My husband and I went to a party for his work last weekend. We had fun, but unfortunately, I can't escape my "teen parent" label for even one night. Here’s the story. We sat at a table with his colleagues whom I have never met. I was talking to the husband of a woman my husband works with (hereafter known as the Amazon woman from hell). We were sitting there talking about turkeys for Thanksgiving - organic vs regular – inhuman farming of turkeys etc. Dumb crap that is pretty boring actually. Again, these are complete strangers, so what else do you talk about but dumb crap?
There was a pause in conversation and the Amazon woman from hell says to me,
“So how old were you when you had your first child?”
Now I have dealt with this question a million times in my life. I find it to be a bit blunt and rude, but I’m used to people asking. However, generally it happens when we are in a conversation about my kids so I’m a bit more prepared for it. I nearly choked on my salad because it was so out of the blue.
I answered, “17.”
“You were so young.”
“Yes.”
“Do you regret it?”
I am not kidding. She actually said that. Out loud. At a table with 10 strangers.
“Absolutely not!”
“But you had your other children when you were older?”
“Obviously.”
“Don’t you now wish you wouldn’t have had one so young?”
Seriously hideous right? But wait, it gets better.
“No, actually I wish I had my other two when I was younger!” I pause and add a light laugh to lift the tone of this wretchedly uncomfortable conversation, “I’m incredibly tired now.”
“Well, I waited to have my first child until I was 36. When I think now about having a child when I was, say 20, I was so immature and so selfish, having a child at that age would’ve been so wrong for the child.”
GIANT AWKWARD PAUSE
“Well, everyone is different I guess.”
At that point I turned and kept my back to her and her husband for the rest of the meal.
Again, I have dealt with people’s shock and dismay my entire adult life. I have to say, it’s always a bit annoying and it does sometimes hurt, but this was probably the worst and most distressing conversation I have EVER had. I know people have their opinions about young mothers and most probably believe that having children at 17 is a very bad thing – almost on the same page as murder in some circles. I hear it thrown out as the litmus test for parenting all the time, "Yes, your daughter may have failed geometry in high school. She may have dabbled in drugs and snuck out of the house nearly every weekend - but hey, AT LEAST SHE DIDN'T GET PREGNANT." I try not to take that personally.
I have been verbally accosted in incredibly inappropriate and aggressive ways before. When I was pregnant, people would come up to me at least once a day and ask if I had "picked parents for my child" because they knew a "wonderful, married, rich deserving couple who woud love my baby and give it every opportunity." Oh - excuse me and your name is??? It's a amazing how my teenage pregnancy and subsequent parenting have been assumed to be a matter suitable for public opinion.
However obnoxious and oblivious the comments are generally, very rarely have people actually accused me to my face of ruining my child’s life just by having her (although, it has happened more often than I care to remember). I am so angry at what the Amazon woman from hell said to me. Not only because of the audacity of it, but mostly because when I know the conversation is coming – when I meet someone new and they ask about how old my kids are - I am automatically prepared with my standard deflective phrases. She caught me so completely off guard that I had nothing witty or biting to say back to her. What also pissed me off is that my husband was engaged in a conversation with the woman next to him and missed the whole thing, so he didn’t intervene or speak on my behalf. I felt so alone and pushed into a corner and interrogated. It was weird. I'm not that easily intimidated.
What’s bugging me still and why I'm writing this is all of the things running through my head now. The fact that in reality, I feel like a terrible mother almost all the time. But usually not to my oldest. She’s the one I feel is my success story. I know she had to deal with a lot of different issues and more complicated situations than my other kids, but they are still works in progress and with her - I'm now simply putting the icing on a very well-cooked, and beautifully formed, cake.
I've already raised a child who displays incredible intelligence (emotional and mental), logic, honesty, warmth and compassion. All of these things I believe – no - rephrase - I KNOW – she gained from her experiences growing up with me. I realize she was born who she is - I'm not attempting to take credit for creating those wonderful personality traits, but living her life gave her a chance to flex her emotional muscles and grow as a person herself. I am lucky to have her, and grateful for that inner strength of hers which allowed me to be imperfect and gain my footing as a young, single parent and yet somehow emerge an experienced, battle-scarred, parenting genius! I have no doubt she can look back at her life and complain about my parenting (she has to have someone to blame for everything right?), but she is mature beyond her years and a wonderfully successful, thoughtful, law-abiding, well-adjusted adult - and best of all - SHE DIDN'T GET PREGNANT!! What more can anyone want from parenting than that?
I rock.
I know – I’m being defensive and I shouldn’t be. I am so bothered that this woman got to me. I wish I had another chance at that conversation and I would KICK HER AMAZON ASS!
Monday, 24 November 2008
Friday, 23 May 2008
An Absent Life (excerpt)
The events of my childhood are a strange and complicated mystery. I don’t mean the type of mystery a person can unravel later in life through therapy, painstakingly identifying antagonists and protagonists and psychoanalyzing past experiences into something that can be celebrated, forgiven or simply accepted. I mean that my memories do not exist in a manageable form.
