Parenting – 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.

The Many Gifts Of Motherhood

With Mother’s Day being tomorrow, I felt compelled to write about the life altering, personality changing, ever-teaching, extraordinary experience it is to be a mother. We as a society celebrate Mother’s Day by thanking our caregivers, mothers, aunts, grandmothers, or special women in our lives who have made a difference or have shaped us in one way or another. I’m taking a bit of a different approach today, feeling immense gratitude toward my two sons and celebrating the many gifts and wisdom they bring to me daily as their mom.

Before diving into the wonder of momming, I want to first say that I realize there are many women out there who have tried, craved, and hoped for children, but whose bodies had other plans. While motherhood ended up not being their path biologically, something tells me their nurturing ways and calling to be a caregiver will lead them to that in one way or another, even if not in the way they had anticipated. In my experience, I’ve found the universe has ways of bringing what we crave into existence, even if not in the way we exactly envisioned. In the end, no matter how it manifests in our lives, it’s part of each of our unique human experience.

Some women are born nurturing, motherly, caring, loving, and then some. We all know women like this, they are all the things it means to be a mother. When I had my first son, impostor syndrome crept in for a little while. I wondered, like many other first-time moms do, if I was going to be capable of giving this tiny human everything I had hoped to give him. I made a promise to myself that I would do everything in my power to try to be the best mom for him and my future children. Both the exhilaration and terror of this new responsibility felt overwhelming. I consider the amount of gray hair that sprouted in that first year of motherhood to be my body’s way of validating all that excitement and stress , almost like silver exclamation marks that erupted from my brain and out through my scalp.

The first year with my baby boy was filled with snuggles, coos, a new-found kind of love I’d never known, an overwhelming feeling of wanting to protect, co-sleeping, breast-feeding, diaper changes, and ten months of sleeplessness. It was a jumbled mess of zombified work days met with gleeful kisses at home. Juggling a rare breastfeeding condition called Dysphoric Milk Ejection Reflex (DMER), overproduction, as well as four bouts of mastitis, had me feeling elated at month 6 when I would nurse him for the last time. Freedom like that never felt so good!

It was beyond that first year of difficulty and stress, where I found a certain kind of fulfillment in motherhood that connected me wholly with my toddler. The first year we are so stressed! We put one foot in front of the other, clutching our coffee like it’s pure gold. We chant: “Must-keep-this-tiny-human-alive” in our minds as we leave car doors open and pour orange juice in our cereal. Every phase after that first year has been my favorite. Actually, let’s pause on that because I have a teenager who will be turning 14 in less than two months, and there may be a shift happening in terms of how much I’m enjoying this phase.

We all hear moms hearken back fondly to a certain time with their children they treasure. Everyone has those favorite moments they cherish and they love to reminisce about.

“I loved the phase where my daughter couldn’t pronounce words correctly!”

“It was the absolute cutest when my son would climb into bed with me every morning to cuddle and I’d listen to him ponder the world!”

“Ages 7–10 are the best, they still like you, and aren’t grouchy with hormones taking over yet.”

“There’s nothing like walking in the door and having someone jumping up and down, running toward you full speed and squealing with delight for a good ten years.”

“I could never be away from my baby when she was small, I’d miss those squishy snuggles too much.”

While we all think back at the blur that is parenthood when our children are small, there are always the special moments that particularly stand out: the highs, the lows, the milestones, the unexpected, the memories. My personal favorite are the traditions created by each of us, etching our way with our own unique family habits. This is the significant imprint we leave stamped on our children’s hearts to look back fondly on when we’re no longer around.

One of our traditions was to read every single night with both of our sons starting from when they were babies. This tradition is still going strong give or take nights when they sleep over at friends and vice versa. That time has not only made a positive impact on their reading skills over the years, but it’s proven to be a time in their day to open up with questions about relationships, problems they’re facing, wins from their day, and sometimes curiosities about our youth and their relatives lives. I often wonder if this time was never set aside as a bedtime ritual, would these musings ever find their way to our ears?

Children teach us so much about not only life, but ourselves. How many of us are winging it, trying to build in a life lesson during moments when we’re not sure what the right answer is? My thirteen year old told me the way he was planning to talk to girls was online rather than in person because “it’s way easier mom”. Insert my horrified face and rebuttal of, “going up to a girl and striking up a conversation is far easier than surfing the web trying to talk to strangers! Trust me! If online, they may live out of state, be cat fishing you or much older than you, or live in another country! There are girls in your town — real people you can talk to in the flesh!”

