All about idiots

I have done the unthinkable. I mean it, the quintessential parental misstep, the apex of maternal idiocy. I have committed the equivalent of allowing someone to take nude photos of myself for “artistic purposes,” all the while naively believing that these pornographic pictures would never come back to haunt me. That’s how stupid I am.

“Oh, come on,” you’re thinking. “What could you have done that’s so very terrible and foolhardy?” I wrote a book. A very, very revealing book. I wrote it when my eldest son was a baby. I wrote it with my husband. I wrote it so that one day, long after we had departed this earthly realm, my children would know who we were, how we lived and all the intricate details of our lives they’d neglected to ask us about when we were alive. I wrote it to be known. Well, be careful what you wish for.

So last night I’m sitting in my office/art studio working on a new piece. I’d just inadvertently allowed my wood-burning tool to sear through a paint bottle and was busily wiping up a pool of purple paint. It was nearly bedtime for my kids and I was a bit frazzled when Levi, my 13 year old son, came bounding into the room. “Can I hang out with you for a bit?” He asked merrily. “Of course, honey,” I smiled. “I’m just a little stressed at this moment.”

He then proceeded to talk and swivel in my desk chair, telling me about his day, his upcoming tests, the geography bee. Then he began to rummage through the books on my book shelf. “What’s this book, mom?” He innocently quarried. “I don’t know, sweetie, I’m kind of preoccupied right now.” I didn’t even look up from my paint puddle.

“All About Me?” He read. I could have said something then. Something smart and maternal like, “That sounds familiar,” or “Let me see that.” But nooooooo, I finished mopping up my mess and then got back to work on my creation. In truth, I was barely listening as he happily revealed that the book was something his father and I had written back in 2001 when he was a baby. “That’s nice,” I casually ignored him. I’m not proud of this. But sometimes I tune people out. Doesn’t everyone? Especially one’s children? They do talk incessantly. And sometimes you just need a break to do whatever you need to do.

“I love this book,” he declared gleefully. “Mom, you were a radio talk-show host? And I never knew dad’s favorite color was blue.” Apparently we had purchased a basically blank journal with questions on each page about ourselves. The idea of “All About Me,” was to create a deeply personal parental memoir to be delivered to one’s children at some point during those children’s adult lives. Clearly the point was NOT to divulge the kind of intimate details contained in those pages to a 13 year old child who was not at all prepared to take in the shocking and horrific information his idiotic parents took the time to actually write down on the pages of this tome.

Before I knew it, Levi was giggling maniacally. “Oh my gosh,” he kept saying. “Oh my gosh!” By the third “oh my gosh,” i deduced that something was up and unplugged my wood-burning tool. “What is going on?” I inquired with what I believed to be a great deal of gravity and parental authority. “Mom,” he looked at me as if he’d never seen me before. “You tried smoking pot? And dad…dad…”

“Levi, give me that book,” I commanded, suddenly filled with a rush of memory about the contents of the journal. “Give it to me!”

“No way,” he defied. “This stuff is amazing!” He then raced out of the room, holding the book tightly and shouting out shameful tidbits about our past that we had idiotically penned into the pages of this incriminating treatise. I chased after him like a famished lion following an evasive zebra. “Come back here!” I shouted. Now I too was laughing maniacally.

One of the most difficult parenting moments is that one where you realize that your child is bigger, stronger and faster than you are. But luckily I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. I managed to grab his ankle as he rounded a corner and pulled hard, bringing him down onto the couch. The book flew out of his grasp and into my own. We were both exhausted and giddy. I summoned every bit of parental poise I had within.

“Levi,” I said, “This book is a very private book. None of what you read is anything that can be shared with anyone outside this family. In addition, your father and I have made mistakes along our roads to adulthood. I guess we thought that someday, maybe 20 years from now, we might want to share some of our regrets and insights with you. We certainly did not expect to share this information with you right now. But since it’s happened, you need to know that people make mistakes, big mistakes. Life is about learning from mistakes and making better choices in the future.”

What else could I do? Pandora’s box had unexpectedly been blown wide open and there was no way to corral the contents and re-contain them in the carton. This was life and there were no “do-overs.”

“I understand, mom,” he answered, matching my seriousness. “So you’ll understand when I make those same mistakes…”  “No!” I interrupted. “Just because we made certain mistakes does not give you license to make the same ones. We were stupid, many times. This book does not give you permission to do anything that you will later regret, and trust me, you will later regret much.”

