My husband is a brilliant man. Very knowledgeable. About many things. I don’t say that to brag, rather to highlight his ability to answer our kids’ questions in many areas, including obscure historical facts and tidbits. But when it comes to math? He’s not their go to person. I am.
And I have to admit…it feels pretty darn good.
Sometimes I feel pretty inadequate when I don’t know the answers to questions about Greek mythology (was never a passion of mine) or ancient Rome (ditto).
But math? I love math. I tutored Calculus in college. I probably should have majored in Applied Mathematics. It’s exciting to me. Magical. Actually, I’ve been known to lecture the kids about the magic of math and to do so with a sparkle in my eyes and a smile on my face.
And you know what? My kids love math. I don’t mean to be smug; I mean, I’m not giving myself all the credit for that fact. But I bet it doesn’t hurt that I can get pretty excited about thePythagorean Theorem . Or that I’ve told them about the navy t-shirt (I even remember the color) I used to have when I was around ten with a sketch on it that looked something like this:
Yeah, I’ve always loved math. In fact, when I was around my daughter’s age, special time with my dad consisted of his teaching me about the Base 10 system and slide rules . Woohoo!
So…why not celebrate it? I don’t shove it in their faces or insist that they learn about the slide rule before ever using a calculator (which is what my dad did with me). But they’re well aware of my passion for math. And they don’t hesitate to come to me with any questions that arise as they tackle daily homework.
Walking around the streets near Columbia University in Manhattan on a beautiful spring day, I stopped abruptly when I saw the sign. It said "Tom’s Restaurant" on one side of the building and "Restaurant" on the other. I stared for a moment or two, then grabbed the arm of another chaperone and said, "Wait. We have to stop. Do you recognize that place?" As soon as she saw it, she knew.
She, too, was a loyal fan of the Seinfeld series. She knew it was the home of the "Big Salad," the place where George, Elaine and Jerry frequently met and discussed sometimes controversial (but mostly mundane) topics. Where George griped about everything under the sun and Jerry pondered imponderables.
Without hesitation, we went inside for lunch and noticed that the interior looked nothing like it did on the show - completely different floorplan, different art on the walls (this place was covered with signed caricatures and photos of the stars of the show), different condiment containers and different booths.
But the hostess? She could have come straight out of one of the sitcom’s episodes.
Here’s the scene. The restaurant is quite small, with three rows of booths, very narrow aisles between them and a counter. One booth could be described by restaurant people as a "six-top" which means it seats six adults, all the others seat four.
We arrived before the lunch rush, so most of the booths were empty. We were a group of eight, two chaperones and six kids. Or, if you look at it the way I looked at it, two groups of four people each. I had been traveling around Manhattan with the same three girls, so I was expecting to sit in a booth with the four of us (as we had done for every other meal).
The hostess had a different idea.
With a gorgeously strong, rapid fire Manhattan accent, she asserted, " ‘Ow menny ya got? Ya got eight? Right here! Come ohvah heaah. You can sit heaah. Eight. Right? Yeaah. It’s peh-fect. We’ll just pull up a chair, put it on the end. Theaah ya go. The rest of ya sit…ya know…theaah."
She gestured matter of factly toward the six top and looked into my eyes as if it were an order, not a suggestion. I hesitated…knowing, first of all that certain girls didn’t want to sit together and the way they were about to squeeze in would have resulted in elbowing, arguing and an all around unpleasant dining experience. Just try to shove tween girls together who don’t like each other very much, you’ll quickly discover just how nasty they can get. It’s a catty, sarcastic phase.
But the hostess could care less.
She scowled at me with growing impatience and a "WTF are ya doin’ ya frickin’ tourist? Sit ya a@# down already!" kind of look, still motioning for us to fill in the six-top booth.
Meanwhile, some of the girls had climbed out of the six-top, others had climbed in, and my three girls had opened menus, sat down and started getting comfortable in a four top in the next row. They then said, "We’re sitting here ," without even looking up from the menus.
