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?
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.
No matter which decade of my life I’m in (or nearing), I always want to take time out to play. When I play a great game with the kids, play tennis, work out, shoot hoops, or just walk the dog, I feel better physically and am usually in a better mood. My tolerance level rises and, overall, I’m better able to handle challenges that come my way.
The other night, a group of my girlfriends and I gathered together for a movie night. Our gracious host made dinner for us, then we watched “Into the Wild.” Released on DVD in early March, it’s a movie that Sean Penn had been wanting to make for something like ten years. Based on a true story, it’s about a privileged boy, Chris McCandless, who goes off into the wild, rejecting materialism and elitism. He burns cash, gives away his life’s savings and insists that he can survive without money. He rejects the notion that money is power, or, perhaps more accurately, could care less even if it is.
He begins his journey shortly after graduating with honors from Emory University in Georgia. He spends a good deal of time alone, wandering around the western half of the United States, picking up odd jobs here and there, kayaking down the Colorado River (all the way into Mexico), jumping trains and showering via farmland sprinkler systems. He ends up trapped in Fairbanks, Alaska and ultimately has to assume responsibility for his choices.
The post graduate soul searching trip is nothing new. In fact, I chose to take one after college, but my trip had some notable differences. My journey was an organized, university-based trip to Florence, Italy to study art and architecture. Okay, it’s not the same as going into the wild, but it served a similar purpose (without the danger). I was an idealistic young woman who craved more education as well as adventure and independent world travel (i.e., without a parent). While there, I took side trips to places of astonishing beauty like Cinque Terre and Lucca. Those excursions provided plenty of opportunities to ponder, reflect on and write about life. I met so many different kinds of people, from all walks of life. I decided then that I would always be open to other people’s points of view and would respect people, no matter what they did for a living. I learned invaluable lessons during that time. I remember standing on the edge of a cliff in Cinque Terre, absolutely mesmerized by my surroundings and then, an instant later, thinking, “Boy, this would be so much more fun if I was sharing this experience with someone.”
I can relate to Chris’s desire to go to a world where natural beauty matters more than money, and people speak to each other in straightforward, candid ways, never wondering whether their acquaintances are being opportunistic. And I appreciate solitude. I really do. I need it to refuel myself. But I never felt the kind of intense calling that McCandless apparently did. His tortured soul needed to make sense of a world separate and apart from the one in which he was raised. I get that. I just wish he could have found peace sooner. Maybe his story can help other people. That’s probably why Penn wanted to make the movie.
Here are the most important lessons I took away from the movie:
If you’re going to challenge yourself to live in the wild, then spend enough time preparing yourself with courses like NOLS. McCandless was a very bright young guy. The fact that he was relatively unprepared for this daring adventure is a little surprising to me. The first year I can understand, but when you start going into the second year, I start shaking my head a little bit …
It really does matter how you treat your kids. It affects them. For a very long time. In ways you can’t even imagine. (The film suggests that his parents were unaware of (or at least careless about) the impact of their actions on their kids).
Forgiveness is love. It’s criticallly important to our lives and happiness. (I think it was Hal Holbrook’s character that said something like that near the end of the movie). It’s so true. Nobody’s perfect. The power of forgiveness can’t be overstated.
Happiness isn’t real unless it’s shared. (I think that one’s straight from McCandless’s journal and the thought that occurred to me in Italy).
Those are all valuable lessons from a fine movie. I just wish it had a different ending.
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?
As much as we might love getting away from home and going on vacation, we always love being back home. Sleeping in our own beds, showering in our own bathrooms, and hearing the creaks and familiar sounds of our house and neighborhood gives us a sense of stability and security.
Today’s been such a lousy day. So many little things have been getting under my skin. My tolerance level is just above an ant’s head. I’m dragging as if carrying a hundred bricks in a sack. Feeling emotionally heavy, heavy, heavy.
I’m a big believer in focusing on the solution. You know what I mean? If you’re facing something that’s a challenge, we can gripe and moan and complain about it (focusing on the problem) or we can choose to accept the situation (in this case, that today stinks) and let it be what it is (lousy). Then figure out ways to just make it through the day (or to solve the problem), even if it begins to feel as if you’re counting each second as it ticks by.
