Rox and Roll

14

The most important writing I do is that which commemorates my kids' birthdays. It gives me a chance as a mother to look back on their growth, to celebrate who they are becoming as people, and to record their personal history, and it reaches more deeply than what appears on the screen. This annual "write" of passage gives me a chance to reach into my heart, to feel the passing of another year, and to honor all of the feelings that those memories conjure up. It's meditative, wonderful, hard, and joyous all at once.

This year, all of those feelings are intensified as Petunia celebrates her 14th birthday out of my home and at her new boarding school on the opposite coast. I am writing this post on the eve of her birthday, so I'll wake up in the morning on which I'd normally have gotten up early, likely to make homemade chocolate croissants, and go into an empty room. I will do that, because I want to be with her for a bit in the morning, and some of her is still in that room -- the room in which she spent hours playing guitar, texting her friends, reading books, and doing all of the other stuff of childhood.

And, as I sit there, I'll smile and think of all of the new experiences she's having: living on her own, in a dorm with a roommate. Learning to sail. Accidentally falling into the ocean while wearing waders during marine biology class. Preparing for her first open mike night. Auditioning for an a cappella group. Making a gazillion new friends. And so, so much more -- more than I could know. 

And that's where I'll take a moment to let a few tears fall, too. There's a lot that I won't know, now. She has left my nest, and she'll be gone more than she'll ever be here. I miss her sweet face every day, especially her smile and her laugh. I even miss the difficult times, because at least I was here to put my arms around her and remind her that I love her and that everything will be okay. I have to hope that I gave her enough support and love, and continue to from afar, such that not a moment passes when she doesn't carry with her the knowledge that she is not alone, no matter how far she roams from home.

This is the moment, really, when we see the outcomes of our parenting: when we've sent them out into the world to use the toolkit we've helped them to build -- everything from saying "please," "thank you," and "excuse me" to how to be a good friend, from matters of personal hygiene to believing in the values of good nutrition and adequate sleep, and so much more.

Petunia still gives me her meal reports, noting that she's drinking milk and adding fruit and veggies to her meals. She shares that she's making good friends and learning to navigate sleep issues, including with a roommate-friend who prefers to wake up far earlier than she. She lets me know what she's doing for schoolwork and how she's faring with various quizzes and projects. And by all accounts, she is using her toolkit wisely.

But the best part is seeing what she is becoming beyond the bricks and mortar that we built together. For example, she recently posted a Facebook "rant" of sorts about a speech heard during her school meeting, one in which teachers suggested that students who dance inappropriately (...whatever that means...) are lacking in self-respect. Petunia disagreed, politely (on Facebook, not mid-meeting). In her words, "Dancing is dancing is dancing, and it's not right to put anyone down and say that they don't have self respect if they're shaking their booty." Her friends didn't agree with her, but she didn't back down. She is learning to have conversations with those with differing opinions and to stand her ground. She is learning that it is okay to have her own opinion and to stand by it -- and the beauty of it is that she has the self-confidence not to follow groupthink blindly. Not everyone has that at 14; I know I didn't. Petunia always has known who she is and what she stands for, and she doesn't let the crowd sway her. Noting that the dancing thing (and inherent judgement therein) might be a NorCal-New England difference, she might be able to encourage some mind-opening on the Right Coast by her thought leadership on what may be incorrect assumptions about what dancing a certain way means.

And that's where I leave Petunia's 13th year: in awe of her leadership. She never has followed the crowd. She never has been afraid to stand alone. And when she does so, oftentimes, others listen. She has it in her to lead and to teach by example. No one had to tell this child to Lean In; she's already leaning -- at present, on a sailboat that she captains, to get it to turn somewhere in Buzzards Bay, both literally and figuratively.

She'll rock 14 just like she rocked 13, 12, and so on. Her path hasn't been smooth, and yet, her strength grows with each step. Leaving home has turned her into more of an amazingly strong young woman than she was before she left. And when I see her in a few weeks, she'll undoubtedly stand yet taller (also literally -- she passed me in height a few months ago -- and figuratively). I can't wait to see what he becomes when she grows up -- but, also, I am in no rush. I'll savor these moments of her becoming who she is: a beautiful woman full of love, thirst for adventure, friendship, more empathy than anyone I've ever met, and laughter that warms the heart of any who hear it.

All-A-Taut-O, Petunia, as you enter your 14th year. Your ship is fully rigged, and everything is in place. It's been another thrilling year of watching you navigate, and I can't wait to see where you go from here.

Love, Mama xo

On being faith-full

Over the past year, Petunia has been exploring her faith through confirmation classes, called "Confirm not Conform," at our Episcopal church.  Next weekend, she will complete the process and become a full member of the church.  When I shared with a friend at a Halloween party that our weekend would involve Petunia's confirmation, his reply was: "F*ck religion.  Why are you doing that to your kid, teaching her to be a sheep?  Seriously, f*ck that.  Don't do it.  How could you?"  And I looked him in the eye and replied, "I don't think I can engage in this subject matter with you," and I left it at that -- and walked away.  I learned long ago that when a person feels *that* strongly about religion, there is no point to engaging in debate. 

Mine is a quiet faith, and, frankly, it is not always there; at times, I feel more agnostic than Christian, and. for a while, I felt certain that my correct label was "secular humanist" while I also felt a draw to Buddhism.  Where I ended up is here: does it matter?  I am not a member of the "religious right" who inflicts her faith on others through the political process.  In all likelihood, I am a member of the "Christian Left" who believes but one thing: that a God of love and acceptance, a source of hope and strength, is a good thing to have in my life.  Someone else once mocked that angle on faith, calling it "Santa Claus faith" -- all good things, no damnation.  Well, it is what it is.  I do not purport to having the answers, but I do know that in the very darkest moments of my life, I have felt like I am not alone.  And that counts, very much, for something.  I cannot dismiss that feeling as mere "coping." 

As well, just as I identify as part-Welsh, part-Italian, etc., Christianity is part of my family's identity, and the path that I have chosen to walk through my own life very much incorporates lessons of faith from generations of my ancestors.  We have incorporated Christ's very real community service into our own natures; it feels like our family's faith roots me to a history of community action and to a way of living.  Sure, those without faith can do that, too; we just consider it part of a calling -- perhaps, even, an obligation -- even as we do not shout from the rooftops that we "walk in love, just as Christ loved us" (Ephesians 5:2).

I also feel that I parent differently because of my faith.  For example, when my children argue, it is my refrain to tell them "be loving."  That message has been handed down from my family, but it also comes from my faith's focus on loving-kindness.  The two are so intertwined that I am not sure I can tell one from the other.  And at the end of the day, I feel fortunate to come from a family who took me to church to spend time among those with, for the most part, a shared value system.  (It may be important to note, here, that we subscribe to a more "liberal" type of Christianity.)  Some friends from my upbringing in the church remain friends for life.  So, when my own daughter started placing importance on the church community to which I introduced her, I felt very warm-hearted.  These people, they will be part of her community of support for as long as she needs it; and she knows, now, that if, at any point in her life, she needs to broaden her community -- whether because she needs something or because she has something to offer to others -- church is a solid place to find that space.  In these confirmation classes, she had mentors with listening ears and open hearts.  I am not convinced that teenagers seek that out, but I do know -- from my own experience as one of their teachers -- that when given the opportunity, they seize it.  Perhaps faith is not a requirement for such community connection, but church is one community in which such connection can be found and fostered.  And if kids take away from that what I did years ago and what my own daughter does now -- that our church community is an extension of family -- all the better.

With Petunia's permission, I share with you what she offered at the first phase of her confirmation, a presentation to our church on something she learned.  I had never attended such an event at our church and ended up being caught quite offguard by our priest summoning her (first among the confirmands) to the lectern with the words "Come and Teach." 

Nine children taught that day.  We can learn so much from them; I find myself now wanting to say "teach me something" to teens and think this will be the subject/challenge of their next lesson with me.  The confirmand's faith-based lessons last Sunday all tied to being good people.  I am so proud to be among their teachers, and my heart burst when Petunia shared the following, my favorite prayer, followed by her message:

The Prayer of St. Francis

Lord, make me an instrument

of Thy peace.

Where there is hatred,

Let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

Grant that I may seek

Not so much to be consoled

As to console.

To be understood

As to understand.

To be loved

As to love.

For it is in giving

That we receive;

It is in pardoning

That we are pardoned;

It is in dying

That we are born to eternal life.

 

Petunia then offered: "The prayer of St. Francisc really moves me because St. Francis cared for not only himself, but he cared for everything around him too.  He used to be rich but then gave all of his money to the poor.  He not only gave up everything, but he gave it to a good cause.  St. Francis also cared about the animals.  He believed that animals were our brothers and sisters.

My mom and I were in San Francisco a couple weeks ago to see the Wizard of Oz.  We were putting coins into the meter when someone asked us "how are you?"  My mom replied, "good, and you?"  Then the man told us that he had talked to twenty people that day, and we were the first to reply to him.  My mom and I couldn't believe that no one else had responded to him.  This relates to the prayer because where there is hatred and judgement, we should all sow love. 

St. Francis should be a role model to us.  He was extremely charitable, and we should all follow in his footsteps to make better communities."

***

From her mouth to God's ears. 

Regardless of what you believe, this seems, to us, like a good way to live.  And living this way does not make us sheep.  It may make us servants in the best possible sense, though -- and in our house, that's a laudable aim.  We hope to give more than we receive, drawing our example from that of Christ, the original community organizer.  I am glad that Petunia's village has expanded to include a large church family and look forward to seeing her blessing and welcoming by our bishop this weekend. 

Thirteen Years of Petunia

Oh my wow.

I had grand plans for this post.  There is such a tribute to be made for the most magnificent daughter ever.  You know, that girl-child who steals my flat iron and hair products, who outgrew my shoe size (by several!) last year, and who suddenly looks me straight in the eye ... yes, that one, my Petunia, my -- gasp! -- teenager ... the one who keeps reminding me that she intends for this to be her last. year. at. home. ...

You know, I had no problem turning forty, but this being a mom to a teenager thing is not for the faint of heart.  I feel like a deer-in-headlights right now, and I have so much to say but am so very stuck.  I have a teenager.  How did that happen???

And oh, how she disarms me!  She knows just how to make me laugh when I am mad.  She knows that tears will work, but at least she uses them sparingly.  What gets me most is the very most disarming characteristic she has: she likes me.  She does not like when other girls disrespect their mothers, in part out of respect for me.  And she does seem to respect me.  We get along.  And I wonder: what did I do right?  How do I write a book about this to make millions?

The truth is, sure, I can take some credit, but the real credit is due to her nature.  Petunia loves the whole world, with all of its magnificent flaws -- and she shines her light on those, and she tries to heal them.  Her empathy is her greatest virtue and also her Achilles heel.  She will change the world for the better.  And in the meanwhile, she is outstanding to her family -- the best big sister that any little brother could ask for, so patient and so kind.

She just gets it *right.*  She loves life, she loves people, she cares for her family and friends deeply, and she lives so very well with this confidence and grace at which I marvel.  And her joy -- wow!  It overflows, and it is infectious, and I hope that she never goes a moment without it.

She knows who she is, and she comports herself as such.  And she is only thirteen. My God, imagine when *she* is forty.  World, just get on your knees, right now, and be grateful that she's on her way.

I could go on and on, but everything I have to say can be summed up pretty easily as "I am so lucky."  I get to be her mother, and there is no greater honor.

In celebration this year, I offer a song.  Though she came into the world to Berlioz's "Symphony Fantastique" and its magnificent French horns -- in distinct contrast to her brother's entry to "Southern Cross," by the way -- ever since I first laid eyes on her, this has been my song for my sweet Petunia:

 

"And everywhere she goes, a million dreams of love surround her, everywhere."

