Uncategorized

Follow Your Dreams.

Twice a week, I teach college communication classes. I’ve been doing it since Matthew was a baby, so I could freelance, but still have a steady source of income and work (and distraction from the never-ending needs that a baby usually has). While I don’t love the fight for a campus parking spot, some of the dry material I’m contracted to cover, or the grading of sometimes poorly-written papers, I love that there is information I have that I’m able to share with people who have a real desire and need for that information.

Every semester, I tell my students the story about my first job. I graduated from Penn State with a degree in Speech Communication and a dream of working for an advertising agency in New York City. It was mid-recession, so it took me a few months, but I found my dream job – working as an assistant at a large, high-profile advertising agency in New York.

And I hated it.

I hated the 90-minute commute each way and the trudge through Port Authority with the other miserable people who were getting off the bus. I hated the smelly walk up 8th Avenue, I hated my boss, who gave me work to do without explaining anything about it, and who condescendingly handed me extra cash to “get something for myself” when I went to the company cafeteria to fetch coffee for her meetings. I hated the people I worked with. I hated that I got home after 7:00 p.m. every night and felt the need to go for a run as soon as I did, just to burn off the stress of the day.

I stuck it out for four months, until I was able to get a fellowship that covered the cost graduate school, which bought me an extra year and a half to figure out what the heck I was going to do with my life now that the reality of my dream turned out to be a bit of a nightmare.

dreams

Artwork courtesy of Rose Hill Designs by Heather Stillufsen

As I’m telling my students this story, they tend to look at me, dumbfounded – like, why would our professor, who is supposed to be encouraging us and our dreams, be telling us about her awful first job??

And I always tell them, I’m GLAD I had that awful job. I’m glad I had a job in the city, worked in advertising, did precisely what I thought I wanted to do.  Because if I hadn’t, maybe I’d be standing in front of these classes, telling them they should pursue their dreams because I didn’t. I’m glad I can tell them that THIS is the time to be doing what they want to do. From where I stand now, I know that when you have a dream come true and it doesn’t look like a dream anymore, it’s time to find a new dream. From where I stand, I know that if I HADN’T pursued the dream I had, it would be a whole lot tougher to try and do that now.  I’m not saying it can’t be done, but I’m saying that going after a fantasy in your 20s, before you have a mortgage, car payments and kids, is a whole lot easier than doing it later, especially if that dream turns out to be something you never really wanted in the first place.

My story has a happy ending, and that’s also something I stress to my students. While I was in graduate school, I took a public relations class, loved it, did an internship and loved that – I’d figured out what I really wanted to do.  I spent 10 years working in public relations in jobs I enjoyed, and then when I had my first child, started doing freelance PR and teaching.

It turns out that my dream wasn’t what I thought it was. But I’m glad the detour took me to the dream I’m living now.

Standard
Uncategorized

I’m too old for this.

So, we’re almost two weeks into the new school year. My kids seem settled into their new routines in 4th grade and 8th grade.  Me? Not so much.

Now that my younger son is in 4th grade and I have just two years left as an elementary school parent, I realize that not only are my kids getting older, but I am too.  This was especially apparent to me on the first day of school, when I stood outside the school door, waiting for my 4th grader to bound out and announce to me that he was “starving” – our charming daily after-school routine. I glanced over to the door where the tiny first-graders came out, and saw the parents at their first school pickup, pushing a stroller with a younger sibling, or chasing a toddler around the playground.

back to school

That was me – seven years ago, picking up a first-grader while simultaneously figuring out how to get through a second round of the Terrible Twos.  I got involved in the school, met other moms, and made friends. By the time both kids overlapped in the school, every face there was a familiar one.

Seven years is a pretty long time, if you’re going to the same place twice a day, every day, from September until June. And in seven years, a lot can change.  My 8th grader is still more or less that same sweet kid he was in first grade.  Unless we’re together in public where he might be seen by another 8th grader. Then he might pretend that he doesn’t know me. My 4th grader is still adorable and energetic.

