ON: BOYS TO MEN -- ADOLESCENCE

(This is my longest, and commensurately, most painstaking blog to date.  Experts proliferate on this subject, so my little blog is not meant to minimize, sound- bite, or act like we broke the code on adolescent challenges. I am painfully aware that the current calm we are experiencing could surely be the one before the storm, or we will wake up tomorrow and start the whole process all over again. This blog is meant to share my experience on  the transition of our sons  from boys . . .  to men.)

Survey 100 parents of adolescent children, and with rare exception we all say the same thing:  "Overnight, our sweet child morphed into someone we didn't recognize-- literally and figuratively".  In our case, adolescence arrived loudly, largely, and with disproportionately greater challenges to one twin son over the other.  And while I can't say it blind-sided us, I realize we were sailing along, feeling almost cocky about all this fuss over raising teenagers. . .  we actually did think it was safe to go back in the water. . .

L to R, Eddie, Jake and Dad -- June 2013 aboard the Anna Marie

First, they got bigger really suddenly.  They had to bend down for me to kiss the top of their head and they were now getting stuff down for me off the top shelf. Their voices didn't just change; they were unrecognizable.  They didn't just outgrow their clothes one size.   One brother's hand-me-downs are still the others, because there were 4 sizes between them,  but we could not have imagined Dad's 34 and men's L would now become hand-me-downs to 13-year old Jake. And after this season's basketball game, closed up in the truck with them, I became acutely aware of just how bad they could smell. 

My name went from Mommy, Mommy, Mommy to "Goooooooodddddddd Mooooommmmm" (the rest of that sentence, even if it is only playing in their head, is " you are sooo stupid").
"Yes ma'am" was replaced with "yeah" "I know", and "uh-huh".
Eye rolling began making a sound.
They made that flapping with their hands when they didn't think I could see them that was probably not the chicken dance.
"Come on, are you coming?" was replaced with  "you don't need to come in, just drop me" and "no need to volunteer at school anymore, you've done enough".  
And the days of wanting me to watch their every move (Mommy, watch me) were replaced with demands to STOP LOOKING at them.  

And while the first time they say "NO!" when they are babies makes you laugh, the first time they try it out as teenagers makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. 

  I am the product of good therapy; not good parenting.  I am introspective to a fault and feel more insecure about motherhood than anything for which I signed on. Typically,  I worry that I was too old to have children, but I am strangely consoled by the fact that a menopausal mother does have the distinct advantage of understanding what it means to have your body hijacked by hormones -- AND --although I can't outrun them; I can outsmart them.

Either it really does take a village, or misery just loves company, but I feel better that one of their best friends, whose parents are young, beautiful cover girl and GQ models respectively, are also told by their sons to drop them and disappear.  I don't trust parents who deny that, on occasion, they want to strangle their teenagers anymore than I trust couples who say they don't fight.  Or as my friend Andy says when she calls to commiserate, "if you are going to tell me today that either of your children is perfect, I don't want to talk to you"! 

Factor in their Dad, the incredible Steve -- now 80 years young, who, by his standards, "successfully" raised three other sons.  They are all college graduates, one Air Force Col. who won Top Gun in the F16 and one Air Force Captain.  Two airline captains like him, and one successful businessman.  All with beautiful wives, beautiful kids. . . .  No fair, we forget pain, re-write history, he already knows how this turns out, AND  he is a guy. Not to mention, we measure success differently. I do envy that Steve never wonders if he is a good parent, doesn't want to be their friend, and doesn't care what they think of him.  He loves Al Capp's advice that you gotta raise teenage boys with plenty of what they crave - VIOLENCE.  A former Navy fighter pilot and commercial Airline Captain, he gave the other 3 roots; then wings, literally.   Steve and I approach things so differently that when I once sat the boys down to analyze why they did something unacceptable, one of them asked "Mom, could Dad just hit us?"

When the boys were 4 1/2 , we sold our home and cruised on our boat for 9 months while I home-schooled them through kindergarten.  Maybe because success was so easily measured in those early years, or life really was that simple when you live on a 36-foot Pearson, but it seemed to flow and unfold.  I barely noticed the transition from little boys to young men.  Adolescence? Not so much. 

What is it they say? The first step is admitting you have a problem?  

1. Jake's moodiness and anger began subtly translating into changes in behavior, and not the kind you could measure like bad grades or getting in trouble -- well there was some of that, but always seemingly innocuous. It wasn't clear enough to identify, or it was "on the verge" of the thing.  You tell yourself to pick your battles and worry about micro managing.  But like the Supreme Court justice said about pornography that he couldn't define, but he knew it when he saw it, we knew Jake was changing and we didn't like it.  And although he wanted to be left alone, I knew the further we let him get away from us; the harder it would be to get him back.  ONE of THE THINGS --from weight gain to debt to the time that passes between family and friends who stop speaking is that there is that point of no return, where the time and space become the thing that is insurmountable; not the thing itself.  Or to put it another way: pay on one end or pay on the other -- nip it in the bud!  

 Every family has a rhythm, a dance, a unique way in which they carry on.  One of the foundations of ours is family meetings at meal time.  We eat at the table, and everything goes on the table.  We talked about the changes that had come to our family and the need to follow the advice of the woman who lives in the GPS --- RE-CALCULATE.  I try to give everyone a voice, and when I'm finished, Steve tells them he'll let them know when this becomes a democracy.  Aside from the fact that I'm not changing Steve,  there is security in knowing "Dad's got this" when we all fall on our faces trying.   A subject for another blog, but I always say I'd jump from a burning building if Steve said "JUMP", and I'd be absolutely certain he would catch me. I do know he's got this. 