Happy 13th Birthday, Sweet Petunia, one of only two people who know what my beating heart sounds like from the inside.  Wherever you are a year from now, you will be surrounded by this mother's love, still and forever.  xo Mama

The post wherein Petunia flies away

Tomorrow morning is a big day, one in which I will put Petunia on an airplane by herself for the first leg of a journey that, after a stop to see grandparents, will end with her spending five weeks at my former prep school.  Cue the emergency broadcast system: This is a test.  This is only a test.  Normal life will resume in August with the start of eighth grade.

I am not panicked.  Beginning at age 5, I flew on planes by myself.  (Seriously.  The pilots used to carry me on and off the planes themselves, and I would sit in the cockpit sometimes during flight.  Those were different years!)  And she is heading to a place that I love like none other.  An old schoolmate is her summer dean.  Bunches of friends live in the area.  I can let her go because sending her to my school is akin to sending her to extended family. 

But there is so much more to this moment than my not-panicking and wondering, as my mother did, if she will be able to cross the street sensibly -- for I remember this moment.  I remember the first time I left home to live somewhere else for a summer.  And in my case, it did not go well at first. 

The summer before I left for prep school, when I was 15, I stayed with a family in the Basque region of France as an exchange student.  Rewind with me for a moment: these were the days before Al Gore invented the internet -- or, at least, before its use became widespread.  To prepare for this trip, we located my little town on a map.  We used an encyclopedia.  We knew they had a different language in the region, but the family spoke French.  It said so, right there on the sheets of paper that matched me to my host family.

Two days into my adventure, sleep-deprived and terrified at the height of the Cold War, I snuck into the family's telephone closet and dialed America somehow on a rotary phone.  (Mad skillz, that took.)  Reaching my mother in the middle of the night, I assured her that I had been kidnapped by Russians, because these people sure did not speak French.  And I spoke a little bit of Russian, and I still did not understand what the heck they were saying.  Something was terribly amiss, and I needed help.

I am not sure how she did it, but I am pretty sure that my mother reached the Ambassador himself, for someone came calling for me the next day.  My bags were packed, and I was hopeful to leave for France without further delay since I obviously was not there yet.  Within minutes, though, much laughter ensued.  That funny language?  Basque, of course -- a dying language, and one that actually was their home tongue.  While the family spoke French to me, they did not speak it among themselves.  They course-corrected well, and thank God I stayed -- I was among few Americans the town had seen since World War II.  Elderly Basque would beckon me over, "Venez ici!  J'ai une histoire à vous raconter."  (Come here!  I have a story to tell you.)

Now, sometimes people in the greater Boston area do not sound like they speak our same English -- but I am confident that Petunia will be able to understand them.  I am sure that she will find her way to her classrooms and to the gym and way too often to Dunkin Donuts since we lack those on the Left. 

I am excited for her.  I know what this moment meant to me once upon a time.  And I remember my first days on that glorious campus.  I never got homesick, for I was where I belonged.  Will she feel the same?  Time will tell.  And time will also tell if this is a five week thing, or if I will lose her to the school for good in another year.  Until then, watch me stand back and see my firstborn fly.  As I sung to her as a baby:

Blackbird singing in the dead of night*

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free

***

Be free, Petunia.  Spread your wings and fly.  I have raised you so that you would be able to leave the nest, and I know that you can.  I cannot wait to watch your flight path from afar.  xo Mama

(*Even the Basque would know that lyric is from "Blackbird" by the Beatles.)

What I Want for Mother's Day: A Letter to My Kids

Dear Petunia and Dash,

Someday you will learn how babies are made, and it will not match with my theory, which is that life-creation involves the removal of a piece of a mother's heart, the attachment of arms and legs to it, the performance of some real abracadabra-type magic, and then the turning lose of one's offspring to roam about the world.  Tah-dah!  And at the center of it all is still your mama's heart, pulsing blood through your own veins.  The very primal bond between mother and child is one that nothing can break -- nothing, as in no matter what tantrum you throw, Dash, over your ice cream cone falling on the floor, or your tween mumblings, Petunia, over how late friends can stay up when I still make you go to bed far too early.  All of the eye-rolling and foot-stomping in the world cannot change that my heart beats in your bodies and will long after I am gone.

Fortunately, we have so very little of those tough moments.  I have been blessed with two children who, by the grace of God, actually get along with each other and with me.  Your relationship with each other, especially, is something that my own friends comment on regularly.  I feel a bit sad when folks act like it is a surprise for siblings to love each other above all else.  I think it happened because I expected you to love each other -- nothing more, nothing less.  And since you both share pieces of that same heart, how could you not?  It beats in rhythm.  You will always have each other.

Last week, a friend asked me what I wanted for Mother's Day, and I realized that I had no clue -- no wish list, no plans, no idea.  Perhaps it is because of this grueling move, but I really did not want to plan an adventure of the usual magnitude.  I thought of how important natural beauty has been to me this past year, so we will spend my day surrounded by it oceanside.  I am sure it will be a lovely day.

But what I really want from you this year has nothing to do with location, or what we eat, or gifts, or how late I get to sleep in tomorrow (which, judging by Dash's presence in my bed, might not be late at all).  What I want is for you to know, deep in your hearts, that you are surrounded by love -- that you came from a place of great love and desire for you to exist and that no matter how that place has changed, the love that everyone from that place has for you has not changed at all.  And when you look at each other tomorrow and the next day and the next year, and then the time years from now when you are aunt and uncle to each other's kids, I want you to see a connection that time nor space nor family changes can break -- a connection that is so much bigger than your individual selves.  Always, always, always see each other as blessings, confidantes, and pieces of a much bigger whole.  Know that bedrock of family is always there in the hearts of all of its members and especially in the bond between you siblings that no shape-shifting ever will force apart.  You are part of each other, connected heart to heart.  Love each other fiercely and forever.  That love will never let you down.

I am far from a perfect mother, but, when I look at the two of you, I get a bit self-congratulatory.  Hooray!  I did something exactly right.  Twice.  And then I see you look at each other, and I know exactly what love is, and so do you.  Take good care of that heart that I gave you and use it as well as you can not only for each other but to love our magnificent world and all of its people with all of their flaws in spite of it all. 

That is your mama's heart right there: believing so hard that the world is a good place full of good people that I was willing to turn you loose in it.  Use those hearts now to perpetuate the belief in the goodness and worth in all of us, having each other's back all along the way.  That is the mother's day gift I seek this year.

Love,

Mama xo xo

 

 

X Marks the Spot

As I write this post, Petunia is on an exchange program to a faraway foreign land.  Okay, not exactly ... she is in Canada, but she is clear on the other side of Canada, though not so clear on the other side as to be in French Canada.  Okay, she is somewhere outside Toronto.  So, there.

What a preview this is giving me of my near-future, and wow, am I ever so glad to have this preview -- because, wow, this is really a moment.  (There are a lot of "wows" here, which is telling, because I never "wow."  I prefer big words, but I have few big words that can express my amazement quite as well.)

For years, I defined myself as a wife and as a more or less at-home mom -- and as many other things, too, like as a writer, as a gluten-free baking master, as a wanna-be snowboarder -- but primarily, my role has been here, in a house, in some comfy clothes, doing my child-rearing, getting-dinner-ready, keep-the-trains-running-on-time thing.  First the wife role lopped off last year, and now, I am down by half in kids for the next week.  It is so very different on so many levels, leaving me to daydream about my own transitions and possibilities -- and that is a whole other "wow" for a whole other post.

Yet one thought, more than any other, keeps running through my head: this is it.  This is the point.  We raise our kids so that they can leave us and brave the world on their own, hopefully in a sensible and productive way -- and that is exactly what Petunia is doing right now.  She is test-driving an experience that she will replicate in just over a year when, if things go as intended, she will leave our nest for boarding school, which is kind of like leaving home for good.  She will return on vacations and for summers and such, but the stuff of living regularly with a child -- the wake-up, eat breakfast, do-you-have-your-backpack, school drop-off, sports pick-up, here's dinner, do-your-homework, tuck-in, repeat -- will be half-gone by the autumn of next year.  Wow.  Just ... wow.

There is no downside here -- don't get me wrong.  This is like following a treasure map with all of its twists and turns and finally arriving at the X that marks The Spot.  The treasure is the young person whom you have reared confidently embarking on a road that a parent can no longer determine for her, carrying a toolkit that you have helped to provide in order to bolster her successful transition to an independent life.

The treasure is the picture texted to you of your near-teen in a place you have never been, with people you do not know, doing something you have never done, with a big and confident smile on her face that needs no words, because you know that it means "I'm thriving just as I'm supposed to do."

The treasure is the call you receive saying, "I'm checking in," which translates to "I know you'll worry if I don't call," which really means "I know I matter to you, and you matter to me, so here I am." 

I am sure that there are hosts of things that I have not done "by the book," parenting-wise; after all, I am flawed, just as we all are.  But I am taking this moment to appreciate something I have done quite right in raising a child who can leave home without hesitation while appreciating that we still have each other on the other end of the line.  It can be a long line, but it is a line that will never break.

We may be nearing the end of the treasure hunt, standing on the X that marks the spot -- but that spot, that launching point, is home, and it will always remain just a phone call or a text away.  And wow, am I ever glad of those calls.  And wow, my kid is in Canada, on her own, wearing snowshoes and an ear-to-ear smile in below-freezing weather.  She is not me; she is forging her own road.  And wow, it is so very fun to watch -- a treasure, indeed.

The Princess Thing

When Petunia came into being, I -- with the typical arrogance of a new parent -- came up with a list of things I knew I'd do right.  That list included never letting her play with Barbie dolls.  Puh-leez -- Barbies?!  Tall, tiny-waisted, big-breasted blonds as a toy for the daughter of a liberal, almost-short, brunette intellectual?  No freakin' way.  Instead, Petunia would build things that would empower her for a future in male-dominated engineering, should she choose that path.  She'd learn how to tinker, how to cook, how to create.  She wouldn't watch TV, would play the piano, and might be allowed one baby doll, someday. 

And then she was born.

Some of my original fantasy held: she did have a toy workshop before she had a toy kitchen.  She created a lot; we spent many days on our backyard patio with her in her birthday suit covered in fingerpaint, decorating the fence and the table as much as the paper.  We made playdough.  We made block towers.  But ... we caved on TV early on.  Did you know that one Baby Einstein video = one adult dinner at the table without screaming?  Later, piano lessons didn't stick, but guitar ones did.  Baby dolls became a collection of American Girls, and then, there were those Barbies.

To my credit, I did not buy Petunia her first Barbie doll; that came from a cousin who was a collector.  But because we caved on TV, we soon caved on movies: Disney princess movies, to be precise.  And there were Barbie-ish dolls that looked that these princesses.  And she ended up with every last one, bought, mostly, by me.  I loved how she loved those princess movies -- how I'd get home late at night from graduate school and wake up to her playing "voices" with her daddy, with him playing a prince to her favorite princess du jour, often acting out scenes from these movies.  She had the dress-up clothes.  We took her to Disneyland and Disney World.  Pretty soon she was wearing all pink, all of the time, and, most often, dresses.  It's what she loved, and what she wanted, and I forked over the cash that bought it.  She was a girlie-girl, I reckoned.  It is what it is.  (And then later, when Dash was born, I had an all-boy, all-the-time kid.  Maybe there are gender stereotypes for a reason... but I can't resolve that in one blog post.)

