Category: Parenting

Don’t You Go Changin’

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There’s a commercial on SportsCenter that both creeps me out and makes me worry on behalf of my sons.

It’s a hair-removal ad, and while I can’t remember the name of the product (which goes to show that the ad isn’t doing its job), the subject matter gives me pause.

In this ad, several beautiful women are introduced, along with the amount of body hair they prefer on their boyfriends, who are more than happy to go along with the women’s wishes.

It’s creepy. There’s no other way to describe it.

And the ad makes me think:  if the tide were turned, if a commercial showed several handsome men making demands regarding their girlfriends’ physical appearance, you’d have an awful lot of people up in arms. They’d rant about it on The View. The ad would be decried as offensive, abusive and degrading to women.

I’ll admit, if Middle Sister and I were watching TV together and a commercial objectifying women was aired, I’d say something. I want her to know that she is more than a pretty face and a female body.

It’s OK, these days, to objectify guys. We’re all about empowering girls, which is great for the girls, and I’m happy that my daughter has the chance to participate in sports, study pre-calculus and marine biology, and be the stage manager for the school play. She has earned these opportunities on her own merits–not on her looks, not by virtue of her gender.

We want to make sure our daughters have a healthy understanding of themselves as young women, that they grow up with good self-esteem and aren’t willing to be pushed around or bullied by the men with whom they are building a relationship.

murph and the magictonesDon’t we want the same for our sons? Don’t we want them to be able to accept themselves for who they are–intellectually, spiritually, emotionally and physically?

Men who demand that women in relationships with them make changes to their physical appearance are considered sexist. But in commercials like this, women who demand that men in relationships with them make changes to their physical appearance are admired. That’s pretty scary. The double standard hasn’t gone away; it’s just changed its focus.

As Murph (of Murph and the Magic Tones in The Blues Brothers) said before signing off, “Don’t you go changin’.”

 

Parenting 101, College Tour Edition

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Call this the Summer of the College Tour. We did one last week, one today, and have one scheduled for tomorrow and one next week. And that’s not all! I’m sure there will be more when Middle Sister does a little more research into the schools she might want to attend.campus_tour750

She’s approaching this very differently than Big Brother did. Of course, none of my kids ever approaches anything the same way a sibling does. It’s different every time. I have to keep remembering that.

There are other things I have to remember too, like letting her “digest” the day before quizzing her on whether she liked the school rather than starting in on the interrogation the second we get back into the car.

Today’s tour was easier than last week’s tour, because Little Brother is at camp this week. So we don’t have an 11-year-old tagging along, vacillating between total boredom (can we go HOME now?) and complete excitement (a basketball court! a soccer field! comfy chairs! donuts! where do I sign?) with a little greed thrown in (how come I don’t get a free pen? can we go to the bookstore so I can buy a T-shirt? how about a sweat shirt?)

I worry about how things will go when Middle Sister leaves the nest. I worry about her college choice–I don’t know what she wants, and I’m not sure she does either. I think she’s operating on the “I’ll know it when I see it” rule of thumb, but what she sees and what I see are often two very different things. And we can’t visit every college in the USA that offers her major until she sees it (and knows it.)

I’m patting myself on the back for the remarkable restraint I displayed today. I only said 3, maybe 4, good things about the university we visited today on the way home in the car. I did not gush, and I tried not to lecture.

As to the whole “knowing it when she sees it” approach, is that a good idea when she may not get accepted (or get enough financial aid) to attend her first choice school? If she falls in love with a place and then can’t go, any other place is just not going to do it for her.

Jesus told his disciples not to worry about what they were to eat, where they were to sleep, or what they were to wear. He’s got a point, but then again, he never had a 17-year-old daughter going off to college next year. That’s a whole different level of worry right there.

Of Parenting, Free Will and Poor Choices

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One of the hardest things about being a parent is letting your kids make their own mistakes. rain bootsIt’s not too bad when they’re toddlers and they want to wear their rain boots to the grocery store on a hot, sunny day. There’s a natural consequence there. They’ll get hot, sweaty (and stinky) feet. They’ll learn the hard way that this isn’t a good idea.

Once your kids are older teenagers and young adults, the mistakes they make go beyond the fashion faux pas of the terrible twos. They still have to learn the hard way, and it’s a lot harder on the parents.

We’ve hit one of those “you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink” situations as parents, and the helplessness I feel is a lot greater than what I felt when those same children, as two-year-olds, suddenly and inexplicably refused to eat the grilled-cheese sandwiches they’d demanded for lunch every day for the past three weeks.

Now, it’s not that my kids have never screwed up before, but usually you find out about it after the fact. At that point it’s all about picking up the pieces, in whatever form that takes, and helping them navigate the natural consequences of their actions.

This time I watched it happen and there was nothing I could do to stop it (despite many ahead-of-time parental warnings, which did happen–and which were ignored.)

