Now that the kids are back to school, it is time for one of my favorite back-to-school rituals: the ordering of the annual school pictures. If you are thinking that I am being slightly sarcastic, you would be correct in that assumption.
One of my failures as a parent is that I have not kept a very good professional photographic record of my kids' growing up. I'm sure that I'll regret that inadequacy at some point in my life, but I did start with good intentions. When the Teenager was a baby, I signed up for the Portrait Club at a local department store. For a small annual membership fee, I could bring her in for sittings and receive all kinds of discounts. It was a deal a sleep-deprived new mother could not refuse.
Then the Son of Never Stops Eating was born, and I had two small children who needed portraits. That meant actually coordinating outfits, and finding the time to go and get the pictures done that didn't interfere with the nap schedule or the feeding schedule, and then if one of them cooperated the other didn't, and after the session where one wouldn't stop crying and the other wouldn't stop throwing plastic Easter eggs across the room, I just gave up.
A year or so later, they both started school. At first, the school picture ritual was a gift from above. I didn't have to feel guilty about my failure to photograph; the elementary school would do it for me! What I failed to realize at the time was that this made the keeping of our family memories dependent on the whims of the school photography company.
When I received the order form, which had to be completed before the pictures were taken, I realized that this was not exactly the boon I had originally thought, because the package that I needed was not one of the packages that was on offer. I could either get the frugal package, which had none of the sizes I wanted, or the millionaire package, for which I would fork over half my paycheck and receive three pictures I wanted and a hundred that I didn't need.
I soon realized was that the school photo ordering process was uniquely designed by medieval torture masters to create parental aggravation right when you don't need it because school has just started and you have a million other forms to fill out.
This year, the ordering process has apparently transitioned to online only, or at least that was the conclusion I reached after I received an e-mail from the Teenager's school announcing that the pictures were being taken soon, and here's the link to order! When I asked the Teenager for the paper order form, I received the blank stare of adolescence, so off to the computer I went.
I soon realized that this would not be a quick and easy process. The package I normally buy- the Ebenezer Scrooge Package (otherwise known as the "entry level package", for $12) plus one 8 X 10 add on- was not actually possible anymore. I could either create my own package or buy theirs, but either way, I was either going to pay more or not get what I wanted.
The family mutt immediately sensed things were not going well; she got up and hid under a bed.
You know, the Dad of No, said, you don't have to order these pictures. Just take some with your phone.
I have to order these pictures! I nearly yelled. It's tradition! It's required! If I don't order them this year, I won't have a complete set!
He wisely fled into another room.
I was asked to make a lot of choices: Did I want a blackboard background, or a faux fall forest? Retouching? My child's name and grade engraved on the photo? No! I screamed at the computer. I just want pictures to magically appear in my teenager's backpack! That option, however, was the only one not available.
I finally finished the ordering process and forked over my money. I still have one kid to go, so the process will be repeated in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, I'm off to eat a lot of chocolate and to remind the Teenager that for the price I paid, she better smile when the pictures are taken.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Dual Credit
The Teenager is now in eleventh grade. I'm finding it challenging to work that out in my mind; on the first day of school, I kept thinking back to when the kids were small, headed off to kindergarten with unsure smiles and cartoon-character lunchboxes. I keep having to repeat this to myself: my daughter is a junior in high school.
This year, she signed up for a dual credit class, meaning that she will get both high school and college credit for the course. I had some questions about logistics, so I was on the college website reading the dual credit section, and I came across this paragraph:
Encourage them to establish open communication with their instructors. If they are experiencing challenges in a course, they will need to communicate this to their instructor. Do not contact instructors on their behalf. (Their italics, not mine).
I'm completely fine with this. I can't imagine any circumstances in which I would want to contact her dual credit course instructor. The kid is on her own. Those are her grades, not mine. I already graduated from college.
Oh, wait a minute...suppose she's sick? Should I e-mail the instructor and tell him or her? Or what if she gets home from an away marching band show (aka the football game) at midnight and falls asleep at the dining room table and doesn't finish her assignments? Is it okay to e-mail the instructor then? (I can hear the Grandpa of No's response in my head: no, because proper prior planning prevents poor performance). I'm her mom, you know? That's what I do! I don't intervene unless I do need to intervene, and then watch out because I'm coming in with the feared Mom Ninja moves!
But...it says "do not contact instructors on their behalf". It's even emphasized by putting it in italics. Obviously, they mean it.
