Broken Hearts and Hope

Well, ladies and gentlemen, in the halls of your local high school it has begun.  The subtle hand-holding despite the rules against PDA; the kisses snuck in the parking lot or near the stadium before the game; the too long telephone calls and too many text messages.  I had my first “I can’t live without him” discussion with one of my students early last week.  I told her that in fact, despite what she thinks, she can, indeed live without him and live well at that.  Those of you who know me, know that I have had my share of this sort of thing: being the dumpee and also being the counselor to the dumpees (both male and female).  High school can be cruel in the area of relationships, but so can life. 

One can make arguments for never letting one’s children date.  I had a rule:  you must be sixteen and able to drive.  Reasons?  I don’t drive people on dates.  And sixteen is a good arbitrary number.  And I’m the Mom.  Eldest son never fussed about this rule.  As the eldest, he accepted his fate at the object of parenting experiments, and, anyway, he was always happier with a book or LOTR marathon.  Middle son insisted he had a girlfriend in middle school.  He was wrong.  He argued.  I won.  Youngest son thinks he has had a girlfriend since kindergarten.  He is also wrong.  I will win. 

Still, whenever the New Year starts, I think it is natural to want to have that special someone to share it with.  To go to dances with.  To hold hands in the hallway with.  And, those of us single adults want the adult equivalents.  Our school has various events throughout the year, and we must RSVP for ourselves and our guest.  I always RSVP with a grin, “I’m coming, and maybe, if the planets align, I will bring someone.”  I go alone or with my dear friends. I do think that the events coordinator would fall over in a fit if I ever showed up with a “someone.”

All of these football, homecoming dance, and relationship ponderings of my students reminded me of a sketch I wrote at one of the summer writing sessions.  I offer it here for your consideration.  And, I hope that no matter what your relationship status that you are well loved and thoughtfully cared for.

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

Tears.  Mutterings and awkward hand holding.  He is clearly breaking up with her.  She is the kind of girl boys break up with.  Especially when the boys in question are 20 and shallow and lack forethought.  Her hair is not brown neither blonde nor red – an indeterminate color and her eyes are pale and washed with the pain of never yet being the dumper – always the dumpee.  It is not a fun place to be for her.  In fairness, he is not comfortable, either.  Trying to stroke her hand and bring comfort to a place he just made ultimately uncomfortable.  Did she give her virginity to him?  He to her?  Has he realized that she is too self-centered or too controlling or too interested in marriage?  Maybe she realized those same things about him long ago and chose to overlook them in favor of being with someone rather than being alone.  She looks away, wipes her eyes, willing the tears to flow or to stop.  He looks at the ground, shifts restlessly, and glances at his phone, checking the time or the text message that he would really like to get but hasn’t yet.

We have all been there.  We have begged someone whom we knew not to be the right person to stay with us.  Why?  Because being with someone – even a sub-par someone is better than being alone.  In this culture of couples – it is hard to have the resolve to be alone.  Alone.  Not lonely.  Just alone.  There’s a difference.  I was dumped at 20 – at 17, too.  And, again at 23.  I’m sure there are other times – we all can mark a few of them.  We shed the tears or we created the tears.  Or a little of both.  We have been uncomfortably waiting for the text that never comes.  We have gone home to our dog, our childhood blanket, and a pint of Rocky Road.  We have drunk one too many shots of whiskey and almost called.  Or we did call.  Or we texted.  And it wasn’t good. 

About two months ago I got a call from one of those sweepstakes things you fill out at the annual home and garden show.  The kind where you get a 4 night-5 day stay somewhere fabulous as long as you agree to hear the sales pitch and fill out some questionnaires.  They are good deals, if you have no money to invest or the willpower to say “No, thanks.”  After a few preliminary questions, the gentleman with a lisp on the other end of the line asked me who I might bring with me on such an excursion.  I said, “Hmm. Maybe my son.”  He then proceeded to ask me if I were married, if I lived with someone, or if I had a partner.  No. No. No.  He said this offer was only for those in relationships. He promised to call back with a different promotion for singles.  I don’t expect to hear from him.

