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The “Joy” of Air Travel

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We recently went on a family trip. It’s easier now that our children are older.  All they need is their screens and some sugar and they are good.  We bring our 15-year-old’s wheelchair, that he uses occasionally, to make it easier getting through the airport.  Adding to the stress of travel is the anticipatory stress of going through security because of my son’s feeding-tube supplies and medications.

On the first leg of our trip, I made the security people aware that I had medical liquids in my backpack. They took my son’s wheelchair and simply let the bag go through the machine – it was so easy.  What a relief! I was not so fortunate on my return flight. I was alone with my two eldest sons on the way home.

Again, they took the wheelchair through. But when I told them I had medical liquids, they pulled me aside and looked at the contents: three cans of formula and a small bottle of liquid medication. I was given a choice.  They could open the cans of formula to test them; but then I would not have formula to feed my son. Or they could search through my bags and thoroughly pat me down.  Really? I’m just a middle-aged lady trying to get from Point A to Point B.

I had no choice and felt like a cornered animal. They searched through everything in my backpack and purse. Then I had to submit to the pat-down.  They called a woman TSA officer over to do the honors.  I wanted to cry. I stood there as she explained what she was going to do. She patted down my body and checked the waistline of my pants. Normally one to find the humor in things, I could find nothing funny about this.  I had to take off my shoes again to be checked. I quietly cooperated when what I really wanted to do was scream. Other passengers tried to avert their eyes but gave me pitying looks, glancing between me and my child in the wheelchair.

It was such an indignity and a dehumanizing experience.

“What’s dehumanizing?” my disabled son asked as he listened to me complain to my other son when it was over and we were walking to our gate.

“It’s when someone makes you feel like you are not a human being, but like an animal or an object,” I told him.

I realize we have an enormous country with thousands of airports. And ever since September 11th, authorities have tried to do many things to make air travel safer. Some things simply give us the illusion of safety.  The TSA workers are just doing their job but they do not make me feel any safer.

Some people may say I should just avoid flying.  I tolerate the basic stupidities everyone must go through to get where I want to go.   I leave my liquid deodorant and hair gel in my checked luggage, even though I think it’s pointless.  I can’t do that with my son’s medical supplies. It’s the senselessness of a one-size-fits-all screening process that sends me over the edge. Are the skies really safer with random, inconsistent screening?

There must be a better way.

 

 

 

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Left for Camp

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I was a teenager hired to deliver a used car from a dealership in Maryland to a couple on Long Island. I arrived at 10 a.m. on a Sunday morning, rang the bell, and apparently woke up the husband after a night of partying.

“Our kids left for sleep-away camp yesterday,” he explained through bleary eyes.

As a 16-year-old girl, I was shocked to learn that parents celebrated when their progeny went away to camp. Was it possible my parents were happy when I went to camp? Could it be?

Now I am the parent and understand the glee of sending my kids away to camp.  I remember the first time I sent away my eldest at age nine.  People commented on how well we separated from each other.  I figured I was either doing a great job of raising a self-assured and independent kid or I was a horrible mother and he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

After a few days of him being gone, I remarked to my sister that I was experiencing an emotion that I was not familiar with.

“Is it possible you miss him?” she asked.

“I think I might,” I replied.

It was a fleeting but not unpleasant emotion.  It surprised me because there were still three kids at home.  I am happy that my children go to sleep-away camp. It is a chance for them to have a lot of fun, meet new people, try new activities, gain greater independence, and be away from all forms of “screens” for a month.

I am old fashioned about my kids going to camp.  I resent the implied expectation that I am supposed to view the online pictures that are now posted each night by the camps.  Instead, I enjoy receiving the occasional letters and seeing them at the end of the session when I can exclaim, “Look how tall you’ve gotten!” I am grateful that I can give them this camp experience.  But that’s what it is – their experience, not mine.  I had my own camp times and have great memories.  I don’t feel the need to relive it through my children.

I choose not to spend every night my child is gone scrolling through hundreds of pictures just to catch a glimpse of my precious child.  The camp will only show happy children – they will never show a picture of a child weeping in the corner of the room. If there is a problem with my child, I will find out about it from a phone call or a letter.  Otherwise, I assume my child is having a fantastic time.

I think it’s a shame that kids have to be “on” and have their pictures taken incessantly, although they are used to it I suppose with all the social media.  It is the norm for them.  The only mugging for the camera we did at camp was for our friend’s instamatic camera and the pictures wouldn’t get developed until after we all got home from camp.  But now I sound like an old lady.