Greeted with eye roll and exasperated exhale from teen.

While the teen years are supposed to be the most difficult, I’m trying to keep an open mind and a peaceful heart about it. This is a dawn of a new age coming out of the pandemic, not to mention social media melding their growing minds and personalities.

It’s rare I’m alone with my teen, but the other day we were in the car and had a lovely conversation. I appreciated that moment, we hadn’t had a nice long chat like that in quite sometime in spite of our now dwindling reading time at night. His life, like most teens, is made up of friends, video games, Tik Tok, and two physical activities- parkour and weightlifting. Being his mom is the best feeling in the world. He’s a serious go-getter and he’s so comfortable in his own skin. This year I received a letter from one of his teachers expressing what an exceptional human he is and I’m planning to print it out and put it in his baby book to save forever. I’m so proud of the man he’s becoming.

These are the positive life nuggets I’m trying to focus on, instead of worrying about him being corrupted by Tik Tok and that in 2 short years he’ll be driving.

My younger son, now ten years old, was the absolute opposite experience as a newborn. He was an angel with naps, eating, and sleep. He slept through the night by week 3 and was hardly fussy. His tough times as an infant revolved around driving in the car. We had a few trips where both our boys cried almost the entire drive to New Jersey, where my in-laws lived at the time. One time, we pulled over multiple times on the side of the highway, each of us trying to console with pacifiers, plushies, and fresh air. We couldn’t figure out why drives were so difficult until he began to vocalize that it made him feel sick, often vomiting on car rides. His brother struggled with this too, but not nearly as bad.

Nursing was still hell the second time around, but I held on tight for five months and then threw in the towel, ready again for that sweet freedom. But the second time around as a mom I had an “I got this” mentality and the added sleep really helped. There was a one month stint where he was colicky, and then we discovered simethicone drops, which saved the day. That month felt like a year… to all of you parents out there who dealt with colic for months, there’s a special place in heaven for you.

Once again, also with our second child, after that first year the veil of stress lifted, and I have adored every age since. Some moms will tell you they love and miss those infant years with a passion-I am not that mom! For me, the golden years of momhood have been every age over the age of one. But it sure did help when baby number two was much easier as an infant!

The mind bending thing about siblings is how different they can be. It forces you to bring your A-game to the parenting arena and keeps you on your toes. Did something work great for your first born? Great, well prepare for a curve ball from your second child. Over time, you come to parent each child differently because they are so entirely their own people.

My younger son has always been much more affectionate than his brother. And his brother is certainly affectionate, but not to this level. He still, even at ten years old, squeals when I walk in the door from work, albeit from his computer chair in his bedroom. I’m accosted with hugs from him randomly and often. He is one of the most observant kids I’ve come across and I don’t hold back in letting him know how surprised and impressed I am at the level of detail he takes in and recounts in his stories about his day, someone’s facial features, not to mention conversations he recalls from years ago.

While he expresses his love with hugs and cuddles, he does not say “I love you” often. I am one of the only people lucky enough to be on the receiving end of this phrase, possibly the only person he says it to. It’s a reminder for me every time he decides to say it that when someone says those words to us, it’s a gift. It isn’t owed us, we can’t demand someone say it, and it’s not something we can ever force someone to feel. I learn so much from my youngest son.

Just the other day, my sweet ten year old asked me earnestly, “Mom, do you think you’re fat?”

I had just been looking at a photo of myself and as per usual was ripping myself to shreds. Thankfully, I had not said anything about my weight, but I was talking more about the fine lines and wrinkles that now grace my face.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re more down on yourself than I even am about myself. So I was wondering if you think you’re fat.”

Holy hell! Note to Self- the kids are always listening. And, insert dagger in the heart when he said he was down on himself!

“I have become soft, which I’m not thrilled about, but I’ll exercise and eat right and try to improve it. That’s all I can do, and I’m working not to beat myself up about it. It’s basically what happens as we age. BUT, why in the world are you saying you’re down on yourself? You are perfect in every way, I mean no one has eyes in that shade of blue like you.”

I spent the next few minutes smothering him in compliments to try to understand whatever it was that he’s been feeling insecure about with regard to his physical appearance. It turned out he was getting teased about his new hairdo, a buzz. He had grown his hair sort of long and had decided to buzz it all off. While all of us at home loved his new ‘do, some of his friends at school felt differently and were smacking him upside the head and making annoying comments.