We start with the physical:

The pediatrician, dermatologist, chiropractor and dentist are all men that my son respects and likes.  The dermatologist is the only one who hasn't known him since birth and when he learned that this 13-year old boy wore a size 13 shoe, he said: "Dude, you wear the same size shoes as me", and when he grinned that old Jakey grin, I felt a little stab in my heart for how long it had been since we'd seen that face. In partnership with Jake, getting him to hold up his end, this guy really cleared up his acne which was apparently no small piece of the puzzle.  We were reassured he didn't need braces I can't say we weren't grateful to the dentist who feels that unless it is critical at this stage, no sense adding this burden to the mix.  We ruled out mono and re-aligned him, but there were limitations:  He actually doesn't feel good and he is tired.  He has been the tallest kid in his grade each year that wasn't left back.  He has growing pains and they hurt. We go over his wardrobe from top to bottom, we adjust his diet and hygiene and sleep schedule - we figure out what help he may need with studying and homework and projects. We go through the motions of doing some of this with his brother, but it complicates matters that Eddie is either delayed in this process or like everything so far, it will simply come easier for him.  

If realizing you have a problem is the first step, deciding what you want the result to be is the second.  Success not only becomes very difficult to define, but it is a moving target.  I think I started with the physical because victory was so easily measured.   His face clears up, he likes his clothes, he gets more rest, he feels better on the vitamins, diet and exercise regime and he aces his exams. But this is only a part of the puzzle, and not even the hard part and by the way, I am now exhausted (asking myself how a working Mother or one who can't devote themselves full time does this).  Then one morning he goes back to kissing me goodbye before he gets on the school bus and mumbles under his breath that he loves me. I am rejuvenated -- bring it. 

The best advice anyone gave me so far came from the pediatrician who reminded me that when you can't stand teenagers;  they probably can't stand themselves.  They shrug their shoulders because they really don't know the answer, and they really do want you to stop talking so they can escape into a world of noise cancelling headsets where they really can't hear you.   Well I'd like that too if everyone would just do what I say and what they are supposed to be doing.  Don't they think Steve and I would rather be sailing . . . ALONE?! I never considered a child to have good manners if the only way they said please, thank you and yes ma'am was in Pavlovian response to a parent saying "now what do you say?" I figured out when they were 4 that they either got this or they don't, and I realize they have manners for the same reason Jake participated in his acne cure -- we may have introduced them to it, but it is now their idea and they choose it as part of their makeup. The same independence that drives them to say no as a toddler, motivates them to find where we end and they begin. So it becomes clear that if only they would do what I want them to do and it was their idea, wouldn't life be grand?  Ask me how that is working out for me?  

Well, let's see:  I have the higher anxiety in personal hygiene (except showers, they like to shower -- oh don't even go there, I'm sure you're right), clean rooms, laundry, chores, homework -- according to them, I nag them about everything but basketball and xbox.  And oh yes, the dog.  They love taking care of Zuzu (sure, they can tell when she smells!) and these pictures pretty much sum up the difference in how they do that. Subject for another blog is how wrong I was about getting them an animal.

Jake walking Zuzu around the circle

Nothing teaches you like twins how little control you have -- you do everything the same, but they are completely opposite. Steve always says parents take too much credit and too much blame.  I wonder that their paths  are predetermined by past lives and karma (including mine) so it doesn't matter what I do.  So that's the question, isn't it?    When do you guide; when do you hit them over the head?  It is so easy to say let them fail or leave them alone, they'll figure it out, and I do know they "turn out" fine in the end -- half the time I'm worried they are going to kill us in the process. And I'm not talking about the careers they will choose (although I seriously worry about the day Jake figures out he is probably not getting chosen by the NBA and Eddie figures out you actually can't get a job playing the xbox) -- I'm talking about the kind of people they will be -- What will make me say one day that we raised two boys -- "successfully"? 

The version where I look good is like when I'm pregnant and announce that I'll be happy with whatever I get, as long as they are healthy, when in reality I wanted a girl and I cried my eyes out when I found out I was having two boys.  I know exactly who I want them to be and how I measure "success" -- I even know what part of that is my ego and some false reflection on my parenting skills.   I want them to be A., B., C. and D. and of course, whoever they are, I will celebrate and love unconditionally -- is that true?

A.  I do want them to healthy - when you're young, you take health for granted, but at our age we are reaping the benefits of that adage:  If I'd have known I was going to live this long, I'd taken better care of myself.  ..  We're lucky to be living in such a time of awareness of health and this is an area in which we get high marks, or as they say -- snaps! 

B.  I want them to treat the outside of their bodies like the inside - have white teeth, clear skin and clean fingernails.  I'd like them to smell good,  or at least not this bad. 

C.  I know that measuring the success of a day by what we accomplish is my 'mishigas', just like consistency and predictability provides a false sense of security that I know whats coming and I can prepare for it.  I know I am kidding myself that when things look good; they are good, but a clean house with beds made and laundry done and dinner on makes me pretty happy.  Steve is as bad if not worse, and you know what? Aside from order providing much needed calm and avoiding the unnecessary stress of "where are my . . . has anyone seen my  . . ?" these are the parents they got.  Maybe they chose us - maybe we are their punishment.  You know what I tell them?  you aren't necessarily the kids we ordered at all times -- So this is it -- we're the neat and clean family, which means you are also --get over it.   Eddie recently complained "God Mom, we aren't yours and Dad's slaves you know - you could at least ask nicer", to which I replied "I do ask nice the first 10 times"!  I do not enjoy bitching at them.  I want them to be like the washing machine or the dishwasher -- put in some effort, then let there be a period of AUTO -- I don't enjoy hand washing.

D. And while this should probably be the first thing that comes to mind, but isn't,  I really do want them to be all that they can be -- explore, learn, challenge, try things on, discover their gifts -- 

All the while, still being children who laugh, love, and play. 