And me?  By the time my family “graduates” from elementary school, I will have spent nearly a decade getting to know teachers and parents, watching my kids learn and grow.  In “my” elementary school years, I will have gotten through most of my 40s – arguably the happiest years of my life so far. But it feels strange. I had kids on the older side, and as I’m a little closer to 50 than I am to 40, many of the new parents are in their 30s. They are just beginning this journey, while I’m figuring out how to parent with an arthritic knee, graying hair and a husband with an AARP membership (and no, he’s not generations ahead of me; they send you the paperwork at 50, and if your hankering for discounts outweighs your vanity about your age, it’s a nice thing to have. But I digress).

In another two years, when I have one child in high school and one in middle school, I suspect I will look back on the nine years spent as an elementary school parent as a sweet time in my life. I still enjoy shopping for school supplies and making Halloween costumes; I don’t mind helping with homework and packing lunches.  Now I just need my reading glasses to do it all.

Standard
Uncategorized

Entering unfamiliar territory.

Tryouts for our town’s travel basketball program are tonight, and I’m a nervous wreck. I’m not even trying out.

You see, travel basketball starts in 4th grade, and Michael has been talking about it since FIRST grade. It’s the only travel sport he has ever wanted to play.

His older brother has always played in-town sports. No tryout necessary – just practice once a week, play a game once a week, and call it a day. I’ve seen Matthew through plenty of “tryouts,” but they’ve all been auditions, in  a world I’m more comfortable and familiar with.

So tonight, I’ll be taking my 9-year-old to the high school gym, where a bunch of people I don’t know will evaluate I’m not sure which skills until well past his bedtime. I don’t know how he will do, or when we will find out how these strangers think he did. While I know that Michael loves basketball and is good at it, I don’t know how good he is relative to the other I-don’t-know-how-many kids who are also trying out for what I’ve heard are 36 slots on three teams.

basketball

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this whole thing. I really want him to make a travel team, because it’s something that he wants so much. But I don’t love some of the things I’ve felt the need to say to someone who is still, let’s face it, a little kid.

I don’t like that yesterday at our annual block party, it was nearly killing me that he wasn’t practicing basketball, knowing the tryout was 24 hours away. What WAS he doing? Playing football and soccer, and running around with his friends. Exactly what a 9-year-old OUGHT to be doing on a beautiful Sunday afternoon when everyone on the street is outside too. But part of me was concerned; would playing football instead of practicing basketball give some other kid the edge? Was he going to hurt himself or get so worn out that he’d be too tired to do well at the tryout?

I wasn’t sure if playing goalie on his soccer team (or at recess at school, for that matter) was a good idea, since he sprained his wrist playing goalie about a month ago at camp. I’ve been paranoid that the level of practice he’s done (playing most every day at camp over the summer, a few private coaching sessions with friends who have played at at high levels, and shooting in our driveway) can never compete with the skills clinics, private basketball camps and private coaching that other kids have experienced.

So, we’re telling Michael (who is definitely a little nervous, because even at this age, he understands what’s at stake tonight) to just try his best, and we’re all hoping he’ll make it. We explain to him that he just wants to play basketball because he loves it, and if he doesn’t make a travel team, there’s still an in-town league and a few others, so he can still play basketball.

Because here’s the bottom line. My kid isn’t going to the NBA. He’s not getting a college basketball scholarship. He barely cracks 55 pounds, and he’s shorter than most of his peers. I hope that he makes a travel team. And I hope that if he doesn’t, he’ll still love basketball and will want to play. It’s tough that there’s this kind of pressure on kids who still drink chocolate milk and need a babysitter.  I hope that our decision to have our kid play other sports, and run around and just be a kid, isn’t going to take away the love he has for this sport.

Standard
Uncategorized

Now that was a pretty big fork.

When I was in my 20s, I did standup comedy.  For years, I didn’t tell people about this part of my past, and in retrospect, I have absolutely no idea why.

