Baby, You Were Born This Way

I remember asking a pregnant neighbor, when I was about 6-years old, how her baby was going to get out of her belly.  I recall vividly the uncomfortable nature in which she answered.  Her answer was quick, without thoughtfully pondering the magnitude in which it might affect my delicate little mind: “It pops out of your belly button” she said, changing the subject rapidly by asking me if I would like to play with her daughter’s favorite doll, who hadn’t made it home from school yet.

I remember years upon years of staring at my own belly button in the mirror thinking “Now, that’s GOT to hurt!” not even contemplating the truth and the horrendous pain that would actually ensue during the real thing, many years later. Some part of me still thinks that a baby popping out of a pregnant belly’s navel is still feasible, given the right circumstances.

Talking about reproduction and sex with our children now, has come a long way.  It used to be about discussing the differences between men and women anatomically. That was what was referred to as “the TALK”.  Explaining “The Birds and the Bees”, was pretty much it.  Not anything further.

My son was in fourth grade, when I received the notice home about the impending “movie” that was going to be shown the next day.  A few years earlier, when he was about 6 years old, he asked me how babies were actually born . I explained how babies came out of women’s bodies. Not my old neighbor’s version, of course, the real thing, using all the terms and correct names for body parts, to which he nervously asked if boys ever gave birth to babies.  When I reassured him that only girls gave birth, he dramatically wiped pretend sweat off of his forehead with the back of his hand and said “Phewwww!”, with all the relief that his little body could muster. So for the fourth grade version, I got very detailed.  We talked about sex and what took place.  He looked shocked, but educated. I also carefully mentioned how important it was not to share these details with other kids at school or his little sister, as it was the parents’ decision as to when to tell their children this news.

My daughter’s experience went quite differently. She was intensely interested in the human body and surgical procedures from an early age. She loved to watch the Emergency Room documentaries on TV and expressed interest in becoming a surgeon at the age of 8 years old.  She wrote stories about surgery and “fixing people’, so I bought her books on the human anatomy, so that she could study them, refer to them and see detailed pictures.  One night, while I was driving home from a social gathering, with my husband in the passenger seat and my two kids in the back seat, my daughter made an announcement:

“I think I have figured out what sex is.” She said openly.  I felt my husband's body weight shift to the passenger side door, as if he was going to prepare for the appropriate moment to open the car door and jump out while we were still in motion.

“Great, tell us.” I said calmly.  More shifting from the passenger side.  I was sure my husband’s right cheek was now pressed against the window and his hand was on the door handle. My daughter explained, using all of the correct terminology, the act itself, to which my 11 year old son responded with: “Yup, that’s it!” as if he couldn’t hold it in any longer, and had been tortured keeping this information to him self over the last few years.

“Yes” I confirmed, “You, explained it very well” I said smiling.  I could tell that my husband, without him even uttering a word, was the most uncomfortable he has ever been.  I am not sure if I will ever get to witness that type of awkwardness again, where he is concerned.

After a few moments of silence, my daughter said cautiously “Wait…that means that YOU and DADDY…OH GROSS!!!”

“Yes sweetheart, we have, of course.” At this point, I am mentally noting, that my husband has been scarred for life. The damage is irreversible.

I have since had many conversations about sex with my children.  We have discussed homosexuality, trans gender surgery, abstinence, condoms, sexually transmitted diseases, menstruation, teen pregnancy, etc.  I believe that knowledge is power and tolerance is a must. 

Do I expect my kids to abstain from sex until they are married? Do I expect my kids to be sexually active? Do I even expect them to marry? Do I expect that my kids will be heterosexual? The answer to all of these is a resounding “That is THEIR decision, not mine”.

Do I expect my kids to be comfortable with their own bodies? Do I expect my kids to be comfortable with their own sexuality? Do I expect my kids to keep themselves safe?  Do I expect my kids to be responsible for their own reproduction? Do I want them to make self confident decisions? The answer to all of these is a resounding “Yes”.