My childhood comes to me in flashes. Not a moving, continuous reel of history, but a loosely connected series of visual snapshots, random sounds and smells, and a haunting sense of loosing touch. The story of my life dances awkwardly in front of me as though I lived in a world intermittently and unpredictably lit with strobe lighting, still images depicting precise moments but lacking context - often nonsensical, frequently frightening and sometimes supernatural. Imagine the internal narrative of your youth being accented with something similar to the psychedelic transitional sequences in an Austin Powers movie. Groovy baby. It was the 70s after all.
My first actual memory is of browsing in a greeting card store with my mom. I loved the card store. Everything was linear - straight lines up, straight lines sideways, equidistant spaces between. I felt calm when everything had a place and everything stayed still. With just a few customers, all reading silently and walking slowly, it was quiet like the library – another place I loved to go.
As we wandered, there was a slow rhythm to our movements. A reader’s pace. My mother was holding my hand guiding me through the towering aisles filled with graduated rows of rectangular greetings. There was a pause at the end of each row followed by a predictable reverse in direction bringing with it the need to shift me from her left hand to her right so that I would continue to be pulled, as opposed to pushed, down the same aisle. She was careful to bring her right hand around and grasp my alternate hand before releasing the other.
As my mother focused in on the teaser line of a card, she released my hand in order to pick up the card and inspect the conclusion of the sentiment inside. I immediately and instinctively wrapped my arms around her knee maintaining the most vital component of my existence - the essence of life as I knew it - constant physical contact with my mother.
I’m not exactly sure how old I was. Given my mother was 4’10”, the angle of trajectory as I glanced up to her face, with my arm wrapping just above her right knee but my head below her hipline, I can guesstimate my age to be 3 or 4.
Suddenly, the comfort of her leg disappeared. My mother had simply vanished. I was instantly alone, the skin of my arms tingling with the unexpected sensation of cool, empty air. The loss of touch was physically palpable to me. I could, however, still hear her voice even though I’d lost the sight and feel of her. She was shouting my name. My eyes searched the vacant space next to me as the panic in my chest started to burst through my ribcage. Where did she go this time?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she hissed. She hadn’t vanished, just transported herself further down the aisle without walking. She did that sometimes. I wasn’t sure when I was going to develop this handy, but terrifying, travel skill, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“Why did you stop there? You were following me to the register. Come on. Pay attention.” I popped my thumb in my mouth to stifle my cries and put a vice grip on her trousers.
When I asked my mother if she remembers this incident (I often double-check memories with family members), she replies, “Yes. It was so frustrating to take you places. You would be so quiet and content and then would suddenly erupt into a full state of panic. You acted as though I’d abandoned you or something. I was only 10 feet away and you could still see me.” I may have been able to see her, but I never knew where to look.
My childhood comes to me in flashes. Not a moving, continuous reel of history, but a loosely connected series of visual snapshots, random sounds and smells, and a haunting sense of loosing touch. The story of my life dances awkwardly in front of me as though I lived in a world intermittently and unpredictably lit with strobe lighting, still images depicting precise moments but lacking context - often nonsensical, frequently frightening and sometimes supernatural. Imagine the internal narrative of your youth being accented with something similar to the psychedelic transitional sequences in an Austin Powers movie. Groovy baby. It was the 70s after all.
My first actual memory is of browsing in a greeting card store with my mom. I loved the card store. Everything was linear - straight lines up, straight lines sideways, equidistant spaces between. I felt calm when everything had a place and everything stayed still. With just a few customers, all reading silently and walking slowly, it was quiet like the library – another place I loved to go.
As we wandered, there was a slow rhythm to our movements. A reader’s pace. My mother was holding my hand guiding me through the towering aisles filled with graduated rows of rectangular greetings. There was a pause at the end of each row followed by a predictable reverse in direction bringing with it the need to shift me from her left hand to her right so that I would continue to be pulled, as opposed to pushed, down the same aisle. She was careful to bring her right hand around and grasp my alternate hand before releasing the other.
As my mother focused in on the teaser line of a card, she released my hand in order to pick up the card and inspect the conclusion of the sentiment inside. I immediately and instinctively wrapped my arms around her knee maintaining the most vital component of my existence - the essence of life as I knew it - constant physical contact with my mother.
I’m not exactly sure how old I was. Given my mother was 4’10”, the angle of trajectory as I glanced up to her face, with my arm wrapping just above her right knee but my head below her hipline, I can guesstimate my age to be 3 or 4.
