As a child, I remember reading about the Declaration of Independence in history class and quietly smiling to myself, thinking...THIS!...this is why my family is here.

"Mom, I want to enlist into the military."

But I cannot think of too many words, other than those my 15-year-old son has been saying, since he was 4 years old, that can simultaneously fill my heart with joy AND feel as if someone or something is trying to dig its way out of my chest, one spoonful at at a time.

"I spoke with an Army recruiter during Career Day."

And yet, in the last few months, I have heard very little else.

"I told them I want to be an Army Engineer."

My heart is about ready to burst both with pride and dread, all over my face.

Glen at his Uncle Bud's deployment ceremony, 2004.

Here's the thing: Encouraging my four year-old that...YES!...Army dudes are indeed awesome, is easy—especially, since he idolizes his grandfather (my dad immigrated to the U.S. in 1956) and his favorite super hero happens to be my brother, Uncle Bud the Army dude.

"And I told them that I plan on joining ROTC, next year."

Keeping every deep, dark, and terribly awful fear imaginable from creeping out of my heart and slithering its way up onto my face, not so much.

"I'd like to visit West Point, can we go?"

So, my husband and I took a road trip with just our son.

Most gorgeous views of the Hudson River Valley, EVUH!

The weather was absolutely gorgeous, a perfect fall day with temperatures in the 60's (my favorite!), but it was also a bittersweet day; for Garth (not his real name) and me, I mean.

I have lots of pictures of trees, they comfort me.

This post has been in my head for a very long time. It's still very hard to put the words together, because this is not about politics (I'm not that smart) and I'm not looking for a philosophical debate on history or religion (I'm not that clever, or awake, probably).

 

Day out with our future soldier, he's been wanting to visit West Point since he was chin height.

A photo posted by Liz Thompson (@thisfullhouse) on Oct 10, 2014 at 10:26am PDT

I'm just a mom, who loves her child(ren) with every ounce of her being, who's trying...really, really hard...to raise my kids to be...well...MUCH smarter, than me.

Battle Monument, West Point

Now that they're grown (mostly) and can pretty much think for themselves (see previous parentheses), I can tell you EXACTLY what the hardest part of raising teenagers is: Trying NOT to feel as if you're losing control of...well...every thing.

We are smiling, AM SO!

It's hard sometimes, you know? Pretending to be fearless. Especially for someone who wears her heart on her sleeve...[raises hand]...not without leaving a permanent dent on my face, I mean.

I'm not going to lie: I'm proud AND scared as hell, you guys.

BUT! I'm going to continue to try really, really hard to stay strong; even though I know, that my kids know, I'm about a backstroke away from drowning in my own feelings.

"Thanks for bringing me, this was a good day."

Because, in my head, I can't help but see him as that same little towheaded 4 year-old...running around...always with the running...wearing his favorite Power Rangers sneakers, pretending to be a super hero...like his Uncle Bud.

He's an evil child, this one!

Upside of raising teens: When they grow independent enough to cook for themselves and start making you fried Oreos and stuff...yo!

 Blogger, Social Media Enthusiast & Professional Dork, writing about raising 4 teens (fine, the oldest is in her 20's, I'm in denial) and killer dust bunnies at ThisFullHouse.com, since 2003!

A few weeks ago, my eleven-year-old daughter received a text message from her friend asking for a favor. Her friend "broke up" with her "boyfriend" and wanted my daughter to text him a nasty message. Of course, my daughter agreed; that is until I took control of the situation.

Credit: goodncrazy.

When I heard all the ding-dong message alerts going off on her phone, I asked her what was going on. She filled me in on all the sordid details of how this boy was cheating on her friend. After about a minute of me staring off into space in total disbelief, we continued our chat:

Me: "First of all, why does this girl even have a boyfriend? She's only eleven."
Her: "Everyone does."
Me: "Do you?"
Her: "No."
Me: "So, it's not everyone. Good. What did you tell her?"
Her: "I told her I would send a message."
Me: "AHHHHHH! No! Listen, if you send this boy a nasty message, he could very easily say you are bullying him, and he would be right. Then, his parents would report it to the police, and I would get a phone call and we'd all have to go down to the police station and figure this whole thing out. And, I'm pretty sure your friend, who put you up to this, would be long gone.
Her: (big sigh) "I didn't think of that."
Me: "Also, your friend needs to fight her battles. She needs to tell this boy, whatever it is she wants to tell him, herself. You don't need to get in the middle of their stuff.
Her: "What do I do?"
Me: "Just tell your friend that your mom won't let you send a message."
Her: "Okay."

And it was okay. I'm happy to report they all lived happily ever after! No one was mean, and everyone is still eating at the same lunch table. But this got me thinking: Did we make a mistake giving her a cell at this age?

In my little world, I would say half the kids her age have a cell phone, while the other half don't. I know parents who are fine with their kid having a cell phone or social media account, and I know parents who are dead set against it. I can take my daughters phone away, cut off her internet, and somehow, someway, she will figure how to get back online. It's what kids do. It doesn't mean they're bad kids; it's just what they do. And personally, I would rather know what she is doing so I can monitor her closely.

My daughter is clueless, and its up to me seize every teachable moment that comes our way. Let's look at the situation my daughter went through. If we take away the cell phone, could the same thing have happened? Absolutely. Back when I was her age, it would have been a handwritten note. My daughter's friend could have very easily persuaded her to say something nasty to the boy, call his house, or slip a note in his locker, or whatever else her young mind could conjure up.

It's not about the cell phone or the internet or social media; it's about teaching my daughter how to maneuver successfully through life. Problem-solving, thinking things through, being able to see the big picture; I'm not going to live forever, and she's going to need these skills. I call them life lessons. She probably calls it annoying, but I know, when she's thirty, forty, or fifty years old, she's going to thank me. I think!

If you know me in real life, you know that I don't watch much TV. If you don’t know me in real life, you know that the only TV I do watch is Criminal Minds. (Apparently I like to keep myself up at night with visions of serial killers hiding in my closet.)

That said, somewhere, somehow I must have heard somebody call somebody else “Honey Boo Boo,” because clearly this endearing term melded to my subconscious mind. I'm thinking kinda like a parasite. And before I could say, “Honey Boo Boo who,” I started calling my 15-year old daughter Honey Boo Boo. All good … so I thought.

“Honey Boo Boo, time for supper!”

“Hello, my Honey Boo Boo. How was your day?”

“Good night, my Honey Boo Boo.”

It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Except that …

Me, being the super-observant person that I am (to near criminal profiler extents), started noticing a very specific reaction every time the syllables “Honey Boo Boo” came out of my mouth. Mostly in the way of slamming doors and screaming frustrations. (“STOP CALLING ME HONEY BOO-BOO!!!!!!!”)

After a few months (because apparently I needed to make sure that said reaction did indeed come from said term of endearment), I decided to embark on some extensive research to find out why such a lovely expression of my love and affection could possibly provoke such a violent reaction.

So I did what any other inquisitive person does when they need answers. I turned to Google.

Credit: © Nancy Kaszerman/ZUMAPRESS.com

Conclusion:

Oh.

This post first appeared on Mona Andrei’s personal blog, Moxie-Dude.com

This morning, I took my nine-year-old daughter out for our regular Saturday morning bike ride. We make a habit of riding around town for about three miles. This morning, we chose to ride on the sidewalk.

We've done this route a few times before, and we both really enjoy it because the sidewalk is smoother and feels safer than the street. We left the house at 9:37 am.

The cool breeze on such a beautiful day made us welcome the hot sun. Toward the end of our ride, I told my daughter to turn right onto our street. And that's when, out of nowhere, she decided to turn left onto the busy street instead.

Only a second passed, but it seemed like an hour in slow motion. I froze as I watched her weave her way across the busy street without looking. I froze again as I realized that the cars going in both directions had stopped to let her go.

