Ode To Weary Moms of Teens

  The Woes of a Mother with Teenagers

Rolling eyes

And a slamming door

What used to be fun is such a bore.

“Love you mom”

 said once a year

But “Whatever mom!” is loud and clear.

It doesn’t seem possible

                                           That someone could stay

                                               Grumpy and grouchy all week and all day

But my teenage sons

Would find something to bash

Even if handed some serious cash.

It starts in the morning

The teen age huff

In a rage as they leave the car with their stuff.

The auto door clunks

And I feel like a fool

‘cause only the air hears my “Do well in school!”

I remind myself

Every minute after minute

A teen’s mind is full of hormones in it.

The hormones coursing

Makes them irrational--crazy

Unpredictable, surly and of course—plain LAZY

And OH how they eat

Those teen boys of mine.
On the food in the cupboards they constantly dine!

Grocery bills sky high

Pantry full of chips, soda, sweets

Yet daily we hear, “There’s nothing to eat!”

Homework?  Who Cares!

As my boys would surely say

Xbox is important and it gets in the way.

Cleaning done blindly

Overlooking the squalor

Exclaiming, “I’ll do it, if you give me a dollar!”

Relief? Is it coming?

Is it just down the road?

‘Cause the constant worry, I’ll admit is a load.

Life shouldn’t be rushed.

But I’m afraid I’ll erupt!

So adulthood where are you?  Please hurry up!

How to be Hercules!

When we were teens, he was wise beyond his years, hilarious in a Robin Williams-esque manner, and I was totally crushin' on his cosmic intelligence.  Back then it was apparent, even to my shallow teenage mind, that he was a "girl's" guy.  One who GOT our gender and appreciated what made us--well--us.  Last year, through the magic of Facebook, we reconnected and he didn't disappoint.  Now, an assistant professor of cognitive science at Carleton University and the director of the Science of Imagination Laboratory, he was one of the first to encourage me to keep at my fledgling blog.  Through our limited conversations, his various status updates that gushed about his equally talented wife, and comments on my blog, it was infinitely clear that he still is THAT guy who is a lover of women, especially when one day after he read my A Reminder To Move post, he left this comment: "When I have children, I want my wife to be fulfilled.  How much can a husband do to facilitate this?  If a husband gives his wife a whole day, or a weekend, or one night a week off, will she take it?  If she does, can she leave mothering at home and, say, learn to cook Thai food?"

I have mulled over this question for months.  Sometimes the cynic in me laughed at the mere thought that a MAN could do ANYTHING to encourage his wife to follow her dreams. It certainly would be a herculean task. One that would require muscles of the mind.  That cynical voice mocked, "Yeah, how about starting with putting the toilet seat down bub?" But then again, another voice nagged me for weeks on end.  It whispered crazy things like, "What if?" and "Who knows?" and even crazier words like, "If your husband could do anything to encourage you to have a life outside of the family, what would it be?"

Now I am NOT saying that we must look outside ourselves to others to find our happiness.  Nope.  I still contend that if YOU want it YOU must go and get it, mother or not.  However, I am convinced that a supportive spouse or significant other is essential to a mother's independence and growth as a human being.

And so, for you my intuitive friend, Jim, and for men all over the world I have compiled a list of suggestions that you can do, be and say to help the women in your lives be so much more than just the mothers of your children.

1.  First of all--perhaps most importantly--ask about our dreams.  Ask about who we'd be if we could do anything.  Ask where we'd go if we could go anywhere.  Ask what we'd do if we could do anything. And then...and then... LISTEN--really listen to the answer.

2.  Once you've heard the answers, help us devise ways of reaching our goals.  Look up classes.  Help us design ultimate travel itineraries.  Join us in finding the best path to get where we're going.

3.  Whether it is one hour, one day or one week, the time away from our children is the heaviest weight mothers can carry. It will sabotage even the most well planned plan.  Mom guilt is tough, but it just might ease a little if you assure us that our children will be taken care.  No no...not just assure us that they will be taken care of, but that they will be taken care of in the same manner that we'd care for them. I'll let you in on a little secret men-of-the-world, we mothers can be quite egocentric you know.  It is a wonder that the world spins without our okay.    Now, I don't make that admission lightly, but I make it so that you can put it to use.  In order to rid ourselves of "mom guilt" it is essential that we think that our children won't suffer one iota from our absence.  So watch what we do, how we love, scold, support and understand our children, and then use that knowledge to to reassure us that our babies, our toddlers, our preschoolers, our tweens and teens will be just fine without their moms for a little while.  The world still spins while we sleep.

