A Little Respect

Mothers tend to set the civility standard in the home, teaching children about table manners, acceptable social skills and the need to respect their elders. We navigate the sassy years, the rebellious years and the defiant years, believing that with any luck, the values we’ve instilled in our offspring will take root and bear fruit. We hope to raise children who engage in heated discussions without becoming boorish, who listen attentively to teachers, professors and eventually bosses, even if they disagree with them. Children (and later adults), who respect those in positions of authority.

Truth be told, any of us would be mortified if one of our children shouted out the words “You lie!” to a teacher during a classroom discussion. And yet we find ourselves at a chapter in our country’s history where this kind of outburst is considered defensible by some, under the umbrella of free speech.

This is not a political commentary so don’t start drafting rebuttals to what you think I’m about to say. I’m simply wondering how, as adults, we have managed to set such low standards in terms of what is and is not acceptable behavior, standards we are modeling for our children, our youth, and the rest of the world. The South Carolina congressman’s blatant display of disrespect for our nation’s highest office, in my opinion, is representative of the gradual yet steady erosion of etiquette standards we formerly held dear, things we used to teach our kindergartners: Don’t interrupt when someone is speaking. Show consideration for others. Be courteous. To me, respecting others even in the face of huge ideological differences is essential if we are ever going to move forward as a nation, as families, or as individuals. To refuse is to behave like the red-faced toddler who jams his fingers in his ears and shouts “La! La! La! I can’t hear you!” because he doesn’t like what you are about to say.

In one of my recent blogs, I shared my own failings when it comes to losing my temper. I too have been given to angry tirades, ususally directed at my children, and have been publicly contrite about my admittedly bad behavior. When I looked at the replay of Joe Wilson flying into a rage and heckling the president of the United States on national T.V., I felt embarrassed. Later I was saddened and angered when I heard various talk radio personalities practically high-fiving each other as they discussed the outburst. One particular pundit was ecstatic that someone finally had the guts to “speak their mind.”

The following day I sat down and talked to my children about what happened. My son, who just started middle school, is hyper-aware of disciplinary consequences for breaking rules, and immediately wanted to know if the man who insulted the president would be punished. “Can the president fire him? Will he go to jail?” he asked. I told him I thought the main consequence for Mr. Wilson was a high degree of shame and embarrassment. Like the kind I felt the last time I yelled at my kids in public.

So I guess my question is: When did we all become so angry that we have lost all measure of self control? And again, I don’t mean just politically – I think what’s happening in that arena is symbolic of a greater national virus more insidious than any flu pandemic. We rage at store clerks who service us too slowly; hold wait staff in contempt if our order is served up wrong; think murderous thoughts towards drivers who dare to merge in front of us; and scream at teachers and coaches who constructively criticize our kids. We judge and demean those with different religious beliefs and sexual orientations than our own, and are puzzled when they don’t see things our way. Are they blind? Deceived? Stupid? Or is it possible that as we point our fingers in judgment, we really do, as the Scripture suggests, judge ourselves accordingly.

As a suburban working mom, I’m not likely to solve the world’s ills any time soon. But I do want to give a call out to my fellow members of the “motherhood sisterhood” to remind us all that we remain among the most influential members of a society for whom manners and social decorum have become optional. Our voices ring loud and true because they have the ability to shape the next generation’s views and behaviors. So let’s take a stand. Let’s decide not to raise kids who use shout-each-other-down tactics to make a point, who slander those with differing beliefs or lifestyle choices, or who demonstrate disdain for authority figures.

We begin by modeling good behavior. By treating our children and those around us with respect. By practicing the very things we preach.

Mommies Behaving Badly

“You don’t have to yell at me,” she whimpered. “When you yell it hurts my feelings.”

“Obviously, I do have to YELL since when I told you to stop five times NICELY you ignored me. So now I’m MAD and now I’m YELLING!”

When I finished taking a bow for this “mommie dearest” caliber moment, my daughter melted down in tears, while I stood there fuming, embarrassed yet defiant in the face of the sideways glances we were drawing from other obviously happier families nearby.

My husband put his hand gently on my shoulder in the manner of someone coaxing a suicidal jumper off the side of a bridge. Tentatively, (lest he risk being yelled at himself) my husband suggested that perhaps I was overreacting. Maybe, I was being a little hard on our daughter, who is, after all, only seven. He of course was right. In an instant I saw this small person who adores me every day of her life cowering in the face of my irrational rage and felt the shame rise up and choke the anger right out of me.

What she did and why I was yelling was beside the point. The fact that I had lost all manner of self control was a bigger and more pressing concern. After feeling like a jerk for several minutes I kneeled down in front of my daughter and hugged her to my chest. “I’m so sorry sweetheart,” I said. “Please forgive me. Mommy was angry but I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I was wrong.”

