Friday, August 29, 2008

Facebook


When I first joined Facebook, my friend Dave wrote, “Welcome to another great way to waste time.” Boy, was he right! I’m addicted. I am now in touch with friends and acquaintances from my High School and College, not to mention my co-workers from jobs I left long ago.
On Facebook, the term “Friend” is used loosely, but it’s sort of exciting. People I know invite me to be their “friend,” and if I recognize a name on someone’s profile, I can invite them to be “friends.” We don’t necessarily have to email or even talk to each other, though it’s convenient if you do want to check in, or give someone a hard time about the Yankees, etc. There’s a little bit of a thrill when I ask someone to be a friend – will they say “yes,” or will they ignore me? Socially, I’ve had to put myself out there in a way I haven’t for a long time, even though it’s only a cyber request and not a real, face-to-face, awkward, “Will you be my friend?”
Facebook is at the top of my checklist when I sit down at my computer. If I click on my “friends,” many of them have listed their “status” and I can see what everyone is up to. For example, I know that Dain is golfing today, Maria went to a concert last night, and Matt is home working in his PJ’s. I can also see photos of my friend’s families, which I love! I know Facebook has been around for a while, but I think it’s the coolest thing since … umm…yogurt in a tube!
A word of warning: if you have a teenager, your Facebook worlds may collide. As I was looking for “friends” in my hometown, I came across a few of Lil’J’s friends, mostly girls. Of course they were lying about their ages because they’re too young to have a Facebook page, but some of the pictures were a bit questionable as well. No, I didn’t ask them to be my friends. (Though I have heard of parents who create false identities to spy on the kids.) Also, I almost joined a group titled “Everything you want to know about Marblehead,” until I realized it was a group of high school kids – my photo might be a bit out of place there.
So, maybe Facebook started as a place for college and high school students to network. Let me tell you, it’s pretty fun for a 45 year-old, too! Just make sure you add some extra time to your day, get up ½ hour earlier or something.
PS – If you want to join Facebook, I’ll be your friend.

Monday, August 25, 2008

Class Assignments


The texts were flying, cell phones were ring-toning and the old fashioned parents were emailing or using the telephone. 6th Grade class assignments had come in the mail and everyone wanted to know who would be where.
After each communication my daughter moped into the kitchen to tell me, “None of my friends are in my class.” To make matters worse, they were all in another class together. When I sat at my computer, a flurry of mom-mails listed and confirmed class assignments. But no good news came for C.
This is an example of one of those times when the words coming from my mouth sound shallow even as I speak them. “Honey, there are almost fifty kids on your team, you’ll definitely know someone.” Or, “This will be a great opportunity to make new friends and stay in touch with your current friends. You’ll be expanding your social circle.” I tried to say all the right things, the things I would have wanted to hear. And C kept nodding and pretending my words carried some comfort, but I knew she was going to spring a leak at some point that day and cry. She did, very briefly.
The bottom line is, sometimes we cannot fix things for our children, or even make things better. Sometimes we try to comfort, but the underlying message is “suck it up.” I tried to fill the void of anxiety with stories from my own youth. “When I was a kid we moved around a lot and I switched schools in 1st grade, in 3rd grade and then again in 6th grade. Every time I was scared and nervous, but every time I made new friends.” Does that help? Maybe a little…
Ultimately, I will not be able to walk into C’s classroom for her on the first day of school. That she must do alone. As a mom, I cannot make friends for my child, just as I cannot do her homework for her, or practice her instrument for her, or take a test for her. I can only help her along -- coach her, give her advice and the benefit of my own experience.
And, deep inside, I know … she’ll be fine. Still, on the first day of school I will be thinking of her all day. And when she finally walks in the door and drops her backpack in the front hall, I hope she’ll be smiling and bubbling over with exciting news from her first day in 6th grade.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Manners Matter