4.  When we return from our night class, our trip away, our girls' dinner, from whatever it is that we have professed as our dreams, our needs, our hopes and goals, don't let us regret it.  Remember that little secret I just let you in on?  All it would take is coming home to a house full of dishes, or a screaming child, or a broken and flooding toilet to send us reeling and saying out loud "See this is why I can't ever leave the house!"  Yeah okay.  We mudders can be martyrs.  Honestly though,  what are we supposed to think when things fall apart in our absence?  How about this, if they DO fall apart, just handle it.

5.  Marriage is a partnership.  Okay stop rolling your eyes. Such a cliche I know.  Blah blah blah...kum bay ya and all that other stuff.  But seriously...make sure you aren't just blowing hot air when you say that well-worn phrase.  A partnership means that both parties are aware of the work involved in raising their families and the responsibilities are equally divided.  If a chores list that splits it down the middle gives you the willies then at least check in with your partner on a weekly basis and be sure that she feels like the load she is bearing is equal and appropriate, and most importantly doable.  Knowing that the "other stuff" will get done, heck, just acknowledging to us that you know there is "other stuff" will be a huge burden lifted.

One of my favorite authors, Simone de Beauvoir once said, "The torment that so many women know, bound hand and foot by love and motherhood, without having forgotten their former dreams."   How tragic that for so many mothers these words ring true.  I used to think that it was just a hardship that mothers had to bear, a righteous sacrifice for the children we love.  But thanks to a question asked by a truly evolved man I am rethinking, reassessing the role of mother.  Perhaps besides being there, it is just as important for us to show our children that in order to be healthy and whole humans we must constantly work toward and never forget our dreams.  And with a husband or significant other who champions us, how could we go wrong?

An Apology from the Universe

Hi  there.  Universe here.  I know.  I know.  You are mad at me.  I haven't been very kind lately.  Seems like I'm picking on you doesn't it?  Cosmos and I, well, we have sent you an inordinate amount of shall we say...Universal do-do.  Would you believe me if I told you it's because our sewers up here have been clogged for days?  Nah.  I didn't think you would. So...you are looking for some Universal truths?  That was a joke. Get it?  Universal Truths?  No.  Still not smiling eh?  Okay.  Okay.  I guess I do owe you an apology for SOME of the bad.  Here goes.

1.  I am sorry that being a mom has been hard lately.  It must feel horrific to watch one of your children from afar make poor choice after poor choice and not be able to do anything about it.  I see you wake up daily with new resolve and so it pains me to pummel you with another explosive moment or another teacher complaint or another worrisome action.  The stress-the encompassing anguish- has broken you.  I can tell.  You would think that I would at least give you a couple of days here and there to breathe, rest your mind.  I am sorry that I have been unable to do that.  But you must trust me on this, there is a reason for the turbulence your son is going through right now.  I know that your lost little boy and the trouble he gets into is excruciating and is a constant barb in your mind.  But just trust in Cosmos and me.  We've seen it all.  We've done it all.  Sometimes in the midst of horrific pain, you must just blindly have faith in the fact that every once in awhile gripe will bring gratification...much later on.....but brings it nonetheless.

2.  Continuing on that mom theme, ehem...have you noticed how grumpy your oldest has been lately?  Whew!  THAT must get old!  I mean....you jokingly tell him he has stinky feet and he's all like, "I hate you.  I hate you so much!"  Punctuated of course by that constant slamming of his bedroom door.  Sheesh...touchy touchy touchy.  Take a CHILL pill man!  But honestly, you can't blame this one on ME and Cosmos!  I mean there is an animal called Hormones, and he can be QUITE the devil!   At our monthly world meetings, he can be SO moody and unpredictable.  You just never know what will come out of that man's mouth.  So yeah...I am completely aware of how difficult it is to live with him on a regular basis.  It's the reason Cosmos and I never invite him to dinner.  Yes it is true, Hormones is PART of me, the Universe, but like a wild animal...I just can't control him.  However, since he DOES come from me, I will apologize profusely for his hold on your son, but will also defend him because of course the work he does  for me is of the utmost importance in order for life to continue.  So let's cut Hormones some slack and just remind ourselves that he will move on to some new teenager very very soon.  Yes, soon.  I will put that on my to-do list. 

