Monthly Archives: August 2011

Aug 31 2011

How I Prepared for the Hurricane

Coming out on the other side of the hurricane with our electricity still working, our floors dry, and our store intact, I can now look back at the last few days and laugh at my approach to hurricane preparedness—a much needed release of the tension that had been building in me for days.

Thursday (Two Days Until Storm):

As the news of the impending hurricane intensified, a low hum of anticipation grew all around us. During the workday, my mother—who lives in a town at the southern-most tip of New Jersey—was told that there would be a mandatory evacuation of her island home. She went home that day to attempt to pack up the clothes she would need for a couple of days, along with those things she knew she couldn’t live without.

The rest of my day progressed in much the same way as it usually did: meetings, kids, cooking, cleaning, laundry, . . . I procrastinated.

Friday (One Day Until Storm):

I started my day with a cup of coffee in front of The Today Show. I listened to advice on what to do in the event of a catastrophic storm, and I attempted to make a list of the things I would need to purchase after work—candles, flashlights, batteries, water, . . . I kept drawing a blank as to what else a person might need in case of losing electricity and water. What do you buy to eat if you don’t have a stove to cook it on, or a refrigerator to keep it cold? I was at a loss.

It was Friday—the second to last one of the summer—which meant that I could finish work early. My first stop was the dollar store. I left there with forty “Emergency Candles,” two flashlights that took AAA batteries—they’d probably work for an hour—, and four packs of batteries.

Next stop—the grocery store.

I should have known it was going to be a nightmare when I saw that there wasn’t a single cart to be found. I stood there dumbfounded, unable to decide what to do, that is until I saw a woman leaving the store with a cart full of groceries. I decided to follow (stalk) her to her car, and when she was done loading everything, I politely took her cart. Once inside, I was forced to steer my way through the aisles looking for water, but when I finally got there, not a bottle was to be found. Even the over-priced imported water was sold out. The next aisle over had soda on sale, so I bought five bottles. The rest of the shopping trip went by in a chaotic blur. I found myself wandering up and down aisles completely uncertain as to what to buy. I left with a cart full of snacks and other junk that my children would love. I really started to wonder whether I was shopping for a hurricane or for a party.

Soon after putting all of the groceries away, my mom arrived at my house. Feeling the need to keep busy, I started cooking dinner, and then decided to once again go back out to try to find water. I headed over to a grocery store that is typically empty, but when I saw the busy parking lot and the liquor store next door, I was suddenly torn about what to do. It was a difficult decision: brave a store filled with panicked customers looking to get the last can of tuna or buy alcohol. I left the liquor store with five bottles of wine and a six-pack of beer. I texted my husband to ask him to buy water on his way home from work.

Saturday (Day of the Storm—due to hit around midnight):

Not sure of what to do with the raw meat and eggs in the fridge, I decided to cook everything. I figured that if we lost power, we’d at least be able to eat cold chicken or hard-boiled eggs. It seemed practical. I was stubbornly refusing to listen to folks on the news saying that you shouldn’t even open your fridge if you didn’t want everything to spoil in only a few short hours.

My husband wasn’t able to find water the night before, so I once more decided to venture out. As I was thinking of where to go, it occurred to me that the kids would probably drive me insane without TV, video games, cell phones, or the Internet, and that what I really needed to do to prepare for the storm was to buy a new board game. I headed over to K-Mart thinking that I would be able to find both there, . . . but I was wrong. I walked out with the game, and once again texted my husband to please find water on his way home from getting our store ready for the storm.

The afternoon was spent intermittently watching the news and cleaning the house. After dinner—and a couple of glasses of wine—my daughter, my brother-in-law, and I finally started playing the new board-game while my husband read the news on the computer, and my son concentrated on getting to the next level on Super Mario Brothers. We laughed, we talked, we joked with one another. At times, we even forgot that we were waiting for the storm to hit. Suddenly, my daughter looked up from the game and said “The good thing about a hurricane is that we all get to spend time together.”

The night ended some time around 1:30 am with me camping out with my children in my daughter’s room. I don’t know if I agreed to sleep there to make them—or myself—feel more secure about the storm. It was the perfect ending to a very long day.