Suddenly, the comfort of her leg disappeared. My mother had simply vanished. I was instantly alone, the skin of my arms tingling with the unexpected sensation of cool, empty air. The loss of touch was physically palpable to me. I could, however, still hear her voice even though I’d lost the sight and feel of her. She was shouting my name. My eyes searched the vacant space next to me as the panic in my chest started to burst through my ribcage. Where did she go this time?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she hissed. She hadn’t vanished, just transported herself further down the aisle without walking. She did that sometimes. I wasn’t sure when I was going to develop this handy, but terrifying, travel skill, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
“Why did you stop there? You were following me to the register. Come on. Pay attention.” I popped my thumb in my mouth to stifle my cries and put a vice grip on her trousers.
When I asked my mother if she remembers this incident (I often double-check memories with family members), she replies, “Yes. It was so frustrating to take you places. You would be so quiet and content and then would suddenly erupt into a full state of panic. You acted as though I’d abandoned you or something. I was only 10 feet away and you could still see me.” I may have been able to see her, but I never knew where to look.
In Loving Memory
As the youngest, I was still growing up when my dad developed symptoms of Alzheimer’s, so Alzheimer’s was a larger part of him to me than maybe anyone else in the family. Still, I don’t think any of us sees Alzheimer’s as depressing, and that’s because dad gave us the ability to cope using laughter and create even more funny memories of him every step of the way.
At first, the disease seemed to merely add a little more flavor to his personality. We would be at a restaurant and the server would go over the list of specials. My dad would listen intently throwing in “Oh that sounds wonderful,” or “HMMMMM, MMM, MMM” as the descriptions were being given. Then he would turn to my mom and say, “Do I like Salmon? I do? Great! Then I’ll have the salmon.”
I didn’t know it was possible to take the nicest, most genuine man on the planet and make him even nicer and more endearing. Alzheimer’s gave him the ability to say and do what he truly felt without holding anything back. What made that work so well for Dad was what he truly felt and wanted to say was always kind. One of the best one-liners he ever delivered was when we were leaving a small, owner-run restaurant near my house in California. He had remarked several times how delicious his meal was. “Boy that was great.” As we walked out the front door, my dad turned around, cupped his hands and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Thanks for the great meal!” It was moments like that where he left people with a distinct and happy memory of meeting him.
Not that there weren’t difficult times too.
As an adult – I started to get angry. It didn’t make sense to me that a man who took such meticulous care of his body, a man who truly felt his body was his temple, would live such a healthy life only to be struck with a disease of the brain - a disease that doesn’t care whether or not you ate enough bran or exercised every morning. I have spent years trying to come to terms with what felt to me like a slap in his face. This was not how his life was supposed to turn out.
However, when my sister and I were working on the programs for his funeral service and trying to find the right words to put under one of gorgeous pictures he painted, the words “In Loving Memory” suddenly started to make sense of it for me.
When Paul and I were married 8 years ago, I was often sad because I knew that since my dad had already forgotten who I was, he would never remember being part of our special day.
At our wedding reception, I saw my dad smiling and tapping his feet to the music. I went over and asked him if he was enjoying himself. He said, “Well YES! This is a great party. Who’s getting married?” I said, “I am, dad.” I saw a look cross his face. It was a look I only saw a few times, actually, which is surprising, because that look was a bit of sadness crossed with a fair amount of frustration - as if he realized he had forgotten something important. But in his signature way, he quickly gave me a huge smile and said, “You look beautiful,” and then went on to become the life of the party on the dance floor. So on my wedding day – he gave me such an incredible gift – he gave me a memory. A memory of him dancing energetically to “Superfreak,” which will make me laugh out loud for the rest of my life.
No matter how far his disease progressed, without a doubt he remembered when he was holding one of his grandchildren on his lap – he may not have been able to tell you which one or which one of his children they came from, but that didn’t matter. He always remembered how to love. It was his Loving Memory that told him “this little person is special and belongs with you.”
This is what today makes the paradox of my healthy, vibrant dad and Alzheimer’s an unexpectedly good fit. Perhaps because he took such good care of his body and because his heart was so healthy and strong – his heart had its own memory. His powerful heart took over and helped him express his limitless love for life and everyone in it. And maybe he didn’t need a physical memory as much as the rest of us because he was the memory maker. He made sure everyone he touched walked away with a “loving memory.”
I can picture him in the back of the room now, so thankful to everyone for being part of his life, with his hands cupped shouting – “Thanks for the great memories!”
Thursday, 24 April 2008
30 Days
My father’s obituary dropped off the newspaper websites on Friday. I think I actually felt the link break and disappear. There was a feeling of finality to it to me, as though April 11, 2008 was another significant day of his life. One second after midnight, a simple if/then statement archived his picture, my words and the guest book which carried with it the possibility that I might get to know more about him.
I’ve had a bit of an obsession with his online obituary. Yes - I wrote it, and I was proud of it, but it wasn’t about that. I have several copies from the paper. I can read it whenever I want. It’s the fact that it was online and there was a guest book that left me with the feeling that part of his life was carrying on. The guest book was dyanamic. It changed every time someone added a comment and as long as the guest book was still active, there was a possibility of someone sharing another story or picture or some new piece of information that I could hold on to. This online obituary turned into an almost tangible connection linking him directly to me. One I never felt I had when he was alive.
