Category Archives: Conflict

Benign neglect

imgres-5I feel guilty. I mean for the past few years I’ve religiously written a weekly blog that happily gets sent out to hundreds of awesome subscribers. But I’ve been inundated with work deadlines, life, family responsibilities, etc…And I’ve neglected my blog. It’s actually painful to come back after this kind of inadvertent vacation.

It’s like that cousin you’ve been meaning to call for a few weeks, then a few months, then it’s like seven years and you’re estranged for no real reason other than the awkwardness of not wanting to call after a two week hiatus.

The truth is, I haven’t had any terribly impressive, prolific or provocative ideas in the past two weeks. And I am vehemently against anyone who blogs about the inane trivialities of day to day living. Like what’s with those people who send out five, six, even 10 new blogs or tweets every day? Really? Do they honestly believe anyone cares? Hey, bloggers, we are deleting your frickin’ posts before even reading them if you’re inundating us with multiple reminders of how banal your everyday life is.

The same goes for Facebook. I mean, come on. Who gives a crap what you ate for lunch or where you went with your family or how many times you’ve watched “It’s a Wonderful Life.” NOBODY is interested. I actually stopped going to FB because I have several “friends” who post incessantly about inane nonsense. Sure I could have “unfriended” or “defriended” them or whatever it’s called. But I’m even more opposed to confrontation than I am anti-triviality.

So I remain silently devoted to all of you. Forgive my temporary lapse in the epiphany arena. Surely the muse will attend to me at some point. Then, and only then, shall I pick up the pen (or rather strike the keyboard) to share my deep and philosophical revelations.

Happy Chanukah!

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Ancient battles

I’m not a poet. I wouldn’t know how to technically craft a poem to save my life. I like to write funny. Funny is safe. Funny is easy. But sometimes nothing feels funny. Every moment hurts. Bitterly.

 

 

 

Ancient Battles

When they are small it’s so easy to

kiss away boo-boos,

Wipe soggy tears,

And dab ointment on cuts and bruises.

A mother’s salve.

Healing.

 

But time changes all that.

And pains become immeasurable.

My words cannot erase the hurt

of treacherous laughter

and taunting betrayal.

 

My heart aches inside me.

I want so to help.

Instead I remain outside his fortress,

Unable to soothe.

Ill-equipped to protect him from the child warriors

who rage at the walls of his porcelain ego.

 

We are both wearied from battle.

“Don’t give up,” I manage to eke out the words

like a fallen soldier,

desperate to embolden the barely breathing comrade by my side.

“You will win in the end.”

 

He tries to believe me.

The corner of his mouth curls just enough

to tell me he’s not ignoring me.

And then silence.

We drive on through the night

alone –

together.

His fresh wounds bleeding.

My scabs ripped open to

once again remember the agony of childhood.

 

Don’t mean to depress anyone. But this is where I’ve been living this past week. So many good, kind parents have no idea that their children are viciously tormenting others. Please, talk to your kids about bullying. Teach them that cruelty wounds deeply and childhood scars can last lifetimes. Even if you’re certain it’s “not your kid,” think again. Because it just may be.

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Defiance!

Doesn’t he look like a challenge?

“Going my way home?” my impish 8 year old son, Eli, asked as he leaned thru the passenger side window of my car after happily bounding off the school bus yesterday afternoon. His grin warmed my heart.

“No silly,” I chirped, “We have to go pick up your brother at school. Hop in.”

Then he flashed a mischievous smile, turned tail and ran away from me at lightning speed.

OK, I was stunned. And I mean stunned like a deer who had just been shot in the chest by a tranquilizer gun. All the other moms at the bus stop looked at me with embarrassing glances, trying not to actually meet my gaze. Inside my head, I heard them snickering about my parental ineptitude. I tried to make light of the situation. “Ha ha,” I chuckled, “He just loves to race me home.” The awkwardness was palpable.

I drove away and as soon as I was out of their view, I pulled over and tried to catch my breath. I rationally weighed my options. I could go immediately home to rant, rave and revile my youngster for publicly disobeying and humiliating me. Then I could physically imbed him into his car seat and embark upon the trek to his brother, Levi’s, school to retrieve him. But I gotta tell you, that didn’t sound all that appealing to me.