So what’s my solution today? Well, if you’ve read my blog, you know I listen to John Mayer to get myself into a better place. So, for me, that’s step one (his music is playing right this very minute). Turning to music always works wonders for me — it’s something I’ve done since I first started liking music (when I was around seven or eight). Okay, so I did that.
Hmm…
Still feeling crummy.
I could just go to sleep. Curl up in the fetal position and sleep. The time would go by more quickly, but then I’d have trouble going to sleep tonight.
So…I write. That’s actually another thing I’ve done for as long as I can remember.
Just before beginning to write, I checked my incoming links and saw this wonderful little gift from my friend Ann over at A Nice Place in the Sun.
What touches me most about this token of kindness is that she first gave me the “You Cheer Me Up” award when this blog was still called Being a Mom is Great! but noticed that I didn’t transfer it here to the soapbox (didn’t want to be presumptuous), so she gave me another. I think that’s thoughtful and considerate. Thanks, Anne! Your timing couldn’t be better.
It’s nice to be appreciated. Especially on the lousy days.
Tell me. What do you do when you’re having a really bad day??
When I was fifteen, I was called to the principal’s office, clueless about why I was summoned. I was a good student, involved in more extracurricular activities than your average kid and never looked for trouble. So why was I going to the office? When I arrived, they redirected me into my guidance counselor’s office. “Okay, this is really strange,” I thought. When I noticed that my sister was already there, I probably should have been worried, but I actually relaxed a bit. We were both on the Student Council, so I figured it probably had something to do with an upcoming activity. But when I saw the look on Mr. Smith’s face, I immediately started to tense up. Kids have a way of quickly recognizing discomfort in adults. Something was definitely wrong.
He stumbled over his words. Not only was he uncomfortable, he seemed sad about whatever he was trying to say. Finally, the words fell out like hand grenades. “Your dad…he’s in the hospital…we need to take you over there…right away.”
Now I was numb. Before that moment, life was pretty simple. We rushed around from activity to activity, performed in skating shows, went to basketball games, did our homework, yada yada, but I knew, right at that very moment, that everything was about to change. Drastically.
I don’t remember the drive over to the hospital. The next moment I was walking into his hospital room. He looked weak and pale. I’d never seen him like that. I had no experience with this kind of situation, so I had no idea what to say or do.
The entire week seemed to float by me as if in a dream. I hoped and prayed that I was dreaming, but it was all very real. When you’re fifteen, every little incident at school seems like a meeting at the UN, but, when tragedy strikes, it all disappears in an instant. I don’t remember a single thing about school from that last week in February so many years ago. I just remember the hospital.
The experience felt light, as if it floated on a cloud, yet my mind felt heavy, as if I were trudging through sludge. In some ways, that week felt like a year, yet, looking back on it, it seems like an instant.
The doctors told us that, if heart attack victims hang on for six days after the episode, some large percentage of them survive. As the days turned to night, I kept hoping and praying. “Great! Another day! He’s almost at six.” On the sixth day, the hospital staff told my mom that it would be best if I stayed home, because I had a cough and might compromise him in some way. It was a day that I would play over and over in my mind for years to come. I planned an elaborate visit for the seventh day. I would wear a mask to avoid getting any germs on him. I would come in with a clipboard, pretending to be a doctor. Those things would never come to pass.
On that long sixth day, Mom called from the hospital and assured me that he seemed to be doing better. Later, when a colleague of my dad’s called from his office, I remember telling him, with great hope, “Oh, he’s doing better. They think he’ll be coming home soon!” I’ll never understand why adults ever feel the need to reassure kids by lying to them or withholding the truth. He died that night – the night of the sixth day.
Being the youngest in my family, you’d think that relatives would have looked after me, handled me with kid gloves (just as they thought they were doing when they didn’t reveal the truth about his condition). Instead, I was asked to handle some of the more adult level tasks. For example, someone had to call my eldest sister, who had returned to college (because she, too, believed he was getting better), to give her the news.