But if only had one wish, I'd trade it all for them to become Good Men, and I consider myself the poster child for Silverstein and Rashbaum's book on the subject (Courage to Raise Good Men). I want them to be kind and considerate, especially of those less fortunate than them.  I want them to leave things better than they found them.  I want them to be givers; not takers.  And if that isn't enough, since one of THE THINGS is that the measure of it all is what we do in the face of adversity -- (it's easy to be good when everything is going our way and there is enough of everything to go around and we feel good and everyone agrees )I want young men who will rise to the occasion when tested.

Every so often, in the middle of my disproportionate worrying, I get a reality check with something as subtle as one of their friends doing all this and failing school to something as obvious and profound as Sandy Hook.   The day of the shootings was a Friday when the boys normally bring home their gym clothes from the week and I don my version of a Hazmat suit of gloves, mask and can of Lysol spray to deal with them.  That evening, when I thought I couldn't cry anymore for these families,  I buried my face in their filthy, smelly clothes, knowing what each one of those parents wouldn't give for that sweet smell.  And for awhile, I keep things in perspective.  Then, for the same reason women have more than one child . . . I forget.  

I am resigned to the certainty that they will wind up on a therapist's couch one day, blaming me for everything.  So I keep a journal (with pictures) of my side of the story and remember Mark Twain's take on his father:   "When I was a boy of 14, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around.  But when I got to be 21, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in 7 years!"  I remember how shocked I was when my own father told me that when I was in my early twenties, I was a real pain in the ass.  His complete absence in my life from ages 7-17, by the way, combined with no brothers, exacerbates my inability to understand males in general. I make sure my journal also contains all the good stuff, including how this is the coolest thing I've done with my life so far -- being their Mother.  

I know the storms of adolescence will pass, but I think I worry that the "molding" time is lost, and they have taken on the final form, if not etched in stone.  I worry this is as good as it gets. And I read this again and remember I'm not molding at all

On Children

 Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

This is my daily meditation:  One part Buddha and the second truth: "rather than constantly struggling to get what you want, try to modify your warning" , one part AA (where I haven't been and probably need) - accept what you cannot change.  And when that fails, I wish my life away and covet the day they marry their Mother and some bossy bitch takes over for me.

On: Getting glad in the same pants you got mad in

LOVE is all there is.

LOVE and FEAR are the only two true emotions.

Given that one of THE THINGS is WE KNOW TRUTH WHEN WE HEAR IT, I knew those two things were true the first time I heard them. And while I don't mean to simplify things to the point of "can't we all just be happy and get along"; nor am I trying to replace your therapist (I myself being the product of good therapy), I do want to find a healthy and productive way to deal with the destructive part of anger that just doesn't serve me well.  As the prayer I probably should have learned by attending AA meetings but didn't, goes, I want to accept what I cannot change, change what I can, and know the difference.  Mostly, as  somebody's Mother and Grandmother said, I want to:

Get glad in the same pants I got mad in.

Lots of angry people these days, all with good reasons, to be sure.  It took me so long to finish this post because I needed to take my own advice and not be angry with anyone, or feel responsible for any one being angry with me.  You know that person who doesn't say sh*t if she has a mouthful?  You know that person who everybody loves and gets along with and never makes anyone feel threatened or insecure?  That's not me.  My sister Judy and I were flight attendants for United Airlines at the same time.  When someone realized we were sisters they would say: "Oh My God, (we spelled it out in those days), you're Annie's sister?!" Judy always said if they didn't follow that statement with "I just love her", or a similar expression of approval, she knew they didn't like me .  My sister and I knew I wasn't one of those people you didn't remember or about whom you had no opinion. I try to live life (with the greater responsibility that Jake and Eddie are learning what they live) without intentionally hurting anyone else.  I am not a mean girl and I don't need to put down others to make myself look good.  I'm trying to leave everyone and everything better than I found it and if I have a fault, it is that I am shocked to learn that not everyone wants me to do that.  I know that the more secure I am about my position on anything, the less likely I am to require that someone else believes it. 

I think we're all bumbling through life, figuring it out as we go along, hopefully doing better as we know better.  Nature, nurture, maybe even past lives and destiny all contributing to our journey, we all want to feel good about ourselves.  We want to be approved of and validated; unconditionally liked and loved --and never feel taken advantage of or used. We want to know that we are in control of our lives, (a myth in itself, another blog--and spoiler alert, we're not).  Each time we are "right", it adds to our strength, safety and security.  Anger, no matter what it is really representing, certainly provides the fight or flight response, as well as being a great teacher if we're willing to learn.   If nothing else, anger when  juxtaposed with the absence of it or one of it's other masqueraders, would probably never be the first choice.  Few of us strive to be pissed off, frustrated, jealous, fearful, and uncomfortable -- There are no classes in Happy Management, and people don't generally stroke out from being too pleased with themselves and their lives.

The joke in my household, a re-phrasing of "If Mama Ain't Happy . . ", is that if everyone just does exactly what I say all the time, no one makes me do anything I don't want to do, and I always get my way, we have perfect peace and harmony.  Obviously, no matter how  good that sounds in theory, in practice, it is no healthier than people of any belief only surrounding themselves with like-thinking others, then blindly following one person or set of rules.  Conversely, the idea that we can all get along with different beliefs and a different set of rules becomes complicated the minute a choice has to be made.  If only one of us can be in charge, who is it?  If there is only one of something left -- who gets it? If there isn't enough to go around -- how do we distribute it? and so on . . And no amount of therapy or life experience has been as good a teacher as raising twin boys.  With the unique perspective of children,  I see the profound difference in how males and females get angry and express that anger (thus the expression, he fights like a girl) and I can usually identify each emotion as either Love or some form of fear. 

