Category Archives: dad

His first dance

nina-leen-young-boy-and-girl-taking-dancing-lessons

“Whose problem is it?” My husband, the pediatrician, patronizingly posits.

“Look, I know it’s his problem,” I say, already on edge from his tone of voice, “I read all the ‘Love and Logic’ books too. But sometimes a parent needs to step in and avert an impending disaster.”

“You need to let him fail, Debra,” He councils.

“But this is such a bad idea!” I assert. “He’ll be totally humiliated and then…well, he’ll be scarred for like ever!”

“If you take this on as your issue,” he warns, “You are robbing him of an opportunity to learn a valuable lesson.”

At that point I wanted to slug him. Instead I furiously stormed out of the kitchen and rushed into his office where I began to systematically rip the pages out of each and every “Love and Logic” book I could find. All the while yelling at him, “I hate this ‘Love and Logic’ crap! This whole notion of natural consequences sucks. If it’s all about letting your kids fail, then what do they need parents for in the first place? Let’s just step back a bit further and really let him make his own choices…”

After I vented, I took a deep breath and looked seriously at my spouse. “How can you set our son up for this kind of devastation? Don’t you care about his feelings at all?”

“Debra,” he voiced in a genuinely warm tone, “I don’t want him to suffer any more than you do. But you told him it might be better to ask the girl to the dance in private instead of doing it in front of the entire sixth grade class. Didn’t you?”

I nodded sheepishly.

He continued, “And he decided he wanted it to be big and bold and dramatic. We have to let him do it his way.”

That’s when I realized I hate being a parent. I never should’ve gone down this path. It’s painful and frustrating and there’s virtually no positive reinforcement. My kind, sensitive, thoughtful 12-year-old boy is about to ask a girl to his first dance ever in front of his entire class and I can’t convince him to change course. And spousal support? Ha! My husband behaves as if he’s Switzerland during World War II.

The following day was grueling. I didn’t mention the dance invitation that morning en route to school. It was none of my business. Not my problem. If my adoring little boy got his heart stomped on by some brazen hussy, it was simply going to be a natural consequence that would teach him to be more cautious in exposing his sentiments in the future. Surely that lesson will serve him well in the long run.

I picked him up promptly at 3:15. “How was school?” I nonchalantly queried.
“Oh, it was okay,” he contended with the neutrality of a poker professional, cards close to his vest.

“Anything out of the ordinary occur?” I tried not to sound as pathetically desperate to know the story as I obviously was.

“No. Not really,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Just your average day.”

I bit my tongue, literally, to keep myself from uttering another word. Suddenly he chirped with excitement, “Oh, mom, I almost forgot. I asked Jessica (not her real name) to the dance this afternoon.”

“Oh you did?” I casually inquired. “So…how’d it go?”

“It was amazing! I played this One Direction song at the end of Spanish called ‘That’s what makes you beautiful,’ and I told her I wasn’t Nile, but I’d still like to take her to the dance if she’d go with me. The whole class was cheering and saying, ‘Say yes. Say yes.’ It was such a cool feeling to have everyone wanting me to succeed. And she did say yes, which made it even more cool.”

OK, I did not see that coming. My whole body heaved a heavy sigh of relief. Thank heavens that catastrophe was averted. We pulled into the driveway and I saw a series of texts had come in from my husband. “So?” “What happened?” “Did she say yes?” “Is he okay?” Well, how do you like that? Mr. “I’m so uninvolved emotionally and capable of keeping my feelings out of the situation” is actually waiting on pins and needles to know the results from today’s event.

I started to text back the good news when it struck me that it wouldn’t kill my husband to wait a few more hours to learn the verdict from today’s challenge. After all, I wouldn’t want him to take things on too personally and rob my son of his learning experience.
I texted back, “He prefers to talk with you in person.”

Yes, I know it was a bit childish. O.K., maybe even passive aggressive to purposely lead my husband astray like that. But it wasn’t a lie. Not really. Just a…a…an extension of the truth. And one that cheered me immensely over the course of the afternoon. Honestly, can you blame me? It’s not easy being married to a professional parent who always seems to have all the right answers.

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Where have all the Cowboys gone?

For once I have the perfect gift for our upcoming Anniversary!

Our dog, Maggie, is a lot like Lassie. So the other night while my youngest son, Eli, was sleeping, it wasn’t at all surprising to see her perched in the threshold of the office barking a series of short staccato yips at my husband, Mark, while he typed away at his computer. “What is it girl?” he asked a la Timmy Martin, “Is someone in trouble?”

