Tag Archives: daughter

Disappointment . . . A Lesson Learned

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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.

Disappointment . . . A Lesson Learned

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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.

The Soundtrack of My Life

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During the four-hour-long drive home from Boston the other night, I was able to enjoy something that is a rarity—listening to my own music. A standard road trip usually involves my daughter acting as the DJ, making musical choices based on her own whimsy. I spend a large portion of the trip begging her to allow me just a few songs to listen to as I do the difficult task of actually driving. She appeases me once every ten songs or so, but usually only with choices that she either likes—or at the very least—tolerates. So, as I set the iPod to shuffle, I immediately began to anticipate the joy of being the one in control. As the first song began to play—one I hadn’t heard in many years—I was suddenly transported back to another time in my life.

“Wonderwall” by Oasis, 1995 I am twenty years old, sitting in a pub on the campus of Lancaster University in England. The music comes from a jukebox in the center of the room—this song plays over and over again each night. It doesn’t matter how many times it’s played, everyone in the pub sings along. On the surface, each night looks like the last: me and some friends having a drink in the evening, talking music, books, life—but for me, each night is magical.

“The Joker” by The Steve Miller Band, 1973 / 1990 I am sixteen, it is my first summer living in Cape May. I am so young, and yet so eager to grow up. The summer is spent working as a chambermaid during the day, and hanging out at the beach each afternoon. I don’t remember the first time I heard this song—the summer was filled with classic rock and sunshine—but to this day, no matter when I hear it—the sun always shines when this song plays.

“Ode to My Family” by The Cranberries, 1995 It is 1996. I have just graduated from college, and am home in Cape May. My favorite way to start the day is to go for a drive with one of my closest friends. She usually picks me up before everyone else in the house has gotten up, we go over to Wawa for a cup of coffee, and then head down to the Point to watch the Atlantic as we drink our coffee and talk about life. On the way there, we would listen to this song, belting out the words, and feeling happy to be together for that moment.

“Now and Forever” by Carole King, 1993 It is 1993, I am a sophomore in college. I have seven roommates—most are seniors getting ready to graduate to the real world. I am lost most of the time. I wasn’t an easy roommate to have—my life had been turned upside down when my dad walked out earlier that year. As I struggled to maintain the outward appearance of a student under control, these young women saw me falling apart, and stood by me even as I tried to push them away.  They reminded me to find the joy in the simple things, like watching Melrose Place and singing along to sentimental music.

“The Flame” by Cheap Trick, 1988 I am fourteen. It is to be the last summer with my best friends—the last summer before I am to begin high school at a place where I know no one else. It is a summer brimming over with emotions: nervousness and excitement to begin the next phase of my life; sadness about saying good-bye to friends I had spent each day with since beginning school nine years earlier. I would lay on my bed, listening to this song over and over again, dreaming about my future.

“One Love” by Bob Marley, 1999 It is September 1999. I am twenty-five and it is my wedding day. Even though it is two weeks past Labor Day, we are fortunate enough to have an incredible reggae band drive back up from North Carolina to play at our wedding. We are all on the back porch of our friends’ Bed & Breakfast—everyone dancing, laughing, singing along to the music—as friends and family help us to celebrate the life we have promised to share with one another.

This soundtrack of my life lasted most of the drive home—and in that brief span of time, I relived more than twenty years of friendship, laughter, heartbreak, and joy. For a moment, it saddened me that my daughter couldn’t share the journey with me—that she couldn’t also be witness to those times in my life—but it was that thought that made me realize something important. It doesn’t matter if she likes my music or not, she’ll never truly know the fourteen-year-old me or how it was to dance the night away with her father back when he was twenty-two. When I force her to listen to the music of my life, I am really just helping her to create her own soundtrack—and for each of these songs, I can’t be certain what she will remember, but there is a good chance it will be of road trips with me ecstatically singing along.

So, as I continued on my drive, I started to listen for songs that someday may flood her with memories of her past. These are a couple that I hope will bring her joy when she is older:

“The Lazy Song” by Bruno Mars, 2011 Every time we hear this song, we all stop whatever it is we are doing to sing along. I hope she thinks of her brother in the backseat of the car, bopping his head to the beat of the rhythm, unselfconsciously belting out the tune.

“Mad World” from Donnie Darko Soundtrack, 2001 / 2011 There aren’t many songs she can agree to listen to with her sixteen-year-old cousin, so for most of our trips, he wears headphones. That is until this song comes on, then he takes them off, and he listens right along with us. He doesn’t sing along, but for those few minutes, we are all sharing the same moment.