When the boys were about two, Eddie saw me get really angry, Red Hot Angry, for the first time.  I still remember how it frightened him and he clearly told me he didn't like "Mean Mommy" and could I please send "Nice Mommy" back.  Now that he's 12, going on 40, he turns my own psychology on me and says "Mom, you are disproportionally angry about  that -- what is this really about"? Jake, more like his Dad, sans the eye rolling and "Goddddddd Mooom . . ." (stay tune for the blog about puberty a.k.a. just- shoot- me- now), will ask me to "chill".  My husband Steve, the secret ingredient in my recipe for solving anger, let's me yell and calm down, then is usually happy to take responsibility and help me move through my "process" if I'm angry with him.  If he gets angry with me, he goes out and fixes something or builds something or shoots something (fortunately it is not me), thus the expression, he fights like a man.

Conflict is easier for me than most people I know.  And while I choose my battles at this stage of life, I don't enjoy the anger process -- especially when somebody is angry with me.  Like ALL THINGS, there are only SO MANY THINGS, and the understanding and solutions for this one are pretty much a formula into which you plug your own variables.  For me, I know that my process is (1) prevention if I can, but when I can't, whether I've reacted or responded (difference in counting to 10, our mother's weren't wrong) (2) figuring out what made me so angry -- what was I feeling and (3) whether it is with the other person (preferable) or alone, I have to do what I have to do to feel that I was heard, that responsibility was taken, that apologies are made, that it won't happen again.  The first time Aunt Sandy heard one of the boys say "I know, I know, that was me, I own it, I'm an as*hole, I'm sorry and it won't happen again -- and this is why" -- she spit out her coffee, but think about the wisdom of that line, out of the mouths of babes. 

The first thing I know about my anger is how to prevent it.  When I clean my own house (literally and figuratively) and take care of my own needs, I am starting out LEVEL.   When I don't feel good, when I am over scheduled and therefore everything is piling up, when I am scarce on any level--time, energy, money, etc., I lose my patience and get angry. Also, familiarity really does breed contempt.  Steve has been reading to me from the newspaper every morning for 26 years, and I don't know at what year I stopped pretending it didn't bother me.   When I am at my best, up two hours before anyone and writing quietly and taking care of me first, I can pat him on the head, pretend to listen and say "that's nice dear" or even go so far as to listen.  Same thing with why we keep a clean and ordered house and insist on extra time in the morning before school -- all those angry "where are my . . . .." "hurry up, we're going to be late", all those angers are avoidable. (Okay, we also keep it clean and orderly so I can trick myself into feeling control over our lives, but another blog . .)

There is a big difference between ignorance and maliciousness.  I am absolutely famous for getting into trouble for telling the truth without a filter, but I RARELY MEAN to hurt or do harm to anyone.   If you sincerely did not mean something the way I took it -- I can get over it.    Whether you meant it or not, and you own it and you are sorry -- that HUGE AND POWERFUL STATEMENT -- THAT MOMENT OF POWER when one of you goes first and says I'm sorry -- if you are on the giving end, good for you -- if you are on the receiving end, I hope you can know how hard it is for the other person to do this and not make them suffer.  I know, you want them to BE SORRY, you want to know that you can trust them not to do it again, actually you do want them to suffer like they made you suffer -- whether or not you continue to associate with people who are good for you is another subject -- but the getting glad part -- saying you are sorry, shaking hands, kissing and making up -- this is the crucial stuff. 

But the main thing is to figure out your own process, and if takes a mediator, then do that.  What steps do you have to go through to get out the other side? 
A guy I dated in my late 20's, dumped me and moved his new girlfriend in while the bed was still warm.  In perfect contrast to our personalities, she replaced my red patio geraniums with her yellow daisies.  With liquid courage, my girlfriend and I climbed a ladder at 2am and poured malathion in the daisies, then watched from afar as sun rose and the daisies died  -- I was over him.  He was never giving me what I needed . . . it was a process.

UCLA offered a class in the late sixties called Foul and Fair Fighting, which falls into the category of "only so much information, we just keep recycling it".  After teaching the basic rules of Foul and Fair Fighting,  the professor chose the match ups, husband-wife, partners, best friends, and you were asked to re-enact your argument in front of a standing-room only auditorium.
1.  You could only fight about one issue at a time -- you couldn't bring up the other stuff you had been carrying around and you couldn't justify your own behavior by bringing in something they had done just as bad or worse.  ONE ISSUE AT A TIME.
2.  There could only be the two of you -- no ganging up or making your position stronger by adding how many other people were on your side, ESPECIALLY THE CHILDREN .
3. You consented to being taped and recorded, and when the professor yelled "feedback" and pointed to you, you had to repeat verbatim what the other person had just said.  No one ever got it right the first time.
4.   As the tape was played back on a large screen, with audio, you were given a second and third chance to state what we were all hearing.  Sometimes just saying out loud what the other person actually said was enough.  Not usually. 

The arguments would proceed through the common threads in all our arguments -- that's not what he said, that's what you heard -- No, you don't know what she is thinking, but now we know what you are thinking.  You are feeling insignificant, not-respected, not-heard, not-loved.  Okay, now we are hearing each one, what do you need to say you are sorry?  What do you need to forgive?  What do you each need to make it out the other side of this?What a difference there was in current arguments and ones in which too much time had passed.  The time became this bridge that kept getting longer and finally, it was too much to walk.  Too much water under the bridge, and in the absence of anyone to tell the other side, we eventually write the version of the story where we look good. 

Anger is like herpes, it only goes dormant, but never goes away.  You can't judge it or hear someone elses's voice in your head saying you have no right to feel this way -- you feel how you feel -- If you're lucky, you get annoyed or cranky and get over it.  But that red, hot anger that blindsides you (other than fight or flight -- real danger and need to react), it usually means are that the hot potato has been in your hands burning for some time, or that nap sack you thought you shoved it away in just got heavy enough to break the straps.  Then one day you take out a gun.