On our most recent trip to Cape Cod, it seems like we spent more time in restaurants than we did on the beach. Being face to face with each other across a small table a few times each day brought a different meal dynamic to our family. Having the kids across from me, as opposed to next to me around our little kitchen island at home, was like putting a magnifying glass on their table manners. It was a significant reminder that I’ve been slacking-off in the etiquette department.
Every parent knows how chaotic meals can be. At my house we juggle meals around sports schedules, or I feed the kids early while I wait to eat with Big J; and often, even though we dine together, I simply focus on my own plate because by the time we sit down I’m tired, famished and ready for some relaxing conversation. Yes, I noticed at the restaurant when the food arrived and both kids started eating while their napkins remained neatly folded on the table, some basic manners were lacking.
The key, I decided, was to remind C and Lil’J how to behave at the table without ruining the meal. “Napkins,” I said in a singsong voice, and immediately they were snapped open and placed appropriately. “Drinks stay at the top right of your plate,” I reminded as I gently rearranged the table. Meal after meal I spoke sweetly through grinding teeth as I a prompted the young diners: “don’t reach across the table, ask the person next to you to pass,” or, “place your knife at the top of your plate, not back on the table,” and the worst, “no double-dipping your bread into the olive oil.” I tried to be nonchalant, and nag nicely. As the week progressed, I definitely saw some improvement.
Spending seven days together highlighted even more than manners, I started to notice gaffs in the grammar department as well. And to me, grammar is really a form of verbal etiquette. For example, Lil’J has a habit of putting himself first in a sentence. “Me, Tom, Dick and Harry went down town,” he’ll say as he launches into a story. The thing is, I do want to hear his story. Any time my 13 year-old wants to share what he’s doing with his friends, it is a rare and wonderful treat! So, rather than interrupt him, I made a few mental grammar notes as the week passed.
On the drive home I decided to broach the manners subject. “You know,” I started, “manners do really matter.” My husband joined in and we explained that how a person speaks and behaves socially has great impact. I told the story of a boyfriend who had such bad grammar I was afraid to introduce him to my parents, and I eventually broke up with him (true story!) Big J talked about business dinners when adults chewed with their mouths open or talked with food in their mouths. I specifically told Lil’J that he has to put himself last in a sentence, and that he has to pay attention to using “me” or “I” at the end. The kids listened politely. I wasn’t sure if any of it stuck.
A few weeks later, we found ourselves at IHOP on a back to school shopping break. As we were receiving the check the waiter stopped and said, “You may think this is weird, but I just want to congratulate you on what a great job you’re doing raising these kids.” He continued, “I deal with a lot of children, and yours were extremely polite, and have wonderful manners.” Can you even imagine how proud I was at that moment? Okay, I know I still have to constantly remind the kids about proper etiquette, but it was nice to get some encouragement.
So here are a few manners tips from me, and a link to more information from Etiquette Expert, Kelly Solway, because manners really do matter!

Don’t nag or interrupt your kids about manners or grammar, they will stop listening. Rather, have specific conversations at a later time when no one is defensive.

Find a signal you can give your children to remind them of their manners in public. For example, I point to my chin if one of my kids is chewing with his or her mouth open.

Find ways to make it fun. Start a meal every now and then by saying, “Let’s use our best manners tonight!” And, don’t forget to ask, “Please pass the Grey Poupon,” with a snobby English accent.

Check out Kelly Solway’s web site for more etiquette info: oneetiquetteplace

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Slurring Sisters

About 11 years ago, Big J (as opposed to my son Lil’J) and I were invited to our friends’ (Cathy and Tom’s*) 4th of July party. Lobsters were festively dismembered and the drinks flowed. We felt like special guests because this was really a big family event. All of Cathy’s family was in town! Eventually the 30ish crowd, all siblings and in-laws, left the grandparents behind to baby-sit the tots. We all headed out to a bar – Tom and Cathy, and her many siblings, mostly sisters.

The bar was a blast. Tom, Big J and I spent most of our time chatting with a Gene Simmons impersonator, clad in full KISS make-up and leather regalia, who had an incredibly long authentic-looking KISS tongue. At the end of the night, when we got back into the minivan, the mood had changed noticeably. Big J and I were squished in the minivan’s hatch back for the return trip, and, despite our giggling, the car was strangely quiet. Clearly, we had missed something.

After a few attempts at making conversation, Big J and I realized that the only person responding was Tom, Cathy’s husband, who was the designated driver. Finally, between the three of us, while everyone else in the mini-van knew enough to shut up, we came up with the slogan, “Friends don’t let friends drink with their sisters.” And, the tension eased…for about a minute. Unfortunately, one sister had tread upon another’s very tender emotional ground, and the healing would take a while, at least until the next morning.

Having a sister myself, I know how treacherous the wine imbued waters of conversation can be. So, here are a few tips for when you have one glass of wine too many with your sister(s):

Avoid discussing your childhood or your children. Either way, someone’s life was ruined or someone is in the process of ruining a life.

Avoid absolute terms like “always,” and “never.” As in, “You always got your way.” Or, “I never got my way.”


If a sister is reminiscing about something you don’t recall, or if you happen to recollect a completely different version of that memory, simply nod your head and smile. Don’t get into it!


If possible, designate a “sober sister” who can be the voice of reason for the evening. Every family needs a peacekeeper.