And then I realized that I needed to get across to her. The first rational thought that crossed my mind: She lived.

She made it. She's alive.

The second rational thought I had: I should get off my bike and run. In hindsight, this doesn't make much sense, as riding a bike to her would have been faster. But I decided to run as fast as I could.

When I got to her, I found her shaken and scared. I couldn't speak. I just stared at her.

When words finally came to my mind and out of my mouth, I said, "What in the world were you thinking? You could have been killed!"

I couldn't understand why she turned left. I couldn't understand why she didn't stop her bike and look both ways as she has been taught to do since she was a little girl.

I couldn't understand how she was still alive when she had come literally inches from getting hit by a car.

We rode home in silence. And when we got inside the house, we both went to our rooms.

I immediately got into the shower and replayed the whole thing again in my head. I thought about all of the things that could have happened. But mostly, I was searching for ways I could have stopped her.

I came up with dozens of things I should have done differently. I beat myself up for freezing instead of reacting immediately.

I thought how ridiculous it seemed to get off my bike and run. I thought about what a terrible mom I felt like to not demand that she stop her bike before every turn. I thought of all of the things I would have regretted if she were hit.

After the shower, I entered her room to find her crying, scared and worried that I was mad at her for making a mistake.

She said she got confused. She said that even though she heard me say "right," she thought we lived the other way and was just trying to go home.

And that's when it hit me. I couldn't have done anything.. Even if her mistake proved to be fatal, I could've done nothing to change the fact that, in her mind, “left” was the way to go.

I held onto her for as long as she let me, and I realized something. The only real regret I had regarding today's scare had nothing to do with how I failed to stop her bike from crossing that street. The regret I had: My immediate reaction and communication with my daughter.

The truth is that she made a snap decision beyond my control. The bigger truth is that throughout her life, she will make tons of similar decisions that won't make sense to me and that I won't be able to prevent.

I wish I would have thrown my arms around her to comfort her as soon as I got to the other side of the street. Instead, I focused on how I felt and let my emotions control that moment.

And I learned such a great lesson from it. Regardless of what mistakes she makes in her future, going forward, I will always choose to react with love instead of fear and comfort instead of strength.

I'm sorry we had to call you last night. I know it wasn't a call you wanted to get. But my daughter doesn't get frightened, not like that. I've never seen her so scared.

They tried to handle it on their own, she and another friend.

Tried to tell the scared, little girl on the other end of a text message that life wasn't as bad as she thought. That she shouldn't hurt herself.

But it wasn't working. And then she didn't text back.

My daughter was shaking when she came into the kitchen. Couldn't speak at first. Couldn't share the incredible burden they'd taken on.

But once she did, I knew we couldn't wait. It was late on a school night. We didn’t know how to reach you. But I knew we had to pick up the phone.

So we called. We called every number we could find until you picked up, and I listened to my daughter, my brave, beautiful daughter, tell you in her quavering voice that your child was threatening suicide.

I could hear your voice on the other end of the line – calm, reassuring, accustomed. Easing my daughter's heart even while, I'm sure, yours was skipping a beat.

I'm grateful for that. I've wondered if I could have been so calm if it had been me on the other end of that phone. It's strange. I've never even met you, but we share an intimate connection neither of us wanted.

If I could talk to other teens, I would tell them what I told my daughter last night, what I will tell her, and all my kids, on many other nights.

You shouldn't try to handle a crisis like this alone. It is too big for you. Depression is an illness and you can't treat it. Just like you can't set your friend's broken leg, you can't mend a broken spirit.

When you're faced with the unthinkable, the unconquerable, you have to put it into the hands of people who might be able to help.

You have to make that call.

What I didn't tell my daughter is that I know what it's like when you don't get the chance to intervene, when the call comes too late for you to act.

I've lost dear relatives. I've been to the funeral of a young mother who couldn't fight the battle anymore. It is the worst feeling in the world, and you carry the burden with you forever. This is too big for us to fight on our own.

I hope we didn't wake you for nothing, but in my heart, I don't see how that can be true. I want you to know that I will always make that call even if it seems like a nuisance, like dropping a problem onto someone else. Even if I'm waking you from a peaceful sleep to the worst night of your life.

And I hope my daughter will, too.

"Even more importantly, we know that playing sports makes women healthier. They're less likely to smoke, drink, use drugs and experience unwanted pregnancies. Studies also link sports participation to reduced incidences of breast cancer and osteoporosis later in life. These health benefits for women and society alone should be reason to keep Title IX strong."—TitleIX.info

A girl tried out for our school's basketball team. She was strong, fast, and easily as good as the boys or better. She didn't tryout to become a poster child for feminism - she just wanted to play some ball, and she was damn good. It was a joy to watch her play, and I'm not even a basketball fan.

However, life isn't that simple. The coach chose to quit rather than allow a girl on his team. The coach was beloved by his players— they flocked around him like baby geese the moment he appeared at tryouts every day. All the kids faces lit up like Christmas trees when coach came in the gym, so it wasn't surprising that two-thirds of the kids quit the basketball team in support of their coach.

I had to explain to my fourth grader why in the final week of basketball tryouts the group dropped from 30-odd kids to twelve. I explained that the coach didn't want a girl on the team. I said things like, "Some people think girls are too fragile and might get hurt," but that sounded dumb even to my own ears. I tried calling the coach, "old fashioned," but that didn't sit right with me, either. I realized that although my son's school has taught him all about equality, he has no context to understand sexism. Finally, I defaulted to a comparison with racism, which at least he had heard of before.

"Do you know the word racist?" I asked. "It means some people don't like people based on the color of their skin."

"Yeah, but that's stupid. It makes no sense," he answered.

"You are right, it makes no sense. When you judge a whole group of people for something like skin color, especially if you assume bad things about them, that's called prejudice. Sexism is the same thing, only it is assuming that girls aren't as good as boys, and don't deserve to play sports, when every child has the right to tryout for the team," I explained.

"The only thing that matters is if you are good enough to make it or not," my son added.

"Right, and T--- is clearly good enough. She deserves to play."

I am a little naive. I really didn't expect to have to explain sexism to my nine year old in a present tense situation. I really thought all of this was in the past. My parents fought to pass Title IX before I was born. Forty years later, I didn't expect it to still be an issue.

I told my son that I was sure most of his teammates would come back to the team once they realized that the issue was gender parity. I have faith that most people didn't know the exact reason the coach left, and of course they wouldn't support sexism. It doesn't seem at all reasonable that people I know and like would side against a girl. But I also fear I am being foolish.

"Will the coach come back?" my son asked me. I could see that it was hard for him to reconcile that someone he really admired could abandon the team over something as ridiculous as letting a girl—a really awesome player—on the team. I could not explain to him how someone he looked up to could hold a belief so radically different from what felt right and just to my son.

"I don't know, Honey," I told him, "but if he wants to come back, I think we all would be happy to see him. I hope he knows he can come back if he wants to."
As nice as that sounds, though, I don't know if it's true. It takes a big person to come back after drawing a line in the sand, and it also takes strong hearts to welcome someone back after a giant debacle. I can't say that I feel this is a likely outcome from either perspective.

Even though this sounds like not much has changed in forty years, that's not true.

The school did not waiver for an instant in support of the female athlete. They rushed to her defense, even though they knew it would cause a lot of controversy. The powers that be knew that the law was very clear on the rights of the girl, so whether they agreed or not (and I suspect that they did) they had no choice but to act firmly and quickly against gender disparity.

A mom friend said to me, " I am a Republican and I think this is ridiculous. What does that tell you?" I will love her forever for that statement.

My ex-husband, who is a decent man, but not nearly as liberal as I am in general, told me, "My son will NOT play on a team that doesn't allow girls to play." He vehemence made my head spin. It's not that I thought he was sexist, I just didn't expect him to make such a strong statement without even a moment's pause.

I emailed the school director in support of the school's decision, and she said that she received more positive feedback than negative.