3.  Okay, let's talk Ila.  I am going to tell you right up front that I will not--absolutely will not-- apologize for anything that is taking place when it comes to her.  Sure, she's a little crooked from her torticollis. Sure, conventional physical therapy hasn't worked.  Alright, alright, so the doctor scared you to death when he said he wanted to send her to UVM to see a pediatric neurologist and to Boston to see a pediatric orthopedist.  But look...it isn't like she has a terminal disease you know?   Moms with kids who DO have terminally ill children have rights to worry and fret and feel sorry for themselves.  But a little crooked neck?  Nuh uh.  No way.  Stop wallowing.  I gave you gut instincts for a reason.  USE them!  Both doctors will come to the same conclusion that Ila will need the surgery that corrects her tilt.  A little, teeny, eensie, weensie surgery that she won't even remember when she grows up.  And hey...how about throwing ME some appreciation for the bones I have thrown YOU when it comes to this subject!  It isn't all bleak, Logan.  You have had some incredible Universal intervention with your daughter.  Please don't ignore that I sent you Jill, Miss PT Perfection, who diagnosed what, until her, went undiagnosed.  And how about a thank you for putting some fire under your pediatrician's behind.  I mean...he is a pretty laid back doctor, and yet, his feelings for you and your family coupled with his incredible brain and senseare allowing you to go to the BEST doctors for this, not just some local yocal.  I mean, I aligned the stars for you on this one.  So don't expect me to apologize for all my hard work.

4.  This final one, the infamous "salsa crotch day," well I am just ashamed of Cosmos and myself. I'll admit we used you for our own amusement.  Hey, even we need some comedy once in awhile.  You just happened to be the target.  I know.  It took a lot of mental energy to leave your problems behind, to be positive and plan a day in NYC over vacation.  I know that you would have rather let your son and your husband go to the basketball game in New Jersey without you as planned.  But you were right, you deserved a little break and good times.  We shouldn't have messed with it.  We just couldn't help it.  I mean, your reactions to strife is just hysterical.  I know you didn't find the car breaking down half way to Manhattan a comical moment, especially since you had to spend money on a rental.  Cosmos and I were SO impressed when you tried like hell to forge ahead with your positive attitude even when it became apparent that NYC was out of the question if you wanted your hubby and son to make the basketball game on time.  That little "let's all go swimming in the New Jersey hotel," was a valiant effort.  But looking back at it now, can you at least chuckle at the horrific lunch and dinner we conjured up for you.  I mean it was classic right.  Lunch at a rest stop on the Thruway instead of your favorite Manhattan restaurant.  Having to choose from two fast food restaurants that you hated, and clincher....having Ila push that entire container of salsa over the table to land like a bull's eye right in the center of your crotch.  Come on!  That was just completely entertaining.   You should have seen yourself trying to wipe that, ehem, um--area--discreetly in the VERY public bathroom.  And when Cosmos had that little girl ask you if you wet your pants, I swear the milk I was drinking came right out of my nose from laughing so hard.  Then, Cosmos and I had to wrap our arms around our middle to keep from splitting with laughter when the diluted salsa soaked through you underpants ten miles down the road and started burning your...well..hoo hoo.  Oh....good times.  Good times.

Where was I???  Ah yes...the apology.  But when we trapped you in that 2 hour traffic jam on the way to dinner and your diuretic medicine kicked in and you had to pee so bad you were sure that your bladder was holding the entire Hudson River, Cosmos and I thought that that would be the most fun we had all day.  Potty humor you know is usually the best.  And when you got out of your car in the middle of all that traffic and actually jumped into a construction port-a-potty in front of all those drivers, we thought we hit the comic jackpot.

But then you got back in the car.  We weren't prepared for the tears.  Those were some serious water works.  When the car got quiet and even the teenager felt sorry for you....we knew you had enough.

