This is a hard post for me to write. My heart is pounding a little faster than usual, and I'm thinking about stopping and just never writing this at all. Because I've done a really good job for the last 12 days of not thinking too much about what happened. That's what I call it: "what happened." Or "the accident."
But things are slowing down a bit: fewer doctors' appointments, fewer hospital visits, fewer headaches, fewer vomiting episodes. But also fewer hours of sleep each night because no matter how tired I might be, depression and anxiety have been known to keep me relatively sleepless for months at a time.
First, she's better. That doesn't mean she's fine. She's nearly back to her normal self, and if you didn't know "what happened," you wouldn't know anything had at all.
Second, my nine-year-old daughter was hit by a car on July 3 while crossing an intersection with my 14-year-old son.
She'd walked with my son, husband, and in-laws to go watch fireworks at a nearby park. Originally, I'd said no, it's too late, the kids need their sleep, fireworks aren't even a novelty anymore, so why bother. But they were all in such a good mood and I thought, fine, it's summer, even if they don't sleep in we can survive a day of them being a little tired. Then my 12-year-old wanted me to drive because his ankle had been hurting him. I said okay, and then my six-year-old wanted to ride in the car as well.
I dropped my older son off at the park then headed to look for parking. I found a spot on a street not quite a block away. I took my youngest's hand and walked a few yards before remembering I didn't have the chairs. So we went back to the van, unlocked the back, and I grabbed them. Then off we went again.
Then as we neared the intersection, I saw a little girl get hit by a car and fall to the ground. I got out my cell phone and started dialing 9-1-1. As I watched the street, I saw someone try to pick the girl up, and I yelled for them to leave her where she was, to wait for the paramedics. Then I heard a man shout and run to the girl. The street was dim, but I could see it was my husband. I thought, good, he'll take care of the little girl. Kneeling next to her, he was holding his arm out and shouting for cars to stop.
And that's when I finally realized that little girl was my little girl.
My husband moved her to the yard at the other side of the intersection. Because there were no police on the scene yet--and hundreds of people milling about waiting for the fireworks to start and cars still looking for parking more than they were looking for pedestrians, let alone children lying in the street--keeping her where she was would have been more dangerous than picking her up.
By the time I got to her, I was calm enough to try to calm her. She was crying and scared and had no idea what had happened that day, why she was lying on the ground, why her head hurt so much, or what the boom of fireworks in the background was all about. The paramedics eventually assured us there were no external injuries aside from the abrasions on her arms and legs, but, of course, they were worried about her head b/c the driver's side-view mirror had hit the back of it hard enough to spin her around and throw her to the ground.
Once she and I were in the ambulance, she began screaming at me to wake her up. And then she began screaming for her dad to wake her up, even though he wasn't there with us. She was convinced she was dreaming. And I realized at that moment how completely helpless I was. Holding her hand and shushing her gently and talking to her and singing to her--none of that helped. She just wanted to be woken up.
She had a concussion and was kept overnight in another hospital for observation. Her memory came back over the next 24 hours. She now remembers it all, unfortunately, and has nightmares. But at least I can wake her from those.
She also has/had a small subdural hematoma--too small for surgery. For the first five days, she couldn't keep anything down except enough liquids to keep her hydrated. She was given a blessing that fifth day, and by that night, she was finally able to really eat something. She's only improved since then, although she has double vision, which the pediatric ophthalmologist says should go away within the next six months. We're waiting for word from our doctor's office about a referral for a pediatric neurologist. We hope to get her in either today or early next week.
It could have been worse. I'm no polyanna when I say that. I'm not sitting here at my laptop shrugging my shoulders and saying, "Phew." I'm saying: it could have been worse. And how worse is what keeps me from sleeping. It also could have been better. I could have said no, we're not going. I could have insisted she ride with me. I could have left the stupid chairs in the van and gotten to the corner in time to hold my daughter's hand myself and crossed her myself. She could have been my responsibility that night instead of someone else's. Which is why I don't blame my son for walking her across at the wrong moment. And I don't blame my husband for not having hold of her himself. I'm the safety freak in this family. It's my role and it's one I've generally been pretty good at.
But it's not guilt that digs into me or makes my heart race or my hands shake. It's the tenuous hold we all have on life. It's the alternative realities any one of us might be living if even one event had played itself out the tiniest bit differently.
I was telling one of my sister-in-laws that sometimes you have to believe in miracles because otherwise you have to believe in good luck. And if you can believe in good luck, you can believe in bad luck. And good luck has to run out eventually.
The first few nights after the accident, I waited until she was asleep next to me in bed (she won't sleep anywhere that isn't beside me) to cry--from relief, fear, visiting those alternative realities for too long. And to bring myself back to the sound of her breathing, I had to chant to myself, "I have her. I have her. I have her."
I still do keep that mantra running through my mind. I have her. I have my other three children. I have them all. They're mine. They're here. And for all of this, I am incredibly blessed/lucky/grateful. I do know how much worse it could have been. And when I'm not aching over the thought of not having all that I have, I'm aching over the thought of all those who don't have what they once did.
