Teach Your Children Well

I try to instill confidence in my children every chance I get.

Not to the point where they don't deserve it or start to feel entitled but coming from someone who had little confidence in herself until she hit middle age, I'm particularly sensitive to my kids feeling good about themselves as early in life as possible.

On the surface, my son appears to be confident.  He's social, smart and a good athlete.  In spite of this, I know he is not.  He is sensitive, uncertain, and easily defeated and angry with himself when he does not perform well at something. 

He refuses to play team sports.  Over the years, we forced him to play but little by little we gave up.  Basketball, Baseball, Soccer.  He still plays at school and at home but playing on a team made him (and us) so miserable with the screaming and crying that we finally gave up.    (Though we have held fast on martial arts despite the temper tantrums.)

My husband would like for him to play on teams again.  I would too but don't want to ruin his love of the sport  (or deal with the madness.)   But recently, he played with a pro basketball player who, I was told, took him aside and told him how good he was.  The coach asked why he wasn't playing competitively and gently chided him for wasting his talent, encouraging him to join a team.  When I pressed my son about it, he said "the guy only said that 'cause everyone else  playing with me sucked."

After telling him that was not true, I stepped back. 

His words sounded vaguely, disturbingly familiar...

Then today, I got an email from a radio station wanting to interview me based on one of my blog posts.  My immediate thought was to say no.  Why would they want to talk to me?  I asked myself.  I'm no expert on anything.  After talking to my husband and a friend, I called.    The producers didn't want an expert.  They wanted a parent.    Great.  Fine.  I thought.  I can do that.  I'm one of those.  But, later, as I let my insecurities seep in,  I couldn't help but wonder, why me?  Did they have so few choices?

A few years ago, I sent an essay in to Newsweek on a whim.  I expected a formatted, impersonal rejection to arrive weeks or months later.  The next day I received an email saying they wanted to publish my essay within the next three weeks.  (Which they did here.)  After jumping up and down and screaming with excitement, my next thought was "I guess they didn't have many submissions this week."


Vaguely, disturbingly familiar... 

The Truth Hurts: My Post BlogHer Marriage Lesson

My bags were in the trunk.  All evidence of my weekend away neatly packed and stowed.

After a kiss hello, I asked, "How was it?"

I wanted him to be beaten down.
I wanted him to sigh with relief at my return.
I wanted him to drop to his knees and french kiss the ground I walk on.

But he did none of those things.

"It was a breeze," he said.

"A breeze?  Come on."

"No.  Really,"  he confirmed and then had the nerve to add, "In fact,  it was...easier."

It took all the impulse control I had to not haul off and smack him.   This man I love.  I mean, really.  This is the thanks I get?!

I wanted to get back on the plane.  Fly back to my girls.  To people who appreciated my company.  Laughed at my jokes.  Complimented my hair AND my outfits.  (Please read the rest of my post at LA Moms Blog by clicking here).

Is My Son Becoming A Bully?

Okay, so he's only eight. But really? I am so tired of saying the same phrases over and over again.

"Treat other people the same way you would like them to treat you."
"Put yourself in his shoes. How would you feel if someone did that to you?"
"Just because someone else does something bad doesn't give you permission to do it, too."
"I want to be proud of you and this behavior does not make me proud."
"It's okay to not like someone. You don't have to like everybody. But you must be respectful of them anyway."

There are so many more things I repeat on a daily basis about homework, feeding the dogs, limited computer time, but it is really upsetting me that he doesn't get the above.

It's not that we've seen or heard him be mean to anyone (and he has never been in trouble at school) but he recounts scenarios for me when he gets home. Up until now, I thought it was just my son creating stories of what he wished he could've done or said but didn't. And I get that. We all need our release and I'd rather he do it with me. But yesterday I got a hint (I don't know if it's true because the info was very sketchy) that some of his stories might be true.

So, after weeks of trying it the nice way, yesterday hubby and I laid down the law.

