Leave the Kids Out of This

'Tis the season...to hang out with your kids. They are out of or home from school, and many of us get two or more weeks of uninterrupted kid-time. When my boys were younger, I loved the days of not getting up to rush to school. Sure, they still woke up abnormally early to watch cartoons and demand breakfast, but we didn't have to rush out the door. We could do nothing or everything and we had all day to do it. Lovely. While I fully realize that parents need breaks from kids, even during winter holidays, I have been pondering a recent phenomenon: parents, with no preference to either sex, who are habitually trying to get rid of their kids.

I'm not talking murder here. I'm also not talking about date nights, book clubs, anniversary trips, or other naturally and necessarily kid-free outings. I'm talking about those parents that rarely seem to take their children anywhere (or at least frequently strive to avoid it) unless it is a kid-centered outing. The kids stay at home with one or the other parent or even a sitter when any errand must be run, restaurant is to be visited, or car needs to be serviced. Kids stay at home, attended by Mr. Wii, Auntie Hershey, and the Red Baron.

What happened to the days of being "forced" to run errands (and rake yards and clean bathrooms)with parents? I seem to remember in & out of the car even in Iowa winters: my sisters and I, sweaty little bundles in the backseat, then frozen faces in the parking lots of the grocery store and Ben Franklin and Dot Discount Drug. Nowadays, even here in temperate Georgia, children are too often spared the inconvenience of running around town with mom or dad...or rather, parents are spared their kids' whining around town. So, everyone's happy if the tots stay at home.

But, what is the price of this convenience? Children are not learning manners of public behavior or, really any basic adult-life skills, such as maneuvering a grocery store or pumping gas. And, yes, I'm serious. There are 18 year-olds who can't even begin to find a bottle of syrup or box of tissue at Kroger. I had a student once whose dad took her car and pumped gas into it whenever the tank got low. Then girl went off to college not knowing this most basic thing. As a twenty year veteran educator, I have the utmost hope for the future. Kids these days are, by and large, smart and interesting and talented. Still, parents today do their children a terrible disservice when they don't take their kids of all ages out and about on mundane tasks.

I know from conversations with and Facebook posts from younger friends, former students, and older first time parents, that many parents don't want to be troubled by their kids when it comes to errands. Friends post about their sadness at not being able to go to Walmart because their spouse is working, hunting, or at a baby shower. What?! Bundle up the kids - all of them - and take them. Teach them to sit calmly in the shopping cart, asking for only one thing while at the store. (asking, not necessarily getting.) The consequence of asking for more than one thing? Getting nothing. Guaranteed. Take the kids out to eat in a sit-down restaurant. Life is not Chuck E. Cheese's. Teach them to sit politely and amuse themselves with the kids'menu, hand and word games or even -- wait for it -- conversation with those with whom they are dining. Kids like experiential learning, and it's not happening nearly enough.

When I see harried kids and weeping parents at Applebee's or Target, it occurs to me that these parents have not taught their kids how to behave in these mundane settings. The kids can be fine at home, a playground, or school...but, they don't know proper comportment for society. Everything is either relaxation, fun and games, or serious business. Nope, a lot of life is picking up milk and getting tires rotated. And, more often than not such outings do not require a Chik-Fil-A milkshake or a Sonic wacky pack.

So, this winter break, take the kids to Disney on Ice and the laser tag arena with a built in pizza place, but also take them to pick up dog kibble and a prescription refill at Walgreen's. The future cashiers and waiters of America will thank you, but most importantly, your kids will, too.

Graduation Poem: Or, AJ's elegy.

This is graduation weekend at our school.  Like any parent, I'm a bit misty.  Part of our school's tradition is a senior breakfast whereat parents can rise and give a 1-2 minute speech (if you follow the guidelines) to honor their son or daughter.  The following was my contribution to this event.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Plump blueberries sift through moist fingers

as I search for stems.

All your life I’ve done this

a small discard pile on the side to

present you with a glistening bowl of fruit.

