Life – Amber Colored Glasses

To Spy Or Not To Spy – Respecting Your Teen’s Space Is Dire For Your Relationship

There will always be parents going to extremes to gather intel or spy on their children. They will say it is to make sure they are staying out of trouble or to keep them safe in today’s world. While that sounds like a caring sentiment, boiled down, is it really?

Back in the 80’s and 90’s, parents had to find out about their child’s innermost thoughts and secrets via a hand-written diary or journal. Today, there’s a tiny computer tethered to them that contains written messages to friends, their social media posts across a multitude of platforms, and all of their pictures now that phones double as cameras.

There are maps and apps which tell us exactly where our children are at any given time and some that monitor all of their online activity down to every typed and received message. There are Ring cameras next to front doors to tell parents who is coming over to the house and when their child is leaving the house. Think about that for a second- there is almost zero privacy for the kids of today.

Because of the excessive amount of communication and information that is globally available to them, it does make sense that we have to be very cautious with regard to what our children are exposed to now that technology is bundled up in a convenient little device that fits in one’s pocket. On top of internet predators and safety worries, there will always be the sketchy friends, parties, sex, drugs, etc. to worry about.

While I do understand the need to make sure your child is safe, I struggle with the mindset of invading their privacy at every turn and thinking that it is your right to do so as their parent. I’m more along the line of thinking that open communication and discussions, although sometimes uncomfortable for both parties, is the way to go.

Independence is a necessary part of life; I often wonder what the repercussions will be of this helicopter epidemic. There is a reason this is such a crucial topic for me personally. I am the product of surveillance gone catastrophically wrong. The most painful time of my life was based on a betrayal and overreaction of such significant proportions, it would end up changing my life forever. It is why I will always choose to be forthcoming with my children about my concerns for their safety-even if it involves questioning and story-telling that invokes squirming and embarrassment. It is also why I am a huge proponent of encouraging independence over non-stop virtual investigation. A little thing called trust can do wonders for your relationship with your kids. It can also help your kids to be savvy about their own safety instead of having the parental thumb to protect them from afar at all times.

My Experience

In 2003, my boyfriend of about a year and half was going to be meeting me near one of the baggage claims at Laguardia airport. As I approached the area just before the baggage claim, his features came into focus and I saw that his cheeks were stained with tears and he was holding a bouquet of flowers.

While we had been apart for four days, I was not anticipating such an emotional reunion. I had just gone on my very first family vacation with my mother and sister to the Bahamas at the age of twenty-four; it would have made a lot more sense if he was standing there smiling versus crying.

When I reached him, he embraced me so tightly, I thought I might suffocate. With both hands on my shoulders, he leaned back and looked at my face with a mixture of pity, love, and sadness. “I’m so sorry…I have to tell you something. So, um, I read your diaries. Please don’t be mad at me. I just never knew….I just feel so bad. I love you so much. I need to marry you and love the hell out of you. You need to be loved. I’m just so sorry!”

I didn’t know whether to be pissed at the obvious invasion of privacy or to cry at the beautiful and somewhat poetic profession of his need to love me and give me what he felt I so inherently deserved.

The ride back to our apartment was filled with a question-and-answer session to help him fill in the blanks. It gave me the idea that I should really go back and read through them all, beginning to end.

That night, I dove into those pages of memories. Surprisingly, I had never read through them start to finish. I had started my first diary at seven years old and continued writing regularly until I was about twenty-one. I knew that the most upsetting journal entries were about my father around my first and second years of high school. While my Dad was pretty incredible when I was young, things changed shortly after he got custody of my sister, at the age of twelve, and me, at fourteen.

My memories up until about fourteen are filled with trips to Six Flags, summer visits to the dunes in Michigan, holidays with family friends, several trips to pet stores to snuggle all the animals, mini-golf, movies, bowling, hikes, fishing, camping, and anything that involved moving around and being active. I was of the mind that since he was getting custody, it would change our lives for the better, which is why it was so shocking when things took such a drastic turn.

The summer after my freshman year is when everything blew up. I was grounded with no TV or radio allowed since I had reacted “badly” to the new rule book given to us one day after their return from their Honeymoon. Our new Step monster spent the better part of her first day back at work proudly typing all the rules for her two new step daughters.

With rules like, “If you have the time to suntan, you have the time to clean”, and “Hair must be worn in a bun at all times, if a strand of hair is found, you will be grounded”, you can imagine we were less than thrilled. The sweet, fun girlfriend we knew was out the window, and her new title as Stepmom morphed her personality in mere days. It became evident she had mental challenges that included OCD and bi-polar disorder.

While grounded that summer for the many arguments that ensued surrounding my dad and step-mom’s demand for me to greet them with a home-cooked meal and sparkling home every night after work, as well as a thwarted runaway attempt, I read books and mostly watched T.V.

It was during one of these days of being stuck in the house that things imploded. I remember it was a perfect beautiful summer day and I was in the basement, lying on the couch while reading a book. Dad came flying into the room, grabbed my two feet and yanked them so hard that I fell off the couch, smacking the back of my head on the basement’s thin Berber carpet. He dragged me by my feet through the sitting area of the basement, all the way down the hall and stopped at the door of my bedroom. I was so confused and terrified that my whole body began to shake.

What was happening? My father had never hit us. At worst, he would drill his pointer finger into the little nook where the shoulder meets the collar bone, but that was it. I shouted to him asking him to please tell me what he was doing. I pleaded, “Why are you doing this? What did I do ?”

No answer.

He told me to stand up and pinned me against the wall. Then he said things like: “You are a horrible child! You are a drunk! You are despicable! How could you do this? I hate you!” A quick unimaginable thought that I might die right here buzzed by. Would I be suffocated by the hands of my own loving father that was having some sort of psychotic meltdown? He was ranting, crying, and spitting at me. I’m sure my brain makes this memory foggy on purpose because it just about broke my fifteen-year-old self.

He told me to get in my room and shut the door. I lay there combing through my brain trying to figure out what I had done. The only hint was that he had called me “a drunk”. I thought back to a party I had gone to recently where I had my first beer. I also remembered a ride I had taken to a liquor store with a friend of mine’s brother. He was this handsome, edgy-in-a-sort-of- dangerous-way type of guy. I barely knew him or much about him since I’d only met him once or twice. He smoked pot and cigarettes and had access to beer. His bad boy looks and vibe scared me in an exhilarating kind of way. My interaction with him involved me waiting in the car while he ran in to buy some beer for himself, his brother, my girlfriend and me. Later that day, we smooched just before I left.

It was the most daring thing I had ever done- kissing my friend’s older brother and having someone buy me and my friend some beer.

I ran Dad’s words through my head again and again. Why would he have said I was a drunk? I thought about the time I was hanging out with my friends Edwin and Brett at someone’s house party. The party was mostly twenty-somethings, and we were all giddy, laughing, and having a good time. Someone there offered each of us a Budweiser. I shrugged, took the beer, popped the top and took a few sips. About halfway through the beer, I started to feel like the room was tilting and while my friends and I were laughing and having fun, I took notice there weren’t too many girls around, and let my friends know I should get going. My ride home was my friend, Brett. He was a year older, but in the same grade as me. This meant he had a driver’s license and a car one year ahead of the rest of us.

I remember thinking it was the greatest thing to have a friend with a car, and a good one I could trust and count on. But how could my dad know these two instances I had with alcohol? Or that I had smooched this rough-around-the-edges guy? It just wasn’t possible, and it certainly didn’t warrant this kind of reaction.

I was a responsible kid, I was on the cheerleading team, I did my homework, I didn’t skip school, I was respectful of my parents, I was petrified of doing drugs, and no matter how often I was offered them, I always prided myself on saying no.

My sister and I were both banished to our rooms “until further notice”. When we asked about dinner, Dad laughed. Fortunately, my sister was allowed to come down and be with me in my room. We held each other and cried, desperate to figure out what we had done wrong to upset him this badly.

In the morning, I was stopped short of buttering an English muffin and told that I was not allowed to eat.

“You’re both mooches. Mooches don’t get to eat.”

Dad said, looking like a total creep, slowly emerging from behind the hallway wall. I remember wondering how long he had been standing there watching me in disgust as I prepared the English muffin I would not be allowed to eat.

I returned downstairs where we would remain for two more days. My cool room in the basement was beginning to feel like a jail cell. My sister and I sat and talked about what the worst thing we had ever done could possibly be. What if it was the one thing Dad found out about? The things we came up with just didn’t seem bad enough to warrant locking us in the basement and keeping us from eating. This feels Impossible-we thought.

Also, if my two dabbles with beer had caused him this much anger, I felt beyond worried for his mental state. We developed a plan to wait until the grandfather clock on the main floor of the house had gonged twice so that we knew it was two a.m. They would be fast asleep, and I could sneak up and steal Saltine crackers for us to eat and a few glasses of water. As the days passed by, each one felt longer than the next.

On the third day of basement banishment, Dad and the Step monster called us upstairs to talk. They unleashed the bomb. For three months, our phones had been tapped, photographs had been taken of us, and a private investigator was hired to follow us. It was then I learned the bad boy I locked lips with was some sort of drug dealer in the community and the police knew him well. While still trying to process that every phone conversation I had had for months had been taped, and that I had been physically followed around, learning details I was unaware of about my friend’s brother didn’t seem like a big deal to me.