I was completely taken by surprise when my mother asked me to write his obituary. I spent the least amount of time with him. I have the fewest memories of him - not only because I was born so late in his life, not only because I was only still a child when he started working a lot of overtime and nights in order to build up his retirement, but also in large part due to the absence of many memories prior to the age of twelve, as a result of years of various (some experimental) medications to treat my epilepsy. I suppose that’s something my father and I ended up having in common – he also had the fewest memories of me.
I wasn’t sure why I was so aware of this April 11 deadline. I have the print out of the comments. I have the obituary, the DVD and the audio of the funeral. Why do I even care about the website? Here’s the embarrassing reality. First a disclaimer - I don’t believe in anything. Don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t think there’s an afterlife. I don’t believe there’s a layered system of heavens or purgatory or any of that. But I guess there is a part of me that really wants to. I checked that guest book every day to see if somehow my dad had any added a comment about what I had written. It’s completely bizarre - silly, optimistic, whimsical even, but I think that’s how he was about life at times.
I’ve had a bit of an obsession with his online obituary. Yes - I wrote it, and I was proud of it, but it wasn’t about that. I have several copies from the paper. I can read it whenever I want. It’s the fact that it was online and there was a guest book that left me with the feeling that part of his life was carrying on. The guest book was dyanamic. It changed every time someone added a comment and as long as the guest book was still active, there was a possibility of someone sharing another story or picture or some new piece of information that I could hold on to. This online obituary turned into an almost tangible connection linking him directly to me. One I never felt I had when he was alive.
I was completely taken by surprise when my mother asked me to write his obituary. I spent the least amount of time with him. I have the fewest memories of him - not only because I was born so late in his life, not only because I was only still a child when he started working a lot of overtime and nights in order to build up his retirement, but also in large part due to the absence of many memories prior to the age of twelve, as a result of years of various (some experimental) medications to treat my epilepsy. I suppose that’s something my father and I ended up having in common – he also had the fewest memories of me.
I wasn’t sure why I was so aware of this April 11 deadline. I have the print out of the comments. I have the obituary, the DVD and the audio of the funeral. Why do I even care about the website? Here’s the embarrassing reality. First a disclaimer - I don’t believe in anything. Don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t think there’s an afterlife. I don’t believe there’s a layered system of heavens or purgatory or any of that. But I guess there is a part of me that really wants to. I checked that guest book every day to see if somehow my dad had any added a comment about what I had written. It’s completely bizarre - silly, optimistic, whimsical even, but I think that’s how he was about life at times.
Wednesday, 9 January 2008
The Economics of Happiness
http://www.usc.edu/dept/pubrel/trojan_family/winter07/happiness.html
I love the new movement by researchers to answer the age-old question, “Does money really buy happiness?” The answer we’re all dying to hear is “no.” But would that actually free us from the pressure of trying to continually improve our standard of living? Would it take away our worries of securing a solid financial future for our children and ourselves? I doubt it.
The article linked above mostly provides the background and beginnings of Richard Easterlin, an economist heralded as the founder of “happiness economics.” It’s an interesting exercise to review the Easterlin Paradox and think about how it applies to your own life.
“Once a society’s basic needs – food, shelter, employment – are satisfied, the accumulation of greater and greater wealth does not generate greater collective or personal happiness over the long run, aside from the temporary uptick over new possessions, like a nice car.”
So now the research has been done to at least partially dispel the myth of the American dream, which is most commonly presented to us in a way that suggests the pursuit of happiness has an end point - lots of money. Once you get there, you live happily ever after.
All of the results mentioned in this article are not surprising, however, I feel these reports are flawed from the foundation. The surveys conducted to reveal the happiness quotient asks participants to rate themselves as “very happy”, “pretty happy,” and “not too happy.” I don’t understand what those terms mean. It reminds me of the scale of pain used by paramedics with the emoticons: Does your face look like this :) ? Then you are “pretty happy”. This :( ? Then you are “Not too happy”. It is crap.
The first time I was asked to rate myself on that type of scale was during my first miscarriage. I was in the back of an ambulance that had just picked me up from the gate of the Dallas/Ft Worth airport after a 3 hour flight where I struggled to maintain consciousness amidst continuous, crippling contractions, losing what appeared to be gallons of blood, after having fought an epic battle with the flight crew to even let me on the plane in the first place so I could get from the small tourist village in Mexico to somewhere in America in order to find out if I was losing my baby, all the while blaming and hating myself for having perhaps eaten a salad or an ice cube which may or may not have caused this entire devastating event. When the paramedic held up the chart to me and said, "Where would you rate your pain on this scale from 1 to 10?" I told him my pain was a 12.
Where you are on the scale – happiness or pain - all depends on the context of that moment.