For people who know me well now, the fact that this is a hobby I once had probably doesn’t come as much of a surprise.  I think my ability to make people laugh is one of my best qualities.

I’ve only recently begun thinking about the time I spent doing standup because I happened to be in the room when my kids were watching America’s Got Talent earlier this week.  A (very funny, by the way) standup comic auditioned for the show, and when I saw her name, I thought she might be someone I’d performed with a few times doing warmup shows at a New York comedy club.  I found her on Facebook, messaged her, and heard back within an hour.  I don’t think she remembered me, but yes, this was the club where she’d gotten her start.  It was her.

My kids know I did standup, but having performed with someone my kids saw on TV (and thought was funny) definitely boosts my street cred (See how I’m using their vernacular? That boosts my cred too. Unfortunately, using the word vernacular takes it down a notch).

stand-up

I don’t think often about the days of doing standup, but seeing this comic on TV did get me wondering.  I don’t know that I really made a conscious choice to stop doing standup.  I just sort of petered out.  It was lots of fun, and it felt amazing to stand on stage and have people laugh at jokes I’d written.  But at the same time, there were things that just weren’t for me.  Again, for those who know me well, I’m a morning person, and late nights are definitely just not my thing.  Unfortunately, comedy clubs are the kind of place that get going after dark.  And those nights when I was just a little “off,” there was a drunk heckler in the back of the room, or I did new jokes that just fell flat? That didn’t feel as amazing as getting the laughs.

So, when I saw this comic on TV, I wondered, what would have happened if I’d taken that fork in the road instead of the one I did take? Would I be writing this blog from a fabulous home in the Hollywood Hills, waiting for my driver to come take me to the set of my sitcom? Would I be on tour, selling out big venues? Would I be sleeping in dingy hotel rooms, doing standup in small comedy clubs in the middle of nowhere? Would I be, as my fellow comic has been, earning money delivering groceries around Los Angeles, still doing standup at night, and hoping that America’s Got Talent would finally be my big break, more than 15 years later?

I don’t know, and I’m happy to say, I’m really okay with not knowing. Would I have regretting never trying my hand at standup, something I’d always wanted to do? Probably. Do I regret walking away from it, instead using my sense of humor to teach my kids difficult lessons, keep my students engaged, and get myself through hard times? Not for a minute.

Thank you, I’ll be here all week. Don’t forget to tip your waitresses.

 

Standard
Uncategorized

You know how boys are.

I just read yet another one of those articles that talks about raising boys vs. raising girls.  This one was refreshingly different, though, because it talked about the similarities in raising children of different genders, rather than the differences.

A disclaimer about my expertise: I have two boys. And no girls. So I’m really no expert here.

That said, I’ve always thought that boys get a bad rap.  I’ve written about this a little bit before.  For me, it started when Matthew was a toddler.  I’ve always said that my kids were pretty impossible babies (colicky and sick, and neither slept through the night for a full year, but more about that another time, because it’s really so much fun to reminisce about).  But they were great toddlers.  I’d heard about how boys were so “tough” and “active.” I’m not saying that Matthew wasn’t energetic, but he was often happy to sit and color, watch Sesame Street or do puzzles.  So I just figured that maybe we got lucky (or that there was something horribly wrong with him, depending on who I spoke with).

By the time Matthew was in kindergarten, Michael was a toddler, content to sit in his stroller and watch the world go by.  And I had a conversation with Matthew’s teacher, which to this day confounds me.  I can’t remember what exactly we were talking about, but she ended the conversation by looking at me and exclaiming, “Well, you know how boys are!”

No, I didn’t.

Much later, after I thought about it, I knew what she meant. “Well, you know how boys are, if they follow the exact stereotype. They don’t listen, they don’t sit still, and they don’t do as well in school as girls, at least at this age.”