Just remember, sister emotions run high and family memories run deep. Be careful! And if you have a girlfriend who is going to visit her sister, be a good friend and pass this advice along, or just have the bumper sticker printed up. And on another note, whatever you do, don’t drink and write, especially about sisters!

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Mount Laundry


In the quiet evening hours, I often find myself faced with a mountain of laundry looming on the sofa in my living room. White-sock-topped peaks flow into dark ravines of twisted pant legs and rush by smooth ledges of cotton sweat shirts. The mountain intimidates by sheer size, color and intricacy. I would prefer to turn my back on this mangled mass of fabric, to ignore its insistent call. Yet, I am an experienced laundry sherpa. Like the wise, weather-worn climbers of Mount Everest, I have seen how laundry mountains can turn ugly, even unruly. Even a small storm (in the shape of a child or a dog) can topple the clean-clothes mountain, creating an avalanche that traps a stray socks or favorite t-shirts behind a sofa cushion for months. The mountain needs to be attacked and dismantled, I decide, with the conviction of a demolition engineer. I vow to create order out of chaos.
Surveying the terrain of my family’s laundry landscape, I begin to focus on each piece of clothing, yanking it free. Socks first. I match them when I can, but really just make a mini-pile, a mere foothill to my mountain. There are eight feet in my family, including mine. My daughter has the littlest feet and the prettiest socks, I note, as I matched a white ruffled pair. I pull her favorite dress out of the pile and smooth my hands over the soft cotton flowers. It used to be down to her ankles; she now wears it above her knees, constantly tugging at the snug arm seams. “I want to have this dress forever,” she told me. And there she is, indelibly etched into my memory, wearing this dress. Sinking my face into the fabric, I inhale her little girl smell, fresh as a mountain stream.
I am not, on the other hand, tempted to bury my face into my son’s grungy jeans. Yes, they’re clean...but are they ever really clean? I take a look at the knees, the knees that hit the ground first playing football in the back yard, the knees that have sunk inches into the mud while digging post-rainstorm worms, the knees that have scraped the bark off his favorite climbing tree. I soaked these knees for two days in stain-fighting detergent, but my efforts were in vain. The stringy grass stains still expand outward, looking like miniature trail maps of unexplored denim territory.
My husband’s clothes are a mixture of work and play. Gnarly, wrinkled khakis and button down shirts wage age-old battles with layers of sweat pants and t-shirts -- volcanic rock versus sedimentary rock on my mountain. Some of his faded tie-died t-shirts are even older than our ten-year marriage. I appreciate their soft, comfortable durability.
In my mound, I have a plethora of work-out clothes -- well-worn tank-tops, frayed leggings and shorts. This is good because it means I’ve been exercising. Like my body itself, some of my clothes have lost their shape and elasticity; they are a more relaxed version, I decide, of the lively athletic clothes they used to be.
As each person’s stack of clothes reaches higher and higher, I gain perspective on my family. While my husband works on the computer in the next room, and the kids comfortably snuggle in fresh flannel sheets, I fold and sort -- mentally checking-in on each of them. I’m thankful we are all healthy, active, relatively clean and growing in our own ways.
Folding the over-sized night shirt my daughter sleeps in, I glimpse into the future to see more laundry, bigger laundry, a Mount Olympus of laundry. I visualize the laundry mountain reaching the living room ceiling and crushing the old sofa below. It’s growing too quickly, bursting sharp precipices of future laundry -- sports laundry, dating laundry, an avalanche of college laundry. Dizzy and disoriented, I gasp, trying to take in the thin air at the top of my laundry mountain.
Desperately, I grab the last piece, a twisted sheet featuring a rumpled and faded picture of Cinderella. I stand and fold the sheet with crisp snaps that return me to the reality of my living room . All around me, I suddenly see the riches of my laundry mining. I’ve created a mini-mountain chain, an organized and connected version of that intimidating, chaotic alps. Each person in the family is represented by his or her neat, clean, fresh-smelling clothes. In a small way, I’ve ensured the well-being of my family, at least for the night. My consolation is that I will always defeat the laundry mountain, making order out of chaos, taking care of my family. In my mind, at least, I will always watch them and love them from right here, folding laundry in my living room. (Note: I wrote this a few years ago and not much has changed, except the clothes have gotten bigger!)

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Show Biz Kid


A few years ago, my daughter, C, caught the acting bug. She was in a few local plays and she loved the camaraderie of the cast and the excitement of the performance. Since a family friend was having lots of success in TV and movies, C decided she wanted to go professional and started researching on the Internet -- she was 9. At her insistence, I signed her up for an acting class in Boston (at Boston Casting.) C was one of the older kids in the week-long class which culminated in a recorded "practice" commercial. She nailed it and wanted more.