I imagine these surveys were conceived by even-tempered men without fluctuating levels of estrogen sneaking up on them at any given moment because my happiness is generally too dynamic to measure. If you asked me 2 days ago, I would have rated myself "not too happy." PMS prevailing, I was sinking into the worry pit of my husband's job uncertainty and my 18 year-old getting a D+ her first semester into college. However, ask me today - Pilates prevailing, job prospects looking up, both young children back in school full time - I would rate myself as "Very Happy Indeed."
Research reliability notwithstanding, this article does provide the key to happiness right in paragraph 5:
“Another researcher found that two factors with a measurable and permanent effect on individual happiness are PLASTIC SURGERY (a positive effect) and NOISE (a negative effect).”
I read into this that turning off the kids’ TV and lifting my eyelids is the key to an increase in permanent happiness. Hooray! Finally someone has given me scientific justification for telling my kids to shut up and spending my savings on a mini-face lift and tummy tuck!
I love the new movement by researchers to answer the age-old question, “Does money really buy happiness?” The answer we’re all dying to hear is “no.” But would that actually free us from the pressure of trying to continually improve our standard of living? Would it take away our worries of securing a solid financial future for our children and ourselves? I doubt it.
The article linked above mostly provides the background and beginnings of Richard Easterlin, an economist heralded as the founder of “happiness economics.” It’s an interesting exercise to review the Easterlin Paradox and think about how it applies to your own life.
“Once a society’s basic needs – food, shelter, employment – are satisfied, the accumulation of greater and greater wealth does not generate greater collective or personal happiness over the long run, aside from the temporary uptick over new possessions, like a nice car.”
So now the research has been done to at least partially dispel the myth of the American dream, which is most commonly presented to us in a way that suggests the pursuit of happiness has an end point - lots of money. Once you get there, you live happily ever after.
All of the results mentioned in this article are not surprising, however, I feel these reports are flawed from the foundation. The surveys conducted to reveal the happiness quotient asks participants to rate themselves as “very happy”, “pretty happy,” and “not too happy.” I don’t understand what those terms mean. It reminds me of the scale of pain used by paramedics with the emoticons: Does your face look like this :) ? Then you are “pretty happy”. This :( ? Then you are “Not too happy”. It is crap.
The first time I was asked to rate myself on that type of scale was during my first miscarriage. I was in the back of an ambulance that had just picked me up from the gate of the Dallas/Ft Worth airport after a 3 hour flight where I struggled to maintain consciousness amidst continuous, crippling contractions, losing what appeared to be gallons of blood, after having fought an epic battle with the flight crew to even let me on the plane in the first place so I could get from the small tourist village in Mexico to somewhere in America in order to find out if I was losing my baby, all the while blaming and hating myself for having perhaps eaten a salad or an ice cube which may or may not have caused this entire devastating event. When the paramedic held up the chart to me and said, "Where would you rate your pain on this scale from 1 to 10?" I told him my pain was a 12.
Where you are on the scale – happiness or pain - all depends on the context of that moment.
I imagine these surveys were conceived by even-tempered men without fluctuating levels of estrogen sneaking up on them at any given moment because my happiness is generally too dynamic to measure. If you asked me 2 days ago, I would have rated myself "not too happy." PMS prevailing, I was sinking into the worry pit of my husband's job uncertainty and my 18 year-old getting a D+ her first semester into college. However, ask me today - Pilates prevailing, job prospects looking up, both young children back in school full time - I would rate myself as "Very Happy Indeed."
Research reliability notwithstanding, this article does provide the key to happiness right in paragraph 5:
“Another researcher found that two factors with a measurable and permanent effect on individual happiness are PLASTIC SURGERY (a positive effect) and NOISE (a negative effect).”
I read into this that turning off the kids’ TV and lifting my eyelids is the key to an increase in permanent happiness. Hooray! Finally someone has given me scientific justification for telling my kids to shut up and spending my savings on a mini-face lift and tummy tuck!
Tuesday, 18 December 2007
Struggles with Progressive Parenting
From the moment I knew I was going to raise a child, the one thing I decided to base all of my parenting principles on was that I would not be like my mother. Since this revelation occurred to me shortly after the birth of my daughter at the precious age of 17, outside of the protection and blessings of a celestial marriage and while still domiciled under the roof of my devoutly religious parents, I wasn’t just creating my own parental identity but an alternate universe of parenting to the one I grew up in.
I envisioned the creation of an open, honest, educational, fun, environment where her inner talents would be nurtured and set free to grow at whatever pace this beautiful little spirit would dictate. This ideal foundation would come from a home free from oppression, repression and above all free from the fear of the wrath of God.
Fast forward 18 years and the result of this plan to launch myself into uncharted parental territory is that I find myself trying to navigate this parallel universe without a tour guide or even a handbook. I see now why people choose a religious lifestyle. It makes parenting so simple. All of the decisions are made for you; all of the difficult discussions have been outlined and approved in advance. There are black and whites and rights and wrongs and someone else made the rules, so you're just the messenger. What I’m doing requires so much thinking and talking - it’s exhausting.
