When I was in middle school, I had a gym teach who was a complete and total lech. Picture the early 1980s, the polyester shorts that were too tight and too short. I'd describe him more fully, but I think he still lives in my hometown and I'm not quite ready to demonize the guy should someone who reads this "recognize" him. He doesn't teach anymore, however, and since he didn't do anything criminal, I'll have to hope 12- and 13-year-old girls everywhere are safe.
One day after class, I had headed toward the locker room to change. He called me back to where he stood at the far side of the gym. I jogged back over and asked what he wanted. He smiled his slimy smile and said, "Nothing. I just like the way you look from behind and wanted to watch you walk away again." Twelve. I was twelve. years. old.
He never said anything like that to me again, but I can still recall the way he looked at me, and it turns my stomach. And did I tell anyone about this? Not a word--not a friend, not a teacher, not a parent.
I thought of him again recently when I was at my brother's bookstore in Virginia. I had some editing work to do and had brought my laptop so I could hang out in one of the store's comfy chairs and still feel like I was visiting with family. About fifteen minutes into my work, an old man came and sat across from me. I didn't even look up. I was there to work, not be friendly, and I wasn't interested in conversation. Ten minutes later, I realized the guy wasn't interested in conversation anyway--he was too busy . . . how do I put this delicately . . . entertaining himself. My first thought was, "No way. No freaking way is he sitting across from me doing that." My second thought was, "Bobbie, give the guy the benefit of the doubt. He's 70 if he's a day, and he probably just has an itch." An itch that lasted twenty minutes. My stomach was in knots. I felt frozen in place. Do I tell him to go see a doctor? Do I get up and walk away? Do I throw something heavy at him and tell him to leave the store before I call the police? I did none of those things. Instead, I leaned my head on hand, my elbow resting on the arm of the chair, and tried to focus on my work. Right about then (finally) a young man came and sat in the seat next to me. The old man stopped. The kid stayed for about ten minutes then left. The old man started.
I closed my laptop and got up to leave. The old man said, sounding as chipper and as harmless as can be, "You must be studying very hard. Perhaps working on a paper for college?" I'm 41 and am happy to admit it. I don't look 41 (under most lighting conditions), but I don't look like a college student either. But this guy was old enough that I suppose I could have been mistaken as being quite a bit younger than I am. I said, "No. Just working, and my laptop batter is dying." He directed me to where I could find an outlet, and I left.
First, however, I told my sister--the manager--about what was happening, still thinking I was imagining it all or that I was wrong and he really was just scratching. She sighed and said, "I was afraid of that." No one had ever come to her directly about this guy, but she'd had a bad feeling about him.
I headed off to the balcony, and the old guy followed me up about ten minutes later. I left, not even being nice about it this time, but STILL not saying anything to him directly.
For the rest of the afternoon, I kept an eye on him and realized he was wandering from one seat in the store to another, always sitting near younger women. So the fact that he thought I was in college meant, I realized, he'd targeted me. He didn't sit near anyone older than their early 20s. But with a male employee hovering nearby, the guy didn't start again.
My brother kicked him out. He hasn't been back and won't be back, and if he does return, the police have been notified and he'll be arrested on the spot.
I'm angry about what this man was doing--not because I'm a prude or because I'm even offended. I'm angry because what he was doing amounted to little more than intimidation, and I let him intimidate me! I'm not a 12-year-old girl anymore. I'm a 41-year-old mother of four who would have gone ballistic on this man if he'd done anything like that in front of my daughter or my nieces or even a perfect stranger. But I let him do it in front of me. I wasn't doubting him when I hesitated to say anything. I was doubting myself.
We teach our kids all the time about standing up for themselves, about how to tell the bad guys from the good guys, about how to trust their instincts and that little voice in their heads. And then we--or I--forget to lead by example. When I was twelve, I had an excuse. Now? Not at all.
Intimidation is a powerful tool. But so is my voice. And I should have used it. Next time I will.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Words
It's been a while since I posted. I've been feeling a little "worded out" the last few weeks. I read somewhere that women say about 20,000 to 25,000 of them a day. As a stay-at-home mom, I feel that number is a lot less for me most of the time. But I haven't been doing a lot of staying home recently. In fact, I just got home a few days ago from two and a half weeks away, every day spent talking. A lot.
But not just talking . . . processing. Family stuff going on, some major and some minor, all of it requiring me to not just babble but to think before I open my mouth. I don't want to offer up my opinion without really, truly considering whether it IS my opinion or just the easiest thing that seems to roll off my tongue. Someone might listen and pay attention, might think those hundred words or so I said have some merit. And then what if my opinion comes across as advice? What if it's really awful advice and I make matters worse? Add to the equation the possibility that what I say to Person A gets back to Person B--either verbatim or approximately, it doesn't matter. I try really hard not to ever say something that can be thrown at someone instead of just shared with them. But when you're speaking 20,000 to 25,000 words a day, there's a lot of room for really screwing up.
