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14 Years Later.

It’s been a year since I wrote this, and 15 years since this day. Wishing peace to those who were touched by the events of this day.

Really??!

When my kids were younger, I remember asking someone how I would ever talk to them about 9/11. We live in a New Jersey town where lots of people commute to Manhattan; our community lost more than a dozen that day, and we were close enough to see the smoke that rose above Ground Zero. It was a terrifying, world-changing day. I couldn’t imagine telling my kids about this horrible day without frightening them.

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Here we are, 14 years later. Matthew, who was a newborn on that day in 2001, is now a high school freshman, and Michael is in 5th grade. They both know about 9/11. They’ve learned about it in school, and we’ve talked about it at home. I’ve realized as they’ve grown that because they didn’t share the collective fear that encompassed us on that day, they would never feel the same as those of us who lived…

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What’s the answer?

There has been so much violence, hate and sadness in the news lately. I feel it, and I want to say things. But as a 40-something white woman, I often fear that my comments will be misunderstood or judged because others think this fight is not mine.

Over the last week, I’ve seen multiple comments from friends on social media who have concerns about their own safety simply because of the color of their skin. This makes me desperately sad, because I know these are not people to be feared.

About twenty years ago, I witnessed blatant, hateful racism for the first time in my life. An employee at my company was late to work, and when I asked her why, she recounted the story about how she was in a minor fender bender. The tale ended with her telling the other driver (who she had mentioned earlier was black),  Listen, I’m trying to get to work. You’re just going to pick up a welfare check.”

She walked out of my office, and I never said anything to her. For a long time, I told myself it was because I was so stunned with her comment (which I was), but now I know it was cowardly to not speak up. I still regret it. Coincidentally, that night we had dinner with black friends, and I told them the story. There was first silence at the table, and then the comment, “I always considered this discussion off-limits with white friends.” We sat for three more hours as the restaurant emptied, and talked about it. I heard stories of our friend, who is a soft-spoken, petite black professional woman, and how white women walked by her, clutching their purses close. Even if I didn’t know her, I couldn’t imagine that I’d find her the least bit threatening, and it bothered me to think that other people could.

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I do find it hard to believe when people tell me they “don’t see color.” I wonder how that’s possible, especially when many people live in places where the majority of faces are white. Of course I notice the color of people’s skin, just as I notice the color of their hair, their height, or other characteristics. But the color of someone’s eyes, hair or skin doesn’t define their character or who they are.

I wonder how things might change if people like me felt like it was okay to talk about all of this, and I’m not sure how we could even start. Some of us get tongue-tied just trying to decide if we should use the term “black” or “African-American,” because we fear that we might offend. And if we can’t even get past that, how can we have a meaningful discussion?

It saddens me that friends need to have conversations with their black children about how to respond if they encounter a police officer. Because the conversation should be no different than the one I have with my white children — “Obey the law, and be respectful.” Because parents of black children fear that might not be enough.

I hate to think that people I know can’t be comfortable commuting to and from work, because they feel they are being scrutinized by fellow commuters, merely for how they look. They worry more about “being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” because just the color of their skin puts them at risk.

I really don’t know what the answer is. I do think that if we all felt just a little more comfortable talking with each other about it, maybe that would give us all a little more understanding.

 

 

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I’m a happy camper.

When our kids were younger, their summer activities were pieced together for the 10 weeks between school years – swim lessons, a week of baseball camp, a few weeks of gymnastics camp – whatever they were interested in that year. My husband and I had both gone to more traditional camps; some of my favorite childhood memories are from day camp, while my husband spent summers starting at age seven at sleepaway camp.

I thought our boys might be missing out, so we looked into a few day camps for them. At the time, a friend was working at the camp where his kids went. It wasn’t something that I’d considered doing before, but since I was teaching just one college class during the summers, and wondered how I’d fill nine hours a day while my kids were at camp, I decided to look into it. I thought that being an arts & crafts counselor would be something I could handle and might enjoy.

On a chilly April Saturday, we went and toured LakeView Day Camp. It had everything we were looking for, and by later that week, we’d enrolled the boys.