Maggie voiced a few more Morse Code like woofs and gestured with her head for my husband to follow. He quickly complied and Maggie led him down the hall towards the living room and courtyard. She stopped abruptly at the archway to the living room and yipped another string of urgent yelps. Our other dog, S’more, had joined her in the portal. They wouldn’t extend a paw beyond the threshold.

Mark opened the French doors and walked into the courtyard expecting to find some wayward quail or other lost desert creature. He found nothing and re-entered the house.

“There’s nothing out there, sweetie,” he calmly replied. But the yelping continued as both dogs stood frozen like guards at Buckingham Palace. Mark knelt down and tried to ease their heightening panic. That’s when he heard the unmistakable shake of a rattle behind him. He slowly stood and turned towards the sound. There, in the middle of our living room, stood a 3 foot uninvited Rattle snake.

Secure that our youngest was sleeping soundly down the hallway and the dogs wouldn’t approach the venomous intruder, he methodically backed away and moved stealthily into the garage to retrieve the first long metal object he could find. It was a rake that proved to be the ultimate asp destructor. Once it was officially deceased, he carefully speared it on the sharp end of the rake spokes and shot-putted it into the desert wash behind our property.

When I came home with my older son, Levi, I noted particular nervousness in both of our normally easy-going pups. S’more was barking at every sound and motion, while Maggie just sat curled up in a corner of our bedroom. “Is everything okay with the dogs?” I asked. My husband nodded and tried to smile, “Yep. Everything is A-OK.”

After Levi went to sleep I returned to our bedroom to find the two dogs and my husband cuddling eerily on our bed. That’s when he confessed his murderous crime. I didn’t ask for the details. The thought of my gentle husband smooshing the life out of any creature, be it in self-defense or not, was too much for me to bear.

I chastised him mercilessly for failing to do something sensible like calling 911 or scooping up our son and canines and rushing madly from the house. “I had to protect my family,” he told me bravely, “I had no other choice.” I admit I kind of liked seeing him as a lone cowboy standing guard over us, his unprotected herd. After all, most of the time he’s just the big lug who leaves his dishes in the sink and socks strewn across the bedroom floor.

I found myself texting everyone I knew. “Nerdy Jewish doctor or ruthless Rattle snake slayer? You decide.” He caught me mid text. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to bed?”

“Oh yeah,” I stammered. “Just had to finish a few emails. I’ll be right in.”

He took a few steps towards the bedroom a la John Wayne, then stopped and turned back to me, “Well goodnight, little lady.” he declared in a low manly voice. Then with a tip of his mythical hat he added, “And remember; Don’t squat with yer spurs on.”  And with that, he sauntered off into the distance, leaving me with only the shadow of his courageous smile and the memory of his selfless bravery.

 

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Stressed out summer

I just read a blog about summer camp for at-risk youth and I realized that that meant mine. Because as of today, their third full day of summer vacation, they are at risk of being throttled, pummeled and bound and gag by none other than their delirious mother who is truly at the proverbial end of her rope.

Summer sucks. It’s hot. I feel perpetually lethargic. Stepping into my car is like being rolled through an easy bake oven. AND THERE’S NO SCHOOL!!!! Help me someone.

About two months ago, while I was furiously researching summer camp options for my 8 and 11 year old sons, my husband made the case that the boys did not want to go to summer camp and he insisted that they were too old to be forced to go. While I vehemently disagreed, I also have a very keen memory of my nephew, several years back, who ran away from summer camp and refused to ever go back. Besides, according to my husband, all the boys wanted to do all summer was frolic happily in our newly added swimming pool in the backyard.

“They’ll be bored,” I asserted. “Nonsense,” he proclaimed. “They’re kids. They just want to play. We need to let them be kids for once. Enough with the over-programming and the rushing between activities. They need down time. It’ll be good for them.”

Fast forward to today. They are mopey, depressive, and completely unimaginative. They don’t want to do any of the myriad of activities we had earlier outlined. They find each other positively detestable, so the idea of even being in the same room with each other is wholly unacceptable. They wont read, (an activity they cherished up until three days ago.) Board games are out because they can’t agree on which one to play. The only shared activity that will be endured is watching “Myth Buster” reruns over and over ad nauseum.