Now, being yours and your being mine means

picking through the stems.

I am content.

But I know it will not always be so.  You

will go and I imagine be glad.  I will

smile to send your ship to sea for it was

christened so long ago and has waited

in harbor.

The years you have been moored

have been lemony sweet,

sticky with the juices of baby

kisses.

The seed-pits we discarded well

you and I.

Amid playful antics you tested your rudder,

I sitting behind you dutiful,

sewing sails.

A tarnished clock speeds time as the

instinctual weavers hang

dew-laden cloth on the branch beyond our kitchen glass.

We have always homed together. There

was no question of place: hands touch just

after the shade of the day.

I know the sound of your breath in the night

velvet and when the owl screeches

in hunt, I have held you and peace returns.

You have been mine one season and many

are left to you.  You will

pick through your own berries sweet

hot mornings.

I will sew new threads, carve

paths and breathe. 

Each morning fresh blossoms --

I will remember and be content –

and  you are to go forward  --

E-volution

Is it possible to be invited to a dinner party -  know what to bring, when to arrive, how to get there, who else is going to be there, and what time the event will end without ever talking to the hosts?  Yes.  People send e-vites or create Facebook events for everything from christenings to bachelor parties to wakes.  And, one can get the vital information, mapquest directions, and arrive on time (or fashionably late) without ever talking to anyone else planning to attend.  Very convenient.  How much easier could the whole thing be?  Well, we could all just skype a party and not ever have to leave our own homes.  That's probably been done, but unless you live across the world from your entire social network, I don't want to know about it.

A commercial for one of the for-profit colleges boasts, "You can go to college in your pajamas!"  Great.  How valuable is that?  The best part of college was just removed from the equation.  Well, if you can get a degree in your pjs, why not attend social gatherings, conferences, or even funerals via our monitors?  It certainly would take the pressure off - the never ending questions of what to wear, how to tactfully leave when the host's neighbor turns boorish, and how to navigate the twisty-turny subdivision roads are all eliminated if we can just pop up our laptop screens. 

Jeans or a skirt?  Just put on a nice top and focus your camera correctly, and you can have sweats and bunny slippers on from waist down.  Mort's drunk too much again?  Just fake an internet snafu; then, pop in a movie and order a pizza online.  Too hard to drive 20 minutes to socialize?  No problem - you can attend from your living room.  Heck, you can even be in bed.

About two months ago AJ was writing a scholarship essay that asked what the greatest difference between his generation and my generation is.  He pondered for a while, and ended up with a paragraph that asserted that his generation does not know how to communicate well or effectively face-to-face.  They can type, text, and email until the cows come home, but meaningful human-based communication is being marginalized, and may eventually lead to a generation of socially inept, even socially panicked human beings.

Apocolyptic?  Perhaps.  But, there is some truth here.  Events in the past month have had students texting me (ah, the irony!) about how to deal with death and helping their friends deal with it.  In essence, the great equalizer called the cyber-hermits out into the sunshine of face-to-tear-streaked-face communication.  To everyone's credit, they did wonderfully when crying together, comforting each other, and holding hands.  Perhaps these skills are not learned, but actually hard-wired into human beings?

I'd like to think so.  But, I would like to see more face-to-face events, communication, and hand-holding.  Doesn't it mean so much more to have a friend say to you, "I love you,"  rather than sending  <3 over a text?  I don't consider myself a troglodyte - as evidenced by this blog, as well as my Facebook page and smart phone.  I do think, however, that those of us over the age of, say 35, have an obligation to teach those that come after us the ways of the human world.  Let them choose our ringtones and desktop backgrounds, and we can show them how to comfort a friend, throw a party without Facebook, take a hike without a GPS for directions, and give a hug that is more than {{}}.  

It's spring time - get out there and meet people.  Have a picnic with no phones or ipods.  One of my friends had this by her Facebook profile picture (yes, I appreciate the irony of this reference):  "Quit staring at my picture and get out there and live your life."