Our lovely hostess, now completely annoyed with us, tried one last attempt, "Wha? Ya got eight, right? Right here. Whaat’s wrong with this? This is fa eight. Right heeaah. I got a chair. I’ll put the chair heeaah. You’ll be fine."
I explained that we were fine as we were. No thanks, we would just sit separately. It was better that way. For us. You know, the customers . We grumbled among ourselves as if we were taking cues from George Costanza himself. "Do you believe that woman? Expecting us to squeeze in there?! Ridiculous! What was she thinking? Well, I’m not doing it."
Lovely hostess rolled her eyes, threw up her arms, sighed and said, "Fine. Whatevah."
But it wasn’t fine.
She came back again and said, "Ya know…if we get busy…now you’re takin’ up two booths. You can all fit in that one booth. It’s fa eight. Y’can sit ova theeaah (motioning again in the direction of the six-top)."
"Uh, well, sorry, we’re already here. It’s early. We’ll probably be gone before you fill up. If we have to move later, we will. But we’d rather stay here. For now. Okay?" I offer in my most sincere, midwestern (please let this end soon) voice.
Just as the drinks arrived, another group of five (that happened to also be part of our main group) walked in the door. Five. All of the girls were tiny, young tweens, so they dove right into a four-top booth. But the hostess would not have it. She walked over to the half of our group sitting in the six-top and commanded them, "Yor gonna haffta move. We gotta bigga group heeaaah. Ya gotta move."
They packed up the drinks, menus and personal belongings and sat in the four-top booth behind us.
I had to laugh. Would there be any better way to enjoy the restaurant from Seinfeld? Thanks, lady. Now can I get that Big Salad?
When I first read an outrageous headline screaming something like “Miley Cyrus Bare in Vanity Fair” I felt shocked and disappointed. I wondered whether she was about to topple off her teen-pop-star-queen throne despite the fact that she seemed so centered (due in large part to her strong family support system).
I mean, would I want my daughter to pose like that at fifteen? Of course not. But that’s not the point. It’s incomparable. Apples to oranges. Cyrus is huge. Mega gargantuan. Tickets for her concerts sold out in minutes. She’s a pop megastar. She travels in a different universe.
Besides, Cyrus admitted her mistake, quickly apologized and expressed regret about the controversial photo. Okay, fine. Let’s just forgive the girl and move on.
But…then I spoke with my kids about Miley’s photo.
They expressed outrage. Disappointment. Even disgust.
Darling Daughter: “Why would she do something like this? She’s fifteen! Fifteen! She shouldn’t have let them take that kind of picture of her.”
Dear Son: “First it was Britney Spears and then Jamie Lynn Spears and now this?!”
DD: “She’s huge! What does she want… more fans?!”
DS: “It’s disgusting.”
DD: “Yeah. It’s just wrong.”
DS: “What does she think all the little kids are going to think? Does she even care?”
Their theory was that maybe Miley wanted to change the balance of the whole “Best of Both Worlds” shtick. They believe that she does “way more” Hannah Montana (fun, simple, happy songs) and only a few Miley Cyrus (harder, rockier, racier songs).
“Maybe,” they pondered, “she wants to do more of the Miley. But she’s only fifteen. All those fans that love the Hannah Montana side are still there. And they’re really disappointed.”
I think they have a point. Fans often follow the fads and images presented by their idols. I remember Madonna way back in the 80s and the whole material girl trend. She influenced fashions while encouraging girls to express themselves.
Young girls dream about their idols and think things like, “I want to be just like her!” Most of Cyrus’s fans range from about six to thirteen. Would we want those young girls posing the way she posed? Again, no. Annie Leibovitz is not going to be taking any of their portraits.
The most disconcerting part of the photo shoot for me was that it did seem as if she wanted something more. As if she wanted to expand her fan base to reach older kids. But not yet, Miley, not yet. Ride this wave just a little longer. Please. Don’t rush it. Your childhood’s already been mangled. No need to try to leap frog over it altogether. There will plenty of time for reinvention. Look at Madonna.