In a culture that smacks of marriage-worship, it can be hard to be alone.   And, when you’re young and you haven’t yet had your first job, bought your first house, or had your first child, and you’re ever so slightly afraid of really living by yourself, it’s even harder to be singular.  I sympathize with that girl – even if she knew he was all wrong for her.  And I sympathize with that boy – even if he had a new girl lined up.  This isn’t the last time they will be alone, but my hope is that they can embrace the peace that is found in solitude in order to find the meaning that can be in a relationship. 

How was your summer?

“How was your summer?” has been reverberating in the hallways of high schools and across college campuses for the past few weeks.  The traditional “What I did on Summer Vacation” essays will have been read, graded, and revised within the next two weeks.   So, how was your summer?  How was your summer?  How was your summer? 

My summer wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad either.  Like hundreds of thousands of people across the nation, my summer began with the end of school.  I finished my 24^th year in high school on June first.  For sixteen of those years, I was a classroom teacher.  So, a few days, a couple of meetings, and one well-intentioned but always ill-conceived end of the year luncheon after graduation, summer began. Not being a classroom teacher now, though, I work through the summer (like the vast majority of Americans).  The hallways are quieter, but the work continues: testing statistics, best practice research, cleaning out last year’s publications to make room for the next year.  We have things to do over the summer. 

Everybody does:

Vacations.

Cook outs.

Baseball games.

Beach trips.

Family reunions.

We all have things to do over the summer whether or not we work full time during these three precious months.  And, now here we all are at the end, ready to go back and report on how we spent our time.  Perhaps we share some common ground.

I revisited the city where I spent five college years.  I went to two weekend conferences there, and I still agree with myself: this is a great city to live in.  My son, who is a junior there, disagrees and argues that the tenor of the town changes when the undergrads are drunk in the streets.  Yep, I remember.  But, I wouldn’t be a part of that scene if I lived there as an adult.  Still a great place: cultural, gastronomical, athletic, literary opportunities abound.  In between those two weekends, I visited my parents in the town and home where I spent my formative years.  I hung out with a high school friend, a college friend, and a friend of my sister’s.  More traffic there.  I still mostly know my way around there despite an absence of thirteen years.  I feel like I could, indeed, go home again and be quite comfortable. 

Then, I spent some time alone.  Not by design, but due to the fact that eldest son was in summer school, middle son was on a beach trip with friends and then at summer language camp, and youngest son was with his dad.  I found out I can, pretty comfortably, not talk to anyone for hours on end.  A good thing?  I think so.  Middle son was worried that I became anti-social during this time.  Not so.  Also during this time, I was privileged to help a friend who was recovering from surgery.  Yes, I was alone, but I didn’t curl up or wither up.  I did the things that about fifteen years ago I would have lamented never having time to do:  read the whole newspaper, watch the movies I wanted to see, go to the bathroom alone, make exactly what I wanted for supper and then eat it while I read my favorite book.

Finally, it was road trip time.  Ten days up to New York state and back, including lots of points in between with middle son.  It is good to change your surroundings occasionally – from rearranging furniture to just seeing something new outside of the car window – this can refresh your approach to life.  And so it did for me.  We also did some planning for the future; he is a high school senior, and the future looms, inviting him to new places and marking changes for me.

We didn’t go to the beach and, blessedly, I only had to watch one baseball game.  For me this summer was about looking back when we were in Iowa; reviewing the past and the places where I come from.  It was also about discovering peace in the present.  Where I thought there might be panic or fear, I found that I enjoy my own company, and I have dear friends to spend time with.  Finally, in the college visit road trip, I have begun to embrace the future fact that two-thirds of my family will be gone next year at this time. 