What did that have to do with the punishment I was receiving? It had nothing to do with me that he was a drug dealer. I kept rebutting their comments with questions like “Why?” and “I don’t understand what this guy being a drug dealer has to do with me?”

The sucker punch was when they made it clear that it was THE reason for my punishment. If he was a drug dealer, I must’ve been his drug buyer. If I had kissed him, which I giddily had spoken about on one of the recorded phone calls with my friend, Nikki, that must have made him my boyfriend.

So not only was I guilty of doing drugs just for being in the presence of this dude, I was also automatically his significant other.

Also, the hypocrisy was astounding — I had caught my dad on many occasions smoking marijuana, only to be told for most of my childhood it was incense. To my core, I knew he had a problem with it. Was he projecting his regret onto me? Since my mother was a big drinker, was he jumping to conclusions that I had a drinking problem at 15?

Not only had the most extreme invasion of privacy just taken place by the one person in my life I trusted the most and loved so much, but the accusations coming at me were all wrong.

“What do you have to say for yourselves? You owe us the biggest apology of your lives!” they had demanded.

We sat frozen. The word WHY kept soaring through my head. I felt an anger I had never known rise up from my gut and screamed as loud as my raspy voice would allow.

WHY, just WHY had they done this? We were good kids, we hadn’t given them any reason to do something like this. I didn’t understand, and it felt like I was watching myself outside of my body, no longer in control of my emotions.

Dad said he came up with the idea because his boss had hired someone to spy on his kids. Shocked at what he had found out, he recommended it to my father. This was the story they told us, but it didn’t add up. In fact, my fifteen-year-old self didn’t yet know that it would take decades for me to eventually discover the real reason behind his sleuthing.

My heart was so raw and so broken with disbelief, I thought it might fall in two halves out of my chest and break into a million pieces on the table.

Following this conversation, I was sent back to the basement where I would spend more days – and this time in solitary confinement. My sister stayed and spoke with them and was later sent upstairs to her bedroom following their chat.

I journaled during those very dark days to keep myself going. I knew I had to get this information to Mom, but how? The phones were likely still tapped. We needed to get out of this house, something was off, something had snapped in my father, and the look in his eyes scared the hell out of me.

The following day, a police officer came to our home and stayed for about an hour. He explained that my sister and I were on a path to delinquency, that we would end up in juvenile detention and that we should understand that our father and stepmother could hit us, starve us, ground us, verbally abuse us whenever and however they wanted because we were under eighteen and had no rights.

At this point, my sister and I looked at one another, and over to our father, who was the personification of smug.

“That’s right, and don’t think that military boarding school isn’t on the table ladies. We’re strongly considering it.”

My stomach lurched and bile burned the back of my throat as I held it down. My head began to spin as I visualized all the ways out of this situation I could imagine. Ending my life felt plausible in those moments.

They could abuse us legally? We had no rights?

It felt like a lie, but it was coming from a cop, so how could it not be true?

He left and wished us on a better path forward. I made my way back down to my dungeon.

While we had attended religious classes at a place called AWANA occasionally for a few years, I was not a very religious person. I was in touch with my spiritual side though, and I would often pray and beg for a way out of this situation through the writings in my diary.

The Step monster had taught my sister and I how to pray the rosary, and bought us the beads. I prayed that rosary anywhere from thirty to fifty times a day begging for Mary, Jesus, God, or whoever was up there, to help get me away from my psychologically fragile dad and his volatile OCD wife. I begged the mystical powers that be to give me a terminal illness, or for my mom to burst down those basement steps and into my room with a flowing red cape on, whisking me away to a home of safety and love. I wanted to be anywhere but in that basement. I had already spent so much of my summer there.

And then, after about a week, my prayers were answered.

I was praying the rosary for the umpteenth time that morning, while simultaneously planning to shatter the small basement window, shimmy my body through, and run until I couldn’t run anymore, when my dad threw himself into my room and told me to pack one small bag.

The butterflies in my stomach fluttered around maniacally.

“Remove your contacts from your eyes. Leave your eyeglasses behind also. You only get to pack what you can fit into your school backpack. Give me your address book too so I can phone all your friends’ parents to tell them what a bad influence and kid you are. You’re going to wind up in the ghetto, you know. You’ll probably drop out of high school too. What a lazy ass, slob you are.”

My father continued to hurl insults, trying as best he could to hurt me worse than he had with the last. He would make sure I had no friends left in my life, he smiled as he said that one.

“I’ll be calling your cheer coach to tell them to drop you from the team.”

This made me nervous, I loved cheerleading, and I had missed summer cheer camp, so there was already one strike against me.

“I’ve been thinking about you having my last name. I’ve never really been convinced you’re my real daughter. I may write the local papers and tell them you are officially disowned from me and you don’t really belong to me anyway. You should consider dropping my last name. Your sister looks just like me, but you never have.”

The things that came out of his mouth continued to jackhammer into my heart so hard it felt like fragments of my very being were breaking away from me and leaving me forever.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, afraid to show any inkling of happiness out of fear he’d renege on me being allowed to exit the basement.

“To your mother’s. You two belong together. You’re the same.”

He was emotionless.

As I walked down the hallway one last time to the front door, I looked around confused. Where was my sister?

I had expected her to be standing there, waiting for me, to have her bag slung over her shoulder as I did, and for us to walk out the door hand in hand back to Mom’s apartment.

He shouted to her. Then I saw her, sitting at the kitchen table, a forlorn look shadowed across her face.

“Have you decided what you’re doing? Will you go with your sister back to your mother’s or will you stay here? Make the decision right now, we are leaving!”

My sister looked at me and looked away.

“I’ll stay here.”

I opened the door, crossed the threshold and never looked back.

***

We pulled up the steep hill of their driveway to exit out to the main road and the Step monster said, “Take a long last look at this beautiful dream home because it is the last time you will ever see it. You are going back to the poorhouse with your scum of a mother.”

Whenever my dad’s wife was angry, she would climb up on the passenger seat in a squatting position. This is the stance she was in when she threw a giant 536 page book at me and said,

“Here! You’re gonna need this!”

The enormous book was entitled Take Care of Yourself: Your Personal Guide to Self-Care and Preventing Illness by Donald M. Vickery, James F. Fries.

The rest of that twenty-five-minute ride, I stared out the window trying my best to drown out the insults that came my way from the two of them.

At last, when he pulled his Jaguar into Mom’s apartment complex, he opened the trunk, grabbed my backpack and threw it past me, toward the main building door. The last words I would ever hear from my dad were something to the effect of

“Have a nice life you fucking piece of white trash! I’m sure you’ll marry a loser and you’ll never amount to anything!”

Harsh words for a 15-year-old that had had some beer and unknowingly kissed a drug dealer.

Mom hadn’t been expecting me. She answered when I buzzed her apartment, but she was nervous and wary. She distrusted anything my father ever did and thought it was a trick.

At first, she refused to buzz me in until I wailed through the intercom that he had dumped me there and I had nowhere to go. I had never been happier and more relieved in my entire life when my mother opened that door and embraced me. I crumpled into her and sobbed for hours telling her everything. The reality also settled in that I’d likely never live with or go to school with my sister again. I also didn’t know at the time that I’d rarely see my sister after that dramatic day.

Mom wasn’t sure how we’d make it financially, and she had valid reasons to feel concerned. She wasn’t prepared to have to buy me all new clothes, glasses, contacts, a bed, food, etc. We’d have to figure out next steps.

I didn’t care, I was just elated to be away from two unhinged people and feel the beauty of my freedom, not to mention a full belly of food.

As for my stance on parents going behind their child’s back to spy on them, as you see from my story, it can rip families apart. Things can be taken out of context, you can jump to conclusions that aren’t really the truth about your child, wreaking havoc on your relationship.

Your child has friends so they can say the things they can’t necessarily say to their parents. Parents are not meant to hear every thought or experience their child has. Kids need to fall down, have experiences with toxic people, get their hearts broken, and take risks. It takes a village, remember? Not an overprotective or overbearing authoritative figure.

The perfect analogy is the story of the caterpillar- it cannot use its wings to fly once it becomes a butterfly unless it struggles out of the chrysalis first. The struggle is what makes its wings strong enough to lift off and carry itself.

Invading your child’s privacy can cause them to turn on you, to have trust issues, to never let their guard down in life. Let us not forget there is also a sting of betrayal that is very hard to wash away.

This July, in the year 2024, marks 30 years without my father in my life. I wonder if I ever cross his mind, and if he still thinks it was all worth it.

My oldest son turned 15 this month. He is exactly the age I was in exactly the month it was when all of this happened with my family. I’m beyond proud of him. That pride will remain, regardless of the mistakes he’ll make. Failures will never impact the love I have for him; that goes for both my boys.

A parent’s love is supposed to be unconditional, and I feel an immense sense of peace knowing I will not continue the cycle of mistreatment, verbal abuse, and abandonment for my children.