Unfortunately, this camp wasn’t looking for anyone on their arts & crafts staff. The camp director thought I might be a good fit for an open position for the camp office. I liked the idea of access to air conditioning all summer, and the director was right – even though I have some formidable glue gun skills, I was definitely more suited for an office job. We talked it over, I thought about it, and ultimately I decided that I’d give it a try. I’d just be along for the ride with my kids, and I figured I could do any job for just eight weeks.

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As I expected, the boys thrived at camp. They made new friends. They learned to swim better than they ever had. They learned that they loved activities they’d never tried — archery, zip lining, performing, lacrosse. It was even more than we hoped it would be.

But here’s what I never expected to happen -in my 40s, one of the oldest staff members at camp – I thrived too.

The job wasn’t always easy. The days were long, wrapped in a 45-minute commute on either end. Managing the needs of parents of the hundreds of campers could be complicated. Searching for the one staff member who left her car lights on in the staff parking lot was daunting. Getting through the piles of paperwork that came through the office each day was exhausting.

But at my age, even tucked away inside, sometimes seemingly far from the hustle and bustle of hundreds of campers and staff, I made new friends – ones I expect to be in my life for a long time.

I got to be myself. I could be silly and start a rubberband fight in the middle of the day. I could cry happy tears because I saw one of my kids having fun in the pool or singing in a show. I could give someone a hug just because it was the first time I’d seen them in a few days. I could dance just because I heard music. I could laugh until my stomach hurt.

I got to try new things; I’ve flipped on a bungee trampoline, driven a go-kart, gone down an inflatable water slide, and taken a ride on a fire truck. I got to wear shorts and a t-shirt to work, and dress up in goofy costumes on theme days.

So, it seems  I was not just along for the ride with my boys, but this was going to be my camp experience too.

Tomorrow starts our seventh summer at this wonderful camp. I’m still one of the oldest working there, but nobody else seems to mind. And because I’m around the energy of the rest of the staff, most days I don’t even notice. For eight weeks, I get to be a part of something magical – where kids (and adults) come to be who they really are, try new things, laugh and cry.

We have a motto at LakeView — “Live Camp, Love Camp.” We all do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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parenting, Uncategorized

Dear Elementary School.

I know we’ve been together for 10 years, but as our youngest child is finishing up 5th grade, it’s time for us to break up.

It’s a bittersweet ending to what I can truly say has been a pretty amazing relationship. On one hand, it’s time. Our 5th grader is ready to move on to middle school. As parents, we’re beginning to feel a little out of place among the parents herding younger siblings on the playground and pushing them around in strollers.

On the other hand, even though we know it’s time, it’s still so hard to leave.

When we first walked through the door, you were a little intimidating, despite the small stature of the people inside. We were about to trust you to take care of and educate our kids, who frankly we’d only known for a handful of years. We hadn’t yet figured out how to get them to eat anything but plain pasta, so we were wondering how in the world you’d get them to actually learn anything.

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I think of how much we didn’t know when we came into this relationship, and how much we’ve all learned in 10 years.

You taught our kids how to write in cursive. How to check out a library book. What to do if you think you’re going to throw up someplace that’s not home (Answer: try not to do it on the floor. But when you’re still this little, it’ll all be okay if you do). How to write a book report, do long division and play games on those little scooters in gym. How to make conversation during lunch, and how to play nicely at recess (and what happens when you don’t).

You taught our kids that getting a bad grade isn’t the end of the world. That if you fall off the monkey bars, dust yourself off and try it again. That kindness matters.

You worked with us to give our kids the confidence to participate in nerve-wracking spelling bees, to learn how to play an instrument, to give a presentation in front of the class, to ask for help when they needed it. You helped them set goals like making our town’s all-city music ensembles or district art show; you celebrated with them when they achieved these goals, and helped them know it was okay when they didn’t.

We learned lessons too. That sometimes, no matter how hard you try, your kid is just not going to eat that lunch you packed for him (Bonus lesson: he won’t starve to death). We learned that every kid picks up different skills – social and academic – at different times, and comparing your kid to another one is probably not going to make anyone happy.

