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.

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."

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

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.

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

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!"

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.