Maybe you watched a lot of baseball; maybe you spent weeks at beach or did the family reunion thing.  Perhaps you had an illness to contend with or a wedding that launched you into a new life.  As a teacher and parent, September first has always been more of a New Year than the one in January.  As we enter this New Year, my hope for you is that you embrace what you have learned from the past, you have peace in your present, and some really great plans for the future.  How was your summer?

Control

The other night I was invited to a friend’s house.  Out of the blue.  The kind of invitation that makes you think, “Who canceled and how far down on the I-guess-we-could-invite-her list was I?”  Still, I was free and so were the drinks, so I went.  It was a small gathering – the kind of gathering that evokes Jordan Baker’s Gatsby musing:  “At small parties there’s never any privacy.”  Indeed there wasn't, but we were an amiable group and all of the people (dog and baby included) chatted and enjoyed shared company for the evening.

At one point a woman began extolling the virtues and coolness of a new gadget she had been using, the UP by Jawbone.  This bracelet-like device that tracks exercise and sleep habits, calories burned, and probably a few more things that I’m forgetting right now.  It is sleek looking and plugs directly into your iPhone or iPad to convert its data into charts and graphs.  She demonstrated her new device for about thirty minutes, then she wandered off to make loud and uncomfortably intimate inquiries of her teenage son who was busying himself with reruns of The Big Bang Theory on television.

The next day, I recalled that my friend Kathy has a Jawbone device; I proceeded to text her, inquiring about it usefulness.  Kathy thought the device was interesting and useful, but she doesn't always wear it as a matter of fashion.  Next was my sister, a trainer and a person who, unless under extreme duress, has not missed a day of exercise since 1982.  Her response to the capabilities of this device:  just eat a little, exercise a little, sleep a little.  In short, why buy a device to track or remind you to do this?  She posed this question:  if someone told you they wanted to read 20 minutes a day and had purchased a device to help them do this, what would you say?  She went on to assert that all one really needs to do is put it in one’s calendar, and do it.

My sister isn’t wrong, but people feel the need to control things.  The modern person seems to think that controlling everything is best. If people didn’t feel this way, the Jawbone, helicopter parenting, and these house alarms with cameras that you can access from your phone would not have been invented.  Despite such advances (not including the helicopter parenting), people are at a loss as to how to control their worlds.  The idea of self-control does not seem to apply here, so the idea that one can simply put it on the calendar and do it goes out the window.  This has to do with the inundation of information that people receive.  Surface information.  We hear about things, or we see them in our Facebook feeds, or we skim a headline, and voila! we are “informed.”  The more we are informed, the more we feel that we must do.  We must eat organic and local; we must exercise 30 minutes a day; we must spend 20 minutes a day reading with our child; we must call our parents daily; we must track our sleep patterns; we must know our cholesterol.   It’s all a bit much.  Add to this that we need to be informed about current events and bake cupcakes for the fund-raiser tomorrow, top it all off with remembering usernames and passwords, and it gets hard to breathe. It is a bastardized keeping up with the Joneses. 

Once we have information and perceived requirements for living, we must get everything scheduled and organized and planned.  And, then once that’s done, we are in control.  Whew.  We can relax and follow the schedule.  Except.  Except the information is ever-changing.  So are circumstances.  Who hasn’t gotten the week planned when a beloved spouse throws a wrench into the plans with a business trip or a wild hair to finally fix the bathroom tile?  Maybe an illness or a broken toe curtails our planned dog-walking.  Perhaps a long-lost friend calls.  A child comes home with a half-frozen, starving kitten that needs to be nursed through the night.  Such occurrences madden so many people and stress so many relationships because such occurrences are not the calendar.  The thing is: human beings want to be in control.    The ever-changing refuses to be controlled.  People don’t like that.  If I don’t know what’s going to happen next, I can’t be in control, and if I am not in control, then things might get hairy, and if things get hairy, I may react in an unpredicted way, and if I react in an unpredicted way people may see the real, deep-heart me, and if people see the real me…  Aha!  Perhaps the heart of this control issue is here: have human beings become afraid of being human?  Would we like to be slightly agitated or a sniveling mess?  Can we go to work overly tired because we spent the night on the phone with an old friend in distress?  Is it okay to skip a workout to meet a new friend?  If it’s not in the plan, then perhaps we shouldn't.   If you stick to your carefully planned day, then you will know what is going to happen and avoid unforeseen emotions or stresses.