What’s next? Watching your kid while he’s away at college? Oh right, that’s called Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.

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Dietary Indiscretion

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My dog had tummy troubles last week.  Judging by the quality and quantity of what he was producing, the poor guy’s system was clearly out of whack.

What to do? Should I use the model I apply to my children…wait a few days and hope the problem resolves or call the vet?

I called the vet, described the dog’s symptoms, and went in to get some pills.  When I asked the vet what was causing my pup’s poop problems she explained it was colitis.

” What causes that?” I asked.

“Stress,” she offered.

Nope, I thought, that’s not it – our pooch does not lead an especially stressful existence.

“Dietary indiscretion,” she suggested.

Bingo. That’s it, that’s the ticket right there.

It’s the puppy’s first spring in the world. He has so much to see, smell, and sample.  Twigs and mulch and yard clippings – oh my! That was clearly the cause of his problem. The pills quickly fixed him up.

Then it occurred to me that my dog and I have something in common. I too suffer frequently from dietary indiscretion.

Dietary indiscretion. Such a brilliant commentary on my eating habits. Beautiful in its simplicity. Thankfully, I have no symptoms of colitis. But any extra weight I carry around must be due to serious indiscretion in my diet.  If only a pill could help me. The happy pantry items, the refreshing alcoholic beverages, the comfort food I turn to in good times and bad all contribute to this problem. Sure, the dog-walking has increased my level of activity; not only the walking itself but the repeated bending over to pull those indiscriminate objects out of his mouth. But oh, to live the life of a dog, where I only ate once a day and someone would command me to “leave it” whenever I was about to throw discretion to the wind and put an ill-advised morsel into my mouth.

Unlike my dog, I am supposed to have free will.  Maybe I’ll use it to control my consumption this summer.  Or maybe not.

 

 

 

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I Don’t Wanna

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Several years back there was a scene on one of my favorite television shows, Will & Grace, where Grace asks Will, her best friend, to walk her down the aisle for her wedding.

“I don’t wanna,” he replied.

“You don’t wanna?” she asked, incredulously.

I have adopted this as one of my favorite mantras.

Most everybody has experienced this feeling of wanting to avoid something hard or painful, or just plain inconvenient.  Like most people, I’ve got lots of balls in the air that I’m juggling, and most days I keep those balls in the air. Occasionally they come crashing down.  When that happens, what I want to do most is simply stick my head in the sand.  Because of the excellent writers of a hit sitcom, I now have the words to apply to these feelings.

Sometimes it’s less serious situations when the “I Don’t Wanna” comes into play.  For instance, a social obligation, a work function, or a school activity…ring any bells?

Usually it’s the big matzah balls of life that trigger my I don’t wannas.  For instance, last summer the sleep-away camp doctor called about my daughter.

“Have you noticed a goiter on your daughter’s neck?” she asked.

Anyone who’s watched Seinfeld knows that I imagined a goiter the size of a second head. I hadn’t seen my child for three weeks, but I had never noticed a goiter before she left.  Time for a maternal gut-check—Did I not notice a goiter? What kind of mother could have missed a goiter?  Fortunately, her goiter was in reality very subtle and unnoticeable to the untrained eye.  It turned out she has Hashimoto’s Disease, an autoimmune disease that attacks the thyroid, is easily treatable and for which you see an endocrinologist. Seriously? This is my fourth kid and I have to deal with new and exotic illnesses? I really don’t wanna.

On a bigger scale, it seems that I have to begin contemplating how the rest of my disabled son’s high school career will play out.  I met with a “transition” counselor at his school recently.  She gave me a notebook with a lot of information and advice on applying for services with various agencies and scenarios of the different options available to my son.

First of all, the notebook made me chuckle. Through various projects and committees over the years, I have categorized people into “notebook” people or “folder” people.  Notebook people are extremely organized, with papers neatly arranged by tabs.  Folder people are those who have all of their papers shoved into a folder.  I fall into the latter category.  I think of myself as a relatively organized person and can put my hands on the papers I need – I’m just not motivated to put them into notebook form.

But I digress.

I don’t wanna think about the next few years of my son’s life. I want a typical fifteen-year-old with typical fifteen-year-old problems. The thought of applications, forms, evaluations, assessments, meetings and decision-making makes my chest tighten. I have put the notebook away for a while but I know I will open it one of these days and do the things I need to do.