This is one of the challenges of parenting teenagers: letting them handle their own business, and teaching them that their mistakes are theirs to own, not yours. This class is clearly her business. Her success depends on her, not me. That's a hard statement to make when it seems like every thing the kids do- good or bad- is considered a reflection on the mother's parenting ability. The catch-22 of parenting in the 21st century is this: sometimes kids need to learn from their mistakes, but if you are a good parent (read: mother), they won't make mistakes in the first place.
Last year, after some parental angst, we decided to let the Son of Never Stops Eating start walking to school. His school is only a few blocks from our house. He's been walking to the nearby park for years, with supervision, and he knows all the rules: wait for the walking man on the crosswalk sign, watch out for cars, don't believe offers of free candy. He was riding a school bus, but he didn't like it. The bus was too loud and some of the other kids were annoying.
If you walk, I told him, you have to go to school. Not the donut shop, not the convenience store, not the park. You have to go to the school.
He looked offended. Mom, I know what to do! he said.
If you screw up, you're back on the bus, I threatened. Don't think I won't do it.
He rolled his eyes and repeated, Mom! I know what to do!
It turned out that he did, in fact, know what to do. He got to school fine the next day, and the day after that. He's still walking to school.
Do I worry that something will happen to him? Oh, you betcha. But I worry more about what will happen if he doesn't learn how to do things on his own.
It is hard sometimes to not jump right in and fix their problems, or wrap them up in bubble wrap, or keep them under constant surveillance. I have to resist the urge to make the phone call or write the e-mail. However, I also don't want to be the mother who goes with her grown child when she has her first job interview. I've heard that this happens. I'm going to cross my fingers, not call any instructors, and trust that they both do, indeed, know what to do.
This year, she signed up for a dual credit class, meaning that she will get both high school and college credit for the course. I had some questions about logistics, so I was on the college website reading the dual credit section, and I came across this paragraph:
Encourage them to establish open communication with their instructors. If they are experiencing challenges in a course, they will need to communicate this to their instructor. Do not contact instructors on their behalf. (Their italics, not mine).
I'm completely fine with this. I can't imagine any circumstances in which I would want to contact her dual credit course instructor. The kid is on her own. Those are her grades, not mine. I already graduated from college.
Oh, wait a minute...suppose she's sick? Should I e-mail the instructor and tell him or her? Or what if she gets home from an away marching band show (aka the football game) at midnight and falls asleep at the dining room table and doesn't finish her assignments? Is it okay to e-mail the instructor then? (I can hear the Grandpa of No's response in my head: no, because proper prior planning prevents poor performance). I'm her mom, you know? That's what I do! I don't intervene unless I do need to intervene, and then watch out because I'm coming in with the feared Mom Ninja moves!
But...it says "do not contact instructors on their behalf". It's even emphasized by putting it in italics. Obviously, they mean it.
This is one of the challenges of parenting teenagers: letting them handle their own business, and teaching them that their mistakes are theirs to own, not yours. This class is clearly her business. Her success depends on her, not me. That's a hard statement to make when it seems like every thing the kids do- good or bad- is considered a reflection on the mother's parenting ability. The catch-22 of parenting in the 21st century is this: sometimes kids need to learn from their mistakes, but if you are a good parent (read: mother), they won't make mistakes in the first place.
Last year, after some parental angst, we decided to let the Son of Never Stops Eating start walking to school. His school is only a few blocks from our house. He's been walking to the nearby park for years, with supervision, and he knows all the rules: wait for the walking man on the crosswalk sign, watch out for cars, don't believe offers of free candy. He was riding a school bus, but he didn't like it. The bus was too loud and some of the other kids were annoying.
If you walk, I told him, you have to go to school. Not the donut shop, not the convenience store, not the park. You have to go to the school.
He looked offended. Mom, I know what to do! he said.
If you screw up, you're back on the bus, I threatened. Don't think I won't do it.
He rolled his eyes and repeated, Mom! I know what to do!
It turned out that he did, in fact, know what to do. He got to school fine the next day, and the day after that. He's still walking to school.
Do I worry that something will happen to him? Oh, you betcha. But I worry more about what will happen if he doesn't learn how to do things on his own.
It is hard sometimes to not jump right in and fix their problems, or wrap them up in bubble wrap, or keep them under constant surveillance. I have to resist the urge to make the phone call or write the e-mail. However, I also don't want to be the mother who goes with her grown child when she has her first job interview. I've heard that this happens. I'm going to cross my fingers, not call any instructors, and trust that they both do, indeed, know what to do.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Marble Cube
Eons ago, when I was a college student, I had a part time gig in the university's writing lab as a writing tutor. Students would come to the lab for help with various writing tasks; some came because their English professor told them they had to go to the writing lab if they wanted to pass the class. Others came because they were motivated to seek help on their own.