Since then, we've been to many auditions, and we finally spent money on professional head shots. As a parent, I've felt extremely torn about putting my child out there, exposed to disappointment over and over again. But C loves it. Before every audition, even if it's a notorious "cattle call" where over a hundred kids show up, C gets excited -- with a gleam in her eye she creates a flurry of "what if" scenarios. "What if I get this part and it's a national commercial -- I'll be able to pay for at least a year of college!" "What if they pick me. Do you think I'd get free sneakers?" I temper her enthusiasm with doses of reality, and eventually she'll respond, "I know, Mom. It's a long shot. But can't a girl dream?" I can't argue with that.


C's has had some very cool experiences because of her acting passion. She was an extra in Disney's The Game Plan, and she met The Rock (who was quite charming.) She was a fit model for Talbot's Kids and got paid to try on clothing -- her dream come true. And, most recently, C played a pilgrim girl in an upcoming Public Television mini-series called We Shall Remain (airs Fall '09) Spending time on the set with authentic looking pilgrims and real Native Americans from the New England area was a fantastic, time-travelling, learning experience that neither of us will ever forget.


On the negative side, there are a plethora of scams designed to drain the pockets of the parents of child star wannabes. One "audition" was really a sales pitch for a 5 day trip to LA where kids would perform for agents and visit local theme parks. Of course they pitched this to me with C in the room. She was disappointed for about 1 minute when I said "no." Then she came to her senses. Now, when we get an audition call, one of her first questions is, "Do you think it's a scam?"


We've both gotten a bit more street smart. It seems I've taken on some of C's enthusiasm, while she has adopted some of my wariness. I repeat to her constantly, "This is a hobby -- something we do for fun. If it gets in the way of your childhood, we are done." Still, I realize, it's a roller coaster, and kids like roller coasters much more than adults. So, for now, we're going along for the ride --white knuckles and all.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Knocking Some Sense Into Me




It had rained for a few days straight and I’m not sure who was going crazier, the kids, the dog, or me. My frustration was growing on a number of levels; the kids kept sitting zombie-like, staring at the TV; the dog had pulled up and chewed one of the newly installed sprinkler heads; and I was trying to get the house together and pack for the upcoming weekend. While my husband and daughter delivered my son to his first sleep-away camp, I would be headed to Connecticut to join my father, brothers and sister to commemorate what would have been my mother’s 79th birthday. Already, a year and four months had elapsed since Mom passed away, and we were planning to secure a final resting place for her ashes. The problem was, despite a few rounds of emails, none of us had any idea what we would actually do with her ashes. Furthermore, while we were all in town, we needed a plan on what chores the four of us could do around the too-big house Dad still maintained. I didn’t want to even imagine sitting around, depressed, staring at my siblings for two days and doing nothing.
“Ahhh…the sun is out!” I yelled to the zombies. “I’m taking the dog to the beach.” And I was out the door before I could hear a response. Finally, alone at the rocky “Dog Beach,” balancing on low-tide mussel shells and seaweed, I felt I could breath. I tossed a stick into the ankle deep water and Indy frolicked and danced, eventually returning the stick, dropping it next to my muddy, absorbent sneakers. “Go, get the stick!” I encouraged. But after a few rounds the pup lost interest, so I began to head back toward dry land; that is, until Indy noticed my departure and romped toward me with an eager face that pleaded, “Please…don’t make me go home.” I could totally relate.
So I bent down to pick up a shell, and in her eagerness, Indy went for the shell as well. But she pulled up suddenly and hit my face full-force with the back of her big, square, solid-bone Labrador Retriever head. “Ow!” I reacted; reaching for my nose that I was sure would be spouting blood momentarily. “Ow, ow, ow!” I moaned. My nose was reverberating in the back of my head. Pain shot down my neck. My jaw was throbbing. It friggin’ hurt!
Still holding my nose and still reeling from the hit, I began to whimper and tears overflowed from my watery eyes. I looked around the deserted beach and, realizing no one could hear me, I started to cry louder – though I was in pain, the crying felt, well … good. As the pain began to ease to a dull throb, I decided to really go for it. I actually started to sob, right there on the beach. No one could hear my bawling. Not a sole was around to respond to my greedy intake of air between each noisy bout of blubbering. The dog just sat and stared at me quizzically. Feeling the release, I went on, quite hysterically, for a few minutes.
As I finally began to calm down, I realized what I had been crying about, and from where this deep well of emotion had bubbled up. It was simple, really. I missed my mom. I missed telling her about the kids and dog driving me crazy. I missed having her make decisions, telling my siblings and I what would be on the agenda for the weekend. I missed her as much as I did the day she died, and I knew I would always miss her in a painful and dramatic way. I guess I just needed a knock on the head to remind me how I felt. My histrionics on the beach were very cleansing, I decided. And, as I walked toward home, I knew I was ready to move on again.
“Thanks, Indy,” I told my tail-flapping buddy as we left the beach. “I needed that.”