Anyhoo, that little (formerly) all-pink girlie-girl just received an award at her school for being a four-sport athlete.  In her closet, there are still adorable, flowery dresses that she has picked out herself, hanging next to bin upon bin of Under Armour, tennis skirts, goalie shirts, basketball shorts, softball pants, and the like... and underneath that, she still keeps dress-up clothes.  She still loves her American Girl dolls and her princess movies, but, in the back of my mind, I worry: does she think that's what life will be like?  That she can be this incredible athlete, but the real "win" in life will be when she scores a handsome prince to carry her into happily-ever-after land, where she'll have her own little real-life baby dolls?  I have friends raising kids without the princessses for this very reason -- friends whose kids can play with Barbies, but who can't ever see a princess movie because of their male-dependent "message."  I wondered: did I get it wrong?

Well, that question got answered for me today, per this converation in the car:

Petunia: "Mom, you know what I wish?  I wish Disney would make a princess movie where the prince wasn't a main character."

Me: "What about Mulan, or Pocahontas?  They weren't so prince-dependent."

Petunia: "Yeah, but they still featured guys who might as well have been princes.  It's like the girl had to have a guy.  Hey, there's an idea: how about a princess movie where there are no guys?  Just strong girls?  I'd watch that!"

...

And there you have it.  You can raise a daughter with Barbies, and princesses, and all-pink ... and soccer balls, and science kits, and workshops, and nature hikes ... and she will figure out herself what her priorities are.  You can watch Miss Representation (which I did believe and enjoy, by the way) and wonder just how much your daughter is influenced by Barbie and the media and the handsome prince fairy tales ... and then you can watch your own daughter make up her own mind. 

Not all daughters are like Petunia, sure, but hey -- as her mom, I know that I once had all of the answers, until she was born, and now, as she approaches adolescence, I feel I have none.  And I fret and I worry and I second-guess sometimes, and then my kid?  She shows me that she sees the world for what it is, sees through it all, and will make her own road just fine.  Among the things she wants to be right now are a vet, an FBI detective, an environmental scientist, and an historian.  Not a bad list for a girlie-girl who still plays with dolls and watches princess movies ... and my son?  He's playing right alongside her, watching the movies (pretending not to like them, but watching just the same!) and receiving these "messages" in a different way.  He reminded me today of his plan to adopt six sons and not have a wife.  So much for the princess story!

Kids these days: they get it, they really do, despite our best attempts to know-it-all for them. 

Too old to play?

I'm having one of those "life must be working out just as it should" weeks, because, in several arenas of my life, one big question keeps cropping up: when is someone too old to play?

In recent days, I've been told by more than one parent of a teenager that their kids don't "play" anymore.  When they do have breaks from their hoards of homework, they go on-line, or maybe they watch TV.  If parents are lucky, maybe they'll take a walk.  But play?  Nah.  Too old.

Also, I've heard from parents of middle-schoolers that kids are "hanging out" these days rather than having "playdates."  "What do they do?" I asked.  The answers from my informal tiny-group survey were: Wii, YouTube, TV, movies.  Play?  Nah.  Too old.  Toys?  Nah.  Too old.  (Bluntly, this doesn't mesh with the amount of Nerf and Lego stuff I see labelled 12+.  Something's off.)

For my daughter Petunia's recent 11th birthday, parents asked, "What's she into these days?  You know, since they've outgrown toys?"  I tried not to cry.  I also tried not to "out" my daughter for her Earth Friend and American Girl dolls with which, yes, she still plays. Come to think of it, she still plays Playmobil and Legos with her brother, Dash; in fact, when she received the Lego Harry Potter "Burrows" from him for her birthday, it might have been her favorite gift.  They still build with K'nex and Tinker Toys, train tracks and Matchbox cars, blocks and paper.  They especially love building forts out of found materials and can spend all day making cities with sidewalk chalk and string and sticks and rocks.  When they're not together, Petunia still plays with her dolls on her own, or does crafts projects (which I consider playing much of the time), or writes stories (playacting in her head).  She does still play, and yes, sometimes with toys; when not with toys, she's still very much playing -- like last Thanksgiving, when she shocked us as she lashed together a real TeePee made from 2x4's and moving blankets (thank you, Girl Scouts!) then proceeded to dress as a Native American for our celebration.  In other words, she acted like a 10 year-old girl -- a pretty bada$$ 10 year-old girl, if I do say so myself!  And frankly, I hope she incorporates that whole act into her Thanksgiving routine every year until she's so old she has to ask a grandkid to do it.  Too old to play?  No. Way.

I grew up playing with cousins on a farm, and then with friends in a town, and often with family in a living room.  We played cards, and it's been super-special lately to teach my daughter the same card game ("Spite and Malice") that I used to play with my great-grandmother and my grandmother.  I would give up anything else to play that game with them, anytime -- still would.  I also remember many family Scrabble games, Trivial Pursuit, and much more far before video games and computers.  Nowadays, I play the occasional on-line game, and I do enjoy the Wii from time to time -- but give me that card deck, and it's what I'd rather do more than anything else.  Too old to play?  Never.

When I took up snowboarding at 35, I didn't do it because I'm crazy.  I did it because I like to play in the snow.  I did it because I wanted my kids to see me try to learn something new, to take a risk, to fall down, to get back up again, and to squeal with excitement the first time I connected a turn.  I wanted them to see that you're never too old to have that much fun.  It's a sport, but it's just playing in the snow. 

I know that play changes shape and form over time, and I do know that, for kids these days, a lot of it is virtual.  But we need to still send our kids to the park with a soccer ball.  We need to teach them our old card games.  Even if they're 16 and have 5 APs for which to study and seemingly no time for play, we have to get them to come outside with us and fashion the perfect pirate ship out of a cardboard box for the new 5 year-old boy in the neighborhood.  We need to find a way because we want to, because we know that happy, healthy people need to have something silly and joyful in their life.  Just think of Steve Jobs' words: not just to "stay hungry," but to "stay foolish."  Had he never played, would Apple exist today?

In closing, I'll share that the most fun I've had of late was at the Maker Faire taking part in a project to crowdsource the construction of a huge model drawbridge from recycled objects.  (I think it was from Berkeley Institute of Design, but don't quote me on that.)  For about an hour, my two kids and I worked alongside ages almost-1 to 90-something to duct-tape and string together a remarkable contraption that never really worked, but oh, how we laughed with strangers.  We were participating in a crazy experiment, perhaps, but it was even simpler than that: we were playing with the same stuff kids have always played with: materials at hand, repurposed into something amazing. 

Too old to play?  Never.  It's like saying one's too old to live.

 

Homework: A Play, with a Point

The Play

The Characters: Petunia, 11, 6th grade; Dash, 6, 1st grade; Mama

Act One:

Dash: "Mama, am I supposed to have Math homework?"

Mama: "No."

Dash: "I think I'm supposed to have Math homework.  The teacher is sending home math packets in my Friday Folder."

Mama: "That's right, the teacher is sending home Everyday Math homework sheets in your Friday Folder, but they're optional, and we're not doing them."

Dash: "Why?  Some kids are doing them and even handing them in, and sometimes the teacher mentions it."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama Does say: "Do you want to do math homework?"

Dash: "Not really."

Mama: "Okay, then, I'll check in with your teacher about that, but I also want to tell you that we're doing math when we play Monopoly City -- that's counting money -- or Yahtzee -- also counting.  When you grab the measuring tape at Ikea and measure things, you're doing math.  When we're working on your numismatism (side note: he loves that word)..."

Dash: "All that's math.  I get it.  So what's the deal with the homework?  Some kids need to do fun math instead of homework math I guess."

[end scene]

Act Two:

Mama: "Petunia, I'm going to back to school night!  Sitter Man is here.  See you in a few hours!"

Petunia: "Alright, Mom, I just started my math homework."

Three, almost four hours later:

Mama: "Thanks sitter man, I'm home!"

Petunia emerges from her room, bleary-eyed: "Mama, I'm still doing my math homework."

What Mama wants to say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

What Mama does say: "I think I'd better take a look... (looks)... Umm, Petunia?  On each of these days, you're supposed to pick one of three assignments to do.  And since this syllabus covers the whole week, it appears that you've done every assignment on every day until ... wow, half of Thursday."

What Petunia does say: "@#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!"

Followed by: "Why don't they have a class on 'how to read a syllabus?"

Followed by: "Whooo-hooo!  I won't have any math homework all week now!"

Followed by: "And now I need to go to bed."

[end scene]

*****

The point

I am a bit disturbed that my son, Dash, at age only-6, and in only-1st grade, is feeling some kind of homework pressure.  Perhaps I could choose to look at it as him just "noticing" that kids are turning in work; but, from his facial expression, I could see that it was causing him a bit of anxiety.  He thought he was not doing something that he was supposed to be doing.  Even though the homework is optional, he's noticing that kids are doing it -- and that's bothering me.  Are parents billing it as "fun" to their kids?  Or, more likely, knowing my school, are they selling it as academically important?  The kids, according to my son, have a sense of accomplishment as they wave their little papers around saying "I did my homework!" -- so, in turn, my son is not getting that sense of "hey, I did something to please the teacher" and, thus, has all of the awkwardness that comes with that when one is only-6.  Since I was a vocal opponent of this math curriculum when it was adopted in 2009, I feel pretty awkward about it, too.  I feel like trying to engage the teacher in a discussion about it risks being interpreted as my ongoing defiance about the program instead of my concerns about the tenor of the classroom when it comes to optional work. In the end, I'm not really sure how I'll resolve that, but I do know this: I will not buy into academic competition when my son is 6.  He will learn reading, writing, and arithmetic, and, as mentioned above, there are some ways we supplement that work (Monopoly, etc.) that he doesn't even realize.  But there are parents sending their kids for math tutoring in 1st grade.  I put my foot down.  And, also, @#$%^(U $(%&&#! !!!

When it comes to Petunia, my commentary is more general.  Wow, does she ever have too much homework.  She's hitting her stride when it comes to math now, and she's figured out how to read the syllabus, but there is so. much. to. organize.  Binders and books and papers and files and sports equipment and gym clothes and one very cumbersome trumpet.  The Guv is bothered that she's not biking to school, and I'm trying to invent a UHaul bike trailer, 'cause that's how much crap she takes back and forth.  I finally bought a second math book (used, $16, whoo-hoo!) to leave at home, but that doesn't take care of the rest of the stuff.  When I was in 6th grade, I had little if any homework, a desk in which I kept my papers, and I didn't change classes.  Petunia has two lockers (one for books and such, one for gym) and changes for every class.  Her backpack is too heavy with no signs of lightening.  Perhaps because she's in private school, she has 2x the homework any of her public school friends have -- AND, unlike them, she doesn't get a packet on Friday that she can start doing over the weekend (apparently, that Friday Folder thing continues for public school kids, and the work in it isn't "optional" later on).  So she lugs stuff after sports practice (her self-proclaimed "release") every day at 5:15, all the way to my car, 'cause it's too heavy.  They have four no-homework days per year.  She is living in a halfway place, perfectly balanced between being happier than I've ever seen her at her all-girl school and more stressed than I've ever seen her or than any sixth-grader should be.  I wonder: is it worth it?  She'd say yes.  The reasons we put her in this school, most especially the all-girl thing, are still the most important ... but I have to wonder: is this much homework at age 11 necessary and important -- or possibly detrimental to her overall wellbeing, even if she's not staying up to do four hours of math per night as she already once did? 

I have no answers, just a bit of vexation, for I've heard that the bigger kids get, the bigger their problems get, and I'm having an inkling of that from both kids.  Somehow, without all of that work they're doing, starting "optionally" in 1st grade, I still ended up with an Ivy League diploma on my wall.  I didn't have much academic stress, ever, and I'm not that much smarter than them, if at all. 

As their mom, I can say "no" to the optional work, and I can make Petunia turn off her light, go to bed, and encourage her to not see grades as the be-all and end-all (and make sure that we're reflecting that in our reaction to bad ones) ... but no matter how much I do for them, I wonder: how did we get to this point?  Is it good for our kids?  And how would we ever change it now?  Are there schools out there (middle school and high schools, esp.) that have NO homework?  Do those kids get into Yale too? 