I realize that “I Don’t Wanna” is essentially a manifestation of denial. I suspect it is a universal feeling that people use to cope with stressful situations. Denial often gets a bad rap, but I find it can be healthy in small doses.  A petulant child lives within me and sometimes pays me a visit in trying times.  Instead of crossing my arms and stomping my feet, I just enjoy a few quiet days of  “I don’t wanna” and my semi-ignorant bliss before doing what needs to be done.

You could try it sometime, if you wanna.

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I Need a Good Book

008Book clubs.  You either love them or you don’t.  There was a time several years back when it was in vogue to be in a book club.  If you weren’t in a book club, you were made to feel like you were missing out on an uber-intellectual experience.

I was in a book club once, for a few years.  It was a lovely group of women and we read some very interesting books. Some of the books were ones that I never would have picked up on my own.  After a few years, my interest waned. Instead of talking about the book, I found we talked about our children, which isn’t what I was looking for.  Also, the pressure of completing a book by the monthly meeting became a strain and a dilemma – do I skip the meeting or do I attend and find out how the book ended?  I couldn’t take the pressure.

When I quit, I felt oddly liberated.  I went on a bit of a crusade, encouraging the women of the world to rise up and say “no” to the book club.  We can be smart, savvy, popular and well-read and NOT be in a book club.  I discovered that I don’t want to sit around for an hour and dissect a book, like an English class.  The only questions I am interested in are, “did you like the book?” and “why or why not?” That’s it. The enjoyment of reading for me comes from actually reading the book, not discussing it.  I have many friends who are in book clubs and love them – the book suggestions, the discussion, the company, the food.  I get the socialization aspect.  I just choose to do my socializing elsewhere.

Having gone rogue, I continue to be an avid reader.  My friends and family recommend books in a very organic, informal way.  However, this week I hit a “wall.”  I cannot find a thing to read.  I’ve recently gone to “the other side” and am reading mostly electronically on my trusty I-pad.  I perused the library website and Amazon and haven’t found anything that excites me. It’s like watching television and not being able to find anything to watch, even though there are a gazillion channels to choose from.

Is this what happens when you get older?  It’s hard to find a book with an original theme?  Years ago I stopped reading books about abused women in the South.  While I admire their strength and perseverance and their need to tell a story, I just don’t particularly want to read about them.  Murdered and abused children is a draining topic. Holocaust-themed books, while important to remember, are brutal as well. I like travel books, especially reading about places where I do not particularly wish to visit – I prefer to read about them from the comfort of my first-world home.  Maybe I should venture into biographies and more non-fiction.

I also enjoy adventure books, like Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer and Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand.  Reading Into Thin Air made me feel as if I was actually climbing that mountain – something I would never, ever do.  And Unbroken is about an American soldier serving during WWII and his experience as a pilot and a Japanese prisoner of war.  Again, it was so well written and compelling that I had to get back to it to see what happened.

Another book I really enjoyed recently was What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarity. It’s about a suburban housewife who falls off her spin bike, hits her head, and forgets the last 10 years of her life.  Interesting concept, beautifully written, and another compelling read.

Not everyone is a “reader.”  I admire the people who can just freely state that, their head held high. There is no shame in not reading books.  Some people seem so embarrassed when you ask if they are a reader.  They make excuses for why they don’t read books – they read at work all day, they read newspapers and magazines.   I am always reassuring them that it’s okay.  I know they can read. It’s like watching television; some people do and some people don’t.  Love yourself.

I’m sure I will find something soon to pique my interest in the book department.  If you are so inclined, leave a comment with one book recommendation that you really loved.  I would appreciate it.  Maybe I’ll start “Susan’s Un- Book Club….”

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Mother’s Day

001.jpgThis will be my first Mother’s Day without my mother.  It is the first time in my adult life that I don’t have to buy a card or a gift or plan an activity to do with my mother.

Last weekend was the unveiling of my mother’s tombstone.  It was an intimate gathering to officially mark her grave and say a few prayers. It was a beautiful day, which was both good and bad.  Good because we could all enjoy the glory of nature, but bad because my mother would have appreciated such a gorgeous day, making her absence all the more glaring.