This may not be the best approach for all parents.  It may not even be the best approach for me and my family. But I feel strongly about this: I will not let someone else be responsible for telling my children about these things.  I do not want their friends to inform them, or a TV show to clue them in, or for the lyrics of some song to shed the light.  I want them to hear it from me. I want to have open, frank discussions and leave no stone unturned. 

I do not expect all people to agree with me or follow me.  I do expect for others to appreciate that I want to educate my children in a way that I see fit to insure that they are comfortable with all of the answers to their questions. The birds and the bees just doesn't fly.

What's the Skinny?

Let’s cut to the chase.  I have never been skinny.  Never. I do not think that ‘achieving skinniness’ has ever been a goal of mine.  I have always wanted to be healthy, fit, but not ‘skinny’. ‘Athletic’ sounds good. That’s what I want, athletic endurance.

I like my curves and believe me, I have them. I want to look like a woman.  I will admit, I do have more jiggly parts than I care to have at the present time, but I generally feel good about myself, even when I am over my ideal weight.

I was raised by a lovely looking woman who, at her most, weighed in at 130 lbs at 5’5”.  All while being 9 months pregnant.  My mother could sit and eat a pound of bacon and she would lose a few pounds, simply from the act of eating it.  I would gain a pound just watching her, as I chewed on my celery sticks.  That’s just how it is. Oh, the cruelty of living with someone who has a speedy metabolism, when you have a slow one.

I have always thought that it was very important to have a positive self image.  Even more so now as I age, especially in front of my children.  I am not a big fan of the word ‘fat’, I have to say.  I do not use the word ‘diet’, either.  I refer to eating habits as either ‘eating healthy’ or ‘eating-not-so-healthy’. I am also a follower of the phrase "Everything in moderation."

A few weeks ago, I invited a new friend of my daughter’s, Emily, to come over to hang out at our house and then join us for a movie at the theater, later in the day. It was our first time having her at our house and my very first time meeting her.  My first impression of Emily was that she is fun loving girl.  She is very outspoken and witty.  We thoroughly enjoyed her company that day and had a ball together.  Something did happen on the ride over to the theater, though, that I am still not comfortable with.

As Emily and my daughter were riding together in the back seat for the 25 minute drive to the movie theater, they decided to tell each other funny, made up stories. There was a lot of giggling between them.  I listened to the stories and chuckled at their storytelling as it alternated back and forth between them. What I quickly realized, was that all of Emily’s stories had a fat person in them, and that person was always at a disadvantage because of their weight. By the 4^th story of Emily’s, I had to interject.

“Emily, why are their always fat people in your stories and why is being fat such a bad thing?” I asked from the front seat, glancing in the rear view mirror, trying to make brief eye contact with her.

The fun immediately came to a halt. What a buzz kill!

Emily was silent for a moment and then said “Because fat people are FAT.” and she stressed the word FAT in a mocking way. “Nobody wants to be fat.” Emily snickered.

“Hmmm…be very careful.” I said in my own head, and then I completely abandoned any notion of keeping my mouth shut and said, “I would really like it if you could choose another way to describe the people in your stories besides fat”.

Again, silence. Emily and my daughter exchanged sideways glances and then my daughter caught my eye in the mirror, looking apologetic. 

“Sure” Emily said, “But my stories won’t be nearly as funny.” 

I was now irritated, but decided to let it go.  The day passed without another mention of the word ‘fat’. My daughter and Emily had a really nice time together. I could tell they were off to a great friendship. I was less than thrilled with Emily’s stories, but I wasn’t going to let it be my only first impression of her.

That evening, as my daughter was getting ready for bed, I approached her about the exchange in the car earlier.  She said that she had felt uncomfortable by both my request and Emily’s use of the word ‘fat’ in such a negative way. We discussed how poking fun at people because they are overweight is not acceptable. We also discussed, yet again, that people come in all shapes, colors and sizes. I encouraged her to speak up in the future in the event that any of her friends were being unfair to others, and she said that she would. Easier said, than done.

The following weekend, my daughter was invited over to Emily’s house with two other friends for the day.  They are truly a great group of girls and have a lot of laughs together.  As I was dropping my daughter off, with the 4 girls present, Emily’s Mother, Emily and I had a brief conversation about their cat that I had been petting on the way up the flagstone path leading to their house:

“What a beautiful cat!” I had said as they were opening the door to welcome us.