My advice to my daughter is to take the time to stop and listen. When there is a song that she likes playing on the radio, she should take a look at the world around her in order to take note of her life. I hope that by doing this, the song will somehow hold the memory of a moment in her life, and it will be there for her when she is older and needs the reminder.

Take a second to let me know what songs are in your soundtrack?

Don’t We All Need Therapy?

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I know that a lot of parents joke about inevitably forcing their children into therapy as adults—trying to cope with the psychological damage we inflict on them when they are young. I often think the same thing whenever I find myself yelling irrationally at my children—especially my daughter—over their messy rooms, their seemingly constant fighting, or purely out of sheer frustration. The truth is, I really don’t want either of my children to end up in therapy—and if they do find themselves there, I especially don’t want it to be because of me. As I have mentioned before, I’ve spent many a lunch break sitting in my therapist’s office, working through any number of issues: feeling stretched too thin with working full time and having two young children; the frustrations of managing a career that is often not in my control; dealing with the stress of bills piling up during the tough times . . . I could fill a page with the number of things I worked on, talked through, sometimes cried about, and generally learned to cope with during those sessions—the least of which was probably my relationship with my father. Yes, I have spent years trying to find a way to silence the negative voices in my head that were planted there by my father—whether intentionally or not—in order to be a better wife, a more understanding mother, and a self-confident woman. So, I know what it truly means to have a parent send you to therapy, and I’ll do just about anything to make sure my children don’t also end up on a therapist’s couch. Unfortunately, I sometimes fear that it may already be too late . . .

Sometime in the last year, my daughter announced to me that she never wants to have children. At first, I didn’t think much of the statement, especially since she was only ten. Then, each time she saw a baby on TV or a mother with her children, she would remind me of her future plans, which most definitely did not include children. I finally asked her why she didn’t want children, and she simply said, “Kids are annoying.” I was stunned, shocked, horrified. How on earth had she come to the conclusion that children were annoying? I suddenly flashed to all the times I said, “Stop being so annoying!” or “You kids are annoying me!” along with many other variations on the same theme. Yep, I had planted the thought in my daughter’s head, and somehow changed her perception of the world, possibly forever. Up until that point, I thought of myself as someone who would never insult their children, never put them down, or intentionally make them feel bad, but I had done just that. I immediately wanted to make it up to her, to take all those instances of my use of the word “annoying” out of her memory for good, but unfortunately, that’s not possible. Instead, I explained to her that the greatest joy I have in my life is being their mother, and that I wouldn’t change anything. Now all I can do is hope that this might be taken off the list of potential reasons for therapy, but we’ll have to see . . .

This recognition of my own responsibility—my own culpability—in raising children who are free from the issues that would lead them to therapy is something that influences how I parent them. I don’t think I can really catch all of the potential damage before it makes an impact—I may not even be aware of all I do or how my kids see me. What I do know is that for every negative aspect of my personality (I am moody, impatient, quick-tempered at times) I try to counteract it with something positive (I am silly, lighthearted, affectionate, loving, engaging). My hope is that, years from now, if either of my children find themselves sitting in a therapist’s office, the memories that they will share will be of a mother who loved them—and although not perfect—never made them question my intention to be the best mother I could be to them.

My advice to my daughter is the same advice I tell myself all the time: be aware of your actions, of your words, and how they are perceived by the people around you—especially by the people you love. The last thing you want to do in life is to hurt someone so much that they need to seek professional help to cope with the negative feelings left behind. And, if you look back at your own actions and see a time when you could have said or done something differently, it’s never too late to try to make amends.

 

Please (Don’t) Be Like Me

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There are a lot of things about myself that I would love to pass on to my daughter—my self-confidence, my empathy for others, my love of travel—but until I had a child, I honestly didn’t believe that children were destined to turn out to be like their parents. I mean, I wasn’t anything like mine, so I thought it was unlikely that my daughter would turn out like me. That is until the day I found myself driving slightly aggressively—probably speeding—when I had a sudden vision of my mom driving me somewhere when I was a teenager, saying to me, “Don’t drive like me when you grow up.” I realized in that moment that I did just what she told me not to do: I drove just like her. I suddenly felt compelled to look at all of my actions—to dissect them—wondering if each was one I would want my daughter to replicate when she got older. There were the ones that were obviously bad—like smoking. I “quit” when I was pregnant with both of my children, but secretly picked it back up soon after each were born, smoking only at work or while I was alone in the car. This went on for years, until my “secret” seemed to be less and less like one, as I was certain that my daughter knew what I was doing. One night, I realized that even though I may not be teaching her to smoke—she hadn’t actually seen me do it—I was teaching her to keep secrets. This really scared me. I suddenly imagined her a few years older, hiding things from me, and feeling that it was completely normal since I had somehow ingrained it in her that this was acceptable behavior. It was this realization that prompted me to quit, for good. It’s now been about a year and half, and I am both proud and relieved that it is no longer a part of my life.