We're not all the way to fine. But we will be.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
In My Most Humble but Strong Opinion
My dad was known for being an opinionated man. He didn't mince words, but he did manage to mince a few relationships along the way. I always admired that about him: his ability to feel strongly enough about something to speak up and then not regret a single word he spoke. I have a nephew just like him whom I admire quite a bit for that same reason.
Me? I try to be diplomatic. I weigh virtually every word before it comes out of my mouth. I have a filter through which you could strain the finest of teas. Do I pretend to approve of something when I don't? No. But I do hold back more often than one might imagine.
Getting to my point: a friend sent me a link to this article this morning. He knows I write young adult (though "publish" isn't part of the definition of "write" for me quite yet) and, more importantly really, that I read it.
Now, I'm not quite as plugged into the YA writing community as I was even a year ago. I won't get into why because it's irrelevant. But I did forward the article to a good friend of mine, Brigid Kemmerer, who is coming out with her own amazing YA novel in May of 2012 (and I can't tell you how excited I am because it would make you all sad, honestly, to understand the level of my vicarious living). She replied to tell me she'd read the article already and that quite the hubbub was brewing over it. I hadn't heard a word about said hubbub ([1] see above line re: being unplugged, and [2] I feel about 112 when I say the word hubbub but can't seem to help myself).
And my response to her is below. This is my opinion. But it's a strong one. You can blame my father.
I just don't have the energy to get worked up over much these days. What's the point?
And all writers prey on their audiences. It's the nature of the business. You go after the readers you want. These particular authors were just pointing out how going after teen readers might seem a little icky, but at least they (the authors) are appreciated there. If anything, the writers were ragging on literary fiction.
It's also all about reliving high school. Not a single YA writer out there (myself included) can say they're not thinking about being a teenager when they're writing about teenagers. To go back and do things differently--to be different--is virtually everyone's fantasy, and that's where the obsession with the paranormal comes in. Wanting to do it all over again is, by definition, fantastical. I mean, come on . . . people have been obsessed with youth since time began. We're just writing about it more now, and the thought of a bunch of 40-somethings out there doing this is comical in a pathetic (pathetic in the best possible way, of course, because those who write YA also read YA!) sort of way. I can admit that. These authors are admitting that. They're laughing at themselves, not the industry. They're being self-deprecating, not insulting.
As for the authors' assertions that the story is what matters and not the writing, of course that's what matters! No one is calling Stephenie Meyer a literary genius. No one is calling J.K. Rowling that either, for that matter. Teens are much more caught up in their story, not how their story is told. It's a selfish audience being written to, so you write what they want to read. They want to focus on the angst of being them and on the necessary microcosms they build for themselves so their drama can continue to matter more than the impending apocalypse. If you're a good writer on top of that--on top of creating a great story--then so much the better, b/c then you'll get the reviews and the adult audience as well.
The people getting worked up over this article simply have misplaced priorities, in my opinion. In a world where most teenagers can't afford to buy a book or eat lunch before reading one or even read at all, getting upset about someone saying something that might possibly be interpreted as insulting to those writing for teens is absurd in the most selfish sense possible. If you're able to write and to publish and simply do what you love, then god bless. Seriously. Maybe these are the authors who write YA not because they want to relive high school but because they never really left it in the first place.
Me? I try to be diplomatic. I weigh virtually every word before it comes out of my mouth. I have a filter through which you could strain the finest of teas. Do I pretend to approve of something when I don't? No. But I do hold back more often than one might imagine.
Getting to my point: a friend sent me a link to this article this morning. He knows I write young adult (though "publish" isn't part of the definition of "write" for me quite yet) and, more importantly really, that I read it.
Now, I'm not quite as plugged into the YA writing community as I was even a year ago. I won't get into why because it's irrelevant. But I did forward the article to a good friend of mine, Brigid Kemmerer, who is coming out with her own amazing YA novel in May of 2012 (and I can't tell you how excited I am because it would make you all sad, honestly, to understand the level of my vicarious living). She replied to tell me she'd read the article already and that quite the hubbub was brewing over it. I hadn't heard a word about said hubbub ([1] see above line re: being unplugged, and [2] I feel about 112 when I say the word hubbub but can't seem to help myself).
And my response to her is below. This is my opinion. But it's a strong one. You can blame my father.
I just don't have the energy to get worked up over much these days. What's the point?
And all writers prey on their audiences. It's the nature of the business. You go after the readers you want. These particular authors were just pointing out how going after teen readers might seem a little icky, but at least they (the authors) are appreciated there. If anything, the writers were ragging on literary fiction.
It's also all about reliving high school. Not a single YA writer out there (myself included) can say they're not thinking about being a teenager when they're writing about teenagers. To go back and do things differently--to be different--is virtually everyone's fantasy, and that's where the obsession with the paranormal comes in. Wanting to do it all over again is, by definition, fantastical. I mean, come on . . . people have been obsessed with youth since time began. We're just writing about it more now, and the thought of a bunch of 40-somethings out there doing this is comical in a pathetic (pathetic in the best possible way, of course, because those who write YA also read YA!) sort of way. I can admit that. These authors are admitting that. They're laughing at themselves, not the industry. They're being self-deprecating, not insulting.