The semester I graduated, I had a writing lab client who struggled with the written English language because it was not his first language. He had come to the United States as a college student, and he was learning as he went. One day, near the end of the semester, I was walking down the hallway of the English building, and I heard my name called. It was my foreign language student, holding a small square chunk of marble in his hands.
I want to give this to you, he told me. It's from my country. I want you to have it. You helped me so much. I won't forget.
It's a beautiful cube, with lovely brown and green layers. It's also very heavy; I could use it as a deadly weapon, if I needed to (and if I had halfway decent aim, which I don't). It's sitting on my desk at work, where it sometimes does duty as a paperweight and sometimes it just sits. Every time I look at it, I can hear that student's voice telling me, I want you to have this. It's from my country. It is part of me, and I want to give it to you.
We leave bits and pieces of ourselves behind when we have encounters with other people. Some are good, like my treasured chunk of marble. Some are not so good. Every time I walk down the corridors of my son's middle school, I hear the echoes of my own middle school years (which, for the record, sucked): Why are you wearing that? Who would want to be your friend? Don't you realize how stupid you are? Go away!
As the beginning of the school year approaches, not everyone is filled with excitement. Some students are heading back to school knowing that they're walking into a minefield they can't avoid. As adults and parents we decry bullies, expressing at every opportunity how appalled we are that bullying happens. Do something, we tell the school administration. How can you let that continue? Isn't there some program you can do? Zero tolerance!
But as adults, who should know better, what bits and pieces are we leaving around for the kids to pick up? When we complain to schools about bullying, maybe we should also be looking at how we talk about and treat other people. The message is often clear: we should be kind and respectful to each other, unless you are different from me in some way. In that case, it's open season. The gloves are coming off. It's especially obvious this year, with a particularly contentious election season. How often, especially as adult women and mothers, have we looked at another mother, judged her, found her wanting in some way, and made that judgment clear by our actions? Kids are astute little turkeys; they pick up on what we do as much as or even more than what we say to do.
What are we, as parents, showing our kids about relationships with others? As our young pupils head off to school this fall, what bits and pieces are they leaving with each other? What bits and pieces are we leaving with them?
The semester I graduated, I had a writing lab client who struggled with the written English language because it was not his first language. He had come to the United States as a college student, and he was learning as he went. One day, near the end of the semester, I was walking down the hallway of the English building, and I heard my name called. It was my foreign language student, holding a small square chunk of marble in his hands.
I want to give this to you, he told me. It's from my country. I want you to have it. You helped me so much. I won't forget.
It's a beautiful cube, with lovely brown and green layers. It's also very heavy; I could use it as a deadly weapon, if I needed to (and if I had halfway decent aim, which I don't). It's sitting on my desk at work, where it sometimes does duty as a paperweight and sometimes it just sits. Every time I look at it, I can hear that student's voice telling me, I want you to have this. It's from my country. It is part of me, and I want to give it to you.
We leave bits and pieces of ourselves behind when we have encounters with other people. Some are good, like my treasured chunk of marble. Some are not so good. Every time I walk down the corridors of my son's middle school, I hear the echoes of my own middle school years (which, for the record, sucked): Why are you wearing that? Who would want to be your friend? Don't you realize how stupid you are? Go away!
As the beginning of the school year approaches, not everyone is filled with excitement. Some students are heading back to school knowing that they're walking into a minefield they can't avoid. As adults and parents we decry bullies, expressing at every opportunity how appalled we are that bullying happens. Do something, we tell the school administration. How can you let that continue? Isn't there some program you can do? Zero tolerance!
But as adults, who should know better, what bits and pieces are we leaving around for the kids to pick up? When we complain to schools about bullying, maybe we should also be looking at how we talk about and treat other people. The message is often clear: we should be kind and respectful to each other, unless you are different from me in some way. In that case, it's open season. The gloves are coming off. It's especially obvious this year, with a particularly contentious election season. How often, especially as adult women and mothers, have we looked at another mother, judged her, found her wanting in some way, and made that judgment clear by our actions? Kids are astute little turkeys; they pick up on what we do as much as or even more than what we say to do.
What are we, as parents, showing our kids about relationships with others? As our young pupils head off to school this fall, what bits and pieces are they leaving with each other? What bits and pieces are we leaving with them?
Monday, August 15, 2016
Pay Attention, Kids
Oh, the groaning! Oh, the moaning! Oh, the suffering!