Instead, I began driving slowly away from my home where I imagined Eli victoriously awaiting my arrival for our scream fest. No, I was not going to play the scene out like that. I carefully considered what potential perils Eli might possibly encounter as he sat locked outside our house for the next 45 minutes. I admit I had visions of an errant mountain lion meandering past and eating him, or a band of gypsies kidnapping him at gun-point, but I figured that the odds of either of those things happening in our well-patrolled, gated community with plenty of neighbors within ear shot, was more than unlikely. Besides, when is the last time you saw gypsies packing heat? The greater threat seemed to me to be withholding the valuable lesson that this opportunity presented for my child to learn about natural consequences, responsibility and respect.

Sitting outside the house alone was a small price to pay if it taught my boy that it is not okay to run away from me or directly defy me like that. Sure he might be scared. He might cry. He might even fear abandonment for his impulsive behavior. But as a staunch believer in behavior modification and “Love and Logic,” this negative consequence naturally follows the poor choice he made. The only way for him to internalize that lesson is to truly experience an unpleasant outcome that naturally emerges out of his rash and impulsive behavior.

I picked up Levi and raced home nervously. When I pulled up to the house, I expected to see my tear-stained youngest son regretfully pouting outside the front door. But he wasn’t there. It was either the gypsies or he’d figured out where the spare key was hidden. I began to panic and ran inside the house. I hurried down the hall towards his room but slowed my pace and nonchalantly passed his doorway to see if he was there. I spotted him peripherally and continued walking. He was hiding under his covers awaiting some horrific consequence, I imagine. I said nothing.

Later that night he came to me and apologized. We talked about it briefly and I let him think that it was over and all was well. Unfortunately this weekend is the Diamond Back game he’s been waiting for months to attend. When it comes time to head to the ballpark, the babysitter is arriving and we’re going to have to explain to Eli that we love him too much to risk losing him at such a busy stadium. Since we can’t trust him to not run away from us, he’ll just have to stay home with a sitter while the rest of us enjoy our peanuts, popcorn and crackerjack.

I don’t look forward to his reaction. He’ll be angry. He’ll be crest-fallen. But I believe in my heart that he will learn how to better control his urges, how to respect his parents, and that his actions have very direct and relevant consequences.

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Achtung!

I’m not one to use a 1940s German political image lightly. I abhor the over-use of phrases like “Gestapo tactics.” I shudder when pop culture coins a catchy phrase like “soup nazi.” But once in a while, only when appropriate, one has to invoke the Fascist Arian party to accurately describe a governing system so out of control that its abuse of power must be called out in order to protect its inhabitants and preserve the rights of citizens throughout the free world. Unfortunately, that time is now.

As I write this, I have in my hand two letters from our home owners association admonishing and fining us for 1) “Unauthorized river rock” in our front yard, (apparently river rocks are strictly prohibited in our community. Who knew?) and 2) An errant shade sail in our backyard that is only visible from the street if you happen to be sporting 6 inch platforms, craning your neck, and awkwardly peering over our rear fence.

Now I am not against rules per se. I understand that civilized societies use rules and regulations to ensure the safety and sovereignty of their citizens. It’s just that I believe rules should be reserved for things that actually matter; like being kind to your neighbors or returning a lost pet. Both of which my local denizens have failed to do on more than one occasion. The only thing more disturbing to me than these ridiculous wrist-slapping fines is knowing that either someone voluntarily ratted us out over a harmless pile of rocks and a sun-shielding awning, or there is actually a person charged with trolling the neighborhood in search of these types of menial policy violations.

I recognize that times are tough. Far be it for me to criticize anyone for an honest day’s work. But really, if your employment depends upon stalking and reporting your neighbors for inane trivialities, what wont you stoop to next? Why should anyone care what type of rocks pepper my private drive? Surely no thoughtful human being would scout out my shade sail, secretly photograph it and send it off to the HOA Gestapo. (Please note that I am cautiously and deliberately employing this tendentious metaphor.)