My little sister had a quote at the bottom of her email for a while that read, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you make them feel." Maya Angelou said that. And I love Maya Angelou. I've read five or six of her books, her poetry . . . I even wrote a paper about her in college. I think she's brilliant and wise. But I think she's wrong here, because I think people remember all of it: the words, the actions, the feelings.
I used to love to draw as a kid. My older sister gave me an art kit--the kind with the thick, bumpy paper and the charcoal sticks and the white smudge-free eraser and the various lead pencils--and I sat one Saturday morning drawing a duck-pond scene, complete with a barn and animals, hills in the background to reflect the Blue Ridge Mountains just a 20-minute drive away. I recall the red chair I sat on the floor beside in the corner where we once found a green snake. I remember the feel of the beige carpeting under my knees. I remember the quiet. It was a good morning for me.
When I was done, I showed that drawing to my mother and asked what she thought. She said, "Well, it's not as good as good as you sister's . . ." And my heart sunk. She didn't mean to tell me to put away my pencils and paper. The intention behind those words were not "you'll never be an artist." But that's what I heard. I'm sure she wanted to encourage me, to tell me how if I kept practicing I could one day be as good as my sister. But I was a kid and I didn't get that at the time.
While visiting my mom this past week, I was doodling as we were sitting with some other family members around the table. The next morning, she saw my picture--a cartoon man walking a dog--and asked who'd drawn it. When I told her I had, she said, "You're really good." I shrugged it off with a "It's not exactly art." And I didn't tell her about the time I did put away my pencils and paper because I thought that's what she was telling me to do. She doesn't need to feel bad now about something that happened 30 years ago. Those words don't need to come out of my mouth.
People do remember what you say. They may not remember every single word, but they'll remember enough that it's worth a few extra minutes--or hours or days--to hold them in before letting them out slowly, one thoughtful syllable at a time. You can't do much editing once they've escaped.
But not just talking . . . processing. Family stuff going on, some major and some minor, all of it requiring me to not just babble but to think before I open my mouth. I don't want to offer up my opinion without really, truly considering whether it IS my opinion or just the easiest thing that seems to roll off my tongue. Someone might listen and pay attention, might think those hundred words or so I said have some merit. And then what if my opinion comes across as advice? What if it's really awful advice and I make matters worse? Add to the equation the possibility that what I say to Person A gets back to Person B--either verbatim or approximately, it doesn't matter. I try really hard not to ever say something that can be thrown at someone instead of just shared with them. But when you're speaking 20,000 to 25,000 words a day, there's a lot of room for really screwing up.
My little sister had a quote at the bottom of her email for a while that read, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you make them feel." Maya Angelou said that. And I love Maya Angelou. I've read five or six of her books, her poetry . . . I even wrote a paper about her in college. I think she's brilliant and wise. But I think she's wrong here, because I think people remember all of it: the words, the actions, the feelings.
I used to love to draw as a kid. My older sister gave me an art kit--the kind with the thick, bumpy paper and the charcoal sticks and the white smudge-free eraser and the various lead pencils--and I sat one Saturday morning drawing a duck-pond scene, complete with a barn and animals, hills in the background to reflect the Blue Ridge Mountains just a 20-minute drive away. I recall the red chair I sat on the floor beside in the corner where we once found a green snake. I remember the feel of the beige carpeting under my knees. I remember the quiet. It was a good morning for me.
When I was done, I showed that drawing to my mother and asked what she thought. She said, "Well, it's not as good as good as you sister's . . ." And my heart sunk. She didn't mean to tell me to put away my pencils and paper. The intention behind those words were not "you'll never be an artist." But that's what I heard. I'm sure she wanted to encourage me, to tell me how if I kept practicing I could one day be as good as my sister. But I was a kid and I didn't get that at the time.
While visiting my mom this past week, I was doodling as we were sitting with some other family members around the table. The next morning, she saw my picture--a cartoon man walking a dog--and asked who'd drawn it. When I told her I had, she said, "You're really good." I shrugged it off with a "It's not exactly art." And I didn't tell her about the time I did put away my pencils and paper because I thought that's what she was telling me to do. She doesn't need to feel bad now about something that happened 30 years ago. Those words don't need to come out of my mouth.
People do remember what you say. They may not remember every single word, but they'll remember enough that it's worth a few extra minutes--or hours or days--to hold them in before letting them out slowly, one thoughtful syllable at a time. You can't do much editing once they've escaped.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Little Things
My husband has been out of town all week. My two oldest kids have been at scout camp five hours away. And we've had painters in our house since Monday, leaving chaos in their wake for me to return to order: furniture, bookshelves, more bookshelves, rugs. I'd kind of been dreading this week, worried about how I was going to entertain my youngest two while trying to still getting 'things' done. You know . . . things: cooking, cleaning, laundry, errands, editing, revisions. They're all very important things. Until they're not.
The books are on the shelves again. But the cooking has never really happened--neither has the cleaning or the laundry or the errands. Editing? Minimal. Revisions? Not so minimal, but at least manageable as I've realized I don't have a deadline so I don't have to push myself to the teetering edge of despair.