No, that's not me getting out of bed in the mornings- that's my offspring, getting ready to go back to school. Oh, the agony! Can you see the eye rolling? I know, it's so hard to get back into the routine after being off all summer.
For the beginning of the school year, I have some Mom advice for all the young scholars headed back into the hallowed halls of learning. That advice is this: Pay attention. You might actually need this information someday.
When I was a student myself, I used to complain endlessly about all this useless knowledge that was being forced into my brain. This was information that I would probably never use again; it was taking up valuable brain space that could better be used for storing Duran Duran lyrics. All this school stuff was just some busy work The Man and his teacher minions were forcing me to learn because they liked to torture teenagers and make our lives a living hell. I mean, geometry? Seriously? Who would ever need to be able to measure the area of a trapezoid? Who cares? Gag me with a spoon! (this was the 80's).
Several years ago, I volunteered to go on a temporary work assignment after a hurricane. I was placed on a team that was coordinating the installation of temporary tarps on damaged roofs. The first day, I went out with a supervisor, who showed me how to measure a roof and draw it on the work order for the tarp installers. After my sketching lesson was complete, the supervisor asked if I had any other concerns. How do I know how to estimate how much tarp they need? I asked.
How good are you at geometry? he asked. All you do is look at the geometric shapes of the roof and calculate the area. You can do that, right?
It didn't seem like a good time to tell him that I blew off geometry in high school; I spent an hour in the hotel business center that night on the internet reviewing geometry worksheets and wishing I'd paid just a bit more attention in geometry class. I called the Grandpa of No, who just laughed and told me that he'd told me so way back when I was in high school (he had, several times).
I remember doing a lot of doodling on my notebooks in civics class. After all, who really ever needs to know how to amend the Constitution of the United States?
I liked English class and I was good at writing papers, but I was never really sure what the point was when we were asked to write essays comparing Romeo and Juliet to West Side Story, or research papers considering the question "What were some of the social issues raised by Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure?" Like, whatever, who cares about late 19th century England? Now I realize the real point was to develop some critical thinking skills as well as some literary knowledge, but it just seemed like make-work back then. (Mom of No side note: I'm still not a Thomas Hardy fan; just too depressing).
So listen up, scholars, as you head off to school- you're being offered a free education provided by knowledgeable teachers who want you to learn the material so that when you become an adult, you can be a productive and active member of society. The knowledge and thinking skills you learn in school will serve you well in many ways. You may not use everything you learn, but you also may not realize you're going to use much of what's on offer in one way or another. Take advantage of it now. It will be worth it.
No, that's not me getting out of bed in the mornings- that's my offspring, getting ready to go back to school. Oh, the agony! Can you see the eye rolling? I know, it's so hard to get back into the routine after being off all summer.
For the beginning of the school year, I have some Mom advice for all the young scholars headed back into the hallowed halls of learning. That advice is this: Pay attention. You might actually need this information someday.
When I was a student myself, I used to complain endlessly about all this useless knowledge that was being forced into my brain. This was information that I would probably never use again; it was taking up valuable brain space that could better be used for storing Duran Duran lyrics. All this school stuff was just some busy work The Man and his teacher minions were forcing me to learn because they liked to torture teenagers and make our lives a living hell. I mean, geometry? Seriously? Who would ever need to be able to measure the area of a trapezoid? Who cares? Gag me with a spoon! (this was the 80's).
Several years ago, I volunteered to go on a temporary work assignment after a hurricane. I was placed on a team that was coordinating the installation of temporary tarps on damaged roofs. The first day, I went out with a supervisor, who showed me how to measure a roof and draw it on the work order for the tarp installers. After my sketching lesson was complete, the supervisor asked if I had any other concerns. How do I know how to estimate how much tarp they need? I asked.
How good are you at geometry? he asked. All you do is look at the geometric shapes of the roof and calculate the area. You can do that, right?
It didn't seem like a good time to tell him that I blew off geometry in high school; I spent an hour in the hotel business center that night on the internet reviewing geometry worksheets and wishing I'd paid just a bit more attention in geometry class. I called the Grandpa of No, who just laughed and told me that he'd told me so way back when I was in high school (he had, several times).
I remember doing a lot of doodling on my notebooks in civics class. After all, who really ever needs to know how to amend the Constitution of the United States?