My daughter, still wounded, wouldn’t look me in the eye or hug me back just yet. Instead, she said something so deeply convicting I physically stepped back as if slapped. “You always say that mommie,” she whispered. “But then you do it again.”

Before I go on, let me set the context here. It was a sparkling day in San Diego, Labor Day Weekend, the last summer hurrah before the back-to-school rush. We had just finished an amazing lunch at a bay-side café and were getting into a boat my husband rented for us. Life was good, right? It was one of those days that you plan out in your head before they happen, visualizing your perfect, happy family making perfect happy memories together that your children will one day recount as they describe how fortunate they were to have parents like you. Unfortunately, images like this are always quickly annihilated by the reality of my family dynamic. Which, to be brutally honest, is characterized by the fact that being on vacation with my kids for any extended period of time often irritates the hell out of me.

There are certain moms whom I imagine love spending down time with their kids, splashing in the hotel pool, renting jalopy-sized bicycle contraptions, laughing at endless knock knock jokes and teasing away bad moods with a tickle. Perhaps they were born with more patience. Surely they are younger and less hormonal than me. Possibly, they are medicated. No matter. Here’s how I roll on family vacations:

“Stop running in the hotel hall! Please don’t wrestle on the bed. Keep your voices down there are people next door. Can you PLEASE stop teasing your sister. Don’t run around the pool! Stop arguing. I SAID stop ARGUING. Did you hear me? I SAID did you HEAR me? "

And so it goes. Vacation is over. I’m back at work. The kids are back in school. And I miss the little dears terribly (really). Upon reflection, I find it ironic that the thing that bugs me most about them is their repetitious pattern of bad behavior – promising to stop doing something and then, when I turn my back, doing it again. And again.

Can't imagine where they get that from.

Of Mice and Young Men

My son, who will start middle school in a few weeks, still believes in Mickey Mouse. During a recent trip to Disneyland I fully expected him to exhibit general disinterest in the more magical aspects of the Magic Kingdom, but his wide-eyed excitement upon seeing the smiling, world-famous rodent was clearly genuine. Imagine my surprise when he cut in line with his little sister to take his turn at a photo op. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what my seven-year old has been trying to explain for the past two years: Mickey really is just a guy in a suit.

Let me backtrack a bit by saying that my son has not been sheltered or excessively babied, nor is he behind the curve when it comes to being socially savvy. At eleven he’s a text-book tween with his peach fuzz and mood swings, a fascination with cell phones, and musical tastes that run from vintage Beatles to Coldplay. Yet, he continues to cling to a symbol of childhood innocence that is at once sweet and silly. I mean, as good as the Disney costumes are, Mickey, Buzz, Woody and Pluto et al are clearly not real.

Which brings me to my dilemma. There’s a parental crossroads we all arrive at when our children no longer believe everything we tell them. It’s healthy and normal and signifies their transition into becoming autonomous individuals. And while I haven’t researched this, I believe the shift begins when they first learn you’ve sold them a bill of goods regarding the tooth fairy, Easter bunny, Santa and Mickey. Because if mommy lied about those things, what else is she making up?

I realize that not fessing up to these fibs is only delaying the inevitable. But I rationalize that my kids have the rest of their lives to live in the real world. Is it wrong to let Puff the Magic Dragon have one final romp with his little boy before adolescence banishes him to his cave forever?

My son told his friends at summer camp about his trip to Disneyland, and I’m not sure how the subject came up, but someone mentioned that they’d actually seen the guy who wears the Mickey costume remove his head piece. My son remained poker faced during the exchange, but it was his first topic of conversation when I picked him up. And (I’m not proud here) like the Grinch, I thought up a lie and I thought it up quick: I told him Mickey has body doubles, just like Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones. "It helps him be in two places at once and keeps him from getting hurt during stunt scenes in Fantasmic," I explained.

Silence ensued. We stared at each other while he digested this whopper. Looking into his eyes I suddenly realized that I was the one who’d been fooled. My son knew the truth about Mickey – and has probably known for quite a while. But like the tattered blanket he sometimes still sleeps with, I think he finds comfort in holding onto a belief that connects him to simpler time. It’s also just like him to avoid hurting my feelings by admitting he’s outgrown the mighty mouse. He changed the subject quickly to more pressing issues, like the limits on his texting plan.

As for me, I’m grateful that for now he’s letting me play pretend, so I can savor the magic of his childhood just a little bit longer.

