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.

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!

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.

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"

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

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?

“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.