Something seems very wrong, here, with this homework business.  I smell a rat, or a ruse, and I suspect the problem is not with our kids at all and maybe not even with their teachers but with Other Parents making their kids do more, better, faster, higher-level, etc.  That scares me more than the federal deficit or war or poverty or hunger because here is something we can control, and we've made it it's own out-of-control thing.  How do we get back to an age of reason?  Is it too late?

Eleven

Today, my daughter, Petunia, turned 11, though we kicked off the celebration yesterday at 9:17 p.m. PST, which is equivalent to 12:17 a.m. EST, which is when she was actually born.  (Follow that?)  That 17 minutes made the difference in my ability to stay in the hospital with her a whole extra day, so I'm pretty glad that I was on EST then.  Since that was my first baby, I wanted that extra day of hands-on help from a lactation consultant, especially, and I'm grateful for it, even though Petunia was nearly two weeks overdue and should've been home already.  And come home, she did, on September 26, to a tiny little one bedroom apartment in New Haven, Connecticut, where she lived her first nine months smack dab in the middle of us -- the Guv, a b-school student, and me, a b-school admissions officer, and about 200 of our closest friends who were always holding Petunia. 

Now, I have a theory on the effect of that crowdsourcing of child-holding on Petunia's nature: it made her love the world.  She never has friends who are just like her.  She has friends from every walk of life, of every color, of every faith, of both sexes, from every imaginable kind of home, from all around the world ... friends who are rich, friends who aren't, friends with disabilities, friends to whom she's their only friend ... she just loves people.  And she loves them for who they are, for all the good things they have inside them.  And she'll find that good in just about anybody.  She even finds that good in people she shouldn't, but I'm probably never going to try to fix that because I don't think that's a broken thing.  If I add up all of those 200 people who were holding her for her first year of life, I can see what they gave her: the man who really wanted to be a dad, who carried around Purell in his shirt pocket just so he'd be ready and clean if she came around (even though I was never that disciplined about carrying Purell myself!), gave her the sense that people that weren't family could care for her.  The girl who had never held a baby before, who was so nervous when she held Petunia -- Petunia helped give her confidence, and she gave Petunia the sense that not knowing your way is okay sometimes.  The coworker who I really wasn't sure whether or not s/he liked me (I have to be ambiguous here) was among the first to show up at my house with food for me and gifts for her -- showing Petunia that help can come from unexpected sources.  All these people together, and many more, taught our whole family that it the best way to raise a child is in a village.  And in that village, we were all loved -- but most of all, Petunia was.  She was everyone's baby, and she was all good, all easy, all smiles.

And she has stayed exactly the same for 11 (actually, beginning the 12th!) years. 

Our first family village is back in New Haven this weekend, celebrating their 10th b-school reunion.  The Guv opted to stick around here in NorCal, not wanting to leave Petunia on her birthday, even with her blessing.  I'm bummed for him -- for all of us, actually, 'cause those are some good friends -- but I know they understand.  But to that village, I offer a humble note of thanks, because they are part of what made our kid what she is today.  I appreciated the many gifts they gave to our family that year.

And to the kid who, due on 9-11, arrived 13 days late, on 9-24, I offer these special thoughts as she embarks on her 12th year of life:

Petunia, never forget that you are part of something bigger than yourself.  You are growing into womanhood and, with that, developing some skepticism, even some cynicism at times, about some big topics like war and government and what "rights" are fundamental for people -- and how those views vary from person to person.  You're coming to realize that there are a lot of things on which people don't agree, and some of these may be Big Things.  You may feel you have to make a choice or take a side -- and, with that, it may feel like your Village is not so Whole after all.  But, actually, I hope you'll go back to the Village from which you came to pick up on those simple lessons: people can be from very different walks of life, but they can still hold you, they can still feed you, and they can still help you to find your way on this crazy path of Life -- even if they're very different from you.  What makes those differences okay is your acceptance of them, which is something that has always been central to your life.  In this world that is divisive, you are inclusive.  It is a real blessing for you and for all who know you.

As you embark on your 12th year, my wish for you is simple, though it is actually a very Big Wish for a pre-adolescent: just be who you are, for who you are is a beautiful young woman who brings so much happiness to her Village.

Love you - Mama xo

 

So, the thing about parenthood ...

Someone recently told me that I'm not writing enough about my kids anymore.  Yeah, so, about that ... two words: Middle School, and one more: Dash.

When I think back to 6th grade, it was the last grade of elementary school where I lived, not the first year of junior high (which, where I live now, is called middle school).  So it wasn't a big deal, except for me, because my parents sent me to a Catholic school across the river that year.  It's not that I'd been rotten or anything; my siblings were in school there, and it was an opportunity to be in a different social situation.  It was also an opportunity to eat the world's best grilled cheese and tomato soup on Fridays as well as an opportunity to realize how very un-holy nuns can be.  (I know, God strike me down for saying that, but, really, they actually did rap knuckles, including mine, once, for taking out my retainer without permission.) 

So, anyway, besides my being in a different school whose motto was "grilled cheese with a side of corporal punishment and Eric spitting out the sacrament and learning what a visit from the holy spirit really meant" ... 6th grade wasn't such a big deal.

But now, Petunia has started middle school, at a new school -- at a new all-girls, seriously academic school -- and whooo-eee, do I miss Sister Mary Beatyoulikeadrum, 'cause that was easier to deal with than this homework.  And sports schedule.  And "Mom can I study in the library 'cause I want to be gone from 7:30 a.m. - 5:30 p.m. everyday" schedule.

Petunia is happier than she's ever been in her life.  She's working harder, and I actually heard her say the words, "I don't know why, but I'm actually excited to do my homework tonight!" last Thursday.  There must be something in the water at that magical school, or maybe that's the place on which Hogwarts is based.  Anyhoo, she's happy, she's working hard, and she's gone.  G-o-n-e.  When she is home, she's working, and if we squeeze in an hour of family time each day during the week, we're lucky.  It is what it is.  She's growing up, quite well, and she even has a weekly grilled cheese and tomato soup lunch without the side of yardstick across her knuckles.  Girl doesn't even know how lucky she is.

As for that other kid, the dementor Dash, there is First Grade.  He has the teacher he hoped for, declaring her "the nicest."  But he pretty much hates it.  He's reading Harry Potter at home; he has no patience for Chrysanthemum.  He does not feel he needs to write, or write neatly, because, as Petunia has shown, in 6th grade, he'll have a laptop.  So who cares about his stupid penmanship?  He's going to be an archaeologist someday and needs to know hieroglyphics.  What is the point of first grade, anyway? He's not thrilled to be there, and he's also not eating his lunch, again.  Since the school day is longer than it was in kindergarten, when he could eat a Luna bar and be content, this is a big deal.  It is an even bigger deal because some little asshole girl told him that Luna bars are made from luna moths, so he's been eating bugs for a year.  Since he can't take almond butter with honey -- total peanut and tree nut ban in effect -- he's been experimenting with starvation.  One day, he'll eat a cheese roll; the next day, he'll declare the same thing inedible.  Then he'll eat plain ravioli; the next day, nothing.  It's a stop-and-start experiment that is failing.  On the "nothing" days, he comes home angry.  As I sit him atop the kitchen counter, forcing him to remain there until he's eaten a healthy mini-meal, he screams things at me like, "Mom, you're ruining my happy life," or worse, "I won't starve to death, and I'll prove it."  (Oh, but he will.  He is the kid who would rather starve than eat, and we're sooooo not going there.)  After he finally does give in to ingesting a modicum of food, twenty minutes later, he finds me (usually curled up in a ball in my closet hiding from his fury) and apologizes.  "Must've been hungry," he says, as he hugs me.  "Love you mom."

So, the thing about parenthood, is that it's hard.  In times like these, it's hard to write about.  To my friends who have not yet entered preadolescence, to my friends who don't have a child with an eating disorder (which is what it is), they don't get it.  I get useless advice like "just make him eat."  Or "have you tried...?" which sometimes leads to a great suggestion but, usually, is just someone trying to prove me wrong -- that, actually, my child does eat enough to live, even if it's only a few things, not understanding that he won't even eat those few things consistently so, therefore, it actually is a crisis.  Every other day.  And that's hard.

Parents of newborns?  You have it easy.  Your colic, witching hour, sleepless nights ... that's the easy stuff.  Just wait until they grow up and you have bigger problems.

See why I haven't been blogging?  It's not nice for me to say that.  And frankly, it's not nice to my kids, who are both, in the end, doing wonderfully.  Petunia is happy, and Dash thinks he's going to Hogwarts in sixth grade.  I'm just very, very tired and in need of a week in Hawaii with no one demanding anything of me except the pool boy, wondering if I'll have a pina colada, a lava flow, or a strawberry daiquiri.  Decisions, decisions...

So that's my parenthood update for this week.  Another one is coming soon, because oohhhhh boy, Petunia is turning 11.  I can't handle the truth. 

Where's that daiquiri?

Summer Sleep-away Camp, Year Two, Part One

Last year, we sent Petunia to her first summer sleep-away camp: 7 days, 6 nights at a Girl Scout camp in the Vermont wilderness with a focus on horseback riding.  We'd heard about the camp from a good friend of hers who loved it, and, after discussing it with the friend's mom, we felt it was a good fit for Petunia.  So, we stocked up: half-chaps, riding boots, a mess kit, and what felt like a gazillion dollars later, we loaded the car and dropped her ... at a tent.  Seriously, the camp involved platforms topped with canvas tents that did not close, perched on the side of a cliff.  Since Petunia has a serious falling-out-of-bed issue, this posed some deep questions for us, such as: when she falls out of bed, hits the platform, and tumbles clean out of the tent, exactly how far down the hill will she roll before she wakes up?  And, of course, she did fall out, just the other direction, and she didn't wake up -- just slept on the floor. 

The more important pool we should've spread around the internet question we should've asked is how she'd be protected from encephalitis mosquitoes in a tent that doesn't really close at a time of year when it rains almost every day.  And in retrospect, I should've returned to the camp with a mosquito net, Africa-style, because the girl came home with 56 bites despite coating herself with Deep Woods Off regularly.  That's right: a whole lot of Deet yielded 56 welts, huge ones, as she's particularly sensitive to bug bites.  I itched just looking at her for weeks on end, because that's how long it took for some of the marks to disappear. To Petunia's credit, she was a great sport about it, but she did ask to go to a camp next year that involved walls, windows, and doors.

So, we recently dropped Petunia at Sleep-away Camp 2: 6 days, 5 nights at a co-ed former 4-H camp in the Vermont wilderness.  11 girls and 1 counselor in a filthy dirty cabin the size of my bathroom with a side of spiders much bigger than last year's mosquitos.  Fighting back tears and giving me a huge hug at the car, Petunia simply asked: "Mom, do you think I could go to a camp that's a little less rustic next year?" 

The part of me that grew up in rural West Virginia thinks that the dirt and the bugs and the overcrowding -- well, that's just summer sleep-away camp.  And this camp has an actual chlorinated pool, beyond the walled-and-windowed-and-doored cabin, so it does seem like a step up.

But the other part of me -- the bicoastal, especially NorCal part of me -- feels her pain.  She wants the time away at a place where she knows no one (that's important to her, which boggles my mind because I couldn't have done that).  She just wants it to be some modicum of clean and with fewer bugs.  Is that too much to ask?

Maybe it is, but her next sleepaway camp, in a few weeks, involves staying in a college dorm and playing tennis.  There are even bathrooms inside.  It'll feel like true luxury to her, I bet.