Surely there is more that I could say about this matter. But I must go and prepare for my upcoming HOA hearing regarding these vital and pivotal issues. You know, this would actually make a great new reality TV series. Just call it “HOA.” There’d be idiocy, vindictiveness, likely even some violence. That’s every essential for a hit show these days.

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Vacation? I think not!

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We’re going on vacation! No, let me clarify that. We are going on a family trip. They are two completely different animals. When I think of vacation, I think of me lying face down on a massage table in the middle of some exotic rain forest, sipping a strategically perched piña colada out of a coconut shell. There are no people below the age of 15 allowed anywhere near my “vacation” locale. No worries about meal preparation, because we dine at gloriously adorned, trendy island haunts where there are no kid menus, no sippy cups and no whiny little people demanding your constant attention.

In contrast, we are heading to my home town, Chicago, for 4.75 days of family, old friends, and celebrations. Btw, our schedule really is optimized, based on many years of past research, to facilitate family familiarity and closeness, while desperately attempting to avoid the inevitable familial fighting, frustration and frenzy. Several years ago we concluded that the 5th day of any family visit resulted in me sobbing for hours in a corner of my old childhood bedroom and swearing to never return to the Windy City ever again. But 4 days wasn’t quite enough time to see all of the warring factions of family members who for whatever reason, can’t manage to be in the same room at the same time. Hence we schedule all trips back east for the carefully calculated 4.75 days.

The optimist in me is excited about the trip. The realist, leery. I don’t think we ever stop wishing for the perfect family who loves each other unconditionally, would go to the ends of the earth for one another, and fights tooth and nail to grab the check first at the end of a meal. Well, one out of three isn’t so bad. And no, I’m not saying which one.

We’ve got a lot planned and the last week or two my kids have been on super-sensitive and whiny mode. It’s been maddening and I’m deeply concerned about how to muddle through the next week. My husband drew up a contract and challenged all of us to sign it. As I’ve said before, he really would’ve made an excellent attorney. For my part, I have to control my tendency to scream like a madwoman and curb my propensity for vulgarity. (It’s ugly, but I believe in full disclosure). The boys contracted not to whine, wail, wallop, and whimper during our travel time. They agreed to “go with the flow,” sometimes compromise and do what other family members want to do, and be respectful, kind and warm to everyone they meet (especially adults.) That is also the husband specific contractual agreement. It will be harder for him than the kids.

The consequence you wonder? Only those of us who honor the contract will be included in next month’s family outing to Seattle. We’ve discussed it and honestly have every intention of staying true to this. Zero tolerance. Anyone who breaks the contract stays home with a mean old sitter we’re on the prowl for who makes little boys eat liver and onions and doesn’t believe in chocolate chip cookies. If you know anyone, please forward her resume. I have a sinking suspicion that we’ll be hiring.

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Offspring Rejection Syndrome: (O.R.S.) A severe and often chronic affliction affecting parents of tweens, teens, and twenty-somethings

Oh, the pain of Offspring Rejection Syndrome!

I am officially suffering from an acute case of O.R.S. And it is seriously sucking the joy out of my life. You see, I used to be the bees knees, the cat’s pajamas, totally rad. And now? I’m nothing more than an inconvenient embarrassment whose sole value derives from driving small boys to and fro, continuously providing a never-ending supply of cut-up fruit, and paying for…everything!

This totally sucks! It’s not that it comes as a surprise to me. I’ve always known that parents become uncool. I just never thought it would happen to me, and never so abruptly.It all happened yesterday, the day my eldest son turned 11. Today, he can’t even stand to be seen with me in public. What changed overnight? And why does it have to hurt so much?

I drove to school today and on the way, I remembered that I was supposed to bring a check for an upcoming overnight retreat. Since I didn’t have a check, I decided to pop into the school office and give them my credit card.

“You’re coming in with us?” My son barked insensitively.

“No,” I replied calmly, “I’m just going in to pay for your retreat. You can go in by yourself.”