“That’s Smokey, she is the best cat ever!” Emily said, smiling.

“We love her.” Emily’s Mother said’ “Even if she is a little too plump.”

 “Mom, just so you know, we can’t use the word ‘fat’ today.” Emily blurted out quickly. I knew immediately that that comment was solely meant for my benefit.

Are you kidding me? Mission NOT accomplished.

 I got the impression that my fight against fat was now futile when it came to Emily and her family.

 I felt a little exacerbation of air escape my daughter’s body as she crouched down to pet Smokey. I thought it would be best to brush by Emily’s comment by focusing on the beautiful red, yellow and white tulips lining the walkway. Surely, they couldn’t be called ‘fat’, I thought.  Then, Emily’s mother and I toured their garden and made small talk before I left.

I so desperately want my daughter to grow up and be healthy without an overload of emphasis being placed on her physical appearance and the size of her body.  It would be so great if our society would stop placing so much pressure on young people to look a certain way and encourage them to just be HEALTHY. It would be more than great if we could stop doing that to one another.

That’s probably not going to happen.

As I reflect back on the Emily moments over the last few weeks, I honestly know that I could not have kept my thoughts to my self in the car.  As a parent, I will not keep my opinion quiet when it comes to this topic, or any topic that I believe influences my children and their own opinion of their body.

We, as parents, can’t always change the world, but we can influence our children by setting the best example possible. I will not allow myself to be negative towards my own body.  Even if, at times, I don’t feel great about it. It is my mission.

Sometimes, I fear that my reactions will do more harm than good by simply placing emphasis.  Will my battle with the word ‘fat’ being used negatively have the opposite effect that I want and make my children more self conscious? Will my vigilance be translated as overcompensation for my own non-skinniness and defeat my whole purpose.  It might.

Everyday, I wake up, and try like hell to do what I think is right for my kids.  I sometimes misfire. The best thing I can do is keep my body image healthy, and encourage the same for my kids. Maybe someday the world we live in will be rid of these types of judgments.

It is a big, fat, question mark…

Old Yeller

I yell. I do. I can be a yeller. I am a loud person, and I know it.  I wrestle almost everyday with my own personal volume control issues, and for the most part, I win.  I keep it under control and I am not nearly the yeller I could be. I am proud of myself.

This past weekend, we began a huge makeover on my daughter’s room.  I decided to start this task at 6pm on a Sunday. I know, I know, I just heard the collective sigh of all Mothers (and some Dads) out there who are bewildered by the fact that I would start any lengthy project on a Sunday at that late hour.  I think I even heard a couple of you mutter “Is she crazy?” under your breath.

My daughter and I started this project together. It would be ‘fun’, I thought.  She was ecstatic to have a say in how the room would be transformed, picking out new bedding, pictures for the walls and the choosing of the paint color, a beautiful calming shade of powder blue.

Calming, my foot.  For some reason, I approached this project with the optimism that I would NOT lose my cool.  Why would I expect that?  All projects that run the risk of becoming potential disasters make me uncomfortable.  So uncomfortable, that I can feel my blood pressure rise at the mere thought of them. This is genetic.

I wish I was different.  I want to be the Mom that scoffs at paint spilled on the carpet.  I want to be the Mom that dances around with a paintbrush in her hand not worrying about the splatter. I want to be the Mom that my daughter will tell stories of to her friends underlining how much fun we had decorating her room.  I am not always that Mom.  I am a potential yeller.  So at the first sign of paint on the carpet, I go from calm to not so calm, and I regret it.

The painting part of the make-over, went relatively well, except for one faux pas.  My daughter decided to drag a drop cloth with the paint tray and roller on it along with her as she moved to start a new wall, instead of laying a new one down as I had told her to do.  So, essentially, she should have seen my ‘not so calm’ reaction coming, when her actions resulted in the drop cloth getting doused with paint, some of it winding up on the rug. A pretty good sized mess was the result.  So, I yelled at her. I was not proud of myself. Then I reminded her, still above the normal tone of voice, how she did not listen to what I had said about the drop cloth.  That was it.  But that was enough, her face crunched up and she started to cry. Probably due more to the fact that her cream colored carpet now had powder blue splotches all over it, than my yelling.