Yesterday my 11 year old son, Levi, decided to put together a professional resume so he could go out and seek employment. Anything would be better than being at home all summer. I have to say that his CV is really rather impressive. But his research was discouraging. He’s still got to wait at least four years to even be considered for a bagger position at Safeway.

My full time summer sitter seems to be sprouting grey hairs even as we speak (and she’s 20), and I haven’t been able to do a stitch of work since this awful summer break began. It’s like I’ve become this powerful magnetic suctioning device. They wont leave me alone for one single nano-second. I work out of my house most days. This is impossible. I even fled the domestic abode for a few hours this afternoon to work on a project at the Coffee Bean. But I was inundated with phone calls about who said what to whom, who wont stop talking, and what kind of gelatin is kosher. It’s too much.

I texted my husband that my life had become unbearable. I haven’t heard back. I’m thinking he’ll find a way to work late tonight.

I know there are moms who are good at this. I’m just not one of them. At a certain level, I accept that about myself. I have a lot of good traits. Parenting full time is just not one of them. But why isn’t that okay? Why do I feel so gosh darn lousy about myself because I need time to work and to be with adults and to challenge myself artistically? I need alone time. Why don’t they?

Look I am fully cognizant of the fact that in a few more years they wont want to have anything to do with me — ever. But right now that actually looks rather appealing. This clingy, needy, unable to walk to the mail box themselves thing is suffocating me.

I love them. I do. I would easily give my life for them. (Which at this point is also sounding rather attractive.) Taking a bullet would be preferable to 3 more hours of uninterrupted “Marco Polo” in the pool.

So I know this is asking a lot; but if anyone of you could tell me that this is normal or at least not identifiably psychotic, I would owe you a debt of gratitude. And if I don’t write back right away, don’t worry, I’ve just checked myself into some insanely expensive sanatorium near Sedona where they don’t take insurance or allow children visitation rights.

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Believe me it hurts me more than it hurts you!

Eli's poem :(

Being a parent sucks! I’m serious. Why can’t we just love our kids, play with them and have fun? Instead we have to teach them lessons, watch them suffer, and worry about them every waking moment. It simply is not fair!

Today is a bad day. I open a big show tonight. It’s been a grueling few months. I’m tired, strung out and full of anxiety about the performance. So my adoring spouse decided to let me sleep in and drove the boys to school this morning. On any other morning I would have been thrilled. But when I awoke around 9am and stumbled into the kitchen for a much needed double espresso, I discovered a sight so horrific, I wanted to crawl back under the covers and never emerge again.

You see, there on the counter, all ready for transport, sat my 8 year old son Eli’s painstakingly created diorama and all the accoutrements of his poetry project that were due today. My heart sank. He has worked so hard on this project it’s unbelievable. This was an injustice I had to make right.

I threw on some clothes, grabbed the diorama and poems and ran out to the car to rescue him. But there was a hint of doubt filtering through my mind that I couldn’t quite shake. Of course I was doing the right thing by bringing him the project. Wasn’t I?

I called my husband at work. “Just wanted to check in on what went down this morning. It looks like with you driving the boys and the change in the routine, Eli forgot his poetry project and I know they’re presenting them today,” I could hear the guilt in my voice even as I tried to sound neutral. “So, I’m just gonna swing by and drop it off for him.”
Silence. “OK?” I added beseechingly.

The icy voice on the other end of the phone chilled me to the core. “No. Don’t bring him the project. He has to learn from this. If you go running to school to save him, this entire painful experience will have been for naught.”

“But it really isn’t his fault,” I clamored. “If I would have taken him, I would have made sure he brought the project. Don’t you think this is an extenuating circumstance?”

“No, I don’t,” my husband cooly replied. “Debra, this is a perfect lesson in taking and owning responsibility for himself. Don’t rob him of it.”

“But…but…but…” I couldn’t get the words out. “But he’s only 8! And he must be devastated,” I could hear my sobs backing up in my throat.

“But he wont forget his school work ever again if we let him learn this lesson,” my husband countered. “Besides, you don’t have to see his broken-hearted expression in your mind every day for the rest of your life. I do. It’s brutal.”

So I came back into the house, replaced the diorama on the counter alongside the poetry book, and tried not to feel like the worst parent on the planet. But it’s hard. I believe so firmly in the “Love and Logic” approach to parenting in which we are engaging. I see my friends with older kids, and I know that the lessons grow ever more complex and challenging as kids grow up. Learning personal responsibility today could very well save a child from making a really bad decision when he’s older; and the truth is that the stakes get incredibly high as kids get older.