I plan to write Part Two of this post when Petunia returns.  I'll count the bug bites ... maybe do a year to year chart or graph?  Or launch a predictor app for next year?  I'm itchy already.

 

The story of this picture

It's a rare day when I post even the hint of a picture of my kids on my blog.  I always want to respect their privacy and don't feel that sharing images of them is necessary; friends can see them on Facebook.  But this picture makes me so happy that I had to share it with the world.

The goalie in the green pinny is my daughter, Petunia.  You can tell from the picture what happened: she's cradling the ball because she just made a terrific save.  The girl from the opposing team looks crestfallen, and Petunia's teammate is cheering for her. 

I'm so grateful that another team parent preserved this moment for eternity, as this picture also speaks volumes of Petunia's story.  She has played socccer since she was 4, and she always loved it, especially being in goal.  But her skills needed work, and, over the last year, she's really worked hard to become a better all-around player and a better goalie.  It used to be hard for us to be in the stands watching all of the team, Petunia included, make countless errors.  We supported her playing her favorite game, never expecting that we'd be raising the next Hope Solo, and never caring -- as long as she was having fun, getting good exercise, and enjoying being part of a team.  But now we're experiencing something new: other parents cheering for her.  Her teammates running out to hug her as she comes off of the field at the half.  Lots of high-fives, big smiles, and save after save after save.  She's playing the game really well all of the sudden, and we're not the only ones noticing.  So this picture, it marks a season in which the team is still winless, but the scores are a lot lower because Petunia is doing an awful lot of ball-stopping.  Her hard work is yielding great results, and, in her story, I find my own motivation to try a little harder, to stretch a bit beyond my limit.  And above all, I've remembered that believing in oneself is the greatest motivator of all.

Petunia: way to go!  I'm so proud of you.  Love, Mama xo 

The Mom in the Stands

Yes, my blogging has been slow, slower and slowest in recent weeks.  What DO I do all day?  Let's see: Drivekidstoschoolvolunteeratschoolcoffeelunchmeetingtrytosavetheworldlaundry kitchendishesdogwalklibrarydutypickkidsupmusiclessonsbasketballsoccerguitar baseballhomeworkdinnerstoriesbed.

Yep, that about sums it up.

Sweet Baby Jeebus, nobody told me having two school-aged kids would involve this much driving.  You might as well put a big target on the roof of my van, since I'm responsible for the depletion of the ozone layer.  Some scientist may want to track my emissions.  I feel so guilty that I want a Prius Van.  I would say I want a Prius, but it wouldn't hold nearly as many fruit leather wrappers, "lost" water bottles, misplaced shinguards, and jackets.  And a basketball that rolls... and rolls... and rolls... testing the frontier of my sanity.  (Mental note: make oldest child remove basketball from third row seat tomorrow.)  A mom recently said to me, "That's why my kids plays violin, plays only violin, and doesn't do these sports thing.  Violin is alone activity.  Teacher comes to the house.  We don't have to leave home."  I thought she'd follow that up with a flippant "Duh, winning!" ... but she didn't, even after I prompted her.  (And now, she stands a little further away from the classroom door and nervously backs away from me if I step too near.)

Anyway ... raising athletes is loads of fun, and I really love how sports affects them in a positive way.  They always get exercise, have great attitudes, healthy habits, and friends with the same interests -- lucky kids!  Both kids just wrapped up a basketball season; for Dash, it was his first.  It was his first "frolic up and down the court, skipping and attempting a cartwheel at times, rarely if ever handling the ball and guarding my guy even when I'm on offense" season.  (He won't play basketball again -- just not his thing.)  For Petunia, it was her second season, also the second in which she stomached me as her coach.  Girl's got game, especially on defense.  She's not afraid to back-that-truck-up, box out, pivot, and even shoot -- and score!  Our team this year was super-special, too, so I'm sad that my coaching career the season is over.

But that means it's time for ... coach-pitch baseball (Dash, of the Reds) and soccer (Petunia, of the Red Storm)!  Baseball means cheering for my little slugger (and man, does he ever slug!) and hiding from the other soccer parents ... wait, NOT THIS YEAR!

This year, in her first game, Petunia spent the entire game in goal.  We've been sending her, with a friend, to weekly private goalie coaching for a few months now.  We're not making her do this; we offered her the opportunity, and she seized it, having declared soccer her greatest love at age 4 and ever since.  She's been working hard.  And frankly, she needs the work.  She's not the fastest on the field, and she seemed timid in goal last season.  She could use to build both skills and confidence.

Well, timid no more!  My girl stopped 20-30 shots on goal, holding the other team scoreless.  For the first time ever in my life, I heard parents whispering in the stands: "Who's that girl in goal?  She's good!" -- and, though it took a few minutes, I realized they were talking about MY KID!

Look, I know that I'm supposed to believe that my kid is The Best At Everything.  But when it came to soccer, sometimes my time in the stands was spent praying hard that she didn't screw up (again).  She loves soccer so much, but for years, it didn't seem to love her back.

But now?  Now, it's a whole new ball game.  Leaving practice today, her coach asked me to come over and talk to him.  He told me he feels like something has "clicked," making a point that it wasn't just in goal -- she was faster and more skillful on the field, didn't choke over errors, and did better in every single practice.  He said she's the most improved player by far (giving me a little chuckle -- she probably had the most territory to gain there) -- and said he feels like she's a huge asset to the team now.  She's clearly figured out how to play this game she's loved for 7 years -- and he was clearly amazed.  

I'm not.  She's my kid: The Best At Everything.  ; )

Forget the Tiger Mom; how about a Tiger Child?

All of this bruhaha over Amy Chua's "Tiger Mom" parenting has gotten me alternatively thinking deeply and stewing over what it means to be an effective parent these days.  Simultaneously, my book club is reading The Price of Privilege by Madeline Levine.  (If you're raising a child in an affluent environment, this book is a must read.)  And on top of all of that, we've recently had several school interviews with our daughter, Petunia, who is applying to various private middle schools as we weigh our excellent public school options, too. 

So basically, I've been thinking a lot about what makes a successful parent, what yields a successful kid, what are my oldest child's strengths and weaknesses... what could I have done better, differently, etc.  And I've come up with a few ideas that I think are worth sharing.  (And just as an FYI, I'm referring to Petunia a lot throughout this; Dash is important to consider, too, but Petunia is my best example because of her age and the admissions processes we're going through right now.)

Most notably, I've thought a lot about what parental goals for a child should be.  Some of my friends say that they don't care what their child becomes in life as long as they're "happy."  I once wrote a post about how I'd replace "happy" with "joy-filled," but I've decided that, for us, the whole concept should be scrapped.  It's not that I don't want my kids to be "happy," but happiness as an end itself is not a goal I have for them, for it is certainly not enough in life to be "happy."  In fact, I often find people set a goal of "happy" as an excuse for not encouraging their kids to work hard in school, to join activities, to strive for success ... because, after all, if the work's too hard, the kid might not be "happy," and that's a dealbreaker.  But what does that really teach a kid about life?

That thought leads me to digress into a story about the best lesson my child ever learned.  Petunia tried out last spring for 3 competitive soccer teams, and she failed to make any one of them.  One coach told her, "You'll never play in this league."  (I have some choice words for that woman, who is one of the biggest jerks I've ever met.)  One coach did not add any players to her team, so that loss was easy to take.  The third coach told Petunia she was "on the cusp" and gave her a host of pointers, including mentioning skills to work on, suggesting some summer soccer camps, and leaving the door open for another tryout.  When Petunia learned of these failures (let's call them what they are), she didn't cry.  She wasn't even really mad.  She was determined.  She seized on those last words from that coach, and she attended a couple of summer sports camps.  When the team had openings again in the fall, she tried out again, and she gave the tryout her 110% best effort.  She made the team!  It was very exciting then and has remained so for her, especially as she has taken on additional goalie training, preferring to be in that slot for the team.

Meanwhile, let me tell you what many of my friends were saying during this process: "I'd tell her to find a new sport."  "Why don't you just tell her it's not her thing?"  "I'd never let my child suffer like that."  And my favorite: "Aren't you embarassed?"

In that situation, I was only embarassed by my friends.  My daughter was much more grown-up about the experience than they were.  The Price of Privilege speaks a lot to those parents who would do anything to avoid seeing their kid fail.  They need to meet my kid and see how much better off she is having had that experience -- and how lucky I feel that she's had it now rather than years down the line when there are so many other stressors in life.

Where was I in all of that experience, though?  Was I standing over her, screaming at her, calling her stupid, and denying her bathroom breaks to make that point (like Amy Chua did)?

Nope. I didn't even have to tell Petunia a thing.  We've taught her that the keys to life are "brains, hard work, and a good attitude."  Emphasis on "hard work."  She worked hard to make that soccer team.  She works hard in school.  She remembers that "to whom much is given, much is required" (that's the primary Proverb, Luke 12:48, by which we govern our house).  Above all, we expect her to be a good person, but, second to that, we expect her to work hard at whatever she chooses.  There are no slackers here!  And now she knows -- she learned from that soccer failure -- that hard work yields great rewards.

Enter: The Tiger Child.  The Tiger Child knows what she wants, and she goes for it full-force by her own self-motivation.  To survive, she must be able to get ahead on her own.  She must be able to self-manage in a world that demands more than "happy."  She knows first-hand that she needs to make her own opportunities in life. In turn, those achievements will make her "happy." 

Am I hard on my kid?  Sometimes.  That's a story for a whole other blog post.  Do I demand excellence?  Absolutely.  Do I crush her when she fails?  Never.  Do I lift her up?  Nope; I help her figure out how to get herself up.  I'll hand her the shovel with which she can dig out. 

At the end of the day, I don't have all of the answers, not for my kids, and not for yours, but I do know this: when I sat down in interviews and was asked to describe my kid, I had some great examples of how she self-motivates, works hard, never gives up, and maintains a good attitude throughout.  And in the back of my mind, I knew that all of that came from my self-sufficient kid who perhaps was born that way, perhaps was nurtured that way ... regardless, it didn't need to be beaten or screamed into her.  We gave her the latitude she needed for self-discovery, and darned if we don't all love who she's become.  I have no concerns about her ability to manage herself in this big, scary world, and, somehow, she got there without being tortured by her parents and at only age 10.  I think that it's a testament to the fortitude of this child, guided by loving hands but expected to self-direct -- either that, or luck.  Then again, "luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity" (a quote from Roman philosopher Seneca).  I'm thinking she made her own luck.  Petunia: well done.

A Perfect Ten

Ten years ago today, I held my first baby, my sweet Petunia.  Supposedly due 9/11/2000, she arrived, still unwillingly, 13 days late, after over two days of labor and my dug-in insistence that she was coming out the long way.  When I finally started pushing, it took 2 hours and 17 minutes for this 21 3/4 inch-long, 8 pounds and 7 ounces of baby to emerge nearly soundlessly (a side effect of being quite stuck for quite a bit).  All moms know: it was love at first sight, a greater love than I'd ever imagined.  That day an every day since, I have been overwhelmed both by love and by the feeling that I am so lucky to know her.

Not much has changed in ten years: Petunia is still tall and built "athletically," and she's still very into doing things her own way.  Independent as she is, though, she's still quite attached to her Mama.  When she does something wrong, she 'fesses up before I even figure out something's awry, because, above all, she's fundamentally good.  She's empathetic to a fault, and she's figured out some great ways to channel that into community service with the homeless and with the elderly.  Loving music and animals, her current plan is to be a singing veterinarian.  The only thing that matches her big heart are her huge brown eyes, which are always wide-open, full of curiosity and fun.  She has her dad's charisma and my freckles.  And, like him, she knows how to make me laugh when I'm mad as hell.  Her cheeks turn pink when she's happy, and she's very rarely not happy.  She's happiest when her brother is nice to her -- and she loves him more than any of us, a true testament to her boundless patience.  She has loved soccer since she was 4, skiing since 7, and she can do both better than either of her parents.  She'll be able to play me in tennis in another year or two, and her softball skills already surpassed my embarrassingly-weak ones (and if you ever saw me play "cluster softball" in boarding school, you are already laughing!).  I coach her basketball team, and we still get along; she's coachable.  When she grows up, she's going to do more than me, have more kids than me, have more patience than me, and be nicer than me. 

