Do As I DO!! How to Be an Example So That Your Child Can Handle a Bully.

For the last two years I have been working on a book, Hindsight In-Sight, that chronicles the mishaps, mistakes and just plain ol’ stupidity that occurred parenting two boys as a young twenty and thirty something single parent who was simultaneously fighting off a dragon of an ex and a set of grandparents determined to show me the error of my ways.  The book, as many do, has gone through a myriad of changes and rewrites thanks to writing coach, Brooke Warner, and her stupendous and enlightening suggestions and gentle nudging.  However, the essence of it remains the same since the day that the idea was born; the book was and is a testament to the old adage, “Do as I SAY and not as I DID.”

This past weekend, while working on a specific chapter about bullying, my mind began to formulate a list of suggestions not only for me to follow to keep Ila out of that kind of situation, but to help other parents equip their own children.  While writing, an unusual feeling of shame began to envelope me and at first I couldn’t figure it out.  I thought perhaps it was the shame that came with the ineptitude with which I handled Son1’s bully experience.  But I was pretty sure I had worked those feeling all out of me with the initial writing of the chapter the year before (thanks to a superb cheerleader that kept reminding me to ‘Do the hard Work!’)  Then I thought that perhaps the shame came from the fact that Son2 has his own issues. Not with bullies but with BEING the bully.  However once again, I dismissed that as being the origin of the shame knowing full well that THAT particular problem had been covered thoroughly in intense therapy sessions with Dr. Speed Dial.  Nope…the shame, growing with every word added to the suggestion list, was coming from somewhere else.  And so as I often do with emotions I can’t identify, I stopped what I was doing, sat still and quiet and posed the question to myself.  (I know.  I know…I just lost a WHOLE bunch of readers who clicked off the site shaking their heads about new age mumbo jumbo.)  But—this technique works for me, and usually it is the voice of Hindsight that speaks to me.  It was no different in this case.  Hindsight had the answer. It started as a whisper…a reminder of the book’s idea that one should do as I say and not as I did.  Then came the idea that as parents we strive to do the opposite of that saying; in other words, we try to make sure our actions are in line with the way we would like our children to act.  And then, from this idea came the reason for the shame. 

When it came to bullying, I was NOT setting a good example for my children.  One of the things that I had learned (really that Son1 had learned the hard way) was that the saying, “you get more flies with honey” did NOT work with those who had a mean streak or needed to feel a sense of power.  I had always taught both boys that if someone was mean to them that they continue to smile and be pleasant because A. one should never give some maniacal meanie the satisfaction of knowing they were getting to you and B. that perhaps if you kept being nice they’d see the light.  They’d feel bad for the abuse thwarted upon you and stop out of the goodness of their hearts, or at the very least let you know what it was that they didn’t like about you. But like Son1 learned so many years back, that just DOESN’T work. 

And yet, and yet...even though Hindsight had taught me that lesson so many years before, I had been playing out the “flies and honey” scenario for months with some bullies of my own.  I had not been living, acting, doing what it was that I was writing about, what I wanted Ila to know and what so many other parents needed to teach their own children. 

Bullying unfortunately is pervasive in our society and doesn’t stop when one happens to turn 18 years old.  HECK it doesn’t seem to stop when one turns thirty or forty or even fifty, and I was experiencing it all; the talking behind my back, exclusionary tactics, villainizing my actions or lack of action to justify their behavior, mean and harsh words said to others about me, the Eddie Haskell smiles while I was in the vicinity but eye rolls and snickers when they thought I wasn’t around.  How did I handle it?  Shamefully, the same way I told the boys to so long ago—just keep smiling…just keep smiling.  How has THAT been working?  Well, just about as well as it had worked for Son1 so long ago.  Instead of feeling bad for continually kicking a girl who kept getting up with her hands and arms wide open…the despotic behavior continued because, like Son1, I was an easy target and one can’t ever count on all humans having good hearts.  It is easy to get caught up in the “Let’s all gang up on…” mentality.  I have regretfully done it myself to colleagues and acquaintances. 

However, I realized that if I was going to talk the talk, I had to walk the walk.  In order to be a different parent, it couldn’t just be in theory.  It has to be an actuality.  When I picture the adults I want my children to be it means that I HAVE to be that adult.  Right now.  Even if I wasn’t the day before, the minute before, the second before.  When it comes to the subject of bullying, I want my children to end up being adults that refuse to join in a mob mentality against one or two outcasts.  And so…I have to be the adult that refuses to join in the browbeating of others.  And at the same time, if I expect that my children will have enough pride to set clear boundaries against those who choose to malign them, then I must do the same.