I’ve asked most of my friends whether they think I did the right thing. Most of them say yes, but they add that they would never have done it themselves. That makes their tacit nod of approval feel like condemnation of the highest form. I guess we’ll just have to walk this path alone and stay true to the principles of natural consequence in which we believe.

But, just in case you feel compelled to comment and tell me that I did the right thing, feel free. It might help me sleep a bit easier tonight. But no pressure.

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Union busting


Please help me! My kids have unionized and taken a strict “no camp” position which they insist is non-negotiable. I, on the other hand, come to the mediation table with an equally undebatable policy that not only demands full-time summer camp, but also promises a complete maternal break-down and subsequent walk-out if my demands are not met.

Bottom line; I do not have the time, capacity or stamina to entertain my children 24-7 for 3 months of summer activities. I have come to believe that there are some women (even perhaps a few men) for whom this would not only be possible, but, dare I say, even enjoyable. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. I’m not even good at entertaining myself for unstructured stretches of time extending beyond 15 minutes. The combination of me and children for days at a time at record temperatures is like a highly combustible mixture of picric acid and sodium hydroxide. Not something you want happening around the house.

My husband has sided with the children. “You can’t force them to go to summer camp,” he admonishes. “Besides, it’s expensive. And you know how it’ll be to fight every day and force them to go against their wills.”

“Yes,” I concede, “It’ll be hell on a daily basis. But, if I were to put it in Dante-esque terms, I’d have to say that the daily tiffs were more like the first circle, while staying at home with them from June through August plunges into the ninth.” My husband stared at me in bewilderment. He’s not a big Alighieri fan.

“They’ll play together,” he proffers with the simplicity Jack the Dullard. “Yeah,” I reply sarcastically, “Until one of them gets mad and hits the other with a croquet mallet. This is a horrible idea.”

“OK, we’ll hire someone,” he concedes, realizing that unless he’s ready to reenact a modern day version of Medea, he’d better start coming up with a Plan B. “We can use the money we would have spent on summer camp to hire sitters and then they can hang out, relax and swim everyday. It’ll be awesome.”

At this point, I am virtually speechless. I do manage to spit out a single intelligible phrase. “They will be bored in three days time.” Then he slams me with the argument I abhor most. “Well, I didn’t go to summer camp and I managed to entertain myself all summer long. They’re kids. They just want to play.” Then to add insult to injury he adds, “You know, summer camp is an option, not a god-given right. You act like every kid is entitled to go to summer camp.”

“No,” I harshly retort, “Every reasonably sane mother is entitled to send her children out of the house for at least six hours a day. I don’t want to end up a gelatinous puddle of tears every day by the time you get home from work. Trust me, this will not make anyone happy.”

To be honest, I am used to getting my way when it comes to family issues. I often rely heavily on the “I’m the mom, and what I say goes” philosophy of family dynamics. But somehow in this case, I’m not feeling up to waging that battle.

So, we’re going for it. The boys and I will be hanging out at the pool this summer. Feel free to stop by…anytime. We’ll just be here…doing nothing…all day…every day. Dear Lord, please help me find some sort of mental sanity, internal patience, and emotional serenity for what I am about to endure. And please take note that I am on the record saying this may be the single most cataclysmic parenting decision we have made to date.

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Vote for…mom?

I ran for Vice President of the Student Council at my son’s middle school this week. I lost. But that’s not the point of my story.

Well, technically, it wasn’t me that ran. I just felt like it when at 4:00 on Tuesday I picked up my 11 year old son, Levi, and he informed me that he was running and that the election was in two days and the forms and posters were due before school the following morning.

My plan for the afternoon had not included a mad dash to Walgreens for poster supplies and a creative campaign brainstorming session. I had mapped things out a bit differently since I had to scoop up the boys, drive them out to my husband, Mark’s, office in Glendale, eat something on the run and get to rehearsal by 6. But, as usual my schedule was foiled by two small urchins who rarely pay any mind to my neatly ordered, pre-established agendas.

We spent the drive to the West side discussing my son’s political platform and how he wanted to market himself. After all, I kept insisting, this was his campaign, not mine. Yet somehow, when the time came to create the posters, it was me who found herself cutting, pasting and painting, while Levi and his younger brother, Eli, did their homework and dashed playfully from room to room in Mark’s office. In my defense, I did finally note that this was unfair and tasked Levi with peeling the adhesive backs off the sign letters so I would feel less like an indentured servant and more like a collaborator.