I realized the next day when I woke up to a house with electricity and a dry living-room floor, that we were even luckier than I had first thought. In spending the day together as a family—something that we don’t often get to do—we were creating memories that our children would remember when they were older. In the end, all of my preparations may not have been needed for the hurricane, but what they did do was make our time together that much better—a board-game, some delicious cooked, and a little wine—I guess it turned into a party after all. The only advice I have for my daughter is to do what I am doing now, when an event happens—however big or small—take some time to write it down. Who knows, it may turn out to be one of your favorite memories.

 

 

Aug 25 2011

Get Dressed!

On the news this week, there was a story about a French clothing company that had created lingerie for children as young as four years old. If the concept weren’t disturbing enough, the magazine advertisements had young girls being depicted in poses that made them look like young women—not children. Being the parent of a daughter, the sexualization of young girls is something that has always disturbed me, and has therefore been something I have tried to prevent. This has included not putting her in bikinis—even as a toddler—or letting her wear super short shorts at the age of eleven. I know that most parents find themselves in some battle at one time or another with their children over their appearance—this has been mine.

Dressing my daughter stopped being easy when she learned how to talk. Before that time, I could put her in any clothes I chose—delicate dresses, bright solid tops, hats of all colors and styles. When she turned two, this all changed. Each morning she would find a way to assert her own opinion about what she wanted to wear. More often than not, this would lead to me straddling her on the floor, trying to pull her shirt on over her head, as she did everything she could to fight against me. When I would leave the room—completely disheveled—to go finish getting myself ready for work, I would come back to find her sitting once again in her diaper. The yelling that would ensue would turn our house into a war zone, usually with my husband in the middle yelling at both of us to stop our fighting.

When I was finally at my wit’s end, I had a sudden moment of clarity. I finally understood that my daughter wanted to be the one in control—it wasn’t about the purple plaid shirt I chose, or the corduroy pants I wanted her to put on—it was about the fact that I was the one telling her what to wear. Of course, I couldn’t trust a two year-old to pick out her own clothes, so I would pick out two outfits for her to choose from—which she would happily do. From that moment on, I was amazed to see the difference in our morning routine—life was peaceful once again.

Each of the subsequent years presented new challenges with my daughter and clothes. As much as I wished that I could just buy her something and she might actually wear it, this was never the case. I soon found that she would reject any article of clothing that I purchased without her consent. This progressed to not even being able to point out clothes while shopping with her. In the end, I had to establish some basic guidelines:

  • It must be on sale, or at least reasonably priced.
  • It can’t be too short.
  • It should be age-appropriate.
  • I have final say to spend the money, or not.

There have been moments while shopping with her that she has asked to buy shorts that are just a little too short, or to get something else that I just didn’t feel comfortable with. She knows how I feel, and usually asks with a slight hesitation in her voice. The expression on my face is enough for her to decide to move on to something else.

As much as I wish it were still possible to control every aspect of my daughter’s appearance—as I could when she was a baby—I have finally accepted that this will never again happen. I believe that in order to nurture her sense of independence and self-confidence, I had to give up this right to make her look a certain way—the way that I chose. The times I have found myself making comments about her appearance—when she looks like she hasn’t bothered to brush her hair, or she has chosen to wear sweatpants and a t-shirt out to dinner—I unintentially end up hurting her feelings, weakening our relationship, and in the end counteracting all of the other things I do to build her up. Something so simple as asking, “Are you really going to wear that?” could ultimately undo all of my efforts to make her feel good about herself. She is the one who has to find a way to navigate her world, and she doesn’t need me in her head causing her to have doubts about the way she looks.

It is a difficult balancing act between allowing my daughter to express her individuality, and worrying about how others may perceive her. Ultimately, I know that the confidence that she exudes will overshadow some of her slightly more eccentric choices. Just this week, we were at a Colonial village where my daughter saw a bonnet that she just had to have. It was only $6.00, and was made by local artisans, so I couldn’t see why I shouldn’t get it for her. I did, however, have a momentary vision of her wearing it to school or walking around town, and I was no longer certain of if it being a wise choice. In the end, I did know that even if she did wear it out, she would do it with such a joyful self-confidence that only she could pull off.

My advice for my daughter is to forgive me when I make a comment about how she looks that she finds critical—I am her mom, and I won’t always be able to control myself. My advice to myself is to remember that changing one’s appearance is a form of self-expression. It is also one of the few areas that a teenager may actually feel a level of control. As each new year passes, a new phase will begin and end—I just need to remember to look past the surface to see and appreciate the wonderful young women standing before me.