Instead, I've gotten other 'things' done--little things: a couple of library visits, two lunches out, a concert in the park, a night of popcorn and a movie, sleepovers in my room.
It's turned out to be one of the more perfect weeks I've had in a long time.
When your kids start to get bigger than you, they don't just take up more room; they take up more space. They're louder, more insistent, more opinionated. Their emotions aren't limited to the temper tantrum over the wrong kind of juice in the morning or the frustration of trying to figure out how to reach a cup without my help or the anger of being told they can't have ice cream for dinner. They're not only bigger; everything they feel and say and do is bigger.
So I'd forgotten lately how gloriously small life can be with a five- and an eight-year old. I'd forgotten how happy another bedtime story makes them. I'd forgotten how exciting taking the time to pet a strange dog can be. I'd forgotten how beautiful a new wall color can be when seen through the eyes of someone who thinks just about everything is beautiful--especially if it's yellow. I'd forgotten, I'm ashamed to admit, how to be a mom to someone I still have to look down to.
I gave into repeated pleadings this morning and took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's. I took a book with me, thinking it was the only way I'd get through an hour or so of the sound of electronic games and whack-a-mole and an animated mouse singing pop songs. But the second we got there, and I saw how thrilled my kids were to be in what was a giant magic room to them, regardless of what it was to me, I didn't want to miss a minute of it.
When my husband and I were deciding whether to have more children after four, I told him that one of the reasons I wanted to be done was that I didn't want to feel like I'd overlooked any of them as they grew up. I wanted to be able to spend time with each child and not have them hit eighteen and for me to realize, "Crap. I never really got to know that one."
I've missed a lot of moments of my kids growing up. It happens whether you have one or twelve. There's always laundry and cleaning and cooking and work and a paint crew coming in to pretty things up a bit while you stumble around underfoot--all important stuff until it's not. But I've always felt like I've been there for the big things. I'm a stay-at-home mom, even if I work from home. So without having to take time off, I'm there for concerts and plays and doctors' appointments. I'm there when they're sick. I'm there when they walk in the door after school.
But I haven't necessarily been there for the little things, even if I think I have been. Perhaps it's part of being a stay-at-home mom--this surety that "if they need me, here I am." So I don't slow down when I should. I don't look down when I should.
I look forward to having my older sons home again. I've missed them. They're good company. They make me laugh. They seem to like me, too, which is always a plus with teens and tweens.
But I'll miss my time with the little guys, too. I feel like for a week here, I've been able to sneak away into a place where time just kind of held itself still now and then so I could pay more attention to it.
So I'll just have to make sure I keep paying more attention to the little things, because they're the ones I'm going to remember when the kids are all grown up and too big, and when the giant space they once took up is empty.
The books are on the shelves again. But the cooking has never really happened--neither has the cleaning or the laundry or the errands. Editing? Minimal. Revisions? Not so minimal, but at least manageable as I've realized I don't have a deadline so I don't have to push myself to the teetering edge of despair.
Instead, I've gotten other 'things' done--little things: a couple of library visits, two lunches out, a concert in the park, a night of popcorn and a movie, sleepovers in my room.
It's turned out to be one of the more perfect weeks I've had in a long time.
When your kids start to get bigger than you, they don't just take up more room; they take up more space. They're louder, more insistent, more opinionated. Their emotions aren't limited to the temper tantrum over the wrong kind of juice in the morning or the frustration of trying to figure out how to reach a cup without my help or the anger of being told they can't have ice cream for dinner. They're not only bigger; everything they feel and say and do is bigger.
So I'd forgotten lately how gloriously small life can be with a five- and an eight-year old. I'd forgotten how happy another bedtime story makes them. I'd forgotten how exciting taking the time to pet a strange dog can be. I'd forgotten how beautiful a new wall color can be when seen through the eyes of someone who thinks just about everything is beautiful--especially if it's yellow. I'd forgotten, I'm ashamed to admit, how to be a mom to someone I still have to look down to.
I gave into repeated pleadings this morning and took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's. I took a book with me, thinking it was the only way I'd get through an hour or so of the sound of electronic games and whack-a-mole and an animated mouse singing pop songs. But the second we got there, and I saw how thrilled my kids were to be in what was a giant magic room to them, regardless of what it was to me, I didn't want to miss a minute of it.
When my husband and I were deciding whether to have more children after four, I told him that one of the reasons I wanted to be done was that I didn't want to feel like I'd overlooked any of them as they grew up. I wanted to be able to spend time with each child and not have them hit eighteen and for me to realize, "Crap. I never really got to know that one."
I've missed a lot of moments of my kids growing up. It happens whether you have one or twelve. There's always laundry and cleaning and cooking and work and a paint crew coming in to pretty things up a bit while you stumble around underfoot--all important stuff until it's not. But I've always felt like I've been there for the big things. I'm a stay-at-home mom, even if I work from home. So without having to take time off, I'm there for concerts and plays and doctors' appointments. I'm there when they're sick. I'm there when they walk in the door after school.