"Here's the deal," we announced. "If we see or hear that you've said or done anything to hurt this boy, we will punish you the likes of which you have never seen."

"Take away the WII?" he asked sheepishly.

"No, honey. Bigger than that. We will take away the WII AND ground you. No playdates, no tv, no computer, no nothing but studying and helping me around the house for two weeks."

I have no idea if this was the "right" thing to do but the words did seem to register.

We will soon know for sure.


FOR FULL DISCLOSURE and to be fair, I have heard that this particular boy often joins in games and then tries to bend the rules, stopping everything and whining that no one else is playing fair. My son is not the only one complaining about this boy but it is my son I care about most. Also, this boy is known to kick or shove when he doesn't get his way, so I get how on a daily basis this can be annoying. I have told my son that he should talk to the coaches about this boy but he tells me the coaches tell them to settle things on their own. (Hmmm...Note to self: May have to talk with the coaches.)


** OH, AND A FUNNY SIDE TO THIS STORY: Here is a scene on the play yard as my boy recounted it for me. It gave me a chuckle.

The other boy was acting out and making my boy and his friends mad:

My boy: "What's your issue?"
Other boy: "Nothing."
My boy: "You've got anger management problems."

When did this become playground lingo???

If Only SpongeBob Were My Child's Teacher

"Ooh, third grade, " a friend says to me. "Tough year."
"At least you have a good teacher," another mom chimes in.
Her words should have comforted me except for one small problem... my son HATES his teacher.

He greets me on the school steps every afternoon upset, worn out. He's boiling over with pent-up rage that seeps out steadily, punctuating our walks home with whines, demands, and impotent punches at the air.
After a snack and some outside play he calms down but soon it's time to start homework ... and in our family dictionary the definition for homework is: NIGHTMARE. I cannot think of anything short of painful medical procedures or pulling my fingernails out one by one that I would LESS like to do with my son.

Math problems that should take fifteen minutes take an hour or more considering the complicated matrix of mental breakdowns and maternal manipulations involved. Multi-tasking is out of the question because he demands I remain glued to his side, ready to help. He cries out for help with a pitiful combination of helplessness and blame, calling himself stupid and lashing out at me for not being able to help him.

I want to cradle him and smack him at the same time.

Please click here to read the rest of the article at LA Mom's Blog.

"Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Children?"

Pinch me.

"Is it real?"  I ask myself. 
"Did aliens abduct my kids while I was asleep and leave me with perfect little clones?
I'm scared to admit it, for fear I'll jinx this positive moon I'm under, but the last two weeks with my children have been... dare I say ... a dream. 

Click to read more about my surprising snippet of sanity at LA Mom's Blog.

The Gift: An Open Letter to My Kids

Let's get it out in the open.
Things have been different lately.
It looks like I'm here,
but my mind is somewhere else.
You're acting out.
You're used to having Mommy around,
nursing every wound, making ice cream sundaes,
listening to every run-on sentence steam-rolling through your charged-up, little brains.

I love being that mom to you guys.
I gave up a twenty year career to be that mom.
I wanted to see for myself what I was hearing second-hand from the nanny.
I wanted to see you grow up.
And I have never regretted my choice.
(Ok, temper tantrums and bratty behavior don't count.)

So here's my gift to you.

No, it's not an IPod.
No, it's not a cell phone.
It's a lesson.
Yes, a lesson.
Now, shut up and listen, dammit.

Mommy's grow up, too.
Yes, even mommy's as old as me.
It's one of the cool things about life.
You keep growing and changing until your very last day.
But for adults, growth isn't measured in pounds and inches,
it's more a mental thing.
Like when you think you know all there is to know about math,
only to have your teacher introduce long division.

You see, that trip I took,
that "blogging thing",
jarred something loose.
Something that laid dormant for a long time.

Thinking back, I can recall hints of awakening.
A slight yawn here, an oxygenating stretch there.
But this trip splashed cold water on the face
of my yearning.

My need to be ME.