It's hard to understand the battles our mothers fought for equality. I can't picture not being allowed to wear pants to public school even in winter. I can't imagine a school that only had cheerleading for a women's sport. But our mothers (and some of our fathers) fought so our battles would be easier, and I have to say, I can see progress.

Don't get me wrong—it shook me to my core to see blatant sexism rearing its head in my own backyard—but the knee-jerk reaction of the school was to side with the female student, firestorm be damned. It's not about being a strident feminist anymore. It's just common sense.

I hope the students that left in a huff will return for the last tryout, for many reasons. It's important to know, especially when you are only in fourth through eighth grade, that it's okay to change your mind, to rescind a decision that hurts other people and yourself. I want my son to have to compete against all the kids for a spot on the team, which he is not guaranteed to make as a fourth grader whom never played basketball before. I do not want him to make the team because everyone else quit.

I want T- - to have solid competition, and her toughest competitors all quit the team. It's going to be a hollow victory if she has to play far below her level because everyone else abandoned her. Mostly, though, I want to believe in the goodness and fairness of the world. I need to believe we've made significant progress in the last forty years. A girl who wants to play basketball shouldn't worry about making a stand, she should only worry about making the team.

My brilliant, quirky, wise, witty, wonderful 13-year-old son shared with me this week the fact that he is gay. And it's not a surprise to me or anyone who knows him—with his flair for impeccable fashion advice to his love of all things sparkly and kitty-related, he's a sensitive, gentle, extremely empathetic and kind kid. My boy proudly wore a hula skirt for weeks at age three, even to preschool (with his pink Crocs, of course).

His best friends, in fact, all of his friends have always been girls. He loves musicals and romantic comedies and video games that don't involve shooting or violence. I could go on but that's really not the point.

What is surprising is how illiterate I find myself in all matters LGBTQ. How naive I am about what this means to his future. How I'm struggling to find the support he'll need to feel accepted and part of a caring community that sees him for who he is without judgment.

Credit: purplesherbet.

I'm surprised that I can't stop my brain from racing and searching for ideas, information and resources. I want to make the world around him one of acceptance, with freedom to express himself as wildly as he wants, and where I can protect him from the haters. My control freak is on high alert and I can't shut it down.

Now that it's out there, I'm questioning so much, and I'm sad that some of it makes me fearful rather than hopeful. My son attends a charter school where most of his classmates are from conservative families—where science is often deemed counter to their beliefs, and where discussions on historical and political issues often veer toward the intolerant mindset. Although he feels comfy and safe there, because it's a small community, is he safe to be who he really is? What if he decides to start dressing to suit his flair for flamboyance? Will he still be accepted?

And where we live? It's conservative, so much so that we often consider returning to Silicon Valley where vast diversity is yields more tolerance. How will we find community for him here, with no LGBTQ youth support system that I can find, no programs that address teens who are questioning their sexuality. These programs may exist at the local schools, but that means subjecting him to the intolerant population at these schools, which—as we've already learned the hard way just isn't bearable for him.

And I know that this is just the beginning of the questions I'll need to explore as this journey is just beginning. I'm learning every day, finding resources that are helpful, and becoming a bit less naive.

Here are a couple of great books I've found helpful so far. I'd recommend them highly should you find yourself in a similar situation.

Queer is a humorous, engaging, and honest guide that helps LGBT teens come out to friends and family, navigate their new LGBT social life, figure out if a crush is also queer, and rise up against bigotry and homophobia.

It Gets Better shares original essays and expanded testimonials written to teens from celebrities, political leaders, and everyday people, because while many LGBT teens can't see a positive future for themselves, we can.

I'd love to hear any advice, wisdom, or hope you're willing to share. I'm confident and hopeful that my son can have a fabulous life just like anyone else, not free from bumps, but still a wonderful and successful expression of his true self. He just needs to find his role models, his people, his community.

Namaste.

Lori Anderson
*Oh-So-Sweet Serendipity*
@luckylori11

Oh, Victoria's Secret. Usually I defend you without fail. I buy your high-priced bras because you understand that large-sized women don't necessarily want to settle for “lightly lined” (read: ZERO support) bras or bras that are all function and no fun. But today you made me have a very uncomfortable conversation with my almost 13-year-old son. And I'm not sure how I feel about that yet.

I came home from work and found the stack of mail in its usual spot. However, it wasn't in the same order it usually appears. Without fail, the larger items are on the outside, regular envelopes are on the inside—basically in the same bundle the postal carrier places it in box. Today, however, a single catalog had floated to the top of the stack, on top of the bundle. This particular catalog:

Yep. The newest Victoria's Secret catalog. Normally I don't notice the covers. I mean, yes, they're usually scantily clad women, but as a woman myself, they don't really trigger any sort of response in me other than, “I could rock that!” or “Who would wear that??” And I never really thought about what my kids might think. Today, however, I realized two important facts:

1) This woman is SERIOUSLY scantily clad. And could be considered very sexy.

2) I have two almost-13-year-old boys who are now starting to show interest in sexy, scantily clad women.

Sigh. Time for a conversation.

“So…son…were you looking through this?”

Not accusatory, just curious. No big deal if you were, kiddo, but mom is freaking out on the inside. Because you can't possibly be old enough to care about nearly naked women. Really, you aren't that old yet… are you?

“No… what is it?” He takes it from my loose grasp and quickly flips through it. Thankfully he opened to the middle where there are sweaters and regular pajamas. Good job, mom. Bring it to his attention. Crap. Sigh.

“Just a catalog.” And deftly removes it from son's hands before he looks at any page that has a woman sprawled out like a Playboy centerfold.

“For what?” Do not answer that question!

“Lingerie.” Seriously? I said don’t answer that. Do NOT. What’s the point of an inner monologue if you don’t listen??

“What’s lingerie?” Really, son?? I have extremely intelligent children so I figure he knows what it is but is putting me on the hot seat just to see what I will say. Okay… here goes…

“It’s pretty underwear. Sometimes sexy.”

“Oh. Okay.” That’s it? Okay? I get off that easy… oh… wait. This is my future lawyer. The one who asks every question imaginable and makes me think. We're so not done yet…

“So… if it's that kind of stuff, why do you get it?” What?!

“What do you mean?”

Speaking as if I'm hearing impaired or not that bright, he repeats… "Why do you get this catalog? For lingerie?”

The Internal Monologue

I now have nanoseconds to come up with an appropriate answer to tell a teen boy about why his 40-year-old married mom with the not-so-skinny body and big breasts would want something from this particular catalog filled with young, skinny, sexy women. My internal thoughts went something like this:

• Well, because there aren't many places to find a comfortable but pretty bra in my size (not entirely true but it feels true sometimes).

• And because most companies don't think a woman who wears a 36DD want or need a padded push up bra! (This one is more true, but too much info for him.)

• Ummm… because I like matching bras and panties that are actually matched/made for each other? (No… too much to have questioned there.)

• Because not everything I wear has to come from freaking Target!!! (This statement could come back to bite me in the butt for future purchases on his behalf.)

• Oh—good feminist thought—because I think all women should take care of their breasts and wear a quality bra. (Yeah, he really won't care about that one.)

• Beeeeeeeecause they have some great nighties to wear for bed. (They do!!)…and not all are for sleeping (okay… entirely TMI for him!)

• Because, dammit, even moms like to feel sexy!! (Well, that would make him uncomfortable even though it's the most truthful for me.)

Hmm, what would actually be good to tell a teen boy?? I decided to go with a “cleaner” version of the last one…

“Well, they help me feel prettier.”

“But… why?” Why??? Oh, right, you're the questioning twin. Why can't I remember that tonight??

“Why what, kiddo?” Stalling… just stalling.

“Why do you need to feel pretty?” Excuse me?? Reign in the indignity for a minute. Clarify your statement and then understand what he's asking.