***

I remember closing my diaries after reading them through for the first time after returning from the airport. I appreciated my boyfriend’s immediate honesty and apology for reading them. His reading my diaries was the catalyst that prompted me to read them and to share this story from my childhood.

Now, as my husband, and over 20 years later, he still seems to love me in a way I did not think was possible from a man.

Strange Happenings at Basketball Games and High School Dances

Photo by Alex Perez on Unsplash

There are certain situations in our lives that all have a sort of cadence to them. At a basketball game for example, when someone makes a basket, the expected sound to follow is cheering or clapping. If a traffic light turns green, and the cars don’t move, you anticipate the sound of a horn. Similarly, when the end of a play arrives, the actors are expected to do a curtain call, bowing and curtseying for the roaring crowd. If these are the norms on expected autopilot in our brains, what does it mean when we witness them changing?

The Watching Dead At Basketball Games

Last year both my boys played on basketball teams. My youngest son, then nine years old, was on the Catholic school team. His twelve year old brother was on both the school team and a recreational league . When attending both my younger son’s school games and my older son’s recreational ones, I noticed the most bizarre phenomenon: there was little to no clapping. Not only was there no clapping, scoring a basket was met with the sound of the ball hitting the court and that was about it.

Once I became aware of this strange thing, I would go out of my way to clap for every boy on the team who had a solid block or scored a basket. At one point, the gentleman sitting next to me asked if I had multiple sons on the team.

I told him no, and that I chose to cheer for every kid on both teams because someone needed to root for these kids. I expressed my shock at the constant silence from the spectating parents. He pondered what I said for a moment and after taking notice, looked at me with raised brows. From then on he and his wife sometimes clapped with me. This felt like a small victory- in the weirdest of ways. How did they not notice before? My pointing out the obvious happened to be the smelling salts they needed. Too bad everyone else never got on board.

My husband always jokes that he likes to be the first one to start the wave of clapping wherever we go: school plays, talent shows, school music concerts, etc. He brings his hands together forcefully during silent moments and as loud as possible. Everyone usually follows suit. He looks like a giddy Eddie Haskell every time he starts the chain reaction. Too bad he works on Saturdays and had to miss most of these games, the teams could have used his powerful claps.

In my determination to get the zombies out of their staring catatonic state, I tried my husband’s loud, fast clapping in hopes to start a flurry of thunderous applause for each score. This attempt was to no avail.

As for the recreational league my twelve year old was on, I’m convinced the people were cold and dead inside.

I keep asking myself what the hell would cause that across not only a school league, but also a recreational league at the same time? Were parents all in a funk from the Covid experience? Were they in a far away land mentally? What was it? I guess I’ll never know.

This year, I’ve since been to a new recreational league of games with my ten year old and am happy to report the cheering is ever present and loud. It feels like the silence from the stands last Spring and Summer was a strange dream.

The Prom Lock In & The Feelings Police

Another perplexing phenomenon is the sudden over-the-top rules inflicted upon high school dances. For years and years high school dances meant being able to arrive and depart whenever you wanted. Apparently, that’s not the case as of late.

I was told by an acquaintance that kids attending the prom at the local high school had to be locked in. The school said the purpose was to avoid the attendees leaving to do bad things in their cars i.e.; making out, drinking, or drugs.

Seriously?

Has my generation of parents become this overbearing, controlling group of dictators? What happen to trusting your kids until they break that trust? What happened to letting them live their lives and make mistakes? People have to fail sometimes or they cannot grow and learn. Overall, how about giving these kids some much deserved freedom after being locked down for a year and a half? It appears we’re trending in a scary direction.

There is a chance that these changes to dances are not nationwide. It could just be happening in the area I live in since the school board became obsessive on kids being allowed to have fun. As far as wanting to lock children down and mask them against Covid forever, that was our Board Of Education’s modus operandi for a year and a half. I’m so curious to know who decided it was also a good idea to literally lock the kids in the high school for prom?

Another change to the common high school experience is the removal of the prom or homecoming court. The “court” is a group of students selected by their peers who have the opportunity to be crowned class King or Queen. It’s a way to highlight those in the school who are exemplary classmates, friends, humans.

There is the opinion out there that it hurts feelings and makes kids feel less than to host such events. Many say it’s a simple popularity contest – nothing more or less.

Let me draw the comparison here between why this is the same line of thinking as everyone deserves a trophy. It doesn’t matter that Billy practiced soccer for 10 hours a weekend and 5 hours during the week to become the best and win the game. He can’t get the trophy because it would hurt Johnny’s feelings. The same Johnny who had no interest in practicing and who was playing the game for fun. Don’t get me wrong, there’s no shame in doing any sport for fun. The journey and the winning and losing IS the fun! Ok maybe more winning than losing, but you catch my drift.

Bottom line is let’s not ding the kids who work so hard at their craft and eventually win as a result. They sign up for competitive sports for that reason. Let the winners get the damn trophy.

How does this apply to the school court reference from earlier? It starts with nominating then, in turn, rewarding the kids who set the example. I don’t want to teach my sons to do the bare minimum in life. Ideally, I’d like them to spend time with and look up to the kids who inspire and motivate them to be their best selves. It would also be nice for them to set their egos aside and root for another classmate whom they respect and admire. We could all use setting our egos aside from time to time to lift others up. It’s a nice life lesson.

It’s always been strange to me that movies depict the winners as assholes who are experts in the field of bullying. In my experience, that was not the case. I can remember some of the upperclassmen who were on the court as people I looked up to. They were my friends and showed kindness with ease, had reasonable grades, excelled in sports, theater, or belonged to several clubs. Some were shy and some were mega extroverts. One thing was for sure, it was a good mixture of decent human beings from various backgrounds; quite the opposite of just about every high school movie ever made.

So why toss the baby out with the bathwater ? My guess is this was done away with by the feelings police. They probably thought, “Well, we simply cannot have these contests anymore because someone will feel left out.“

May be these decision makers were feeling protective over their kids feeling unpopular. Honestly, I believe they could be shooting themselves in the foot. If this is how you feel – give your child more credit than that. It’s a wide pool of people voting, and your child might be in the mix. Also, ask yourselves is it the end of the world for our kids to have a negative emotion about something? Check out the movie Inside Out for an excellent depiction of this.

It’s my opinion that this type of parental thinking promotes mediocrity. If kids go through life getting trophies for not winning, or are unable to be on court at school, or if there are no longer awards because it may cause hurt feelings – what does that do to our society? It makes people feel like there’s no sense in trying. If there’s no incentive for going the extra mile at school to be kind, get good grades, belong to clubs, be respectful towards adults, who’s to say it doesn’t send kids in the opposite direction? If there’s nothing to try for, what’s the point?

Think for a moment of the kids who don’t have a great home life. If there’s no one at home cheering them on and no way at school to shine in some way, what’s the easiest and quickest fix they turn to today? I’m sure you guessed it- the big, unadulterated, out of control dopamine machine called social media. A false promise that lures them in and spits them out on the daily. As we all know, social media is a fake, digital world instead of a fun, living one that requires hard work, and real, tangible rewards and experiences.

Even as adults we like to have a carrot to work towards in addition to feeling a sense of accomplishment. If we work hard, we get a raise or a good bonus. If we sell enough widgets, we get that promotion. If we save up enough money we can take that lavish vacation. If we meditate regularly, we teach ourselves how to manage stress better. If we train for a race, we can fundraise and give to a charity. The examples are endless; adults like to feel like they’re doing something good for their family, inner circle, or community as a form of personal fulfillment.

So let the kids have fun. Trust them before locking them inside of schools. Give them incentives and opportunities to win trophies or awards for being exceptional at something. Allow them to stand before their peers and wear a crown for 5 minutes in the name of being a good human. Clap for them at a basketball game! Give them real life experiences to look forward to instead of driving them further into a sub-par digital one.

Observations During a Pandemic

Today is the 23rd day of practicing social distancing, of school being closed, of working from home. It’s about to be the third week of restaurants and stores being shut down, doctors’ offices practicing telehealth versus in-person visits. Today, another realization hits me, just like the day before, and the day before that day, just as all the future days another new reality will become uncovered during this pandemic. Drawn to the news like a dog to a squirrel during the first few weeks of its rise, I can only bring myself to watch sparingly now.

I felt compelled to write something, but not just regurgitate everything else I’m reading or seeing. What can I write that is meaningful during such a historically sad time? This was the question circulating over the past few weeks in my mind, and it landed on recording my personal observations and experiences – both good and bad. May be you’ll relate, may be you won’t, but either way, it’s something else to read other than the numbers we all obsess over each day or another story about a beloved person passing away, or the schizophrenic ever-changing messaging from our administration, or a small business going under, or another friend losing their job.

It’s important to note that as I write this, I’m sitting on my comfortable couch, healthy, and listening to Creep by Radiohead play in the background. The heat is on, my youngest son is singing along to the Zombies 2 musical in his room, my oldest is playing Minecraft while Skyping with a friend as she plays in tandem. My husband is exercising in the basement, while the dog is slobbering all over a bone, dashing around madly trying to bury it. The cat is drifting in and out of sleep on my son’s bed. There is food in our refrigerator, we’ve just scored some 1-ply toilet paper after 9 days of searching, and all the laundry is done. We’ve just returned from a 3 mile walk in the brisk Spring wind having picked up Robek’s smoothies and Dunkin’ Donuts on our way back. It’s important to mention this because it doesn’t sound like an awful day does it? And that’s the point of typing this tiny bit out. Today is Saturday, April 4th, 2020, and today is not a bad day in the small world of our family right now. This is one of many observations during this pandemic- there are good days and there are bad.