I liked English class and I was good at writing papers, but I was never really sure what the point was when we were asked to write essays comparing Romeo and Juliet to West Side Story, or research papers considering the question "What were some of the social issues raised by Thomas Hardy's Jude the Obscure?" Like, whatever, who cares about late 19th century England? Now I realize the real point was to develop some critical thinking skills as well as some literary knowledge, but it just seemed like make-work back then. (Mom of No side note: I'm still not a Thomas Hardy fan; just too depressing).
So listen up, scholars, as you head off to school- you're being offered a free education provided by knowledgeable teachers who want you to learn the material so that when you become an adult, you can be a productive and active member of society. The knowledge and thinking skills you learn in school will serve you well in many ways. You may not use everything you learn, but you also may not realize you're going to use much of what's on offer in one way or another. Take advantage of it now. It will be worth it.
Thursday, August 11, 2016
School Supplies are Evil
The other day, I had to make a Target run to pick up a prescription and a few odds and ends. The Son of Never Stops Eating, whose love for Target is subordinate only to his love for swimming and Legos, immediately put on his Crocs and jumped in the car.
I'm going to go look at school supplies, I told him when we arrived. I'm not going to buy anything. I just want to see what they have. He looked at me in that sullen way that only a teenager can: all six feet of him hunched down in resignation, his brown eyes staring sulkily at me, and his mouth forming a pout.
Mom, he said, with a deep sigh, no kids want school supplies. School supplies are boring. I'm going to go look at the Legos. I know, I know, you're not buying anything, you don't have to say it. He speed-walked away from me towards his beloved plastic bricks, making his escape before I could haul him off to the wicked world of the Back-to-School aisle.
I walked through the displays of folders and pencil cases, reminiscing about the days when the kids were young and school supplies were exciting. When the Teenager went off to kindergarten, school supplies were an adventure filled with anticipation. New crayons, markers, and paper were raw materials for the fantastic art she was going to bring home. A lunchbox with a favored cartoon character on it was her heart's desire come true. Seventy page spiral bound notebooks for ten cents- who doesn't need to stock up on those?
You should just buy the PTA wrap pack, a friend of mine said. It's so much easier.
Ahhh, but the experience of holding that fresh box of crayons, untouched by young hands, so full of possibilities. No wrap pack could possibly match that feeling. At least not for the year my oldest started kindergarten, when August was a new developmental milestone met: The School Years Begin! Once the Teenager started first grade, I began to recognize the value of the PTA wrap pack. The crayons were easy to find; the odd sized manila paper, not so much. Just take my money, please.
Then adolescent hormones hit our household like a wrecking ball colliding with a building scheduled for demolition. Instead of crayons and markers and cute little pencil boxes, it was mechanical pencils and college ruled spiral bound notebooks with 5 sections. It was conversations like this:
Me: So, what do you need for school?
Kid: I dunno.
Me: Haircut? New clothes? School supplies?
Kid: Whatever.
Me: Do your school shoes even still fit?
Kid: (eyeroll) How would I know? I don't even know where they are.
I finished my errands and went to retrieve the Son of Never Stops Eating. He cast one last longing glimpse at his newest heart's desire and followed me to the checkout line.
Did you find everything you needed? the cashier asked. Do you have your school supplies yet? Are you ready to go back?
My son stared at her, and shook his head. Kids do NOT want school supplies, he said emphatically. School supplies are evil!
So, parents of kindergartners just starting out, enjoy the time when school supplies are exciting, because the shine wears off. As for me, I know that in two years, I'll likely be doing the biggest school supply shopping trip of all time when the Teenager heads off to college. For now, I'll be checking a certain backpack to make sure it contains notebooks and pens, and not loose Lego pieces.
I'm going to go look at school supplies, I told him when we arrived. I'm not going to buy anything. I just want to see what they have. He looked at me in that sullen way that only a teenager can: all six feet of him hunched down in resignation, his brown eyes staring sulkily at me, and his mouth forming a pout.
Mom, he said, with a deep sigh, no kids want school supplies. School supplies are boring. I'm going to go look at the Legos. I know, I know, you're not buying anything, you don't have to say it. He speed-walked away from me towards his beloved plastic bricks, making his escape before I could haul him off to the wicked world of the Back-to-School aisle.
I walked through the displays of folders and pencil cases, reminiscing about the days when the kids were young and school supplies were exciting. When the Teenager went off to kindergarten, school supplies were an adventure filled with anticipation. New crayons, markers, and paper were raw materials for the fantastic art she was going to bring home. A lunchbox with a favored cartoon character on it was her heart's desire come true. Seventy page spiral bound notebooks for ten cents- who doesn't need to stock up on those?
You should just buy the PTA wrap pack, a friend of mine said. It's so much easier.