The posters came out fairly well. And I don’t honestly think our defeat was due to my lack of artistic talent. But here’s the thing, I was and am still deeply conflicted about my choice to do the bulk of the work on these posters myself. A multitude of internal voices were clamoring about this issue in my head as I worked. The  more sane and practical voice kept insisting that this was Levi’s campaign, and that I had no right or obligation to be taking on the responsibility of art director. But there was also the helicopter mom voice that repeatedly reminded me about Levi’s fine motor control challenges. If left to his own devices, he might create unintelligible posters that would not only assure an election defeat, but might also cause him to be a target of teasing and ridicule.

Other voices declared Levi’s graphic talents on the computer and wondered why I didn’t encourage him to create something electronically. Still others suggested I get myself fed and to work on time and simply allow his dad to handle the poster debacle. Of course that triggered a memory of the time Mark sent Levi to school for dress-up day, costumed in a bed sheet and kitchen mop wig, which wasn’t a disaster I cared to repeat.

In the short run, it was just easier to do this myself. So that’s what I did. I’m pretty sure that by most traditional parenting guidelines, I did the wrong thing. Most of the time I live by the doctrine that kids need to succeed or fail based on their own actions and behaviors. This just seemed…well…like an exception.

What would you have done?

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Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.

My husband is a genius. Please do not, under any circumstance, reveal this information to him. However, I have to tell you that he has invented the single most brilliant behavior modification technique in the history of child-rearing. And it’s actually working!

My seven-year-old son, Eli, is a highly intelligent, creative youngster with an iron will and emotional intensity that’s off the charts. To say he’s been a challenge lately would be like saying Tim Tebow considers himself moderately religious.

In all sincerity, I was ready to throw in the parenting towel and either send him off to boarding school or ship myself out to the coast to some chi-chi wellness center to try and recover a modicum of sanity. But Mark, my husband, cured his behavioral misconduct with one word: FOOTBALL.

Eli is obsessed with football. He lives, breathes and sleeps football. In fact, if I would let him, he would talk incessantly about football, play football in the backyard from dawn to dusk, and literally eat pig skin morning, noon and night if it wasn’t such a dietary no-no in our religion.

Never in a million years would I have thought that football, the bane of my existence, would restore my life to harmony and return my family to a state of peace and well-being. But thanks to Mark, that’s exactly what happened.

You see my husband Mark is a highly intelligent, creative man with an iron will and emotional intensity that’s off the charts. (Funny how that apple analogy keeps coming up.) He’s also the only person on the planet who is more competitive than Eli. So, determined to win the battle of the wills with our son and get his tantrums, hysterics, and irrational behavior under control, Mark invented a fantasy football game that allows Eli to gain yardage for proper behavior, score touchdowns for initiating positive actions and win major rivalry matches for controlling his anger and expressing his feelings appropriately. On the other hand, there are interceptions, fumbles and high scoring opponents whenever behavior takes a turn for the worse.

Their games are intricate and intense, They hold Eli’s attention and stimulate his imagination. And due to his acute competitive edge, he desperately wants to win these games and propel his team (the New York Giants) all the way to the imaginary Super Bowl.

We have seen a 180 degree turn in his behavior since initiating this game. It’s hard to believe. The other day, just as a meltdown was pending over a disastrous Mario Kart Wii showdown with his brother, I broke the news that his rival team of the day, the Denver Broncos, had recovered a fumble at the 50 yard line and were running the ball down the field at an almost unstoppable pace. He took a few deep breaths and regained his composure just in time to tackle Champ Bailey at the Giant’s 30 yard line.

I will admit it’s taken a while for me to figure out the ins and outs of the exercise. Mostly because I abhor football and have never had even the slightest inkling to learn about the game. But besides one embarrassing gaff the other day when I had Eli Manning throw a touch-down pass to Larry Fitzgerald in the end zone, I’ve been pretty much holding my own. I’m even getting into it and enjoying the sport for the first time ever.

Hey, wait a minute. Maybe this whole thing is Mark’s sneaky way of modifying my snarky football attitude. Behavior modification X2. Woah. That’s either brilliant or…downright Machiavellian. Oh heck, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean “tis the season” and all that crap.

Happy Holidays! And may your New Year be filled with endless touchdown passes, countless first downs, and unlimited extra points!

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