But I haven't necessarily been there for the little things, even if I think I have been. Perhaps it's part of being a stay-at-home mom--this surety that "if they need me, here I am." So I don't slow down when I should. I don't look down when I should.
I look forward to having my older sons home again. I've missed them. They're good company. They make me laugh. They seem to like me, too, which is always a plus with teens and tweens.
But I'll miss my time with the little guys, too. I feel like for a week here, I've been able to sneak away into a place where time just kind of held itself still now and then so I could pay more attention to it.
So I'll just have to make sure I keep paying more attention to the little things, because they're the ones I'm going to remember when the kids are all grown up and too big, and when the giant space they once took up is empty.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Hopeless Romantic
Story time:
When I was in college, I spent a summer working at a little vegetarian cafe in Kapaa, Kauai, Hawaii, called "Decko Gecko Cafe & Bakery." I loved that place. The food was wonderful, my boss was one of the kindest women I've ever met (she runs a granola company now that has THE best granola I've ever tasted in my life), and my coworkers and the customers were so fascinating I could write a book on each of them. Some of my most vivid and colorful memories are of that tiny little restaurant and the people who came in and out of it.
One customer was a man named Martin. He was a 6'4" piece of handsome, with sandy blond hair, light freckles on a tan face, and blue eyes. He was there on business but had stayed over for a week to learn to scuba diva through the shop just a few doors down from us. He came in for lunch a couple of days in a row and chatted me up; he was funny and friendly and from Australia. On the third day, he asked if I'd like to go out for pizza with him that night. I said, "Sure . . . if you don't mind me bringing my boyfriend along." He laughed and said, "I guess I should have asked that question first." I shrugged and smiled back. "Probably."
So we never went for that pizza, but he continued to come in for lunch, sometimes breakfast as well, and before his week was up, he'd asked for my address so he could write to me.
Within my first few days back at college, I got a letter from him, and he continued to write me over the next year and a half--sometimes regularly, sometimes sporadically. And when I was preparing to graduate, he offered to fly me to Australia as a graduation gift. I jumped at the opportunity until I took a minute to realize he might expect a little more in return than I was willing to give. When I gave him my "terms," he rescinded the offer by never writing back.
I wasn't crushed--not by him. I was crushed by my naivete. I felt like an idiot, like a schoolgirl. Of course he thought I'd sleep with him. I was 21 and he was 28. I was single by then and he was divorced. And plane tickets to Australia weren't cheap. Stupid girl. Stupid stupid stupid.
Six months passed, and he called me back home in Virginia where I was living then and working at a newspaper. This time, he wanted to visit me--and get married. He said we'd live in Hawaii so we'd be halfway between my family and his. He'd become a born-again Christian since we'd last spoken, but he said he'd be willing to convert to my religion if I wanted him to. He was making plans. He was excited. Me? I was blown away. I'd only met him that once in Hawaii. Now he was saying he loved me? Wanted to marry me? Wanted to move away from his family in order to let me be closer to mine after we got married? Crazy, right? But he wasn't crazy. I mean, I'd been in touch with him enough to know that. I watched the movie "When in Rome" this weekend, and that's what it was like: I'd picked up his coin in a fountain and now he was under some kind of spell, but not mine.
After a couple of weeks of him calling me and assuring me he was serious--and me telling him that getting to know each other in person might be a good idea first (come on: he was really, really good-looking and funny and kind; I wasn't ready to immediately dismiss his proposal!)--I met my now-husband and started dating him. So I had to call Martin and tell him his visit to Virginia might not be such a good idea. He was disappointed and asked me to call him when I was ready to see him. I never made that second phone call.
My husband and I got married within seven months of our first date, but I knew the night I met him that I wanted to marry him. We only saw each other on weekends because he lived four hours away. In fact, we never even lived in the same town until we got married. We got to know each other primarily through phone calls and letters.
Crazy, right? About as crazy as seeing someone at lunch for a week, writing to them for two years, and then proposing.
Maybe even crazier.
Four kids and 16 1/2 years later, I can say it's good to be a little crazy sometimes--good to take a risk, a leap of faith. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained" and all that.
Though I'd still like to visit Australia some day. I have some fond memories of that place.
When I was in college, I spent a summer working at a little vegetarian cafe in Kapaa, Kauai, Hawaii, called "Decko Gecko Cafe & Bakery." I loved that place. The food was wonderful, my boss was one of the kindest women I've ever met (she runs a granola company now that has THE best granola I've ever tasted in my life), and my coworkers and the customers were so fascinating I could write a book on each of them. Some of my most vivid and colorful memories are of that tiny little restaurant and the people who came in and out of it.
One customer was a man named Martin. He was a 6'4" piece of handsome, with sandy blond hair, light freckles on a tan face, and blue eyes. He was there on business but had stayed over for a week to learn to scuba diva through the shop just a few doors down from us. He came in for lunch a couple of days in a row and chatted me up; he was funny and friendly and from Australia. On the third day, he asked if I'd like to go out for pizza with him that night. I said, "Sure . . . if you don't mind me bringing my boyfriend along." He laughed and said, "I guess I should have asked that question first." I shrugged and smiled back. "Probably."