I know that on top of all the new hardships, you are still dealing with your husband out of work and a heart condition that dogs you daily making your legs and arms and mind feel like their moving through mud.  Cosmos and I are sorry. We are very sorry.  Despite what you think, we don't enjoy bearing down on you like we have.  (Okay we enjoyed the "salsa crotch.")  I wish I could tell you that you've seen the last of the dark and cloudy days, but just as sunshiney summer turns to icy cold winter,  and back again to summer, bad will turn to good and then back to bad in this life.  It is how Cosmos and I roll.  Instead of dwelling on the bad, depressing yourself and those around you, try to remember that positives and negatives during a lifetime are...well...UNIVERSAL!

Chow Baby! 

Le Petit Bonheur (an Oldie But a Goodie!)

"Cultivate le petit bonheur (the little happiness) until courage returns. Look forward to the beauty of the next moment, the next hour, the promise of a good meal, sleep, a book, a movie, the likelihood that tonight the stars will shine and tomorrow the sun will shine. Sink roots into the present until the strength grows to think about tomorrow.”

Ardis Whitman

These past two weeks this quote and I have been intimately connected.  Written on a piece of scrap paper it has sat on the bathroom sink and waited for me to finish my shower.  It tarried patiently on my vanity as I straightened my unruly long hair.  It has been wrinkled and smushed into my sensible teaching slacks waiting for my hand to grasp it, grip it, crinkle it in my white knuckled fist when desperate thoughts wove within my daily routine; in between my reading lessons and correcting spelling tests, when walking down a quiet hall or standing robot-like waiting for the copier to finish spitting out the day's assignments.

It's that french phrase that makes the quote stand out for me:  Le petit bonheur--small moments of happiness.  Such a simple but profound idea and one I am sure we could all lean on every once in awhile.  When the thought of tomorrow is worrisome and heavy--concentrate instead on what is good and satisfying even if it is small.  It is the precious present that will get you through until you feel strong enough to tackle the "unknown tomorrows" that we all have.      

So that's what I did this week. I marked, noticed and counted my petit bonheur, and if you'll indulge me, I'd like to share with you some of the happiest moments if not only to remind myself of the joie de vivre, but also perhaps to help someone else who may be in the "deep downs" find some light even in what seems the blackest of times.   

Ma Petit Bonheur

1.  Ila has taken to imitating a rabbit when the bunny picture shows up in her favorite book.  It is the most precious thing I have ever witnessed.  Her chubby cheeks move up and down  in tandem with her rosy pink nose and her eyes get squinty.  Le Petit Bonheur...

2.  This weekend my sixteen year old asked...I repeat....ASKED to accompany us on a shopping trip to The Christmas Tree Shop.  He sat in the backseat with Ila, sang Sesame Street Songs with her and had several easy conversations with us about school, about Christmas, about his future.  

3.  The same 16 year old told me last week that our house was "a home"...a home.  Two words never sounded so good.

4.  The crock pot...YES I said the crock pot.  DEFINITELY a petit bonheur.  Especially when my hubby uses it.  This past week I feasted on spaghetti  with homemade sauce and meatballs the size of baseballs.  I came home today to the creamiest cheesiest potato and ham soup that the world has ever eaten.  It was paired with thick slabs of farmer's wheat bread that he grilled with cheddar cheese; a perfect meal for a rainy fall night--Yes?  Le petit bonheur!

5.  Then of course there is bath time with Ila.  There are SO many petit bonheurs during this daily 15 minutes I am not sure I even know where to start.  How about that Buddha belly so full after a delicious crock pot dinner.  Before putting her into the warm bath water there's nothing like the squealing giggles she lets loose when I blow raspberries on that sweet round tummy...le petit bonheur.  Each night she does this incredibly endearing thing where she grabs her rubber ducky, points her chubby finger at me and grunts.  This is my music cue and at that moment I begin my rendition of "Rubber Ducky," my voice echoing off the white tiled wall.  She leans against the back of the tub and twirls her yellow duck interjecting her rudimentary language where she can.  But the happiest part of the bath has to be towel time.  Wrapping her in that purple heavy cotton "princess" towel with a crown for the hood, she squirms and wriggles happily in my arms.  The warmth of her body seeps through the towel right into my soul.  I put my nose on the top of her wet hair and breath in deeeeeeply.  When drying her off on the bathroom sink's counter I kiss her shoulders, her round knees, the bottoms of her tiny feet, her hands and right on up her arms to her arm pits--all with no resistance ( a rare moment!)  She anticipates this routine sitting mesmerized with each kiss and then bursts out into her heartiest belly laugh when her arms get kissed. That delightful sound floats up out of her mouth into the steamy bathroom and strokes my cheek like a soothing hand.  Best of all, she'll snuggle into the crook of my neck all the way down the hall to her room.  I almost hate to put her down on her changing table.  Bath time...le petit bonheur.