Personal Stories

More so than the news spitting out the numbers every hour, I’m drawn to the personal articles of those affected and what they’ve endured. As I mention right on the landing page of this blog’s website- it’s through stories that we all are connected. Never have I found this to be more true than a time like now. Of all the articles I’ve read over the last month, it’s only two that stand out to me the most. The story of the 39 year old healthy father who was dropped off by his wife and daughter in a second attempt to be admitted to the hospital after falling ill. After pulling up to the hospital drop off, he got out of the car and walked into the hospital. His wife and daughter went to park the car. The hospital went on lockdown and his wife and daughter could not enter. They never saw him again. I’ll never forget this story or the hard cry I had, the first time I really allowed myself to feel whole heartedly this crazy mix of emotions that a lot of us don’t really know what to do with.

The second article that daggered me right in the heart is about the mother of six, being treated for breast cancer who contracted COVID-19. Because her children could not be with her in the room while she passed, a nurse placed a walkie talkie next to her pillow and allowed each of them to say their goodbyes via a tiny black device. Another story I will never forget.

The Giving

During this dark phase of our lives, it’s easy to get sucked into the negativity, the despair, these gut wrenching stories of death that I mention above and let it seep into your psyche, your day, your tone to your spouse, children, and family. It’s crucial for me to say to you, try your absolute hardest not to allow this to happen. It’s happening to all of us, I sure as hell am guilty. But I’ve got some news that will offer you a hand to grab and yank you from the dark of this crazy emotional mosh pit. Search for the positive stories. There are so many. People who are on the ground doing some really serious giving in some incredibly ground breaking and creative ways.

I am extremely fortunate in that my day job allows me a front row seat to this seriously uplifting good stuff. We assist private foundations in activating their philanthropic missions. This means we’re helping process the grants these wonderful folks are pushing forward. It allows me to listen in on webinars about where money is needed most and how we’re going to get it there. Meetings topics are made up of how to help the most people in a community at a time, what other foundations are doing so that others can join along or be spurred on to create their own program, and how charities have learned from past pandemics (AIDS, H1N1, Ebola).

We’re watching the awe-inspiring action of one foundation that created jobs for furloughed restaurant workers by ordering the raw materials to assemble plastic protective face masks and package them, which will then be delivered to NY hospitals. It reaches more than one group in a positive way; it gives an income to those who need it, while providing important protective gear for the hospitals that are desperate- it’s a positive domino effect.

This is just one story of 100’s. There are so many touching initiatives everyday people, charitable organizations, businesses, and celebrities are taking. If you’re interested in reading about some of them, or simply want to feel a boost of much needed endorphins, check out this article. If you’d like to know which charities you can donate to – read this here.

The Silence

This is one observation I am stuck on- the silence is deafening. The needle on the record just will not grasp one of those rings on the black vinyl and blurt out the damn tune.

Let me give you 4 examples.

–Text messages to nowhere. I sent text messages to nine friends all on the same day, over 2 weeks ago. The messages were similar in nature: “How are you and your family doing?”, “I hope you are OK, am thinking about you. Let me know.”, “I miss you, know that I am thinking of you, how is everything going?” Since then, only one of those people has replied. I don’t know what this means, but I’m exhausted from over-analyzing the reasons why. It just plain hurts, but I am sure it likely has to do with shock and adjustment. I’m trying not to take it personally, but it’s hard not to.

–Crickets on work calls. Team calls have suddenly become eerily quiet. Questions from those leading the calls go unanswered and I squirm in my basement office desk chair trying to avoid being the only one to answer each question.

–Evening walks. With less cars on the roads and no visible humans in our neighborhood after dark, the silence is quite beautiful in a way. This version of quiet is the only version I find comforting these days. It is peaceful; meditative.

–Middle of the Night Alertness. Anxiety over all of this has come in the form of sleeplessness for many of us. I’ve become accustomed over the last few weeks to the middle of the night hum of quiet in my house. Will someone break in for toilet paper or soap? Will people start looting? Just a few bedtime conversations my husband and I have had before comfortably drifting off to sleep. Or not.

Electronic Connection

How much more are you having actual phone conversations now that this virus has invaded our lives? If you’re a Xennial like myself, I would venture to guess you’re having a lot, if not as many as you had back in college for the first time in 15 or so years. If you’re a Boomer, you’re also likely having more phone conversations than you’ve had in a while. If you’re a millennial or Gen Z, maybe it’s a very new thing for you and you’re adjusting.

Personally, I’ve noticed I’m enjoying the shift in hearing my friend’s voices who don’t live close by. Last week, I spoke to a friend from 5th grade who lives with his family in France, 2 long time friends in Chicago, and a friend in Cincinnati. 3 of my local friends have called to check in on the regular. This is not the norm for me at all. There is something to be said for that deep personal connection that radiates from knowing someone cares enough about you to pick up the phone and vice versa.

With WiFi and internet fluctuating in and out, conference lines and video chat calls dropping due to overloaded servers, we are in a state of flux. I am realizing just how lucky we are to have a little thing called the Internet. Imagine how much worse this isolation would be without it? All of us able to work from home would not have jobs, mass communication and connection via social media to know we’re “in this together” would not exist, and let’s not forget school as well as entertainment for the kids. We’d rely on the weekly paper for all of the stories and updates, and the TV news which is overloaded with only negative info it seems. For people like me who have streaming services instead of cable, we’d be screwed regarding any form of TV watching. Forget online banking and shopping- bye bye Amazon. We would buckle as a society. We are interwoven as one with this technology and are therefore dependent upon it. Thank you, internet. You are appreciated Vinton Cerf and Bob Kahn.

The Ripple Effects, The Future

A friend recently said to me, “Think about when we all go back to our jobs, school, and life. Will we all stay in our silos? Will people still remain distant from one another? Will they be hesitant to go back to the way it was now that we’ve instituted this “new normal” for however many months?” She also raised a really valid point about how so many people already have trouble with organic socializing due to social media, text as a main method of communication, less outdoor time. This isolation and social distancing may have only exacerbated this phenomenon.

We obviously hope not. Is it wishful thinking that we hope the reverse will happen and the people of that generation will gleefully sprint outdoors sharing in tree-climbing contests, double dog dares consisting of “how long can you go without looking at your phone?”, along with going back to the days of mall and Taco Bell parking lot hang outs? I suppose we’ll find out when these measures are lifted whether or not this perpetuates the issue, or in a reverse psychology maneuver – solves the issue.

What is the near future looking like for farmers?I’ve recently read articles about the farmers whose migrant workers are stuck in Guatemala, unable to come over and pick the crops that are soon to spoil. Will there be a shift where jobless Americans step in and pick these crops for much needed income, resolving the issue of crop waste? Will the farmers sell off only half their crops because closed restaurants are not buying? These are the ripple effects we have yet to see, but will experience very soon.

Then there’s the perpetually sick and poor. For the those who don’t have COVID-19, but who have cancer, AIDS, Lupus, MS, ALS, and auto-immune diseases, how and when will the blood shortage, and possible drug unavailability cause them to suffer and possibly pass away?

Or how about the overworked staff and overcrowded hospitals? What about their mental health? Also, I have heard so many stories of sick people being turned away from receiving care only to show up again and beg their way to being admitted. Will standing physically in front of them, demanding care be what it takes?Will this become the new norm for receiving medical care? If yes, how long will it last, and how many will be sent home due to overcrowding only to perish?

Another ripple effect occurring is shelters having to close due to the proximity of people putting everyone at risk. Many of them must be fed via a curbside pick up and can no longer eat inside. I was on a call recently, and they mentioned to put your arm out in front of you and then out to your side. Did you touch a person? How many? If you ask this of a homeless person in a shelter, their answer is often 5 or 6 people. So the question is, where are these displaced people going during this awful time? The Salvation Army is opening up for them to shower, but finding places for them to sleep is becoming a deeper, more concerning issue.

Now think on a broader scale about the poor in terms of third world countries. This virus will devastate them. How will they come back from this? What will the future look like for them?

These ripple effects are what’s keeping me up at night. The stuff six months down the road that none of us ever thought of.

Home schooling

I am thankful we chose to live in a town known for its good schools and family friendliness. Because of this, online learning was set up in a matter of a few short days for our children. If students did not have devices to learn on, they could simply go to the school and get one for free. If there were students who depended on school lunch, they could go to the school and continue to get their lunch, and now dinner as well. These are amazing offerings to our diverse community and to have them at the ready- is something to be really grateful for.

So….homeschooling. I have learned I’m not patient when it comes to my first grader arguing with me about whether or not to do his work. I’m not calm when he begins his writing assignment by using the whole page to write the first word of his story – just to push my buttons. And I’m certainly not even-tempered when my boys start to bicker for the umpteenth time of the day, while I’m on a client call quickly pressing the mute button to run upstairs and reprimand them. Homeschooling while working is a challenge. Homeschooling and trying to refrain from screaming while doing so is an even bigger one.