Together,  we learned that sometimes people are going to disappoint us. And that others are going to be there for us in ways that we couldn’t even anticipate.

Thank you, elementary school. You’re a very special place. I know you’re going to make some other family very happy.

 

 

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You’re a big fat liar, Facebook.

I was talking with a friend recently about the difficulties in parenting teenagers (and really children of all ages, for that matter).

And what I took away from our conversation was that a lot of us are lying.

Because what this friend told me is that when she looks at Facebook, her friends make it look like raising kids is all sunshine and rainbows.

When instead, it’s really a lot of eye rolling and slammed doors.

I’m just as guilty of this. If I look back at my last few Facebook posts about my own children, they’re about the funny things they’ve said or accomplishments I’m proud of.

Because really, I assume that nobody wants to read about the argument we had because someone told me they didn’t like what I was making for dinner, or about the 237 times I had to ask one of them to put away their clean laundry before it actually got done. I don’t write about the times that my kids are doing homework together at the kitchen table and one throws a pencil at the other because he’s annoyed by the other one talking himself through math homework. I post vacation photos of my smiling family, but leave out the anecdotes about the screaming match that happened during mini golf.

But maybe our friends WOULD be interested in reading about this stuff. Because if we all posted about the crappy days too, instead of just about dance recitals, achievements and family trips, parents might realize that we’re all in this together, and that someone is probably having the same problem that you are.

It’s interesting, because most of us give our kids this lesson about social media, but we often forget about it ourselves. We remind kids that there’s more to those selfies posted on Instagram. And the post about that beautiful semiformal dress? I can’t think of a teenage girl who is going to also post about the arguments she had with her parents about the appropriateness or cost of that dress. And unfortunately, neither is her mom.

Unfortunately, it’s likely that I (along with most of you) will continue to put my happy face forward on Facebook. But the next time you see a photo of one of my kids at a concert, smiling and wearing a tie, please try and remember that they might not have been so nice to me when their pants weren’t ironed at the exact moment they had planned to put them on. And that I may have yelled at them because those pants were crumpled in the bottom of a closet since the last concert until they were handed over for ironing.

In the end, we wouldn’t (most days, anyway) trade our kids for the other ones who look so perfect on Facebook.

Well, maybe that one in the tutu….

 

 

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This is love.

This morning, I came downstairs to discover my husband’s used Band-Aid on the kitchen counter. Before I threw it away, I did what I believe any rational wife would do.

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This is pretty much how things go around here. Dave and I have been married for 18 years, and the one thing we’ve never done in those 18 years is take each other too seriously.

This morning’s offending Band-Aid was used to cover what I’m going to categorize as a disgusting rash on Dave’s hands that the doctor thinks is some allergic reaction. It’s been itchy and bothering him, so I’ve been doing what any loving wife would do – I’ve been checking in to see how he feels. And calling him “Rashy McScabby.”

A few months ago, Dave was snoring so loudly one night that in my irritated non-sleep, I recorded the sound to play for him in the morning. He listened for a few seconds and said, “What? It sounds like the ocean. Very soothing.”

I’m not saying this kind of relationship works for everyone. But for Dave and me, behind our jokes and fake insults, there’s nothing but love and respect.

And how do I know that?

A few years ago, Dave told me that he’d never be able to cheat on me. I said that I thought it was sweet that he was telling me. His reply — “Oh, no … it’s that we’re so close and I tell you everything. I’d be so excited that I got some other girl that I’d just HAVE to tell you about it!”

Now if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.

 

 

 

 

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A love letter to my sons.

Dear Matthew and Michael,

Before we get started, I have a confession to make. I wanted girls.

I think I’ve mentioned this to you. I didn’t want boys because I have anything against them; it’s just that, you know, I’m a girl, and growing up I really didn’t have a lot of friends who were boys.  I was a pretty stereotypical girl, playing with dolls and makeup, so I think I assumed that I’d have girls, because that’s what I knew.

Someone had a different plan.