On behalf of my kids, and all boys, I’m still kind of pissed about that comment. I’d also like to add here that Michael had this same kindergarten teacher four years later, and she made the exact same comment to me again.

So, what did I take from those conversations? First, I don’t think that anyone who has obvious disdain for one gender or the other should be teaching, unless it’s at a single-sex school, where they will be less inclined to play favorites (another disclaimer here: at another point after this, Matthew had a teacher who seemed to prefer boys.  While that wasn’t fair either, given that my kids are boys, it did bother me less, because Matthew was one of her favorites).

I also think that as parents (and teachers), we frustrate ourselves when we expect children (or adults, for that matter) to conform to gender or other stereotypes. And I’d love to know if you agree, but I think that nonconformance to stereotypes can be tougher for boys.  What I mean by this – we have a word for girls who don’t follow gender stereotypes – tomboy.  What do we call these boys?

How about we just call them boys?

Standard
Uncategorized

Happy Mother’s Day.

It’s been 12 years since my first Mother’s Day as a mom, and while I know that the first one seems like it should be the most meaningful, for me at least, it definitely hasn’t been.

I’ve had 12 years to think about what being a mom means.  I know that in comparison to lots of other moms, I don’t have a lot of years under my belt.  I know I’m not an expert on parenting, but I’ve become an expert in being a mom to my own kids.  And I’ve learned that (again, for me, at least), being a mom just keeps getting better. And that I continue to learn more every day about being a mom.

photo(5)

I’ve learned that one of my kids has figured out how to leverage his cuteness to negotiate everything from 5 more minutes of awake time to convincing me to tie his shoes (even though he’s known how to do it himself for 3 years).

I’ve learned that while I want to put on a jacket in 50-degree weather, an adolescent boy will say that he’s perfectly comfortable in shorts and a t-shirt.  And I’ve learned that this is not a battle I’m going to choose to fight. Eventually, if he’s cold, he’ll put on more clothes.  Even if it’s not for another 10 years.

I’ve learned that little kids will eat just about anything if you put it on a toothpick.  And that sometimes, that trick works for grown men too.

I’ve learned that there’s nothing better than one of my own kids giving me an unsolicited hug or “I love you.”

I’ve learned that parenting isn’t fair. You’re going to give way more than you get, whether that’s in work, worrying, sleep or back scratches. But I’ve also learned that it is beyond worth it.

I’ve learned that when it’s my child’s heart that breaks, I feel it too.

I’ve learned that many of my own quirks and shortcomings have, ironically, made me a better parent. That I have nearly endless patience with my kids when they worry about things that worried me as a child.  And through them, I’ve learned to retroactively forgive myself for not being the perfect child I thought I needed to be.

I’ve learned to be thankful for the different things I enjoy with each of my boys.  My older son and I watch silly TV shows together, eat pancakes at diners, play music together and make sarcastic jokes. My younger son and I love to read and snuggle together, will try every kind of sushi, and have a catch together outside (hint to my delightful family: I could really use my own baseball glove if you haven’t picked me out a Mother’s Day gift yet!).

I’ve learned that each of my kids has inherited different personality traits from me, which I sometimes simultaneously admire and despise. One son loves to read, while the other could sing all day. One son is desperately hard on himself, while the other worries that the house will burn down. One son can’t keep his backpack or room neat, while the other has a fiery temper.  Both of my kids, thankfully, have a well-developed sense of humor.  I don’t know what I’d do without that.

I’ve learned that I’m not a perfect parent.  But I’ve also learned that I don’t have to be.  I do my best, and sometimes I screw it up.  Sometimes I screw it up pretty badly. But I apologize for my mistakes, learn from them, move on and try to do better the next time.  It’s the same way I tell my kids they should live their lives.

Oh, and I’ve learned that the two little boys and one grown-up boy in my life are the best things that have happened to me.

Standard
Uncategorized

What happened?