So instead of formulating the list, I am going to be its guinea pig and DO the list.  I will not allow anyone to hurt me mentally (or physically, although that isn’t taking place).  If they do, I will not be an easy target and pretend that it didn't take place.  I will stand up and call the bullies out.  I will no longer walk away from whispers that carry my name—I will demand that anything said about me will be said to me.  I will not be vilified so that someone’s conscience will be clear only to be left in the dark about the so called complaints that one may have about me.  I will instead stand firm and demand that I be treated respectfully or be left alone. As an adult, I do understand the nuances of standing up for oneself.  It doesn't mean that I have to hate those who love to hate me.  It doesn't mean that I am not able to work or be around those who are constantly sizing me up for the next dis. It doesn't mean that I have to be as unpleasant as they are.   No.   What it means is that I will make it very clear to those around me on what kind of behavior I will accept and what I will not accept when it comes to my dignity and self-worth.  This, of course, is exactly what I'd want for my own daughter.

There is a story that Oprah tells of Maya Angelou in which during a dinner party at Maya’s house, someone in a very large crowd tells a malevolent joke that impugned a specific group of people.  The story goes that in the middle of the party and from across the room, Maya doles out what Oprah calls a “skinning” not allowing anyone around her to demean any person or group.  After the skinning she promptly tells the guest to leave.  After telling the story, Oprah asks Maya where that kind of bravery comes from.  Maya’s answer was simple.  She said, “You start out small.”  So Mudders, while it may take us many many years  to become brave enough to stand up to bullies in that way, we must strive to act, think and speak in a way that warns a bully that we are strong and will stand up for what’s right.  After all, we can do no less than what we would expect each one of our children to do.                                

Don't Forget...Things the Graduate Needs to Know

My Dearest Graduate,

Congratulations!  Such a milestone—finishing high school.  Your grace and poise and  unrivaled work ethic is such a rarity these days.  How proud your parents must be; your extended family, the ones you love, the fortunate ones who call you friend—how proud, but not surprised…not at all. 

I know I don’t have to tell you of my unending admiration and love for you, for that passionate heart and that virtuous soul which holds such wisdom already for one so young.  Those feelings for you, I wear on my sleeve.  Anyone who knows me knows of the deep and abiding love I have for you. No, I don’t think I have to remind you of that here.  However, there IS something I want to tell you, something I want you to know before you leave on a day in August that will be mixed with melancholy and pride and excitement and a missing-you-feeling that will begin the moment you drive down our driveway and off to your new adventure.   I need to tell you.  It is important. 

You are enough. You are worthy, so very worthy.

You are worthy of an intellectual journey.  Drink in all that your professors have to say.  Take advantage of educational experiences abroad.  Join clubs.  Act, sing, dance—Grab those four years of literacy, mathematics, history and science and squeeze the life out of them.  You are worthy my dear of the best that education can offer.  Your brain is capable, your thoughts valuable, your contributions endless and needed.  Yes sweet girl, you are worthy. 

You are worthy of loyalty and love without compromise.  As you move into adulthood make a promise to yourself that you will seek out those who see your value, who know your goodness, who build you up and would never tear you down.  When you find them, hold onto them, because you see they are scarce in this world.  But scarcity does not mean that you settle.  You will need those that are true to you on your life course.  You are worthy of nothing less. Never ever accept anyone who isn’t keenly aware and fiercely protective of your worth. 

You are worthy of finding your purpose.  Take your time.  Let it come.  There is no rush.  Experience life to the fullest, try new things and someday…there it will be…your reason, your destiny.  And whatever it is that you find, you are worthy of exploring it to its highest possibility.  Don’t let anything stand in the way of who you want to become, of your earthly purpose.  If you fulfill that, everything else will fall into place. 