6.  Le petit bonheur, a small happiness, doesn't seem to fit this next one.  I mean my Facebook friend, Suz, must have the most giant personality that the world has ever experienced.   I am not sure if she knows of the jovialities and super smiles she spreads throughout the world of Facebook.  To those who don't know her or have never read her statuses, I call her the female Robin Williams.  This woman is freaking hilarious.  During one teary wallowing moment, I turned on my computer to read this status posted by my friend, " So I'm checking out at the grocery and the comedian/cashier dude holds up the 2 pack of dog bones and asks, "for your husband?"  I replied, "well, he gets bored when he's in the dog house...plus it gives him clean breath."Or how about this one "So. my 17 year old big dude is trying to pick a 'sexy' name for his car.  hubby has googled 'sexy names' and is reading htem off in a strange(ie. sultry) voice.  we're actually having a debate in the kitchen over this.  seriously.  ::eyeroll:: " --If you ever need a moment of laughter be sure to visit her world at suzpatrick.blogspot.com!  

And now for some truly tiny petit bonheur!

A.  Palmer's Cocoa Butter Oil massaged into my tired feet at the end of the day.
B.  A husband who knows that talk is cheap but massaging my feet is PRICELESS.
C.  A full tank of gas when I am in a hurry.
D.  A call out of the blue that showers me with understanding and advice from a best friend in Tampa.
E.  Grape infused vodka, Dole All Natural Pink Lemonade, Perrier...together....yum!
F.  Nestle's Tollhouse Ice Cream Sandwiches...nothing else to say about THAT one!
G.  The Sunday NY Times Book Review.
H.  A virtual trip to Amazon.com after reading the book review.  This week I bought --To the End of the Land by David Grossman.  Each day I look forward to a jaunt to the mailbox to pick up a prized possession--a book and devour its words.

Le petit bonheur.  Le petit bonheur.  Le petit bonheur.  Look for it.  Listen to it.  Learn from it.  Love it.  I guarantee that those small happinesses will add up to Le Grand Bonheur--a great big ginormous contentment-- that outshines those scary tomorrows and gives us palpable energy we need to take us forward. 

The Red Dress Club: A Memoir

Today I am doing something different.  I am linking up with a site called "The Red Dress Club.  It is an absolutely brilliant site for writers, any writers, all writers!  They give prompts twice a week and then later a chance to post your blog site so that others can read how you chose to craft the prompt.  This week's memoir prompt was to write a piece about an item of forgotten clothing and what it meant to you.  I acknowledge it is different for the blog and perhaps may be difficult to read.  But I am satisfied that it goes along with the theme of the blog that sometimes motherhood can be excruciatingly difficult.

While packing a box of preschool sized hand-me-downs for a colleague the tiny tan corduroys at the bottom of the box instantly transported me to that day...that unnerving day 12 years ago when I contributed to slicing a hole in my son's soul. 

The unforgiving fluorescent lights exposed the shabby basement, highlighting the molasses colored soda stains on the tan carpet, the pulls and pills of the overused tweed couch, the dark brown of the knotty pine slatted wall laid like jail cell bars that boxed us in.    Aidan, my toe headed five year old, was cradled in the arms of the exhausted overstuffed red recliner that could have fit three of him.  His short legs were crossed at his sockless ankles just coming to the edge of the arm.  Scott nudged me from behind, his fingers like rounded daggers pressing into my spine; I planted my feet firmly on the worn carpet, trying to eke out just a little more time for my son to be oblivious to the world of divorce.

Sensing us there, Aidan turned toward his father.   Scott’s thick eyebrows were knitted together, his mouth tight and crooked resembling the haphazard bookshelf that he leaned on.  Instantly, that kilowatt smile of Aidan’s, the one that caused his eyes to squint, disappeared.   Nervous of his father’s stern face, he pressed his hands together and rocked his hips back and forth causing the ancient chair to squeak with complaints.