When I grow up, I want to be Petunia.

I've said a lot of things here, but that's barely enough insight into this first child of my heart.  She's beautiful inside and out, her "real" name means "beautiful gift from God."  There is no better description.  I am so lucky to know her at all, let alone to be her Mama. 

To my sweet Petunia on her tenth birthday, thank you for every marvelous minute of the past decade.  The next decade will see you leaving the nest, something which might seem to inspire a bit of panic in me, but know this: if anyone can do it, and do it well, you can.  I have faith in everything you do.  For the love you show us, I salute you today and everyday.  It feels selfish to even propose it, but may the next ten years bring us yet more joy.  I can't wait to see what's in store for you, my beautiful gift.

Kindergarten, scmindergarten, and 5th grade, too

Yesterday, Dash and I visited his school for cookies and juice with his kindergarten teacher.  Later that night, I told him "tomorrow is the first day of at least 17 years of schooling for you, probably more, 13 of it more or less mandatory.  What do you think about that?"  His reply?  "I'm fired up.  Can I start right now?"

That's my boy!

So, today, he embarked on that long journey, leaving me with a big smile and a thumbs-up.  He had a great day.  The biggest excitement came when he was able to play with friends from the other classes at recess time.  He also said, "My nice teacher gave me a pencil box with my name on it, and guess what?  It really had pencils in it, and guess what else?  MY OWN WHOLE NEW ERASER!  And some crayons, too, so I drew a picture of myself with a Yankees cap, and a hot air balloon on my head."  He actually did eat his snack (a surprise, if you know Dash), and he's absolutely exhausted, more so than he ever was at preschool.  But just like he left me in the morning, he came out of the classroom with a huge grin and a thumbs-up sign!  I've been laughing all day.  He's so happy to be in school that there's nothing about which I can be sad.  I refuse to be sad about my "baby" growing up when, really, isn't that the goal: to raise them to be this happy and self-sufficient? 

Dash reminded his sister Petunia about 100 times today that "this is my school now too!"  She's in her last year of it, 5th grade, and entered with a bang.  I wish I could show you what she wore, but I don't post pics of my kids here.  She had on a Brit-rock style tee, red and blue with a black guitar and "Girls Rock" graffiti on it, silver sequins at the shoulder, and a plaid skirt to match.  Dangling Hard Rock Cafe guitar peace-symbol earrings completed the rock-and-roll look.  She looked so ... old.  And, truth be told, I pretty much hated her outfit.  But it covered her body, and it was definitely "her" -- fun and a little edgy, a bold look for a bold girl who is so happy pretty much all of the time.  I can't complain that she's growing up when she's growing up this nicely!

As an aside to that, when the Guv and I took Dash to lunch after school, some high school seniors came in, and the girls were all wearing camo, which Petunia would've liked quite a bit ... except that the side of some girls' shirts were slit to the waists with only sports bras underneath and that they were wearing shorts that left nothing to the imagination.  Frankly, I'm no prude when it comes to clothes or even nudity for that matter, but their "look" absolutely appalled me.  I cannot believe that these girls have parents at all, and I also can't believe that our schools have no dress code that you at least have to have your skin somewhat covered!  And I uttered a little "thank you" because Grace would never disrespect herself like that.

So, that's our scoop today: lots of joy, two big kids, and another reason to be thankful for boarding school further on down the road.  Hooray!

Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Club: The Body Scoop for Girls

In this post, I am participating in the Silicon Valley Moms Blog book club.  We read "The Body Scoop for Girls" by Jennifer Ashton, M.D.  The purpose of our book club is to share in the reading of books that will inspire blog posts and conversations; we do not review books.  This book inspired me to think about having "The Talk" with my daughter.

I have a confession to make.  I have talked with my daughter a lot about growing up.  I've talked with her about where she might want to go to middle school/high school/college, what she might want to study, what kind of career she finds intersting, what it's like to raise kids, why nutrition and exercise are important, what a role model looks like...

... but I haven't talked with Petunia yet about the physical changes she's experiencing.  She's only 9 years old; she started the school year at 4'5", and now she's 4'9".  She's aware of breast development and the appearance of body hair because it's been happening to friends, but I don't think she knows what's coming next.  I find the need to explain it all stressful, mostly because I fear I'll do it wrong.  We had health class for these things back in my day; now, there is no class, and the parent must be the teacher.  (I should note that I believe that my mother explained these things to me, too; I just remember health class more, probably because of the sheer embarrassment of it.)

So, I've been preparing for The Talk.  Beyond not knowing about her forthcoming menstrual cycles, I'm pretty sure she doesn't know anything about sex, either.  And it kind of all lumps together, doesn't it?  What a talk it will be ... whenever we have it.  I'm not going to lie; I've been hoping she brings it up.  It's too hard to figure out where to start on my own.

It's likely that Petunia won't raise the subject before it is a pressing concern, though, so I hatched A Plan.  I ordered a book: an American Girl book called "The Care and Keeping of You"  -- a book that remains wrapped up and hidden because I ordered it blind and don't like it much.  For starters, it's from American Girl -- the company that brought us the dolls with which she still plays.  (I mean, ewww!)  It's very youthfully designed, which led me to think it might be age-appropriate.  Unfortunately, there are references in the book that I don't find appropriate for a 9 year-old, such as references to cutting and to eating disorders.  I don't want her getting ideas -- just information.  Basic information.

So it was with great eagerness that I signed up to review "The Body Scoop for Girls."  By an ob-gyn who specializes in adolescent care, the book is surprisingly thick and rich, and it's definitely not overly "girlie" or youthful.  But... it references even more stuff that I don't want my 9 y.o. to see, things like STD's and drugs in addition to cutting, eating disorders, etc.

I'm starting to realize that this is all stuff that I'll need to take on with my daughter, but I have to admit that I'm frustrated at how hard it is to find a book that doesn't have TMI -- at least, TMI for a 9 year-old.

What I want is a story that we can read together... I can lead in to the story with a tale of the changes that will soon be happening to her, and I can share how it came about with me.  I can back it all up with pictures and information -- information that she can read and re-read until she's comfortable.  Information about what she needs to know now, before Aunt Flo comes to visit.  We can segue into how babies are made/sex soon after she's processed the first round of information.

I'll be ready to talk with her about all of the other stuff (eating disorders, cutting, prophylactics, STDs, etc.) in a few years, but not in fourth grade.  She's just not ready for that yet, and neither am I.

In all likelihood, I'll photocopy pages from the Body Scoop book for her to reference, unless I come across something more appropriate in the meanwhile for my fourth grader... or unless they bring back health class, something I never thought I'd miss.

I'm glad the next one's a boy and his dad gets to have that Talk.

For every SV Moms book club, I offer whether or not I would recommend the book we read.  In this case, I offer a tentative "yes."  It is a handy resource to have on hand, especially when Petunia reaches the teenage years and the bigger issues arise, and it will help with my ultimate goal of raising a kid who will make smart choices based on solid information, which the book has in spades.  I'm just not comfortable leaving it where my daughter can read it freely yet; she'll be in high school before I feel okay with that.

Disclaimer: I received a complimentary copy of this book.  I did not commit to reviewing the book at all, let alone favorably, and am not being otherwise compensated for participation in this or any other book club.

Each other's keeper

One of the reasons that we have (only) two children is how very well our two "go" together.  Despite their 4.5 year age difference, they love each other so fiercely, so protectively that, at times, it's mind-blowing.  I can't punish one -- even if it's for, say, hurting the other -- without the other one getting angry.  The other day, when I took away Petunia's iPod touch as punishment, Dash handed me his, too -- as if to say, "we're in this together, Mom, with or without you."

When Dash received a Barnes and Noble gift card for his 5th birthday, his first thought was to take Petunia shopping.  We recently spent the card, and he told Petunia to "pick out a book for you that I can buy with my credit card!"  And then he found another book (about the Beatles) that they could read together.

Petunia operates the same way.  If she's buying a "midoz" (collectible Japanese eraser that's around 99 cents), she always asks to get one for Dash... same if it's a book or a movie from the library or a trip to Starbucks.  Dash has been known to refuse a trip to his favorite ice cream shop unless Petunia is coming along, too.  Now, I love my siblings, too, but I never would've refused ice cream unless they got some, too.  That's just un... un... unsiblinglike?  improper?  weird?

And then tonight, as Dash was going to bed, I talked with him about his first-ever upcoming t-ball bat-a-thon.  I talked with him about how to fundraise (ask relatives and friends!), about how the money would benefit t-ball (field maintenace) and about winning prizes for helping out with the fundraising.

His first question?

"Is there something for Petunia, too?"

Not what are the prizes, not how many can I win, not oooh, I hope there's a cool hat... but "what do they have for my sister?"

Oh, how I wish I could just freeze them like this.  I want to freeze Petunia at 9.5 and Dash at 5 and remember them always loving each other this much.  I want to engrave in my mind the image of Petunia playing school with Dash and successfully getting him to count and to copy things she writes ... them playing Playmobil together, or wrestling with each other and the dog ... trying to teach each other to skateboard, digging inchworms, running and laughing and playing and doing all of those things that childhood is all about.

I don't want to tell them that when they're older, it'll be so much harder to laugh together, because they'll live on opposite coasts -- and tickle-fights are a lot harder with that much space in between.

But, then again, I doubt they'll ever be that far apart for that long, and that's just fine with me.

Healthcare reform > ice cream sundae

Petunia, running into my room: "Mama, what happened!  Why are you whoo-hooing and screaming yes?"

(For the record, the Guv is out of town, else the whole situation might have been a bit more, umm, awkward.)

Mama: "Petunia, our government just passed the healthcare bill!"

Petunia: "The wha...?"

Mama: "Congress has just passed healthcare reform.  Until now, not everyone in the country has been able to have health insurance, and some people have lost all of their money paying expensive medical bills, but now?  Or, more like, soon?  No one will lose their money and their homes and everything they have just because they're sick and have to pay so much money to have medical care to stay alive."

Petunia: "Sounds good."

Mama: "GOOD?!  This is the biggest thing to happen in my entire lifetime, and it might be the biggest governmental action to happen in yours, too!"

Petunia: "Not exactly..."

Mama: "Seriously, I'll explain this in depth to you soon, but this is HUGE.  Bigger than huge.  BIG HUGE UNBELIEVABLY GINORMOUS."

Petunia: "Mama, I'm a kid.  I'd kind of feel that way about an ice cream sundae right about now."

Mama (hanging her head): "Petunia, this is much bigger and better than any ice cream sundae you'll have any day of your life, even if you'd have one every day of your life."

Petunia: "That'd be great.  And, like, whoa!"

Mama: "I know!  WHOA!"

And with that, I'd like to thank the members of Congress who supported this revolutionary legislation.  It's not perfect, but it's overdue.  President Obama, it's part of the reason I voted for you. 

Now... get to work on bettering public education, m'k?  No rest for the weary!

Lucky Thursday and Petunia's Magical Earrings

Long ago, sometime around 1st grade, Petunia dubbed Thursdays "Lucky Thursdays."   To her, it seemed like Thursdays were always great: almost the end of the week, special playdate days, always great days at school, etc.  And since Thursdays made her so happy, the Guv and I did what we could to play it up; we'd be more likely to go out to eat on Thursdays, or maybe we'd have a special dessert or movie night.  With our move to Silicon Valley, it just so happened that Thursday is "bagel day" at school -- an experience where kids can use tickets to buy half-bagels with cream cheese at recess.  It's also her bluegrass guitar lesson day, something she really loves.  "Lucky Thursday" is here to stay.