Not just the me who is your mom.
Me, the writer.
Me, the wife.
Me, the friend.

As an adult, life gets overwhelming.
We get buried underneath the weight of too many priorities.
Like choosing between mint chocolate chip or jamoca almond fudge.

It's easy to do lots of things,
impossible to do any of them well.

To tackle this problem,
I have a solution.
I'm putting myself first.
Yes, ME. FIRST.
At least SOME of the time.

Selfish. Definitely.
Shocking. I bet.
Bad mommy policy. I think not.

You see, if I don't do this now,
I may never do it.
These past few weeks have taught me that,
you can bury your dreams,
hibernate and adapt.
but like a bulb in spring,
your passion will always manage
to push it's way through.

So, aside from teaching you good table manners,
and not to pick your nose in public,
this is one of the most valuable lessons I will hand down to you.

It's good to be selfish.

Not hoarding all the Oreos kind of selfish,
put yourself first kind of selfish.
Because if you don't,
no one else will.

This took me decades to learn,
I'm saving you precious time.
Because before you can say,
"my mommy is soooo old",
you'll be as old as me.

Yes. Really. You will.

I'll try to be patient as you both adjust
to Mommy's new world order.
Just remember,
in the theater that is my life,
you two will forever occupy the front row.
Only now you'll have to make room for me.

Yes. Really. You will.



*photo courtesy of Google Images

You Kiss Your Children With That Mouth?

Dinnertime at the MM household:

Setting:
Me in the kitchen, a glass of wine in hand following an afternoon of "blah, blah, blah, ice cream, blah, blah, blah, pokemon, blah, blah, blah, shorts from abercombrie&fitch, blah, blah, blah, has more pokemons than me, blah, blah, blah, has a cell phone, blah, blah, blah, how come I don't have a cell phone)

Me: "J, M, dinner's ready."

Them: (chirp, chirp)

Me: "J, M, dinner's ready."

Them: (chirp, chirp)

Me: "J, M, your dinners are getting cold. Come down, NOW."

M: "Just a second."

J: "Wha?"

Me: "Come down and wash your hands."

J: "Wha'd you say?"

Me: (aaaargh) Dinner! NOW. Come down and wash your hands.

J: "whaAAT! AVATAR'S NOT FINISHED YET. IT HAS TO FINISH FIRST! YOU NEVER LET ME WATCH AVATAR! ALL MY FRIENDS GET TO WATCH AVATAR! THIS IS SOOOO UNFAIR. WHAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!"

Me: "GET YOUR BUTT DOWN HERE NOW OR I'LL SHOW YOU WHO'LL NEVER GET TO WATCH AVATAR!"

J: "YOU'RE THE WORST MOM EVER!! I HATE YOU!"

Me: "F**k this shit. F**k. F**K!!! How did I get here? I wanna be back in San Francisco. Whaaaaa."


*photo courtesy of google images

Let's Talk About Sex

When the time came to talk to my daughter about sex, I envisioned a pleasant conversation. One in which I would assume my role as the wise, mature elder, put aside my uneasiness, and offer up valuable information that would help her navigate adulthood by making intelligent, educated choices. One that would start with a small lecture and be followed by a lively Q&A. I've been trying to have this talk with my daughter since she was 8.

She's now almost 12.

We had "the talk" last night.

Sort of.

In a crowded burger joint with her father and brother distracted by sports, we began a discussion... well, not quite a discussion, and not quite we, me. It was more an interrogation... or so you'd think from the look of her non-blinking eyes, clenched jaw and rigid body. It was as if a bare light bulb hung above her head and I was speaking in foreign tongue.

I blame my friend. Earlier that day she visited with her daughter who is also 11. The sex conversation came up and the other girl knew all about how babies are made, the physical logistics of S-E-X, the consequences, distinguishing truth from fiction. If that didn't put me to shame, their younger boy, 8, the same age as my son, knew it all as well.