Ahhh, but the experience of holding that fresh box of crayons, untouched by young hands, so full of possibilities. No wrap pack could possibly match that feeling. At least not for the year my oldest started kindergarten, when August was a new developmental milestone met: The School Years Begin! Once the Teenager started first grade, I began to recognize the value of the PTA wrap pack. The crayons were easy to find; the odd sized manila paper, not so much. Just take my money, please.
Then adolescent hormones hit our household like a wrecking ball colliding with a building scheduled for demolition. Instead of crayons and markers and cute little pencil boxes, it was mechanical pencils and college ruled spiral bound notebooks with 5 sections. It was conversations like this:
Me: So, what do you need for school?
Kid: I dunno.
Me: Haircut? New clothes? School supplies?
Kid: Whatever.
Me: Do your school shoes even still fit?
Kid: (eyeroll) How would I know? I don't even know where they are.
I finished my errands and went to retrieve the Son of Never Stops Eating. He cast one last longing glimpse at his newest heart's desire and followed me to the checkout line.
Did you find everything you needed? the cashier asked. Do you have your school supplies yet? Are you ready to go back?
My son stared at her, and shook his head. Kids do NOT want school supplies, he said emphatically. School supplies are evil!
So, parents of kindergartners just starting out, enjoy the time when school supplies are exciting, because the shine wears off. As for me, I know that in two years, I'll likely be doing the biggest school supply shopping trip of all time when the Teenager heads off to college. For now, I'll be checking a certain backpack to make sure it contains notebooks and pens, and not loose Lego pieces.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Car Chat
This is one indisputable truth of parenting: kids live to ask the most difficult questions while you are operating a motor vehicle. They all have some innate kid sense that tells them, Look! Mom is attempting to navigate a construction zone while trying to avoid getting sideswiped by that 18-wheeler! Now is the perfect time to ask a really difficult question!
Both of my kids decided to ask The Question while sitting in the back seat of my car. You know the one I am talking about. It goes like this:
Kid: Mom, where do babies come from?
Mom: From the hospital, sweetheart.
Kid: MOM! I know that! Before the hospital? How do they get to the hospital?
Mom: Babies come from inside their mother.
Kid: But Mom, how do the babies get INSIDE their mother?
Mom: Oh, thank God! I think I'm getting pulled over by a state trooper! A reprieve!
The other day, I was with the Son of Never Stops Eating, running errands after work. He was talking about his current two loves, The Loud House and his latest heart's desire addition to his Lego collection. I was practicing good defensive driving skills by focusing on other drivers and road conditions and not really paying attention to him, when suddenly he asks me, Mom, am I disabled?
I had no idea he even knew that word. I've been wondering when and how I should talk to him about his autism. He's made comments throughout the years that tell me he knows that he's different from other people. At the same time, he's rarely expressed strong emotions about those differences.
The concept of disability and the diagnosis of autism both have many strong feelings and philosophies attached to them, and that makes what seems like a simple question really hard to answer. I decided to employ a strategic mom ninja move that I learned from the Grandma of No (listen up, young mothers- hot parenting tip coming your way!) which is called "turn the question back on them". Mom, where do babies come from? Well, sweetheart, where do YOU think babies come from? See how that works?
What do you think disability means? I asked him. It means there's something wrong with you, he told me. Do you think there's something wrong with you, I asked him. Sometimes I think my brain is broken, he responded. I'm afraid people are going to bully me. I don't want people to make fun of me.
Inside my own brain, I was debating how complicated to make this. He does have a documented disability. But I don't think that his brain is broken- his brain works in a different way than my brain does, or the Teenager's brain, but it's not broken. How do you convey to a young teen with autism that you don't perceive him as broken but wonderfully different, and at the same time acknowledge that his life will likely contain challenges that may be difficult to overcome because of those differences? How do you do this while driving a car?
Your brain isn't broken, I told him, as I pulled into a parking space and we walked into the store. It just works in a different way, and that's not a bad thing. He smiled at me briefly, and then asked the store clerk if she had ever seen The Loud House- ten sisters and one bro all under one roof!
I know that this is a conversation that has just started with him- the beginning of many conversations, as he moves from adolescence to adulthood and starts asking why his life is on a different trajectory than his sister's or some of his friends. The answers aren't going to come easy, and I'm sure many of them will be discussed in the car.
Both of my kids decided to ask The Question while sitting in the back seat of my car. You know the one I am talking about. It goes like this:
Kid: Mom, where do babies come from?
Mom: From the hospital, sweetheart.