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Aug 24 2011

I’m Not Your Friend

I have told my daughter on more than one occasion that I am not her friend. She doesn’t need to think that I’m cool. We don’t have to like the same movies, music, or celebrities. I am not afraid to risk embarrassing her by singing along to Wham! in public. I don’t need her to agree with how I wear my hair, even if I do love it when she gives me a compliment.

The problem is, I spend more time with her than I do anyone else. When we go on road trips, we sing along to the music on the radio—I can’t help that I know the lyrics to every pop song we hear, the same ones are played constantly. She’s the one who gets me sucked into bad reality television, adding it to our list of things we must watch together. I know about all of the kids in her grade, both the ones that are her friends and those that are not. She constantly asks me questions about my life—from details about my friends growing up to why I decided to travel to Turkey—anything she finds herself suddenly wondering about. I don’t answer all of them, some I do with the abridged version, others I give so many details that I catch her zoning out midway through my answer.

On the surface, it may look like my daughter and I are friends. However, we are not. I am her mother. My job is to love her, to help guide her, to teach her, and to give her the tools to navigate her life. I am not obligated to tell her everything that goes on in my life, nor would I want to burden her with the worries that sometimes keep me up at night.

I know that a time will come when she’ll no longer want to hear my opinion on anything, she will be mortified at the thought of singing along with me in the car, and she will prefer to watch television alone in her room rather than with me.

As much as this rejection will hurt me, I will never be hurt so badly that I give up on her.

I will continue to share my opinions with her. I will be interested in all of the things she cares about—the subjects she is interested in, the music she listens to, the movies she loves, the friends that have stood by her and those that have not. I will share with her my hopes for her future, and I will never judge her if she chooses a path that is different than the one I envisioned her walking. I will remind her of the strong, independent person she is when she begins to doubt her own abilities. I will give her strength when she needs it.

I will talk to her.

I will be her mother.

When the teen years pass, I hope to find that we have come out on the other side stronger for having gone through them. For now, however, I will enjoy the time I have with her while she is still eleven.

I wish my advice to my daughter could be to always ask me questions, to never keep me in the dark about her worries and fears—to stay exactly how she is now. Of course, I know that can never be. My advice, instead, is for her to once-in-a-while look back on these words I used to describe my job as her mother, and to know that I will always be her biggest supporter—and I look forward to the day that she does become my friend.

Aug 14 2011

Looking for “Home” (Part 2)

In my quest to find the meaning of the word “home,” I’ve been thinking about the home in which I spent my teen years. There were many good times spent in that house, and yet every time I see it, I find myself thinking “What if . . .” This house—with it’s big backyard, it’s bedrooms for each of us, it’s kitchen large enough for a family of six—still holds the pain of the dissolution of our family.

We moved to this house when I was eleven—I was so excited for the new adventure that awaited us there. I was no longer going to have to share a room with my brother—or with anyone for that matter. Both the walls and the carpet were a beautiful light blue, and my parents even let me pick out my own light fixture. For the next 10 years this would be my room—a place to be by myself, to talk on the phone, to listen to music, to do homework, to get ready for dances, to hang out with friends—it was mine, and the thought that some day it would no longer be, never entered my mind.

I live just a few miles away from the town I grew up in, and as much as I love to drive past my first childhood home, I don’t often go out of my way to see this one. There are moments, however, when I find myself getting nearer, and I feel an overwhelming urge to just look at the house once more. I never stop the car, I just slow down long enough to really look at it, at the windows of the rooms that still hold the memories of my family. The number of good memories far outweigh the bad, and yet all I can think of when I see this house are the painful ones—the ones that came at the end.

The “What ifs” that flood my mind are not “What if my parents hadn’t gotten divorced?” because that would be like wondering “What if a different man were my father?” These are two impossible questions that are futile in their nature and not worth pondering. Instead, the “What ifs” are more for my mother. I think of all the questions she must ask herself about the life she lived for more than twenty-five years, a life that ended when her husband walked out one fall day. This home is the one she had to give up, the one she had to leave behind.

There was a moment during the divorce that my mother could have decided to stay in this house—she was given a choice: to stay in the home of our childhood or to move to one a few hours away, free from the reminders of her former life. In the end, it wasn’t really a choice at all. My mother recently reminded me of a conversation we had prior to deciding where to live. She had asked me my opinion on what she should do, and my words to her were  ”Home is wherever you are.”