Real, human responses to crises and opportunities are not planned ahead of time.  But we don’t want to be vulnerable to forces outside of ourselves.  Our school motto is “To be rather than to seem.”  But, that isn’t the real world‘s motto.  The real world would like things to seem okay, because if everything seems okay, then the seeming has to eventually become reality, right?  In order for things to seem okay, we need to control many of those things – preferably all of them.  But, being in control is exhausting even with a smart phone and a sleep-tracking bracelet.

I am particularly good at getting organized, especially at the start of a new school year, but I sometimes stink at the follow-through.  I have a smart phone to help me get and stay organized, but let me be honest, sometimes I just play Ruzzle and text friends…okay, most often I just do that. If whatever devices, from jotting things down on the calendar to tracking your sleep and steps with a mini-computer, help you to make plans and live the life you want to live, then “it’s all good.”  Still, rather than using such things for control, perhaps we should use them for organization, and maybe we can all remember to embrace this messy, unplannable life that is at its happiest when unannounced guests come by and the best laid plans and sleep patterns get thrown out the window. 

On Yogurt, Moose, and Giving Back

Last month my middle son and I embarked on a 10-day, 14-college road trip in the Northeast, Mid-Atlantic and Southeast.  Three pounds of Twizzlers, twelve Dasani, nine cool local cafés, half a pound of peanut butter pretzels, seven “Bear Crossing” signs, five rolls of Spree, two iPods, eleven states, six Perriers, one pound of almonds, one unsatisfying café on the Erie Canal, and innumerable tanks of gas, we were home again.  I learned a lot about the colleges we visited.  I also learned that in Vermont they “take their speed limits very seriously,” and the trooper is happy to regale you with the tale of the hit-and-run moose death while he stands precariously on the side of a mountainous road.  (speed limit: 50).  Lots of learning. 

One of the things we learned is that mid-level hotel breakfast bars are about the same nationwide – at least east of the Mississippi.  Let me just confess now that I am not a yogurt fan.  I foisted it on all three of my sons in their formative years, and they all enjoy it greatly.  I tried kefir when I lived in Moscow.  Gelatinous milk product just doesn't do it for me.  I know that it’s good for me – watch any daytime TV, and Jamie Lee Curtis will smile and have you believe that her life is worth living due to a certain brand of this dairy product.  Still, in the past year, a colleague encouraged me to try Greek yogurt, and I have come to tolerate it, if not occasionally enjoy it.  So, imagine my delighted surprise when the third hotel morning into the trip, there were not only the requisite muffins, but also Greek yogurt.  The next day, however, we were back to the standard yogurts.  I commented to my son that I wished there were Greek yogurt at each hotel.  His response?  An askew glance and a good-natured but chiding, “Some people have don’t even have food, Mom.  First world probs.”

Yes, he is right:  the UN estimated that there were 870 million undernourished people worldwide in 2012.  Of these, 16 million live in developed countries.  All my life I have seen commercials about sponsoring suffering children, as well as heard half-jokes about cleaning your plate because someone is starving somewhere in the world.  However, I cannot see the connection between my off-handed wish for Greek yogurt and world hunger.  Just as a little girl sitting in Iowa, being forced to clean her plate does not alleviate a hunger problem in a village in Africa; my hope of yogurt does not instantly cause life-giving grains and water to be denied to someone on the other side of the planet. 