I knelt before him and plastered on an “everything-is-fine smile” to hide my tortured eyes.  I slid my hands up the sides of his corduroys feeling the fibers rise against the grain, pulled him forward, and wrapped his legs around my middle.  Shakily but with resignation I said, “Aidan, daddy and I want to talk to you about something.”

  His father stood above us, and loomed over the conversation as if supervising instead of participating.  Aidan barely nodded his head and searched my eyes with his.  Voice quivering, I continued.  “I know that you don’t like it when daddy and I fight.”  Again, Aidan gave a wisp of a nod which bolstered me to press forward. 

“Well we don’t like it either and we’ve decided to do something about it.”  Hopeful eyebrows raised slightly on my child’s face causing my stomach to violently roll and my voice to crack and skip.  Teary, I looked to Scott for help.  He stood, statue like, arms crossed, face in a cemented frown.  

I drew in a long breath of musty cellar air, irritating my parched throat. “What we’ve decided,”   Looking down at the shaggy carpet I focused on a stain and repeated, “What we’ve decided is that daddy is going to go live with Grandma."

 What happened next was simultaneous chaos.   Aidan’s legs shot straight out like two by fours at my sides.  His body stiffened.  He thrashed in the chair like a caught trout on a fishing boat’s deck.  Then a guttural moan, the sound of devastation, came from the depths of him.  Every maternal-nerve in my body zapped me with electrical pain and instinctively I reached out to hold him.  Upon my touch he recoiled. His low groans turned to high pitched staccato daggers “No!  No!  No!  No!”  With quaking hands, I reached out to him once more.  He kicked at me violently and then turned to face the back of the fire red chair.  He rolled himself into a tight pellet of flesh and bone.   Muffled by the upholstery, Aidan coughed out a throaty maniacal “Go! Go! Go away NOW!!”    I frantically turned to Scott once more for help, only to see his feet ascend the paint chipped stairs, pounding in time with my throbbing head.  Wanting to sooth, knowing I couldn’t, I helplessly sunk to the bedraggled carpet.  Feeling no better than the lowly stains, I listened to the grief-stricken sobs coming from Aidan, cradled in the arms of the exhausted red recliner.

My Bullied Son: A Mother's Story

Recently a friend posed a question.  She wondered if it was wrong for a mom to hate a 6th grade girl. Now I don't have the details or the reasons for the strong feelings she is encountering, but the question itself reminded me of similar feelings I had a few years ago when we found out that one of our sons was being bullied severely.  What made that news worse was that when pressing for details, our son revealed that it had been going on for about two years.  When we found out, I experienced a massive jumbled mixture of emotions.  There was an incredulous/guilty feeling that it had gone on for so long and that I had absolutely no idea.  There were signs.  Oh my there were such signs!  He would  make himself throw up so he could come home from school.  He would cry in the morning or stall when it was time to leave.  He would have anger outbursts after school about little inconveniences like no milk in the fridge. Instead of disciplining him for those behaviors, I should have seen them for what they were; symptoms of a bigger problem.   There was also this feeling of deep sadness, almost mourning,  for my son who had to go to school everyday knowing that he'd end up being pushed, shoved, knowing he'd hear cutting words that made him feel worthless and less than the wonderful kid he really is.  The depression that engulfed me when imagining the many scenarios that he must have endured was overwhelming and swallowed me whole.  But the strongest feeling that I experienced was a rage like no other rage I have ever felt.  Every inch of me hated that bully, that child.  Loathed.  Detested.  One night I had a dream that I actually strangled the boy.  I woke up shaky and a nauseous.  The anger had taken over. 

Lately there has been a lot in the news about bullies and how they effect kids.  I can tell you from experience that what my son went through has had a profound influence on his self worth, on his self esteem.  It is very difficult for him to succeed at anything.  He self sabotages, doesn't do homework, doesn't try out for solos in chorus that the teacher practically tells him would be his if he'd just take the risk.  During his middle school years and into high school he relived the rejection he experienced in elementary school by setting himself up to fail at friendship again and again.  He set his sights on hanging out  with the popular of the popular.  I realize now that if any of those boys had accepted him into their group it might, for him, have erased the thoughts in his mind that he was unworthy of any friendship.  But alas, it never happened.  The stigma of being "the kid that was bullied" stuck with him for a long time and many kids didn't want to be seen with him.  So they didn't answer the phone when he called or wouldn't include him in trips to a football game or invite him to birthday parties.  He therefore has an extreme anxiety when it comes to calling or asking anyone to do something or go somewhere.  He assumes he will  be rejected.  Fear of rejection, of not being good enough has ruled his life since being bullied.