The difference is that Madonna’s fans did not see her getting racy and over the top until she was well into her twenties. And most of her fans were around the same age (or at least in the same generation).
Miley’s fans are much younger than she is and, if she starts to drastically change her image, we don’t want them following in her footsteps. Miley has been the exception to the unfortunate rule of young pop stars like Britney, Lindsay and Jamie Lynn.
Miley was always the breath of fresh air. We need that air. Please learn from this mistake, Miley.
Last year around Mother’s Day, I heard someone say that mothers are closest to their children when they’re in the womb. From the moment they’re born we’re slowly letting them go. I agree. When they’re babies they need our help; but year by year they grow more independent. By the time they get to school, it’s best to let them do their own thing and learn what they’re there to learn. Even if those lessons are painful. Or when we know they may fail.
School projects come to mind as a great example. I know so many parents who just don’t want to let go of their kids. They want to help. So they start out just observing, then they help a little, then a little more then a little more and before you know it, they’ve done a majority of the work. I think that’s unfortunate.
Kids should do their own school projects.
Last year, I walked into my son’s classroom and saw a beautiful display with so much detail and intricate handiwork, I immediately knew no third grader made it. I hadn’t helped my son at all, so immediately I felt guilty. I pulled another mom over and sheepishly asked, “Were we supposed to help do these projects?” She looked stunned (yet impressed) by the professional looking display before us. She muttered, “Noooo” as she continued to check out the board. I felt first confused and then annoyed.
What’s the point of someone’s mother doing a third grade project? Why would a parent feel compelled to take over for her child? Does she fear the kid might fail without her help? Does she think the kid just isn’t doing it right (i.e., the way the parent would do it if it were his/her project?)? How can the kid learn anything if the parent takes over and does everything for him? Isn’t there something to be said for the child’s learning experience?
I know it’s tempting. Heck, I was the worst offender when my son was a bit younger. Whenever he felt a twinge of frustration, I was the mom who would jump in and say, “Oh, here sweetie, let me do that for you” and actually think I was helping him. Now, years later, I see how that kind of rescuing behavior only makes the kid feel incompetent. It must be pretty demoralizing to think you need your mom to come and do everything for you. That over-protectiveness simply has to change at some point. The sooner the better (within reason).
It’s sometimes tricky to find the line. How much help is enough without being too much?
As parents, we’re effectively training our children to be the best adults they can be. As each year passes, we hope to pass on more and more tools for life. I know parents who taught their kids to do their own laundry when they were in third grade. Many other parents teach their kids how to cook so that they’ll be able to handle living on their own. Their rationale? We can’t expect them to go off to college knowing how to live independently if we haven’t given them adequate guidance. And we can’t sit down two weeks before they’re ready to leave and say, “Okay, junior, here’s what you’ll need to know when you get there.” So we give it to them piecemeal. Little by little, step by step. They learn to walk before they can run. They learn to chop vegetables before they make a stew.
And sometimes you let them fall so that they know they’ll survive the many pains of life but also so they know that they can do it. So that they can feel confident
And, if you accept the idea that we’re training them for life, then how can you justify taking over a job that has been assigned to someone else? I mean, when they’re in their 20s, I’m not about to go to their places of business and run their meetings. But we shouldn’t be completely hands off either.
So here’s the policy in our house: hubs and I will buy any necessary materials, maybe even advise on which materials might work best or make suggestions but that’s it. We encourage the kids and guide them but we also make sure that they take ownership of the task. And we follow up by asking what they learned by doing the project (because that is the point after all).
And you know what? It’s made a huge difference!
When parents give their children sufficient guidance and freedom to let their imaginations soar (without imposing their own viewpoints or worse, taking over entire projects) we give our kids the confidence and self satisfaction that helps them grow into secure, assertive adults.