My mother was a passionate genealogist.  She spent a lot of time in cemeteries, searching for clues from tombstones to help figure out the puzzle of a family history.  She loved the challenge and excitement of searching a family’s lineage.  She also derived great pleasure from introducing distant relatives to each other.  I could not muster much enthusiasm for her pursuits, being far too self involved with the daily grind of my own life.

“I talked to a man who’s grandfather was my father’s third cousin once removed,” she’d happily proclaim.

“Great Mom,” my siblings and I would say.  We were glad she had a hobby she loved, even though we didn’t share her interest.

It was one of the ways that my mother created a legacy for herself.  She lovingly compiled books about our family history, which we will keep and hope that a child or grandchild will inherit her passion and keep her work going.

It feels ironic that my Mom is now resting in one of the places where she actually spent a lot of time.  It is a pretty setting, which she would have liked.  The tombstones lay flat on the ground, with a metal plaque laying on top with the information about each person.  I asked my dad why some cemeteries have tombstones like that.  He didn’t know, but said that my mother preferred the upright grave markers.  She thought they had more character.  Of course she did.

Now at least I have a place to officially go “see” my mother. I think I’ll go there on Mother’s Day with my family and my father. Will it be a source of comfort?  A time for reflection? I hope so. I will join the ranks who dutifully go to the final resting place of their loved ones.  My mother used to say that she wanted a bench and a tree near her grave.  She was always thinking of other’s comfort and the serenity that the beauty of nature can bring.  A bench is not in place yet…I joked, “I’ll just sit on a nearby family’s  bench when I come see Mom.”

Other people have told me that Mother’s Day without their mothers is an especially difficult day. I am not anticipating it to be awful.  I think fondly back on recent Mother’s Days we spent together.  There was the time I was in the midst of being diagnosed with breast cancer. My husband figured he would get rid of the baseball tickets he had for Mother’s Day, thinking he would do something with our family instead.  “Not so fast,” I told him.  My mother and I, neither of us baseball fans, enjoyed a beautiful day at the ballpark – just the two of us.  She was always up for a new experience.  We enjoyed good seats, great weather, ballpark food and beer, the people-watching, the stadium vibe, and being together. Thinking back it makes me laugh how my mother chided me when I ordered a second beer.

“Susan, you’re driving,” she said.  “Yeah, in like three hours,” I replied.

Or last year when we served dinner to families at the NIH Children’s Inn.  She wasn’t feeling great from her illness, but she never missed an opportunity to help other people.

I will cherish memories of how my mother cherished me.  Like the time she shaved my head as I was losing my hair from chemotherapy.  She said it was one of the hardest things she had ever done.  But she did it and I was grateful.

I am grateful that she gave me life.  And she gave me my best friend – my little sister.  That she taught me a lot about how to live a full, meaningful life.  And gave me a few nuggets of wisdom about raising children. One that sticks in my mind is, “Have a routine, but be flexible.”  This has served me well, as raising my family has been anything but predictable.

I have never been a huge fan of Mother’s Day.  I think it’s a contrived, Hallmark holiday.  Every day is Mother’s Day. For that matter, I think every day should be “Be Kind to One Another Day.” My mother felt the same way. Of course we  acknowledged the day but it wasn’t a big production.

So it will be a different Mother’s Day this year. Instead of buying a card for my Mom, I’ll go visit her grave.

 

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Am I a Dance Mom?

I think of myself as a generic, run-of-the-mill mom.  Like many parents who benignly neglect their children, my kids spend hours in front of the computer searching God-knows-what.  Apparently my 10-year-old daughter is a fan of the show “Dance Moms.” I have never seen the show.  Don’t get me wrong – I enjoy watching television.  Binge-watching shows with my husband is a favorite activity.

For some reason, reality shows hold no allure for me.  Judging by the number of them on television, I gather I am in the minority.  My daughter is a big fan of this reality, dance mom show.  I was vaguely aware that it seemed to spark an interest in dance in her as I saw her twirling around the house in my peripheral vision.  She wanted to take a dance class, so I called a local dance studio.  Ignorant of all things dance, I didn’t have the words to make this request so I had to speak in the universal language of television.

“My daughter doesn’t know how to dance, has never taken a dance class, but she’s a big fan of ‘Dance Moms.’ Which class would you recommend for her?” I asked. This clearly was not their first Dance Mom inspired inquiry. The woman on the phone totally got it and pointed my daughter towards Broadway Jazz.  She loves it.