You are worthy of self-interest.  My sweet girl, in all my 44 years, I have never met a human being whose empathy is as profound as yours.  Your acceptance of all no matter—no matter-- is something to be celebrated indeed, but be sure it doesn’t cost you more than you can pay—your sanity, your peace of mind, your ability to do what you want to do, see what you want to see, go where you want to go.  The selflessness that you carry within you is admirable, but let me suggest or even urge that over the next few years, as you enter into adulthood that you remember to put yourself first more often than you do now.  You and your needs are worth it.  Rumi says to “Respond to any call that excites your spirit.” This quote should be the battle cry of the young!  I am certainly not saying “go ahead and be selfish,” for I know you too well and it just couldn’t ever happen.  I am simply saying that words like “what is it that I want for myself?” and “I won’t take part in what wouldn’t be good for what I need right now,” are words that should move to the forefront of that beautiful mind of yours.  Believe me, when you start your career, when you marry, when you have children, when your parents age there will be plenty of moments where selflessness and sacrifice will be necessities and must-do’s.  But at 18…it is perfectly ok to do what is best for you.  Don’t ever forget that that doing for yourself is something in which you are worthy.

Graduating high school is a milestone, but it brings with it both the good and the bad.  The good, of course, is that you are on your way!  Where?  Who knows and how absolutely marvelous is that?  Oh the possibilities.  However the downside of taking small steps towards adulthood is that you lose a bit of the protection one affords to a “child.”  It will be time now for you to fight your battles.  It will be time for you to decide your daily routine, your nightly routine.  It will be up to you to make moral and capable decision about who you associate yourself with, where you decide to go and the situations in which you put yourself.  And that is why knowing your worth is unambiguously essential. 

When friends turn on you (and they will) you may not even know why, but if you know you are worthy of true friendship, it will be easier to face the sting of rejection and hold your head as high as your standards.

When your heart is broken or love leaves, knowing your worth may not take the emptiness away, but it will reassure you that someday someone else will come along.  After all you are worth love.

When a chance comes along, one that may take sacrifice, but is too good to pass up, you will go for it with the knowledge that you are worthy of the chance.

When you doubt yourself, when you stumble and make a mistake it will be your feelings of worth that will help you to brush yourself off and try again. You have to feel worthy enough to persevere even in the face of impossible odds. 

And finally my marvelous, magnificent, miraculous girl, you must feel worthy about yourself because when it comes right down to it…down to the nitty gritty…YOU are all you’ve got.  Despite what the fairy tales tell us, there are NO knights in shining armor whose sole purpose is to rescue damsels in distress, no princes on white horses, no magical fairy godmothers.  You only have you and your sense of self-worth to get you to where you want to travel, to pull you up by the boot straps when you slip and fall.  Only your worthy self can turn your saddest days into happy ones, and your darkest places into light.  My sweet girl for your future you must rely on yourself.  So I have just one question:  Are you WORTH it?  

I'll Be Loving You...ALWAYS! (Get it??)

Photo Credit (Brenda Hollaway)

“Why does she keep doing that?”  exclaimed a very observant student in my classroom last week.  If you were standing next to him, you would have known that he was talking about what seemed to be a new dance move.  In the middle of my lessons, I would stop talking, cross my legs, squeeze my body as upright as it could be and gently, as gently as one can, I would cough or sneeze.  Nevertheless, I assure you the cross-legged-up-right-squeeze had nothing at all to do with a new dance craze.  Nothing.  At.  All. 

 So moms get sick.   This isn’t news.  We get sick and we continue our days as if we aren’t sick.  This isn’t news either.  I would go so far to say that moms could actually believe even in the face of a 102 on a thermometer, kidney pains, chills and sweats, a hacking cough and sneezes into the hundreds, that they just have a titch of a cold that will go away…soon.  Therefore,  it is perfectly fine to keep on keepin’ on like we always do; morning routine, schlepping kids to day care, off to work with a cheery smile on our green tinged faces, working through the runny noses by shoving tissues up our sleeves for those little emergencies, putting on a sweater (“is it chilly in here?”) taking off the sweater, (“who turned up the freakin’ heat?”) Whatever comes with the flu and sick season, we ignore because well how WOULD the world revolve without us running it?    We are moms, Mudders.  Ignoring a big fat phlegmy flu is what think we must do.

However…there is one thing that MAY come with a flu or cold or say searing bronchial virus that we Mudders are unable to ignore.  We may try at first, but ultimately for the sake of hygiene and those around us, heck for the sake of the size of the laundry in the hamper we cannot ignore the incontinence that comes with a humongous hacking cough or a significant-sized sneeze.  That’s right, girls, you heard me.  I said it…incontinence, incontinence, incontinence. 