I am not belittling the world hunger problem at all.  My observation is this: there seems to be a proliferation of the ill-conceived thought that because there are problems in the world, those of us who live decently must not voice any desires for that which we do not have.  I guess the thought is that since we (not sure where the socio-economic stratus starts and ends here) have so much, we dare not complain, wish for more, or fail to drop a few dollars in the red pots at Christmas time.  I think this way of thinking is a problem.  Simply put:  because there are problems in the world does not mean I am not allowed to enjoy my life or wish for Greek yogurt on a rainy upstate morning.

Of course, I am aware of how offendingly elitist the previous paragraph may sound.  But, really, the thing is that there are groups of people (teens, like my dear son, are heavily represented in such groups) who feel that until the entire world has food and water, those of us who have shouldn't complain about anything and we should donate to everything.  It’s a bit overwhelming. 

On this same trip, we stayed one night in a bed and breakfast in New England.  A lovely place which was originally a lodging house, and, we found out later, was haunted in room 20.  (We stayed in room 27).  As a matter of convenience, the owners laid out small toiletries in the bathroom.  Please know that I almost always use such toiletries when on a road trip and if I don’t use them, I leave them in place.  I don’t hoard them, but if I use a portion of a lotion or shampoo, I bring it along with me to use later.  In short, I try not to be wasteful.   At this inn, however, near the basket of toiletries, was a request that we leave our partially used tubes there so that they could be donated to a local children’s charity.  Why is a tube of shampoo no longer than my middle finger, three quarters used being donated?  If the owners wish to donate to this cause, perhaps an annual donation is in order – but small, partially consumed tubes?  This has to be as annoying to the recipients as the request was off-putting to me.   

Well, on a 3700 mile trip one has time for a lot of Twizzlers, a lot of highly questionable music selections, and a lot of reflection.  Why is it that we seem to have polarized our society into those who donate half used lotions to charities vs. those who are above even mentioning what they want because they just go buy it without a second thought?  I fall somewhere in the middle.

I’m uncomfortable.  I’m squeezed.  I’m caring.  I’m annoyed.

I donate to our school’s various campaigns for umbrellas for the homeless, gently used books for our African sister school, and the eyeglass drive for the blind.  (And, I even refrain from the curiously cynical remark that comes to mind every year at that last event.)  However, why must the mentality of needing to always be ready to donate and not being allowed a wish for an additional comfort be confronted at every turn?  Has it become essential to think of less fortunate people every moment of every day?  If so, how, then is one expected to also “seize the moment” and “enjoy life”?  I suspect there exists a group of well-meaning but rather hard people who are working on a movement to ensure that those of us with even a small modicum of comfort in life are uncomfortable with our comfort until the world’s problems have all been eradicated.  The thing is:  that’s not realistic.

Some of you will think that there are political ramifications that I am missing here.  There are.  Others may think that I’m heartless.  I’m not.  I think I’m kind of normal.  I have a career.  I have kids.  I pay taxes.  I have pets.  I try to do good.  And, I am happy to help with causes.  I have learned it is good to donate and help.  Like you, though, I don’t want to always be asked to donate – at the bank, at the grocery store, at the bed and breakfast.  I have learned that I have it really good compared to most of the world.  I am grateful.  But, I think we are entitled to keep our half-used lotion for later in the day.  And, once in a while, I’d like to have a Greek yogurt on the breakfast bar.  I don’t need it.  It’d just be nice.

No Apology Necessary

“I’m sorry.”  Two words that are expected to heal a multitude of hurts.  Well, that and about 2-6 months of apologizing over and over again, as well as the natural tendency many humans have to beat themselves up after a misstep, even when it’s been forgiven and forgotten by the offended party.  The idea that we must all keep apologizing is unsound.  There are certainly some things you apologize for.  Other things you should never apologize for.  And, some, well, it can be a slippery slope. 