As for the authors' assertions that the story is what matters and not the writing, of course that's what matters! No one is calling Stephenie Meyer a literary genius. No one is calling J.K. Rowling that either, for that matter. Teens are much more caught up in their story, not how their story is told. It's a selfish audience being written to, so you write what they want to read. They want to focus on the angst of being them and on the necessary microcosms they build for themselves so their drama can continue to matter more than the impending apocalypse. If you're a good writer on top of that--on top of creating a great story--then so much the better, b/c then you'll get the reviews and the adult audience as well.
The people getting worked up over this article simply have misplaced priorities, in my opinion. In a world where most teenagers can't afford to buy a book or eat lunch before reading one or even read at all, getting upset about someone saying something that might possibly be interpreted as insulting to those writing for teens is absurd in the most selfish sense possible. If you're able to write and to publish and simply do what you love, then god bless. Seriously. Maybe these are the authors who write YA not because they want to relive high school but because they never really left it in the first place.
Monday, June 13, 2011
In Case Anyone Is Watching . . .
I would make a terrible nurse. It's not the blood and various other bodily fluids and broken bones that would get to me; it's my impatience with complaints about stubbed toes, hangnails, splinters, slivers, and minor cuts, scratches, and bruises. Sure, nurses don't have to exactly deal with these sorts of complaints on a daily basis, but it's the thought of having to deal with any molehill of a problem blown into a mountain that would show my lack of bedside manner and get me fired if not sued.
My six-year-old just came in a few minutes ago to whine about his finger, which had apparently been attacked by a small stick earlier today. I sent him back outside with a brusque wave. My daughter, 30 seconds later, started into hysterics over . . . what? I don't know. I stopped her from finishing her sentence. She's outside playing now too. That, or she's up in her room composing a letter to Santa to ask for a mother who knows how to ooh and aah in sympathy more regularly.
Let me tell you about how sickness was handled in my house growing up: Quarantine. Any of us got sick? We spent the fevered period in our bedrooms. With the door shut. When I was a junior in high school, I got a terrible sore throat. My mother's solution was (and I quote), "Stand in the hot shower with your mouth open. The steam will make it feel better. You're going to school." This routine went on for three days until Mom relented and took me to the doctor. I had strep throat, of course.
At 19, I had a lump removed: pre-cancerous. If my parents were concerned, I don't recall them letting on. I'm not saying they weren't concerned--only that they didn't fawn over me or coddle me or make me feel like the world was going to end, and I didn't mind the lack of attention. I didn't want it, honestly. Had they been more alarmist in their reaction, I would have, well, felt more alarmed.
About a year into my marriage, my husband caught on to my feelings about "in sickness and in health." Just because I'm all for sticking by him in times of sickness, I don't mean right by him. I mean in the next room or farther down the hall or downstairs while he stays upstairs and only calls for me when he really, really, really needs something. He was a little shocked at this revelation. In fact, he kind of panicked.
"Please," he said. "Please tell me that when we have children and they get sick, you'll take care of them."
I laughed. "Of course, I will."
He didn't laugh. He went a little paler. "I mean it. You need to promise me."
I laughed again. "Promise you? Do you really think I wouldn't take care of them?"
He still didn't laugh. "Promise me. Promise me you'll take them a cold wet washcloth and make sure they're okay."
So I promised.
My twelve-year-old had some serious kidney problems for seven years before doctors finally diagnosed him correctly. And I was the vision of empathy night after night while he lay in bed next to me, vomiting for hours on end. I was furious and frustrated and just wanted to find a way to make him feel better, which meant I also felt helpless, which, really, is no way for any parent to feel. He had surgery just over two years ago to finally fix the problem. I still look at him in amazement sometimes, immensely grateful those days are over and that he can just be a normal kid now.
When my dad was diagnosed with cancer seven years ago, I felt that same fury, frustration, and helplessness, which is no way for a child to feel either. Surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments didn't fix his "problem." He died after ten months of fighting the good fight--but, really, what's good about any fight that ends like that?
I chased my daughter out of the house before I let her finish that sentence a few minutes ago because, as I told her, "You kids are healthy in every way. There's no reason at all for you to complain about the little things in life."
I'm not trying to raise stoic children. I'm not trying to raise children that lack compassion or that are afraid to cry when they fall off their bike or trip up the stairs. I'm trying to raise kids that are grateful for the bruises, scrapes, splinters, and slivers that show they got to spend summer evenings playing in the backyard with each other and with their friends. I'll give them that wet washcloth for their heads or their bloody elbows. But then I'm sending them back outside to play, because they get to go back outside and play.
So in case anyone is watching or listening: I do care about my children's well-being. I care a lot.