My daughter and I were in the middle of New York City on Saturday and got caught up in this frenzy. I felt compelled to photograph some of the many people taking pictures. Can you guess what they were trying to capture with their cameras?
I remember a few years back when my son hated going to the grocery store. He used to get really cranky and made it known that he would’ve preferred to be anywhere else. But I made it clear that we had to get food and we had to do it at that allotted time. I explained to him, "Look, it is what it is. We’re here at the store and we have to be here at the store. You can suffer through it and whine, moan, complain and wish you were anywhere else but here, or you can choose to make it a fun experience. I guarantee that if you choose that first option, this experience will feel like it’s taking three hours and you’ll dislike nearly every moment. However, if you choose the second option, I’ll bet we can find a way to make it fun. How about if you help me find some of the items on the shelves and put them in the cart. You can even toss a few things into it. What do you say?" He chose the second option and when we came out of that store, he was beaming. We had a great time.
Now I use that experience as a touchstone when we are in other situations that are not particularly fun for him. Or even when he has a challenging school project — I remind him that it’s his choice to either go through the experience filled with dread or to find a way to make it through (or maybe even make it fun), then come out the other side and look forward to the moment when he can do something that he wants to do.
His first grade teacher used to say, "Do your have -tos before your want -tos."
Sometimes … many times … we have to do things that we’d rather not do. But, the more we accept the present moment, face it (better yet, enjoy it) — no matter how much it scares us or how much discomfort it brings us — the better off we’ll be.
My daughter is entering middle school in the fall. Recently, to begin what is sure to be a memorable journey, I went to the first middle school meeting. Principals gave overviews of courses and logistics, the students selected electives, and counselors shared a few thoughts.
I’ve heard other parents say fairly dreadful things about middle school, but I didn’t pay much attention to the details. It seemed so far away. At this meeting, though, I was ready. In fact, I was eager to go and hear what they had to say. I wanted to get some sense of what to expect, so I spoke with some parents who have older kids (and have been through this already).
Here’s what I heard:
“Oh, it’s such a tough time for kids.”
“I’m glad I’m not the one who’s the student.”
“There’s no tougher time for a kid than when they suffer through middle school.”
“Oooo. Are you worried??”
Well, I wasn’t . Until now…
The administrators showed a video produced by some of the older middle school kids, depicting a typical day in the life of middle schoolers. It included a boy shoving another boy into a locker, kids looking self conscious and insecure and adults looking geeky. DD looked surprised but a little excited intrigued.
We were also treated to some insight from the principal. It went something like this:
Every year during the first week of middle school, I get a call from a frazzled parent telling me that his/her child didn’t come home from school. And I tell them the same thing every year. Johnny is fine. He went to a friend’s house and forgot to tell you. He can do that now. He’ll be gone for hours and then finally remember to tell you that he’s over at Jimmy’s house. Don’t worry about it. Kids have a lot more freedom in this place. Get used to it.
Hmm. Okay. Right. Got it.
The trouble is…she still seems like a little girl to me. I know I need to let go. I know she’s going to change significantly in these next few years. I have to let go. Loosen the reins a bit. But…this step feels like one of the toughest.
We’ve developed a wonderful relationship, where we can talk about anything. She feels comfortable telling me when I’m giving her too much information about an “adult” topic. We have lunch and laugh together and it seems as if she’s feels like she’s 22 yet she’ll still grab my hand and hold it as we stroll down the street.
I know it’s a time of transition. I can’t help but be a bit uneasy about what kind of effect the next two years will have on us. Will she become more attached to her friends and teachers and further removed from us? Will she regard advice from others more highly than our words of wisdom? Will she look at me differently? How different will she look?
My blogger friend over at Missives from Suburbia recently wrote a terrific post about how feelings originate from either fear or love. She presented a challenge to her readers to watch how we talk to and treat our loved ones and then make rational choices instead of impulsive ones. I took that to mean that I should consciously choose love over fear, kindness over harshness.