Cementing "Lucky Thursday" in stone was the life-changing event of Petunia's ear-piercing last Thursday.  She really, really wanted to have her ears pierced, and we told her she had to wait until age 10.  About a year ago, she approached us to ask if there's any way she could get them done earlier.  Her request was reasonable to consider; she is a super-easy, totally awesome kid, after all!  We decided to give her a shot at bumping up the timeline by half a year through completing a reading challenge.  She rose to the challenge, and ta-da!  There are now little gold balls in little precious earlobes, placed there by her pediatrician, who pierces ears because of the high rates of infections she sees from mall stores.  Win-win!

What we didn't realize was just how much this experience would mean to our ever-sweet, super-good kid Petunia.  Her ear-to-ear smile, bright-pink cheeks and tear-filled, brimming-with-joy eyes reflected such intense happiness that I couldn't help but choke up myself.  The last time I saw her that happy, she was holding her newborn brother for the first time.  It doesn't take much to make Petunia happy, but this depth of happiness doesn't overtake her very often.  

She doesn't know that today, another "Lucky Thursday," I'm going to take her out for a special dinner at our favorite restaurant to celebrate one week of having pierced ears.  Unknown to her, though, I'm also celebrating having a 9.5 year-old kid who doesn't just demand attention but also gives it.  She still hugs and kisses me and holds my hand in public, makes me laugh when I need it -- she is exactly like the Guv charisma-wise! -- and teaches me lessons of resilience, character, and empathy every single day.  Oftentimes, I feel like she's teaching me more than I'm teaching her; and, as much as I'm holding on to my little girl, she's holding me together.  She's living proof of all that is good and right in the world, and I'm overwhelmed by feeling lucky to know her at all, let alone to be her mom.  So today, Lucky Thursday is a little extra-special: a tribute to the kid who first made me a mom, and a wish to all of you that your Thursdays will be lucky, too.

And the light bulb goes on...

I have some friends who, like me, are at-home moms with a mere two kids, and yet, they have nannies.  There are some whose life situations necessitate it: the kid who takes dance class three times a week an hour away, the other family who has a special needs child, etc.  But there are others a lot like me (minus my medical issues, I guess), who don't have any "exceptions" and still outsource some childcare.  I don't judge them for it -- hey, if I hadn't just quintupled my mortgage, I might try to buy some more me-time too!  But I fundamentally didn't understand it until both kids started playing sports this week for the first time ever.

Petunia's first-ever softball season is upon us, and Dash's first-ever t-ball season is here, too, on top of everything else.  Beyond school, this week involves: a Girl Scout meeting, two big cookie order pick-ups, two cookie booths, two dental appointments (both kids), one guitar lesson, one medical appointment for me, one shift in Petunia's school library, one stint co-oping at preschool, and five -- FIVE -- softball/t-ball practices and games.  FIVE.  This is on top of some major extra homework for Petunia including the science fair the following week and a month-long book project in the works.

And the Guv's heading to NOLA to golf.

And I'm sick.

And I'm working.

And now I understand why so many of my friends have nannies with "only" two kids.

I'll get through it the old-fashioned way; I can send Petunia along to softball with another parent at least one of the three times.  When I have to be there, I can sit and relax on the bleachers, coordinating the snack schedule for each team and maybe even squeezing a little work-planning.  (My "real job" work will get done while the kids are in school.) 

What I don't know how we'll handle is the seven times this season where the kids have to be in the same place at exactly the same time.  Sometimes, the Guv'll be around to help with that.  Sometimes, not.  I'm going to have to get a lot better at carpooling!

In any event, this is all good stuff, though: stuff I signed up to be doing, not stuff I don't want to handle.  And that will make the difference between me keeping my sanity (and my health) solid through this manic upcoming week.  It's a great thing to see both kids enjoying sports, something in which I wish I'd have participated more as a kid.  They love it, and I love watching.  These are the times I'll remember, I believe -- not the chaos of running around so much as the big, huge smiles that come from their joy. 

And their joy?  That's what it's all about, not in small part because it's a big source of my own joy.  So let's play ball!  I'm ready!

Petunia has a dream that people will stick together like legos

For the last several MLK days, I've read Petunia a book about the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and we've watched his "I Have a Dream" speech.  She hasn't learned much in school yet about the civil rights movement or MLK; it seems to me that if they're to have a day off from school to celebrate Dr. King, kids should understand what they're honoring.  This year, I included Dash in the memorial. 

Petunia grew up in a different life context from Dash; our area of New Jersey was not very diverse racially, meaning that it was mostly white.  Dash, however, has spent a year and a half in California attending a preschool where about twelve different languages (maybe more) are spoken.  It seems like the school has kids from every race, creed, religion, culture, etc.  And unlike Petunia, who once noted when we drove through Trenton that "there are a lot of African-Mexicans here," Dash actually knows the difference between African-Americans and Mexicans (not that he cares).  The story of the "I Have a Dream" speech and the accompanying civil rights march left him puzzled and concerned.  I tried to reassure him that "things are different now" (well, at least until you take sociology in college), and Petunia tried to help explain.  Her explanation included the Rosa Parks story and how Obama never could've been President.  She also mentioned which kids wouldn't be in Dash's classroom, and how Mama and Daddy never could've been married.

Wait... huh?

When Petunia was little, she used to draw and color our family quite a bit: peach-colored Mom, peach Petunia, peach Dash... and a brown Daddy.  We've laughed a lot over our brown Daddy over the years.  The Guv inherited his Greek father's dark coloring, and he is, indeed, quite a bit darker than his lily-white wife.  But we didn't realize until this year that Petunia actually thought he was "other" as opposed to just darker than us.  We had a long discussion about it, and she dug in: "he IS a different ethnicity, Mama," she insisted.  "But you're that ethnicity, too," I retorted.  "Yes, but no one would think my skin is brown," she shot back.  "No one thinks Daddy's skin is brown, either," I chuckled, "except for you.  He's European.  Mediterranean.  He's white, even though he's a different shade of white."  We reached a point of agreement, and we talked about all of the different people we know who look different from us despite our shared whiteness; we also talked about Obama's mixed race... and, most importantly, we had a fantastic conversation about finding the sameness among our differences.  It was a pretty exhausting conversation, especially for a mother who'd rather her children focus less on the color of someone's skin than on the content of their character, as Dr. King suggests.

Then we adjourned our lesson, and Dash and I read a few books that helped to reinforce our conversation (e.g. "I Am America") as Petunia drafted her 2010 "I Have a Dream" speech.  Here it is:

I have a dream, that little kids, like me, won't make fun of each other's religion or skin.  I have a dream that angels will bring peace on earth.  I have a dream that war will end.  I have a dream that everyone is happy and healthy.  I have a dream that poor people have a home.  I have a dream that dogs, cats, and guinea pigs will get along.

I have a dream that people will stick together like legos.  I have a  dream that you have a dream.  I have a dream that pets will be happy and healthy.  I have a dream that our future will be great.  I have a  dream that dinosaurs will be in our hearts.  I have a dream that we will always be nice people. 

(I didn't publish last year's speech, but Petunia's 2008 one is here.)

Talking with kids about suicide

Yesterday, I did something I had hoped to avoid until at least my daughter's teen years: I talked with her about suicide.  It's nothing I planned on; I just knew that she'd have heard about our area's fourth teen suicide in six months, and I felt it better to address the situation with facts rather than to try to discern meaning from school rumors.

Broaching the subject, I asked Petunia if she'd heard about another teenager getting hit by a train (this is what she'd heard about in the past).  Her response was that yes, someone at school had said that another child had been hit while sitting on the tracks.  Her question: why would a kid sit on the tracks?  Couldn't he hear the train coming?

Yes, I told her, he could.  He sat there on purpose.

I would like to forget the look on her face as it dawned on her what I was saying, but I'm sure I never will forget that sweet face, flushed and full of awe, anger, sadness and confusion. 

Why?  She wanted to know.  So do I; click here for the post I wrote regarding teen suicide for the SVMB.

In the end, I didn't have to say much at all.  As her under-the-weather brother slept in his car seat, we talked in the car -- our usual place for deep discussions.  She told me that if she felt really sad or "out of hope" (her words), she'd talk to me or to her dad, of course.  She also looked me in the eye and promised me she'd never take her own life.  I didn't ask her to say that, but I'm glad she did.  I looked her in the eye and said that neither daddy nor I would either.  It's a pact, one that psychologists encourage us to make with our kids.  It wasn't hard to do with a nine year-old; I wonder how many parents of teens have heard and heeded that advice, too.

What a screwed-up world this is when Petunia doesn't know about the birds-and-the-bees yet but knows about suicide.  I'm just glad that she and I could talk meaningfully about this without hysterics or fear.  She ended our conversation by saying, "I would never do that to my mom and dad.  What are these kids thinking?"  In all of the despair I feel about this suicide cluster, I have to admit that I agree with her on that front; these kids aren't thinking about their families, or the train drivers, people whose lives are going to be taken, too, to some extent, by their actions.  It's too late for the four who've already passed, but what about the hundreds that surround us still?  How do we convince them that they have worth or that their families are worth sparing that kind of pain?  It breaks my heart that this is happening and that my daughter lost a little bit of innocence about the world yesterday.  It happens; they grow.  I just wish I could have sheltered her a little bit longer.

Petunia on Lytton Plaza

Petunia: "Mom, look, they're redoing Lytton Plaza again!  The fence is back up!  (pause)  Oh no, the egg is gone!"

Mom: "Yeah, remember, I told you that the City was going to redo the Plaza.  They're going to fix it up and then return the Egg, but it'll be in the back of the Plaza next time."

Petunia: "They're not fooling me."

Mom: "What do you mean?"

Petunia: "Lytton Plaza doesn't need to be redone.  They're just tired of all of the people standing on their boxes praising Jah all of the time."

Mom (stifling laughter): "Perhaps, but it was looking kind of ratty to me; it'll be nice to have it spruced up since it's kind of in the heart of downtown."

Petunia: "Whatever, it's good they closed it.  I get tired of the people getting in my face and praising Jah all of the time, too.  I mean, first of all, don't they realize there are Jews and Muslims around, too?  And some people who might praise another Jah?  This City isn't just for people who praise Jah their own way; it's for everyone."

Mom: "True 'nuf."

Petunia: "And another thing!  I'm down with Jah and all, but I'm not about to stand on a box and start yelling at people about it.  Nobody ever listens to you when you do that.  They just think you're crazy."

Mom: "Yeah, maybe it's good that they shut it down for a bit.  I wonder what it'll be like when it comes back, though."

Petunia: "I'll tell you what, I bet there will still be people yelling.  They'll just be yelling in a nicer place."

My daughter: almost-9, and wise beyond her years.

(photo from the Paly Voice)

The Kids and the Hair Bands

Last weekend, the Guv and I went to an 80s-themed 40th birthday party.  Gearing up for the day, we were listening to some 80s while driving around with the kids.  They found the music "funny."

Fast forward to today, when it was unnaturally quiet in the house.  I heard the two of them in the office.  Just as I was about to get up and spy on them, they both came out, giggling. 

"What are you guys doing?" I asked.

"Listening to hair bands on YouTube," Petunia replied.

"Yeah, hair bands!" Dash echoed, LHAO.

"Hear anything you like?" I queried.

"Mom... they were hair bands," Petunia answered.

"And?" I waited...

"And they're really, really funny," Petunia continued, "and bad, really, really bad."