I had one of those experiences this afternoon that hasn’t happened in a long time.  And it made me realize that as much as we grow and mature, and move past certain phases of our lives, that some things feel no less icky as accomplished, evolved 40-somethings as they did as insecure teenagers.  At least that’s the case for me.

So, this afternoon, I bumped into an old friend from the next town over, who I hadn’t seen in probably 8 or 9 years.  Why had I not seen her in so long, you may be wondering?  Well, that’s the thing.  I have absolutely no idea.

We met at one of those classes you take your toddler to, so they can learn to appreciate art or music, or something (and the classes are usually weekly, which usually ensures that you’ll find time to shower and make yourself presentable at least once a week if you happen to be staying home with the aforementioned toddler) .  Matthew was probably about 2, and her daughter was a few months younger.  We immediately hit it off, and would spend time together after these classes, and have playdates with the kids at other times.  Eventually, we got together with our husbands, and they seemed to hit it off too.  We had our second children (both boys) about six months apart.

And then, at some point before Michael turned one, about two years after we met, she stopped calling.  Stopped returning my calls.  I can take a hint pretty quickly, so after a few times, I gave up and stopped calling too.  And didn’t see her again until today.

And while it’s not like I was sitting around waiting for a call from her, I can’t say it didn’t periodically cross my mind.  Had I said something offensive?  Did she find me annoying?  Did she not like my kid or my husband?

When I bumped into her this afternoon, we immediately recognized each other, stared awkwardly for a second or two, and then chatted briefly.   I didn’t have Matthew with me, so I showed her a picture.  We talked for a few minutes, and then I left.  And I wondered as I walked away, did I talk too much? Not ask her enough about how things were with her? Maybe that’s what she found bothersome about me in the first place.  It took me to a place I don’t like to go.

I like to think that I’m one of those people who can tell myself, “It’s okay;  not everyone is going to like me.”  Because truthfully, when someone doesn’t like us, it means that there’s something about what we say, what we do, or who we surround ourselves with that this person just doesn’t enjoy.  And frankly, that stings at least a little bit.

This is all probably a good reminder for me, as I raise children who will at some point need learn the tough lesson that no matter how fabulous I think they are, there will sometimes be people who don’t like them.  And that hurts.  But we move on, try not to look back, and surround ourselves with the people who embrace our personalities (and the quirks that come along with them), laugh along with us, and walk beside us on this journey.

 

Standard
Uncategorized

The Great 2014 Diner Tour.

Back when Michael was about a year old and Matthew was about 5, one day every weekend, Dave would join Michael for his afternoon nap, and Matthew and I would head out for lunch at the diner in town.  I think because he was 5, Matthew liked to sit at the counter, so we always did.  As a mom adjusting to having two kids after more than 3 1/2 years of just one, I remember these times alone with Matthew fondly.

As the boys got bigger, they got busier, and activities and the precious little family time we had took over the weekends.  Michael stopped napping (Dave didn’t, by the way, so sometimes it’s just the boys and me out and about). The weekly lunches, just Matthew and me, became a fond memory.

Earlier this school year, Matthew was working on a project for health class, where we each had to write down some memories and talk to each other about them.  Not only did he mention those times out just the two of us, but wrote that he wished we could do it again.  So we talked about it and decided we would find a way to make it happen.

This year, on Sunday mornings, Dave plays basketball with a bunch of other middle-aged guys.  And Michael goes to religious school on Sunday mornings (this year, Matthew goes on Tuesday evenings).  That just leaves Matthew and me.  He liked the idea of us trying to go out for breakfast, just the two of us, on Sunday mornings.  For nostalgia’s sake, we went back to the diner in town the first time, and sat at the counter.

coffee

It was good, but neither of us seemed too excited about trying to do that every week.  So we decided we’d try some new diners (which, thankfully, are plentiful, given that we live in suburban New Jersey).  I personally added some criteria – the diner needs to have at least 3.5 stars on Yelp, and be within a 10-15 minute drive.  We’ve tried some new places, eaten some pretty delicious food, talked to some interesting people, seen some fascinating characters, and had some good conversation.  Aside from a diner check-in on Facebook (and Googling something that comes up in conversation if necessary), electronics are away.