I realized that the first time I changed a diaper and had to clean pee off a wall. Seriously, I don’t think I even realized that was possible, but there I was. I’m fairly certain one of you still holds the record for the number of times a baby has peed on the wall in our pediatrician’s office in one visit. Three.

But aside from what I consider to be the sometimes quirky differences between sons and daughters, I couldn’t be happier with my two boys, and realized that we were all meant to be together.

Until yesterday.

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When I came downstairs after one of you returned from a baseball game, and I found – gasp! – a cup sitting on the kitchen island. Where I was about to make your lunch for the next day. Why? There are so many other places you could put it – your room, the bathroom, even your bed, or, you know, the bin in your room designated for all of your sports equipment. And I hate to admit this, but yesterday was not the first time I found your cup in the kitchen. And I’ve talked to other moms of boys about this, and I know you’re not the only boy who has done this.

I’ve seen other things too — the stuff of nightmares.

I’ve seen our dog ripping apart a small pile of the tissues you used when you had a terrible cold. Because for whatever reason, these tissues didn’t quite make it into the garbage.

I’ve seen you pick up a half eaten jellybean off the basement floor. And eat it.

I’ve seen you stuff the strings of your hoodie into your mouth.

I’ve seen you take dirty laundry out of a hamper to wear it. Because my usual 24- to 48-hour laundry turnaround wasn’t quite speedy enough for you.

I’ve seen you wipe your nose on a sleeve. On a clean towel. On me.

But you know what. I still wouldn’t trade either of you for anything. I can’t believe how much I love you both — more every day. You’re some pretty amazing kids.

But please. Put the cup away.

Love,

Mommy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Lessons from town.

We live in a suburban town with a central downtown area full of shops and restaurants. It’s a nice area that attracts couples, groups of friends, families, and parents with strollers, having coffee, enjoying a meal, shopping or seeing a movie.

Except on Friday afternoons, when downtown is overrun with middle school students. Every town has its rites of passage, and this is one of ours.

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Kids usually begin testing the waters toward the end of 5th grade. My 5th grade son Michael has recently started going into town with his friends, and as annoying as a pack of adolescents can be, I realize that there can be a lot of good lessons they learn from this particular rite of passage:

Negotiation: There are a handful of places these kids tend to eat (and therefore, places most adults learn to avoid when they are overtaken by smaller individuals who punctuate their sentences with “oh, man” and “like.”). They need to figure out how to decide where they’re going when there’s dissention in the group between pizza and Mexican food.

Money management: Kids develop an appreciation for how much things cost when they’re paying for it themselves. Ours have learned to manage their allowance and any other money they have so they can spend it how they like. They can also learn smaller lessons about counting their change, tipping and using coupons.

Generosity: For whatever reason, one of the usual stops for these kids is the old independent drugstore in town, where they have an unusually large candy selection. Both of my kids have occasionally come home with candy for their brother, just because they saw something they knew the other would like. I also know that Michael was pretty excited that he picked out and purchased his own Mother’s Day card for me this year.

Following the rules: We hope that by now our kids are following the general rules we’ve been teaching them for the last decade — ‘look both ways,’ ‘don’t talk to strangers,’ and ‘wash your hands,’ especially when they’re away from us. But sometimes there are more subtle rules that they can only learn through experience. The first time Michael went into town with a friend, they saw an older teen trying to not be seen taking pictures of a store employee. The teen was caught and reprimanded, and it definitely freaked Michael out. It was probably a good lesson.

Responsibility. Going into town with friends is a privilege. My kids know they’re supposed to respond to my check-in texts, and be where they’re supposed to be when they’re being picked up.

Sometimes there are lessons that kids can only learn from being out in the world on their own.

 

 

 

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Appreciating the Teachers.

I read on Facebook this morning that today is Teacher Appreciation Day. So it must be true.

My mother is a retired teacher, and I think because I was raised by a teacher, I was taught to appreciate teachers. (Insert shout out here to my mother – my first teacher – who taught me some of the more important things in life – how to fold a fitted sheet and make a bed with hospital corners, how to know when it’s time to flip a pancake, and how to shave my legs).