When my sons were little I remember conversations with them about how to handle it if someone was picking on them.  Looking back, I gave all the wrong advice.  Typically parents tell kids to ignore the bully.  To tell an adult if it continues.  I even did the old, "you catch more flies with sugar than you do with vinegar."  I actually told them that if someone is mean they should try over and over to be nice.  I even recall telling them that a bully is that way because there is something horrific in his or her life that makes them that way.  And all that might be true.  But I know now that it isn't how you teach your kids to handle a bully at all.  Not at all.

The thing is rationalization does work for adults but NOT kids.  For the most part we can remove ourselves from the source of the bullying, therefore not be subjected to it day after day.  Our adult minds are able to understand how truly pitiful it is to be a bully. We can almost sympathize with  abusers who use curse words as weapons because of their lack of verbal intelligence.  We understand how truly weak bullies are when they hide behind the anonymity of  emails or gossip spreading.  We can laugh at the pathetic use of blanket statements like "Did you know everyone thinks this or that of you?"  As adults, we know that those who bully and verbally abuse are damaged in some way and are looking to hurt others to make themselves feel better.  We can dismiss them as the small human they are, and by doing so force them to face that their hateful words and deeds truly are insignificant in our lives. Smart, evolved adults know to never give credence to the ramblings of unbalanced human beings.  

But children's minds are not as developed (now there is a revelation!) There is no time for understanding, sympathy, or empathy and there is certainly no time to laugh.  All that bullied kids know, all they comprehend is the humiliation and pain that they go through day after day.  The mental warfare that they experience at the hands of a menacing, seemingly maniacal meanie who is out to make mince meat of them is unbearable and life changing. As my daughter grows up, I will teach her differently. I will tell her that no one deserves to be bullied whether it be physically or verbally. I will tell her that she has a right to feel safe and to protect herself. Don't get me wrong. I won't encourage her to fight, but I will teach her how to be assertive. I will teach her to yell firmly, "Leave me alone!" and that stepping closer to someone and looking them in the eye while saying very sternly, "I am not afraid of you," is the best way to show that she is not someone to be trifled with, that she is not an easy target.

But in my son's case, I must thank the universe for the resilience of the human spirit.  That bullied son of mine is slowly learning through very hard work of his own, that there are kids out there who like him because of who he is and he's befriended them.  He's learning that there are very specific rewards for being the nice guy.  His new girlfriend is evidence of that.  He's learning that he has talents that make him special.  He hones them daily and seeks out where those talents are appreciated.  But the brightest light, the very most illuminated illumination of this whole rotten "getting over the big bad bully thing" is the fact that my son didn't let the bully win.  He is pushing on with his life.  Making the bully's words and deeds insignificant by dismissing him for the small human being he was back then in elementary school.  Head held high he can say with a wink, "I never give credence to the ramblings of an unbalanced human being."  You and me both kid.  You and me both!

Can't We All Just Get Along? Authoritarian Vs. Permissive Parenting

The last Muddled Mother post espoused the virtue, the necessity, the urgency of continuing to move even though we're mothers.  That is--to be sure that we remember that we are, or that we SHOULD be, more than that sacrificial role.  We should remember or begin to consider who ELSE we want to be in addition to mom, mama, mommy.  It was a controversial post to say the least.  Many who agreed or had never thought that way left beautiful sentiments in the comment section below.  Some wrote me private messages disagreeing or offering another view point respectfully, civilly in a manner in which educated humans converse. There were also those who vehemently disagreed.  I live in a small town so, of course, through the perpetual grapevine I heard the drawl and tsk tsk of women who believed that I should be ashamed of myself lamenting publicly my role of mother.  "What would my children think?"  One woman-who isn't a mother-spoke with an authoritative stance and gathered in all who would listen to share her "enlightened" perspective that "my whining" was due to my erroneous view that my children were put on this earth to make me happy.  She asserted that I didn't understand that happiness came from within.  She posted quotes about happiness and responsibility on Facebook. She convinced friends who were mothers to remove themselves from the Mudder website in order to spare them the downer I perpetuate on the good name of motherhood every week.  She even went as far as trying to insert herself into my sons' lives in order to perhaps "fill the void" that they must feel having me as a mother.