It’s Too Late…Baby

We live in a feel good society that encourages the pursuit of happiness and self fulfillment. We delight in stories of people past their prime who take risks and succeed against the odds, like the 90-year old who gets a college degree, or the universally inspirational Dara Torres, the 41-year old mom who became an Olympic swim champion. Just last week on America’s Got Talent, a weathered-looking Midwest grandma wowed the crowd with her stand-up comedy routine, and you’d be hard pressed not to root for her. The message of the day it seems is “it’s never too late so go for your dreams!” But a headline I recently read made me question the wisdom of that philosophy.

You may recall the story of Carmen Bousda who made history by becoming the oldest woman to give birth at the age of 67 back in 2007. The single mother from Madrid had come to the U.S. for her fertility treatments, and later admitted lying to doctors at the clinic about her age, saying she was 55, so as to not be rejected as a patient. She was so desperate to give birth, she even sold her home to raise the $60,000 dollars needed for treatments. On July 15, Carmen passed away at the age of 69, leaving behind suddenly orphaned two-year old toddlers. Carmen had cancer.Now it could be argued that any mother at any age can die of cancer – it’s one of those unpredictable curves life throws you that no one has a crystal ball for. And in her defense, Carmen had good reason to expect longevity; her own mother lived to the age of 101, so she may have anticipated that giving birth 18 years past menopause still gave her a decent shot at living to see grandchildren. Parenting is a gamble is so many ways, and for Carmen, fulfilling her lifelong dream of becoming a mother – even if she might not live long enough to raise them –was a chance she was simply willing to take. Who could fault her for that?

At the risk of sounding judgmental, I’m picking up the first stone.

Let me start by saying just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. I think motherhood is more than a path to personal fulfillment; it’s not something you pursue simply because you want to experience the thrill of carrying a life inside you. Or because you want to know what it’s like to be a mother. It’s not a cure for loneliness or a replacement for meaningful adult relationships. Motherhood is at heart, a selfless rather than selfish pursuit, as anyone who has children can tell you. Do I think at some point it is simply too late to have children? I do. And while I do not presume to be smart enough to determine what that magical number is, I will say that if you have to lie to the fertility doctors to obtain treatment, you are too old. Period.

I feel sad for Carmen Bousda, and whatever circumstances and life choices left her longing for babies at an age when it was no longer a prudent option. As a former fertility patient myself, I can relate to the joy she must have felt when doctors gave her the good news that she was pregnant. At the same time, I question the wisdom of her decision to buy into the idea that “it’s never too late to pursue your dreams.” Her dream left two children tragically parentless, and for them it will always be too late to play patty cake, go to the park, or read bedtime stories with their mommy, who undoubtedly loved them. But to quote a familiar Bible passage, “love is not self seeking.” Perhaps the pursuit of happiness should not be either.

I Scream, You Scream

People tell you childhood years fly by and encourage you to enjoy the fleeting days of Christopher Robin and Pooh. I know I’ve tried, but in my mad-cap rush to get things done and race through my to-do list, entire days disappear in a blur of activity – I’m inexplicably proud of the fact that I can band aid a boo boo, clean up spills, make snacks and text a friend all at the same time. Then, like you, I catch myself operating at warp speed and vow yet again to simply slow down. But have you noticed that when you pause long enough to catch your breath you practically get run over by all of the other people who are in a frantic, pointless rush?

Case in point: last weekend I was lying by the pool dozing when I found myself suddenly humming the familiar but nearly forgotten strains of “Pop goes the Weasel.” It took me several moments to realize the tinkling tune that had invaded my consciousness was actually coming from a rapidly-approaching Ice Cream truck. The realization spurred me into action since I knew I had only moments before I heard my children’s stampeding feet as they came at me bug-eyed with arms waving, shouting: “MOM! it’s the EYE! SCREAM! TRUUUCK!

As I scrambled to find my wallet, my daughter’s sense of urgency was almost amusing as she raced from the front yard to the kitchen and back again. “Hurry mom, he’s going to leave! Hurry, he says he’s not going to wait!” I looked at her with a knowing smile. “Of course he’s going to wait – he saw you come in to get money,” I said reassuringly. “No!” she shouted. “He said he couldn’t wait – he’s going to leave. HURRY!”

Catching the wave of her panic, I rushed outside and sure enough, the ice cream truck had made a U-turn and was pulling down the street, away from my now nearly hysterical daughter. I rushed after it, money in hand, and thanks to a good rear view mirror he stopped. But when we got to the order window he actually looked annoyed with us, drumming his fingers impatiently as the kids decided what they wanted. Was there an ice cream truck driver’s convention I didn’t know about? Some unknown mileage quota to meet? Isn’t the job of driving an ice cream truck supposed to be inherently leisurely? I mean by anyone’s standards this is not high-pressure sales.