More than once, I have said to myself—and to others—that my daughter is nothing like me when I was a child. She is competitive, while I was complacent; she is focused, I was a daydreamer; she is intense, I was easy-going. The list goes on and on. At times, I would honestly wonder to myself “Where did this girl come from?” but mostly I was just very proud to have a child who worked hard at school, who set goals for herself, and who had the self-confidence to believe that she will be successful at whatever she sets her mind to. I wanted to take credit for all of these things, but I knew that this was just her personality—she was somehow programmed to be this way—and the most I could take credit for was instilling in her a love of learning, and showing her that I cared about the things she was passionate about. Then about a year ago, she decided to do research on the best Ivy League schools for drama so that she could “decide where she wanted to go.” She was ten. I went to work the following day still thinking about what she had said. I shared my feeling of awe with a co-worker, who after hearing about my daughter’s latest goal, laughed and told me that, although my daughter may not be like me at all when I was a child, she was just like me now. I was stunned. I started to think about what she said, to look at myself as my co-worker saw me—how my daughter saw me. I work hard at my job, always focusing intensely on what needs to get done—sometimes bringing work home with me to finish after the kids were in bed. I talk about my goals with my daughter, about where I want to go in my career. I am insanely competitive—mostly with myself, especially when it comes to work—but my competitiveness can be found even when playing a simple game of cards with my daughter. . . It was true, my daughter was more like me than I had ever realized, and even more than that, I had proof that there was a chance that my daughter might turn out like me after all. What a frightening—and exciting—possibility . . .

It’s possible that I may have too much advice for my daughter: do this, don’t do that, listen to me when I tell you, you shouldn’t, etc., etc. I think the important thing to know is that I am certainly not perfect, and to recognize when my actions don’t match the things I say. She should always think for herself whether or not she wants to be like me, or to hopefully be better—either way doesn’t really matter, as I will always be in awe of who she is, and who she has become.

Just another Mother’s Day?

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Every year I ask for the same thing for Mother’s Day, and I never get it—that is, until today. Each year, I desperately want a day off. I mean, is it selfish of me to want a day off from motherhood—a day when no one is asking me to get them something to eat or drink, a day when I am not there to hear the arguments over the television’s volume, and especially a day when I am not on anyone else’s schedule? Okay, maybe it is selfish, but I don’t know of any mom who would begrudge me a few hours of freedom.

This day was especially rewarding as it began with a hot yoga class taken with one of my closest friends. Hot yoga is something that is both frightening—it is 90 minutes of yoga set in a 105 degree room—and exhillerating because when it is over, your body is completely limber and the feel of fresh air from outside the room is like a rush of pure pleasure after the suffocating heat of the studio. The best part of the morning, besides the yoga, was leaving the house while everyone was still asleep—no one was awake to ask me where I was going, no one was there to beg me not to leave, and most importantly no one was awake to ask me when I’d be back. The day was starting out to be truly my own.

From there, my friend and I had a well-deserved cup of coffee, a bite to eat, and some much-needed conversation. I must say that even with all the chaos that is my life at times, I have always made spending time with my friends a priority. Whenever one of them tries to arrange a time to meet, I never say no if I can help it. Fortunately for me, I have a very understanding husband who never questions this need—and almost always keeps the kids so I can go out. Today was similar in that he kept the kids while I was out, but it was even better than that since it didn’t involve a few hours for dinner in the evening—it was a whole day to myself! We shopped, we talked, we tried on dresses, we spent more than five minutes running through D.S.W. looking for a well-deserved pair of sandals—it was wonderful. And throughout it all, I only received a single call from home from my daughter asking me if she could buy a book online—not asking me to come home or complaining about being bored—just a simple question which I happily responded “yes.”

So, now I am home, seven hours after I left, and I am doing the last thing that I asked for this Mother’s Day—time to sit and write. I feel calm and relaxed in a way that I haven’t in a long time. I am rejuvenated. I am happy. I am ready to face the questions about dinner, the fights over the television, and the complaints that there isn’t any food in the house since I didn’t go food shopping today (oh, well, what can you do?).

My advice to my daughter is simple—take time for yourself. As you get older, the demands on your time will only intensify—you will have more homework, which will give you less free time to watch television or read a book, and you’ll have more after school and weekend activities which will give you even less time with your friends—and almost no time for yourself. Be selfish with your time when you know that it will make you a happier, calmer person—like me, on the best Mother’s Day ever.