“All women should feel pretty. And something like this can help me feel better about how I look.” Wait. That’s not really true. I like the comfort and the lift and yes, sometimes I like the attention I get for having big breasts. So, I'm a bit shallow, kiddo. But, I know I'm pretty anyway. I really feel sexy—desirable—in good lingerie. And that's freaking ALLOWED!

“But… why you? I mean, you already have a husband, right? So, what does it matter?” Oh. Oh, wow. REALLY?? I don't get to feel beautiful because I’m MARRIED? What is my child learning from my marriage?!

“Just because I’m married, you think I don't need to feel pretty?”

“Well, I guess…” Ah… the first hesitation. A sign that he could be wrong…maybe…

“…but. You already have a HUSBAND. You HAVE him. So why do you need to look pretty?” …or maybe not.

“Whether or not I look or feel pretty has nothing to do with my husband! Feeling pretty, being beautiful, that's for me. Even if dad doesn't think I'm pretty, I'm still allowed to think I am. And I am!”

“I still don't get it.” Oh, right. You're also the needlessly stubborn child who won't let go even when you're wrong.

“Well, being a wife isn't all I am, buddy. I'm more than a mom and a wife. I'm a woman outside of that. Women aren't defined by men or what they think about how we look. We get to have our own thoughts about what we look like and what we wear and what makes us feel good and why we're happy.”

Score for mom! Really. I patted myself mentally on the back for that one. Good positive message. Surely that will get him to understand…

“But he's your HUSBAND!”

SILENT SCREAM behind closed eyes and blank face.Don't let him see. Don't respond. Just… sigh. I need to make dinner. And check homework. And pay some bills. And write. And and and… and can we just end this for tonight? This is too big a lesson for right now. Find a way to get him to stop asking questions…

“Okay, kiddo. How about this…did you ever think maybe DAD likes to see me in that stuff?”

1…..2……3………wait for it………..wait for it…………..

“EW! MOM!!”

Child exits, stage right.

The Learning Point… for mom

I went to make dinner, writing this post in my head as I did. That was a lesson in not looking at naked women, right? That's what I thought we were talking about. But somehow it got turned back on me instead of him. Made me question my own mind and my thoughts and wonder what it is that I'm truly teaching my sons. Was that really just the future lawyer in him getting out of the tough conversation or did mom really need to learn something?

In the end, I was very disappointed in my parting shot. That was exactly what I didn't want him to think was true or that it really mattered. And I felt surprised and more than a bit worried by his thought process. Was I raising a future misogynistic creeper? Did he truly believe that a woman's purpose—my only purpose—was to be what a husband wanted? That women only needed to look good to “catch a man”? That marriage wasn't about mutual love and respect but only about what the man wanted? Who taught him these things?!

It must be television! And books! Those damn video games!! Other kids filling his head with these thoughts! Or…

Or, wait. Just hold your mental high horses, Missy.

I guess that it really falls on me—his mom. He believes what he sees EVERY DAY. That’s how kids work, right? They believe the life they live is “normal”—that what they see is what everyone must see. And until they witness otherwise or someone tells them differently, that's what they'll always believe. And going into adulthood with those thoughts could be dangerous for him. And for his future spouse. And his future children.

For children, both male and female, to learn how to respect the opposite sex and to respect themselves they must witness that respect occurring between their parents. They must see husbands speaking to their wives with respect and love and, yes, even desire. Not just for sex but desiring them as a person—their presence, their minds, their hearts. They must witness women return that respect, love, and desire for their husbands. Women must also, and maybe more importantly these days, respect themselves.

And I think that’s what my children haven’t seen—a mom with self-respect. A mom with self-esteem and self-worth. And so my teachable moment became a moment in which I need to learn. Now to figure out what to do with this knowledge…

While my eyes catch the bubbly, outgoing gals enjoying their friends in the school pick up line, my 7th grade daughter is standing off to the side, alone.

She is a total introvert.

In many ways, her anti-social behavior breaks my heart because she has a lot to offer, but it doesn't seem to bother her.

She shows up to school wearing capri pants with Van Gogh themed knee high socks, Dr. Who t-shirt, turquoise Converse, and Harry Potter buttons on her backpack strap. She has her own style.

Strangely enough, she totally pulls it off and strolls into class like "whatevs."

She shares how irritated she gets when class lets out and the girls squeal when they see each other.

Her reason? "Seriously, they just saw each other like an hour ago, what's the big deal?"

Or, how about this? "I really don't to be involved in girl drama or cliques."

Yes, she sounds a bit like a snob, which is a shame because there are some really great kids at her school, but it's her being honest with herself. I tell myself she is just choosing her friends carefully. Or something.

She has discovered a small group of students who pull out their books and read at lunchtime. I think some might be intrigued by her nonchalance, but the fact remains, she couldn't care less if someone doesn't talk to her.

Yesterday we had a rare moment of time for just the two of us, so we headed to our favorite bookstore. My daughter had a book in mind she really wanted. We couldn't find it. When I went to ask customer service. she went all, "I'm so embarrassed of my mom right now," on me. Even though she is cool in many ways, she is definitely a moody, self conscious tween who tends to treat me like an ass.

We learned the book was in the Feminist section of the bookstore. Wow. Is it wrong I felt a sudden little surge of pride in my girl? At almost 13 years old, this girl is starting to explore what it means to be an independent, strong, proactive young lady. You know what? Bring it on.

I wish I could have been a little more firm in my opinions at her age. I love she isn't following the popular trail of some her peers. This girl is forging her own way, and I really dig it.

Her latest handbook in navigating her independent path is, Geek Girls Unite - How Fangirls, Bookworms, Indie Chicks, And Other Misfits Are Taking Over The World, by Leslie Simon.

According to my daughter, this is THE book as the content apparently resonates with where she is in life. She told me she wanted me to read it because "I want you to know what I'm about and how I think about things."

If this is how my girl is communicating where she is coming from and owning her identity, I'll take it!

I find my daughter is leaning towards the road less traveled, but I believe it's the one more meaningful. She is remaining true to who she is and not becoming some media propagated "should be."

Credit: beckstei.

"Self -confidence goes a long way, and I think girls need to realize that at a young age. You have to discover on your own that you're cool in your own right, and you don't have to prove it to everyone."
- Bonnie Burton

I couldn't be more proud of my daughter, even though she still thinks I'm an ass.

This is why we can’t have diverse books. Author Jacqueline Woodson received the National Book Award Wednesday night for her young adult memoir Brown Girl Dreaming, a moment every writer dreams of… only to become the subject of an unfortunate attempt at humor by the event’s host, Daniel Handler, who writes the wildly popular children’s books A Series of Unfortunate Events under the pseudonym Lemony Snicket.

At the podium, Handler made a crack about hoping to someday win the Coretta Scott King award (an honor especially for African American authors) before announcing that Woodson, who is black, is allergic to watermelon.

“And I said, 'You have to put that in a book.' And she said, 'You put it in a book.' And I said, 'I'm only writing a book about a black girl who's allergic to watermelon if I get a blurb from you, Cornell West, Toni Morrison, and Barack Obama saying 'This guy's OK. This guy's fine.' Alright.'”

Awkward silence.

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Nervous laugh.

At the end of year when racial diversity (or the lack of it) in the literary world has become a mainstream discussion, including Walter Dean Myer’s New York Times op-ed Where Are the People of Color in Children's Books?, Junot Diaz’s essay about the overwhelming whiteness of most MFA writing programs, and the formation of the We Need Diverse Books movement, this is a sad reminder that the publishing world is not always welcoming to writers of color. There aren’t exactly signs posted at the entrance of major publishing houses reading “No Black Authors Need Apply” or “Our Asian Book Quota Has Been Filled”, but the ease with which Handler made his racially loaded remark at one of the industry’s biggest events reveals that the culture of the book world is still such that a best-selling author wouldn’t think twice about the appropriateness of making a watermelon joke about his black colleague. Handler made things even worse with his "we'll talk about that later" aside, making it seem like he realized his comment was inappropriate only because he said it in front of mixed company.