I sat down in the corner of the room with her, we hugged, and I explained that I was not pleased that I had made the choice to yell at her and that I was also not happy that this painting project did not make me happy.  I tried to explain that, although I loved her profusely and thoroughly enjoy any time spent with her, projects like this were, more often than not, not fun for me.  I want them to be.  But they are not. I essentially explained, through this chat to my 11-year-old daughter, what a control freak was and I owned up to being one. A big one.

My daughter and I moved on, I finished the painting alone and then together we set out for bigger and better things in the way of picking out curtains and curtain rods.

In the days since, I have thought about my yelling. I wonder what a child’s life would be like if their parents never yelled at them.  What a wonderful concept. What would happen though, when they were thrust into the real world, where bosses would not only yell at you for spilling paint on the clients’ floor, but would also fire you for your carelessness.  Would my child be at a disadvantage if she was never yelled at or would her life be blissful?  Does yelling toughen them up a bit? Does being yelled at make you better able to cope later on in life or does being hollered at chip away at you emotionally? I do yell, and when I do, I usually follow it with an apology, only for losing my cool, not for being upset with my children and their actions.

With Mother’s Day coming up on Sunday, I will celebrate with my children the wonderful thing that is motherhood. It is truly magical, as I will never love anyone more than I love my children. As Mothers, we can do our kids a great service by forgiving ourselves when we make mistakes and not being so hard on ourselves for the things that we regret.

During my motherhood, I will continue to provide unconditional love and caring to my children. I will chauffeur, volunteer, scrub stains out of clothes (or carpet),  relearn math that I have forgotten, memorize state capitals (again), cry at graduations, proms and triumphant sporting events.  I will pace the floor at night worrying, jump at phone calls, scrutinize boyfriends and girlfriends and make eyes roll. I will always offer my life to save theirs…all with a hearty yell thrown in every once in while, for good measure. 

Happy Mother’s Day.

An Easter Birth

I am a townie, a diehard one.  For those of you who do not know what a ‘townie’ is, the townie in me feels awful for you.

All kidding aside, I grew up in a suburb of a major city, with around 30,000 people and although we were only 12 miles outside of a major metro area, it felt like a tight community of great people and still does today. My husband calls me ‘the city girl’ just to poke fun at me. John Mellencamp’s song “Small Town” brings tears to my eyes every time I hear it. I know almost every square inch of that town. I rode my bike or walked on every concrete sidewalk there was, I do believe. In my hometown there is a bar, on average, every 100 feet or so, give or take a few feet. In my hometown you know at least 100 people who will always have your back.  When it comes to my hometown, there are more than 100 reasons for me to want to move back there. Maybe, even more than 100.

I have not lived there now for 14 years and many days I wish desperately that I could move back. I am only a little over a 1 hour drive away in a neighboring state, but that doesn’t matter. There are 3 major reasons why I don’t move back there.

My husband and 2 kids love where we live now. We have set down some serious roots. As most families are, we are embedded in the area we now live in.  Sometimes, I think I will literally go crazy if I don’t go back, and then I look at the faces of my children and realize that this is their hometown. We live in a small, rural town of 1200 people with one police officer, more horses than people and a town center that lovingly boasts a historic Inn, a library, a Mom and Pop country store, a church, a tiny town hall and an even tinier post office.  Blink and you’ll drive right through without even noticing it.

My 11 year old daughter started riding horses about 2 years ago.  We lease a horse, because it is the next best thing to buying one, without the financial responsibility. She is in love with her horse ‘Snuggles’. My daughter rode her up until this January, stopping because Snuggles was pregnant and was expecting a little baby horse this month.  We informed the owner of the farm, that given the opportunity, we would love to be at the birth.  I explained that it didn’t matter what time of day it was, to please alert us when Snuggles went into labor, and I would do my best to get us both there so that we could experience this exciting event. I stressed that even if it happened while my daughter was at school, I would leave work and go get her. 