“ I wish I never cut my hair, I have a weird forehead.”

We are never prepared for those bombshells our kids randomly drop! However, this was a connecting moment. One where he’s allowed me to see into his mind, showing me that he’s trying to understand the inner-workings of why I think the way I do about myself and also sharing something he’s going through that’s similar. By asking me that question, it says that he’s paying attention while showing empathy. I had also realized that foolishly I was criticizing myself within earshot of my kids.

This is pure education for me as his mom. I’m learning not to say bad things about myself in front of my kids, and at the same time, I’m realizing they may learn to say bad things or think poorly of their own physical appearance based on modeling my behavior.

One thing is for sure- kids and people are always going to say unkind things or express unwanted opinions. It’s so important for us not to be the ones pouring gasoline on ourselves in those situations. We should be fireproofing mentally by building ourselves up internally.

This is exactly what I mean when I say motherhood is the gift that basically keeps on giving. My kids and your kids teach us things like this all the time, spurring us on, unknowingly, to be better moms and humans overall.

In four years from now, my oldest will leave the nest to go to college or trade school, and in eight years my youngest will do the same. The years in between will bring new and precious revelations and wisdom, which will give me the opportunity to flourish and grow even more as a human and mother. And in the meantime, I will anxiously and excitedly await the next group of phases my kids will experience, when I will undoubtedly sprout new silver exclamation marks from my scalp. This will be a real life reminder of the exhilarating and wonderful feeling it is to be their mother.

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.

Are The Kids Alright? A Mental Health Survey

Image for post — Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels

It has almost been one year since the pandemic struck, bringing with it unique challenges for families in America. With the closure of school, limited face to face interaction, and the shutdown of sports activities for much of the year, the mental health impact on children begs our attention. Adults were able to pivot and work from home, along with continuing to connect with friends if desired. Children, however, had to fall in line with what their school district decided, what rules the state mandated for their particular sport, and what parents deemed an acceptable amount of in-person play with friends. I felt the children in our community, Fairfield County, Connecticut, deserved a closer look at how they are doing mentally based on all of the contributing factors above. From what is gathered here, the kids in our community need our help.

One way to gauge how kids are doing collectively, was to survey parents to glean insight into what is taking place under each individual roof. While it will give us a picture of how children are doing, parents will be left with decisions to make in terms of what they will do to help their children going forward.

To get a sense of who is being impacted and how, I surveyed 108 families here in Fairfield County. Slightly more than half of respondents live in the town of Fairfield.

The age demographic of the children in this survey is broken out below. The largest age group represented is the 5–10 age group, of which 61% of respondents had a child in this bracket.

Continue reading this article on Medium by clicking here.

A Pandemic, Racism, Drugs, and Gay Rights: Just A Few Light Topics I’ve Discussed With My Kids Recently

Being together a whole lot these days, due to a new virus that reached our country a few (or 6 months) ago, means there is much more time for conversation with our families. There has been no lack of topic, that is for sure. If there’s anything we can all agree on right now, it’s that 2020 has been a shock to us all. It has forced us to stay indoors, change our normal routines, and focus our energy into many, many, (and I’ll throw a third one in there just for parents) many different things in our homes all at once. One challenge parents have had is home-schooling while juggling working from home. And while I may not be a good home-school teacher, one thing I enjoy doing with my two sons is teaching them life lessons through story telling. In my wildest dreams, never would I have imagined we’d be discussing such heavy topics back to back within a three week span.

With the backdrop of the pandemic, my kids and I have already touched upon many interesting conversations of which were far from what I’d ever thought we’d talk about in their lifetime, let alone my own. Discussions ranging from how everyone’s level of fear is different to why the man we call our President is missing a moral compass to what if school does not re-open in a classroom setting, to the why’s and how’s of mask wearing, to why we can hang out with some people and not others for the time being. Now, enter an interesting observation regarding a homeless man, George Floyd’s murder by a police officer while 3 other officers looked on, and gay pride month. These topics have taken hold in our home and I’m here to share why I’m a fan of speaking openly with children about what goes on in our society.

First, let me start by saying one thing I am appreciative of from my upbringing, is my mother’s openness while we were growing up. It did wonders for me in my life, and I’ve chosen to apply that method to my child rearing. Sex, drugs, racism, and always accepting others for who they are were not topics my mom shied away from. Always openly discussing these things with us from a young age, made them not so taboo and contributed to my life and view of the world. I could give many examples of when her life advice guided me, but I will save that for another time. This time, I’d like to focus on the conversations I’ve had with my children in hoping that they have the same effect my mother’s openness had with me.