I’m thinking about the void that’s been left in place of my kids’ activities. No Variety Show, no school play, possibly no 5th grade graduation. This year is my sons’ last time being in the same school at the same time. My heart breaks even more for all the kids in general, especially Seniors in high school. These are memories that have evaporated before they could exist. Let’s hope they can be rescheduled somehow, some way at a later date. One can hope!

My 10 year old said to me the other day that it’s been nice spending all this time together. This was a ray of light in my day, obviously. This was one of the good moments I am definitely putting in my back pocket. It was at the end of a day where my patience had run razor thin multiple times and I had thought “There’s no way they’ll think back on this time and remember anything pleasant. Maybe they’ll only remember me yelling.” I guess all the walks, board games, and karaoke is outweighing the arguing. Again, trying to be hopeful here.

My 7 year old says he hates being homeschooled. He hates a lot of things right now. We happen to not use the word “hate” in our house, but I’m trying to be a supportive mom and allow him to feel all the feels he wants and if he wants to hate everything right now, it’s fine by me. Let that anger out my little dude. We’re all feeling a wide array of emotions, who am I to stifle his? At the same time, he’s hugging me about 100 times a day and I’ll take gladly take it. Like I mentioned, all of our emotions are all over the place. It’s a pretty consistent theme.

The Absence of Medical Care

My husband is a chiropractor, he’s seeing much fewer patients of course, but of the ones he’s seeing, they are very open in their gratitude. They’ve mentioned they don’t have anywhere to go to get treated. Some have gone to the ER only to be turned away. Other doctor’s offices have closed that they see regularly for pain management. This reminded me of what the Red Cross attendant said as she prepped my paperwork prior to my blood being drawn. She said: there is no pause button for pain, suffering, and disease during a pandemic.

For this I’m thankful my husband can provide a service to others that offers pain relief during a time when they have little to no options in terms of where to go for care.

Travel and Celebrations

I traveled to my cousin’s wedding in Alabama on February 29th and flew back the next day on March 1st. He and his wife must feel as though they’ve dodged a bullet, because just days later is when this took off into an unknown of epic proportions. It’s surreal to think of all the weddings, proms, births, birthday parties, and celebrations in general this pandemic has impacted and just how fast everything changed.

On March 13th, my sister and her boyfriend got engaged. I was over the moon for them. I was also scheduled to meet her man for the first time the following weekend. My flight was booked and I was stoked. That meeting, of course did not happen. With everything going on, we don’t know when we’ll get to meet. But it’s one of the many things I am looking forward to when isolation rules are lifted!

It also made me realize it will be a year in May since I’ve seen my sister and 10 months since I’ve seen my mother. This means my kids have not seen their Aunt and Grandmother in way too long and is a stark reminder why we shouldn’t have too much time pass before we see loved ones who live far.

The Idea of A Loved One Dying Alone

If someone I love does get COVID-19 and becomes gravely ill, I’ve thought a lot about what I will do. I would fly or drive out to be with them during their last days. It would be traumatizing and haunt me for life if I did not do this. If it boils down to a walkie talkie so be it. They won’t be alone if I can help it.

For me personally, I firmly believe that is the worst part of this pandemic. The unbearable reality of being alone while taking your last breaths. Words left unsaid, hands left unclutched, leaving this world in lonely silence. It is why it is so important to call, text, and reach out now, while we are still able, while the people we care for are still here.

The Bright Spot

I convinced my husband (after three years of begging) to build the kids a treehouse! This is SO exciting. I was able to do so by telling him that I would just go ahead and build it. Who knew the idea of my trying to use a circular saw would have that effect? My kids are so happy, and we all have something to look forward to in the short term.

These are my many observations 3 weeks into the madness of this pandemic here in the U.S. I hope you all stay healthy, find small things throughout isolation to help you stay sane, and you feel a sense of togetherness while we are separated. Keep living, continue connecting with others in ways that are safe, and remember, this too shall pass.

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Sharing Stories & Supporting One Another

In the last six months I’ve written two stories about interesting and persevering women who deserve to have their stories told. These stories were submitted to an informative and thought provoking site called GirlTalkHQ for their Wonder Women series. The Wonder Women series was a call to writers to share stories about women who inspire us, have overcome adversity, and can teach us a thing or two based on their personal experiences. When I first saw the writing prompt Calling All Wonder Women, I couldn’t wait to get to work on these stories.

Continue reading here.

When Your Child Discovers The Big Lie

Standing in the toy aisle in Kohl’s and concentrating on which item to buy for a friend’s son’s birthday, I hesitated before asking my son to repeat what he had just said.

“Can you repeat what you just said, but can you whisper it to me?” If it was what I thought it was, I didn’t want his 5 year old brother to overhear.

“I know that Santa’s not real, Mom.”

The color likely drained from my face as it was probably the last thing I was expecting him to say at that moment, but it was, in fact, what I thought he had just said.

“Ok, if you want to have this discussion, it has to be in private, with both me and your father. It needs to be away from your brother.”

“Oh! So you’re saying he isn’t then? I knew it!” His voice getting more shrill with each word.

“I said let’s talk about this later. Now is not the time.”

Thankfully, he forgot about it.

Two weeks later, after walking in the door from school, he reminded me that he wanted to have that talk. He said he knew about Santa and the Tooth Fairy because he had set up his iPad to video us sneaking around.

“That’s bologna.” I said. He smiled and admitted to fibbing.

“Well, I know they’re not real because you say you will tell Santa if we are misbehaving. That made me realize you’re lying. How could you tell Santa? It’s not like you have his phone number. What you think you can fool me by saying you’ll just dial him up? Or email him! It’s lies!”

“We’ll talk about it at bedtime.” I silenced him for the moment.

At bedtime, his father and I sat down and told him in so many words that he was right. Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny were pretend magical stories to make the holidays and losing teeth more fun and special for children. It was a lie coming from a good place (uh, confusing), and he would understand one day and do the same for his children.

Anger was the emotion that seemed to settle right in when we confirmed the bad news. He got emotional and went on to say he was hurt and surprised we had lied to him for 8 years. Then my husband corrected him and said, “Well, actually 9. We lied for 9.” Thank you, husband.

He pushed us away when we tried to hug him. We didn’t “deserve” hugs. We were horrible parents. He was sulking like an irritated teenager. Then he asked about Elf on the Shelf which we only started doing these last two Christmases. He seemed more upset about the Elf for some reason. We gave him the ol’ “you can help keep the magic going and be part of it for your brother now…” spiel and it simply ignited more upsetment.

“How can you ask me to LIE to my own BROTHER? What kind of parents ARE you?” The drama was over the top. I wanted to laugh, but then I couldn’t, because he was so genuinely upset, the humorous vibe evaporated. We explained that he better not tell his brother or his friends.

The saga continued as he ran into our bedroom and grabbed his framed baby picture off of my nightstand and stared at it. I felt like we were in REM’s “Everybody Hurts” music video except it was, “J’s found out there’s no Santa.” This was like a made for TV moment.

For the first time, we didn’t get a warm goodnight (he’s a lovey dovey kid), and we were sad about this phase being over. We shuffled back to the living room feeling a sort of grief only parents that have just gone through this experience can understand. It was the end of an era, which is sad for parents too. As your children go through different phases, some good and some bad, when the phases come to an end, there is a small sense of mourning. Not really for the bad phases though… adios to those!

We thought about any possible way to lift his spirits. Since our son had stayed home sick that day, we didn’t know if he had made drama club.The school had a lottery system in which they select children who are interested at random and there are a limited number of spots. My husband posted on the school’s parent group on Facebook to see if there was a way to find out and wa-la (thank you Facebook and the parent who got right back to us) we found out he had made it!

We agreed to tell our son right away in hopes to cheer him up, but he was pretty stoic after we shared the good news. He wanted to crash in our bed for the night which he hasn’t done for years. He kept saying he didn’t know how he would fall asleep because this was the worst day of his life.

The next morning he was still thinking about it and said to his dad, ” So what’s up with the Santa tracker then?” It was obviously still on his mind. So much for hoping it would pass!

I guess with parenting, one never knows how much something will impact their child until it actually happens. My son clearly believed HARD in the magical things we told him about. For that I’m glad because those years were SO MUCH FUN. This was definitely a learning experience. The anger carried on the entire next day, but slowly it dissipated and we got him to agree not to tell his friends or his brother. I do believe we just witnessed his first major disappointment in life. Sure he’s had other let downs, but nothing to this degree. Of course there will be many more to come. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, it’s so interesting what we learn from parenting. It’s a front row seat to the growing changing of the human being you’ve created-physically, mentally, and emotionally. You can’t help but be riveted, worried, and grateful simultaneously during the whole experience. Hopefully, we can still get a few more years of Santa, the bunny, and the Tooth Fairy with our youngest!