The reaction on Twitter was overwhelmingly critical of Handler, no surprise given the way the #WeNeedDiverseBooks hashtag went viral earlier this year:

Why do #WeNeedDiverseBooks? Because the presenter at one of our most prestigious literary award ceremonies feels free to make racist jokes.

— Mike Jung (@Mike_Jung) November 20, 2014

So there's video of Handler making racist remarks as a host of the National Book Awards. And y'all wonder why #WeNeedDiverseBooks exists.

— Mikki Kendall (@Karnythia) November 20, 2014

But if there was EVER a more clear message for why #WeNeedDiverseBooks in this country, @DanielHandler epitomized it at #NBAwards

— Ellen Oh (@elloecho) November 20, 2014

I'll just say I and every other black writer I know are not thrilled about the joke. @madfoot@justbethanne@clnichols6

— Roxane Gay (@rgay) November 20, 2014

.@DanielHandler then says "we'll explain it [joke abt CSK award] to you later." Wondering who "we" and "you" are and what explanation is...

— Debbie Reese (@debreese) November 20, 2014

I am thinking of readers who adore Jackie Woodson and possibly Daniel Handler as well, reveling in her words and her jubilance

— Release Kaye-raken! (@gildedspine) November 20, 2014

.@rgay I was very startled that Daniel Handler delivered that as a joke. It was so wrong for the occasion. I thought he knew better.

— Malinda Lo (@malindalo) November 20, 2014

No. "Jackie Woodson is allergic to watermelon, just let that sink in your mind." 38 mins in. via @rgayhttp://t.co/tp0VLDHnrQ

— Ta-Nehisi Coates (@tanehisicoates) November 20, 2014

This morning, Daniel Handler apologized for his remarks on Twitter:

My job at last night's National Book Awards #NBAwards was to shine a light on tremendous writers, including Jacqueline Woodson... -DH [1/2]

— Daniel Handler (@DanielHandler) November 20, 2014

...and not to overshadow their achievements with my own ill-conceived attempts at humor. I clearly failed, and I’m sorry. -DH [2/2]

— Daniel Handler (@DanielHandler) November 20, 2014

Last night’s events are a reminder to me of how important it is to support writers of color, LGBT writers, and writers with disabilities. In the publishing world, certain titles race to the top of the bestseller lists — and unfortunately, those books are often ones depicting the experiences which are largely white. What if Woodson’s Brown Girl Dreaming, which has been described as a “wonderful memoir in verse” became as popular among school kids as the Lemony Snicket series?

So go buy a copy of Brown Girl Dreaming or donate to the We Need Diverse Books campaign (Woodson is on the advisory board).

What do you think of Handler’s comments? Of diversity in the publishing industry in general? Will you talk to your kids about Handler’s comments?

News and Politics Editor Grace Hwang Lynch blogs about raising an Asian mixed-race family at HapaMama.

I have a ten-year-old, and man, tweens are the worst people to shop for. Are they too old for dolls and toys? Are they too young for technical gizmos and clothes? No kid wants to open a gift card.

I've scoured the pitches, the Internet and the catalogs to find these five fun gift ideas for tween girls.

3Doodler

3Doodler, $99

Does your tween love to create but is so over the kiddie kits in the toy section? The 3Doodler lets her ideas become 3-D reality in a domain that's totally hers; the 3Doodler is not a toy appropriate for younger kids because it gets hot (in more ways than one).

Download stencils and ideas or turn her loose on her own. Also available (as are refills) at Michael's.

Young Architect

Young Architect by ALEX TOYS, $80

For the young HGTV or DIY fan, why not gift a 3-D set of walls and floors to renovate as often as she wants? And she'll learn the basic principles of architecture while she's at it.

The Young Architect kit comes with room templates, furniture guides, plastic walls and all kinds of stickers and fun stuff to color to make her designs special. The best part? She can use it over and over, alone or with her friends, and it packs flat.

Boodle Box

The Boodle Box subscription, $20/month

The Boodle Box is basically the tween version of the Jelly-of-the-Month club, except stuff a tween girl might want. You can do a one-time box for $25 or a 3-, 6- or 12-month subscription for $20/month. Each box contains fashion, beauty or artistic surprises.

Camelio Tablet

Camelio tablet, $60 and personality pack, $16 each

Got a Monster's High, Hello Kitty or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fan on your hands? Or maybe more than one?

This workhouse 7" tablet runs Android 4.1 (JellyBean) and can be personalized with "personality packs" for up to five people. Personality packs are sold separately. Pop on the case and set the theme with a personality card. You can also strip off all the themes and use it as a spare for yourself.

Polka Dot Spa Wrap

Polka Dot Spa Wrap, $20

Let your tween use the bath towel for her hair and wrap herself in this plushy, knee-length spa wrap. Embroider it with her name or initial, and no brother or sister can ever swipe it. Hands off!

Rita Arens is the author of the young adult novel The Obvious Game& the deputy editor of BlogHer.com.

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The first year I worked in an American public school, I found myself at odds instantly. It was in my student teaching days when I visited a number of different educational settings in order to get a grasp on the options we give students. For one full month, I did clinicals at an alternative school in Champaign, Illinois. Mostly, I was to watch and learn and—not yet write a lesson plan for instruction. I was supposed to monitor guided lessons from the teachers as they instructed students who had, for one reason or another, ended up getting placed there because they couldn't function in a standard classroom setting. With my notebook in hand, I wrote notes about what I witnessed, asked questions about critical thinking required, and studied the relationships between staff and student. My professor encouraged me to ask questions and write down answers to share with the class once I returned to campus.

"Why are most of these students Black?" I asked the classroom teacher. She was a White teacher in her thirties who was assigned there, but it wasn't her first choice. She let me know that instantly upon my arrival.

"They're the ones who get in trouble the most," she replied without a hint of irony or privilege or self-awareness.

When I reported this in class, my classmates, who were mostly White, nodded as if this were status quo that they understood to be The Way It Works. My professor nodded his agreement that this was troublesome, but that's as far as the conversation went. We breezed past it, knowing that questions were left unanswered. I didn't receive a satisfactory answer that class period, and I was angry. I took it to my best friend, Tammy, who was also studying to become a teacher. We discussed in depth what those assumptions meant and how we were not going to become that instructional leader.

But, it ended there. For the remainder the next two decades, I would find this to be how it works in public education. Real conversations about race are left to private, hushed discussions in small groups.

It's little wonder, then, that school districts across America report that teachers are to take caution in mentioning the civil unrest in Ferguson, Missouri, a town some 90 miles south of where I live. The onus of broaching the subject is on the individual teacher but—structurally and systemically— these conversations are in silos and are as segregated as our nation has always been.

During the summer of 2006, I began doing consulting work and traveling to school districts in Boston and Pasadena to instruct school leaders on having those difficult conversations but it centered around gathering and using data to target student populations for growth. There was also a missing component, though, and, after speaking to a roomful of educators, I found myself cornered by the teachers of color who questioned these tools and their use in discussing the systemic racism found within the schools. 

More hushed, private silo conversations. More comments like, "Our mostly White leadership doesn't understand" and more disappointment in myself that I didn't know how to make this a larger conversation. Now that I work in administration, I see these pressing issues on a grander scale in which my frustrated talks occur with other admins of color. With that said, here are a few starting points for staff to understand before delving into the conversation about what's happening in Ferguson. (It goes without saying that teachers who have ignored or been willfully ignorant of the news should most definitely NOT discuss with students. Hence, the reason for this post.)

Race as a Construct vs Being "Colorblind"

Recently, author Toni Morrison joined Stephen Colbert and discussed the construct of race. She eloquently described how it's a fabrication used to further agendas. She says it's important to know something about racism. She's speaking scientifically and anthropologically, but she mentions the benefits that come from having constructed it. This is a higher level conversation about social functions that take into account our American history of slavery, Jim Crow redlining, de facto segregation, and de jure segregation, and a slew of other systemic practices that support White privilege.