The phone rings. It’s 10:00 pm. My husband is out of town and I’ve only just successfully put the two young children to bed following the double routine of potty, bath, teeth, potty, pajamas, “sleep with me for 1 minute” and finally sleep. I’ve tidied the kitchen, started the wash cycle for the PE kit my son needs to wear the next day, packed the book bags for the morning and have just let myself settle in to read maybe 2 more pages of the book I’ve been struggling to finish for 4 months before I crash into the wall of sleep myself.
Child 1: “Hi Mom. What’s up?”
Me: “Nothing much, just getting ready for bed. What’s going on with you?”
Child 1: “Well….I need to talk to you about something.”
“Crap!” I think to myself. No good can come from the need to talk to me about something. And I’m too tired to deal with what this something might be: she’s failing school; she’s run out of money; the druggie roommate has stolen her new laptop…
Me: “So spill it.”
Child 1: “I’ve been talking with some friends and I’m really scared of losing my virginity.”
Silence.
Child 1: “Mom, are you still there?”
Me: “Yes I’m here.”
Child 1: “Well?”
Me: “Well what? You should be scared. Terrified. Don’t ever do it and you won’t have to worry about it.”
One thing that has proved difficult about having such a large age gap between children is the need to switch from handing out quick, easy, decisive, directives – “Finish your brussel sprouts;” “Don’t hit your brother;” “Stop biting your shirt” - to giving thoughtful, honest, gentle, moral advice phrased to guide responsible choices, but not command a specific course of action.
Child 1: “Mom, seriously. Come on. I’m really upset about this. A bunch of us were talking about it and the ones who have done it say that it’s horrible, painful, you bleed and tear…it’s scary.”
Growing up as the daughter of “the girl who got pregnant in high school,” I always felt strongly that she should not feel any shame or shyness about sex. We’ve openly discussed sex many, many, many times. We’ve talked about the mechanics and physical aspects; we’ve reviewed the emotional repercussions and maturity required; we’ve discussed safety, pregnancy prevention and sexually transmitted diseases. We covered everything – except how to enjoy it.
No matter what your religious or personal morals tell you to teach your children about when it’s appropriate to have sex, the one thing we should all be teaching our girls is that we should enjoy it when it does happen. Talk about a true test of true parenting skills.
It’s difficult to ever think of your kids as “grown up,” but in order to continue this conversation I had to remind myself that by the time I was 18, I was living on my own, working full time, and raising a 1-year-old as a single mother. Grown up is not an age – it’s a state of mind. The more information she has, the more in control of her own body she can be and the more responsible decisions she can make coming from a place of self-confidence and security. Suck it up and talk to her like you know what you are doing.
So we talked about finding the right balance of lubrication and not relying on what comes on a condom to be sufficient. We talked about the benefit of having a partner with whom you are comfortable and can take your time with. That building up to intercourse over months (or even better - years) of “messing around” will teach you about what you and your partner both enjoy.
By the end of the conversation, I felt like Dr. Ruth, which was really hilarious seeing as I’m about the most sexually repressed and confused woman I know. I was just glad this was over the phone so she couldn’t see how much hair I’d pulled out in uncomfortable nervousness during the course of our discussion. Overall, though, I felt relief. She is now headed in a direction so completely opposite to the one I followed at her age that she will have her own alternate universe from which to guide her relationships and thus hopefully avoid the meteor showers I had to navigate my way around.
Me: “So, do you feel better now?”
Child 1: “Yes, much better. Thanks mom.”
Me: “No problem. Now it’s your turn to make me feel better.”
Child 1: “Don’t worry. I’m not going to have sex. Ever.”
Me: “Perfect. Now both of us can sleep well tonight.”
Child 1: “Oh and mom?”
Me: “Yes.”
Child 1: “Don’t tell dad.”
Me: “Never.”
I envisioned the creation of an open, honest, educational, fun, environment where her inner talents would be nurtured and set free to grow at whatever pace this beautiful little spirit would dictate. This ideal foundation would come from a home free from oppression, repression and above all free from the fear of the wrath of God.
Fast forward 18 years and the result of this plan to launch myself into uncharted parental territory is that I find myself trying to navigate this parallel universe without a tour guide or even a handbook. I see now why people choose a religious lifestyle. It makes parenting so simple. All of the decisions are made for you; all of the difficult discussions have been outlined and approved in advance. There are black and whites and rights and wrongs and someone else made the rules, so you're just the messenger. What I’m doing requires so much thinking and talking - it’s exhausting.
The phone rings. It’s 10:00 pm. My husband is out of town and I’ve only just successfully put the two young children to bed following the double routine of potty, bath, teeth, potty, pajamas, “sleep with me for 1 minute” and finally sleep. I’ve tidied the kitchen, started the wash cycle for the PE kit my son needs to wear the next day, packed the book bags for the morning and have just let myself settle in to read maybe 2 more pages of the book I’ve been struggling to finish for 4 months before I crash into the wall of sleep myself.