THE RACISM DISCUSSION

After seeing the video of George Floyd lose his life, I began to think about how to share this story with my kids. This would not be their first lesson in racism, not by a long shot. In fact, what is quite disturbing, is that we JUST had this discussion a few weeks ago about Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor….and then along came another horrifickly tragic story.

A few weeks ago, I had come back from a run and we were all sitting around the table having a later dinner than usual. Since our dinners tend to be over in less than 5 minutes these days, I asked them to remain at the table. Having just returned from a run, Ahmaud was on my mind. I started by explaining that I had seen something upsetting on the news and felt they needed to learn about what happened. The starting point was we don’t really tend to think that we’re going to get hurt by someone when we’re outside excercising. I let them know that a black man was jogging and was killed by two white men simply for the color of his skin. The mens’ supposed “excuse” was that they thought he had stolen something, simply because he was black and running. My boys were shocked and horrified, which is what you would assume would be everyone’s reaction when a fellow human being is murdered so tragically.When I do these “teachings” I always ask them to think of things in the reverse. Could you imagine having to worry if you decided to go out for a jog because someone with a different skin color might not like you, assume you are a thief, and decide to hurt you? They listened intently and asked several questions.

My kids often ask “why?” when we have these talks. They cannot understand it, which is the point here. None of it makes sense. And that is just it. These are all senseless acts of violence. My response on this one was to the effect of: there are always going to be bad people in the world, but for every parent trying to raise good humans, my hope is always the good eggs will outnumber the bad. If more people are against the idea of racism, because it is such a ridiculous concept, the less and less these tragic acts will be able happen. This is obviously boiled down and may sound trite, but remember, I’m speaking to children, and I am trying to say things in a concrete manner that they will grasp – and hopefully recall in the future.

We went on to discuss Breonna Taylor and how she was sleeping when killed by the police shooting into her home in a case of mistaken identity and a no-knock- warrant. I shared how a similar scenario played out here at our home a few days after me and their dad had moved in. Two heavily armed police officers banged on our door and shouted to “Open Up!” I opened the door and they insisted I go get a man whose name I had never heard in my life. I let the officers know we had just moved in and there was no one here by that name. They poked their heads in through the screen door looking frantically for a man I suppose they thought I was hiding. I did not feel believed and my heart was racing. Moments later, my husband came walking down the hall and asked what was going on. He must not have fit their photo or description because it was only then that the two aggressively skeptical men backed off, asking us a few additional questions and leaving.

When I heard about the Breonna Taylor death, I shuttered. I imagined if those officers that had come to our home had just busted in and began shooting, assuming their person of interest was inside. But that didn’t happen. We were able to open the door, explain that who they were looking for didn’t live here, and keep both of our lives. Breonna did not receive the same chance.

A few weeks later came the George Floyd murder. Shortly thereafter, I came across a post on Facebook that shared all of the black lives taken for absolutely ludacris reasons. Not all of these murders that were listed in this post were by the police. Ahmaud Arbery and Trayvon Martin were killed by other men in their community, simply for the color of their skin. This post on Facebook was powerful because each name of the deceased had listed what they were doing when they were killed. I thought this was the perfect tool to use when speaking to my kids – once again – about racism. I had them sit on the couch and read to them what each person was doing when they were killed:sleeping, walking down the street, jogging, getting arrested. Naturally, they were outraged again, incredulous at the thought that people could be harmed when doing something like sleeping or walking back from a store.

The questions began from them about why and how bad police exist. I explained how bad people can sometimes get into positions of power. Think of this as a nasty recipe, like taking someone who wants to inflict pain and giving them a free pass to do it. How do we make sure this doesn’t happen with the police officers? I told them I don’t have the exact answer, but that people in the world are coming together and talking with organizations that are put into place to make change and they are all in discussions now to try to implement a checks and balances system. What should we do so bad apples don’t become police? How can the good police kick the bad ones out? I said this is exactly what is under the microscope in our country as we speak. People are protesting about this very thing you are both asking. They want change in our justice system and in police training and recruitment.