So we never went for that pizza, but he continued to come in for lunch, sometimes breakfast as well, and before his week was up, he'd asked for my address so he could write to me.
Within my first few days back at college, I got a letter from him, and he continued to write me over the next year and a half--sometimes regularly, sometimes sporadically. And when I was preparing to graduate, he offered to fly me to Australia as a graduation gift. I jumped at the opportunity until I took a minute to realize he might expect a little more in return than I was willing to give. When I gave him my "terms," he rescinded the offer by never writing back.
I wasn't crushed--not by him. I was crushed by my naivete. I felt like an idiot, like a schoolgirl. Of course he thought I'd sleep with him. I was 21 and he was 28. I was single by then and he was divorced. And plane tickets to Australia weren't cheap. Stupid girl. Stupid stupid stupid.
Six months passed, and he called me back home in Virginia where I was living then and working at a newspaper. This time, he wanted to visit me--and get married. He said we'd live in Hawaii so we'd be halfway between my family and his. He'd become a born-again Christian since we'd last spoken, but he said he'd be willing to convert to my religion if I wanted him to. He was making plans. He was excited. Me? I was blown away. I'd only met him that once in Hawaii. Now he was saying he loved me? Wanted to marry me? Wanted to move away from his family in order to let me be closer to mine after we got married? Crazy, right? But he wasn't crazy. I mean, I'd been in touch with him enough to know that. I watched the movie "When in Rome" this weekend, and that's what it was like: I'd picked up his coin in a fountain and now he was under some kind of spell, but not mine.
After a couple of weeks of him calling me and assuring me he was serious--and me telling him that getting to know each other in person might be a good idea first (come on: he was really, really good-looking and funny and kind; I wasn't ready to immediately dismiss his proposal!)--I met my now-husband and started dating him. So I had to call Martin and tell him his visit to Virginia might not be such a good idea. He was disappointed and asked me to call him when I was ready to see him. I never made that second phone call.
My husband and I got married within seven months of our first date, but I knew the night I met him that I wanted to marry him. We only saw each other on weekends because he lived four hours away. In fact, we never even lived in the same town until we got married. We got to know each other primarily through phone calls and letters.
Crazy, right? About as crazy as seeing someone at lunch for a week, writing to them for two years, and then proposing.
Maybe even crazier.
Four kids and 16 1/2 years later, I can say it's good to be a little crazy sometimes--good to take a risk, a leap of faith. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained" and all that.
Though I'd still like to visit Australia some day. I have some fond memories of that place.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Screens and Screams
I've realized the last few weeks that everything my four children do is done in anticipation of how much media time they'll receive in exchange. "I played outside for an hour. Can I play the Wii now?" "I read five chapters this morning. Can I play 'Lord of the Rings' now?" "I cleaned my room. Can I have the GameBoy now?"
The use of "can" where they're supposed to use "may" would drive my older sister nuts. But I put aside my grammar notions and instead find myself shaking and sweating over the frustration of how focused they are on screens. Several months ago, my youngest asked if the window was media. "It has a screen," he said. He was joking, but I've thought about that question a lot since then, because, really, what is a screen? It's something that separates us from something else, right? I was watching 1776 a last week, and the men in Congress are all fighting about whether to open the window. Some say yes because it's hot and they could do with the breeze. The others say no because of all the flies. Screens are marvelous inventions to keep out things we don't want: flies, mosquitoes, moths, pollen, birds, goats. Whatever.
But sometimes they keep out the good things, too--like real life. Try to have a conversation with anyone (adult or adolescent or child) who is focused on Mario or Gondor or Madden, and they don't hear you, they don't see you. They are completely in that game which means they're out of reality.
This summer has been a constant of, "Mom, can I . . . ?" And it's been enough to drive me absolutely insane. When I was a kid, my mother worked, so I don't recall asking her for permission to do much of anything. And even when she was home, I don't recall asking. I didn't ask my father either. I just did whatever it was that I wanted to do.
I also ate whatever I wanted to eat. That's been the other half of my summer insanity. "Mom, can I have a cookie? Can I have a lollipop? Can I have a Pop-Tart? Can I have some chips?"
This morning, I cracked. I finally said, that's it, I'm done. Fed up. Finished. No more media, no more cookies or candy or junk.
And that's when I realized one of the huge differences between being a kid 30 years ago and being a kid now. Or maybe it's one of the huge differences between being a parent 30 years ago and being a parent now.
I didn't ask my mom if I could play the computer, because there was no computer to play. There wasn't a Wii. There wasn't a Leapster. There wasn't a GameBoy or a DSL or a Play Station. There was all the wonder of the world that was outside and there was what was inside: board games, art supplies, Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys and Legos. If I wanted to play with any of that, I could. No permission necessary. It was all good stuff!