You know how it goes…cough cough—drip drip—“Shit shit!!”  Or in my case, hack hack—pour pour—“Shit! Shit!”  If you have had the pleasure of a weak pelvic floor due to the “joyous” process called childbirth, you are nodding your head right now.  Yes you are nodding and I am about to SING it girls!

This past week, I did what Mudders do.  I had a virus.  I ignored said virus.  I went to work as if there wasn’t a thing wrong with me.  Moreover, when I say ignore, I mean totally and utterly ignore.  If you are following me here that means that not only did I not go to the doctors or take medicine, I did not even think to…ehem…prepare my delicates for the incontinence that was sure to take place with every sneeze and every cough.   And because of my denial, I was constantly placed in a situation where at any moment, with the next sneeze or the next cough, I could very well wet my pants in front of all my students.  So I did the dance of shame; legs crossed, muscles squeezed as tightly as they can, stand tall and COOOOUUUGHHH and SNEEEEEEEZE—gently—oh so gently—unfortunately a raging bronchial virus doesn’t allow for gentle anything…and so there were of course the occasional--drip-slips.  Oh, don’t act as if you don’t know what they are!  You are ALL feeling me and you KNOW it!! 

However, even those drip-slips couldn’t make me admit defeat.  I didn’t need Depends or a bulky pad…no, no.  Toilet paper would do the trick, and so after my first drip-slip, I headed to the teacher’s bathroom folded myself up a nice stack of TP and placed it where the sun don’t shine.  It may have meant that I headed to the bathroom an inordinate amount of times to change the soggy fibrous paper that kept giving me giant whoo-whoo wedgies, but hey, it was doing the trick and perpetuated my denial that I was handling this teeny tiny little cold just fine.

Then Saturday day came and it was just me, Ila and teeny tiny little cold that just happened to make me gasp for air as a teenage girl gasps when she sees Justin Bieber.   I was home and so there was no need for that irritating TP.   Instead, ever in mommy-denial, as the hacks got worse and the drip-slips turned to rain-drains, (you heard me) I took to changing my skivvies and sweat pants every hour on the hour…until…until I ran out.  Yup—ran clean out of clean undies.  Not a pair to be found in the top drawer of my dresser.  Honestly, I can’t ever remember a time where there wasn’t at least SOME pair of clean hip huggers that I could fish out at a moment’s notice.  This dear readers was a first, and with the first came a realization—I.  Was.  Sick.  I must be sick…I was out of skivvies, out of sweats and out of my beloved Vera Wang silky pajama bottoms.   All were dejectedly sitting in the hamper at the end of the hall, a little wet, a little stinky and extremely indicative of the level of my illness.

 

And so, I did what any mother does when shaken out of sick-denial.  I called my doctor, who after listening to me gasp for air told me to go to my local emergency room immediately.  Of course, “immediately” posed a problem for me because “I hadn’t a thing to wear.”  And while that phrase conjures images of me tossing skirts and jeans and cashmere sweaters over my head, it was meant of course in its most literal sense…I hadn’t an UNDERTHING to wear.  So with a hopeful heart, I walked to the basement laundry room hoping that with all the other duties he took on during my sick-week-that-I-was-not –sick, my husband perhaps had done SOME kind of laundry.  (Although the size of the hamper upstairs didn’t give me much hope…after all…he is a great caretaker, but I am sure that even HE drew the line at washing all my drip-slips and rain-drains.) 

But lucky for me, a “sort” of undergarment was clean…all right it was a Spanx body suit…but this girl was desperate.  So after slipping that on, I had to find something that would be comfortable enough for a stay at the emergency room.  I decided on my hubby’s Nike running pants (much to his dismay.  Can you blame the guy?)  However, dear Mudders, I do know that wearing your husband’s Nike running pants comes with great responsibility.   So I doubled up the amount of toilet paper and tucked it into the body suit.  I willed myself not to cough or sneeze as I rode in the car, and instead of driving right to the emergency room, stopped into my local Walgreens to buy a package of bulky pads.  You know the kind—smaller than a breadbasket and bigger than my hand with wings to wrap around the sides of my makeshift undergarment. The kind would be sure to protect my husband’s beloved Nike running pants from the rain-drains that would certainly continue because there is no denying the incontinence that a Mudder gets when she is indeed sick. 

  

Repeat After Me--Teachers=Trust. Again, Teachers=Trust.