Recently, I visited a friend in the hospital.  She was recovering from invasive surgery the result of which required painkillers which in turn caused “loopiness” and exhaustion.  Less than 24 hours after her surgery, I was sitting in her room with her.  We were doing the normal hospital nothing-and-everything chatting that people do when they are simply passing time together.  Inside of three hours, this lovely lady apologized for:  being in pain, closing her eyes, wincing in pain, not having her phone on, not talking much, and needing to go to the bathroom.  She also apologized to the nurse for her IV getting infiltrated.  Goodness, I think if you have major surgery, you are totally exempt from the need to apologize for anything until you have regained your strength and your senses.  (Note: This may take 4-8 weeks, lots of sympathy and love, as well as several pints of ice cream.)

Years ago, my sister was hospitalized after a car wreck.  It was serious.  ICU-serious.  Everything that we did and talked about was life-and-death serious.  After she died, I remember crying a lot.  Not only at the hospital, but also at home.  At work.  At Walmart.  Everywhere.  I found myself saying, “Sorry.  My sister just died.”  What?  Why was I apologizing?  I didn’t kill her.  I had nothing to be sorry for.  William Carlos Williams has a poem that prescribes crying and wailing as a proper mourning technique.  People who are grieving should cry.  Really, they only should apologize if they don’t cry when a loved one has died.  When did it become required to apologize for loving someone and missing them and shedding tears when they are gone?

Civility yes.  Mindless empty apologies?  No.  I am also tired of hearing people apologize for talking to me on the phone.  In my profession, I deal with a variety of  client bases.  These groups include teenagers, their parents, colleagues in our school, and college representatives.  People from all of these groups will call or email me with legitimate questions or requests, and almost always I hear, “Sorry to bother you but…”   or “Dear Ms. Johnson, I am sorry to email you about this but…”  Huh?  It’s my JOB to provide you with information and support – why on earth are you apologizing for asking me to do my job?  C’mon in and let me know what you need.  Say thank you when I’ve provided it and begone!

There is a linguistic fad that is now passing (thankfully!) that is a “sorry” in disguise.  People make an observation about other human beings and their actions, usually noting something undesirable and then tagging the comment with “just sayin’.”  For example:  “People should totally use their turn signals when driving. Just sayin’.”  Or, “He doesn’t need to text me twenty times a day.  Just sayin’.”  No. People should totally use their turn signals.  It’s a safety issue.  It’s the law.  And, he probably doesn’t need to text you that much.  No need to soften these comments with implicit apologies for noting the assininity of the human race.

Other times the phrase “I’m sorry” is a catch-all.  If a co-worker inquires how I am in the morning, I might tell my colleague I’m not feeling great.  The standard issue phrase that many people pull out is “I’m sorry.”  We all know that this phrase actually means, “I care enough to utter two words but not enough to ask you anything further; in fact, I must now go, so contact me again when you are feeling better.  Ado, plebeian.”  It’s okay.  It’s not truly an apology and I don’t truly need one from that person.  I mean, the colleague in question didn’t make me stay one hour and two margaritas too long at book club last night.  Also, when someone mentions a death in the family, we can see the traditional “I’m sorry” brought out.  Here, of course, what we are saying is that we are sorry for our interlocutor’s loss.  In place of a more intimate inquiry, this seems legitimate use of the phrase.  Now, you might argue that the aforementioned colleague is also sympathizing with our condition.  Not so.  In the latter instance, the situation is out of the respondent’s control, and an “I’m sorry” stands as a legitimate response to a such a loss.   

So, if you wrong someone – and I mean truly wrong someone, not just push your cart around them in the grocery store or put your McDonald’s cup under the ice dispenser before they even step up to the drink machine – by all means apologize.  Do it sincerely.  Be sure to do it in a way that does not negate the apology:  “I’m sorry, but…” does not count.  “I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.  What can I do to make this up to you?”  Something like that.  But, if you’ve had surgery, are asking for something you are legitimately entitled to, or commenting on the foolishness of people in general, no apology is necessary.