When I ask myself the meaning of “home,” I realize now that it has a meaning that hadn’t occurred to me before. I knew that seeing a former home could bring you back to a time in your life that you otherwise wouldn’t think of—and with that can come the happiness or nostalgia for your former self. However, I now know that a house can also hold the ghosts of your past—ghosts that are sometimes better left forgotten—and by leaving these memories where you found them, you are able to move on with your life.

Sixteen years after packing up each of these rooms for the last time, our lives are settled and going well. We—my mother, siblings, and I—no longer feel the pain we did during that time. In fact, in many ways, that part of our lives has been forgotten, or at least replaced by the new memories that can be found in the homes we have since created. My advice for my daughter, as she continues to wonder what it would be like to move to a new home, is to know that life is filled with both painful and wonderful experiences—and sometimes it is possible—and necessary—to move to a new place in order to leave the painful ones behind.

Aug 9 2011

My Odd Children

Last week when the kids and I were at the pool, I had a sudden realization: My children are odd. On the surface, they may look “normal”—they have friends, they enjoy watching TV, they follow rules—but underneath it all, there is “a uniqueness” that always seems to bubble up. Like the other day at the pool, I was sitting in the shade, quietly reading a book when my daughter came over to me and said,

“Look at your son!”

I looked up to see him strutting around the pool, knees bent, one hand covering his mouth while the other was extended in front of him, moving from side to side. He was beat-boxing. I just stopped and stared, and then smiled at his complete oblivion to the people looking—and laughing—at him. A few minutes later, feeling my eyes on him, he looked up, scanned the crowd, saw me and yelled “Hey!” as if I were spying on him.

This was not the first time I had seen him beat-box. In fact, he thinks of himself as quite the professional. At a recent camp talent show, he decided to beat-box while his friend was break-dancing. Unfortunately, I was working and didn’t get to see it for myself, so when he came home that day, I asked him how the talent show went. He told me that he thought that he and his friend were great—of course.

Watching my son strut around the pool made me think about the other ways that my kids have shown their unique—let’s call it—flair. My daughter has always demonstrated a desire to be different—to not follow the standard norms. Sometimes this can be seen in the her creativity around birthday party themes and halloween costumes, or in the way she still refuses to do her hair, or in the things she likes to both learn and to talk about.

A perfect illustration of this occurred a couple of months ago while at the grocery store. We were standing in line when my daughter asked if I would buy her some Sun Drop soda. I had never heard of it, so I said “No”—we were already in line, and I wasn’t in the mood to hold up the check out. The next thing I knew, she started to dance. I don’t mean a “normal” dance—instead, she was partially squatting down, butt in the air, arms extended in front of her, all while repeatedly bouncing backward and forward, singing “Drop it like it’s hot” over and over again. I stood there in stunned silence, unable to understand what had gotten in to her. Fortunately, there weren’t many people at the store to witness this spectacle, so I didn’t force her to stop. When the dance came to an end, she once again asked me if she could have some Sun Drop. In my confusion, I asked her what Sun Drop had to do with that dance, and she described the commercial for the soda that had a strange woman going around town doing this exact dance.

I told her she could go get the soda.

When thinking about the odd behaviors that my children sometimes exhibit, I began to wonder why I never get embarrassed—either for them or for myself—and why I actually derive some pleasure from watching them be so silly. The reality is, when I see them doing something like beat-boxing around the pool or “dropping it” at the grocery store, I get an overwhelming sense of well-being. I think it comes from knowing two things—the first is that my kids, even at the ages of six and eleven, are still unburdened by the self-consciousness that comes with age. I dread the day that they don’t feel comfortable in their own skin, or that they care too much about what people think. The other is that these behaviors give me a glimpse of the self-confident people that I hope they will someday be.

As I think about the advice I want to give my daughter, I am reminded of some advice I once gave to my husband about her. She must have been six or seven years old when she walked out into our kitchen—all ready for school—wearing one of the craziest outfits I had yet to see her put together. On top, she was wearing a multitude of layers including—but probably not limited to—a long-sleeved shirt underneath a short-sleeved one with a bright-colored mesh poncho. On the bottom, she was wearing leggings beneath a colorful plaid skirt with black boots. She didn’t walk into the kitchen expecting us to have a reaction—she just wanted her breakfast. When her father saw her, he incredulously asked,

“What are you wearing?!”

