “keeping room” was the area in which the family usually congregated; it kept the family together. My sign has always hung in the kitchen.

Go to any cocktail or dinner or holiday party in New Canaan (or in any city or town in America), and the room which sees the most action and interaction during a bash is the kitchen. It’s inevitable and maybe instinctive. The kitchen – no matter how modest or how expansive – is the heart of the home, where secrets are told and kept, where we nourish both our bodies and sometimes our souls.

Janet and Jack either have desks in their bedrooms for homework or easy access to the desk in the study/guest room across the hall. But homework is rarely, if ever, performed there. They would much rather pull up to the kitchen table or sit at a counter and struggle with or handily conquer math or social studies or spelling. If memory serves, I did the same thing as a student, even in my college apartment!

Now my family doesn’t crave the kitchen because of mommy’s cooking, let me admit that to the world right here; Julia Child I most certainly am not. But I can microwave with the best of them, or heat up a frozen pizza, or whip up the most basic of meals. So my kids don’t crave the kitchen for a home-cooked meal, but they do crave the conversation.

It was in the kitchen of our first home where I told Blake and Kenny they would be having a younger sibling. It is where Blake told me of a bully on the bus when he was in second grade. It was the kitchen in our Weston home where Kenny’s adolescent misfires began with painful words and actions, and it was that same kitchen in which I read his personal journal out of desperation, searching for answers.

In our kitchen in New Canaan, we watched the invasion of Iraq in 2003 on our small television, anxiously hoping to hear about Blake’s Marine unit. And I remember Janet and I hugging and screaming in that kitchen with joy later that spring when Blake was finally back safe on American soil. At that kitchen counter Blake was later interviewed by a reporter from this newspaper. The kitchen is safe haven at moments when the world seems to be falling apart. Guess where I watched the t.v. in horror on September 11, 2001?

Janet has spoken volumes in the kitchen about girlfriends and boys who are cute, about difficult teachers and confusing concepts. Last week, as I washed dishes, she opened up about a friend who accidentally happened upon some older kids smoking pot behind Elm Street in the alley, and just how do you know if someone is smoking pot or just smoking a cigarette, Mommy? The dialogue that ensued was beneficial and valuable to us both.

Every family needs a keeping room, be it the kitchen or some other sanctuary, where conversations can happen between parent and preteen, toddler to grandparent and/or sibling to sibling. Keeping the family together is a more difficult and yet vital task in this new millennium.

In our new house, the kitchen is by far the largest room and I look forward to parties that will spill over into it and end up with just Jon and I and one or two other couples, dishing on the evening and sharing confidentialities. This kitchen will also see teen tantrums and mommy meltdowns and nine-year-old nonsense, but if will also feel a lot like love.

An Attitude of Gratitude

2006-10-21T14:20:00.002-07:00

We are about to enter the season of “gimme.” And so I suggest that tomorrow, as you gather ‘round the dining room table for turkey and such, that you ask your children – no matter how wee or how wise – what they are thankful for and why.

This suggestion may seem obvious.

At our table we ask and we answer. From the younger two, the thanks is almost always about a thing—a toy or a piece of electronics. At age 20, Kenny can now point to more emotional or socially-based concepts for which he is grateful, such as graduating from college, securing a job, finding an apartment. Blake, the U.S. Marine, has not been home for Thanksgiving in four years, which may be the very thing he is thankful for on a 22-year-old level!

My husband Jon and I are usually predictable in our giving of thanks; we are always happy to have the family together, to have our collective health, to have our children alive (Blake in particular, given his career).

My father died nine years ago yesterday, on the anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s death. With it falling so precariously close to Thanksgiving, there is always a part of me that does not feel very thankful because I miss him and feel he was taken away way too soon. And now my mother is also absent. This will be the first Thanksgiving in my entire life where I will find myself unable to either see or speak with any parent. The urge to dwell in self-pity looms large except when I remember that I should remain grateful that I had as much time with them as was allowed. My own children don’t need to see me blubber all over my stuffing and gravy. They need to see me smile and they need me to love them – and be grateful, too, for that.

This year, though, I want to try something different, something beyond the verbal giving of thanks: I am going to ask them to write a gratitude list.

A gratitude list can comprise things, material possessions, but it should moreover include personal physical attributes we are grateful for (long hair, strong legs, blue eyes), people in our lives, such as mommy, daddy, best friends, a teacher, a dog or cat (okay, dogs and cats are technically not people, but…), and traits about home that both children and adults may not often think about being grateful for, like a pond in the backyard, three windows in the bedroom, a good sledding hill, a cool playroom. A gratitude list may also feature certain qualities about ourselves that equal giving – being a good friend, the ability to make someone laugh when they are feeling sad, offering helpful advice.