My six-year-old just came in a few minutes ago to whine about his finger, which had apparently been attacked by a small stick earlier today. I sent him back outside with a brusque wave. My daughter, 30 seconds later, started into hysterics over . . . what? I don't know. I stopped her from finishing her sentence. She's outside playing now too. That, or she's up in her room composing a letter to Santa to ask for a mother who knows how to ooh and aah in sympathy more regularly.
Let me tell you about how sickness was handled in my house growing up: Quarantine. Any of us got sick? We spent the fevered period in our bedrooms. With the door shut. When I was a junior in high school, I got a terrible sore throat. My mother's solution was (and I quote), "Stand in the hot shower with your mouth open. The steam will make it feel better. You're going to school." This routine went on for three days until Mom relented and took me to the doctor. I had strep throat, of course.
At 19, I had a lump removed: pre-cancerous. If my parents were concerned, I don't recall them letting on. I'm not saying they weren't concerned--only that they didn't fawn over me or coddle me or make me feel like the world was going to end, and I didn't mind the lack of attention. I didn't want it, honestly. Had they been more alarmist in their reaction, I would have, well, felt more alarmed.
About a year into my marriage, my husband caught on to my feelings about "in sickness and in health." Just because I'm all for sticking by him in times of sickness, I don't mean right by him. I mean in the next room or farther down the hall or downstairs while he stays upstairs and only calls for me when he really, really, really needs something. He was a little shocked at this revelation. In fact, he kind of panicked.
"Please," he said. "Please tell me that when we have children and they get sick, you'll take care of them."
I laughed. "Of course, I will."
He didn't laugh. He went a little paler. "I mean it. You need to promise me."
I laughed again. "Promise you? Do you really think I wouldn't take care of them?"
He still didn't laugh. "Promise me. Promise me you'll take them a cold wet washcloth and make sure they're okay."
So I promised.
My twelve-year-old had some serious kidney problems for seven years before doctors finally diagnosed him correctly. And I was the vision of empathy night after night while he lay in bed next to me, vomiting for hours on end. I was furious and frustrated and just wanted to find a way to make him feel better, which meant I also felt helpless, which, really, is no way for any parent to feel. He had surgery just over two years ago to finally fix the problem. I still look at him in amazement sometimes, immensely grateful those days are over and that he can just be a normal kid now.
When my dad was diagnosed with cancer seven years ago, I felt that same fury, frustration, and helplessness, which is no way for a child to feel either. Surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation treatments didn't fix his "problem." He died after ten months of fighting the good fight--but, really, what's good about any fight that ends like that?
I chased my daughter out of the house before I let her finish that sentence a few minutes ago because, as I told her, "You kids are healthy in every way. There's no reason at all for you to complain about the little things in life."
I'm not trying to raise stoic children. I'm not trying to raise children that lack compassion or that are afraid to cry when they fall off their bike or trip up the stairs. I'm trying to raise kids that are grateful for the bruises, scrapes, splinters, and slivers that show they got to spend summer evenings playing in the backyard with each other and with their friends. I'll give them that wet washcloth for their heads or their bloody elbows. But then I'm sending them back outside to play, because they get to go back outside and play.
So in case anyone is watching or listening: I do care about my children's well-being. I care a lot.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
A Kind Word
A fellow parent called me this morning. She's the kind of parent I say hello to at social events, but we never speak for more than a few minutes. Our daughters (9 years old now) are in the same grade and they were in the same class two years ago. They're also in Brownies together. Otherwise, their paths don't often cross.
So I was surprised by the phone call. She started with, "I just want to bring your attention to something that happened yesterday during the Brownie field trip."
And those of you who are parents can probably imagine what I thought: "Oh, no, what did my daughter do?"
Now, my daughter is a good girl. Truly. She's kind and sweet. She thinks the best of everyone around her. She loves everyone around her, even the mean girls who tell her she's fat or make fun of her for still loving Hello Kitty. She's big on giving people second and third and millionth chances. She wakes up at 6 a.m. every morning because she's excited about what that day holds, even if there's nothing special on our schedule: to her it's all special. She skips down the sidewalk, tripping over her two left feet most days. She laughs until she cries. And she gives hugs because she figures everyone needs them as much as she does.
Still, I braced myself to hear what she might have done yesterday that would warrant a call from another parent, because that's our instinct as parents: to believe the best but to be ready for the worst, because we need to be able to defend our children against the world and to be prepared for our children to have been the one doing the wrong--because that's what we're used to having to do.
It's so easy for the world to spoil kids, to take something wonderful and pure and then slowly or suddenly damage it--to teach them words at six that we didn't hear until we were sixteen, or even to teach them too-common words that make them reassess themselves and others, such as "stupid" and "shut up" and "idiot" and "hate." And there are the actions and attitudes the world teaches them as well: hatred, bigotry, revenge, boastfulness. So we're always on our guard, trying to stifle the parroting nature of a child and begging them and God and whomever else might be listening, "Please, please, let my apple-cheeked daughter stay apple cheeked and innocent." And also, "Just in case she doesn't, help me know how to teach her the right things over and over, again and again."