Side note: My kids do not miss school unless they have a fever over 102 degrees, have lost a limb, or have blood pouring out of more than one orifice. I decided that I would make an exception in this case. What could be more educational than a live birth?

Starting about 12 months ago, my daughter and I voluntarily mucked stalls every Saturday morning at the farm.  I thought it would be best if she learned all aspects of caring for a horse.  For those of you who do not know what mucking is, it is the removal of the horse’s waste from their stall, shoveling it into a wheel barrow, and then dumping it into a bigger pile of manure, or a manure pit, located a short walking distance from the barn. Once the stalls (11 of them) are clean, new shavings are layered on the floor of the stall and the whole process gets repeated every day.

On one particular day, that I have so far unsuccessfully tried to erase from my memory, while attempting to dump a very large pile from a wheel barrow into the existing enormous pile, I lost my footing and fell in to the manure pit, up to my knees.  It had rained quite a bit the week before, so let’s just say the enormous manure pile had become extra ‘juicy’.  As I struggled to free myself from the pit, I could hear one of the men who lived on the farm say out loud: “Now that’s gross.”  When a lifelong farmer calls something gross, you know it’s gross. 

This past Easter Sunday, I got a text picture message from the owner of the farm. The picture was of Snuggles and her new, freshly birthed, baby colt.  The message underneath the picture said: “Look what I found this morning!” Snuggles had quietly given birth in the dark hours of Easter morning. No witnesses in attendance. Exactly how nature had intended.  The colt was impeccably clean and standing tall in the picture.  I immediately yelled for my daughter telling her that Snuggles’ baby colt had finally arrived at which my daughter burst into the happiest tears I have ever seen. We ran to the car, shouting to my husband and son to watch the turkey in the oven on our way out of the house.

I marveled at my daughter as I watched her approach her horse with her newly born baby.  She did so in such a lovingly maternal way, that it brought tears to MY eyes.  The colt was playful and unsteady and adorable. Unbelievable for a horse that was only 7 hours old. My daughter hugged her horse with so much affection and spoke softly to her saying: “What a good job you did”, “I am so proud of you” “I love you, Snugs”, over and over. What an education.

This town that I live in now, is my second home, it’s true.  I hate admitting it, but it’s true.  My first love will always be the town I grew up in. I have often thought that my kids were at a disadvantage growing up where we live now.  They don’t have a gaggle of kids who live on our street to play with and grow up with. No whiffle ball games in the middle of the street or lengthy games of tag or of hide and seek.  They can’t ride all around town on their bikes or walk to a fast food restaurant and meet up with whomever. I realized, after reflecting on the Easter birth, that maybe they are not as bad off as I think they are.

My children will keep their hometown in the hearts forever. This place will bring about that feeling of familiarity, safety and warmth for them as my town did for me.  I inched ever so slightly closer to being a country girl this past Sunday.  I’ll probably never go all the way, but something is better than nothing.

As it is with every season of spring, birth and rebirth abound.  As is with every Easter, new life will always be given.  As it is with every one of us, home will always be the place we return to.

For Annie

18 years ago this month, my friend, Annie, went missing the day before her college finals.  She ‘left’ two small children on this earth and a husband, Tommy, who became the primary suspect in her disappearance.  He was later tried for her murder, because of the evidence collected, without her body ever being found. Tommy was only convicted of forgery, which took place when selling her truck after her disappearance. After doing a short stint in jail, he retreated to his home state of Alabama, leaving Annie’s mother to raise her two children (one of them being Tommy’s biological child) alone. Annie and I did not communicate with each other for the two years leading up to her disappearance, largely in part, because of what I will assume, became the controlling ways of Tommy.  I should have pushed harder to stay connected with her.

I was a bridesmaid in Annie and Tommy’s wedding party. My association with this wedding has become one of the biggest regrets of my life. 

Annie was a beautiful, vivacious, 25-year-old woman.  Tommy was almost twice her age, a bartender in the restaurant that Annie, myself, and a handful of other college girls waited tables at, located in a popular tourist destination with great beaches.