Expand Your View of Civil Rights

I'm not dissing Dr. King here, but if he's the only person with whom teachers are familiar in discussing the Civil Rights Movement then it's time to learn some more. Right now, it seems as if a lot of people are throwing out all his non-violence rhetoric because it's easy and because there is a great misunderstanding of the protests causing civil unrest. (Also? Take the word "riots" out of your vocabulary if you're instructing students. That's not the only thing happening. It's just the most common thing media is reporting on at the moment. If you must discuss 'riots', do so fairly. A History of White Race Riots - "A reminder of what the term "race riot" usually meant throughout American history. This list is NOT comprehensive, and does not include events such as the Anti-Filipino Riots, Rosewood, the Zoot Suit Riots or the 26 anti-black race riots during the Summer of 1919. But they offer a glimpse.") I'm not leaving links here for that as it's a comprehensive American era and I would do it no justice. Luckily, teachers have access to the Internet for this. 

A Little Bit of Vocabulary for Civil Rights

White Privilege- societal privileges that benefit White people beyond what is commonly experienced by non-White people under the same social, political, or economic circumstances

Racism - describes patterns of discrimination that are institutionalized as “normal” throughout an entire culture. It’s based on an ideological belief that one “race” is somehow better than another “race”. (source)

"Reverse Racism" - Not a thing. Stop using this made-up phrase.

Prejudice - A preconception or preconceived opinion that is not based on reason or actual experience.

Redlining - the practice of denying, or charging more for, services such as banking, insurance, access to health care or in denying jobs to residents in particular, often racially determined, areas. (This has been rampant across the country and Ferguson is acting as a microcosm for this and other societal ills.)

Intersectionality - A phrase coined by Kimberlé Crenshaw; the theory of how different types of discrimination interact.

Respectability Politics - A concept by Evelyn Brooks Higginbotham in her book Righteous Discontent: The Women's Movement in the Black Baptist Church 1880-1920. These are attempts by marginalized groups to police their own members and show their social values as being continuous and compatible with mainstream values rather than challenging the mainstream for its failure to accept difference. 

Black Codes - Historical in nature, most notorious Black Codes were laws passed by Southern states in 1865 and 1866, after the Civil War. The intent and effect of restricting African Americans' freedom resulted in forcing Black Americans to work in a labor economy based on low wages or debt. In the South, "slave codes" placed significant restrictions on Black Americans who were not themselves slaves. A major purpose of these laws was maintenance of the system of White supremacy that made slavery possible. (Source)

White Gaze - This is probably best left to this article to discuss.

The White gaze is also hegemonic, historically grounded in material relations of White power: it was deemed disrespectful for a Black person to violate the White gaze by looking directly into the eyes of someone White. The White gaze is also ethically solipsistic: within it only Whites have the capacity of making valid moral judgments.

With that said, it's important in race discussions not to center the conversation on anyone other than the person expressing their experience. When it moved from actual historical experience to being all about how the other person can't hear you because their feelings are hurt it's time to STOP THE DISCUSSION until they can hear. I practice this a lot.

THIS LIST IS NOT COMPREHENSIVE. (I'm not trying to write a thesis here.)

The Narrative Is The Thing

This is a great example (of many others I have seen online) about the demonization of Black people in the media. There are so many others, of course, but it's important to WATCH THE NARRATIVE and how things play out. There are definitely higher-order questions that come of this and students would probably rock a Socratic Seminar on such things. 

But, if we're going to create a generation of thinkers who won't be here a full 50 years after the Civil Rights Movement and a full 150 years after the Civil War, we want to understand what's happening in Ferguson right now. We might want to pay attention to history. Start with Kinloch.

But also pay attention to how the media portrays Black Americans and also how it handles stories when White Americans take up arms (Cliven Bundy, anyone?) for violent purposes.

If I were to lead a staff on having such discussions, I would probably begin with a basic KWL chart. It's a basic strategy, but for this is seems we must start with basics. Teachers know this tool as a chart asking students to tell what they KNOW about something, what they WANT to learn about it, and what they LEARN. It makes sense that we'd start there before taking this to the classroom. I wouldn't dare teach the Ukranian history with Russia unless I studied it myself.

But, that's kind of the point, isn't it, dear educators? Teaching something that's unfamiliar isn't acceptable in the classroom so I understand the apprehension. There's a difference in being informed and opinionated on a subject. We're supposed to be educating critical thinkers and learners who will, hopefully, not create the circle jerk of inward conversations in the future. 

We can't teach out of increased fearmongering or the off chance that someone will demand an apology from us.We also can't teach social justice without using the example at hand. And, it's at hand. 

It's been over two decades since I started thinking seriously about becoming a teacher. I still keep a notebook in my hand, and I still ask critical questions and I still study relationships. I can't believe we're no further than we were then.

Dear Mouthy Housewives,

I can't get motivated for Christmas shopping this year. My kids have so much stuff already. I know I can make a donation in their names instead, but I'm not sure my teens will appreciate it. What should I do?

Signed,
Drowning in Too Much Stuff

_____________________________________

Dear Too Much Stuff,

Credit: m01229.

Every year, I think to myself... before one more piece of crap enters this house, I'm going to throw way and donate all the stuff that is already taking over my home. Then unfortunately I fall asleep on the couch while watching a TV marathon of holiday specials and I decide to put "clean out the house" on the to do list for next year.

I do hate the excess of the holidays—especially when you know there are so many people around the world that lack basic things like food, homes, and health care. At least if you have teens, you no longer have to pretend that these gifts are coming from the magical North Pole, instead of your bank account.

When it comes to teenagers, I would focus on gift cards (to their favorite clothing store, etc) and "experience" gifts. Maybe they've always wanted to swim with the dolphins or fly in a hot air balloon. These are the kind of gifts that your kids will actually remember for a lifetime and don't take up space in your home.

I think making a donation to their favorite charity in their name is also a great way to honor the holidays. You can even take it one step further by volunteering as a family at a local soup kitchen or food bank.

For smaller children, maybe buy one gift they would really adore and then focus on some books and smaller things.

I recently asked my kids if they could remember one gift they got for Christmas last year and they couldn't come up with anything. But they did remember the Christmas tree falling over on Uncle Dana—proof that the holidays are about cheap tree stands, laughter, and spending time together. Not the gifts.

Happy Holidays!

Signed,
Kelcey, TMH

Original publication: http://mombabble.com/2014/11/10-lessons-in-happiness-for-your-kids/

I had an epiphany the other day. It was a terrifying moment of clarity that made my palms sweat and my heart race. Suddenly one of my long-term goals as a parent didn't seem so, well, long-term.

One day, my kids are going to be adults.

Crap. I have to raise real, functional adults? People who pay bills? People who interact with other human beings (and don’t suck at it)?

People who are happy?

How do you teach that?

I admit. I panicked. And then I went to the internet.

I found thousands of parenting books and websites devoted to nothing but the day-to-day decision making of parenthood (time-management, hygiene, manners).

No surprise that there are also quite a few resources on how to raise an emotionally healthy child. What you can do to ensure your child grows into a happy, healthy adult.

I read a lot of them.

But the more I read, the more I realized that I have a real problem with a lot of this “professional” parenting advice.

It all focuses on the parent.

And I don’t believe that my children’s future happiness is solely dependent on how I raise them.

You see, I believe happiness is a choice, not a circumstance. It is a decision that I make for myself everyday, not a by-product of the decisions made by the people around me. And that is what I want my kids to believe as well. I want my children to take responsibility for their own happiness.

I couldn't find that in a list on BuzzFeed, so I made one of my own. It's not an all-inclusive list; It's constantly evolving. And that's part of the challenge.