I guess at this point I was crying and he sensed it was time to back off. “Okay mom,” he said, and then in a voice reminiscent of a younger version of himself, he asked “Will you put me to bed now?”

I happily tucked him in, said a prayer, and kissed him gently on his forehead. I probably should have gone and directly burned that stupid book. But I have to admit, it was kind of fascinating. There were things in there even I didn’t remember. Destroying it altogether seemed wrong, like trying to run from one’s past or pretend that reality hadn’t existed. So instead, I hid it, this time in a spot where no one will ever find it. In fact, I’ve already forgotten where I put it. It probably wont surface till the kids have moved out and we’re packing up the house to sell it and move to our smaller empty-nest abode.

My only hope is that when it does resurface it’s at a more opportune time, a time when my boys’ choices in life are less treacherous. When hormones have stopped raging and moral character is more keenly etched into my childrens’ psyches. But maybe that never happens. Maybe there is never a good time to step off the parental pedestal, to show your kids that you are human, that bad things do happen, and that everyone errs. As famous author and philosopher Sam Keen once said, “We come to love not by finding a perfect person but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.” Well, you gotta hand it to me, I am definitely teaching my kids how to love.

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Are you an adult at 13 or a child at 26?

I am thoroughly dumbstruck. I was just informed by our mail-order prescription drug company that I do not have the rights, under newly amended HIPAA (The Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act) laws to manage my 13 year old son’s prescriptions. This information was dumped on me after two hours of tech support idiocy as I attempted to set up an on-line account to streamline the process of ordering prescription refills for my family. Please note the irony here.

After finally being told that it would take 3 to 5 more business days to get the online account up and working, I decided to end the call before I dismantled the phone and furiously ingested its portable batteries. Then I remembered one more thing. I said,
“Well, can you at least tell me how to connect my son’s account with mine so that I can manage his prescription refills?”

“That depends,” the heavily accented voice on the other end of the phone stated.

“On…?” I took the bait.

“On how old he is,” she answered

“He just turned 13.”
“Oh, well then no. You cannot manage his account without his direct written permission.”

“But he doesn’t have an account. He’s 13.”

“Well, he will have to set up his own account and then he can order his own prescriptions.”

“But he doesn’t have a credit card. He has no way to pay for them. Wait a minute, is this a gag? You’re just joking with me because I sound like I’m about to lose it, right?”

“No ma’am. Once a child is 13, the new HIPAA laws require the child to give written permission to a parental caregiver to have access to any of their prescription drug information.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. Who made that law? Seriously. I really want to know. Because it obviously wasn’t someone with a 13 year old child. Because my kid is a great kid. He’s responsible, practical, thoughtful. But, I can pretty much guarantee that left to his own devices, the last thing he’s gonna be focused on is ordering his allergy meds on a monthly basis.”

“Well, if he chooses to set up his own account and grants caregiver access to you then you will be allowed to order his medications.”

At this point, I excused myself and hung up, knowing that no good could come from my continued attempts to reason with the ridiculous automaton voice on the other end.

Let me be clear here. My 13 year old son requires my assistance to oversee and manage his pharmaceutical needs. And there’s no way I’m going to allow him (or his brother in 3 years) to do it themselves. Call me a helicopter parent, but setting 13 year old kids free to access their own stash of pharmaceuticals sounds like a pretty big recipe for large scale disaster. Am I missing something here?

So back off HIPAA. I’m the sheriff in this town. My kid takes the meds I buy him based on his doctor’s recommendation and I am not about to let a 13 year old boy make his own health care decisions without my express consent and input.

I just have one question. The new Obamacare laws allow kids to stay on their parents’ insurance plans until they reach 26, even if they’re married and not living at home. HIPAA insists that 13 year old minors manage their meds on their own. So which is it, are we raising 13 year old adults or 26 year old children?

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Backpack ban. For real?

No drinks. No boomerangs, No backpacks. No…circus ringmaster jackets?

My 12 year old son, Levi, will be starting middle school in August at a brand new public school. We’re all excited and nervous and trying to figure out how life operates in this totally unknown environment. Up till now, he’s been highly sheltered by our local private Jewish day school.

There’s a steep learning curve here and I admit it is causing us some anxiety. LIke the other day, for instance, he was perusing the district web site and confronted me in a panic.

“Mom,” he voiced fearfully, “It says on the website that kids are prohibited from carrying backpacks on campus.”

“Levi,” I responded with a doubtful glance, “That’s ridiculous. I’m sure you didn’t read it accurately. I mean, how are you supposed to carry your stuff to school? Picnic basket?”