Embarking On The Unknown; A Career Path

At the age of 16 or 17 most kids have to start thinking about and actually decide what field they want to be in for work. This, of course, is the whole college selection journey that begins with picking a school, a minor, and a major. In the end the hope is obviously that a job will come along in said field. Some teenagers have a solid conviction of what they’ve always wanted to be, but it’s typical to be pretty clueless. It’s only a decision that impacts the rest of your life, but you’ve been on the planet 16 years…so….you’ve got this. You have to start to hone in on what you think you might like to do all day, while also getting paid a decent wage. Those things don’t necessarily go together, but nonetheless, at the wise age of 16 we dive into our best guess.

***

My bedroom was painted royal blue. I had a thing for the color blue back then. The ceiling was smothered with Rolling Stone magazine covers end to end. I absolutely loved Mark Saliger’s photos. I poured over the Rolling Stone interviews imagining that someday I would be the author to many music legend interviews. I wondered what I wanted to do with my life and often stared up at my ceiling hoping I would some day end up at Rolling Stone. I decided that since writing was something I loved and I got good grades in that subject, I’d be best at a journalism. I also remember thinking that whatever I majored in, I’d have to make sure there was as little math involved as possible. Legitimately, that was a concern for me since math never was my strong suit.

I started out at community college due to finances. My dream had been to go to the University of Southern California, but I quickly realized that picking a college simply because I wanted to go there was a luxury that was not in the cards. When I signed up for our local community college, I felt disenchanted. My dreams of moving away to Cali had been pushed aside. In my mind, I had big plans for myself. One year later, I ended up attending a university in Illinois about 4 hours from home.

One afternoon, I visited the placement office at community college to nail down a major. The office was filled with shelves of books about every possible occupation under the sun. I went and thumbed through a couple, finally settling in on Public Relations Specialist.

I read the description over and over and looked at the average salary of $70,000 a year.

“Wow, that is SO much money.” The wheels were in serious motion in my head, “I’ll be rich!” I was sure I was going to be poppin’ bottles with P. Diddy and J. Lo. The words in job description bounced up and down on the page with excitement right at me. Media, Radio, Television, Writing, Celebrity, Top Executives, Relationships, Communication. Whatever this job description was selling, I was buying with all of the tip money in my pocket. It all sounded so glamourous! $70K to my 18 year old self also sounded like a million dollars, ah, how things change…but I digress.

It listed the majors and minors for this type of role. And guess what? There was hardly any math involved. I signed up to major in journalism with a minor in marketing. I felt my planning was thorough since I had a plan A and a plan B. Plan A would be to try to become a writer for Rolling Stone, while plan B would be the PR Specialist gig that had dazzled me dizzy. I knew I would minor in marketing because it had been my father’s major and he had turned out successful, so why not? That was the amount of thought I put into my minor. I chose it blindly with a whole lot of gusto.

Basically that describes my entire decision making process- from start to finish.

I loved my classes, there was just one smidgeon of a problem. While in my journalism class we were writing about Princess Diana’s death that had been all over the news. The professor went on at length about the long hours journalists put in, the sometimes life or death situations, and the right and wrong decisions they’d have to make in certain circumstances (case in point with Diana). I was riveted and wondered if my job at Rolling Stone would be that way. I committed in my mind to do whatever it took. But it was something else he said that changed my course right then and there-literally.

“Who in this class loves writing?” He had a deep voice that carried out of the class and into the hallway.

“OK, now who in this class wants to make money in this profession?” His wry smile curled.

This next part I am paraphrasing; I cannot remember his exact words.

“Those who kept your hands up for the second question need to change your majors right now. You will be poor as a journalist. This is a fact unless you strike gold somehow. I will spell it out for you folks- you will barely make enough money to live and you will work like a dog. You have to live, breathe, and die by writing, accepting that you will likely not make much money.”

I changed my major that following week. I had watched my mom work her butt off and struggle as a hairdresser ever since her and my Dad divorced. In addition to that, my Dad had dropped a scary amount of weight when the real estate market took a nose dive in the mid eighties. For many months, when we’d stay at his condo, we’d have fish sticks with ketchup for dinner during that ailing time in his career. I didn’t want to live on fish sticks if I had anything to do about it. Money struggles legitimately scared me, and I would need to pick something that was more reliable. So I said goodbye to my dream of writing. I chose to major in Communications and Human Relations, which I was still pretty happy with.

In the end, I feel fortunate. I ended up picking a major that was right for me and has served me well since it lends itself to many career paths (and there was no math).

If I could change one thing, it would likely have been my minor in marketing. I think I should have minored in English Lit or something else specific to writing. Then again, maybe without that emphasis in marketing I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of working for one of the best marketing firms around. It was an incredibly fun learning experience and was chock full of good people and amazing volunteer opportunities. I do wonder if I didn’t have that minor of marketing on my resume, would I have gotten that job? I remember the head hunter setting me up for the interview (as a temporary receptionist) and mentioning it was good that I had that on my resume. I did end up getting asked to interview for an Executive Assistant role there while temping, which then lead me to an Account Executive role and later a Sr. Account Executive position. I guess you never know where your path will lead you!

Along the course of different positions I’ve had over the years at various companies, I can say that I’ve pinned down what I dislike: spreadsheets and data entry. Does anyone like this? If you do, bless your heart. I’ve also come to know what I’m not so good at; being analytical. A double whammy of things I loathe was putting analytical data into spreadsheets. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. It felt like I was dying a slow death. Now imagine putting data into a system that was 14 years old that crashed all the time. OK, I’ll stop now. I can already tell you feel my pain.

What have I learned that I am sharing with you? Ask your teenagers what they like to do, what they could do for years to come without tiring of it, what their weaknesses are, and what they know they despise doing. It’s impossible for them to narrow it down perfectly since they haven’t had enough life experience or job experience yet, but I do believe it will still help.

If you’ve been out of school now for quite sometime and are looking to overhaul your professional life like I just did-ask yourself those same questions. Realistically, if you’re like me and have a family to support, there will be different variables to weigh in your decision making process.

I’m going to be forty in a year and a half. In my opinion, it took me way too long to figure out the things I should have run the opposite direction from job wise. Lean into your strengths even if it means you won’t get a handsome financial reward. Sure I’ve had to compromise and downsize a bit, but there’s no price tag on happy.

When I think back to what my professor said that day, I wonder if I hadn’t listened to it how things would be different. It’s not a feeling of regret at all, it’s just curiosity. It’s apparent that the writing landscape has definitely changed. After the 19 years of job and life experience I’ve had since that day, I’ve learned that there are many different options.

It helps to look into your options, think about them, ask people about their professions, etc. You can still do the things you enjoy without being paid for them. I am able to be a writer today just for fun. The fact that writing, people, and creativity are actively part of my life makes me feel richer than ever, even if in the dollar sense that’s not the case.

“The greatest wealth is to live content with little, for there is never want where the mind is satisfied.”- Lucretius

Working Mom Burnout-What Can Help Us?

Since the crash of 2008 the working world has shifted. Companies are running leaner than ever resulting in people working longer and harder. Of those employees, a decent percentage includes working mothers. At what point does society say it’s time to throw out the old institutional norms and get with the times? Will corporate America hear the sound of working parent burnout and change their tune?

Three weeks ago I handed in my resignation to a company I’ve been employed with for 6.5 years. The stress level felt as though it was taking a toll on my mental health and it was more than stretching into time with my family. My husband and I decided enough was enough and it was time to make a drastic move. A move that would mean a single income along with letting go of my healthcare benefits. Leading up to this moment, I have been applying and interviewing since 2011-and to no avail. Due to the painfully difficult task of landing a new job, I have toyed with the possibility of leaving the corporate world forever. This means we need to be okay with taking a reduction in pay and benefits. The allure of once climbing the ladder has completely lost it’s shimmer. A slower pace where my health is in good form, and life isn’t whipping past me like a freight train is the carrot calling my name now.

We all want to do our best. It’s just not possible to do it at a million miles an hour with a plate so full there’s no bottom in sight. It’s not abnormal for working parents to log on at night to wrap up tasks or respond to emails. Sadly, this has become the new norm. Additionally, many of us have said sayonara to the good old lunch break. Hence the “Take Back Lunch” campaigns cropping up everywhere. Lunchtime for us parents is the beautiful gift of an hour to get errands done during business hours, or in some cases, our only break to do something for ourselves. Now that lunch has gone by the wayside, when are these errands getting done? Where is that hour of personal time to take a much deserved break?

Other than eating lunch at our desks and logging onto the computer to do work in the evenings, let’s think for a moment about the inability to shut the brain off from work. It creeps its way to the top of your mind conveniently right when your head hits the pillow. You’re on hyper alert that there is an email you didn’t respond to, or that looming deadline isn’t remotely possible to meet given the workload and short staff situation. If you’re a working mother, this endless list is mixed in with parental tasks like remembering to turn in money for the school field trip, picking up a birthday present for the party next weekend, or forgetting that there is no water bottle to send to school since your child lost it the day before. Being in this constant state of fight or flight is never healthy as we all know, and it can wreak havoc on not only the mind, but the body (stomach aches, migraines, anxiety, depression).

Prior to 2008, things were a bit different. It would seem that now companies are running more lean than ever. As a result, workloads are heavy and stress levels are high. Of the existing workforce, plenty of companies employ working mothers. We are the group that leaves one job to go to our jobs as moms. But what about when the day job overshadows, hovers, or smothers the mom job? What then? Can we do both jobs at once and do them well? Who suffers as a result- the generation we’re raising, us moms, both, or society as a whole?