As for all the junk food? My mom made cookies occasionally, and we had dessert every night--root beer floats, steamed chocolate pudding, coconut cake--so it's not like I was starved for sweets. But chips and candy and soda and every gummy product available from worms to snakes to bears? No! Absolutely not. The drawers and cupboards had food--real food. If I wanted something to eat, I didn't need to say, "Mother May I?" I grabbed an apple or a slice of cheese or a few crackers, and I was out the door again.
I'm not just letting my kids down by filling the house with screens and with all sorts of food they have to ask for permission to eat. I'm letting myself down because I'm setting myself to be a screen. They have to go through me to get to what they want, and what they want isn't good for them anyway. So what am I doing? Seriously. What?
Truly: I'm done. The junk food we have left in the house is all that the kids are going to see in here again. When they open the cupboards or the refrigerator in another week or so, they're welcome to have whatever they find, and they won't have to ask first. And Sunday through Thursday, all electronic games will be in hibernation mode. (I'm not a total party pooper.) And I'm looking forward to not hearing "Mom, can I . . . ?" every five minutes. I can feel the peace coming over me already.
"Someone oughta open up a window!" --"Sit Down, John" 1776
The use of "can" where they're supposed to use "may" would drive my older sister nuts. But I put aside my grammar notions and instead find myself shaking and sweating over the frustration of how focused they are on screens. Several months ago, my youngest asked if the window was media. "It has a screen," he said. He was joking, but I've thought about that question a lot since then, because, really, what is a screen? It's something that separates us from something else, right? I was watching 1776 a last week, and the men in Congress are all fighting about whether to open the window. Some say yes because it's hot and they could do with the breeze. The others say no because of all the flies. Screens are marvelous inventions to keep out things we don't want: flies, mosquitoes, moths, pollen, birds, goats. Whatever.
But sometimes they keep out the good things, too--like real life. Try to have a conversation with anyone (adult or adolescent or child) who is focused on Mario or Gondor or Madden, and they don't hear you, they don't see you. They are completely in that game which means they're out of reality.
This summer has been a constant of, "Mom, can I . . . ?" And it's been enough to drive me absolutely insane. When I was a kid, my mother worked, so I don't recall asking her for permission to do much of anything. And even when she was home, I don't recall asking. I didn't ask my father either. I just did whatever it was that I wanted to do.
I also ate whatever I wanted to eat. That's been the other half of my summer insanity. "Mom, can I have a cookie? Can I have a lollipop? Can I have a Pop-Tart? Can I have some chips?"
This morning, I cracked. I finally said, that's it, I'm done. Fed up. Finished. No more media, no more cookies or candy or junk.
And that's when I realized one of the huge differences between being a kid 30 years ago and being a kid now. Or maybe it's one of the huge differences between being a parent 30 years ago and being a parent now.
I didn't ask my mom if I could play the computer, because there was no computer to play. There wasn't a Wii. There wasn't a Leapster. There wasn't a GameBoy or a DSL or a Play Station. There was all the wonder of the world that was outside and there was what was inside: board games, art supplies, Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys and Legos. If I wanted to play with any of that, I could. No permission necessary. It was all good stuff!
As for all the junk food? My mom made cookies occasionally, and we had dessert every night--root beer floats, steamed chocolate pudding, coconut cake--so it's not like I was starved for sweets. But chips and candy and soda and every gummy product available from worms to snakes to bears? No! Absolutely not. The drawers and cupboards had food--real food. If I wanted something to eat, I didn't need to say, "Mother May I?" I grabbed an apple or a slice of cheese or a few crackers, and I was out the door again.
I'm not just letting my kids down by filling the house with screens and with all sorts of food they have to ask for permission to eat. I'm letting myself down because I'm setting myself to be a screen. They have to go through me to get to what they want, and what they want isn't good for them anyway. So what am I doing? Seriously. What?
Truly: I'm done. The junk food we have left in the house is all that the kids are going to see in here again. When they open the cupboards or the refrigerator in another week or so, they're welcome to have whatever they find, and they won't have to ask first. And Sunday through Thursday, all electronic games will be in hibernation mode. (I'm not a total party pooper.) And I'm looking forward to not hearing "Mom, can I . . . ?" every five minutes. I can feel the peace coming over me already.
"Someone oughta open up a window!" --"Sit Down, John" 1776
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Lessons in Humility
My junior and senior year in high school, I was the piano accompanist for show choir and musicals. I enjoyed the ‘behind-the-scenes’ role. It was just my size. I could perform without being noticed. I liked it that way. My mother recalls, however, me having a little more, uh, shall we say, confidence? ‘Hubris’ might even be appropriate here. She remembers me once commenting that I was ‘the best’ at the school, so, of course, I was the one to sit on that bench and play along.
When I was in fifth grade, my class took an IQ test. The teacher, once the results were in, said she couldn’t tell us what our scores were; she could only tell us the highest score. When she gave us that number, I vividly recall thinking, “Hm. I did pretty well.” I just naturally assumed I was the one who had scored the highest. I didn’t question it for a moment. Was that number mine? I don’t know. I never did find out. But I was more than confident at the time: I was positive.