He assured me that what he had seen had been real and urged me to call the district office to confirm it. His anxiety was growing and I figured that calling the office was the perfect way to allay his concerns. “Hello,” I started to the kindly woman who answered the phone, “I’m a parent of a new student who will be coming to your school in the fall and my son saw something on your website about backpacks not being allowed on campus. I know that sounds rather crazy. So I just wanted to check and make sure that he misunderstood whatever he thought he read.”

“Um…I’m not really sure what to tell you,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “Can you hold for a moment?” Then she disappeared for like three minutes and I waited, wondering if she was using the same trick my insurance company uses every time I call to check on a benefit. I like to call it the “indefinite hold tactic.” It’s when certain organizations systematically put you on hold forever, knowing you’ll eventually get so frustrated you’ll hang up and decide it’s easier to just pay whatever remaining balance they insist you still have, even though you’ve already paid them three times already. But I digress.

Finally she returned, “The backpack rule is a campus by campus decision and I’m afraid no one at the district can give you the backpack requirements for an individual school. You’ll have to wait till the school reopens for the school year to call and inquire about it.”

“But…I mean…Are you saying there may be some rule against students carrying backpacks?” I’m stammering at this point because this sounds as silly to me as if she told me that number 2 pencils were being outlawed.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to call the school after July 22nd,” she curtly ended the conversation.

Baffled by this, I started to do some research and found that yes, backpacks have been items-non-grata at schools across the country for over a decade. Huh?

I found articles as far back as 2003 explaining the dangers of backpacks containing concealed weapons, drug paraphernalia, even bombs. The answer to some lunatic potentially stuffing a bomb into a backpack? No more backpacks. Maybe it’s me, but that sounds like the most inane answer to school violence and drug abuse that I have ever heard.

But that wasn’t all I discovered. There were other equally lame reasons for prohibiting the dreaded back carriers. The Academy of Orthopedic surgeons had come out with some declaration a few years back about the risks of long-term back and neck injuries and posture problems from kids hauling around overweight backpacks.

Other schools had outlawed backpacks because, and I’m not making this up, they proved to be dangerous threats to teacher safety both inside the classroom and in the corridors of learning. Apparently, teachers find themselves tripping over backpack straps on a regular basis during the school day. They also complain that they have been severely injured in the hallways by backpack-clad youngsters racing from one class to the next.

OK, now I am deeply sensitive to teachers’ needs. Teachers deserve all the credit, gratitude and respect we can give. Their jobs are important and critical to our society. However, this is a little bit silly, don’t you think? I mean, are they sashaying down the aisles between desks while reviewing the Spanish American War? Tap dancing around the classroom as they pose thought-provoking questions about Odysseus? Kids can’t carry backpacks because teachers are tripping over them en masse? Maybe we need to have an in-service day focused on cautious strolling protocol.

And one more question: in what, pray tell, are our children supposed to carry their personal items, notebooks and other school supplies? Hefty trash bags? One girl somewhere out East faced this very dilemma and started carting her load around in a plastic, yellow sand castle pail. Come on! We have got to get a grip. Yes, someone hid a pressure cooker in a backpack and murdered innocent victims. That’s deplorable and hideous. But banning backpacks wouldn’t have stopped the Boston bombings. Believe me, they would have found another way to hurt people. That’s what evil people do. They figure out ways to destroy and ruin good, unsuspecting people’s lives. We need to address evil, not the outward accoutrements of it.

We didn’t ban underwear after the underwear bomber tried to blow up an airplane. We can’t outlaw every single item that some sick, twisted cretan uses to accomplish some heinous activity. We just can’t. It would be like…like…like…trying to eliminate peanuts from every elementary school in the country. Oh wait, we have done that.

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Show a little damn gratitude, will ya?

Apparently beggars CAN be choosers!

Holiday cheer? A time to give? What’s up with charities this year? Has anyone noticed that everyone who’s asking for handouts this yuletide season has conditions? “Please drop off any unwrapped, newly purchased, non-age specific, genderless toys by December 15th.” Ok, seriously? This is getting ridiculous. I mean every year we try to go through the boys’ toy closets and make piles of good stuff that they’ve outgrown or no longer want to play with. We talk about how important it is to give things away and the boys have to struggle sometimes with wanting to keep stuff that they need to let go of. But they are learning valuable lessons about sharing, giving and helping those less fortunate.