This mother said, before telling me what happened, that she knows too often she focuses on what her own daughter might be doing wrong. And I felt guilty instantly--guilty for, in spite of knowing how wonderful my daughter is, not praising her enough for her kind heart, guilty for doing the same thing this mother does and the same thing parents everywhere do, whether it's silently or loudly criticizing our children for not working hard enough, not studying hard enough, or not simply trying hard enough.
The reason she called was to tell me how gentle my daughter had been with a friend who was struggling during yesterday's hike. She wanted to let me know she'd seen my daughter doing something good and decent and kind. She made time in her busy morning (I could hear the doorbell and the chaos of kids in the background) to look up my number and to call me. From one mother to another, she wanted to let me know she understood how much we want to know our kids are okay and are doing right, even if our instinct is to fear the opposite.
Our children aren't perfect. And I'm grateful they aren't because then they'd expect us to be as well. But I'm also grateful they have moments of perfection, moments when we can see the clean spots the world has missed and we can be reminded to notice those clean spots and moments more often.
So I was surprised by the phone call. She started with, "I just want to bring your attention to something that happened yesterday during the Brownie field trip."
And those of you who are parents can probably imagine what I thought: "Oh, no, what did my daughter do?"
Now, my daughter is a good girl. Truly. She's kind and sweet. She thinks the best of everyone around her. She loves everyone around her, even the mean girls who tell her she's fat or make fun of her for still loving Hello Kitty. She's big on giving people second and third and millionth chances. She wakes up at 6 a.m. every morning because she's excited about what that day holds, even if there's nothing special on our schedule: to her it's all special. She skips down the sidewalk, tripping over her two left feet most days. She laughs until she cries. And she gives hugs because she figures everyone needs them as much as she does.
Still, I braced myself to hear what she might have done yesterday that would warrant a call from another parent, because that's our instinct as parents: to believe the best but to be ready for the worst, because we need to be able to defend our children against the world and to be prepared for our children to have been the one doing the wrong--because that's what we're used to having to do.
It's so easy for the world to spoil kids, to take something wonderful and pure and then slowly or suddenly damage it--to teach them words at six that we didn't hear until we were sixteen, or even to teach them too-common words that make them reassess themselves and others, such as "stupid" and "shut up" and "idiot" and "hate." And there are the actions and attitudes the world teaches them as well: hatred, bigotry, revenge, boastfulness. So we're always on our guard, trying to stifle the parroting nature of a child and begging them and God and whomever else might be listening, "Please, please, let my apple-cheeked daughter stay apple cheeked and innocent." And also, "Just in case she doesn't, help me know how to teach her the right things over and over, again and again."
This mother said, before telling me what happened, that she knows too often she focuses on what her own daughter might be doing wrong. And I felt guilty instantly--guilty for, in spite of knowing how wonderful my daughter is, not praising her enough for her kind heart, guilty for doing the same thing this mother does and the same thing parents everywhere do, whether it's silently or loudly criticizing our children for not working hard enough, not studying hard enough, or not simply trying hard enough.
The reason she called was to tell me how gentle my daughter had been with a friend who was struggling during yesterday's hike. She wanted to let me know she'd seen my daughter doing something good and decent and kind. She made time in her busy morning (I could hear the doorbell and the chaos of kids in the background) to look up my number and to call me. From one mother to another, she wanted to let me know she understood how much we want to know our kids are okay and are doing right, even if our instinct is to fear the opposite.
Our children aren't perfect. And I'm grateful they aren't because then they'd expect us to be as well. But I'm also grateful they have moments of perfection, moments when we can see the clean spots the world has missed and we can be reminded to notice those clean spots and moments more often.
Monday, June 6, 2011
The Graduated Eighth Grade Fairy
Still on the topic of my 14-year-old . . .
I went to his eighth-grade graduation ceremony last week. The auditorium was packed--standing room only. Parents, grandparents, siblings, and who knows who else filled the place. I told him on the way that I was the first of my own siblings (there are eight of us) to go to her high-school graduation. To the others, the event was less of an event and more of a reason to stay home and avoid the great hullabaloo. I don't recall much about my graduation except how strange I thought it was to see my classmates crying. I was so happy to be done with high school and so eager to move on to the next stage of my life that my eyes remained completely dry the entire night.
As I sat watching my son on stage, however, tall and handsome in his blue gown, I felt a couple of tears coming on. But I stopped them from actually falling because I realized that if I let myself cry or get emotional over every landmark, big or small, in my children's lives, I'll be a sopping mess by the time my youngest gets married. I decided last week to save my tears for my oldest's high school graduation, and even then, my emotions and I will have to negotiate how much I'll allow. This isn't to say I'm not an emotional person in general. I just have to pace myself. It's about staying sane.
Last night, my son told me his good friend had gotten his graduation gift--his junior high graduation gift: an iPad. I told him that was insane. "Mom, a lot of my friends got gifts like that. iPads, iTouches, $100 bills." I asked him if they'd asked him what he'd gotten. "Yeah. I told them I got a milkshake." And that was true. After graduation, my husband and I asked him if he wanted anything to eat. He wanted McDonald's and all he wanted there was a strawberry milkshake. So he got it, he shared a little with us, and we headed home.