So today, the starting point for this challenge, I started my day in a fine way, with a smile on my face, newspaper in front of me, coffee in hand. Then the kids start acting…well…a little revved. Goofy, silly, loud, talking too much about farts and butts, you know, being just a bit overly wild. I chose to ignore it all (well, except when I reminded them of our rule of no potty talk at the table), but as for the other stuff, I just kept telling myself, “Give ‘em a little bit of slack today. They’re so happy…they’ll be on their way to school soon enough…” (as I felt the beginning pangs of a headache).
I quietly slipped into my room to get dressed, pulled on one of my favorite sweaters, and got ready for the day, urging myself to believe that there are no bad days, only bad moments. Each moment we make a choice (or many choices), and I was determined to choose to keep moving forward, to keep things in perspective and most of all to just be aware of how my state of mind affected my choices.
Then I noticed a hole in my favorite sweater. When did that get there? Rats. Take that off, put on some other shirt. Whatever. Keep going. It’s just an article of clothing. As my day continued, it just kept getting worse and worse (I won’t bore you with all the details, let’s just say it involved PMS). It reminded me of that picture book I recently reviewed on my radio show, called Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. You know, where everything seems to be going wrong and the bad moments continue throughout the day.
By dinnertime, I was really cranky and couldn’t muster a smile for anything. So I tell the kids to just give me some space. “I just want to check a few things online and then I’ll start making dinner,” I explain. So, I’m at the computer when I hear the first few notes of a song from the movie Alvin and the Chipmunks. I look over to my right and see my son holding a tablespoon like a microphone while he lipsyncs the words (he recently discovered how to do it and is pretty excited to fake sing to all kinds of music in a hammy, performing kind of way). It’s pretty darn cute.
Anyway, so I glance over and notice he’s there, but I keep typing away on my keyboard. Then I glance again and notice that he has no intention of moving. Oh, no. He’s standing there as if it’s the stage in the Kodak Theatre and I’m his audience of thousands. He’s still looking right at me.
I know, sometimes it takes me a while, but I finally realized that this wasn’t just a quick snippet of a song, rather he was trying to pull me out of my funk. So I stop typing and get into the moment…this precious moment that somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind I recognize I really need right about now.
I turn toward him and see his eyes looking at me in a way only your own child can. I can’t help but smile. He’s lipsyncing to the song Bad Day but instead of Daniel Powter singing Bad Day, it’s the one from Alvin and the Chipmunks.
It’s working. My cranky-wall cracks ever so slightly and I start to smile, but just a little grin.
Then, at just the right moment, right at this big crescendo, my daughter slides into view (on her knees, doing a sweeping slide that finishes with her left arm swinging up into the air for dramatic effect). She, too, holds a tablespoon mic in her right hand, and joins my son in the lipsyncing extravaganza. Our dog feels the good vibes (or something) and trots over happily, wanting to share in this jubilant affair.
The whole performance is enough to make me stand up at the end, with a huge grin on my face and a really warm feeling inside, wrap my arms around both of my kids and just revel in this amazing moment. The kids are absolutely beaming. They know what works for me, how to make me smile, what can bring a smile to my face (as long as I choose to let it in).
How can all that translate to you? Well, I could say, “You should buy the Alvin & the Chipmunkstune, have your kids learn the words to Bad Day and sing for you.” But that seems like asking a lot and wouldn’t necessarily translate.
No, I just offer you this: when you’re having a really lousy day (like Alexander’s or like mine or whatever kind of day is your kind of bad day), dig way down to get to that place where you can throw off the mask that we often hide behind as adults and then look at your kids. You know, really look at your kids. If they’re not singing, then try to imagine them singing. Or pick up a picture of them when they’re asleep or when they’re being their most adorable.* It will melt you and get you back to a place where you can more easily choose love, compassion and kindness. The place where your heart wants to be. It’s a glorious place. Really. And it’s the key to getting past those bad days moments.