In a Facebook group I facilitate for working mothers, a survey was posted to capture answers to questions relating to what they need help with the most as working mothers. The idea was to hone in on how both their home and work life could be modified to make life in general a bit more manageable. The results are fascinating, yet not surprising.

Out of the 213 respondents, there was a tie between morning and dinner time in terms of what the most stressful time of day is. The morning is stressful due to getting ready for work coinciding with getting the kids fed, dressed, lunches packed, teeth brushed and out the door for school. Dinner time was just as stressful with having to multi-task; get dinner prepared while helping with homework, changing out of work clothes, cooking, making sure the younger ones are occupied/safe, etc.

When asked what was the one thing working moms were most desperate for help with, the majority said making and planning dinner. Help in cleaning the home came in second and help with having organization in their lives a close third.

Marriage and partnership was another section in the survey. The purpose for this was to gauge how much help working moms get from their partner. When asked how much help is received in one specific area, picking up and dropping off the kids took the top ranking at 18.3%. Housework and cleaning came in second at 16%. Interestingly, 10% said “other” with half the responses saying their partner is a stay at home dad and does most if not all tasks. The other half of the 10% saying it’s split evenly among them and their partner, or the nanny help divide and conquer.

Another question in the marriage and partnership bucket, was the question of how their partner responds to being asked to help. 52% said their partner would gladly help. 12% said the response would be similar to “you’re nagging me, but maybe”, 13% said their spouse would suggest paying someone to help, 8% reported that their partner would say “no” to helping. Most interestingly about this response was the “other” section which received 14%. 30 people responded with a variety of different comments, however, 7 people said their spouse would agree to helping and then not do or say they forgot to do the task, while the remaining 23 people had a mix of responses including that their spouse is a stay at home dad.

Some of you may have heard of the term overwhelm. This next question addresses how often in a week working mothers experience feeling overwhelmed. 48.3% said half of the week, while 38.9% said every single day. 11.7% said once a week and 0.9% said they never feel overwhelmed.

When asked if there was an aspect of their job they would like to change in order to make life as a mom easier, there were six options. The options included were more money, a flexible schedule, work from home options, more time off available, all of the above, and other. Most responded with all of the above at 28.6%. 6% selected “other” which consisted several similar responses including shorter commute, a policy that enforces working hours instead of 24/7 availability, less working hours, a service to provide assistance with laundry and childcare, and lastly, an appropriate workload. Some respondents said they are very happy with all aspects of their company, but worry about job security.

Most people try to find ways to decompress after a stressful day on the job and evening with the kids. This next question sheds light on how most working moms (from this specific group of 213 surveyed) choose to unwind. The winner for ways to decompress in this group goes to drinking alcohol at 23%. Sadly, 16.4% said they don’t know how to decompress. Also 13.6% chose “other” which included reading, watching TV, taking a bath, listening to music, or doing a hobby.

It is important to dream about what means the most to us, what motivates us, and what would bring us joy. The final question asks about daydreams.

The question reads “I daydream what it would be like to…”

Go at a slower pace in life (22%) and work part-time (20.75%) were the top two selections. 19% said their daydream consists of working at a company that is flexible, has lots of paid time off, and is family friendly, 12.2% said they’d prefer not have to work, 11% said start over and go back to school, 6% dream of having a supportive partner that helps more, and 7.5% said “other” which included having a live-in nanny, being single, being wealthy, having the kids out of the house, and travel.This tells us that when it comes down what matters most, time wins by a landslide over money on the importance scale.

It would seem the over arching learning from this group of working mothers surveyed is that half of the week they feel overloaded. They feel most overwhelmed in the morning while trying to get themselves and the kids out the door, as well as at night when dinner needs to be made and kids are simultaneously needing attention. Only half of these working moms have full spousal support when it comes to helping with anything needed. All of them would like a family friendly work environment-which seems like a no brainer to all of us right? A whopping 16% of the moms surveyed don’t know how to decompress-yikes. This cannot be good for the health of these moms. In addition to this, roughly a quarter of them use alcohol to de-stress. The doctors supposedly say a glass of red wine a day is good for the heart, but is it the best way for us to relax after a long day? Lastly, the most common day dream is going at a slower pace in life or working part-time hours.

So what’s the answer? Perhaps less hours and a more manageable workload is a start. Who came up with 9-5 anyway? Most schools start around 9 as do offices and most offices close at 5:30 or 6 and school gets out between 2 and 3. Does everyone work their best during those hours or can we entertain an idea of a different kind of work schedule? Who died and let technology become our new tyrant of a boss that allows us to be available 24/7? Maybe we would all work more efficiently if companies didn’t adhere to the regimented 40 hour schedule. Think about the option of letting employees choose their hours to suit their current situation. It could be this way for everyone-those with kids and without. If the work is getting done, why does the time of day or hours in a day matter?

Think about the incentives for your employees being happiness, motivation, more time in the home, and less overwhelm. Let’s start the conversation. I think we can all agree something has got to change.

When Good Luck Strikes

Have you ever been minding your own business when all of a sudden something glorious happens? Maybe that excitingly fortunate thing for you was winning a $10 lotto ticket, someone buying your meal at a restaurant, getting an unexpected promotion, or being the lucky caller on a radio station that scored you a trip for two to Cancun. Whatever it was that you’ll never forget, be sure to share that story so it lives on. I believe that the more people hear stories of good fortune, the more hope it gives others that something unprecedented might be hiding around the corner. Also, in a world with Google and instant gratification, our memories seem to be waning and you just may forget about your unreal experience and that would be a straight up shame and a half. The art of storytelling needs to be kept alive!

My insanely awesome experience came completely unexpected on a stormy weeknight back in the late nineties. A group of friends and I were running late to the Britney Spears concert at the Rosemont Theater in Illinois. We had wastefully spent time doing our hair and make up only to have it washed right off by the torrential downpour as we sprinted across the parking lot into the venue.

We heard the opening band, O-Town, wrapping up and people cheering which sent us into a sprint to get to our seats. At this moment of half running/half trying to wipe our faces off from the rain, a tall man that looked like he was also in a rush was walking quickly toward us and waving at us asking us to slow down. Annoyed, we snapped that we were running late, and we all but ran right past him in our haste.

He asked us to please just stop for one second so he could tell us something. Irritated that he was slowing us down, we all looked at each other and rolled our eyes wondering what he could possibly want.

“How would you like to go on stage with Britney?”

” Huh?”

” I have passes that are for special stage access. You will get to watch the whole show from a side stage just off the main stage. Would you like them? I need to give them away and your group has the perfect number of people.”

No WAY. We were all dying from a glee-filled induced adrenaline surge.

Of course we obliged and took the passes off his hands. He then escorted us to a side stage just off the main stage and we went up a small set of stairs and waited with a few other girls for Britney to come out. We jumped, and clapped, and squealed at the unexpected fantastical twist of our night. Just minutes ago we were parking far away, running through a rainstorm, missing the entire opening act, and worried about missing Brit’s first song. Now we were going to be just feet from her!

What was even more coincidentally awesome? One of the other girls on the platform was my friend from school! School as in my college that was 4 hours away from where we were standing. What were the odds of that? Seriously. The others said they had won this occasion from a Pepsi can contest. What the? All we had done was sprint into the theater soaking wet and anxious as hell to get to our seats!

This was at the height of Britney’s career also, might I add. So seeing her, especially this close up, was beyond exciting. We watched the show with perma-grins plastered on our faces the entire time.

About 45 minutes to an hour before the show ended, a young man in a dark gray or black hoodie walked up the stairs and onto the small platform. Since there were only a few of us on it, I was able to get a good look at him before he turned to watch Britney. It was Justin Timberlake! This was back when they were dating. None of us bothered him, but to say there was an electrical current of excitement running through each and every one of us would be an understatement.

The show ended and we talked about it the whole ride back home. We could not get over our sheer luck of being at the right place at the right time. It was an unbelievable experience that none of us would ever forget.

Have you had an amazing experience where dumb luck rained down upon you? Think about it, share your story with your friends, or write about it. It’s pretty cool to reminisce back to that space and time. Life can tap us on the shoulder and take us by complete surprise sometimes and it’s important to take time out and acknowledge the extraordinarily good stuff sometimes.

Airing the Dirty Laundry- Literally

Photo credit : @dwonderlandP

Pulling into the apartment complex after a full day, I noticed the trail of someone’s laundry or clothing strewn through the parking lot. It was still cold and damp out, but spring was finally making itself known after another blustery Illinois winter. Clothing, boxes, a couple of books, shoes, etc. were tossed along the walkway, in the grass, and in the parking lot. In the passenger seat of my mother’s car, I peered through the window staring hard at each article of clothing. The piles of belongings led up to the main entrance of the building.

Thank God being fifteen was coming to a close soon. The last two years had been flipped upside down and I was ready to close the door on that chapter. Still, this new life felt like someone else’s. I was reeling emotionally from being disowned by my father, thrust into my mother’s apartment with nothing but a backpack’s worth of stuff and adjusting to the start-stop-start of two different high schools. Navigating living without my younger sister was also a shock to the system. There is a vast difference in going from having a sister to share your space, things, and thoughts with – to being by yourself.