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Talking to Teens




Lil’J barely waits ‘til he’s out of the car from our week long family vacation before running off with his friends. He’d texted them before we’d even pulled into town. I’m surprised they weren’t waiting for us in our driveway – leaning on their bikes, wearing their shorts down to their knees, below grubby, stretched out t-shirts and turned around baseball caps. What a motley welcoming committee of 13-year-old boys they would be!

Lil'J dropped his duffel bag and said, “Gotta go!” He’s a busy boy, but a good boy; he checks in. And, I always call the house he’s going to, making sure the parents are home. Even better, he’ll have his gang at our house. Still, I feel like I never see him.
Recently, I picked Lil’J up after he visited family friends for a few days. I knew I’d have at least an hour with him, alone in the car. I was looking forward to some catch-up time. I wanted to touch base with him on a deeper level than we’d reached in our recent “Hi what’s for dinner can Sam sleep over have you seen my phone charger when will you be off the computer?” conversations. I wanted to find out what was really on his mind.
So as we drove I thought carefully about what topics to bring up. I could ask him about girls…but he hates it when I do that and he’s barely seen any girls over the summer anyway. Lil’J fiddles endlessly with the radio. He listens incessantly to RAP, and he knows to change the station if the lyrics are overtly sexual. He changes the station a lot. I could ask him if he’s nervous about going away to camp. But then if he’s not nervous he might start to get nervous…nah, we’ve talked enough about camp. He nods his head to the rhythm and sings to the backup melody. I could ask him what ever happened to that kid he was friends with… Ron. I’d heard he got into some trouble and was hanging with a different crowd. No, why bring it up when I’m not trying to encourage that friendship?
“Mom?” Lil’J asked with a serious voice. I knew it, if you shut up for long enough, your teen will open up to you. He’ll tell you what’s on his mind, his hopes, fears, dreams and desires. The experts were right!
“Yes?” I responded, with a motherly smile.
“If you have a job, and the boss calls in sick, does everyone get to go home?” he asked.
I had to giggle. Well, at least he’s thinking about the future. Then I told Lil’J about the summer I painted houses and went to the beach whenever the boss was sick, explaining that most jobs weren’t like that because of “personal responsibility.” Some of his other questions during that car ride were: “Is driving hard?” “How do you get tickets for the Olympics?” And, “Can we go through the McDonald’s drive thru?”
So, these are the things on a 13-year-old boy’s mind … at least today.
After a lot of reflection and a bit of research, here are some tips for talking with your teenage son.

Music –Lil’J doesn’t get into U2 with me like he used to. But, even tho’ I’m not crazy about RAP, I let him know when I like a song or an artist. It’s a conversation starter!

Sports – I’m not a huge fan, but when I ask him what’s new in the world of sports, he’ll blab like an expert.

Kiss Goodnight – Lil’J is most talkative when I go into his room right before he falls asleep. This is a time when defenses are down, and sometimes the troubles of the day bubble up and even a teenage boy needs to talk.
Tips Galore from About.com
From Teens Today with Vanessa VanPetten: Her response to "Seven Things You Should Never Say to Your Teen"


Got any tips learned from talking with your teen?

First Blog

At the ripe old age of 45, I've taken a leap of faith. I quit my job and all of my volunteer work and decided to seriously, and I mean seriously, write.

Like most writers, I've always felt the need to write -- to re-live, re-examine and sometimes re-invent the world around me. My limited success thus far has been in the "momoir" genre with some early essays published in Parents Magazine and Welcome Home Magazine ... but that was in the 90's. A lot has changed since then. First and foremost, my children have gotten older. I've gone from warming baby bottles to hiding my stash of diet soda bottles from the kids. I've gone from cleaning up spills to yelling about text messaging bills. They've grown, and clearly I've grown, too.

Yes, I will continue to write about my family. (I have to because it's such great material.) Now my children are 13 and 11, and I can guarantee that family life will only get more interesting as I deal with their teenage years, as well as the persistent memories of my own wild child days.

I will also write about my trials and tribulations of getting this new career off the ground ... finally. In addition to blogging, I will be sending out my personal essays, looking for feature writing opportunities and, of course, working on my novel.

Any input, hints, and encouragement are certainly welcome!