Center Stage

Whenever a musical came around in high school, I would like to tell you I was the star of the show.   This would be a lie.  The first musical I tried out for was Oklahoma!  I tried out to be a dancer in the chorus.  I was told that I wasn’t cast because I was on the basketball team, and rehearsals and practice would conflict.  The truth?  I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, and I’m not all that graceful.  Perhaps the two activities did collide – whatever the case, I was relegated to stage crew.  No one headed up make up, so I took over.  I organized, sorted, and matched the needed hues to the whole cast -  I was in charge.  I did the eyeliner on the guys and advised the girls.   I doled out the foundation sticks, highlighted cheek bones, and kept everyone stage ready at all times.  No melting under my watchful care.

I remember one particular incident when I was trying to line Lee’s eyes.  In fact, it was for the drama/comedy You Can’t Take It With You.  I was in the play, but somehow was still doing make-up, as well.  Lee was having none of it – convinced I was performing some sort of back alley lasik on him, he fidgeted and cursed   At final dress rehearsal, I was kneeling next to his chair, trying to finish his make-up so I could go get mine done. Fidget. Curse. Fidget. Curse.  Finally, in an exasperated huff, I elbowed him in the crotch.  One more curse.  Then he sat still.  And every night thereafter. It wasn't that Lee didn't want his eyes lined – he knew he had recessed sort of piggish eyes that just do not stand out on stage without help.  So, what was it then?  In retrospect, I’d say Lee took pride in being different and difficult.  And, he wanted to do his own make-up.  Fast forward to his junior year and Lee could apply his own eyeliner.  He still cursed and probably fidgeted; I didn't have to deal with it, but we weren't really on good terms either.

Just last week, my 11 year-old son, Nate, got his ear pierced.  With my blessing and my thirty-six dollars.  He had wanted to do so for about six months, and I put him off.  He did the pre-pubescent equivalent of fidgeting and cursing:  hounding me.  Every time he thought of it:  in the middle of the night, while driving to Kroger, pumping gas. By putting Nate’s request off, I was in control.  I was kneeling by his chair, trying to make him look the way that his dad insisted him to for the world.   I knew his father (my ex-husband) would not approve of a piercing, but when push came to shove, my son had good reasons for wanting it, and I saw no valid reason to deny him a show of self-expression.  And, any thinking parent of an adolescent will tell you that if an earring and an occasional weird haircut are as bad as it gets, you’re batting 1.000 in the teen parent league.  However, upon informing his father of this fact, dear old dad kindly banned my son from his home and his mother (son’s grandmother) quickly followed suit. 

My son offered to cover the offending 3mm stud with a small, skin tone bandage while visiting his dad and grandmother.  This offer was firmly declined.  He was then subjected to a litany of reasons why earrings were not for boys:  not socially acceptable, not Biblical, buying into Hollywood propaganda, earrings are only for girls, your mother made you do this, you are embracing the homosexual lifestyle.  The list actually does go on – in a similarly ridiculous way.

The fact of the matter is that he wanted to get his ear pierced for legitimate reasons:  it makes him feel cool; his brothers both have one; he likes it.  Simple.  But, what he really wanted, was some control.  He wanted me to quit kneeling by the chair; he wanted control over one square inch of ear lobe realty.  A boy, starting middle school in the fall, wanting to have some control of his own body?  Seems reasonable.  Seems plausible.  And, if you've been a pre-pubescent boy, it’s nice to control something about your ever-changing body.  Not really that big of a deal despite father’s and grandmother’s alarm that the yawning mouth of hell was opening, ready to swallow him whole. 