Fortunately, he saw the whole graduation experience as a little nuts. "Why are we celebrating something we should just be expected to do? Graduate from 8th grade." And although I'm sure he'd love an iPad, an iTouch, or a few $100 bills, he doesn't expect any of that--which is a good thing since he won't be getting any of that.
I don't think we're creating a happier generation of children. In fact, I'd go along with those who believe we're creating a more depressed, a more easily disappointed, a more insecure, a more lost, a more confused, a more impatient, a more unsatisfied, and a more frustrated generation of children who will become adults carrying those same "mores" around with them into the work world and into their marriages and families. We're creating a generation of children who appreciated the Tooth Fairy well enough, but now also expect the Skinned Knee Fairy, the Cleaned My Own Room Today Fairy, the Managed To Shower This Morning Fairy, and the Graduated Eighth Grade Fairy. We're rewarding what should be the reward in and of itself. We're telling them that the parent-child relationship is about expectations they can have of us but not the reverse. The chore list on the refrigerator is now ours, and the "I know I disappointed you" admissions are ours.
Which leaves them with what?What do they get to claim as their own?
I'm sure his friends see my husband and me as the mean, stingy, unsupportive parents. And I'm okay with that, since I've never been one to give into peer pressure, whether as a kid or an adult. And if any of his friends' parents make their way here to my blog (which is doubtful) then I hope they're okay with me expressing my (albeit strong) opinion. I'm not saying I'm a better parent, which is good since this isn't a competition. I simply think that, as with our emotions, we need to slow down and pace ourselves before all of us--parents and children alike--end up as one big sopping mess.
I went to his eighth-grade graduation ceremony last week. The auditorium was packed--standing room only. Parents, grandparents, siblings, and who knows who else filled the place. I told him on the way that I was the first of my own siblings (there are eight of us) to go to her high-school graduation. To the others, the event was less of an event and more of a reason to stay home and avoid the great hullabaloo. I don't recall much about my graduation except how strange I thought it was to see my classmates crying. I was so happy to be done with high school and so eager to move on to the next stage of my life that my eyes remained completely dry the entire night.
As I sat watching my son on stage, however, tall and handsome in his blue gown, I felt a couple of tears coming on. But I stopped them from actually falling because I realized that if I let myself cry or get emotional over every landmark, big or small, in my children's lives, I'll be a sopping mess by the time my youngest gets married. I decided last week to save my tears for my oldest's high school graduation, and even then, my emotions and I will have to negotiate how much I'll allow. This isn't to say I'm not an emotional person in general. I just have to pace myself. It's about staying sane.
Last night, my son told me his good friend had gotten his graduation gift--his junior high graduation gift: an iPad. I told him that was insane. "Mom, a lot of my friends got gifts like that. iPads, iTouches, $100 bills." I asked him if they'd asked him what he'd gotten. "Yeah. I told them I got a milkshake." And that was true. After graduation, my husband and I asked him if he wanted anything to eat. He wanted McDonald's and all he wanted there was a strawberry milkshake. So he got it, he shared a little with us, and we headed home.
Fortunately, he saw the whole graduation experience as a little nuts. "Why are we celebrating something we should just be expected to do? Graduate from 8th grade." And although I'm sure he'd love an iPad, an iTouch, or a few $100 bills, he doesn't expect any of that--which is a good thing since he won't be getting any of that.
I don't think we're creating a happier generation of children. In fact, I'd go along with those who believe we're creating a more depressed, a more easily disappointed, a more insecure, a more lost, a more confused, a more impatient, a more unsatisfied, and a more frustrated generation of children who will become adults carrying those same "mores" around with them into the work world and into their marriages and families. We're creating a generation of children who appreciated the Tooth Fairy well enough, but now also expect the Skinned Knee Fairy, the Cleaned My Own Room Today Fairy, the Managed To Shower This Morning Fairy, and the Graduated Eighth Grade Fairy. We're rewarding what should be the reward in and of itself. We're telling them that the parent-child relationship is about expectations they can have of us but not the reverse. The chore list on the refrigerator is now ours, and the "I know I disappointed you" admissions are ours.
Which leaves them with what?What do they get to claim as their own?
I'm sure his friends see my husband and me as the mean, stingy, unsupportive parents. And I'm okay with that, since I've never been one to give into peer pressure, whether as a kid or an adult. And if any of his friends' parents make their way here to my blog (which is doubtful) then I hope they're okay with me expressing my (albeit strong) opinion. I'm not saying I'm a better parent, which is good since this isn't a competition. I simply think that, as with our emotions, we need to slow down and pace ourselves before all of us--parents and children alike--end up as one big sopping mess.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Ready or Not
I don't want to name names-- Wait. Stop. I do want to name names. But I won't. I'm bigger than that, I think . . . or I hope. Or maybe I'm not bigger at all and just want to say I am, which will make me seem bigger, but really I'm quite small and only want to seem bigger, which makes me that much smaller by comparison.