I don't often promote other writing here on my blog...don't want you Mudders inundated with inane posts.  However, this article by Oprah's Phenomenal Man of the Year and Disney's Teacher of the Year is so incredibly dead on.  I would love for you all to read it and post it on your pages as well.  I have taught for 22 years and this article couldn't be more true.  Let's NOT be THESE parents, Mudders and Fudders.  Let's just not do it. Click the link below.

 http://www.cnn.com/2011/09/06/living/teachers-want-to-tell-parents/index.html

Fasten Your Seat Belts Mommies!

The laughter was loud and sliced through my ears, my entire being in fact.  The joviality was so out of place.  Didn't these people know that there was suffering going on right under their noses?  I instantly felt irritated with the crowded desk area in our local family court.  The bailiffs (there were many), the clerks, the secretaries, the lawyers stood in a cluster happily talking of Ipads and websites and new technology.  They were telling jokes and talking of plans for the weekend.  I tried to focus on something else, but I was the sole human in the front waiting room (ours was the last hearing before lunch).  Around the corner and behind me, my son sat with his father and his step mother waiting for the same hearing.  But focusing on them just made me more irritated with their united front, with the fact that I (who had raised this child for the majority of his life) was the one sitting alone, with the fact that I was at court for the second time in my parenting career.  ALL of  it was irritating, rage inducing, and just plain ol' exhausting.

However, incredulously, life went on around me.  I wondered did these people know something that I didn't know?  Didn't they have problems in their lives? Are they just as stunned when in the midst of suffering someone near them laughs?  Do they think that laughter out of place as well?

Mercifully, when they call our name, the bailiffs  the lawyers, the clerks and secretaries returned to professionalism.  Their faces reflected the somber feeling that one should have as a mother follows her child into a court room.fate unknown.  Sitting behind him tears streaming, hands wringing a shredded tissue was truly the lowest point of my parenting journey.  But as a parent whether of a troubled child or not, life is a roller coaster complete with all of the terrors and adrenaline pumping aspects that you'd expect.  And just like that roller coaster, staying at the lowest point doesn't last long and the hill climbing begins almost immediately.

Listening intently in the stark room I hear phrases like "doing better", and "volunteering for services not required."  I hear "I want help" and "Yes sir" from my child's mouth.  All of these utterances come as surprises because I am not privy to what goes on in my son's life. Seeing him is sporadic for reasons that are unknown to me and I don't allow myself to often ponder his absence because it is agonizing to my soul.  But it seemed, sitting in that brown paneled official room that possibly, something had shifted in that boy that I love with all the fierceness of a mother.  Could he be turning a corner?

Leaving the court room my son says a humble and shy goodbye to me.  The rarity of that exchange coupled with the positive reports to the judge made me feel like that roller coaster rider at the top of a steep hill.  I wanted to shoot my arms into the air and scream with glee as I am sure many parents symbolically do when things are good for their children or if something not good is getting better.  I am sure that most parents who reach the top of that metaphoric hill will relax their shoulders, will fill their lungs with oxygen; taking the deepest breath they have taken in a long time.  I am sure that when things are going smoothly for these parents' children they are able to unbuckle their seat belts after assuring themselves that the roller coaster ride has come to an end.  But I refuse to unbuckle the belt on my seat, and I often wonder if there are any other parents out there who experience the phenomenon that I experience.

Let me explain.  For me, perhaps for all moms of troubled children, hope is a dangerous emotion.    Today there is a bit of hope in my heart.  That beloved son of mine is making improvements. No calls from school for over a week, a kind and respectful attitude, even a dinner visit to satisfy his little sister's heart who was missing him something terribly.  And I wish, how I wish I could relax my shoulders.  How I long for that deep breath to fill my pinched lungs.  How I long to unbuckle the seat belt.  But I just can't.  As a mom of a troubled son, I am just not ready to trust that the ride is over.  If the anger, resentment, poor choices, entitlement and vindictiveness return I will need that safety harness.  How shameful I feel for doubting the staying power of this change.  How guilty a mom can feel for when the confidence she has in her child's ability to treat himself with kindness and pride and thoughtfulness is close to nil.