We purchased our popsicles and Eskimo pies and ate them slowly in the street, the way ice cream should be eaten on a hot summer day. As we stood there smiling and increasingly sticky, the truck driver raced away, practically leaving skid marks in his haste.

Later as I repositioned myself by the pool, I thought what a sad place the world has become if ice cream trucks don’t have time to slow down. So the kids and I came up with a new motto. In the spring we will remember to stop and smell the roses. But in the summer, no matter how busy we are, we will always pause to savor the ice cream.

Faithful are the Wounds of a Friend

When our children are very little, the tiniest scrape or scratch sends us running to the medicine cabinet for first aid. Often, a kiss is all a boo-boo really needs – the ability to heal a hurt is one of those God-given talents unique to mothers. As our children age, however, the hurts they endure are often not visible to the naked eye. Some we will hear about, others we will sense but not be able to identify, and many we will never learn of at all. And for the most part, these emotional bruises will not heal with merely a well placed kiss.

My son and his best friend broke up. The friendship ended abruptly for reasons that are too convoluted to make much sense to an adult. The final result is that two boys who spent the past year and a half joined at the hip, heads together laughing at an inside joke, and talking on the phone for hours during Club Penguin marathons now behave like virtual strangers when they pass in the hall. The other boy has moved on to different friends with different interest than the ones he shared with my son, while my boy, though still popular, hangs back a bit now, unsure of his footing in the hierarchy of near middle-school boys. He sees, suddenly, that you can be in one day and out the next, with little or no warning and often no clue as to what you did wrong. The tide turns, the clique realigns, and like pre-school musical chairs, somebody becomes the odd man out.

For me the split feels personal and ragged and sharp; I try not to meddle but it is difficult. This boy’s mom and I are good friends too. What happens to grown up friendships when their children no longer want to set up play dates and sleepovers? For me and the other mom, it means tippy toeing around the subject of our kids and trying not to place blame. It means finding ways to get together without kids as part of the equation. And I suspect it means figuring out if our own friendship has enough emotional glue to withstand this emotional storm.

For now I struggle to find words to encourage my son that don’t sound completely parental and lame. He will make other friends. This won’t always hurt. He and this boy may end up being best friends again. It really will be O.K.

In the meantime, I’m on a desperate search for a heart-shaped band aid. One for him. One for me.

How to Hug a Porcupine

We worked on the project for two months. A fifth-grade research paper with supporting artifacts, visual aids and audio visual to culminate in a 15 minute in-class presentation that would make any parent proud. I edited rough drafts. Offered presentation tips. Typed a final draft. The teacher said parents were encouraged to attend, so the date was circled on my calendar for weeks. Then, driving home from school a few days ago, my 11-year old son unexpectedly blurted out: “Mom, I don’t want you to come.”

Willing myself not to react, I took a breath and calmly asked, “Why not?” Looking desperate he said “I just want to do this on my own, O.K.?” And although I feigned a quick recovery, he saw me wince, a reaction he was quick to interpret as manipulative, and fumed “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d be upset!” As I bit my lip to avoid another blunder, he jammed in his earphones and spent the rest of the drive staring out the window.

I’ve blogged on this topic before and will undoubtedly do so again, since this new relationship with my pre-teen son is still unfolding. One of the more interesting changes in our relationship dynamic is that our disagreements seem wrought with gender-based landmines. Our dialogs often sound more like lover’s spats than mother/son disagreements. He plays the role of the emotionally distant boyfriend who chafes at being questioned, while I vacillate between nagging girlfriend and spurned lover who will do anything to get the guy to notice me.

On the surface, his desire for me to skip his presentation is of little consequence – I know I’m making too big a deal of it. Besides, my arguments that other mothers, dads and even grandparents have all shown up without incident have fallen on deaf ears. But it is what I read into this sudden line in the sand that pains me; the unspoken message: “Mom, you are not needed here.”

So the question of course is will I respect his wishes and stay home, or enforce my rights as a parent and show up as planned? I am undecided, but wonder if he would even notice my presence in the back of the classroom. These days, I can stand right in front of him and be made to feel virtually invisible. Poised as he is on the edge of puberty, his gaze seems permanently fixed on points in the future – a future filled with friends and freedoms that make a mother’s care increasingly irrelevant. Clinging to the childhood that is already behind him only makes me look desperate, and causes him to recoil all the more. His well-aimed barbs are strategic attempts to peel away the paper-thin layers of my parental control. I’m working on letting go.

So how do you hug a porcupine? The obvious answer is very carefully but the truthful one is, you don’t. You give it some space and bide your time. Once you’ve earned its trust, it may eventually come close enough to let you into its bristled, prickly world.

If you’re lucky.