One might argue that I could have avoided all of this by not allowing the piercing.  By putting him off.  By kneeling next to the chair, demanding to be in control.  We have all seen our share of kids who went down questionable paths when denied the right to self-expression. Nate is verging on being the age where he does, in fact, get to start making his own decisions, and this is a minute one in the grand scheme of things.  I don’t want to have to throw an elbow to the groin, so I’ll let him grow his hair and have an earring.  It is his turn in the limelight.  I’m happy for him.  He is doing his own eyeliner.  After all, I don’t need to take center stage here; my only job to make sure that he doesn't melt under the glare of the lights.  

Independence and Strong Winds

Yesterday my eldest son called me from college to lament the fact that with half the summer now gone, he finally found a summer job.  The deal we had was that he could go to summer semester if he paid his own living expenses, hence the need for a job.  After a month of sweating it, this looks like it will pan out.  However, he noted that he was going to have to go to class most of the day, then work all evening, and then he’d have to get up earlier to study for class.  His whole day would be taken up with – gasp – work!  Either class work or work-work or working out (which he has to do to stay in shape for his ROTC scholarship).  He went on to tell me that real life wasn't like this: you didn't have to work your job and then work after your job, too.  (I chuckled.  Out loud.) He was lamenting not because he is incapable.  Not because he’s a spoiled baby.  He was lamenting simply because he has been hit on the head with the brick of adult life.  

Last week at a conference in Iowa, the coordinator gave strict instructions to the attendees:  if there’s a tornado warning do not follow the people from Iowa.  Why?  Because the people from Iowa would not take shelter, they would go out to see the storm.  When I was little, the sirens could send me, my sisters, and mom to the basement in the late afternoon or even in the middle of the night.  I remember more than one basement sleep out due to the Ozian conditions outside.  Well, I actually don’t know what the conditions were because I was relegated to the basement.  However, I do remember realizing that Dad was rarely in the basement with us.  He was on the porch, watching the storm do its thing.  I suppose he wanted to see the beast that was to sweep us all away or maybe he was simply giving instructions to the wind, “Okay, that’s good.  Now, move on so I can go to bed; I have work in the morning.”  I do clearly remember the first time I was allowed not to be in the basement – I was about in 5^th grade, and the sirens were blaring outside and the weathermen were predicting wind-induced apocalypse.  Mom trundled my sisters downstairs, and I slipped through the living room to join Dad on the porch.  The wind, the rain, the dark clouds were all thrilling.  “This isn't going to amount to much, Laura,” and Dad walked around the garage to make sure the garbage cans hadn't overturned.  From that time on, I didn't have to go to the basement.

Maybe such feelings of being grown up are not really true.  The fact of the matter is:  my dad was right there.  I felt independent, and of course I lorded it over my sisters the next day that I didn't have to cower downstairs.  But, in retrospect, it wasn't the standing on the porch that made Dad a grown up  - it was that he righted the garbage cans before he went back inside.  That’s the stuff grown-up, independent life is made of, as my eldest is finding out this summer.  

Compared to many of my peers, I have been a late bloomer in the traditions of growing up.  I bought my first car at age 42.  I bought my first house at age 43.  Sure, I've been employed ever since I had a shopper newspaper route that I complained vociferously about every week.  And, I've been a mom for 20 years. But still, although I've been watching the tornadoes pass since 5^th grade, I have only recently taken on these major adult signs of independence.  It’s overrated.  I’m ready to get rid of some of them, just as my eldest son is taking stock and adjusting his sails to adult winds. 

Independence is what we celebrate today, and the thing that I am reminded of on this day is that with independence comes responsibility.  Without going down some patriotic path, it behooves me to remember that the bricks of adult life – whatever they may be for each individual – are what we build our lives with.  And, dad isn't always going to be on the porch with us.  We have to tend to our own garbage cans.  The summer jobs, the classes, the relationships, the places to live, the hobbies, the games, the friends, the things we fill our time with – these are the independences that our lives are made of.  And, yes, indeed, if any wind is going to try and sweep things away, I do want to meet it.  In the meantime, though, I will try to help my son choose his bricks wisely while reconsidering my own.