Child 1: “Hi Mom. What’s up?”
Me: “Nothing much, just getting ready for bed. What’s going on with you?”
Child 1: “Well….I need to talk to you about something.”
“Crap!” I think to myself. No good can come from the need to talk to me about something. And I’m too tired to deal with what this something might be: she’s failing school; she’s run out of money; the druggie roommate has stolen her new laptop…
Me: “So spill it.”
Child 1: “I’ve been talking with some friends and I’m really scared of losing my virginity.”
Silence.
Child 1: “Mom, are you still there?”
Me: “Yes I’m here.”
Child 1: “Well?”
Me: “Well what? You should be scared. Terrified. Don’t ever do it and you won’t have to worry about it.”
One thing that has proved difficult about having such a large age gap between children is the need to switch from handing out quick, easy, decisive, directives – “Finish your brussel sprouts;” “Don’t hit your brother;” “Stop biting your shirt” - to giving thoughtful, honest, gentle, moral advice phrased to guide responsible choices, but not command a specific course of action.
Child 1: “Mom, seriously. Come on. I’m really upset about this. A bunch of us were talking about it and the ones who have done it say that it’s horrible, painful, you bleed and tear…it’s scary.”
Growing up as the daughter of “the girl who got pregnant in high school,” I always felt strongly that she should not feel any shame or shyness about sex. We’ve openly discussed sex many, many, many times. We’ve talked about the mechanics and physical aspects; we’ve reviewed the emotional repercussions and maturity required; we’ve discussed safety, pregnancy prevention and sexually transmitted diseases. We covered everything – except how to enjoy it.
No matter what your religious or personal morals tell you to teach your children about when it’s appropriate to have sex, the one thing we should all be teaching our girls is that we should enjoy it when it does happen. Talk about a true test of true parenting skills.
It’s difficult to ever think of your kids as “grown up,” but in order to continue this conversation I had to remind myself that by the time I was 18, I was living on my own, working full time, and raising a 1-year-old as a single mother. Grown up is not an age – it’s a state of mind. The more information she has, the more in control of her own body she can be and the more responsible decisions she can make coming from a place of self-confidence and security. Suck it up and talk to her like you know what you are doing.
So we talked about finding the right balance of lubrication and not relying on what comes on a condom to be sufficient. We talked about the benefit of having a partner with whom you are comfortable and can take your time with. That building up to intercourse over months (or even better - years) of “messing around” will teach you about what you and your partner both enjoy.
By the end of the conversation, I felt like Dr. Ruth, which was really hilarious seeing as I’m about the most sexually repressed and confused woman I know. I was just glad this was over the phone so she couldn’t see how much hair I’d pulled out in uncomfortable nervousness during the course of our discussion. Overall, though, I felt relief. She is now headed in a direction so completely opposite to the one I followed at her age that she will have her own alternate universe from which to guide her relationships and thus hopefully avoid the meteor showers I had to navigate my way around.
Me: “So, do you feel better now?”
Child 1: “Yes, much better. Thanks mom.”
Me: “No problem. Now it’s your turn to make me feel better.”
Child 1: “Don’t worry. I’m not going to have sex. Ever.”
Me: “Perfect. Now both of us can sleep well tonight.”
Child 1: “Oh and mom?”
Me: “Yes.”
Child 1: “Don’t tell dad.”
Me: “Never.”
Rebuttal from a Toxic Wife
This article irritates me:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/global/main.jhtml?xml=/global/2007/01/16/ftwives116.xml&page=1
It is interesting how the men in this article seem to feel the money coming in belongs to them and not to the family. I'm sure these men don't drive around in economical, practical little SMART cars while their wives spend extravagant amounts of money on nannies and house cleaners. They don't empty their trash at work or clean up after the lunch that they did not prepare for themselves during the day. They do not have primary responsibility for their children. Why do they resent their wives for treating themselves to the same lifestyle?
They seem to think that they didn't choose the life they are living, and, more importantly, don't get anything out of it. I'm sure the shoe polisher used as an example in this article as a superfluous expense also polishes the husbands shoes. (If not, then I believe he would be justified in asking for a divorce and an exemption from spousal support.) Did these men honestly think that marriage meant they would be living with Mary Poppins by day and Tracy Lords by night? Were their mothers like that? Or were they raised by hired help?
They are oblivious to the fact that the "emptiness" of their wives is most likely due to the empty life they have provided by focusing on their egos and financial liquidity and disappearing into work. What woman wouldn't be empty when money is thrown at her to replace attention, affection and respect?
Women also have fantasies about marriage that get quickly shot down. You believe that you will continue to have a boyfriend who will organize and be emotionally present on fantastic dates instead of having to resort to girls nights out just to talk to other adults who view you as an equal. You believe you will have input and influence on your life together instead of finding the reality that his career path is now the compass for your life. You believe that marriage will not change how you crave and relate to each other physically. That he will continue to respect the boundaries of your body and thus seduce you with love and understanding instead of merely coming to bed naked and being upset that you aren't physically present every time that happens.