When Annie first told us that she and Tommy were getting married, it took us all by surprise.  She had moved into his condo, with her 18-month old son, out of ‘convenience’ we had all been told.  She and Tommy had only lived together for one month at the time of this announcement. The group of us, including Annie’s sister, and the other girls, didn’t even know that anything romantic was going on between them. Needless to say, we were all shocked, even though Annie and Tommy had known each other for a few years.

We were all aware that Tommy had some serious issues.  He was a Vietnam veteran who suffered from blackouts, night terrors and he had a problem with alcohol. An ex-girlfriend of his had made claims that Tommy had been physically abusive toward her.  Despite this, I considered Tommy my friend and all of these things caused me to be concerned for him.  I had admired the service Tommy had selflessly given to our country and knew he must have been through a living hell. I wanted this relationship to work out for Annie and Tommy, and I went ahead and supported the union, because Annie so desperately wanted me to.

Annie’s wedding day was beautiful, except for the painful black eye she had that was caused the night before the wedding at her bachelorette party. We had taken it upon ourselves to entice Annie into a tequila drinking contest and she ended up falling flat on her face.  Well, not flat.  She hit a door frame molding on her way down.  Annie walked down the aisle the day of her wedding to Tommy with a pretty, sequined, white satin, eye patch.  Annie looked gorgeous anyway.

Lately, in the wee hours of the morning, I have very realistic dreams of Annie laying in my bed beside me, as we talk like the best of friends do.  I lay face up and stare at the ceiling as we talk, not wanting to look over at her in my dream, but I catch glimpses of her from the corner of my eye.  I can see her platinum blonde hair, but I am afraid to look into her crystal blue eyes.  I can actually smell ‘Sand and Sable’ in my dream, the perfume that she wore and always sprayed on in the bathroom as we changed before each shift. That scent has always reminded me of the beach (the same scent washes over me often, even when I am awake, as if my sense of smell is having its own dream.) My impression of these dream encounters, once I am awake, is that Annie is trying to tell me something held within the small talk we make.  I talk to her as if she knows my kids.  She does the same.  We update each other on ‘things’ as if she is still alive. We talk about books.

I am a skeptic when it comes to ghosts and spirits, the paranormal. That is why I am calling these events ‘dreams’. After all, they do take place while I am asleep.  You can imagine how uncomfortable the thought of calling them anything else makes me.

I have kept these dreams of Annie, largely in part, to myself.  I have tried to analyze them.  I have come to a few conclusions. What I have learned from them is absolutely priceless.  It’s all about two things: instinct and trust.

Since these dreams started, about 6 months ago, I find myself letting go of my children more and more. Just in the sense that I want them to know that I trust them.  Letting go of them will inevitably not only grow the trust between them and I, it will also help them to further develop their own instincts, a very important skill for all people to have, but especially for kids these days. 

I am a hovering mother.  I know this and fully admit it.  I am trying lately to change this moment by moment, while still keeping a comfortable grip on life, my sanity and, yes, a grip on my kids.

I can’t help but think if Annie and I had listened to our instincts better and trusted them more, things might have been different. I know that at some point, she knew something was dreadfully wrong, and probably didn’t listen to her own inner voice.  I assume this because I knew her well and despite her independent streak and the common sense she possessed, I think she felt unsure of herself at some point in her marriage to Tommy, maybe even before the wedding.

I now know, more than ever, how important letting my kids spread their wings and begin the process of finding themselves is.  One would think, as I so vividly recall the life of Annie, that it would have the opposite affect on me. The result being the creation of some neatly constructed cocoon for me and my two babies. It has not.

I think the ultimate message in Annie’s visits is to push me closer to the edge and encourage me to jump into the process of trusting my children wholeheartedly, as wholeheartedly as it is possible to trust a 14-year-old and an 11-year-old. Annie always did that for me.  She pushed me outside of my comfort zone.  She didn’t always tell me what I wanted to hear, she told me the truth, she was authentic, and because of that I trusted Annie with my life.

I want my children to trust themselves, their instinct, their little voice. They can only do so with my support, with my trust, with me letting go of them. I hope my children will always feel good about their decisions, their instincts.  I feel good about my instincts as I enter into this new chapter of parenting and to my friend Annie, wherever you are, my sincerest thanks, love and trust.