I’ve had ample opportunity since I was 10 or even 16 to be humbled. And I’ve taken advantage of those opportunities—though not always willingly.
I grew up in a home where we kids were kind of on auto-pilot much of the time. Both of my parents worked, and they didn’t have the time or energy to hover over us to make sure we were doing our homework right or to make sure we wore our helmets when we rode our bikes. They didn’t pay much attention to our friends. They didn’t check our rooms to make sure our beds were made or our clothes picked up. I’m not saying they didn’t care. I'm saying they didn’t coddle or correct.
So when I started to be corrected, I didn’t always take it very well. It’s not that I thought I was perfect; I just thought I didn’t need to be perfect, so why would someone try to make me that way. Good was good enough.
I started writing seriously about five years ago. And I began to learn a whole new brand of humility then. Posting your pride and joy on critique sites for anyone to see, read, and, yep, criticize is opening yourself up to some potentially serious punches to the gut.
When I first started getting back comments like, “This section moves too slowly” or “I’m not convinced here” or “You’re not making this character likable enough,” I would sigh, open my document again, and feel like someone had just told me my piano playing was sloppy or my IQ was actually middle-of-the-road and not the highest in the class at all.
But the more I’ve learned to trust the process and trust the few people who regularly read and comment on my writing, the more excited—yes, excited—I get about their critiques and even criticisms. When they say, “Bobbie, it’s just not working” then I know I have the chance to make it work, make it better. I can take what was good enough in my mind and make it good in someone else’s . . . maybe even make it great.
And that ability to take criticism has spread into other parts of my life as well. Separate from my writing, I’ve been making a conscious effort the last five years or so to not let myself be offended easily, to not take things personally. I’ve tried to learn to separate someone else’s issues from my own. And that’s what taking offense is, really: the lack of humility. I’m not saying everything someone else says is correct and you need to listen and become humble. I’m saying the opposite: they way they’re acting or what they say might have absolutely nothing to do with you, and if you believe it does, you’re also believing you carry way more weight in that person’s life than you truly do. That’s egotism.
Being less prone to taking offense means I can more easily accept the valid criticisms. I should have called the gutter guy before the rain storm leaked water into the basement? You’re absolutely right. I should have. I messed up. That dinner was less than delicious? I agree, kids. I promise not to ever serve curried broccoli soup again.
I’m not aiming for perfection. There’s no such thing, not in writing or in life. But I can make strides toward it and can accept with gratitude and humility others’ efforts in helping me get there. That’s what being part of a writing community—a community much like any other—has taught me.
When I was in fifth grade, my class took an IQ test. The teacher, once the results were in, said she couldn’t tell us what our scores were; she could only tell us the highest score. When she gave us that number, I vividly recall thinking, “Hm. I did pretty well.” I just naturally assumed I was the one who had scored the highest. I didn’t question it for a moment. Was that number mine? I don’t know. I never did find out. But I was more than confident at the time: I was positive.
I’ve had ample opportunity since I was 10 or even 16 to be humbled. And I’ve taken advantage of those opportunities—though not always willingly.
I grew up in a home where we kids were kind of on auto-pilot much of the time. Both of my parents worked, and they didn’t have the time or energy to hover over us to make sure we were doing our homework right or to make sure we wore our helmets when we rode our bikes. They didn’t pay much attention to our friends. They didn’t check our rooms to make sure our beds were made or our clothes picked up. I’m not saying they didn’t care. I'm saying they didn’t coddle or correct.
So when I started to be corrected, I didn’t always take it very well. It’s not that I thought I was perfect; I just thought I didn’t need to be perfect, so why would someone try to make me that way. Good was good enough.
I started writing seriously about five years ago. And I began to learn a whole new brand of humility then. Posting your pride and joy on critique sites for anyone to see, read, and, yep, criticize is opening yourself up to some potentially serious punches to the gut.
When I first started getting back comments like, “This section moves too slowly” or “I’m not convinced here” or “You’re not making this character likable enough,” I would sigh, open my document again, and feel like someone had just told me my piano playing was sloppy or my IQ was actually middle-of-the-road and not the highest in the class at all.
But the more I’ve learned to trust the process and trust the few people who regularly read and comment on my writing, the more excited—yes, excited—I get about their critiques and even criticisms. When they say, “Bobbie, it’s just not working” then I know I have the chance to make it work, make it better. I can take what was good enough in my mind and make it good in someone else’s . . . maybe even make it great.
And that ability to take criticism has spread into other parts of my life as well. Separate from my writing, I’ve been making a conscious effort the last five years or so to not let myself be offended easily, to not take things personally. I’ve tried to learn to separate someone else’s issues from my own. And that’s what taking offense is, really: the lack of humility. I’m not saying everything someone else says is correct and you need to listen and become humble. I’m saying the opposite: they way they’re acting or what they say might have absolutely nothing to do with you, and if you believe it does, you’re also believing you carry way more weight in that person’s life than you truly do. That’s egotism.