If they think for a minute they would feel life was more equitable if their wife worked, they would be shocked by the responsibility they would have to themselves take on or hire out to somebody. How could they take business trips or work late every evening if their wife had her own busy career and might be traveling or working late as well? They'd have to at least get someone to water the plants and let the dog out. No matter how much money you make, you still need someone to do the basics tasks such as make sure the money is accounted for and bills are paid, doctors bills are submitted to insurance and the subsequent non-payments by insurance are followed up on repeatedly. Who gets to be home for any contractors or deliveries? Who does the grocery shopping so that there are at least ready made meals on hand? Who keeps the house staff from stealing from you? This doesn't even include the responsibilities to the children. What happens when the kids are sick or get suspended from school? Who steps in as caregiver when the Nanny quits or sends you a text that she's not showing up today? Even the most staffed household needs a responsible leader and backup person.
Getting married and having kids is an expensive thing to do both financially and emotionally, but there is some reason that we are driven to it. There must be something we get out of it that makes up for all of that. We're willing to put endless amounts of effort into attaining cars, houses and bank accounts. Companionship. Support. Comfort. Friendship. Love. Are those things in life these men feel they don't need to work for?
Any man over 35, married or single, still needs someone to depend on for those basic elements of life. Perhaps these poor, put-upon, rich men are better suited for sharing their life with someone more selfless, someone willing to put their needs on hold, provide them with clean clothes, warm meals and comfort while they enjoy the fruits of their white collar labor. Actually, I'm sure a few of their mothers would be more than happy to take them back.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/global/main.jhtml?xml=/global/2007/01/16/ftwives116.xml&page=1
It is interesting how the men in this article seem to feel the money coming in belongs to them and not to the family. I'm sure these men don't drive around in economical, practical little SMART cars while their wives spend extravagant amounts of money on nannies and house cleaners. They don't empty their trash at work or clean up after the lunch that they did not prepare for themselves during the day. They do not have primary responsibility for their children. Why do they resent their wives for treating themselves to the same lifestyle?
They seem to think that they didn't choose the life they are living, and, more importantly, don't get anything out of it. I'm sure the shoe polisher used as an example in this article as a superfluous expense also polishes the husbands shoes. (If not, then I believe he would be justified in asking for a divorce and an exemption from spousal support.) Did these men honestly think that marriage meant they would be living with Mary Poppins by day and Tracy Lords by night? Were their mothers like that? Or were they raised by hired help?
They are oblivious to the fact that the "emptiness" of their wives is most likely due to the empty life they have provided by focusing on their egos and financial liquidity and disappearing into work. What woman wouldn't be empty when money is thrown at her to replace attention, affection and respect?
Women also have fantasies about marriage that get quickly shot down. You believe that you will continue to have a boyfriend who will organize and be emotionally present on fantastic dates instead of having to resort to girls nights out just to talk to other adults who view you as an equal. You believe you will have input and influence on your life together instead of finding the reality that his career path is now the compass for your life. You believe that marriage will not change how you crave and relate to each other physically. That he will continue to respect the boundaries of your body and thus seduce you with love and understanding instead of merely coming to bed naked and being upset that you aren't physically present every time that happens.
If they think for a minute they would feel life was more equitable if their wife worked, they would be shocked by the responsibility they would have to themselves take on or hire out to somebody. How could they take business trips or work late every evening if their wife had her own busy career and might be traveling or working late as well? They'd have to at least get someone to water the plants and let the dog out. No matter how much money you make, you still need someone to do the basics tasks such as make sure the money is accounted for and bills are paid, doctors bills are submitted to insurance and the subsequent non-payments by insurance are followed up on repeatedly. Who gets to be home for any contractors or deliveries? Who does the grocery shopping so that there are at least ready made meals on hand? Who keeps the house staff from stealing from you? This doesn't even include the responsibilities to the children. What happens when the kids are sick or get suspended from school? Who steps in as caregiver when the Nanny quits or sends you a text that she's not showing up today? Even the most staffed household needs a responsible leader and backup person.
Getting married and having kids is an expensive thing to do both financially and emotionally, but there is some reason that we are driven to it. There must be something we get out of it that makes up for all of that. We're willing to put endless amounts of effort into attaining cars, houses and bank accounts. Companionship. Support. Comfort. Friendship. Love. Are those things in life these men feel they don't need to work for?
Any man over 35, married or single, still needs someone to depend on for those basic elements of life. Perhaps these poor, put-upon, rich men are better suited for sharing their life with someone more selfless, someone willing to put their needs on hold, provide them with clean clothes, warm meals and comfort while they enjoy the fruits of their white collar labor. Actually, I'm sure a few of their mothers would be more than happy to take them back.
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