Love’s hard to beat.
It’s moments like those that make being a mom really, really great.
*This reference is to a post from another one of my blogger friend’s blogs, The Busy Dad Blog within which he shows a great picture of his son, affectionately referred to as Fury, at one of his most adorable moments. See what I mean?Makes you melt…and hopefully will do so even more when it’s your own.
My daughter has been playing basketball half her life. She plays well and has a good time doing it. She opted not to play travel ball so she could just have fun playing it without the intensity and competitiveness of travel teams.
Recently, however, we experienced something that may have changed her approach and overall state of mind with respect to the sport. The crux of the problem? A parent.
In this particular game, she was playing really well. In fact, I was amazed by a few of her shots. It looked like she was being moved by some greater force or something. I mean, she floated down the court and, in one case, hit a shot from the three point line, using only her right arm, flinging it in with nothin’ but net.
It was beautiful.
She was having so much fun.
Until a dad from the other team apparently decided that the three high school girls coaching his daughter’s team weren’t doing their jobs coaching his daughter. He stepped in and took over, intimidating the girls and getting his face right in all of their faces. I couldn’t hear what he said to them, but my daughter’s teammates overheard him say to his daughter, “You see that #23? Whatever you do, don’t let her take a shot!”
He barked his orders and sent out his attack dog.
We’re talking fifth and sixth grade girls, here, people.
I was keeping the clock for the game, which meant I was sitting next to a dad from the other team, who was keeping the stats and the score in the official game book. He and I had been engaging in friendly chatter for the duration of the game. When Attack Dad turned his daughter into Attack Girl even scorekeeper dad noticed. He said, “Wow, she’s being pretty nasty.” He told me about how he believes that a lot of parents try to live through their kids and work out whatever they were unable to accomplish in their own childhoods. Sure, I’ve heard that and believe it. But, geesh!
At one point, when the girl had excessively elbowed my daughter (and had the bruises and cuts to show for it afterward), she asked Attack Girl, “What are you doing?” Attack Girl responded harshly, “It’s called playing a sport.”
Well, that’s not the way I’ve been taught to play sports. Or the way my kids have been taught to play sports. Certainly not girls’ basketball, anyway. And certainly not in elementary school.
After four fouls called on his daughter, my daughter went to the drinking fountain, shaken, crying and battered. Scorekeeper dad nudged me and said softly, “Er, I think your daughter’s crying.” Sure enough, he’d pushed her to the point of tears. She walked over to me. I hugged her and could feel her shaking. She showed me her cuts and said, “Mom, I’ve never played with someone so mean.”
The coaches took my daughter out for the rest of the game.
I didn’t know how to handle this situation. Attack Dad stands at about 6′3″ and fiercely glares at people. I don’t think it’s my imagination. During that game he looked fierce. Should I have gone over to the guy and said something? If so, what? Would that have really solved anything? The coaches were apologizing, the referees were apologizing, even scorekeeper dad apologized. He told me that his dad coached his basketball team when he was a boy and that, in his opinion, that girl was way over the top. There were definitely moments when it was all I could do to hold myself back from running out there and getting between them.
It was just awful.
I know I’m a bit of a lightweight and hate conflict, but I’m also a sports lover and appreciate the pleasure one can get from playing a good competitive game. But this? This incident was not sport.
I looked over at the guy and scowled in my own kind of glaring way, but then I remembered the hockey player’s dad who killed a guy. So, I decided to walk away. It’s what my daughter wanted to do, too. She said, “Mom, I just want to leave. Please.” So I wrapped my arm around her, held her close and walked out the door.
She really hasn’t played the same way since that game. I can’t help but wonder if she subconsciously fears more attacks, so she’s pulling back a bit on her level of play. Better to fit in than to be attacked (?!). I hope not. I hope the Attack Family did not win by intimidation. But, on the other hand, maybe my daughter has a point when she says we should start thinking about tennis.