And yet, and yet a mother always hopes.  "Maybe this time it will be different."  That barely audible whisper tickles down in my ear and at the back of my mind making both the ear and the mind ache with a hope that is  truly unwanted.  Hope, you see is toxic to moms of troubled children.  Hope weakens the straps on that safety belt; the straps that steel us against the lows on the roller coaster that seem endless and cruel.  In a warped way good things, rationality and sane choices made and done by our troubled children are  fear inducing because it gives a mother (or maybe it is just me.  Is it just me?) It gives me permission to allow my guard to be let down ever so slightly.  I may let go of the bar in the front of the roller coaster's car just to give my fingers a rest from gripping so tightly, I could roll my neck to relieve it of the pain that comes from being shaken around those pesky loops.  And while preoccupied with my sore fingers and shaking off the pain in my neck, I wouldn't be prepared for the big and scary drop that may be just ahead around the corner.  And so this mom, this mom of a child who needs more help than she is capable of giving, will pull the strap tighter on the safety belt, will white knuckle the bar in front of her, will keep her shoulders up to her ears, because moms like me need to be vigilant, ever vigilant for the next drop on a roller coaster we never wanted to ride in the first place.

 

The Gift of Family: By Blood and By Choice

Happy Holidays, Mudders.  What a year.  What a year.  So many beautiful moments, but also some of the hardest trials I’ve ever had to face.  Yet, I am wiser--so much wiser than I was when I was typing away at these keys December 2011.  We all know how much we learn with each stumble, with each fall, with each heart ripping, soul shredding decision that we make over the year behind us, and it is no different with me.  I have learned.   HOW I have learned.  And truly Mudders, no matter what is occurring in our lives when it comes to our children, we just need to remind ourselves that each day is a chance to learn and to grow wiser.  That is what I tried to do this year.  

It was a year of separation from a beloved son; it was a year of dealing with the self-destruction of another beloved son.  It was a year of injustices; monetarily, professionally, personally.  It was a year of lost friendships,…GOOD friendships…(or at least  I thought they were good.)  It was a year that I decided to once and for all shed the itchy famial cloth from which I was made and place a softer fabric against my sensitive and raw skin.  It was a year of bruised and battered figurative knees, of literal lost faith , but also—also—it was a year of glimmers of light and pixie dust and warmth. 

And even though I would say that the scale leaned WAY toward the out-of-my-control-misery side, those things on the other side of the scale counted…even if they couldn’t move the bar far enough from the deepest agony. As I look back at those glimmers of pixie dust, of light and warmth, I realize that it was PEOPLE who usually held those gifts in their hands, before pressing them firmly into mine.  PEOPLE…not just people…MY PEOPLE.  My family.

Now don’t spit out the gulp of soda you have in your mouth.  You all know that some of the members of the household in which I grew, leave MUCH to be desired,  but it doesn't matter because I have a gathering of such beautiful human beings in my life that care enough about me that they have BECOME my family. 

David Ogden Stiers is quoted as saying, “Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.”  And this…this idea of family is the most salient idea I have learned and let sink into the very fibers of me this year.  “No one gets left behind or forgotten.”  How truly validating when you realize that there are wonderful, loyal people in your life that think that you are valuable enough to not be forgotten, or left out, or treated differently.  Those people, who want the best for you, those are family members. 

Over this past year, I have gathered many family members into the throngs of my life.  Some have been here a long time; my dear Dr. Speed Dial, her husband and beautiful daughter—they have been my family—have loved me despite…despite my innumerable flaws.  That is family. 

But I have also learned that family can be a boss that patiently and gently listens as you cry in her office over personal matters.  A boss who understands and anticipates needs, who works with the roller coaster life I have had for the last year.  Family is a boss whose small gesture of ensuring that during her Christmas luncheon for our staff that my gluten allergy was taken into consideration left me overwhelmed with gratitude.  I was not forgotten or left behind.  My boss—part of my family.

Family can be far away—far far away.  It can be a longest friend—38 years to be exact—who calls to check in, laughs at my stupidity, is able to be vulnerable and hold my hand when her father-in-law was dying.  Family is that faraway friend that doesn’t forget the fragility of my being and props me up gently when I need it, but isn’t afraid to kick me in my very easily targeted behind when I need it either.

Family can be a far away friend who comforts with his exquisite and uncanny knowledge of how my complicated brain works.  He challenges my mind with talk of politics and music, sends me photos to take me on imaginary trips when I need to “get away” and lets me lean hard upon his virtual shoulder while he problem solves in his unorthodox way.  Family can be a far away friend who, no matter the circumstance, reminds me of the things that make me special and strong even when he’s thousands of miles away.