Kid: MOM! I know that! Before the hospital? How do they get to the hospital?
Mom: Babies come from inside their mother.
Kid: But Mom, how do the babies get INSIDE their mother?
Mom: Oh, thank God! I think I'm getting pulled over by a state trooper! A reprieve!
The other day, I was with the Son of Never Stops Eating, running errands after work. He was talking about his current two loves, The Loud House and his latest heart's desire addition to his Lego collection. I was practicing good defensive driving skills by focusing on other drivers and road conditions and not really paying attention to him, when suddenly he asks me, Mom, am I disabled?
I had no idea he even knew that word. I've been wondering when and how I should talk to him about his autism. He's made comments throughout the years that tell me he knows that he's different from other people. At the same time, he's rarely expressed strong emotions about those differences.
The concept of disability and the diagnosis of autism both have many strong feelings and philosophies attached to them, and that makes what seems like a simple question really hard to answer. I decided to employ a strategic mom ninja move that I learned from the Grandma of No (listen up, young mothers- hot parenting tip coming your way!) which is called "turn the question back on them". Mom, where do babies come from? Well, sweetheart, where do YOU think babies come from? See how that works?
What do you think disability means? I asked him. It means there's something wrong with you, he told me. Do you think there's something wrong with you, I asked him. Sometimes I think my brain is broken, he responded. I'm afraid people are going to bully me. I don't want people to make fun of me.
Inside my own brain, I was debating how complicated to make this. He does have a documented disability. But I don't think that his brain is broken- his brain works in a different way than my brain does, or the Teenager's brain, but it's not broken. How do you convey to a young teen with autism that you don't perceive him as broken but wonderfully different, and at the same time acknowledge that his life will likely contain challenges that may be difficult to overcome because of those differences? How do you do this while driving a car?
Your brain isn't broken, I told him, as I pulled into a parking space and we walked into the store. It just works in a different way, and that's not a bad thing. He smiled at me briefly, and then asked the store clerk if she had ever seen The Loud House- ten sisters and one bro all under one roof!
I know that this is a conversation that has just started with him- the beginning of many conversations, as he moves from adolescence to adulthood and starts asking why his life is on a different trajectory than his sister's or some of his friends. The answers aren't going to come easy, and I'm sure many of them will be discussed in the car.
Thursday, August 4, 2016
Sweet Sixteen
It's almost inevitable that when a group of mothers get together, eventually they start swapping birth stories. Here's one of mine. Don't worry, I'm not going to talk about anything like the placenta or cervical dilation.
Sixteen years ago, I presented myself at the triage nurse's desk at the local hospital. It was late at night, and in our "Prepared Childbirth" class we'd been informed that if it was after hours, we should go to the ER and tell the nurse that we needed to go to Labor and Delivery. So I barged ahead of everyone else in line at the ER to inform the annoyed nurse that it felt like I had a twenty pound octopus with a head made out of cement trying to claw its way out of my uterus and I wanted drugs and I wanted them IMMEDIATELY.
She sighed heavily and asked me if this was my first baby. My only baby, I told her, because there was no way on God's green Earth that I was EVER doing this again. You're probably going to be in labor awhile, she said. Get in line. At that moment, a massive contraction hit and I started screaming while holding onto the arm of the unfortunate man behind me. The triage nurse got on the phone and probably said something like "CODE RED! We have a demonically possessed pregnant woman in labor down here who is scaring all the other patients; can you come get her STAT!", and a labor/delivery nurse showed up shortly after to take me off to my epidural.
At least, that's how I remember how it went down. My recollection of that entire night is a little foggy.
That octopus with the cement head, which actually turned out to be an adorable little baby girl, is now sweet sixteen. Because she's a band kid, and it's August, she gets to spend her entire birthday at band camp. Except for a brief time in the afternoon where she will come home, eat lunch and probably take a nap, she will be celebrating her birthday by playing a clarinet in the broiling heat while marching. Because she's a band kid, she seems completely fine with this.
Turning sixteen means admittance into the almost-adult world; you can get a driver's license and a part-time job at the movie theater or the grocery store, and people really start wanting you to make decisions about what you're going to do after high school, but your parents still have to sign your permission forms for band trips and feed you. When I turned sixteen, I was allowed to start dating. The boys weren't exactly lining up at the front door, so I just kept on doing what I had been doing at fifteen, which was reading stacks of science fiction books and rolling my eyes at everything the Grandparents of No said.