It's not like I haven't tried to educate my daughter. Ohhh, I've tried. At ages 8, 9, 10, 11 and umpteen fractions of a year in between, I've attempted to do my parental duty. But my daughter is stubborn (don't ask me where she gets that from) and no matter my plan of attack approach, be it conversation or books, she shut me out. Immediately. Swiftly. Ears plugged singing lalalalala, books tossed at my chest, door slammed in my face - shut out.

So, over the years, as her body developed, I'd pitch snippets of information about breasts, body hair, or menstruation whenever I could; as she ate a cookie, brushed her hair, or tucked into bed for the night. I had a maximum of 30 seconds before the gates of cooperation snapped shut but I always managed to stick my foot in the opening for an extra second to offer an invitation to talk to me about anything, anytime.

Last night, feeling like I'd failed my daughter, I seized her the opportunity to give the big spiel. The whole super-size happy meal. Well, not quite. Maybe it was the kids meal. While she sat trapped in her chair, frozen in fear, I came at her full speed with the what, the how, the when. Only, in my nervous exhalation of facts about the penis, the vagina, the sperm and the egg, I forgot to mention dating, romance, relationships, love, and birth control. I was a game show contestant trying to beat the buzzer. My attempt to teach her about self-respect and waiting for the right guy came out, "...and if a guy ever asks you to have sex you say no...no one touches your body unless you want them to...and even if you want them to, well, you need to think...because sometimes it's okay and sometimes it's not...you need to know the difference and sometimes it's hard to know...you should talk to me first...because it's a big decision with big consequences... look what happened to Jamie Lynn Spears..."

Yes, that was me during a huge milestone in our lives, a moment I'd mentally prepared for since before she was born, vomiting it all over in undigested, incoherent chunks.

I blame my mom. She never had the sex talk with me. Had I not read Judy Blume I would have thought I was dying when the red streak showed up in my underwear. When I confessed to my mom she handed me sanitary napkins, said "mazel tov," and mortified me by telling my father. Years later, during dinner at a crowded restaurant (this time it was Chinese - what is it with me and restaurants?) I revealed that I was no longer a virgin. My sisters had been teasing me about being prudish. I'd been having sex since I was 17, for two years already, but no one had ever asked. I'd been waiting for a moment to show everyone I wasn't the young, innocent they thought I was. I thought my mother would be surprised, maybe even hurt that I'd kept it such a secret, but instead it was me who was taken aback when she casually remarked, "Well, I certainly hoped you would have had sex by now," and moved onto another subject.

So, you see, though I love my mother, she wasn't exactly an ideal role model for this sort of thing.

It doesn't matter who I blame, my friend, my mother, the checker at the supermarket, I need to get this right. So in a few days, with some time to think and perhaps a glass of wine to calm my nerves, I hope to sit my daughter down and fill in the blanks. I'd like to share my values and beliefs, teach her about making smart choices, the importance of trusting your instinct, and how to say no (without having to call her mommy).

But before I do, I call out to you, my fellow idiots moms:

What worked for you?

Advice welcome.

Batter Up!

His face was tight. His teeth clenched. Sitting in the dugout with fifty other boys, he looked angry, unapproachable.

Only I knew the fierce wall was his attempt at holding back a rush of tears. He lowered the bill of his baseball cap veiling his eyes. I remembered the wide smile he gave when we purchased the hat the day before.

His anxiety came on a few minutes before arriving at the field. "Mom, do you think everyone is better than me?" he asked.

"Some people will be better, some worse," I answered. "But you'll all have fun improving. The first day is always the hardest, sweetie. It'll get easier. I promise."

"Mom, I want to leeeeave," he mouthed from deep inside the sea of strangers.

I chirped an encouraging song and turned my back; giving him less opportunity for escape and me a moment to gather courage.

His group was called and they left the dugout for the field in single file. He broke formation and came toward me, head lowered. Heads turned to look as he wordlessly begged me for release.

"You'll be fine," I said as I turned him around and escorted him back to his line.