I have to say the overall sense and feeling one has during a discussion on social injustice with children, is a feeling of helplessness and sadness. How do we STOP this? To which I answered that it will take time, but the immediate things we can do as a country is help elect officials who will implement laws to protect the African American community, and we can ask for change of current practices and laws that are wrong from within a broken system. What they can do as kids to help is if/when they see someone else in trouble or hear someone say something against our black friends we stand up for them, just like we would in a bully situation. Because that is exactly what this is- a form of bullying.

We talked about protesting and what does it do, why do people do it? Awesomely,they had both recently had lessons in school on Martin Luther King Jr. so they were aware of those marches and Rosa Parks as well. I let them know they were witnessing history being made just like when those protests were happening with Martin Luther King Jr. When something sparks outrage across the country, and people take to the streets, it is from passion for what they believe in. That passions burns even hotter when what’s happening is fundamentally wrong. The point I tried to drive home- and I need to keep making sure it stays with them-is that it is important to be passionate about the things you believe in.

THE DRUG DISCUSSION

A few days ago we were coming home from an errand and had picked up some lunch from a drive-thru. They had finished their lunches in the car and we were approaching a traffic light where a homeless man often stands. I asked my son if he would give his full container of uneaten fries (he’s not a big fan of fries) to the man, who was likely very hungry. Then I frustratingly realized I might be unable to give the man the fries because the woman in the car in front of me was not pulling up to the stop light. My assumption was she must not have wanted to have her car near him so she kept an abnormal distance. This meant I would have to give him the fries when the light turned green and there was a huge group of cars that had gotten off the highway behind us. So I decided to call over to him out my window and told him I’d be handing him fries while driving. My kids were mortified I’m sure at their mom shouting out her car window in front of a bunch of other cars to a random man on the street corner. But it was the only way to get his attention and get the fries to him since the woman would not move her car up in front of me. The man cried out thanking us over and over saying he was so hungry. It was a good moment.

Since I had vocally expressed my frustration that the woman would not pull up naturally they asked why is that lady’s car so far from the man and the stoplight? I mentioned the only thing I could think was that she was avoiding eye contact or close contact with the homeless man because it’s awkward sometimes when someone is asking you for money and you’re sitting at a stoplight with nowhere to look but forward and nowhere to go.

My younger son asked if I always give this man money. I replied that no, I don’t always give him money, but I do sometimes give him drinks or something I think might help him in that moment if I have it. They asked why everyone doesn’t just give all the homeless people money and food all the time? This was a question requiring multiple layers of answers and there was no way I could tackle that with a soundbite they’d remember without their eyes glazing over. Instead the conversation segued into drug addiction. I explained that sometimes there are people that are on the streets due to drug addiction and they may be using money given to them for that, which defeats the purpose of helping them. This is often one of the reasons why people choose not to give money. We talked about how others are veterans who have fought in wars and have fallen on hard times, and how everyone likely has a different story. That it is important to give if you can in that moment, but you should not feel guilty if you can’t do it. Only do what you can. As long as you’re having the thought to want to help someone, you’re in favor of humanity. Perhaps this woman at the stoplight was feeling just that- guilty and awkward and so she kept her distance. We’ll never know.

My almost 11 year old son asked me the other day to tell him about all of the dangerous drugs so he knows them by name and knows not to do them. I was stunned by the question, but really thankful for another opportunity for open dialogue on a topic every parent worries about. If you can believe it, already in his 5th grade experience he has learned of a fellow 5th grader vaping marijuana. I didn’t go into the drug explanation at that particular time, instead we focused on cigarettes and vaping in that talk many months ago. Now that he was coming to me with questions about drugs specifically, I chose to tell him the story of Jon Bon Jovi’s daughter having an opiate addiction and how this is an epidemic in our country. We talked about how that starts- an injury, a broken bone, a doctor prescribing pain killers, and the person becoming addicted. These are not “bad” people, I say, this is a widely used drug given out by doctors and is highly addictive for any human being that uses them for pain. See son, it happened to Bon Jovi’s daughter, it can happen to anyone. For those wondering, I did list a few other drug names and mentioned these are the drugs that have killed many musicians and actors that we have loved over the years.

These questions ensued: why are CVS and Walgreens called “drug stores”? And why can a doctor or hospital give you drugs but other drugs are bad? These are where the conversations go and I love that the wheels in their heads are turning. This is what I want from my children-critical thinking.

