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!
Monday, November 06, 2006
Saturday, November 04, 2006
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!
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.
Monday, October 30, 2006
The "What If's"
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?
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
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.
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.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
The Lowdown on Crushes
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.
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?
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.
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.
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