I can take them to Mass every Sunday for their entire lives, making sure to work around sports schedules and theater schedules and birthday parties and all kinds of other things, but I cannot make them want to go. I cannot force them to make the right choice and to go to church before they go to the beach.

They have the gift of free will, and they used it. They chose poorly. And that makes me sad. It makes me feel that what I’ve been trying to instill in them for the past 17 or 21 years has been rejected.

Did I, as a parent, a Catholic, a Franciscan, do enough? To what extent do I take the blame for my Big Kids’ poor choice?

 

Bells Are Ringing

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This morning I went to Mass at the school, because they were honoring the parents who volunteered during the school year. Usually I avoid this event (it’s a social-anxiety thing) but Little Brother was persistent in telling me he really wanted me to be there.

He’s 11. How much longer is he going to be happy to see his mom volunteering at school? I returned the form saying I’d attend the Mass and social afterward.

When I got there, dripping from the rain because TheDad had mistakenly taken both our umbrellas to work with him, a smiling student met me at the church door and told me that all the volunteers were supposed to sit up front. So I did, because Little Brother wanted me to be there.

Fortunately there was no naming of names, just a group “all volunteers please stand up so we can thank you” at the end of Mass. I could deal with that.

Afterwards, we went into the cafegymatorium for a nice little reception. There were two decorated tables with these cute gifts that the first and second grades had put together–with handwritten thank-you notes from the kids. There were smiling seventh-graders pouring our coffee and juice and inviting us to take fruit and pastries.

I sat next to a mom whose oldest son is in Little Brother’s class, and across the table from a mom whom I don’t know, but who had a beautiful one-year-old daughter with her. The little girl had made an impression on me during Mass; she was very quiet most of the time, but when the altar server rang the bell, she exclaimed, “Yay! Bells!” Both times.

That reminded me of Little Brother at the same age. Big Brother was an altar server then, and I was up front with the choir. TheDad would sit in the back with Little Brother, and when the servers rang the bells, Little Brother would yell, “Big Brother’s ringing the bells!” You could hear him throughout the whole church.

I was telling the other moms at my table about this, and the mom with a boy in Little Brother’s class said that her sons used to ask her why the servers rang the bells. Her answer was that they ring the bells to show that this is an important moment. Of course, the next week, when the bells would ring, one of her boys would (loudly) say, “It’s an important moment, right, Mom?”

I was dreading that reception, and even thought about ducking out on it, but I’m glad I went. I’m glad I sat with moms who bring their children to Mass. I’m glad my child attends this school where the kids are taken to church and can learn about Jesus and why it’s an important moment when the bells ring. I’m glad that the parents can share, through funny stories about what their own kids did in church, how we help our children understand those important moments.

The Pink Ukelele

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There’s a little girl whose parents bring her and her baby brother to the 12:00 Mass every Sunday. They’ve started sitting near the folk group, and she keeps her eyes firmly on the musicians.

One recent Sunday, she escaped from the pew during Communion and her mom had to chase her as she ran up to the altar. After that Mass, a bunch of us told her embarrassed parents that they shouldn’t worry about it, and that they shouldn’t stop bringing her to Mass. It would get better. We’re all parents too, and we’ve had our share of embarrassing kids-in-church moments.

Yesterday, there they were, in their usual spot. But the little girl did not arrive at church empty-handed. Besides her little pink purse, she had a tiny pink gig bag. Her dad placed it carefully at the edge of the pew. It looked like a very, very small guitar case, and we all whispered to each other before Mass that the little girl was here and that she’d brought her own guitar.

Of course, we were completely charmed by that idea. I was wondering how long it would take for her to break out the guitar and abandon her parents in the pew for the folk group across the aisle.

She left her gig bag alone during Mass (amazingly) but afterwards her dad helped her unzip it, to reveal the cutest little pink ukelele. She let Little Brother try to play it.

More than just a cute and sweet moment, though, this tells me something:  despite the liturgical-music snobbery that “folk-groupies” like myself often encounter, what we do has the power to touch lives. That little girl, no more than three years old, clearly wanted to play music in church. She sees us do that, she likes it, and she wants to do the same.

Church music doesn’t have to be written before the turn of the 20th century to be inspiring. There’s a little girl in our parish who has found herself inspired by the music we play each Sunday. It’s not everyone’s favorite, but it has touched her heart. I hope that in a few years, this little girl finds that she has a musical gift, and looks for a way to use that gift to honor God and serve others.

Signs of Affection

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Last night I entered into complicated negotiations with Little Brother. I’ll be seeing him at school today (and every Friday) and there is that delicate matter of parental affection to be dealt with.

For the past year, he hasn’t wanted me to wait for the bus with him in the mornings. I do miss that; he’s the only kid at the bus stop at that time, and we used to have some nice little chats.

And while I used to get a hug (maybe two) from him on those school days when I volunteered in the library, last night it was made pretty clear that I’m not to expect that this year. At 10, Little Brother thinks he’s too big to hug his mom in public. He grudgingly suggested that I could muss his hair a little bit.