THE GAY PRIDE DISCUSSION

We were running to my youngest son’s first grade closure car parade (that sounds surreal doesn’t it?) and as we were hastily getting into the car, I had not had time to pull myself together emotionally. Seconds ago, I had been in a meeting for work reflecting on the sadness and unrest in our country regarding George Floyd as well as recognition of the LGBTQ community being that it is Gay Pride month. It was a call with moments of silence, gratefulness from black colleagues in appreciation of our company’s solidarity with them, moments of emotion, and it was extremely moving. My sons looked at me and asked why I was crying. I paused for a second thinking about how to tell them the reason delicately, but then remembered we had already had many conversations on this topic.

I’m crying because a woman I work with shared on a company wide video call that she has been hiding who she is her whole life and would like to start leading an authentic life. She was afraid of people knowing she was gay, and has decided she’s not going to be afraid anymore because she’s been motivated recently as the mother of a brown-skinned son. She wants to set the example to make sure he knows to be proud of who he is. It made me feel sad for her that she had to feel afraid all those years, but also happy for her that she was so brave and doing what’s best in the interest of guiding her son.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget that call. Furthermore, I shared with the kids that I was emotional because some people wait until very late in life to come out as gay because they feel scared or ashamed and when they do, it’s like a weight has been lifted and they can be the real version of themselves. That is why we always support our friends and peers who are gay, I say, they are simply fellow human beings who have had to fight and suffer just to be able to love who they want to love.

On our drive to my son’s teacher’s house, my kids and I have an awesome dialogue and I end up loving this day. When I try to cover my tears, I remind myself that I should not feel shame in showing my sons my tears. It’s not often they’ve seen their mom cry and I want for them to feel empowered to cry openly as boys, teens, and as men. I try to remember that crying often makes us feel better as humans; it is a release, which is a good thing. It is an emotion and an expression that is there for a reason. In this moment, this is a learning for me as a mother, that I should no longer try to hide my tears in moments like these, when the world is crying, protesting, in need of leadership, in financial turmoil, in a health crisis, and trying to come together for change.

I would have never believed you if you said I’d be talking about drugs, racism, a pandemic, and gay rights all within the span of a few weeks to my children. But here we are. All I can hope is that each time we revisit these topics they are that much better for it.

I Had the Leggings Conversation With My Sons

Recently, I read an article published by Scary Mommy that really stirred something in me. The article was titled Notre Dame Mom Writes Op-Ed Begging Girls To Stop Wearing Leggings. I’m thankful to the author, Valerie Williams, who brought to light this story of a Catholic mother, begging the women and girls of the world to stop wearing leggings. Her reason for this plea you ask? Because leggings invite boys and men to ogle, stare, and think sinful thoughts apparently. The Catholic mom goes on to say she wants to throw a blanket on these girls. She takes it one step further toward the end of her op-ed to say choose jeans instead. “Leggings are so naked, so form fitting, so exposing. Could you think of the mothers of sons the next time you go shopping and consider choosing jeans instead?”

I was as fired up as Valerie was about this article. Personally, I’m late to the leggings party and have owned 2 pairs of sweatpants in my whole life. It’s like being welcomed to the world of comfort as a late bloomer. The first pair of sweatpants I ever owned came from my boyfriend (who is now my husband) back in 2002 at the age of 22. I consider myself woke now that I own a few leggings and more than 2 pairs of sweatpants. So to read the original op-ed by Maryanne White, and be told basically-hey do me a favor and don’t wear what you’re comfortable in because you’re inviting both the good and bad men to stare at you and possibly do a whole lot worse to you- made me cringe. Not only did it make me cringe, it also made me think- I have to discuss this with my kids!

Because I’m a huge believer in open communication with my sons, I decided they were ready for this lesson. Additionally, I could not wait to hear what they had to say on this topic. It was both comical and sensible.

My sons are 9 and 6 and this is how the conversation went:

Me: I’m going to tell you guys a story and then ask what you think is right or wrong and ask you how it makes you feel OK?

Sons: OK, fun!

Me: Let’s pretend that you were told by fathers of all the girls at school there was going to be a new rule only for boys. The rule was that you could no longer wear tank tops to school because your shoulders, peck muscles, and collar bones invite girls to follow you, beg you to be their boyfriend, stare at you, stalk you, touch you, and not respect your personal space. How would that make you feel?

Sons: (Both looking confused and grimacing) 9 year old: But how is that the boys’ fault that the girls are doing those things? Why can’t the boys just live their life and wear what they want? That’s not fair. I would tell those fathers they can’t make rules for us like that.They need to tell their daughters to stop it. 6 year old: Yeah, I would tell those girls don’t touch me, I want to wear this shirt.