Anger and conflict resolution exist from the personal to professional to global.   I am writing about personal anger, the day to day shit that when compared to the really big stuff, does seem insignificant, but at the same time, Hitler and Bin Laden started somewhere.  Bullies grow up to be tyrants -- boys with no respect for women grow up to be men with no respect for women, and when children don't learn to deal with anger and conflict, their battleground only gets more dangerous as they get older or more powerful.  Angry boys who become powerful and angry men wind up ruling the world.  And don't get me started on what happens when we train our children that there is only one path to righteousness or salvation and all wars wind up being  fought in the name of God.  


Anger and conflict resolution do not have the same process for everyone, so it matters if if you are on the giving or receiving end.  Sometimes, someone else's anger has nothing to do with you -- they really need to clean their own house.

You have to want to get over it.  If you don't, walk away.  And if somebody doesn't want to get over it with you; walk away.  But don't go away mad, because that doesn't go away.  I wish I only had to have people in my life with whom I share a mutual admiration and respect, and I am getting more selective about familiarity.  But I think we're stuck with family, we should get along with our neighbors and those we work with, and on a larger scale, we should get along with fellow Americans and fellow Humans and Creatures.  But on an intimate level, we deserve to be surrounded by those who love and appreciate us and make us feel good about ourselves.  That energy is contagious and Life is just Too Short.

Which brings me to the end -- we're human, shit happens.  Especially this small stuff that I'm talking about.  I know, it's all small stuff, but it's really not when you get perspective.  Did someone break an arm or a leg?  Did I murder your child? Do I have nothing in the bank? Does the punishment fit the crime? And sometimes, as Freud said, isn't a cigar is just a cigar. Jake and Eddie have been known to ask me during a lecture on why they are behaving the way they are, if their Dad could just hit them and it would be over. Growing up with all females, I envy how the boys can just punch each other sometimes, then get up as best friends.   And sometimes when someone pisses me off, I like having a friend who let's me throw up, chaff and grain together, sifts through it, keeps what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blows the rest away -- that and says "that bitch", and then I imagine Steve with his gun.

On Friendship

I've been in Canada for the annual ritual of Best Friend Barbie (BFB) Time. This friendship is another variation on a theme -- holding hands when you go out into the world (one of the ten things from the kindergarten book).  Real friendships, they are definitely one of the things, if not THE THING.

Barbie and I met in New York City in the early 1970's.  I moved to California, she moved to Toronto and we moved to Florida, but nothing stopped our annual visits. We are best friends and "current" friends, we talk every single day on the phone or skype. If we miss a day, I'm sure she is lying dead on the floor!

The coat, boots and sweater in this picture = $100/piece, 
25 years ago.  The friendship, like the ad says = PRICELESS. 



I learned the joys of female friendships from my Mother (while equally learning the sorrows of male relationships, but that's another blog).  My earliest memories are of these 1950's women smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and laughing at secrets that seemed uniquely theirs.  There was nothing I wouldn't do to be around them -- I'd serve them and clean up after them.  I loved how they made me feel, but mostly I loved how they made her feel.  My Mother was not a happy woman, but she was happy in the company of these women. 

One of the most profound observations and greatest compliments my husband ever paid me was to say that he would one day tell our sons that they should choose a women who had good women friends, someone who other women liked and respected.  "Women can fool men", Steve declared; "but they can't fool other women." 

I was never good in a large group of women for the same reason I am good individually or in small groups.  I think it's like being a man's woman or a woman's woman- I don't find we can be both, AND, it doesn't make one of us right and one of us wrong.  I just know who I am.  I would not have been a good cheerleader nor a good sorority sister.  I was not good in a group of stews, not good at PTA.I feel like there is only so much of me to go around and there are only so many hours in the day.  I don't have the time or energy to stay "current" with more than a couple of women, even if I wanted to. (That, and Barbie's theory that you should never leave a room where two or more women are left behind).  I have hurt women who wanted to be a closer friend to me than I wanted to be to them.  I have been hurt by wanting to be a closer friend to someone than they would be to me.   

The older I get, the longer I am married and now raising kids, the more I see the point of plural wives.   If it wasn't for the sex, I would be a lesbian -- I love the company of other women.  Women with whom I have shared a true friendship ebbed and flowed with the tides of my life and theirs.  Sometimes we were "situational" best friends -- getting one another through college (Lisa) pregnancy (Jeanne) a strike (Katrina) the shock of elementary school kids at my age (Teri).   One at a time, they were the woman with whom I shared everything, chaff and grain together, who sifted through it, kept what was worth keeping and with a breath of kindness, blew the rest away.  And while you couldn't get me to remember the names of all the guys I "dated", I remember the names and see the faces of all of these women.  I'm still in touch with most of them today, and like men who fought on a battlefield together, they were and always will be, my friends:

My first friends were my sisters and cousins -- still my friends today, but e "special"ly cousin Sandy.  The top picture is taken in Granttown, West Virginia, circa 1950





My first "girls", Me, Marcy, Marge*, Yvonne and Gail

The 6-pack circa 1960s

My first real job at McDonald Douglas  with Elaine and Gayle, both of whom I wound up living with.

My Best Friend Mary and Me, part of the Airline Friends who are seated above, Cristina, Katrina and Patty* (with Elaine and Tania from the Spot)

    Sue (and Lou, wherever you are), Debi, Lisa and Betty -- below = Jeanne, Andy, Kell-Belle and Lisa.       Robert Redford was once quoted as saying he didn't want any new friends -- I get that -- the older I get  the more complicated my history, I didn't look for new women friends in my 60's -- but when my niece moved to town, we forged a friendship for life, and somehow with all the casual relationships that are mine, I found my newest friendships in the village that is Andy and Lisa.  

To the Women of my Life, to Best Friends everywhere - I salute you.