However, believe it or not,  I welcome it.  I even expect it-the mess (the righteousness too.) It's inevitable when discussing a polarizing, passionate subject like motherhood.  After all, it's a messy topic. As with any sacred subject like politics or religion, most people have strong, deep rooted ideals that are as unwavering as Mt. Everest.   Did you know that there are over 700 billion ADULTS in the world?  (I looked it up.)  I am willing to bet that every one of those adults has an idea of how a mother should act, think, speak.  Unfortunately ALL 700 billion opinions can't be right, but they ALL can't be wrong either.  I would assert that it's a little of both.  Hear me out on this.

I am sure by now you have heard of the "Tiger Mom."  If you haven't, let me fill you in.  Amy Chua, author of  Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother has been lambasted online, on television and in print media for her "harsh" discipline and parenting techniques that she touts in her book and her article "Why Chinese Moms Are Superior." Tiger mama's children never went to a play date, never slept over at someone house, weren't allowed to have chocolate and couldn't even be in a school play. Venomous vitriol spewed out of every corner at these revelations.  More permissive parents called her strict methods abuse.  When she admitted that she once called her daughter "Garbage," know-betters and tsk tskers came out of the wood work calling her a wimp and a poor excuse for a mother.

Now I'm not saying that I agree with everything that she did.  But let me just say, both of her daughters are Ivy League bound.  They have a clear reverence for their parents, and most of all, it is distinctly obvious that they are driven to be successful.  My sons are not Ivy League bound, they don't typically have a reverence for their parents and they both have said that "As long as they pass, they're good." And I will be the first to admit that in moment of ire or great sadness the words that have come out of this mother's mouth have been giant mistakes that I could only apologize for and vow to never say again. So...who am I to question her parenting?  Who am I to dissect it?  Her daughters seem poised for a stellar adulthood.  I 'd settle for my boys having an average one.  Her parenting worked for her.  Her parenting worked for her family.

Then there's Spock who has touted the idea of permissive parenting--a life where the child gets to explore his or her environment and learn logically from life's consequences without the constraints of a mother or father's constant "no's".  This parenting philosophy has been around since the early 50's.  Many parents sing its praises.  They believe that this popular philosophy encourages children to be brave within their environment, and because of that, permissive parenting has helped to create a nation of thinkers and inventors leading our country to the technological boom we're experiencing today.  On the other hand, many opponents of permissive parenting complain that its created a generation of spoiled entitled children and a culture of youth who are soft and rebellious.

Once again, I don't espouse that I agree with all that is involved in permissive parenting.  But as a mother I would love to ensure that my children were able to see the possibilities in life without fear.  And, well, those who know me well know that I am not shy of a rebellion or two.  Where would we be without the likes of Steve Jobs or writer Augusten Burroughs, the innovators and free thinking artists?  The permissive parenting they received worked for their parents.  It worked for them.

Mudders, we try our hardest.  We do our best.  We cry.  We laugh.  We love. We hurt.  We slip.  We fall.  We get back up.  We make mistakes and we apologize.  We go to bed defeated and awaken refreshed. We try again. We hold on tightly to a sense of hope and we vow to never give up on our children.  Sometimes our decisions are spot on.  Sometimes we spit in the wind. We all know the elation of success and the sting of failure.  It is a precarious role being a mother.  We are forever reminded that several wrong moves or even ONE could damage those that we love the most for an eternity.  The uncertainty of what we do, when we do it and the veritable HOW weighs heavily on us daily, by the minute, by the second.  We are mothers.  We may choose to do our jobs in different ways.  We may disagree on the guidelines one follows to raise children in an appropriate manner.  But one thing I am sure of, one thing that is the same for all of us who call ourselves mamas is that we love our children and our decisions are made out of the adoration that we have for them.  Whether permissive or authoritarian, whether chipper and cheerful or full of lamentation, all mothers want the same thing for their children--to ultimately grow into adults who live in a state called contentment.