Me: OK, so now what if I told you, this is really happening in the world? Except it’s with girls. A mom of boys wrote an article saying she wants girls to stop wearing leggings and likely in some schools leggings are not allowed to be worn because people think it forces boys to stare, grab, follow, say inappropriate things, not respect their personal space, and beg these girls to be their girlfriends.

Sons: Gasp. That’s not fair.

Me: What would you say to that mom that wrote that or to people who tell girls they can’t wear a certain type of pants because they force boys to do things they “can’t control” like stare, etc.

Sons: 9 year old: Well I have a question first. What if the girl has a wedgie? We should tell her right? Who would want to walk around all day with a wedgie and not know? That’s just embarrassing. Am I doing something bad by telling her that? Will she think I was staring at her butt?

Me: (Silently cracking up) If you are friends with this person, you could politely say hey you may want to go to the bathroom and fix your pants in the rear area. I’m honestly trying to help you out. But if you’re not friends with this person, no you should not just randomly tell a stranger hey go fix your wedgie -even though you’re heart is in the right place.

Sons: 6 year old: We don’t touch other people and we don’t stare because it’s not nice. They can wear the pants. But we don’t touch people’s butts because we get in trouble.

9 year old: Yeah, let the girls wear the pants. Why does it matter? I don’t understand why parents of boys could control what girls are wearing. And they aren’t even their own parents right? That’s just weird.

My little lesson/test with the boys proved to me that it’s pretty straightforward. Teach your sons and daughters to be respectful human beings. Don’t make a specific gender the bad guy because they choose to wear a form fitting, comfortable clothing article.

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!

Could Teaching Empathy Start With Bugs?

Here’s my latest on Medium. Be sure to clap for my article if you enjoy it and follow me on Medium so you don’t miss my future stories.

I used to think it was a little much. My husband was firm with the kids when urging them not to hurt or kill the ants, spiders, ladybugs, or any other random bug they were toying with outside. Over time, I grew to love how gently they would handle the ants that were building their little sandy huts on our patio in the backyard. They would pick them up with great care, and talk about how cute each one was, while it scurried in between each finger across their little hands. This little teaching about being respectful to bugs, seems to have stretched across all living creatures for the kids and it seems to have stuck. Our sons treat our cat with great care, express concern when someone gets injured or sick, and have randomly shown empathy for birds’ “feelings” as of late. Maybe this “be nice to the bugs” business has transformed into more than we could have imagined in the way of teaching life lessons.

Continue reading here.

Working Parent Guilt-What I’ve Learned May Surprise You

Going from a full-time to part-time working mom has been an enormous shift. One that is reshaping our family and how we do things pretty much on the daily. Big change brings about learning and a fresh perspective. Over the last 8 months I’ve learned quite a bit- not only about myself, but about my children, my husband, and about my expectations for the extra time I would have with my kids. A recent realization prompted me to write one of the more shocking things I’ve come to understand. Something that I hope will give full-time working parents a splash of cold water on the face of guilt they wear each day as they trudge off to work.

Continue reading here.

Where Happiness and Worth Collide

More and more we keep hearing the words “self-care”. So many of us parents don’t practice self-care, and recently I discovered how legitimately important it is. Allow me to take you through how I landed here.

Do you revel at the pure happy that pours out of children- your own and other people’s children included? A child that doesn’t smile or exude joyfulness often sticks out like a bluejay in a sea of canaries. I think it’s because most children, naturally, just ARE happy. So when we see a child that doesn’t seem happy, it sort of gets stuck, almost like a pause button has been pressed. Fast forward to adulthood and try to apply the same observation. It doesn’t quite work does it? We adults were once young, ebullient, energized, smiling children. But now, having experienced the real word, disappointment, responsibility, and perhaps parenthood sometimes we find ourselves wondering- have I smiled yet today? All of us are different;some people are more serious, reserved, some are shy, bubbly, etc. you get the point. Whatever personality type you are, the unjaded childhood version of you that was once there changes. This made me realize for these last 8 or so years, I’ve been of the serious type more often than not. My general manner for the bulk of my life has been happy and upbeat. But time and time again throughout my thirties, my sunny disposition felt like it was in hiding. Which begs the question-what changed? Well, I became a parent. And as moms typically do, I put two little cherub’s needs always and forever before mine of course.