I don’t remember her answer—knowing her it would have been something like, “Clothes.” When she had finished her breakfast and left the room, I turned to my husband and told him to not overreact to her clothes. I felt strongly that she should be allowed to express her personality, and that we should be proud that she doesn’t want to be like everyone else (of course, in that same moment, I also had a flash of her being sixteen with blue hair and multiple piercings—but I decided to keep that small concern to myself). Now that she is a little older, her individuality does not stem from an act of rebellion because we have never tried to tell her who to be. Instead, I believe, it comes from a place of confidence and a strong belief in herself. So, I guess my advice to my daughter is to always remember her eleven-year-old self dancing in the grocery store, and to know that she should strive to always be as confident as she was then.

Aug 2 2011

Disappointment . . . A Lesson Learned

Up until last week, disappointment and rejection were two feelings that I had never really thought about my daughter experiencing—at least not at the age of eleven. I’m not talking about small disappointments, like the time she didn’t get the present she had been dreaming about, or the rejection of not being invited to a classmate’s birthday party. These feelings—as painful as they were at the time—were fleeting and soon forgotten.

This time was different.

I was in an all-day meeting at the office, intently listening to a colleague discussing the requirements for a new product, when I felt my phone vibrate letting me know that I had just received an email. When I saw that it was from my daughter’s dance school with the subject “Company Auditions,” I actually felt my heart skip a beat. Two months earlier, my daughter had auditioned for the company, and was told that she’d be notified later in the summer of the results. I knew that she wanted to be in this company more than anything, not because she dreams of being a dancer, but because of the accomplishment of getting in, along with the chance to compete. For the last few days, she had been persistently asking me if I had gotten a call from them. Now, in the split-second it took me to open the email, I had two distinct visions. The first was of me telling her that she had gotten in, maybe I’d wait and do it at dinner—she would be so excited. However, the second vision—the one of me telling her she didn’t make it—made me quickly scan the email to finally know the outcome.

She didn’t get in.

I told her as soon as I picked her up from the pool that evening. I couldn’t wait, there was no opportune time, and the burden of knowing was too much for me to bear. She was stunned—even questioning if it were a joke—and then the tears started. She ran to her room as soon as we were home, and I could hear her sobbing through her tightly closed door. When I finally ventured into her room, she declared that she wanted to quit dancing. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I just stood there, quietly telling her how sorry I was.

She turned on me in a flash of anger, and snapped, “How would you know how it feels?” I stopped short at the harshness in her voice. I was struck with the sudden memories of the disappointments I have experienced in my life: at fourteen, being rejected by the art program at my high school, even though I viewed myself as an “artist”; at twenty-eight, not getting promoted after years of working for the advancement; or, at sixteen, the rejection I felt when a close friend ended our friendship without warning or explanation. But these were not the experiences of an eleven year-old, and maybe I was somehow better equipped to handle disappointment as a teenager and young adult than she is now. In that moment, I struggled to find the right words to say because all I wanted was to fix it—to call the dance school to ask if there had been a mistake or to somehow make them change their minds—I wanted to take her pain away.

But I knew that I couldn’t.

So, in the end, I do what I always do—I try to use logic to help her figure out how to navigate her own life. I know my daughter, she is fiercely competitive, both with others, but even more so with herself. She feels compelled to be the best at everything she does, and up until this point she had been successful in the one area she had always strived—school. So, that’s what I decided to use to get through to her. I told her to think about what she would do if she had been working hard in a class but wasn’t able to get an A. I told her that she would have gone to the teacher to find out what she could be doing to improve, and then she would have worked even harder. I could see her thinking as I described this scenario, so I continued on, attempting to make the connection for her. I told her that the same should be true with dance. There must be something that the dance instructors thought she should be working on—so I suggested that she talk to them, find out what it is, and then work on it. She didn’t interrupt me as I spoke, and I noticed that her tears had stopped—she appeared to be listening. When I had finished talking, I didn’t ask her to respond, but instead left her alone to think—I was also afraid if I kept talking I would push my luck and say something that would start the crying all over again.

A little while later, she finally emerged from her room, still a bit sad around the eyes, but with a look of determination about her. The first thing she said to me was “Instead of taking three dance classes next year—can I take four?” Without thinking about all the potential downfalls of this question—the added expense, my own busy schedule, and the amount of time she will be investing in this—I smiled and told her “Okay.”

My advice for my daughter is to always remember this moment in her life. So many people give up when faced with setbacks, disappointments, and rejection—but she didn’t. She had a choice, and she chose to try again. I hope that the pride I have for her can be felt through these words I write—and I hope, too,  that I will always remember to never give up.