“But, Mom…Geez! That is sooooooooo embarrassing!” He grunted, harumphed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

I was pissed.

“Well,” I started with a defensively edgy lilt, “If it’s so embarrassing, would you rather I not go in and pay for the retreat? It’s up to you.”

“Whatever,” he snipped.

It was at that moment, hearing his surly “whatever,” that something inside of me snapped. I grabbed his still sweet, loving, seven-year-old little brother’s hand and walked into the office. I should have just gotten back into my car and driven away. Too embarrassed to be in the same room with me? That’s just…mean.

Look, I’m all for individuating. I know that’s part of the growing up process. But I don’t recall ever treating my parents with disgust, disdain or disrespect. It hurts. My husband says I shouldn’t take it so personally. It’s actually good that our son, who hasn’t always been so keen about social appropriateness, gets that his peers are rejecting their parents right now. But I feel like crap. And I’m honestly not sure I’m capable of rising above this. I keep wanting to say to him, “Well, if you’re too good for me, then why don’t you just go rent an apartment, get a friggin’ job and get off the parental dole?” I know that’s childish and immature. But that’s how I feel.

Please tell me that this is only a stage, a short one. Tell me that all kids go through this, that it isn’t me. Tell me that he’ll come around, that he wont always feel shame when I enter a room, that I really am more than a money machine and chauffeur. And if you can’t tell me any of those things, at least tell me how to handle the hurt and where to find the internal strength to let this stuff roll off my back.

I know I’m not the first parent to suffer from offspring rejection syndrome. But it would sure help if someone who lived through it could point out the light at the end of this tunnel and assure me that this boy, who lights up my heart, will once again, someday, think as lovingly about me as I do everyday about him.

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I am a camera

Cable car cuddling: Don't we look sweet?

I’m sitting at my computer watching a slide show of photos of happy kids, untroubled parents and a family that clearly loves life, each other and having fun. Who are these people? They look an awful lot like my family. But there’s no way these happy-go-lucky folks are even remotely related to me, my exhausted husband, or my increasingly annoying two children.

Why can’t life be more like a photo montage? I mean, in all fairness, I took a lot of these pictures. I was actually present for each and every happy moment that’s parading before me on my computer screen. I can even remember most of the events without a great deal of prompting. I ought to feel as joyful and carefree as my celluloid image. But I don’t.

The mom in the photos is young, happy, and easy-going. I, in contrast, feel tired, ancient and about as close to breaking as an overstrung archery bow. I can’t even imagine my two sons sitting next to each other without trying to kill each other. And I’m not sure I can remember the last time I saw my husband smile. This is making me sad.

Maybe there’s some way to “fake it till you make it.” If I just pretend to be as happy as photo me, maybe I’ll somehow morph into her. Maybe if I act like her, my family will follow suit and my kids will burst out into peels of laughter instead of screeching furiously at one another. Maybe if I can just convince myself that she is me I can bring a sense of joy and ease back into our lives.

That seems kind of impossible from my current vantage point. Maybe I’ll just write a play about a writer who wills herself into her computer to relive all the happiness depicted in her iphoto albums. I bet that’d get old pretty quickly though. I mean, how many chilly San Francisco cable car rides would it take before even photo mom got bored?

No. I guess I’m stuck out here, being me, watching her, wondering how we all got so frustrated and disgruntled about life when it really is filled with so many opportunities to love and enjoy each other. Maybe I just need to realize that we do have joyful moments, mixed into the misery of 113 degree days, unending errands and piles of dirty laundry. Maybe it’s all about focus. When you take a picture you take a moment, you breathe, you stay still and snap, the perfect shot. Most of the time in life I forget to breathe, am running 150 miles per hour and never even look where I’m headed.

I am that woman in the photos. I just need to aim my eagle eye at the good things, the happy moments, the daily victories, and not to concentrate so hard on the tirades, the tantrums and the tragedies. It’s all about where you aim the camera, set the F-stop, and how you choose to compose each shot. Plus one can always add a little bit of flash to brighten up the image a bit. Remember, as Gentle Giant once sang, “I am a camera.”

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Parents of the world, unite!