 * the names in this blog have been changed

I Can Be Your Hero Baby

As most parents do, I have always wanted my children to have positive role models in their life. It is the very essence of raising children, to have adults accessible that positively influence your children. It takes a village, so they say.

I feel that we as a family unit have been very lucky in this area. My son started taking Tae Kwon Do at 7 years old.  His Tae Kwon Do instructors are fantastic role models for him.  They are a husband and wife team.  She is in a wheelchair after being in a devastating car accident about 10 years ago. They are both amazing, personifying the true meaning of a teacher: patient, loving, kind, yet firm.  They hold themselves and their students accountable for their actions.  They motivate and inspire.  My son has earned a second degree black belt under their guidance. This is just one of many examples of how fortunate we have been to have the people in our life that we do.

I look forward to open houses at school. I do, because, being a working mother at this stage of the game, I like to see and feel and touch the everyday ‘stuff’ in my kids' lives.  It is the perfect opportunity for my children to gush about their desk and its contents (there is just SOMETHING about a pencil box that is super full!), their projects, their friends, their interests and on and on.

It was the first open house of the school year when my son was in 6^th grade.  I entered the 6^th grade wing eager to see what he and the rest of his classmates had been up to, instead of just hearing about it. My son attended the open house with me, and ran ahead of me, to mingle with his friends in the classroom.  As I started down the hallway, with artwork splashing every color of the rainbow all over the walls, I slowly took notice of each masterpiece.  The students had all created “Hero Pages”.  These were large projects that resembled the format of the front page of the daily newspaper with a space for a headline, a space for a picture, and a space for a story.  The topic was “Who Is Your Hero?”

I read each one.  The subjects of each were touching: Parents, Grandparents, Coaches, Fellow Classmates who had battled deadly disease, Martin Luther King Jr., etc.

My son’s project was third from the last on this long hallway.  By the time I reached it, I had already had a couple of misty moments reading the others. I was eager to find my child’s project so that my eyes could well up with pride over his choice.

The title of my son’s Hero Page was “the Homeworkenator.” “The Homeworkenator is my hero because he saves me and all my friends by destroying all homework so that we never have to do it….”…WAIT…STOP.  Let me get this straight: My child’s hero is a fictional character, who eerily resembles a white Sponge Bob Square Pants, whose heroic ability is stunting the learning of all children in the land by eliminating homework. Suddenly, I was slightly embarrassed. Honestly, it stung for a moment.

“Great” I uttered out loud, sarcastically.

Just then I was greeted by his teacher who had seen and graded this project as a B+.  I managed to look her in the eye and listen to all of the wonderful things she had to say about my son.  I pulled it together and happily took part in the open house, with a small part of me being disappointed.

My first instinct, once back in the car, was to pelt my son with verbal softballs over the choice of his hero.  Instead, I opted for commenting on how I appreciated his sense of humor and imagination. Yeah, right.  I didn’t. Not at that time. I stewed over it for a couple of days thereafter. My husband thought the Homeworkenator was hysterical.

Today, as he has been for many years, my son is witty, imaginative and creative.  Occasionally, the report I get back from teachers is that he has ‘class clown’ tendencies. I’ll take it. Some of my favorite people are the ones that make me laugh the hardest.  I should have recognized this at the time of that open house, shrugged it off and just taken it with a grain of salt.  I am glad I opted not to pitch the verbal softballs, as holding my tongue was the best choice I made that day.

As parents, we always take it the hardest when our children fall short in our eyes.  What I try to do every day is remind myself that all children are unique and their view of the world should be held in high regard.  It’s THEIR view.  Not mine. I can only continue to be a force in my kids' lives that loves them, respects them and teaches them right from wrong, and by holding them responsible when they mess up.

My hope is that all I do as a parent is enough, so that someday, they will be lucky enough to be somebody else’s hero.  Right now, they are certainly mine.