*Marge, Nadine and Patty -- Gone too soon, but not before you knew how much I loved you and how proufoundly your friendship enriched my life.  Rest in Peace

On The Eyes of a Child and the Mouths of Babes

In the movie Radio Flyer, the narrator (Tom Hanks) describes children’s unique abilities.  Kids believe in monsters, he says, their existence is one of the Seven Great Abilities and Fascinations of Childhood.  Another, he says, is their ability to fly.  If you ask me, one of the best abilities and fascinations of childhood is the pure, unadulterated way they see things, and then relate what they saw.  There is a reason these two expressions have stood the test of time – seeing through “the eyes of a child”, and hearing “out of the mouths of babes” . .

I have been “busted” more times by these little sh..ts.  Steve and I have both choked or spit out our food more than once as they tell it like it is. After several months of living on the boat, I was kneeling down to Eddie’s level.  He took my face (which hadn’t seen a beauty treatment in months) in his little hands and said “Mommy!  Dad’s older, right?  You just look older”!  (Steve, by the way is 17 years older than me).  It is hard not to laugh, and when we do, we still tried to teach them when they were being rude or disrespectful, but they were/are almost ALWAYS RIGHT. These days, they at least prepare me with a cursory “not to be rude or anything Mom, but . . .” so I at least know it is coming.  Even when they don’t think I can hear them, Eddie ribbed Jake recently with “What 12 year old boy lisps?” and Jake replied “I wouldn’t lisp if they hadn’t dropped me on my face and knocked my teeth out when we lived on the boat” (we did!)

This account of the Hurricane Tour 2004 in South Florida, and in particular, Hurricane Ivan in our town, is through the eyes of a child and out of the mouths of babes.   While we were no Guido (A Beautiful Life, one of my favorite movies of all time), who relentlessly tried to turned a concentration camp nightmare into a game for his young son, we do get credit for hiding our fears, before, during and after.  In the end, surrounded by devastation, blue tarp-roofs, big X’s of condemnation and FEMA trailers, the boys exclaimed enviously, “MOM, DAD, TREVOR GOT A TRAILER!”

When we were 4, there were 4 hurricanes.  Hey, 4 and 4, get it?

Charley and Frances and Jeanne and Ivan must have been bad because they named the bad storms for them.  Good thing there were no Hurricanes Jake or Eddie or Trevor.

Hurricanes are bad and they did ruin a lot of stuff, but we had a Hurricane party for ours and everybody lived with us for a long time.  My Dad built our house.  It was a hurricane proof house and our parents helped the whole neighborhood every day and everybody said how nice they were and they did a story about us in the newspaper.

We already knew about hurricanes because of Aunt Judy and Uncle Chuck in Punta Gorda, Aunt Dotty in Ft. Lauderdale and Auntie Terry, Uncle Scott and Steven in Jupiter.  Everybody got to have a hurricane this year.

Here is Jakey’s drawing of Aunt Judy’s Hurricane Charley.  That’s their dog Phoebe in the bathtub, she didn’t like it at all.

This is my drawing of our Hurricane named Ivan, which was a stupid name.  I asked my Mom what you have to do to get them to name a Hurricane for you and she said it doesn’t work like that.  She said a bunch of weather people make a list in the beginning of the year and each hurricane gets one of the names.  They take the names “alphabetically”, so if me and Jake and Trevor were on the list, I would go first, then Jake, then Trevor.

The night of the hurricane, we had this big party at our house because our house was safe. Dad had something called a whole-house-generator and when the lights went out, we would still have electricity. We wanted to share.

There were 10 kids and we all slept in Jakey's and my room.  The grownups all slept all over our house except Grandma and Grandpa, (they are our adopted grandparents) got to have the bed in the guest room.  Some grownups stayed up all night!

Ivan came all night while we were sleeping, but Dad said you couldn’t see anything anyway cause all the street lights went out and there was no moon because the clouds blocked the moon, so we didn’t miss anything.

There was no water from the faucet and we didn’t have to take a bath for 10 days.  Every time we used the toilet, someone had to put a bucket of water from the swimming pool in it so it would flush.  We didn’t have to flush the toilet for ten days either! 

We got to have lots of art projects.  I can draw the state of Florida, and what a Hurricane looks like, and show you where they all hit.  My picture looks just like the one that was always on the television.  Every time a kid gave a grownup a picture or something we made from our art projects, the grownup would cry.  My Mom said they weren’t crying because they didn’t like the picture.

Bop Bop’s house was flooded, but some of the houses had big holes in them or weren’t even there anymore.  There was some very cool stuff on the streets but none of the kids were allowed outside. 

Bear died from drinking the water in the street. (“Mom, do you think Bear went to heaven?”  “All dogs go to heaven honey”) The grownups said the water was sewer water, which means it has poop in it.  Even little Nick got a scratch on his leg and that water got in it and he had to go to the hospital.  We stayed inside.

The sun came out and the street dried up and all the houses got blue roofs.  I asked my Dad why they were painting with spray paint and making X’s and writing numbers.  He said it wasn’t a good thing and it wasn’t for fun or art.

People put the coolest stuff on the street that we brought home because they were throwing it out.  Mom tried to act like she liked it, but we could tell she didn’t.

Everybody left.  Dad kept saying how lucky we were and Mom said it was because of how Dad built the house and Dad said it was because Mom was so nice to let everyone stay with us. I don’t think we were lucky at all because Trevor’s whole house was wrecked, and you know what?  Trevor got a trailer!

On Pee, Poop and all things disguisting

It's a good day in my house when no one has pi....ed, sh...t, thrown up, or otherwise presented me with a gift from their body that I now have to clean up.  After years of twin babies and various stages of diapers (cloth no less, Bop Bop and Jeanne can attest to), pull ups, etc., and one projectile vomitter anytime he was stressed or there was motion, we got a dog who now peed and pooped and threw up on everything.  The dog is not quite there, but she no sooner will be and Steve or I will be in Depends.  Life is about piss and shit -- full circle, there you have it.