Things have gotten in the way and we haven’t done it every week. That’s okay.  It has to be.  But it’s been a great way for me and my soon-to-be teenager to spend a few hours most Sunday mornings, just the two of us.

Standard
Uncategorized

Greetings from Parachute Guy.

We brought in the mail yesterday, and there was a mysterious envelope from England, addressed to me, in the mailbox.  The customs declaration read “postcards and plastic toy,” and since I only know a couple of people who would mail me something from England, I was pretty curious to see what was inside.

Parachute guy.

parachute guy

As I’m sure you can imagine, there’s a back story to parachute guy.

Every summer, I work in the office at the day camp where my kids go.  I’m lucky to work with fun, smart people who make my job easier and my summers something to  look forward to.

I’m not really sure where Parachute Guy came from, but two summers ago I saw him on the desk of the office manager (and my good friend). He’s a smiling little red plastic figurine, not even an inch tall, attached by fishing line to a white parachute, If I am correctly remembering how things started, I took him off her desk and hung him by the parachute from the ceiling in her office.  And so it began.

Every few days, my friend and I would trade Parachute Guy.  I’d find him in my purse, in a desk drawer, hanging on my computer, under a pile of papers. And I’d return the favor, stashing him in places in her office.

After two summers, things started to get a little stale with Parachute Guy, so we upped the game a little.  If there was mail coming home to me from camp during the year when I’m not working there, I might find him in the envelope.  Once, my friend’s kids came over to spend time with my kids, and her daughter snuck up to my room and hid Parachute Guy under my pillow.

So, neither of us spent much time wondering where Parachute Guy might be, but for me, finding him always makes me smile.  And this past summer, at the end of camp, my friend sent Parachute Guy off to England with one of the international camp staff, for her to mail to me at a later date.

And here’s where the story is now.  Parachute Guy arrived here safely yesterday, and is spending time in my kitchen.  I’m not at all sure when and how Parachute Guy will be returned to my friend, but now I feel the need to do something pretty creative.

Here’s the moral of the story: life is full of work, laundry, homework, cleaning – the “have-tos.”  And if in the midst of these have-tos, if we can make someone smile by doing something silly like hiding a little toy in a jacket pocket, we’ve done our “real” job.

Standard
Uncategorized

Whatever.

I’ve been married for a little over 16 years.  I’ve learned a lot in that time.  About men, mine in particular.  About myself.  And about learning to let certain things go for the sake of everyone’s sanity.

The most recent example: I had a week between the time I broke my ankle last Monday and when I had surgery on it this Monday.  It was actually nice to have the time to get things organized, prepare, and make arrangements to get the kids where they had to be this week, since I shouldn’t be driving yet.

Know what Dave did on Sunday?  He took Michael up to his room and spent about 2 hours with him, moving his clothes between his dressers and closets, getting rid of a few shirts that he’d outgrown, and putting some new things up on the walls.

Really??!

But here’s the thing.  Michael likes things organized, so he was happy to do it (and delighted to show off the end result to me later).  I realized that Dave felt the need to do SOMETHING.  He couldn’t really help me, he’d already gone food shopping and on a Costco run, and the laundry was caught up.  So, you know what I did?  I stayed downstairs, kept my mouth shut, and let him do something that made him feel better.  Did I think it was something that would make a difference for any of us after my surgery?  Nope.  Is it something that I would have done if I were in the same situation?  I really doubt it.

laundry

But what I’ve learned over 16 years is that sometimes, Dave is going to make a decision that is different than what I’d do.  And what’s more important is that I’ve learned to be okay with that.

So, when Dave folds laundry in the living room, leaving piles of clean underwear on our beautiful piano (!), I realize that it’s going to be put away by the end of the day.  I just hope that nobody stops by unexpectedly before it does.

Standard