Children should be reminded that giving equals getting and that the getting isn’t always something that they can hold in their hands or wear or watch. That they can give one of those items to others without expecting or wanting anything back but a “thank you,” whether audible or silent.

From Thanksgiving until Christmas and/or Hanukah, the life of a child is usually about the gimme’s; the getting. Yet as the saying goes in some circles, “You can’t keep it unless you give it away.” The “it” isn’t a physical thing, like a toy truck or a video game or a doll, the “it” is gratitude for helping another. It is going from entitled to appreciative, and an un-entitled child is just one more thing for which to be thankful.

Worry Is a Mom's Middle Name

2006-10-21T14:20:00.001-07:00

On the day that I write this, a U.S. Marine helicopter was shot down by insurgents in Iraq, killing 31 Marines from the First Marine Division, the same division to which my oldest son, Blake, is attached. Blessedly, Blake is not back in the sandbox at the moment, but rather training for Special Forces in California. Nevertheless, my heart still sunk at the news and while grateful that my son is safe, I felt deeply saddened for the mothers of those Marines who were not so safe.

And I worry. I worry about Blake being sent back there – his former unit will be re-deployed next month – and I worry about the dangers inherent in his new line of work in defending/serving our country and our military. My friends worry for me and my acquaintances worry, too; even strangers worry that may have heard of Blake but have never met him or me. Although the concern comes from both sexes, it is my fellow moms that seem to worry the most. (Fathers: Please note the use of the word “seem.”)

Worrying is what moms do, and oh, we do it well and with vigor. Whether it is something as frightening as a child in war or as common as a child swinging too high on a swing, we worry. “What if’s” form in bold capital letters in our head and across our hearts from the moment our children are born. “What if he won’t breast-feed?” “What if she cries too much?” “What if he’s too cold in that onesie?” and “What if she’s too warm?” Those What Ifs grow in size and strength as do our children.

How many times do we hear our children cry, “Don’t worry so much, Mom!” That’s how it works – moms worry, kids get to whine about it and hopefully everything turns out okay, or if it doesn’t then lessons are learned, sometimes on both sides.

Jack played football for the first time last fall. Although he wore a lot of padding and a solid helmet I worried about him getting hit too hard. Of course getting hit was exactly what his father looked forward to. “It’s fine, Jul,” Jon assured me. “If Jack knows you’re worried he may not want to hit and then he will get tackled hard. Getting knocked around a little never hurt anybody…” Oh sure, I thought, and I braced myself with every play. But Jon was right and my worrying, although not completely unfounded, was still not needed.

Often it is best not to wallow in the worry and just as often it is difficult not to; turning situations over to a higher power, so to speak. I have had to attempt that and continue doing so with Blake. When Kenny was going through his adolescent hell I was worried constantly and with very good reason, but eventually I began to adjust my worry level with him. With Janet I worry about middle school and its social and educational stresses and with Jack I worry about his frustration level and its impact on school and his buddies. My friends worry about their children off at boarding school or college, of the son who just got his driver’s license, of the daughter struggling with eighth grade science, the twins getting into a private school. The outcome of most of these worries are truly out of our control. The trick is differentiating which stuff is worth sweating over and which isn’t.

I worry about terrorism, botulism, racism, alcoholism, pessimism. Should I be worried that my daughter will be kidnapped when walking from Saxe to MacKenzies? How worried should I be about Jack testing the frozen-ibility of our shallow backyard pond? Will Kenny get a job after he graduates from college in May? Should I obsess about a Marine in dress blues ringing my doorbell one evening? The answers are both yes and no. If I didn’t love my children so much, I wouldn’t worry, and therein lies the rub.

Oddly enough, I have a saying posted on the bulletin board in my home office which reads: “Worrying does not empty tomorrow of its troubles; it empties today of its strength.” There are days when I can look at that and say, “Yeah! How true! I can do that!” and other days when I want to shred that saying to pieces. Yet I always hear my children – actually primarily Blake – crying like a mantra in my head: “You worry too much Mom. Everything’s going to be okay. Calm down.”

“Hakuna Matata,” said Timon and Pumba in the movie the Lion King. It means no worries for the rest of your days. I think it’s worth humming that song whenever the worry kicks in. Try it. If nothing else, it will make you giggle and forget your worries for a moment.