I'm the one calling the shots and if you don't like it, TOUGH!

I realized something totally unfair today. When I was growing up, children were supposed to be “seen and not heard.” We did what we were told. We went where our parents decided to go. We ate whatever our mom’s made for dinner. And if we didn’t like it, we were “given something to really cry about.”

Now I’m not complaining about the past. That’s about as effective as asking the government to make slavery reparations 150 years after the fact. It’s not necessarily undeserved, but really, what’s the point?

We are on vacation in beautiful Laguna Beach, CA. My seven year-old son, Eli, around whose moods our family seems to constantly revolve, was holding us hostage and I figured out why I am so quick to explode over his maniacal tantrums and so easily irked by his capricious behavior. Because it’s not fair.

You see, I never enjoyed the position of center of the universe with my family of origin. I was a “good” girl who sat and colored when I had to go to appointments with my mother. I cleaned the shelves at my dad’s pharmacy on Saturdays when he was saddled with taking me to work with him because finding a sitter for the whole day would’ve been an outrageous expense. I fit into my parents’ lives like kids were supposed to do.

Cut to: a generation later and the whole model has been turned upside down. Nowadays it’s the parents who give up their lives for their children. The idea of a vacation that isn’t entirely kid-centered is tantamount to child abuse in most of the parent circles I inhabit.

When we were on vacation as kids, if my mom wanted to shop or spa or get her hair done, that’s what we did and we found ways to make that fun. If I even poke my head into a boutique or art gallery these days, my kids go into hissy-fit mode and start whining obnoxiously and carelessly flinging themselves around the store. It’s really not right.

Everyone deserves to be the center of the universe at some point in her life. But it’s like a genetic trait that gets passed on by skipping a generation. Our entire generation of parents got gipped on this one. Back in the day, parents ran the show. But the minute I step into the role of maternal monarch, the rug gets pulled out from under me and instead of reigning gleefully, I’m suddenly the supplicant of a couple of erratic juvenile dictators.

Where did we go wrong? And why isn’t everyone else griping about this injustice? We were slighted out of the attention we deserve and I’m not taking it lightly! No!

I want to matter!
I don’t want everything I do (or don’t do) to be centered around my children!
I want to stop pretending that I don’t have adult needs and that I wouldn’t be happier going out to dinner with my husband alone than playing one more game of “Apples to Apples” with the kids.

Come on. Parents of the world, unite! Stop cow-towing to anyone who measures 4 feet 5 and below.(and Levi, you may be taller than that, but you still count as a “kidtater.”) It’s about us from now on. Because, trust me on this one, if we don’t put some focus back on ourselves, we’re gonna end up with a bunch of self-absorbed narcissists who aren’t gonna be able to take care of themselves, the country, or the planet. And that would suck.

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The makings of a meltdown.

Stop me before I lose total control!I really did it this time. I imploded. We were late for school — again. I was half-dressed with 8 e-mails left to send. My youngest son refused to change out of pajamas. My eldest boy announced that we needed to stop at Fry’s on the way to school to score a few end-of-the-year gifts for his four most beloved teachers. And over the edge I leapt.

Now, let’s analyze the components that led to my completely inappropriate public melt down.

1.) I am late for everything. This is a flaw that I seem unable to overcome. I feel badly about myself for my tardiness. But when it negatively impacts my children, I feel even worse. Translated, the message I get in this type of situation is:
I SUCK AS A MOTHER!!!!

2.) I cannot control my impish 7-year-old son who, regardless of my nagging, begging and haranguing, moves at his own pace and refuses to follow even the simplest of my directions. This child behaves as if he is truly the center of the universe and all of us, merely a collection of disparate space junk. The message here?
I HAVE FAILED MISERABLY AS A PARENT!!!!

3.) End of the year gifts for teachers that have loved, supported, and respected my kid for an entire school year. Um…hello? How did I manage to space this out?
Message #3:
I AM AN INSENSITIVE SLOB WHO NEGLECTS TO REPAY THE MULTITUDE OF KINDNESSES AFFORDED MY LOVED ONES.