I lugged around his anguish all morning as I recalled my own feelings of isolation and inadequacy. My childhood anxieties crippled me way into adulthood.

Hours later, I returned to the scene of the crime. I sneaked up on the group hoping to get a true glimpse of my son's mood before my presence changed his colors. He was holding court with five boys, making them laugh, being silly...being him.

I was unaware of how tense I was until I felt my shoulders drop. Minutes later while exiting the park, I asked him how long he stayed upset.

"Just a few minutes after you left."

His batting average is already better than mine.

Girls Will Be Girls: Except When They’re Boys

“Here she is,” announced my doctor as my baby took her first breath. I held her, secretly relieved my first was a girl. I grew up one of three sisters so females were familiar. I did my share of dating, and was married, but I was no expert on the opposite sex. Venus...Mars. Tomato...To-mah-to.

But a girl’s life I did know. The good, the bad, and the vicious. I knew it well and was confident my daughter would benefit from my battle scars hard-earned wisdom.

Are you laughing yet?
Like my daughter would listen to any advice I had to offer.
If you believe that, I've got a gas-guzzling Hummer you might like to buy.

The fantasies of intimate mother/daughter chats about puberty, introducing her to my generation's bible, “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret, explaining the mystery of mean girls, social cliques, S-E-X ... I get none of that. Any hint that I am about to broach the subject of periods or pubic hair and my daughter is all “Lalalalalalalalala, I can’t heaaaarrrrr you” and out the door faster than I can say "but I'll buy you a video IPod....." And she needs no advice from me on handling cattiness and cliques - she manages them just fine on her own.

When I found out the sex of my second child, I freaked out. The thought of a penis growing inside me was just – ewwww. The things I knew about penises I assure you were not going to come in handy with a baby. I am not into competitive sports, I don’t like playing them or watching them on tv. I don’t have many close male friends, so what, other than being his mommy, was I going to have in common with my boy?

More than I ever thought possible. You see, my son, despite his gregarious and often inappropriate personality, is super sensitive. Those intimate talks I dreamed of having with my daughter, the ones about bodies maturing, where we go when we die, what our souls look like, I have those with my son. He can't get enough. He has all the machismo of a boy: he loves sports, balls, guns (he can turn a benign piece of buttered toast into the meanest rifle) but the slightest drop of blood makes him queasy, diarrhea turns him into Chicken Little, and the slightest affront causes his body to stiffen and his upper lip to quiver.

The dreams of guiding my daughter through teenage angst are coming into play... but with my eight year old son. To make matters more surprising, he plays for the opposing team. He is, I fear, a mean boy. Decades ago, I might have been his victim. I shudder as he recounts how he and his friends ousted some boys from their group because they cry, they cheat at handball, or, they’re just annoying. Hearing him deliver haughty commentary about peers who scored poorly on tests and who wear the wrong kind of undergarments (apparently boxer-briefs are in), I feel as if I'm fraternizing with the enemy. I'm disappointed and scared for him knowing that bad karma will, one day, swing in his direction.

I offer the requisite parental wisdom...

“If you don’t have anything nice to say…” “
Treat people the way you want to be treated”
“Keep your hands to yourself”
“Don’t pick your nose in public”

...but my boy has me stumped. I'm convinced he tells me all that he does because he knows his behavior is wrong and wants me to tell him so. But when I oblige, his chest puffs out with testosterone and he becomes steely and impenetrable.

Life throws you curve balls and I’m a lousy catcher. I never expected my boy to behave like this. All these years I've been coaching the wrong player. I love my son. He is smart, charming, funny, and sensitive. He is, as all mother’s say, a good boy. But I’m not in denial. He’s attracted to the movers and shakers, the boys with older siblings who have their fingers on the pulse and command the playground. He’s in awe of the older kids who skateboard in front of the local Starbucks. He emulates their style. He leans toward danger.

When my son was born, everyone said boys are easier. Where are you people? I have a bone to pick with you.