It’s no secret that when you become a parent life as you know it shifts. It’s no longer about you and your every breath and action revolves around this precious life that you’re trying to raise, nurture, and keep safe. While there are extreme highs and lows within the role of parenting, there is one thing that is constant-the lack of time for one’s self. Then think about how you spend the time you actually DO get for yourself. You’ve likely heard the term I referenced at the beginning of this article: self-care. For some of us though, if we were already used to not practicing self-care before becoming parents, then the idea of it seems like a farce once you actually are a parent.

It wasn’t until a few months ago through EMDR therapy that I discovered why self-care felt so incredibly foreign to me. Our experiences up to the point of becoming parents shape how we view ourselves – these experiences define and contribute to how we value our self worth. It turns out that inner voice everyone has can really dominate your decisions. I’ve come to learn my inner voice happens to be quite mean. I wonder how many other people out there have a negative inner voice in their adult life, that has somehow snatched a megaphone during parenthood? Perhaps as a result of this critical voice, the idea of prioritizing self-care feels the same as it would to someone with germaphobia and OCD trying not to wash their hands after touching a door handle. To put it simply: it feels like an impossibility that we should make ourselves a priority.

I understand that of course our younger years were very different from adulthood. Think back to your own childhood for a moment. If you’re like me, and you were raised in the 80’s and 90’s, then you were raised on tree climbing, kickball, outdoor tag, flag football in the street, catching lightning bugs in jars, and pushing frogs in your buggy. The outside world was our jungle gym and we were certainly “free range”. The elementary school years were just sheer happiness for the most part. Even in spite of rockiness that ensued at home for any of us, the happiness was just sort of there regardless.

As your life progresses, you meet your love, get an apartment together, you get married, you travel for a minute, and you decide to take the plunge and have a baby. Suddenly your world is flipped upside down. No one can prepare you for this wild ride or the emotions that come along with it. Someone once told me “You wear your heart outside of your body now and forever when you have children. The more you have, the more of your hearts are walking around -and the more you worry”. This pretty much sums it up.

However, as your children get older, and you’re not as panicked about them running into the street or falling down the stairs, you find yourself starting to turn your attention for the first time in a long time to yourself. Having the time to focus on yourself means listening to what your mind and body needs. All of a sudden you’re paying attention to why you do the things you do. You’re starting to focus on aspects of yourself that maybe you’ve never given a second thought to.

For me, personally, I have learned that I book over my “me” time subconsciously on purpose. I somehow make myself think that I’m undeserving of time for myself. Think for a second what you do for yourself as it relates to self-care. Do you take a bath? Do you exercise? Do you take an hour to do something you love each day? For those of you that are nodding and saying “Yes, I have always done this and will continue to do so”–you’re way ahead of the game, and I’m just now catching up.

Now that I’ve done the work, I’ve acknowledged the voice is there, and I should fight as hard as I can to ignore it. I’m not talking about ignoring a gut feeling- that’s different. I’m talking about the voice that tells you to ignore what you NEED to do for yourself. The voice that says to just answer one more email, make one more call, or do one more thing for the kids. It’s wrong about my worthiness, it’s wrong about the guilt I should feel any given day about my kids, and it’s wrong when it tells me I don’t deserve time for myself.

If you find yourself taking a call right at the time you had planned to work out, or saying “yes” to something for your child right when you had planned to take a bath, or scheduling over your short time you’ve alloted for your “me” time again and again, ask yourself why you perpetually sabotage your “me” time. If you don’t feel it’s perpetual, then you’ve likely got a healthy grasp on the importance of self-care. If you’re like me, and it’s something that happens every day, I’m telling you it’s completely subconscious and you should try to seek out the “why” so you can head it off at the pass.

Through this EMDR therapy, I’ve come to learn several things about why I do what I do. Specifically, why I’ve never truly understood what caring for myself actually means. Everyone and everything else has always mattered significantly more.

When we make time to exercise regularly, meditate, read a book, or relax however we see fit, we feel like the best, happiest versions of ourselves. I can attest to feeling this way, because recently I’ve been making a conscious effort to do it. If we’re caring for ourselves and making sure we’re still having fun and being active in life not just for the benefit of others, but for ourselves, then naturally the happy follows. In the moments after practicing self-care, that carefree childhood happiness comes back to visit, allowing our solid self worth to take up permanent residency.

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