Individually, each of these incidences was troubling. But as a combined lot, the frustration, self-loathing, and personal shame became too much to bare. So I flipped. “Get in the car,” I shouted, “We’re already late, and now we’re gonna be even later because once again Levi sprung something on me at the last minute…” As my irritation grew, so did my volume.

“Just say no,” my husband calmly advised, making me feel more like a raving lunatic than I already did. “He should’ve thought of this days ago. You are not obligated to take him at the last minute.”

But, as is often the case with my eldest, he just wants to do something kind and admirable and I feel badly telling him no. It’s like I’d be preventing him from doing a mitzvah (good deed). That feels wrong in every sense of the word.

By the time we got to Fry’s I was embarrassed and ashamed of my behavior. The kids were stiff and silent. I stood in the parking lot sobbing and holding onto them for dear life. “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “Mommy’s just not right today.” And that’s when it happened,the giant “AHA” moment.

My older son hugged me tightly and said not to worry, that we all have bad days, that families always forgive each other. My younger son threw his arms around my waist, held on snugly and said, in the sweetest, most compassionate voice I’d ever heard, “Don’t cry anymore, Mommy. You can handle this. Just take a deep breath and remember that we love you and that you’re the best mommy anyone could ever have.”

As I strode down the aisles with these two tender, considerate, caring young men by my side, it suddenly dawned on me that maybe I wasn’t doing such a bad job parenting after all.

Happy Birthday to me.

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A political diversion

Really? I kind of beg to differ.

Hard to think about anything today other than the President’s speech yesterday in Cairo. Look, I’m a Jew, first and foremost. The whole wife, mother, sister, lover thing somehow always manages to take a back seat to who I am religiously. I guess that’s because for so many centuries people have hated Jews and worked to destroy us. I’m not paranoid. I feel genuinely safe in society today. But I do worry at times, and with good reason.

Statistics show that anti-semitism is on the rise in this country and world wide. As economies continue to plummet, distraught members of society often look for a scapegoat. There are multiple factions in society who believe that the rising costs of oil today are due to U.S. support of Israel. To any sane individual, this is absurd. But that doesn’t stop masses of people from calling on the US to turn against our long-term ally and join forces instead with the Arab nations who look to destroy her.

I believe in Israel’s right to exist. Hamas, the head of the Palestinian government and confirmed terrorist organization, does not. For the President of the United States to call Israel an “occupier” and suggest that Israel give back land taken in a war in 1967 is ridiculous. Returning to the ’67 borders, as President Obama advocated yesterday, would put Israel in an indefensible position while also leaving major population centers beyond those borders.

I’ve been reading incessantly on this subject. I actually watched the President’s speech on CSPAN and heard him irrefutably say that Israel should return to the 1967 borders. But as I talk to most of my liberal minded friends, who also claim to support Israel’s right to exist, they insist that the President said nothing about returning to ’67 borders. They have emails from “reputable” leaders who assert that this is just another desperate Republican attempt to destroy the President’s credibility and weaken his ever decreasing popularity.

And you can’t argue with these people. Because they refuse to believe the facts. Look, I’m all for a healthy debate. Like most people, I support a Palestinian state. They have the right to exist just as Israel does. But time and again Israel has withdrawn from areas, offered concessions and agreed to multiple conditions in order to secure peace with the Palestinians. But the Palestinian government insists on Israel’s complete and total destruction. They refuse to recognize Israel’s right to exist. How can that be a recipe for peace?

I am frustrated by this. Frustrated that people wont do the research and fact-finding they need to do to understand what’s going on. Trusting anyone as your sole source of information is foolish and naive. I listen to NPR every day on the radio. But I also force myself to listen to Rush Limbaugh and a variety of other radio hosts whose opinions I don’t necessarily agree with. But if you only watch CNN or read the NY Times, or at the other end of the spectrum, exclusively watch Fox News, how will you ever know what’s truly going on?

Look, believe what you want. But be honest and thoughtful about it. And don’t delude yourself into thinking that President Obama is a friend to the state of Israel, the Jews or to true democracy in the Middle East.

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