To Break a Leg or to Break His Heart

When it was that my 14-year-old son first became interested in theater, I can’t quite recall.  That alone makes me feel guilty.  Some Moms have every moment recorded and permanently engraved in their memory bank.  Those Moms would remember the exact little phrase that their child uttered to spark within them that instinct that Mothers’ have. That instinct that would relay the idea, the thought, that their child would enjoy acting, singing, being on stage, or whatever it is that they ultimately enjoy.  I don’t remember it.

In my son’s first few productions as a 9-10 year old, he was cast in great minor roles.  Absolutely perfect roles for him, really.  A handful of lines, plenty of time on stage, nothing earth-moving that would affect his ability to do homework or cut into his other interests: guitar lessons, tae kwon do, football.

Fast forward 4 years later.  We are now heavily immersed in the theater world and at times have a rehearsal schedule that runs 5 nights per week.  On this particular night, my son gets into the car after an intense rehearsal for “Les Miserables”, and is absolutely ELATED. He has five solo parts and is embedded now into the musical structure of this very involved performance.  This is his second musical.  Musicals.  He had NEVER wanted to do a musical.  It took some coaxing…

“Give it a try-you’ll never know unless you give it a try” I had said.

“But I have never SANG in front of anyone before.  I’m not sure if singing is my thing” he grimaced.

 Now, after getting into the front seat of the car, my son tells me how much he is in love with this play, no, no…not a play…an OPERA.  The way the music all comes together has really touched him and now he is talking and explaining it to me at a rapid fire pace and then he says:

“I have officially decided, Mom.  I want to be an actor.  I want to act, I want to sing, I want ALL of it. I want to go to the best acting school on the East Coast (which, by the way, is a bazillion dollars a semester).  I will work very hard.  I will get a scholarship”…

Digression:  I entered the word “scholarship” into my childrens' vocabulary at 18 months of age.  They have both been saying “scholarship” for almost as long as they have been calling me “Mama”. “Mama”, “Dada”, “milk”, “juice”, “scholarship”…first words. Not joking.

So… now… in light of my son’s epiphany, this conversation can go one of three ways:

1)      I could react the way my body is begging me to react and  SCREAM!!…. Scream outloud:  NO…NO… NO WAY!!! YOU WILL STARVE!...YOUR KIDS WILL STARVE!...You will wind up a defeated waiter looking for your ‘big break’ that will never materialize”…Red lights start flashing and I hear something inside my own head that sounds just like: “Danger, Danger, Danger, Will Robinson!”

2)      I could gush: “Of course my sweetheart, YOU will be the best actor the world has ever seen.  Another Laurence Olivier, Sidney Poitier OR even a Clint Eastwood (his idol).  I will support you to the moon and back. I know you will be successful! I know you can do it.”

3)      I could calmly and with reserved enthusiasm say: “You are a very talented actor and singer.  If that is what you choose to pursue, then I am on board.  I have faith in you.  But, I have to say, because the success rate for working actors is low, there must be a PLAN B.  Something to fall back on in the event things do not work out as planned.  And you will have to do your part. You will need to most certainly maintain great grades at school, keep up with theater productions, and create a resume that is so impressive that that BIG EAST COAST THEATER SCHOOL cannot say ‘No’. Otherwise, it won’t happen.”

So…I went with number 3.  Did he look a tad deflated? …Yup.  Did it seem to inspire him and light a fire in his belly?...I hope so. It seemed to.

Will my son become an actor, singer, theater star, Oscar winner?  Who knows?  Maybe next month he’ll want to be an architect.  Something inside me says that he has made his decision.  This I will remember forever.

I reflect back now on the reaction that I could have had.  I could have literally broken his heart.  I also could have given him unrealistic fluff.  I really wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that we were never going back to the theater again. What good would that do?  As it is with every decision we make as parents, the verdict is out.  We will not know the result of our words and actions (or lack thereof) for many years to come.

That, is ultimately, what parenting is.  Not knowing if we’re doing it right.  It’s like a grand experiment on growing human subjects.  Big stuff. 

I think the fact that we question ourselves on a regular basis is a good thing.  It humanizes us.  I think the most vital thing to remember is whether you are a parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle, friend, etc., that every word you utter and every action you display can impact children and their path in life.  So choose carefully, thoughtfully and lovingly.

Break a leg, Baby!