I remember that moment so vividly. This was a time before cell phones, a time when you put dimes and quarters into pay-phones. Without hesitation I strode over to the row of phone booths and inserted my coins. I didn’t reach her right away. Her boyfriend answered the phone and gave me another number where I could reach her. When I finally heard her voice, I was nearly speechless. I dug deep to find the courage to spit out the words, “Sis, he’s gone.” No response. “He’s not here anymore.” Silence. “He died.”
Sometimes, when I look back on that time, I still can’t believe that I was the one who had to deliver the news.
The next few weeks went by in a blur. I remember going shopping (!?) with my sister. We had to find something to wear to the funeral. Why nothing in our existing wardrobe would suffice is beyond me. I really have no idea what inspired us to go to the mall, but we did. Even more curious, though, was the fact that we bought white clothes, not black…white. I chose a white skirt and a soft, short sleeved blue blouse with little flowers. I don’t remember what my sister wore, but I know it was white.
Another curious fact? I never cried. One of my closest friends broke down and cried and even asked me, “Don’t you feel like crying?” I didn’t.
I simply didn’t know what to do or how to grieve. I yearned for a book or a person with expertise to tell me what was happening, to explain how I should act, to describe how I should feel. I’ve never felt so lost and confused.
It’s been nearly three decades…three decades (!) now. That’s so hard to believe. The first decade or so, I dreaded the month of February. I wore black more often during the month and always on the day of his death. As more years have passed (and I’ve experienced more losses), I finally know how terribly important it is to go through a process of grieving. Sure, everyone goes through it in her own way and at her own pace, but we all need to go through it.
Today, there are plenty of books about death and dying, both for adults and kids. Anytime I hear about someone dying and I know that there are kids involved, I advise the relatives to get some books for the kids. At the very least, give them something to read to help them believe that they will make it through this awful time. Help them to see that there is a light at the end of this dark, foreboding tunnel. Help them to comprehend that many kids erroneously believe it’s somehow their fault – but it’s not.
Nearly three decades have passed. I never knew my father as anything more than a dad. He never knew me as anything more than a child. He wasn’t there to walk me down the aisle at my wedding, to congratulate me when I earned my degrees, to hold my kids when they were babies, or see them grow into the lively kids they are now. Sure, I’m sad about that. But you know what? His death made me the person I am today. I didn’t comprehend that for, I don’t know, the first couple of decades or so, but I believe it now. I would have been a different person if he had survived. His death made me more determined to excel, to make him proud (wherever he is), to live a healthy life, and, most of all, to enjoy each moment – because you just never know which one will be your last.
So…thanks, Dad. I only knew you for a little over a decade, but you taught me so much. And…wherever you are…I hope you know…I love you…still.
Update (4.22.08):
Here’s one of my favorite ads from the Obama in 30 seconds competition (click many of the links below to see other entries):
Update: For folks who feel like they don’t know much about Barack Obama’s legislative experience (especially as compared with Senator Clinton’s), please read this article. If you want to read about his policies, click here and if you want to know a little about the attitudes of each of them, read this post. Finally, a few thoughts about the power of words.
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For various reasons, I have stayed far, far away from politics on this blog. I used to be so deeply enmeshed in politics that it’s sometimes a struggle not to say something about the topic. Nonetheless, I’ve managed to stay far away. Until now.
This post may shock people who know me, but when I heard the first lady of California (Maria Shriver, wife of the Republican governor) share an Eleanor Roosevelt quote about taking risks (actually, she said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.”) I decided this post would be my risk for the day.
Whether you’re a Republican, Independent, or Democrat, I just ask for a few moments of your time (you have to watch it all the way to the end) to watch this video. In all my life, I’ve never seen a candidate (not just the video, more accurately the whole package) that moves me the way this guy does. I can’t help but think that he could do great things for our country.
Ask your kids who they support and who the other kids in their school think should be president. You might be surprised by the answer. Most kids I know (regardless of the party affiliation of their parents) enthusiastically say, “Obama!” Think about that.The little ones who, in many cases, have a closer connection to what’s real, to what matters in life (because they’re free from all the facades and spin and BS) have a passionate affinity for this man.