Well, apparently no one wants anything even “gently” used this holiday season. I find that incredibly offensive. It’s not that I’m not willing to buy new gifts for those in need. It’s just that I think they should be grateful for used items as well. Has everyone lost their minds? I mean, the poor and downtrodden only want new items? What’s that about?

I mean, we’re hurting this year, like everyone around us. I’m shopping at resale stores and garage sales. My kids had a much scaled down version of Chanukah this year. But while it’s okay for me to scrounge and save, I should go to Target and shell out full retail for a brand new Barney-mobile for some nameless kid who only wants new toys this year? That’s more than absurd. It makes me just say, “Oh well, guess I just wont give anything.”

That cannot be the message charities are hoping to convey. But why then all the hubbub about “new” or “unopened” toys? My kids have a plethora of rummaged board games, some of which show serious signs of age. But we have just as much fun playing Monopoly with the hand-drawn “Park Place” card we scribbled in yellow marker over a random two of clubs, than anyone playing with the authentic printed version. Come on!

It reminds me of all the times I’ve attempted to remedy the hunger situation when I encounter it in my path. I’ve offered leftovers to people begging on the street. I’ve purchased a dozen bagels or donuts for some sign-carrying veteran asking for food. I’ve even handed over half a bag of groceries upon passing someone desperate off the freeway ramp in L.A. once. And do you know what each of those people did with my food? They threw it out. Because they didn’t want food. They wanted money, for booze or drugs or cigarettes or whatever. And yes, that soured me a bit on trying to help out. So now, I give to reputable organizations. I make tax-deductible contributions whenever I can and I try my best to ignore the sad souls who approach me and ask for aid. I’m sure it looks heartless and callous to my kids. But thrice burned…

It’s the same damn thing. People need to be encouraged to give. But to give what they can, which may not necessarily be ideal or perfect for the person they’re trying to help. People need to appreciate whatever they get. Am I the only one whose ever heard of the proverbial beggar who couldn’t be a chooser? Maybe it does make a better Christmas for a kid to get a brand new Star Wars Lego set. But when people are struggling to do that for their own kids, they’re not likely to do it for a stranger’s.

I’ve taught my children to be gracious and appreciative whenever anyone gives them anything. If they don’t like it, if they already have one, if it comes broken in two, they just smile, say thank you and offer a warm, grateful hug. Maybe we ought to consider teaching that to the myriad of non-profits out there who are only looking for perfectly packaged, officially licensed, unused goodies this Christmas.

A symmetry boggles over a snag.

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Honesty is…usually the best policy

Telling your kids the truth is essential. O.K., not including conversations about recreational drug usage, alcohol, premarital sex or cigarettes.

My two closest friends happen to be married to men whose names rhyme. It’s a weird coincidence that I didn’t really even notice until this morning in the car, when my 10-year-old son Levi, for no apparent reason, said, “It’s too bad you aren’t still married to Uncle Larry, mom. Because then there’d be Cathy and Barry, Helen and Jerry, and Debra and Larry. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

Besides the shocking randomness of this observation, I was struck with the realization that my 6-year-old son, also in the car, had never been told that his mother had in fact been married prior to wedding his father and that this might come as a rather profound shock to him. I paused for a moment to regroup.

“Thank you for sharing that,” I said with a forced sort of politeness. Then I addressed my youngest and as simply and directly as possible said, “Eli, did you know that when mommy lived in Chicago, many many years ago, mommy was actually married to Uncle Larry?” I suddenly understood why calling my ex “uncle” was probably as bad an idea as my current hubbie had argued.

Dead silence.

“Do you remember Uncle Larry, honey?” I pushed onward.

“No,” he said, “Not really.”

Not sure how to proceed, I prayed for a sign from the parenting gods. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him. But he clearly heard what his brother had said. They say kids know everything, especially the stuff you avoid telling them. I had no choice. I had to say something. Of course I didn’t tell the older one until he was at least 8, and I only gave up the info when a gal pal innocently inquired about my first husband during an outing with our kids at Starbucks.

“Is Uncle Larry the chef guy, mommy?” my littlest inquired.

“Yes sweetie, he is. So you remember him?”

“Kind of, I guess.”

More silence.

“You were married to him?”

“Just for a short time. When I was very, very young.”

“Do I have any brothers or sisters?”

“No, honey. Just your big brother, Levi.”

“Has Uncle Larry ever been on ‘Chopped?’ ”

“I don’t think so, love.”

“If he was, do you think he would win?”

“Hmmm…that’s a good question. I’m not sure. He’s a really great chef though. He might.”