So, let's all live our lives - use our computers, sync our ipods -  but never forget that the most important things in life are not things that have a battery life of 6-10 hours.

Anything

"What are you going to do with your one wilde and precious life?" (Mary Oliver)

     It is the season of anticipation in the senior hallways of our nation's schools.  National notification date for letters of invitation or declination is April 1 - and, no, it's not a cruel joke.  A former student called the time period of February 1- April 1 the "cone of silence."  There's nothing an applicant can do to further their cause that now finds itself on the computer screens of admissions officers on campuses everywhere.  No matter what decisions come, I have seen students embrace the power of this moment.  There is inspiration and motivation when you are eighteen and look your future square in the face.  At what other time in your life did you feel more like you could do anything?  Opportunites are endless.  The moment you are accepted to a college seems to open up the future like nothing else can.  Being in academia, I have always had the sense of renewal in the fall, but spring is the traditional time of renewal - nature and a college acceptances bear witness to this. 

     For those of us not expecting the thick envelope from the school of our dreams right now, we might pause and wonder just from where the moments of inspiration, motivation and empowerment come as we load the whites in for a hot cycle, clean the cat vomit from the carpet, check emails, and tell our children to turn off the television.  No, doing anything, having real chances to open up the future is not often on the radar screen for those of us knee-deep in adulthood.  Many of us feel like we can't do anything because we have to do everything.  This could take a middle-aged angstful turn right now, but let us try to avoid that and forge ahead.

    When a well-meaning parent, aunt or college counselor said to you, "You can do anything you want with your life," what did that person really mean?  There seems to an innate falsehood to this statement.  Even in my most athletic phase, I could not have been a professional football player or a starter for the '90-'91 Chicago Bulls.  So, no, I could not have been a Deion Sanders, a Michael Jordan, or even a Jay Cutler.  Naturally, the question arises: did you want to be those things.  Well, no.  Not really.  But, even if I had wanted to, I couldn't have.  So, where does all of this go?  Can a person truly be anything the want to be?

     How about the reverse?  Can you not be anything you don't want to be?  I never wanted to be a meth addict.  I'm not.  So, yes, it seems to work in reverse.  I did not want to be prime minister of Canada nor was I ever interested in being an astronaut.  Those ambitions have never plagued me, so I guess I'm doing pretty well.  But, wait, I never really wanted to be a high school English teacher.  As a person who has spent 22 years in high school as a student, teacher, and counselor, I have the opportunity to converse with young people about their ambitions.  In the course of such discussions, I am inevitably asked, "When did you know you wanted to be a teacher?"  The answer, as unglamorous and uninspiring as it is, is: "Never."  I never wanted to be a teacher.  Nope.  No higher calling to mold the next generation or to be an inspiration the youth of today or to ensure my own immortality through touching lives.  I became a teacher quite by default.

     I am sure that given a few moments of reflection, my sisters and mother might disagree.  I am the eldest of three girls, and I did my fair share of "playing school" with my sisters.  After a day of being told where to sit, how to walk, where to sit, what to think, and when to lay on your nap mat, it is relaxing to come home and boss your little sisters around for an hour and a half.  To be fair, they enjoyed it.  Mostly.  In fact, I even went so far as to organize a sort of pee-wee Brownie troupe for my youngest sister when she was too young to join the real Brownies.  We called it Nannie Troupe.  I think we did a few crafts and maybe even designed a t-shirt with the use of (gasp!) permanent markers.  When I started learning Russian, I foisted my knowledge on my youngest sister, as well.  Even my middle sister - who quickly found her own interests and didn't really "play school" for long - remembered a few phrases in Russian that I engrained despite her study of German and Arabic.  The point here:  I never wanted to become a teacher.  This was all child's play.  My sisters might argue that it was an advanced, slightly polished form of bullying. (Ha!  Perhaps that is all education truly is anyway.)  But, nevertheless, it was play.