Usually the librarian schedules me to volunteer on the day when Little Brother’s class will be in the library. I appreciate this and so does he (and I think she does too, as this is a big and, well, loud group. They’re good kids–but they are noisy.) When he was in second grade, she needed me on a different day, but when his class was on the way into the art room next to the library, his teacher would let him run into the library and give me a hug.

Those were the good old days.

I mourned this on Twitter last night: “Sign your “baby” is getting old: you have to negotiate an acceptable sign of affection in advance of seeing him at school tomorrow.”

The prevailing opinion on Twitter was that I should tackle and hug (and/or kiss) the kid anyway; after all, “real men kiss their moms” and I am the one who pays his bills. The truth is, Twitter, I don’t tend to be boisterous like that.

At least he still hugged me when he said goodnight, after all those negotiations.

At least he still wants me to help at his school–with his class.

And at least he has library in the mornings, before the hair that he is so graciously allowing me to touch gets too sweaty from the playground football game at recess.

Works in Progress

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Things my kids have learned this summer: How to make Jambalaya. Algebra. Acting. Making tuna salad and muffin pizza.

Things my kids have not learned this summer: Turning lights and tv off when they leave a room. Closing drawers and doors to cabinets and closets. Eating with silverware (still to be mastered by one child)

So they can cook, compute and emote, but they still act like they were raised by wolves.

There is much work yet to be done.

I Do Not Like This, Uncle-Sam-I-Am

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There was a blood-donation drive at our parish today, and Middle Sister wanted to donate. She’s 16, and that’s old enough if she brings along a parent to sign a permission slip. So I took her over there, filled out the form, and sat with her while she read the packet of information and disclaimers that she was handed.

Finally her name was called and we went over to the desk where the nurse was taking medical histories. First Middle Sister had to produce an ID with her date of birth. A school ID wasn’t going to do it, and I reminded her that she had her driver’s permit in her handbag. Then the nurse told me that I wasn’t allowed to be there. Citing “privacy issues,” she said that while my daughter gave her medical history, I couldn’t be present. I could, however, stand next to the table where they would take the blood out of her arm. That is, if I weren’t so squeamish about things like that. (I’ll drive you to the ER if you don’t make me look at the wound.)

So I had to go sit on the other side of the room while my underage daughter gave her medical history. She is not old enough to get an Advil from the school nurse if she has a migraine without parental permission, let alone donate blood or get her ears pierced (or any other body part). I accompany her to medical appointments. But I AM NOT ALLOWED to listen to my minor child give her medical history.

Can you tell I’m not a fan of this policy? My daughter wasn’t asking me to please go away. She didn’t seem to care one way or the other, which is comforting to me. If the patient doesn’t care that a parent is there during the medical history, why is it a problem for the nurse?

I was only able to find a small amount of information regarding confidentiality on the Red Cross website:

The Red Cross maintains the confidentiality of information we obtain about a donor and will release a donor’s confidential information to his or her parents only with the donor’s consent.

Is this all part of HIPAA, or is this something new? Regardless, I don’t like it. Not one bit. If she is young enough to require my signature before she can give blood, she is young enough that I can still listen to her medical history.

And after all that, her iron was JUST shy of the benchmark required for blood donation. So this was all for nothing.

If You Take a Street Urchin to the Diner

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If you take a Street Urchin to the diner, it is not advisable to order the Mexican Omelet.  (It’s my favorite. Green peppers, onions and Monterey Jack cheese, so says the menu, although in real life it’s more likely to be Cheddar.  Either way, it’s all good.)

So we went to the diner with Little Brother and Adventure Boy. And I ordered the Mexican Omelet, not knowing any better, because it’s my favorite, and it’s never been a problem before.

Then again, we don’t usually take Street Urchins to the diner.

My omelet was delicious, as usual. And then Adventure Boy, Master of All That Is Tactful, looked at it, made a face and said, “EWWWWWWWWWWWWW! That looks like big green BOOGERS!”

Thanks for that.

Everybody: In the Pool!

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I don’t know where the Street Urchins summer, but most of them haven’t been around here too much (with the exception of Adventure Boy.)  And despite sending my request for contact information home with each of them, I’d only wound up with home phone numbers for two of the four boys on the block.

One of the other boys showed up here today, when Little Brother and two friends were already in the pool.  I handed him a fresh contact sheet and told him to go get it filled out (and to get a towel), and then he could swim.  He told me that he’d lost the other one, but that his mom thought it was a good idea.  He went back home, but 5 minutes later there he was, jumping into my pool without handing me a paper.

I made him get out of the water and sent him home to get it.

I felt bad about that for about 5 seconds.  I have to protect these kids when they are here, and part of that is knowing how to reach their families in case of emergencies.

He came back with the paper filled out, and without a towel.  Adventure Boy doesn’t have a towel either.  (I told him to go home and change and get a towel, but he decided to just swim in his clothes.)  And while Mean Mom might provide a few chocolate-chip cookies apres-swim, they’re on their own when it comes to towels.