“Mom, will you ever marry anybody else?”

“No, sweetheart. I’m done marrying people. Daddy’s the one I was looking for and now that I found him, I’m never going to marry anyone else.”

“Okay. Mom, can we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts for a cinnamon raisin twist on the way to school?”

I chuckled. “Yes, sweetie, we can.”

And with that our conversation came to a close. Was I right to share the info at this still tender young age? I’m not certain. But once the cat was out of the proverbial bag, I felt like I had no choice in the matter.

The good news is, there are no more secrets to burden my motherly soul. I don’t have any LSD-laced skeletons in my closet or arrest records I need to expunge. I am pretty much what I appear to be. I think that’s good for kids. It can’t be easy to learn that your cherished mother was once a toothless carnie or a handsomely paid exotic dancer. Luckily, I only had to tarnish my maternal image with a failed first marriage. In the scheme of things, that’s not so terrible.

But how do you explain to your kids the mistakes and failures of your past? Do you sugar-coat them? Exaggerate them to scare your kids into submission? Brush them off as merely the foolishness of youth? It’s hard to know what’s right.

Personally, I believe that telling your kids the truth is essential. Okay, not including conversations about recreational drug usage, alcohol, premarital sex or cigarettes. But as far as almost everything else goes, honesty is…usually the best policy.

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Preview of coming attractions…

: Frankly, I’m in the “I’d rather be surprised” school of parenting.

One of my best friends has a teenage son who consistently challenges both her and her husband in every imaginable way. Often as I watch their travails, I feel like I’m sitting at Harkin’s watching my very own preview of coming attractions. and much like I often feel at the theatre, the previews are too detailed, too graphic, and they ruin the movie by telling you exactly what’s “coming soon.” Frankly, I’m in the “I’d rather be surprised” school of parenting. I mean, what’s the point of preparation anyway? It’s not like I’m really gonna alter my child-rearing tactics in order to avoid a whole new array of potential parenting pitfalls.

So the latest one is this: Joey (not his real name), likes to dip into the alcohol and marijuana. Now we’ve all been 17 so that’s not really such an outrageous occurrence. But they’re conscientious parents and have instituted random drug tests in order to curb the undesired behavior. Now Joey, as might be expected, lies about ingesting both the booze and the pot in order to avoid negative consequences. Hard to discern which is worse, but my friends’ have focused more on the lying than the actual drug and alcohol offense.

Well, the other day Joey comes to his mom and says that he’s been invited to his friend Scott’s house on Saturday night for a beer pong party. They intend to get good and hammered and then stay overnight to sleep off the stupor. Joey preempts his mom’s concerns by clarifying that no one will be getting behind the wheel of a car, Scott’s parents will be home, and he really ought to be rewarded with the opportunity of going to the party since he is, after all, telling her the truth while not yet under any type of guilt-ridden duress.

What to do? She asked my advice. I wanted to say, “Are you kidding? I have no frickin’ idea on this one. My kids are children for Gods sake. They’re never gonna be 17 year old man-boys who want to partake in ugly adult activities. How in the hell would I know what to do?” But I self-edited and just said, “Um…I guess you should let him go. After all, I do remember being a teenager. If you say no he’s just gonna do it anyway and lie about it.” Then I added something to the effect of “I guess a vice you know about at a supervised party is better than one you don’t know about that drives around under the influence with five other teenage boys who all believe they’re immune to mortality.”

I’m not sure she appreciated my aphorism.

But the question hasn’t left my mind since our conversation. Eventually I too will have to make decisions of this magnitude. And frankly, I don’t have a clue about what the right thing to do is. I remember how my parents forbid just about everything. Consequently, I remember lying –a lot. I know some people consider their adolescent kids to be pre-adults and rather than participating in long, drawn out arguments, would rather just be “friends” with their kids so they green light pretty much everything. I’ve even heard tell of parents who actually enjoy a few puffs of the cannabis plant along with their youngsters.

I spoke with a teetotaler pal of mine the other day and she looked at me askance when I announced that in our house, a few sips of wine now and again wasn’t verboten. “We believed more in the European model of parenting,” I added, feeling more than a little ashamed to admit it.

What is right, I wonder. There will likely be scores of perplexing problems ahead. Yet I go through life wondering why I’m the only progenitor who missed parent orientation and is going through the experience blindly without access to that mythical handbook everyone else seems to have in their possession. It’s scary. And frustrating.

I guess that’s why I’d rather skip the previews and just be stunned by whatever reality awaits me.