She happily attends her weekly class and always enjoys it.  I thought she looked so cute, picking out appropriate clothes to wear each week, doing her hair up into an intricate bun – sometimes with accessories on it.

Then she casually mentioned that the cast of Dance Moms was coming to town.  She reluctantly asked if maybe she could go – she said they would even be teaching a dance class.  Her reluctance showed that my daughter knows me well.  Surely I wouldn’t agree to waste money and time on something so frivolous, would I?

I mentioned it to my husband, who was on the same page as me.  Still, the 10-year-old gently and systematically kept asking, eventually showing me the website where I could find all of the information.  What to do?

I sought the advice of a friend who is the mom of my daughter’s best friend.  She was enthusiastic and thought her daughter would love it as well.  Really?  She would consider it?  Would I?  Could I?

“You talk about making memories.  This would definitely be an experience your daughter would remember,” she said.

She had me there.

So I surprised my daughter, and myself, by buying tickets and planning to attend this event. It included meeting the girls from the show, having your picture taken with them, and taking a class taught by a teacher from the show.  Four hours of fun.  She was so excited.

It wasn’t as bad as I thought.  I tried to keep the curmudgeon in me in check and mustered up excitement and enthusiasm for my child.  The event was well-organized and not a complete mob scene.  The mother-attendees were a mix of typical suburban moms, like myself, and what appeared to me to be true dance moms.  There were many adorable girls, appropriately dressed, and then there were others who reminded me of Jon Benet Ramsey.

I realized where my daughter got the bun idea from. What I thought was darling and adorable when she created it at home, suddenly looked pedestrian in a sea full of buns.

The dance girls seemed like typical girls, though a little precocious. “Please turn off your flash when you take pictures…it hurts our eyes,” they requested.  They seemed bored with the endless picture-taking.  Who wouldn’t be? I only met one mom from the show – a school principal I’m told. She seemed normal and nice.  The other Dance Moms were busy selling merchandise so I did not interact with them.  My friend and I agreed there would be no merchandise purchases; the memories would have to be made through the experience and pictures of the day.  Our girls were so excited because they ran into some of the girls from the show in the bathroom! Can you imagine? They use the bathroom too!

The dance class was cute.  Our girls were on the younger and less experienced side, so they happily positioned themselves in the back of the room.  They warmed up, learned two dances, and got to dance in front of the people from the show.  At the end, each of the four girls from the show did a dance routine.

On the way home, the girls were chatting about the day.  “Did you see why we were so skeptical about it?” I asked.  My friend shot me a glance to silence me.  I was grateful for the restraint.  No need for grumpy old me to be a buzz-kill.  They experienced the day through the fresh eyes of children, not through my cynical lens.

I am pretty sure my daughter is not going to be a professional dancer and that I am not going to be a dance mom. While I was reluctant to indulge in this activity outside of my comfort zone,  I saw how much fun she had.  Maybe I’m just a mom who was happy to give her child a fun day she will always remember.

That’s what I was going for.

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Happy Pantry

My nephews love coming to visit from out of town.

“You have a happy pantry. My pantry is very, very sad in comparison,” my sister observed.

It’s true.  I know exactly what she means. She has granola bars, pretzels, nuts, and dried fruit.  I have those things as well, but who are we kidding, you put a granola bar and a Nutter Butter side by side, what are you picking to eat?

A house well-stocked with Oreos is by definition, a happy home. I believe it’s a God-given right for children to eat Oreo cookies, be they double-stuffed or mint. I know my healthier friends are rolling their eyes.  They’ve heard this before.

My kids have the rest of their lives to worry about the effects of what they put into their body. What’s the harm in allowing them to be a bit carefree?  Of course I want my children to eat healthy food and grow up to be healthy adults with good eating habits.  I model that behavior most of the time.  I exercise regularly too.  My children do not have weight issues.  They all seem to be tall and thin, like their father.

I confess to letting my kids be kids.  I do their laundry.  I make their lunches for school.  I generally keep the house picked up.   They will have their whole adult life to do these things.  Don’t get me wrong – they have to be considerate, polite, and well-behaved.  They clear their plates, help with the dog, clean up their rooms, do well in school.  They help when I ask them.  They are respectful of adults, myself included.

So should I be embarrassed to have a happy pantry?  I think not. The joy of anticipation as the children enter the food mecca after I’ve gone grocery shopping to see what new treats have arrived is a fun activity for them.  Are there the same old snacks?  Or occasionally something new and enticing?  Not just graham crackers and pretzels for this pantry.  Cookies, chips, crackers, various and sundry treats.  Savory as well as sweet abound.