As a parent, I find myself looking at the sixteen-year old thinking, "How did that happen?" and "Crap, I only have two more years to finish my mom job (although parents of grown kids tell me that the mom job is never actually done) before I cut her loose and reclaim her bedroom for my personal use." I feel like there is all this advice I haven't passed on yet and all these skills I need to teach and all these experiences I need to provide and I haven't done it yet and the clock is ticking, ticking, ticking!
So here it goes, the mom version of speed dating, which is speed advice giving: Ramen noodles are not a complete meal. Don't put anything red in a white wash. If you don't want to go out with some guy, "no" is a sufficient answer; you don't owe him an explanation. Yes, you have to have car insurance. When you get a job, save your money. Write thank-you notes. Be responsible for your stuff. If you find a bra that fits, buy six of them. Credit cards are not free money. Don't sign anything without reading it first. If you don't understand what it says, ask. If you aren't sure, don't buy it.
Sixteen brings some ambivalent feelings about parenthood. I can't wait for them to grow up so I can move my books and animal skull collection out of the dining room and into a newly spare bedroom. At the same time, I don't want them to grow up and leave- or at least, I want the process to slow down. How is it that I have a teenager old enough to drive and pay FICA taxes, when I just gave birth to her yesterday? I wasn't prepared for that in the Prepared Childbirth class.
Happy sweet sixteen, kid. I am always proud of you.
Sixteen years ago, I presented myself at the triage nurse's desk at the local hospital. It was late at night, and in our "Prepared Childbirth" class we'd been informed that if it was after hours, we should go to the ER and tell the nurse that we needed to go to Labor and Delivery. So I barged ahead of everyone else in line at the ER to inform the annoyed nurse that it felt like I had a twenty pound octopus with a head made out of cement trying to claw its way out of my uterus and I wanted drugs and I wanted them IMMEDIATELY.
She sighed heavily and asked me if this was my first baby. My only baby, I told her, because there was no way on God's green Earth that I was EVER doing this again. You're probably going to be in labor awhile, she said. Get in line. At that moment, a massive contraction hit and I started screaming while holding onto the arm of the unfortunate man behind me. The triage nurse got on the phone and probably said something like "CODE RED! We have a demonically possessed pregnant woman in labor down here who is scaring all the other patients; can you come get her STAT!", and a labor/delivery nurse showed up shortly after to take me off to my epidural.
At least, that's how I remember how it went down. My recollection of that entire night is a little foggy.
That octopus with the cement head, which actually turned out to be an adorable little baby girl, is now sweet sixteen. Because she's a band kid, and it's August, she gets to spend her entire birthday at band camp. Except for a brief time in the afternoon where she will come home, eat lunch and probably take a nap, she will be celebrating her birthday by playing a clarinet in the broiling heat while marching. Because she's a band kid, she seems completely fine with this.
Turning sixteen means admittance into the almost-adult world; you can get a driver's license and a part-time job at the movie theater or the grocery store, and people really start wanting you to make decisions about what you're going to do after high school, but your parents still have to sign your permission forms for band trips and feed you. When I turned sixteen, I was allowed to start dating. The boys weren't exactly lining up at the front door, so I just kept on doing what I had been doing at fifteen, which was reading stacks of science fiction books and rolling my eyes at everything the Grandparents of No said.
As a parent, I find myself looking at the sixteen-year old thinking, "How did that happen?" and "Crap, I only have two more years to finish my mom job (although parents of grown kids tell me that the mom job is never actually done) before I cut her loose and reclaim her bedroom for my personal use." I feel like there is all this advice I haven't passed on yet and all these skills I need to teach and all these experiences I need to provide and I haven't done it yet and the clock is ticking, ticking, ticking!
So here it goes, the mom version of speed dating, which is speed advice giving: Ramen noodles are not a complete meal. Don't put anything red in a white wash. If you don't want to go out with some guy, "no" is a sufficient answer; you don't owe him an explanation. Yes, you have to have car insurance. When you get a job, save your money. Write thank-you notes. Be responsible for your stuff. If you find a bra that fits, buy six of them. Credit cards are not free money. Don't sign anything without reading it first. If you don't understand what it says, ask. If you aren't sure, don't buy it.
Sixteen brings some ambivalent feelings about parenthood. I can't wait for them to grow up so I can move my books and animal skull collection out of the dining room and into a newly spare bedroom. At the same time, I don't want them to grow up and leave- or at least, I want the process to slow down. How is it that I have a teenager old enough to drive and pay FICA taxes, when I just gave birth to her yesterday? I wasn't prepared for that in the Prepared Childbirth class.
Happy sweet sixteen, kid. I am always proud of you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)