His first dance

“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.

1 Comment

Long day’s journey…

Life is calling

Just finished a long day. Close friend on suicide alert. Not sure that’s actually the right term. But it’s a scary prospect. I’ve never known anyone who killed himself. I’m more than a little familiar with folks who have teetered on the brink, and I have personally faced off with the kind of darkness that leads one to the edge of that cliff. I often wonder if someone who hasn’t suffered from major depression can even begin to understand how suicide can honestly seem like someone’s best or most viable option. If you’ve never experienced the halting and insurmountable pain of that darkness, how can you even approach an understanding of it.

A lot of kids commit suicide. They’re often bright kids; heads of their class, well liked, accomplished in several areas. But in spite of how the rest of the world sees them, they are internally drowning in a turbulent sea of blackness that is unrelenting, overwhelming and hopeless.

I think about my own kids a lot; will they ever fall prey to the merciless and unpredictable villain of depression? My funny, playful little boys who race around the backyard chasing puppy tails and running through sprinklers. Will they ever be so overcome with pain that they will contemplate leaving this world, just as I have done? And will I know it in time to help? Will I see the signs? Will I be capable of objective observation; the distance that’s necessary to see the bigger picture?

My friend is still alive. And aside from the obvious, maybe there’s another gift that comes with this kind of close call. It allowed us to hear the warning cry, the blaring siren of distress that screams, “Stop being so self-absorbed. Stop living in your tiny, self-contained little world. Look around. See who needs you. Reach out. Step up to the plate. Share your life with people you care about. Stop pretending this couldn’t all end in a millisecond.”

2 Comments

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.