Being less prone to taking offense means I can more easily accept the valid criticisms. I should have called the gutter guy before the rain storm leaked water into the basement? You’re absolutely right. I should have. I messed up. That dinner was less than delicious? I agree, kids. I promise not to ever serve curried broccoli soup again.
I’m not aiming for perfection. There’s no such thing, not in writing or in life. But I can make strides toward it and can accept with gratitude and humility others’ efforts in helping me get there. That’s what being part of a writing community—a community much like any other—has taught me.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Punch-worthy Heroines
A. I don't really want to punch anyone. I'm talking figuratively here, so let it go.
B. I know heroines is passe. Heroes is now gender neutral. But I'm speaking specifically about female heroes. So, again, let it go.
This will be a short one, so you don't even need to sit down.
I'm watching "Percy Jackson" with my 13yo. Last night, I watched it with my 11yo. No, it's not that I love the movie so much I want to watch it twice, it's that I love my sons enough that I'll happily sit here with each of them as they watch it. I've folded the laundry. I've cleaned the room. I'm trying to be productive and good company. It's somewhat do-able.
But I have to interrupt with my own little commercial of how I can't stand female characters that are there solely for the purpose of being saved.
Disclaimer (call it point 'C' if you'd like): I've never read these books. So I'm going only on the movie here.
Percy's mother is annoying the ever-living daylights out of me. First, she runs off to the camp with him and Grover. Why? So she can drive? Uh... unnecessary. Are the boys worried about getting pulled over by the police, or are they worried about the minotaur? Because, really, I'd leave Mom at home and get a head start on the mythological monster. And she can't go into the camp, which is how she ends up hanging out with Hades for a few days. "No, Percy. Go without me. Go." So she didn't go with the boys so she could drive, right? She went so she could get captured.
(And the fact that we meet her while she is IRONING HER ABUSIVE HUSBAND'S SHIRT just adds to my irritation.)
And then Percy rescues her from Hades. Good son. Well done. It's what you should have done. I won't argue with you there. But you end up at the elevator leading to Mt. Olympus, and ... shocker! ... she can't go with you. She dials in the pass code (which she could have given you WITHOUT having to go with you) and send you on your way. "No. Percy. Go without me. Go." (And only moments before, she was lying on the ground saying almost the exact same thing, wasn't she?)
I'll give her credit at the end for kicking the husband out. Well done. And 'phew.'
But Percy still has to finish things off with Medusa's head in the fridge.
My point: Writers? Screenwriters or novelists? Don't. Do. This. Please please please stop. It's 2010. Either leave the maiden in need of rescue at home with the load of ironing, or give her a sword and let her do some fighting herself. But don't drag her around simply so she can either (a) get into trouble or (b) stand out of breath and the door saying, "No. Go without me. Go." Give us someone we want to cheer--not someone we want to scream at.
That is all.
Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.
B. I know heroines is passe. Heroes is now gender neutral. But I'm speaking specifically about female heroes. So, again, let it go.
This will be a short one, so you don't even need to sit down.
I'm watching "Percy Jackson" with my 13yo. Last night, I watched it with my 11yo. No, it's not that I love the movie so much I want to watch it twice, it's that I love my sons enough that I'll happily sit here with each of them as they watch it. I've folded the laundry. I've cleaned the room. I'm trying to be productive and good company. It's somewhat do-able.
But I have to interrupt with my own little commercial of how I can't stand female characters that are there solely for the purpose of being saved.
Disclaimer (call it point 'C' if you'd like): I've never read these books. So I'm going only on the movie here.
Percy's mother is annoying the ever-living daylights out of me. First, she runs off to the camp with him and Grover. Why? So she can drive? Uh... unnecessary. Are the boys worried about getting pulled over by the police, or are they worried about the minotaur? Because, really, I'd leave Mom at home and get a head start on the mythological monster. And she can't go into the camp, which is how she ends up hanging out with Hades for a few days. "No, Percy. Go without me. Go." So she didn't go with the boys so she could drive, right? She went so she could get captured.
(And the fact that we meet her while she is IRONING HER ABUSIVE HUSBAND'S SHIRT just adds to my irritation.)
And then Percy rescues her from Hades. Good son. Well done. It's what you should have done. I won't argue with you there. But you end up at the elevator leading to Mt. Olympus, and ... shocker! ... she can't go with you. She dials in the pass code (which she could have given you WITHOUT having to go with you) and send you on your way. "No. Percy. Go without me. Go." (And only moments before, she was lying on the ground saying almost the exact same thing, wasn't she?)
I'll give her credit at the end for kicking the husband out. Well done. And 'phew.'
But Percy still has to finish things off with Medusa's head in the fridge.
My point: Writers? Screenwriters or novelists? Don't. Do. This. Please please please stop. It's 2010. Either leave the maiden in need of rescue at home with the load of ironing, or give her a sword and let her do some fighting herself. But don't drag her around simply so she can either (a) get into trouble or (b) stand out of breath and the door saying, "No. Go without me. Go." Give us someone we want to cheer--not someone we want to scream at.
That is all.
Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.
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