     However, I did want to be a diplomat; why else would someone study Russian in 1987?  And, to that end I have two degrees in the fifth most widely spoken language in the world.  Right, it might be fifth, but I can tell you that a Russian degree is slightly more useful than a philosophy degree and slightly less useful than a degree in art history.  A one-eyed monkey can tell you that it would be hard to find a career as far away from a globe-trotting diplomat as teacher & college counselor in private school in Augusta, Georgia. 

     So, could we be wired to want what we can't have?  Probably not.  Think of all of the would-be professional athletes.  Think of all of the blinded-by-hope-for-instant-fame-and-fortune-auditioners for American Idol; a conservative estimate approximates 100,000 individuals auditioned for season eight.  Okay, so you might say that it doesn't matter what age you are - figure out what you want to do and do it.  Find a way to make it happen.  Of course, at my age, I have to take certain things into consideration:  kids, house, job, car, supper, dog, laundry, a washing machine that doesn't stay balanced....right, this list could go on.  The question remains:  Can we do anything we want to do? 

     Yes, we can.  With more patience and wisdom, we all adjust our life dreams.  We can look around today and find a way live and be and pursue our dreams.  Doing anything might not be realistic, but we can quit trying to everything and focus on a something that gives us inspiration and empowerment.  We may not be waiting for the thick envelope at the end of March, but we can be reminded that the warranty on hopes and dreams is a lifetime one.

Vegetable of My Discontent

When I arrive at someone’s house for dinner, I’m always glad to learn that green peas are not being served on the side, or indeed, included as a part of any dish.  Ever since Mom shoveled green baby mush into my mouth, I’ve had an aversion – no, aversion is too weak a word – repulsion? – ah ha!  - a loathing-  for this vegetable.  Even eggplant – which you might think would be my most hated food after Grandma Johnson’s every-dish-has-an-eggplant-component-in-it dinner – is immune to the level of disdain that I hold for peas.  Pea.  Peas.  Who chooses names of vegetables?  This is certainly a bad one.  I mean, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, artichokes all have a slightly melodious or even clever element to them.  But pea?  Right up there with leek if you ask me.  Muffin agreed with me, too.

 As many nine year-olds do, I thought I would surreptitiously provide nutrition to our dachshund mix.  Well, Muffin seemed to be gobbling up the little green jewels (Mom’s nickname, not mine).  Content that I had a staunch ally in my war against things small, round and green,  I put them in my hand, and my canine accomplice licked them up.  When we rose from the dinner table, the floor was littered with green confetti.  To say Mom was not happy would be an understatement.

This hatred survived my childhood, and years later caught up to me when I was living in the USSR, during the winter of 1990.   During one of the worse economic times in recent history, when everyone stood in line for bread, cheese, vodka…the necessities of surviving Russian winters, I had the good fortune to be invited to a friend’s apartment for a celebratory dinner. Along with the requisite appetizers, conviviality, salads, conversation, and potatoes, Ivan and Tanya served a giant bowl of – you guessed it.  Everyone happily took large servings, commenting on the rarity and generosity of this treat.  When questioned about my reticence in taking any peas, I feigned stupidity – “What are these?  I’ve never seen them before.”  I stumbled, “No, no, please you have them all…I’ve eaten too much already.”  No luck.   I pretended not to understand what was in the bowl or the Russian word – горох (goroch) – even in Russian it sounds gross!  I faltered.  Then, aha!  "У меня аллергия" – I’m allergic to them.  Russians tend to have a soft spot for medical problems.  Heads nodded gravely.  For a moment a silent, sympathetic, collective sigh.  And, then a toast!  All was well, and I was freed for the tyranny of the Soviet pea.  I ended up being served (and eating without complaint) a giant quantity of beets and sour cream, as well as a meat product that I, to this day, do not know the name of.  But, anything’s better than peas. 