For the last year and a half, there was always some kind of drama lurking. Walking on eggshells became a honed skill. Just keep everyone happy and life would be OK. Don’t rock the boat. Nothing seemed to really bother me anymore-things could always be worse. Now that I was with my mother, there was no fear of what new false accusation or punishment awaited me. I believed that being out of my father and stepmother’s physical presence allowed me safe refuge from their mental games.

Mom worked long days, usually grabbed a cocktail with her gals after work, and typically got home late. It was odd to be alone in the loud quiet of the apartment, but for the first time in a while, there truly was a feeling of sanctuary.

I would walk places to kill time, lie on the couch and actually relax, hang with friends in their cars driving to the mall, the movies, and various fast food places since everyone was eager to drive with their freshly laminated driver’s licenses. Sometimes I’d listen to mix tapes, play with my dog, stare at the ceiling and daydream about all the things I wanted to do with my life now that I had escaped my teenage prison. The pressure, the anxiety, the constant nagging, and overblown reactions were over-and I bathed in that relief. In the beginning, the first few weeks of freedom felt like a dream; foggy, surreal, numb. It felt as though at any moment it could be ripped away from me, so I had to be vigilant and careful- it just wasn’t clear what I had to be vigilant and careful of. It was like being on a heightened sense of alert-just in case the rug got pulled out from under me. I would never go back. Never.

One evening just after my mother had walked in the door from work, the phone rang. It was my sister. I had been looking forward to hearing her voice, I missed her so much and these first few weeks without her were tough. But the voice on the other end was troubled, upset.

She explained that we would be unable to see one another for an indefinite period of time.

“WHY?” I held my breath.

Being kept from my own sister felt like a cruel and unfair punishment. In the back of my mind I had wondered if he would keep finding ways to hurt me or break me down even though I had escaped the confines of his self-proclaimed “dream house”.

She went on to explain that we could not see each other because Dad’s home had been vandalized.

Vandalism? How did that have anything to do with us seeing one another? I didn’t understand. And then all at once I did understand. Like a knob cranked all the way to blast, the realization of the situation had all but caused me to throttle through the roof of the apartment on adrenaline alone.

Vandalism. I wasn’t capable. Did they at least know THIS about me? Did they know anything about me? I had been accused of many insane things while under their roof. Here’s a handful: doing and dealing drugs, dating a drug dealer, being an alcoholic, a threat to their safety (they once told me they got a lock for their bedroom because they were afraid I would murder them in their sleep), “stealing” food from the kitchen, a defiant juvenile worthy of military school for purposely smearing jam on the counter to make a “statement”, a mastermind manipulator, and the list of outlandish accusations and paranoid delusions could go on and on. Now I could add vandal to the list. I had to laugh, there were just no more tears left.

My sister went on to explain they KNEW that I had done it because who else would do it? I had just been kicked out of their home, therefore to them it was the most obvious connection.

I asked what had happened.

Someone destroyed the white paint on their three-car garage by squirting mustard all over the place. This person or persons had also put dog poop in the mailbox and on the porch, etc.

My fury at the guilty until proven innocent verdict bubbled over.

” I DID NOT DO THIS!”

Yet another unfounded accusation. I wasn’t even under that God forsaken roof anymore- and yet they were still able to get to me. The best way to describe how I felt was like being punched in the stomach over and over and over again.

It was then my sister shared another hurtful message from our dear father. As a result of my apparent vandalizing of their home, not only would my sister and I not be able to see one another, they would not be returning any of my belongings. I would be forced to keep just the backpack’s worth of personal stuff and that would have to be enough. Because this was MY unfortunate choice to do this to their home, I would have to suffer the consequences.

And suffer I did.

Many months went by without seeing my sister. My mom had to purchase me new glasses, contacts, clothing, shoes, etc. since I was unable to get my things back and we hadn’t seen her in months prior to them dropping me off forever. I had no clothes there.

Eventually, Spring came and along with that came an eviction notice. We’d have to decide where to go next and things were not looking promising on a beautician’s pay.

The car windows were cracked, and the cool spring air mingled with my mother’s cigarette smoke. We parked in our usual spot and got out of the car. I can still remember the exact smell of the delicious wet dirt after the rain. I took in the scene before me; the walkway, the landing near the front door of the apartment complex, the parking lot. I cautiously walked over to one of the brown cardboard boxes that sat among the mess of items. I lifted the tucked moving style folded flaps of the carton and looked inside.

The contents in the box were mine. I realized then that it was my belongings that were also part of the strewn items I had seen while pulling into the parking lot. I felt the stinging at the backs of my eyes and resisted the urge to cry. While it wasn’t the way I had hoped to receive my belongings many months ago, at least I finally had them back. What forced the tears to flow regardless of my trying to hold them back and be strong, was the hate-filled way in which they were returned to me; as though someone had thrown them out the window of their car while driving by. My own father. What I would never understand was how he grew to hate me so much.

The small silver lining was that my stuff had arrived just in time for our big move. I’d be going to live with family friends and mom would be staying with a friend for a bit. The plan was just for a month or two. She’d be saving up until she had enough money for us to get a place together again.

Afterthoughts:

Through my lens as the child and now as the parent: False accusations can harm your relationship with your children. This was one of most hurtful experiences and prior to that experience, every single false accusation stung almost as bad. I’ll be able to apply this in the now and stop and think before accusing my sons of things with such certainty and condemnation.

Never-ending punishments and constantly reminding your child of the crime is overwhelming and maddening for them. I think we all need to remind ourselves of this when our kids are teens!

*This story was originally released in September of 2017.

Guilt Is My Alter Ego- Part 1

It was interesting to peer into my young mind and relive what was unfolding inside the words. Reading my journals dating back to 1987 has been an experience.

Combing through past experiences exposed how my all-consuming inner voice was formed. It’s pretty much an alter ego and her name is Guilt. She consumes me as a working mom, a friend, a wife, a daughter, and a sister. Better yet, she’s my arch nemesis and alter ego rolled into one. Beyonce doubles as Sasha Fierce, David Bowie had Ziggy Stardust, and Bridget the Bergen became Lady Glitter Sparkles. But I’m stuck with the not-so-glamourous and sparkly version of myself . She hovers over me like I’m her whipping boy, saying to me, “It’s GUILT Bitch!” which somehow doesn’t have the same chirpy ring of Britney’s fun voice. And based on pretty much anything you read related to motherhood, it would seem a lot of other moms also get bogged down by their feelings of guilt.

A few weeks ago, my husband gave me some advice. I was running around in a million directions, trying to clean with one hand, talk on the phone in the other, play with the kids with my left foot and eat with my right. After hanging up the phone, I griped to him that I felt all jittery and mega stressed. It felt like I had just finished beer-bonging coffee.

He said, “Look at yourself. Look at all the things you were just trying to do at the same time. You’re doing all these things because you think you should do them. You go through your life doing things all the time you think you should do, but do you ever ask yourself what you actually want to be doing?”

This must be a man thing because it would seem so many men can just turn off the stress and veg out in front of the TV. I do not not seem to possess this same gift of compartmentalization. As in being able to say to myself, “Now I will relax. Later I will do X. Tomorrow I will do Z.”

No way. It all is on fire and has to be done now. That’s is the way my brain always sees it.

Anyway, after I picked my jaw off the floor from his Dalai Lama advice sucker punch , I thought about what he had just said and he did have a major point. All of the things that were causing my stress to go into overdrive were self inflicted: 1.) I had answered the phone because it was someone I hadn’t talked to in awhile, so I felt like I had to answer; even though it was hands down the worst time of day to talk. 2.) While talking on the phone, I was feeling guilty over not interacting with my kids because it felt like I hadn’t really engaged with them all week. This thought is what led me to tell them I would play legos with them, but then I answered the phone, so actually I was half playing with them, half talking on the phone. 3.) Piles of laundry were all over the place so I was carrying the basket to and from the washer/dryer with the phone cradled on my shoulder followed by plopping down to fold the clothes right next to where we were playing legos. Yes, I thought I could fold, talk on the phone, and play legos with the kids all at the same time. 4.) The kids love to tell me how hungry they are whenever I’m doing anything. So I was making popcorn, cutting up apples, and pouring glasses of water upstairs, then going downstairs during intervals of folding clothes, playing with the legos, and talking on the phone.

I’m tired just writing this. This is the stuff I do to myself ALL. THE. TIME. And it basically boils down to guilt in addition to feeling like I am available to and owe everybody something at all times.

My husband continued on in his Dahlai Lama state of mind and asked me to think of all the decisions I’ve made in my life – both big and small -current and past. Are they driven by other people’s wants or my own? Had I EVER based my decisions on what I felt like I wanted to do for myself? Or did I just default to what my brain was telling me was the “nice” thing or the “right” thing to do at that moment. He pointed out that something bigger was likely driving my guilt.

Guilt manifests itself out of different experiences, fears, and beliefs we all have. Over time these patterns are hardened and then it feels impossible to break the cycle of that nagging voice.

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