Family can be co-workers who ignore rumors and the mean-spiritedness of others.  They help lift you up simply because the fiber of their beings can’t kick a girl when she’s down.  Co-workers who are family members are good to you not just when you are flying high, but when you need to be reminded of what’s good in your life.

Family can also come in the form of new friends…or in some cases new-old friends.  I am happy to say that I have connected with people this year who have become integral parts of my life in such a short period of time.  Some of them I’ve known since childhood, although I’ve just recently learned to appreciate them.  Some I have never met face to face, and yet they seem to just “get” me. Family comes in the form of a girl...a special girl who has joined our family and become one of the nearest and dearest human in my life.  The wisdom she holds at such a young age never ceases to amaze me.  She was born a teacher...and in my case gently teaches me about life and how to treat one another. Family comes in the form of new people that we soon can't imagine ever living without.

Perhaps the biggest revelation…the one that has been right here in front of me all along is that family is made up, of course, of real and true family members as well.   Family is a very loyal sister, who even under immense pressure loves me, speaks with me, and makes me feel as if I am wanted, needed and appreciated.  This wonderful sister makes time for Ila, for me, for togetherness.  She makes sure that on even the smallest holiday we connect.  With her, I am included and not forgotten.  Family is a sister for whom I am infinitely grateful. 

Family is also a brother-in-law who gave freely well needed understanding in the most trying of circumstances.  He soothed when he could have shouted.  He reassured when he could have turned away.  He was grateful when he could have been hateful.  Family is a steady, steadfast brother-in-law. 

Family is a group of the craziest, zaniest, most wonderful in-laws a girl could ask for.  It is feasting at Thanksgiving, a sister-in-law who realizes a need and gives freely, parents-in-law who even in their late 80’s and early 90’s dote on their three year old granddaughter, remember my sons’ birthdays and insist on celebrating my own birthday with me even when my own flesh and blood forgot.

Last but not least, most importantly in fact, family is my offspring.  Shamefully I hadn’t been living by David Ogden Stier’s wisdom earlier this year. Sadly I can’t change my past, but happily I have changed my present and will keep it in my future.  My children are loved fiercely and completely with all of my being no matter where they are, what choices they make, or even if they someday reject me or make mistakes that hurt themselves or their family. Each will always be equally cherished and held closely because after all family means never being left behind or forgotten no matter what…no matter what.

And so dear Mudders, this season, I hope that you have family, whether by blood or by choice, gathered close to you.  I hope you tell them how much they mean to you.   For being loved by someone or in my case a whole bunch of someones makes you realize that even during a year of great burden--family  makes any heavy load a little lighter.     

A Mother of a Troubled Child

I used to be a parenting snob.  How would I define that?  Well I suppose, if I was to admit it, I guess it would mean that I agreed with the old adage that if a child was struggling it was due completely to the inadequacies of the parent or parents.  As a teacher, it is sort of our mantra.  “Where are the parents??”  Johnny can’t read?  He must have never seen a book in his house when he was a wee toddler.  His mother must have never taken the time to cuddle up in bed with him and read the glorious words of “Goodnight Moon.”  Johnny is angry.  Well then he learned that at home.  I used to be willing to bet you that that was exactly how his father acted towards his mother.  Or, there’s the even snarkier thought that Johnny was “allowed” to act that way at home due to incompetence and so why would we ever expect anything different from him at school or in the mall or with a group of friends?  Johnny is dirty then by all means that certainly is proof that he has no one at home who cares about his hygiene.  I’d picture and shamefully speak loudly in the faculty lounge of a mother who was too wrapped up in her new boyfriend or her Pilates or her wine to notice that Johnny’s clothes were full of filth or that the dirt under his nails could grow a full on vegetable garden.  Tsk tsk.  What DO we do about those creatures that try and call themselves parents?  Yeah I know.  Not good.  Not good at all.