But for right now, here are 10 lessons I believe my kids need to in order to be happy.

Credit: Phillippe Put.

1. Be generous in all things… especially time, money, and kindness. Generosity is a symptom of integrity.

2. “Fair” and “equal” are not synonymous. Coming to terms with that as early as possible will save you a lot of heartache.

3. Respect isn't earned; it's lost. There isn't a person alive who doesn't deserve your respect from the first moment you meet. It's your responsibility to give that respect freely, and theirs to continue to give you a reason to do so. Likewise, be wary of anyone who doesn't offer you respect from the outset. You deserve it, too.

4. Be relentlessly, obnoxiously optimistic. Optimism is a skill: The more you practice it, the better you’ll be.

5. Learn to be okay with not being the best, the smartest, the most attractive, the most of anything. Happiness is not a competitive sport.

6. Be tactful. Honesty is a sharp weapon that shouldn't be treated as though it were dull. There's a reason people who are "blunt" do so much damage.

7. Surround yourself with diametrically opposing viewpoints. Your friends should be of varying ages, races, socioeconomic statuses, cultures, and religions—some like you, but some not. Disagreement is the lifeblood of wisdom.

8. Be both independent and vulnerable. Find the delicate balance between allowing others to do too much and allowing them to do what they can.

9. Treat your body and your heart with respect, especially when it comes to sex. Sex isn't the kind of gift that you can get back—once it has been given, it belongs to the other person forever.

10. Make the conscious decision to find joy in your life every day. Some days it will be obvious and effortless. Other days will take work, but there is always something for which you should be thankful.

Who knows? Maybe this will actually work. I’ll let you know in 20 years or so.

The way I see it, we have two options in wake of the national news: to talk to our children about police brutality or not. And if we tell them, which I hope we all do, we can go one step further and put our words into action.

 

One of those little boys is twenty-one times more likely to be shot by police than the other. The reason is melanin. Studies, good ones, have shown this is simply a fact, and it is the stupidest most unjust thing I can think of.

And there are many many white folks, even perhaps you, who assume the cops don't hurt the "good" black people. He will be raised right, he will be a good one, who doesn't dress badly, hang out with the wrong crowd in the wrong places. He will respect authority.The ones they shoot did something to deserve it. They were wearing gang clothes. Saggy pants. Hanging out in suspect places. Walking suspiciously. Swaggering. Looking dangerous. They mouthed off. If you don't want to be stopped, frisked, searched, shot, just be a good black person who doesn't live in places where there is high crime.

I know white folks think these things, because they said it all week long on Facebook and Twitter. Really, I've heard it my whole life. But these thoughts are delusional.

Harvard professors, "good" black people, are arrested outside their own homes for "not belonging" in their own "good" neighborhoods. Well dressed, affluent, well educated black men on the way to functions and dances are stopped, cuffed, beat up. They are shot outside of weddings, walking down the street. They are dressed well. They are on the sidewalk, with pants pulled up, Masters degrees on the wall at home. They are shot inside their own homes while sleeping.  They are unarmed, not talking back, holding toys. I feel there is no "right way" to be a safe black person in the eyes of the police.

I told everything to my oldest child, Mimi who is a teenager and black. I showed her my profile picture on Facebook, which are Eric Garner's last words as police held him down and choked him to death. I showed her part of the video of Eric Garner's killing, and we cried. I showed her quotes from Twitter. I told her that as of now, none of the people responsible for the deaths of Eric Garner, Mike Brown, nor John Crawford will even have a trial, let alone go to prison.

And I told her people are mad. I showed her videos and pictures of protests. And then I told her there was one here in Boston. And I asked her if she wanted to go.

She didn't hesitate, and neither did I. This sweet 14-year-old knew I'd been spending hours online since the Mike Brown tragedy trying to raise awareness in my small sphere about the injustice and the problems with that case. And now this, new hurt, new outrage. I couldn't just be someone who talked about it, to not go felt hypocritical. I texted Hubs, who wanted to come, too.

As we bundled and layered up for what would be a 30 degree night outside the younger children asked where we were going. My answers were vague but honest.

Well, some police were really mean to someone. And the people that should have helped called a Grand Jury, they could have made sure the police got in trouble, well,  they let the police have no consequences. The police hurt him badly, he didn't didn't deserve it.

Then they started asking more questions. And though I had hoped to spare the younger kids the details, I calmly ended up admitting the police killed Eric Garner, who hadn't tried to hurt anyone. They didn't try to save his life, they didn't try to resuscitate him, he died at their feet while they watched that that is wrong. He was black and yes, many people feel the way they treated him was in part due to the fact that he was black, and they were not getting in trouble for what they did.

And as I laced up my boots, Tsega asked, "Mom, could you get killed there?"

I dropped the laces and grabbed the kids' hands. I reassured them that Mimi, Daddy and I would stay safe, and that we would not get hurt.

In my heart though, I knew that that is actually not true of many people who protest. Peaceful protesters are pepper sprayed, tear gassed, beaten and arrested by the police all the time. They have been treated hideously for decades. But Hubs and I agreed: We'd leave if things started to get rowdy or felt unsafe.

 

We drove 30 minutes to downtown Boston, parked on Newbury Street and walked through the Public Garden and to the far side of Boston Common. There were scads of people out and we soon realized many of them were not here for a protest, but for a tree lighting ceremony. We stood around aimlessly looking for "our people" and after just a few minutes we heard helicopters overhead. Moments later we heard chanting. Then we saw the signs.

After the marchers filed past us filling Park Street, lined by police, we hopped in and joined the protest.

Chanting "Hands up, don't shoot"Hubs and Mimi and I joined our voices with the crowd.

After marching through the theater district moving towards Government center, stopping traffic and getting ample attention from drivers, passersby and the police, I was so overcome by the signs I decided to make sure I captured what people wrote. It felt so raw.

 

 

 

 

This man holding the Skittles and Arizona was silent above the crowd standing up on a stack of pallets while I watched him. He was a powerful reminder of all the lives lost and justice not served not just this past week, or past few months, but the ugliness going back years and years. There are grieving parents from years ago that still don't have peace for their dead children.

We were overcome with the solemn and heavy feeling, the hurt, the seriousness, the anger. I was moved that the Boston crowd was racially mixed as it can be. Sometimes during the chanting, my voice caught in my throat with tears so I couldn't join in.

 

 

Our signs were simple. I had thought about making one bigger, maybe with more anger. One that said "Are you going to shoot her if her white mother isn't with her?" But we decided to go with the more important message: her life matters. Black lives matter. I believe the signs "All Lives Matter" are a distraction because the police have already made it clear that they know white lives matter. What we need the justice system to acknowledge is that black lives matter just as much.

Mimi and me, marching

It was a very powerful experience, even while knowing our being there is only a tiny part of change, I believe it went a long way in showing our children were we stand. We are hoping to participate in another, bigger march in Washington D.C., as the outcry grows for improvement in police accountability for violence against black lives.

I went with my daughter, because I needed her to know—and our other children to know— that we will fight for them and for equality. I do not want this time in our nation's history to be written in a book someday, for the tensions and the struggle documented, and not have been one who fought for justice in my small way. The black and white children in this mixed-race household don't deserve parents who ignore it and make it seem unimportant.

Mimi, who is the bravest girl in the world, went to the library the next day with her "Black Lives Matter" sign taped to her back. She got stares, giggles, and she was stoic. I don't know any teenager so unencumbered by "giving a crap what anyone thinks" as this girl. She is powerful, hopeful, and she is out to make a difference in the world.

My white kids, and yours if you have them, do not have to wear a sign begging people to understand that their lives matter. 

Let us keep teaching our children. Don't let these events, these failures to indict police and the outrage they've sparked die out in a week or two. Eric Garner's and John Crawford's children aren't forgetting, Mike Brown, Trayvon's, and Tamir's parents aren't forgetting. Keep this alive. Keep paying attention.  To keep learning and stay on top of things here are some good places to start.