Randy Pausch left a profound impression on me about what was important in life, but under the #1 Thing -- to thine ownself be true -- I'm not okay with dumping your soda in my brand new car.  I'm not that good of a person. 

Eddie has told me over the years "Mom, you act like you care more about the rug than us (now he says the dog)" and I have to put in check that it is only stuff.  BUT (which BFB says means "forget everything I said before that") if #1 is Be True to Yourself and #2 is Pay on one end or Pay on another, then #3 is IT IS YOUR BUSINESS UNTIL YOU MAKE IT MY BUSINESS.  I am usually the one holding the poop. 

Steve remarked when the boys were first born and there were several of those barn burner events when you just threw everything out instead of washing it, that God gives parents a special ability to love something that has just pee'd and pooped and thrown up all over you.  Even though he had 3 other sons, it was a different time and I don't think he changed too many diapers. I think he surprised himself.

So today was a good day, so far no one has left me any presents.

On Youth Sports

This is my son Jake at 10 YEARS OLD.  I don't really see the difference in doing this to a little boy and dressing him up in a militia uniform and giving him a gun.  Boys to Men.

Youth Football and I "Banged Heads"

I submitted this article to the New York Times Magazine and they were interested enough to ask me to make some revisions. They didn't publish it, so hopefully their loss is your gain:

BANGING HEADS

A mother’s conflict with youth football.

Time really does fly when you’re having fun and stands still when you’re not.  Some weeks I cannot believe it is only Tuesday, the weekend seemingly beyond my reach.  While Sundays,  I swear the hands on the clock whirl ahead like something out of Alice in Wonderland, and the weekdays are upon us.  And so it goes that football season was here again before I knew it.     I take a deep breath in.   

To be clear, I’m not talking about the invasion of college and professional football.  I’ve grown quite accustomed to the ever-present sounds of a game in the background, accompanied by the smells and sounds of male-bonding.  I even surprised my husband and sons (not to mention myself) with the NFL Sunday Ticket.    I’m talking about the return of youth football, where I wait to exhale until my husband and son unanimously agree that he isn’t returning to the team, and the team knows it.  If you are wondering why, the short answer is that it is simply too dangerous.    The long answer is that it did not leave us better than it found us:

When it comes to kids and sports, I believe first that every parent should suffer the character-building experience of watching their child suck at a team sport while enthusiastically acting like it doesn’t matter.  During our sons’ first year in baseball for example, my husband and I did our best to hide our knee jerk reaction of cringing for them when they struck out or froze, and instead yelled things like “nice try, you’ll get ‘em next time”.   I believe secondly that all Mothers deserve to have that cute little picture in the uniform.  If it wasn’t for teaching them the proverbial “you have to finish what you start”, once I had that picture, I was ready to call it quits. 

After failing at baseball and succeeding at basketball, Jake was ten years old when he joined his first travelling football team in 2010.  The decision was the first in our twenty-five years of marriage which affected the family that was made without any input from me.   Even though we agreed that neither he nor his twin brother  would  play this kind of contact sports until their growth plates were formed,  all was lost from the moment the coaches saw a fifth grader with his size and physique.  They had my son at “hey Jake, we want you on our team . . .” they had my husband at “Wow, what a big, strong . . . son you have. . .” You could say I was steamrolled by the offense, and I capitulated.

               To be fair, I was raised with all women; not an athlete among us.   Conversely, my husband was a college track star, remains a good athlete and raised three other grown sons who not only survived youth and college team sports, but excelled.    So on top of being outnumbered, I was literally out of my league.  But Steve and his grown sons played in another place and time.  We know things now we didn’t know then.  When we know better, aren’t we supposed to do better?

Most of the team had played together for several years, but it’s a small town and the boys all knew one another, so our son fit right in with his friends.   Some of the coaches and parents however wanted us to take our position at the bottom in that way that clearly defines pecking order.  While we have lived here over twenty years and our sons were born here, certain arenas make us feel like outsiders.  So while I love the South for so many things, politics, religion and football are not among them.    

               Practices and games began in the long hot days of summer where the heat index often toppled 100 degrees, and continued into the short winter days and freezing nights.  Here in the heart of Dixie, the Southeast Conference, it took an Act of God, (and even then, only the lightning one), to stop a practice or a game.    The schedule was four nights a week with games every Saturday.  Family dinners were too often replaced with late night fast food.  Where calmness and order once prevailed, chaos ensued.   The practices resembled boot camp.  There were three serious injuries before the first game.  Borderline dehydration problems caused little boys to vomit in their helmets, while wobbling to the sidelines was most likely an indication of mild concussions.  But no one dared complain – MAN UP – this is FOOTBALL.  While our son was in the best physical condition of his young life and did look great in that uniform, his confidence turned to cockiness and he became predictably more aggressive.  If there was an early-detection system for a BULLY, my husband and I agreed, the alarms would be sounding.

As is true in most things, the experience wasn’t all bad or all good, and doesn’t apply to all players and their families.  One size does NOT fit all, and probably doesn’t fit ANYONE.  If you let your son play and I don’t, doesn’t make one of us a better Mother.  But just because we don’t talk about something, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.  There is a reason misery loves company and there is strength in numbers.

  Once the decision was made to allow him to play, our attitude was positive, and our support unconditional.    While this was the year more information was released about injuries in this sport than ever before, no one was talking about it.     Months later, we attended a reunion of my husband’s Undefeated Tufts Track Team with his old friend Brooks Johnson, who continues to train Olympic athletes.  Brooks gave us this insight:   Football in the South, he said, is not a sport, it is a religion.   “You subjected a 10-year old boy to the rigors of training meant for grown men – shame on you”.  He asked if we thought it affected Jake’s brain and we reminded him at this age, who could tell?    By the time we watched Troy Aikman telling Bryant Gumbel that he might not even let his son play the game because of the risk; we thought our son’s interest was fading.