When I think back to my own childhood, there were so many teachers who impacted me, and helped shape me into the person I am today. My 5th grade teacher Mrs. Drake, who introduced our class to French because it was something she wanted to share. I ended up choosing French as the language I took in middle school, continued through high school, and minored in French in college. And my high school French teacher, Mrs. Larsen, took us to French restaurants in Manhattan, showed us French movies, and shared important French literature and more important French swear words. I remember my first trip to Paris, thinking of Mrs. Larsen as I walked around Montmartre, a place we had talked about in high school.

Mr. Gill, the band director in my elementary school, who nurtured my interest in music. I took piano lessons at home, but Mr. Gill was the one who taught me how to play several instruments, and allowed me to experience the joy of playing in band.

There were teachers who taught me things that were less academic, but equally important. Mrs. Pezak, a high school literature teacher, who taught me the importance of humor and warmth in connecting with people. Dr. Butt (a great college professor with a less than great name), who taught me that working with topics that engage you are going to bring out the best in you. Dr. Goodman, the director of my graduate program, who taught me how to transition from being a student to a professional adult.

Teaching isn’t the best paying profession, and aside from getting summers “off” (when many teachers take on summer jobs), there aren’t a lot of perks. But as a teacher myself, I know that a student letting me know that something they learned from me came up at their internship, or something we talked about was helpful in a job interview — this is what makes it all worth it.

 

 

 

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I’m falling apart.

50 is looking at me from around the corner. She’s not pretty.

I should say that these days, I recognize that 50 is no longer considered old. And most of the time, I don’t feel old. I should also say that I’m quite grateful to have relatively good health, and a lot of lovely people in my life.

And I’ve been happier in my 40s than any other decade of my life. So maybe that’s why I’ve got my claws in them, hoping that if I hold on tight enough with my hands (which, I should note here, have so little collagen left in them that the skin flaps in the breeze of a strong hand dryer like a Golden Retriever out the window of a moving car), that somehow I’ll just stay here.

I started my 40s with 6- and 2-year-old sons, who are now in high school and about to head to middle school. That’s probably good, because I don’t think I could pick up even the smaller versions of them these days. You know, tendonitis in my shoulder.

As my 40s progressed, I developed arthritis in a knee, broke one ankle (and then in a supreme stroke of bad luck – and clumsiness – broke it again just 16 months later). So I guess the good news here is that I leave my 40s with an expensive souvenir – a titanium plate and a handful of screws – that I didn’t come in with. And some super cool orthotics for my shoes (which, in case you were concerned about me breaking another ankle, need to be flats these days).

I learned in my 40s that I can no longer eat whatever I want (which, by the way, would probably be pasta and ice cream) and still fit into whatever clothes I want (which would be skinny jeans and a white t-shirt. And since I can no longer find a white t-shirt that is much thicker than dollar store tissue paper, this is overall just a pretty bad look. And not just for me).

A great night’s sleep is now elusive. If anyone within about a one-mile radius wakes up at 2:00 a.m. and turns on a light, I’ll be up for an hour. The bright side of this is that I can grab my phone and spend the hour productively, taking quizzes on Facebook about what kind of tattoo I should get, or which country I should be living in. My only hope is that it might be daytime in whatever that country is.

The one really deep wrinkle I have is about a half-inch vertical line next to my right eyebrow. My main concern, though, is that it’s just going to continue to deepen, and my face is just going to crack in half right down the middle. And moving further down my face — now I understand why Nora Ephron wrote a book called I Feel Bad About My Neck. Because I do.

I feel bad about my eyes too. I’ve been wearing glasses since I was seven, and contacts since I was 16. But now I can’t see much at all in the dark (thanks, iPhone, for putting that flashlight app on there for people like me who are trying to get through a dimly lit parking lot at 9:00 p.m. — because, really I can’t stay out much later than that anymore). And I have reading glasses scattered about the house; I guess it’s not bad enough that I can’t see anything far away or in the dark. Now I can’t see anything close either. At least I still have a superb sense of smell.

I’m sure there’s more, but you know, I can’t remember what.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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