My point:
My son, the 14-year-old who wants to make things right after making them wrong, has one particular girl at school with whom he most definitely does not get along. It's gotten ugly in the past, though just how ugly, I don't know since he is a teenager and therefore by law and nature is not allowed to tell me everything (and sometimes not anything). I just know it's gotten ugly enough (and I'm talking arguing here and personality conflicts, not abusive name calling or bullying) that this child's mother felt the need to scold my son loudly and angrily in public in retribution for an exchange my son and her daughter had had weeks earlier. As my son told her, "I'm sure you want to believe everything she told you, but there are two sides to every story. I'm sorry you don't like what you heard." And he hasn't spoken to this girl since.
Now, I didn't find out about this public scolding until a couple of months after it happened. That's just how my son rolls: he sees no reason to involve me in issues like this because, in essence, they're non-issues for him. But he knows they won't be for me. And then the non-issues become issues for him, because, as a Mama Bear, I have a very hard time seeing straight when it comes to my children being humiliated or simply hurt in public. My parents protected me and defended me and never for a moment thought to question whether they should, whether I was to blame in part or whole. And their protection and defense of me made me want to always be protection-worthy and defensible. It made me want to be a better person.
Because my son didn't want this non-issue-now-an-issue to become an even bigger issue, I held tight and simply told the mother that in the future, I hoped she would come to me about any problems she or her daughter had with him.
That was several weeks ago.
Tonight, my son's school is in the midst of a big graduation party for its 8th graders. (A post on shooting for mediocrity will follow at a later date, because, really, when did graduating 8th grade become such a huge celebration? And if we celebrate 8th-grade graduation with a prom-level party, what are we going to do for prom? Still, I admit I got suckered into the hubbub.) And he found out yesterday that this same girl was holding a pre-party party for all of her friends . . . and all of his. Obviously, his name wasn't on the invite list. Nor were ours, since the party was for parents as well. Was I offended? Not at all. As I told a friend, I'm of the belief that people can only give offense if you're willing to take it.
But was I upset? Oh, yeah. Because, I wonder, aren't we, as adults, supposed to set an example for our children? Aren't we supposed to be teaching them about kindness and making peace with each other and second chances (or 3rd or 70 times 7)? Why do we too often model that exclusivity is acceptable and that whatever is self-satisfying is sufficient?
My son was fine about it all, of course. I was the one with the headache that wouldn't go away until he came home from playing football with his friends after school, happy and looking forward to the dance. Still . . . this was wrong. Pure and simple wrong. The wrongness wasn't in not inviting my son. The wrongness was in making sure he was the only one not invited. Fortunately for him, he didn't feel excluded.
I spent several hours at the school this morning getting the gym ready for the dance. More parents spent all day yesterday decorating. More were expected this afternoon. Parents also helped out with chaperoning, providing food, and volunteering to clean up tonight. Many of the girls bought new dresses for the night. Plenty of moms and dads were surely doing what I was doing an hour before: ironing shirts and making sure our sons had belts on. I can only imagine (because I don't feel like actually calculating) the number of collective hours the parents of these 8th graders spent in making sure their kids would have a good time tonight and making sure they were "ready" for the party.
But I think, perhaps-- No, I think, definitely, that it wouldn't hurt any of us--me included--to spend a few more hours making sure they're ready to be presented to the world, loaded up with generosity and kindness rather than hairspray, makeup, and matching socks.
My point:
My son, the 14-year-old who wants to make things right after making them wrong, has one particular girl at school with whom he most definitely does not get along. It's gotten ugly in the past, though just how ugly, I don't know since he is a teenager and therefore by law and nature is not allowed to tell me everything (and sometimes not anything). I just know it's gotten ugly enough (and I'm talking arguing here and personality conflicts, not abusive name calling or bullying) that this child's mother felt the need to scold my son loudly and angrily in public in retribution for an exchange my son and her daughter had had weeks earlier. As my son told her, "I'm sure you want to believe everything she told you, but there are two sides to every story. I'm sorry you don't like what you heard." And he hasn't spoken to this girl since.
Now, I didn't find out about this public scolding until a couple of months after it happened. That's just how my son rolls: he sees no reason to involve me in issues like this because, in essence, they're non-issues for him. But he knows they won't be for me. And then the non-issues become issues for him, because, as a Mama Bear, I have a very hard time seeing straight when it comes to my children being humiliated or simply hurt in public. My parents protected me and defended me and never for a moment thought to question whether they should, whether I was to blame in part or whole. And their protection and defense of me made me want to always be protection-worthy and defensible. It made me want to be a better person.
Because my son didn't want this non-issue-now-an-issue to become an even bigger issue, I held tight and simply told the mother that in the future, I hoped she would come to me about any problems she or her daughter had with him.
That was several weeks ago.