My children take pride in our happy pantry.  They like that their friends and family like coming to their house to hang out. The pantry, in addition to their sparkling personalities,  is one of the reasons why. My father likes coming too – our Peppermint Patty supply is just the perfect cure for a sweet tooth.

The pantry is more than your typical kitchen pantry.  It is the size of a small walk-in closet. Sometimes the children (and occasionally an adult) will go into the pantry and close the door behind them.  This allows them privacy and the ability to focus. I try not to be the pantry police.  As long as my children eat their fruits and vegetables, I am okay with their snacking. With a little supervision, they learn to monitor their snack intake.  It is a skill they must develop when they go out in the world to shop and eat independently.

While I think of my pantry as a delicious destination, the pantry of my children’s dreams is out of town where my sister-in-law has an even happier pantry than mine.  She has been known to stock full-size candy bars.  Can you imagine?  A regular 7-11 store.  While I occasionally surprise the kids with mini-candy bars at months other than Halloween, I have not yet taken it to the next level.

Making delicious desserts using cereal and other pantry snacks has become a bit of a specialty of mine.  Puppy Chow, Indoor S’mores, Rolo Pretzels.  Not exactly gourmet, but the kids love it.  An occasional treat for the kids which in turn makes me feel like mother-of -the-year. Win-win.

We have just wrapped up the holiday of Passover, where the pantry has been emptied of its regular contents and replaced with less delicious Passover items.  As the end of the holiday approached, I planned to restock the pantry with regular food.

“What should I buy?” I asked my kids.  “Everything,” they replied.

I can’t wait.  It’s the little things that often bring the greatest joy.

 

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Making Memories

Where has the time gone?  A couple of years ago, when my eldest child was finishing his freshman year in high school I had a sudden, somewhat panicked feeling that he would be “gone” in a few years.  He would leave the nest and life as I know it would never be the same.

I remember when my children were small and every older person sagely advised me to enjoy this time as it all goes by very quickly.  I thought, “Yeah, right – I can barely make it through each day.”  And then that moment happened – I suddenly felt time accelerating.  What to do?

“We have to plan some vacations,” I told my husband.

Vacations and unique activities are what make memories.  The day to day drudgery is how you build morals and values both consciously and unconsciously.  But it’s the out of the ordinary things that children remember.  Encouraging (or forcing) together time can be novel in itself but the challenge is to make it memorable.

I’m not one to scrapbook or take loads of pictures.  I think the greatest memories are in your head and the way you viscerally feel when remembering them.  The ones that are in your hard drive.  Making memories can be intentional.  And many memories are created unintentionally.

I had a simple, visceral memory of my own recently.  At the end of a yoga class the instructor was going around giving everyone a therapeutic touch as we were in our final, resting pose.  She gently placed her hand across my forehead.  It made me remember the many times my own mother did this.

One of the goals of parenting for me is to create good memories for my children, like my mother did for me.  As the first spring arrives since my mother died, my heart is lifting with the anticipation of warm weather, flowers and trees blooming.  My happiness is muted knowing my mother will not enjoy this spring too.  She loved going out to “inspect” her yard, clipping shears in hand.  This memory will comfort me as I take shears and go out to inspect my yard.  My mother will be with me and I’ll see things through my eyes but with her filter.

As I think about it, the vacations are the vivid memories we take from childhood but the little things are what brings us comfort and security throughout our adult lives.  The memory that a parent cared for our bodies and our souls.  That they were interested in who we were and how we fared in life.  They are our biggest cheerleaders.

I guess that’s why I’m so focused on making the most of this last year before my eldest flies the coop.  I feel an urgency to impart my wisdom, though I realize my timeline is arbitrary. I will continue to parent, but he will be influenced by the people he meets and his own experiences.  What things will he remember from his childhood?  The good times at the beach, holidays, vacations? Family dinners and family friends?  Familiar songs or prayers? The cool hand on his warm forehead?  The special things I bake and cook – the tastes and smells?

Will he remember the things I’m not as proud of? Apparently I’m known to raise my voice once or twice, or a thousand times. In my mind’s eye, I don’t perceive myself as a yeller though I admit the children provoke me sometimes.

I tell them, “I didn’t always yell.  I used to be a normal person, just like you, who speaks in a normal tone of voice.”