Arts and Crafts: Or, Why Not to Go Greek

         People who know me now are infinitely surprised to learn that I was in a sorority in college.  Furthermore, when I go on to tell them that indeed, I was not only in a sorority, but was also pledge class president, scholarship chairman, ritual chairman, and chapter president, they nearly fall over in a faint.  Obviously, I do not have sororitiness to my present demeanor.  In fact, whenever an about-to-go-to-college-and-I’m-a-little-intimidated-about-leaving-home-and-high school friends-age person asks me for my thoughts on or recommendation for the Greek system, I have to say I discourage it with all my being.  However, it was an odd requirement of being in a Greek chapter that led to my actually being able to teach my mother something.

            In our sorority, we had family systems, as I suspect many sororities used to, and perhaps still do.  As a new pledge, you got a pledge mom.  Ostensibly, this person would show you the ropes, much like a professional mentor in the workplace.  Upon being initiated, which was after a semester of pledgedom, your mom had cross-stitched you a pledge pillow.  A remembrance, of sorts, of your childhood within the bonds of sisterhood.  After receiving your pledge pillow and full membership status, you were expected to adopt a child immediately or at the next rush, whichever came first.  I did, in fact, get a pledge daughter from the next fall rush and commenced to helping her navigate the intricacies of sorority life: 

            “Yeah, the party is Friday from 8-11.”

            “Umm, the kitchen quits serving breakfast before 2 pm.”

            In addition to such overwhelming complexities of living in a sorority, I had to figure out what cross-stitching was and find a way to make a pillow from it.  Now, one might think that someone who had taken some amount of Girl Scouts and 4-H in her earlier life, as well as having a mother who sewed and mended probably everything I wore in childhood, and who owned – well, I’m not sure, but more than three sewing machines – would have some kind of aptitude for such a mundane task as creating a token of sorority life.  Well, cross-stitching , it turned out, is not complex needlework.  Putting the pillow together properly, turning it inside out, stuffing it, and sewing the suture firmly shut actually required a PhD in civil engineering.  Nevertheless, Lisa received her pillow in due course.  I have the sense that it wasn’t until the following school year that she got it, but I can’t be sure.  I mean, between the parties, chapter meetings, schoolwork, and parties, who has time to sew?  Once I got it down, though, I realized there was potential here. 

            I stitched something for my mom for some holiday – I don’t know what it was or what holiday it commemorated.  I do know that she loved it.  (Since becoming a mother myself, I happen to know that loving any handmade craft from your child is part and parcel of the mom contract one signs upon giving birth – page three, paragraph 8.  “Mommy, I made this out of mud, dog poo, and grass – it’s sculpture of you!!”  “I love it!  I’m putting it on the kitchen window sill right next to the painted rock and remains of last year’s dandelion bouquet!”)   That I had discovered a craft that was beautiful, well, at least attractive, probably stunned my own mother.  I had never exhibited even the slightest artistic ability.  Well, I had taken ballet and performed adequately enough to garner an occasional solo at a showcase or two – but really, art and I are oil and watercolor.             

            Not long after this initial gifting, Mom asked me to show her how it was done.  Now, anyone who knows anything about crafting knows that basic cross-stitch can be done quite successfully by blind monkeys.  And, just now, I have realized that I am sure that my mother - who graduated high school at the age of 16 and went on to college, a teaching job and raising three daughters (the list could go on for pages) -  did not need my instruction in order to figure out how to cross-stitch.  Nevertheless, I showed my mom how it was done and – for the sake of my dignity -  I am going to maintain that I taught my mom how to cross-stitch. 

            I went on to make one more pledge daughter pillow, employing the help of a few engineering majors when it came to stuffing the cursed thing.  Mom, however, has gone on to create literal works of art with cross-stitch.  All seven of her grandchildren have an intricately woven framed picture commemorating the day of their birth.  I would venture to guess that anyone who knows my mother or whose mother or grandmother knows my mother has one of her works of art somewhere in their home.  I know I have at least ten of mom’s needle-art in my home. 

            So, it is with some pride that I take partial credit for the hundreds of pieces of art that my mom has created, as a result of my teaching Mom to cross-stitch.  And, if that’s too much of stretch for you, well, just remember – you can learn cross-stitch without joining the Greek system.  Just come see me.