Sigh.  Kids these days...

Petunia explains multiple personality disorder

Driving home from the Ben & Jerry's factory tour, Petunia starts on a rant.  Usually, if she goes on a rant, it's about the injustices that nine year-old girls heap on each other, or how much nine year-old boys suck, or, these days, how unfair it is that Michael Jackson died before she could see him in concert.  (That's thanks to her Grandma, a true MJ addict who has shared the love.)  On rare occasion, it's a rant directed at us: you don't let me horseback ride, why can't I go to sleepaway camp, I want to jump off of the same bridge my friends are, blah blah blah.

In any event, today's rant was on Hannah Montana, and it went something like this:

Petunia: "I can't STAND that Hannah Montana."

Mama, who will soon regret engaging on this topic: "Yeah, I forget, why exactly is that?  A lot of girls you like are really into Hannah Montana."

Petunia: "I KNOW, and I can't believe it!  I mean, first of all, why does one person have to be two people?  It's like, she's Miley Cyrus; why does she have to be Hannah Montana too?"

Mama: "She's acting... you know, like Vanessa Hudgins acts as Gabriella in High School Musical."

Petunia: "That's SO not the same.  It's CLEAR Vanessa Hudgins is acting in a movie that someone wrote.  There's nothing CLEAR about Hannah Montana.  It's like she's trying to be two people and doesn't know who she is!"

Mama: "You mean it's like Miley Cyrus not knowing who she is?"

Petunia: "What's the difference?  They're both the same people!  That's my problem!"

... fast forward HALF AN HOUR ... to Mama wishing she would've encouraged Petunia to nap like her sleeping brother ...

Petunia: "The thing is, Miley Cyrus isn't bad.  She's normal looking.  She looks like Kelly Clarkson or something.. you know, like a REAL person.  Hannah Montana?  She's fake."

Mama: "Because that's Miley Cyrus playing a role."

Petunia: "I can't believe you still don't get this, Mama.  When somebody acts in a role, she doesn't have to put a blonde wig over her brown hair.  She doesn't have to put on make-up and scanty clothes.  She doesn't have to be like that.  She could just be like herself and act."

(Mama confesses that she was a little bit happy with that last statement, while supressing the urge to bring up Vanessa Hudgins' nude pics)

Mama: "Okay, I get it.  You don't like Hannah Montana."

Petunia (far from finished with rant): "And do you know why you shouldn't like her either?  She wears more make-up than TEN Bratz dolls put together.  And you hate Bratz dolls.  So there."

Mama: "So there.  Want to listen to some Taylor Swift now?"

Petunia: "THANK GOD SHE'S ONLY ONE PERSON."

Finally, she's getting it

From my packing down the hall, I heard a rare altercation between Petunia and Dash tonight.

"GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" Petunia yelled.

"NO!" a very angry Dash fought back.  "I WANT TO BUILD A PILLOW FORT UNDER YOUR DESK!"  (This is a frequent activity for them.)

"Dash, I said GET OUT!  I can't build a pillow fort now!  I have to clean up!" Petunia almost cried.

I appeared in the doorway with raised eyebrows.

"Mom, Dash won't get out of my room!" Petunia whined.

"Mama, Petunia won't build a pillow fort with me!" Dash whined too.

"Why can't you build a pillow fort together?" I asked.  Seeing Petunia's complaint coming, I added, "You know, it is easier for me to pack for Florida if you are playing nicely together."  Seeing the whining about to recommence anyway, I made it clearer.  "If I can't pack for Florida, well, then we can't go to Florida.  You feelin' me?"

Petunia looked at me with a mix of "duh" and fiery anger at the same time.  It was weird.  It was freaky.  It was so... so... pre-teen.  God, I am not ready for that.

"Mom," she explained.  "Look at my room."

I looked.  I saw... Petunia's room.

"And?" I asked.

"It's a mess," she sighed as she rolled her eyes.  (GAH!)  "And you and daddy go all batty on me when my room is a mess.  And I just can't have that.  So you need to get him out of here so that I can clean up.  Okay?"

49% of me wanted to absolutely wallop my child, for the first time ever, for the attitude she was flipping me.  But the other 51% understood that she was right; daddy would go all batty if her room were such a mess.  (Would I?  Maybe.  But not the night before a trip... but she doesn't need to know that.)

So I silently picked up Dash and exited the room.  Dash complained.  Dash threatened to "bust everything" if he couldn't build a pillow fort in Petunia's room.  Dash settled for brushing his teeth for half an hour. 

Oh, man, tomorrow is going to be one looonnnnggg travel day!

Braces and spinach and stitches, oh my!

Petunia and Dash visited our new dentist today.  Petunia was shocked that she has a cavity in between two tightly-packed baby teeth; it is going to be filled on Friday, because it is in one of those teeth that you don't lose until you're 12.  It's a huge bummer; she is a great brusher and flosser according to the dentist, but this cavity is so wedged in there that it was virtually inevitable.

That aside, the even bigger shocker was that the dentist recommended consulting an orthodontist about the crowding in Petunia's mouth.  Apparently, the "new" thinking (new since my day, anyway) is that kids with crowding or other orthodontic issues should have braces for about 18 months at this age, and that dental work might preclude the need for braces later on -- or might at least shorten the duration in those teen years.  Here's how our conversation, post-dentist, went:

Petunia: Mama, what was that dentist girl saying about needing to see about orthodontia?

Mama: Well, she thinks that it might be advisable for you to have braces sooner rather than later because of the crowding in your lower teeth.

Petunia (sighing): The crowding that gave me this cavity that I now have to have filled?

Mama: Yes, I think so,

Petunia (super-serious): I do not want braces.  (dramatic pause)  Braces will look cheap on me.

Mama: What huh?

Petunia: Seriously, mama, they're not good.  They don't "go" [and she even inserted air quotes!] with me.

Mama (stiffling a laugh): Well, would you rather have them as a teenager?

Petunia: MAMA!  [hands on hips, walking stopped]  Do you know how serious I am?  I WOULD RATHER EAT SPINACH THAN HAVE BRACES.

Mama: Wow.  I mean, WOW.  We'll have to talk to Daddy about this problem, and, in the meanwhile,  we are scheduling a consultation.  (cutting off protest from Petunia)  Just to get information!

Petunia: Alright, but I'm just saying, it's not cool.

[Mama: OH MY G-D, SHE'S ONLY 8, I'M GOING TO NEED SOME SERIOUS MEDICATION TO GET THROUGH THE NEXT TEN YEARS....!!!!!]

*****

Meanwhile, Dash was mortified by the hygenist touching his sister's teeth with "some buzzing thing" in the dentist's office.  He didn't act up or anything; he just whispered to me that he wanted "that lady" to stop it.  I wasn't sure what to expect when it was his turn in the chair.

Imagine my surprise when he climbed into the chair by himself, looked me square in the eye, and said: "I'm a big man.  I can do this."  I confess that I almost cried.  He is almost 4 I guess... but something tells me that this steely resolve is quite atypical for his age.  I hope he keeps it, because I envy it; I am pretty strong, but not half as much as him!

*****

Flashback to a week ago, when Dash was sitting in the dermatology office with me as I had a mole, and some surrounding tissue, excised.  (My brother is a melanoma survivor; I don't screw around with funky moles.)  I looked over at him as the doctor was numbing my arm, and I wondered if perhaps it was a bad idea to get this done with him sitting right there.  His sweet little deep brown eyes met mine, with a gaze that was neither sad nor scared -- just steady.  It was like he was telling me, "It's alright, and I'm right here if you need me."  I have never had stitches before, and I'm sporting four right now.  I almost cried as I was getting stitched, as the sensation is rather unpleasant -- but instead, I looked at my boy, sitting there with his hands folded in his lap, and I drew strength from him.

You know, sometimes I think that I've spent almost nine years holding children; and other times, I realize that as much as I've held them, they've held me, too.

When I got up from the chair, stitches and all, I thanked my Dash for sitting so nicely while the doctor was working on my arm.  He said, "It's okay, Mama, you're all better now," and he took my hand, and we walked out of the door together.  He is a big man, indeed.

The weekend that'll make my week

Starting out the weekend, there was a chance it was going to be the weekend from hell.  I braced myself appropriately, apparently, since it turned out to be an absolutely fabulous few days.

Of course (WARNING: EAST COAST FRIENDS, AVERT YOUR EYES!) the weather being around 70 degrees and sunny might have had something to do with it.

Saturday morning dawned bright and beautiful as I gathered the kids for a neighbor's Laser Quest birthday party.  Truly, the place was insane.  There were four birthday parties going on at once, and the arcade was in the reception hall.  It would've been easy to lose Dash, who was attached to me while Petunia played laser tag, because of the sheer overcrowding, let alone the poor layout.  Suffice it to say, it wasn't my favorite party ever -- but the kids loved it, and that's what mattered.

The laser tag and arcade party was followed by pizza, etc., though, and imagine the surprise I enjoyed when the party hosts whipped out a gluten-free, soy-cheese pizza!  To some people, this would be far from thrilling, but put yourself in my shoes: I don't remember the last time I ate a slice of pizza.  It has been over a year, maybe two, ever since my wheat allergy became severe enough that I can't even cheat and sneak a bite.  To compound things, Dash's recent diagnosis with a mild dairy allergy has complicated things.  This family eats (ate) a lot of pizza.  So when my neighbor introduced me to Amici's (the one they ordered from is in Mountain View), she greatly improved the quality of my life.  We ordered from there tonight: a soy cheese pizza for Dash, a gluten-free Margherita pizza for me, and a half-cheese, half-pepperoni "normal" large pie for Petunia and the Guv.  The downside was the $53 bill (the GF pizza was $24 of that) -- but my first taste of pizza in over a year made that priceless!  (And it was really, really GOOD too!)

After Laser Tag on Saturday, we returned home to prepare for a visit from my college friend Seamus, his lovely wife, and their two year-old daughter.  Sometimes, these type of visits are more trouble than they're worth -- the work of cooking and cleaning up compounded by constant childcare ("refereeing") can be a real drag.  But not this time!  Our Petunia stepped up to the plate without even being asked, taking over the care of her brother and our young visitor.  Plus, the Guv and I made a very low-maintenace menu of chili, quesadillas, veggie and cheese trays -- that, some wine and beer, and it was a very easy, enjoyable evening.  I don't remember the last time I had meaningful adult conversation with kids in the house.  What a special night!

And then this morning, I slept in... which was actually a problem, since I woke up at 8:35 am and was supposed to be at Dash's preschool from 9-3 for a "maintenance day."  For the uninformed, "maintenance day" is code for "wiping boogers off of toys, tables, etc." and it was totally gross.  My son loves this preschool, but it is just not my bag... too much work, too much cleaning that I don't even want to do in my own house, too much dirt... All that said, the Guv recently figured out that to take my son to the drop-off preschool, I'd have to earn about $12g to pay for it... So we stay at the right school for Dash, the wrong school for me (though I have made some great friends there, so someday I'll stop saying that). 

While I attended Booger Day, the Guv took Petunia, her two friends N and Z, and Dash on a super-long bike ride to Stanford's campus, where they launched stomp rockets, dunked in a fountain (did I mention it was 72 today?) and slurped Jamba Juice.  The Guv is exhausted, and I am hugely impressed that he took that on himself.  When I commented to him that this weekend was like one long playdate for our friend Petunia, he chuckled, "yeah -- just like our life was growing up.  This is how it's supposed to be.  Like the good old days!" 

I'm not sure that I'm up for weekends jam-packed with mutiple others' kids yet -- though breaking it up with some friends and wine sure did help!  And the Guv is right about one thing: these are the good old days, made new again through our young 'uns.  What a fun weekend.  I hope that it's just the start of a magnificent new year in our new California home.