Hopefully they won’t remember their Mom as “Old Yeller.”  I try only to look forward, not back.  The goal is not a perfect childhood, but a solid one to build the foundation for a successful adulthood however one defines that.  I hope my children will remember the good times, the meaningful moments and the laughter in our home.

I know they will remember their mother pointing their finger at them and saying, “Let me tell you something….”

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Why I Like Having a Dog

Against my better judgment, I recently got a dog.  He’s now eight months old.  I didn’t particularly want one.   They mess the house and chew on things.  They require a lot of care.  The children promised they’d take care of him and I am sure you can guess how that has worked out.

The weird thing is, I am surprised to find that I enjoy having a dog.  But not for all of the obvious reasons like unconditional love, man’s best friend, and so forth. I have not become a cuckoo, over the top, dog person.  While I do not care to be licked by my dog, I like petting and snuggling with him.  I did not anticipate the following reasons why I would like having a dog:

1)    Confirmation that my children are not sociopaths.  Not that I was really worried that they were, but I remember back to some psychology class in college where I learned that torturing animals is diagnostic of being a sociopath.  My children really love this dog and are very gentle with him.   In particular,  I love watching my teenage boys return from school each day and rush to play with their pup.  This daily ritual warms my heart.  Even if it lasts only five minutes, dog ownership is worth every second of it.

2)     Ascribing human thoughts and emotions to the dog is great fun for the whole family.

“Shoe, what shoe?” we joke, as he prances away with a sneaker.

“It’s Mommy,” my children announce when the dog comes running to greet me whenever I arrive from another room.

The dog recently hurt his leg.  I called the vet who told me he should “take it easy.”  My sister wondered why that should be so hard for a dog, as he doesn’t have to really do anything or go to school.

“Oh, he’s very busy,” I joked.

He has toys to fetch, squirrels and birds to chase, twigs to eat, and dogs to sniff.

3)  Freedom to curse at the dog when no one’s around.

“Why would you do that?” a dog-loving friend of mine asked.

I replied, “Um, because he’s annoying sometimes,” stating the obvious.

4)    The children no longer fear dogs.   There are so many scary things in the world.  One less thing for them to fret about.

5)     Learning about dog behavior is fascinating.  We hired a dog trainer because we think people like a well-behaved dog just like we all appreciate well-behaved children.  During the first session, he taught him how to sit within minutes. He was like a magician.  Or a dog whisperer.   Training the dog ourselves proves a little harder, but together as a family we’re working on it.

Except for my 17 year old.  Before we ever got the dog he was very clear about his feelings.

“I do not want a dog.  I will not walk it or take care of it in any way,” he announced.  He added, “I am leaving for college in a year and a half, why can’t you just wait?”

I respected his feelings.  And in spite of himself, he loves the dog.

6)     The dog is a friend for my disabled son.  Sure, my son has his siblings and family friends but one by one they will leave the house.  I relish seeing him actively play with the dog, throwing a ball for him to fetch.  It gets him off the couch.  And it gives him another way to love and be loved.

7)    It forces me to get outside.   Even in the cold months, I mostly find it invigorating.  It’s good for him and for me. I see what’s going on in my neighborhood, greet neighbors, and meet other dogs and their owners.

8)     I get a huge kick out of the dog park.  It is a whole different sub-culture from the human parks.  I recently was telling some other dog owners this at the dog park.  We looked over to see one dog humping another.  I remarked how that wasn’t really appropriate behavior.

“Use your words,” an older woman said to the dog.  We all had a chuckle. Well, maybe not so different from human parks.

9)    I enjoy watching the pup master new skills.  We all cheered when he finally learned to go down stairs.  The dog trainer told us male dogs learn to lift their leg to pee by watching other dogs.  So I told my sister I was going to take him to the dog park so he could “man up.”

“You should have thought of that before you had him neutered,”  she said.  True, but the trainer assured us one has nothing to do with the other.

He recently started attempting to lift his leg.  I couldn’t be prouder.

For some reason, I am not stressed out about having a dog.  Sure, he’s chewed up a few things and had many “accidents” in the house.  But he hasn’t trashed my house.  And it’s all part of what makes our house a home.  It’s not a museum; it’s for living.  What’s one more living thing, even if it doesn’t use the toilet to go to the bathroom?

I see the benefit of having a dog for me and my family.  It brings a lot of joy into our home.