Tonight, my son's school is in the midst of a big graduation party for its 8th graders. (A post on shooting for mediocrity will follow at a later date, because, really, when did graduating 8th grade become such a huge celebration? And if we celebrate 8th-grade graduation with a prom-level party, what are we going to do for prom? Still, I admit I got suckered into the hubbub.) And he found out yesterday that this same girl was holding a pre-party party for all of her friends . . . and all of his. Obviously, his name wasn't on the invite list. Nor were ours, since the party was for parents as well. Was I offended? Not at all. As I told a friend, I'm of the belief that people can only give offense if you're willing to take it.
But was I upset? Oh, yeah. Because, I wonder, aren't we, as adults, supposed to set an example for our children? Aren't we supposed to be teaching them about kindness and making peace with each other and second chances (or 3rd or 70 times 7)? Why do we too often model that exclusivity is acceptable and that whatever is self-satisfying is sufficient?
My son was fine about it all, of course. I was the one with the headache that wouldn't go away until he came home from playing football with his friends after school, happy and looking forward to the dance. Still . . . this was wrong. Pure and simple wrong. The wrongness wasn't in not inviting my son. The wrongness was in making sure he was the only one not invited. Fortunately for him, he didn't feel excluded.
I spent several hours at the school this morning getting the gym ready for the dance. More parents spent all day yesterday decorating. More were expected this afternoon. Parents also helped out with chaperoning, providing food, and volunteering to clean up tonight. Many of the girls bought new dresses for the night. Plenty of moms and dads were surely doing what I was doing an hour before: ironing shirts and making sure our sons had belts on. I can only imagine (because I don't feel like actually calculating) the number of collective hours the parents of these 8th graders spent in making sure their kids would have a good time tonight and making sure they were "ready" for the party.
But I think, perhaps-- No, I think, definitely, that it wouldn't hurt any of us--me included--to spend a few more hours making sure they're ready to be presented to the world, loaded up with generosity and kindness rather than hairspray, makeup, and matching socks.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
The Chance to Make It Right
A couple of months ago, my oldest son told me that I tend to "freak out" over little things. I was shocked. I told him I'd always made a conscious effort to be calm about grades, friends, forgetfulness, messy bedrooms, long hair, and every other minor teenager issue that can be blown completely out of proportion. So I've made an even greater effort since then because, above all else, I don't want my kids to ever be afraid to talk to me. So last night I asked him if he felt I'd been "freaking out" a little less. He kind of shrugged and said, "Sometimes, if we mess up on something, rather than letting us fix it, you say, 'Never mind. I'll take care of it myself.' You don't give us the chance to make it right."
Example: Last week, he spilled quite a bit of milk in the fridge. I was sitting nearby and as I got up, he said, "I'll take care of it." I groaned and said, "No. It's fine. I've got it." Then I cleaned up the mess instead.
I explained to him last night that me cleaning up the mess is my way of letting him know I'm not angry even if I'm frustrated. I've always felt not that he's incapable of making things right, but rather that I don't mind making things right so he can move on.
But I told him I was sorry and that in the future, I'd back off and let him clean up his own messes.
Obviously, I've thought about this conversation a lot, or I wouldn't be writing about it now.
I'm a mom. You can throw any other labels on to me that may fit--wife, editor, daughter--but the one I've fought for the hardest and struggled with the most is "mom." And I take that label seriously. I agonize over my kids and over making the right decisions about and for them. And although my oldest is 14 now, I still have this overarching need to protect all of them--sometimes from the world and sometimes from myself. I've been doing this for so long--preventing messes and cleaning them up--that I haven't realized that they're trying to prevent and clean up their own as they get older.
And they need to. For several reasons. I know that. They need to see they can't always rely on someone else to do it for them. But more importantly, they need to know they're capable of this--of screwing up and recovering and moving on. They need to be able to make things right or they'll never feel it's okay when make them wrong in the first place.
Example: Last week, he spilled quite a bit of milk in the fridge. I was sitting nearby and as I got up, he said, "I'll take care of it." I groaned and said, "No. It's fine. I've got it." Then I cleaned up the mess instead.
I explained to him last night that me cleaning up the mess is my way of letting him know I'm not angry even if I'm frustrated. I've always felt not that he's incapable of making things right, but rather that I don't mind making things right so he can move on.
But I told him I was sorry and that in the future, I'd back off and let him clean up his own messes.
Obviously, I've thought about this conversation a lot, or I wouldn't be writing about it now.
I'm a mom. You can throw any other labels on to me that may fit--wife, editor, daughter--but the one I've fought for the hardest and struggled with the most is "mom." And I take that label seriously. I agonize over my kids and over making the right decisions about and for them. And although my oldest is 14 now, I still have this overarching need to protect all of them--sometimes from the world and sometimes from myself. I've been doing this for so long--preventing messes and cleaning them up--that I haven't realized that they're trying to prevent and clean up their own as they get older.
And they need to. For several reasons. I know that. They need to see they can't always rely on someone else to do it for them. But more importantly, they need to know they're capable of this--of screwing up and recovering and moving on. They need to be able to make things right or they'll never feel it's okay when make them wrong in the first place.
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