They won every game, and eventually a championship the group had been chasing for many years.   I use the word group instead of team intentionally.  Although every generation thinks this, this was not your parent’s youth sports.  When we grew up and my husband was raising his first set, parents were not as singularly interested in their child and collectively worked as a village.  Today there is such a sense there is not enough attention or slots to go around as parents push their child to the head of the line or the top of the heap, ignoring or stepping on other children along the way.  We say this will be an exercise in team and sportsmanship, but politics take priority over skill and winning takes all.  And the kids know it.   

The night after the final game, in the safety of the darkness while I rubbed his back, my little boy who still lived inside the emerging body of a man told me how he really felt.  He felt like a fraud while chest-bumping and holding the big gold trophy for pictures on that final night.  He admitted ducking behind the head of another player for the team picture in the newspaper.  Even though they won, he was defeated.  In the final game, like several other games for which they apologized for as an oversight, he hadn’t been given one second of play.  He held up his end every single practice and game; they did not hold up theirs.  He was trying to figure out what he had done wrong and this is what I told him:

               Honey, this was supposed to be a game you played with your friends, while teaching you to be more skilled and how to be a team – like basketball does.    And while I know it’s confusing when you put those big old feet into a man’s  10 ½ wide shoes, you are still an elementary school BOY.  You are learning what Daddy says you shouldn’t have been exposed to for many years, but here it is.   The first thing you need to understand is that they wanted you on their team because you are big and strong, PERIOD.  They wanted to train you to take that big strong body and HEAD and inflict as much damage on another child’s body and head, even if that child is significantly smaller, or it does permanent damage to you both.    AND THEY WANT YOU TO DO THIS FOR THEIR ENTERTAINMENT.  What they didn’t know about you is what we always tell you we are proudest of – that you may have the biggest body; but you have the heart and mind to match.    So, football is not your ticket to college, nor likely to be your chosen profession.   You don’t need football to attend college or be successful in a career.    Lastly, other than your head coach who Mommy really does like and respect, the men who run these things have been sending gladiators into the stadium, soldiers into battle and boys into contact sports for centuries.  Some are looking for the next Tim Tebow.  Some are living out their own unrealized dreams through their sons.  Your Dad was on the front page of the Boston newspapers winning his races and your half-brother was a star short-stop for the University of Southern California.   We just wanted you to have fun.

               Football season isn’t over yet and in the same way women can have more than one child because it is our nature to forget pain, Jake has asked ten times if he can play next year.  The team has not asked why he didn’t return, but some of the Mothers have.    My husband tells him football is benched for now, let’s play all the other sports, wait on his growth plates and hopefully the NFL/NCAA/AMA will have a response to the concussion problem.   But I remember that night in the dark, when after he was asleep, I cried the tears he couldn’t.  I tell my husband that if fathers are in charge of what happens to their bodies; Mothers are in charge of what happens to their hearts.  For now, he can add it to the list of the stuff I did wrong that he tells his therapist someday.  Later, I may be overruled again, but if you ask me right now, my son will play football again over my dead body.  Other than that, I have no strong opinion on the subject.   Big Breath Out. 

Anna Marie Kirkpatrick-Wilkey is working on her first novel, “Add it to the List” (for your therapist), her story of having twins at 50

Anna holds a magna cum laude degree in communications from Loyola Marymount University and resides in Gulf Breeze, FL with her husband and 12-year old twin sons.

On Order, Organization and all things January

January 3rd, another starting pistol; another Pavlovian response:

It must be time to de-clutter, organize, and get ready for income taxes.

Don't throw the baby out with the bath water -- this one happens to be true.  I don't know if it all has to happen in January, but it is as good a time as any, and I don't know anyone who doesn't benefit from de-cluttering, organizing and just plain cleaning out.

Both husband and I thrive on order and cleanliness.  The difference in us is that Steve can walk away from it, sit in the middle of it and pretend it isn't there if a football game is on, and won't have his moods affected by it.  It has taken me years of therapy and training to switch from "loving" it to "requiring it" .  Even then, a flesh eating bacteria wouldn't seem quite so bad on a day that my house was just cleaned -- and if the windows were done; forget it -- let's just say that would be a good time to tell me someone died!  I'm hopeless, I know it. 

Having admitted that, my primary motivator for order vs chaos is much like that for truth vs lying -- I can't lie because I don't have enough brain cells left to remember the lie -- I can't add any more stress to school mornings which by design elicit stress.  "Where's my? . . . has anyone seen my?  Mom, did I tell you I needed . . .?  Forget the Nanny reality shows, I watched enough people start their day like this, we knew we wouldn't survive it. 

So another one of The Things -- Pay on one end or Pay on the other:

The Christmas Decorations/Income Tax boxes (which is not a coincidence they are together) Closet is a perfect representation of All Things. 
1.  TAKE EVERYTHING OUT OF IT --
2.  Physically clean or sweep it
3.  Only put the stuff back you want for next holidays, FOR SURE and start that stack for removal of what you don't
4.  Take one of the income tax boxes that is older than 6 years and use it for this year, which means cleaning it out.  If you don't use this system, it's a good one to get a box, permafile or otherwise and have it ready and empty in these first days of January so as the stuff arrives you need for filing taxes, you'll have a place for it.  p.s.  I've always wanted an accountant like that guy who see on television who you just throw everything in this big box and give it to him -- they don't exist.

So that's my rule of thumb and it works for me --
Empty the space and clean the space -- it is always a good place to start.

As for school, that's another post . . .