As my boys grew up, I looked down my nose at a family who’d walk by me in the mall with a child that was dressed in gothic garb.  I’d roll my eyes when I heard tell of children we knew who had to go to rehab or who were taken from the home.  I wouldn’t allow my children to befriend those in foster care.  Those children who ended up in our local mental institution were just sad sad kids who had no familial support at all.  Period.  The end.  But this was NOT how my children would end up.   After all, they had a mom who not only went to every game she went to every practice.  They had a mom that established traditions for every holiday.  Gave them elaborate birthday parties, shopped at Macy’s even when she couldn’t afford the clothes there.  My boys would never ever end up like “THOSE” children.  They had a mom who loved them.  A mom that insisted they eat dinner together nightly.  They had a mom who asked about their day, required homework be done, gave logical consequences and put parameters on where they went and with whom.  Not my kids said this parent  snob.  Not ever my kids.  Never would my child end up troubled.

Well, I was wrong.  Wrong about a lot of things.  Wrong to look down my nose at the families of children who were struggling.  Wrong to gossip at lunch time about the ineptitude of parents whose kids were off the deep end.  Wrong, wrong, wrong to think for one second that the sum total of a child’s problem fell squarely in the lap of the parents of that child.  How do I know I was wrong?  Well, humility gave me a lesson or two. 

For instance, I am writing this post as I sit on an uncomfortable bench in a stark gray walled, antiseptic smelling institution while one of my children sits in a mandated “support group.”  To my left and to my right are parents of the other children in the support group.  Across from me are children that just 6 months ago I would have pitied and looked down upon as the lost souls of poor parenting, and yet…I can’t do that anymore because one of my children is sitting right next to them.

 

Over the past few weeks, I have entered buildings that I didn’t even know existed.  Each building blurs together having the same stark rectangular feel, the same uncomfortable chairs, the same antiseptic smell, the same unsmiling faces, the same disheveled teens.  I have sat through intake after intake telling the history, the story of my child.  I have watched helplessly as things happened to him that were out of my control.  I have experienced things that I thought  would never  ever be experienced by me or any child that I raised.  And I guess that is the first point of this post. 

We must be careful, Mudders.  We must not set ourselves up by worshipping that false prophet, “Never.”  He doesn’t exist.  There are things that will happen to our children, because of our children that we will not anticipate when we hold them in our arms as infants, when we watch them hit a ball over the fence during little league, when we snuggle with them on the couch to watch a movie.  Things will happen, maybe horrible things that we wouldn’t wish on our worst enemies, and even though we’re their parents, we won’t be able to stop them from happening.  Which brings me to the second point of this post:

We need to be sure Mudders that we are good to other Mudders and Fudders.  Unless we live in the house with them and have watched them raise their children from infancy on, we can never know or judge what it is that may have caused their child to be troubled.  I mean really.  Who do we think we are?  Is there any of us that actually think that they’ve got it ALL figured out when it comes to parenting?  If you are nodding your head right now, let me tell you how absolutely mistaken you are and I’d have to inform you that you too are a parenting snob.

 

I know now that it may not be the parenting.  It may be the genealogy.  It may be an outside traumatic event or several…but we must remember that blaming the parents, making fun of the parents, lamenting about the parents—all the things that I used to do is quite presumptuous and, yes, snobby, downright snobby. 

  

Like many changes, my realization of what an absolute parental snob I was has come through experience.  You see, lately I have been at the other end of that thinking, of that snobby behavior.  When talking to teachers, administrators, school officials about my child, I can hear the edge in their voice—the one that oozes the tone that says, “He wouldn’t be like this if you just….” (Fill in the blank here)   Believe me when I say that speaking with someone who has that preconceived notion about you makes it impossible to be taken seriously.  It is unfeasible to get parental snobs to hear that you really just need help, want help for your child.  They don’t think that you are capable of possessing a working maternal compass—I would even go so far as to say that when dealing with some institutions that my child now needs to take part in, I have been spoken to as if I have no education, no knowledge of what is right and what is wrong, like I am LESS than because my child is deemed LESS than.  I have been handled with disdain as if, as if the sum total of my child’s problem belong squarely on my shoulders.  And while I do carry some of the weight of what is happening to him across my back, there are other factors, there is a bureaucracy that shackles a parent against doing what is necessary for her child. There are unforeseen circumstances.  There is peer pressure.  There are learning disabilities and educators that are less than cooperative and more interested in getting Johnny “out” of their class.  There is lack of self esteem that comes from repeated failure...there is so much more that can trouble a child than simply a parents ability to care for their child. 

So remember dear Mudders, when you find yourself judging a parent or child, when you find yourself thanking the heavens that YOUR child will NEVER be like THAT child, proceed with caution.  You just might be disappointed.  Never say “Never.”  You just NEVER know.