How many people die in police custody?

 Wilson isn't arrested for killing Mike Brown, but a prominent Ferguson protester is arrested

 Striking and sobering cartoons depicting these grand jury travesties

 How the police treated Tamir's sister who was in the same park playing when they shot him.

 The best 'SNL' opening skit tackles the Eric Garner decision beautifully

While cops let black man die at their feet, they were texting their union reps instead of calling an ambulance or administering CPR. He should have never been shot.

Our own congressional staffers protest on the steps of the capital

Time lapse showing just how big this weekend's protest in New York was. 

The discussion, the fight goes on. I hope I can keep learning more from my daughter, from activists around me to see how I can be apart of the solution. Because racism doesn't exist because black people did something; only white people can teach their children and try to end it, By ignoring it, we decide it's not worth our time, that it isn't our creation or our problem. We need to not just talk the talk with our children, though, we need to walk the walk. 

 

 

 

 

*Photos are copyrighted, and owned by myself. If you'd like to use any, please ask. Thank you to the visitor who asked before borrowing.

 

"Hey, Mama, did you see that hawk?"

"No," I snapped, "I'm watching the traffic so we don't die in a fiery crash."

A moment lost, I know. Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed sharing this experience, a beautiful, big, red-tailed hawk soaring over the car. But I'd just spent fifteen minutes heatedly lecturing my children on the importance of preparation, promptness, and courtesy.

I was in no mood for beauty.

Credit: usfwssoutheast.

It was a busy day. Two of my children off school, the third with a delayed start. All three with dental appointments. One had to be at the ski hill at noon, another back at school at 1:00, the third at a 2:30 dance team practice and evening meet. In between these events I had to pick up two other carpooling kids, and attend a holiday work event.

My kids participated in this busy-ness by bickering, complaining, and procrastinating—a combination guaranteed to have me steaming by the time we hit the car. The result? We spent the ride enduring my one-way conversation.

As my kids hit their teens, it seems like we have more days than not that go like this. Everyone has places to go and things to do. It's a challenge to squeeze in meals and family time. Their priorities are changing, and mine, to my frustration, change along with theirs.

I want so much to enjoy the rare moments I have with my kids. I want to feel overwhelming gratitude for their health, their enthusiastic pursuit of their interests, our precious family time. But some days it's darned hard.

I have to remind myself, over and over, to:

Practice what I preach. If I don't want my kids to spend the last few minutes before we leave trying to locate their ear buds, I should probably be packed up and ready to go at the time specified. If I’m running around, so will they.

Remember that time heals. As painful as it is to get through a stressful day, the stress usually dissipates with the daylight. Few of my bad moods, or theirs, live to see a second day. Every time the sun rises, I get a do-over.

Take a breath. A stressed-out mom is a sure contributor to stressed-out kids. A moment of peace, a “time out” if you will, can neutralize a lot of tension.

At the end of the day, when I was finally alone in the car, I passed another large red-tailed hawk, sitting on a telephone pole near the turn-off to our home. For a fleeting moment, I envied that hawk, sitting above the traffic, surveying the craziness from a distance. I wondered what it would feel like to soar away, with no more to think about than identifying my next meal.

But the moment passed. There’s dinner to prepare, and kids to pick up, and another busy day to plan for. I think it’s best if I keep my feet on the ground.

Something happened last week that made me realize that I've spent a whole lot of time reflecting on the changes Jim and I (and this house) have gone through since J left for college (when we officially became empty nesters), but next to no time (okay, no time at all) reflecting on any changes the boys have gone through in regards to the two of us and this house.

Let me try and make some sense.

In my parental mind, I naively assumed that once the boys were settled in at college—or in an apartment, or whatever—that was it; their adjustment was made. That's not necessarily true, as I just learned. Assimilation into their new lifestyle is only part of it, and that comes relatively quickly. Figuring out that their old home can be different in many ways is the other part.

That's where the table came in last week.

We have this awesome antique gate-leg table that belonged to my grandparents. Their Chicago bungalow had a very small dining room and the table worked well in that house because the two ends folded down to make it more compact. Grandma kept the table pushed up against the dining room wall so it was out of the way except when she had visitors, and sometimes not only unfolded the ends but also added a leaf to the center.

My mom gave Jim and me that table years ago, and I love having it in my own home. The difference is that until recently we always kept it unfolded in the center of the dining room, because when the boys were around, we always had four or more people seated there.

In early November we were preparing for our dining room windows to be replaced, so I folded the ends of the table down and repositioned it against the dining room wall (just like Grandma did) so it wouldn't be in the way of the contractors. After the windows were done, we left the table exactly where it was until Thanksgiving, when we set it back up so seven people could sit there. After everyone went back home after the weekend the table was folded and pushed against the wall again because Jim and I just don't sit there.

Last week the boys asked if I wanted them to get the table unfolded so we could get ready for dinner, and I said, "Yes please!"

One of them said, "Okay and we'll put it back in the middle where it belongs, too."

I said, "No need for that. Just leave it near the wall and unfold the one end."

I got this from both of them:

*blink, blink*

One of them said something along the lines of, "But it goes in the middle. We can put it there!"

Jim then jumped in and said, "No thanks, guys! We're just going to fold it back down when we're done with it this week. Mom and I either eat here (patting the kitchen island) or down in the family room. We don't use that table when it's just the two of us."

They seemed stunned for a second, but then shrugged and set up the table how we asked.

Usually when kids grow up and leave their home for college or other forms of the real world, the talk is mostly about what the parents are going to do to their bedrooms. A new office? A workout space? New bedding and accessories to make it a guest room? You don't hear much about how parents prepare their kids for how life changes for those still in the house, other than superficial comments about how we have to purchase less food or might be able to travel more.

Did Jim and I ever have a real conversation with our boys about how our day-to-day lives were going to change? No. I don't think anyone thought it was necessary... and maybe it isn't.

Speaking as one of the parents, we likely didn't think about having that conversation because it never occurred to us that on some level it might matter to them. (To be clear, I'm not saying that I think our sons don't care, but who thinks about these things? That's why I'm writing this.)

I can't speak for my kids but my guess is that they just assumed that it would, for the most part, be business as usual around here because why would they imagine otherwise? "Business as usual" is all they've known.

I don't know if a quick conversation is or was ever necessary to prepare our kids for how things at home might really change. I don't even think we knew, ourselves. What I do know is that, as a parent, seeing that unexpected flash of *blink blink* in my kids' faces like I did last week made me feel like I was watching one of those split-second "here's another way I am growing up" milestones and, for that split-second, it made me a little sad. Just for a split second. Then, just like that flash of *blink blink*, the sadness was gone.

Because in the end, the more things change, the more they stay the same. They'll always be a part of us and our home, and we're happy to unfold that table for them anytime, any day of the week.

Melisa Wells
@melisalw
Suburban Scrawl

I've been a mother for a long time. 27 years, to be exact. I've had kids in my home for this long, since after I was halfway done raising my oldest son, I had two more, then married a man with three kids of his own.

Sheesh. I should be a professional parenting consultant or something. Oh lordy, that made me spit Diet Coke out of my nose. I am not.even.close. to a professional.

I've recently discovered that there are a number of things I do for my fourteenagers (17,16, 15 & 15) that in no way prepare them for real life. Why do I do these things solo?

I mean after 27 years, I should know better. What kind of kids am I getting ready to shove out of sending out into the world? But hey, I have my reasons. Maybe not good ones, but reasons.

Close up of legs and vacuum photo via Shutterstock.

• I make dinners alone, even though I have many requests to help.

  Maybe it's just because I suck at delegating, but having more than me in the kitchen makes me lose my mind up in here, up in here. For real. I always feel like I have to give detailed instructions when I'm trying to juggle all of the courses at the same time. And I have ADHD.

  I really can't be bothered by "Does this one look okay?""How many more of these do I have to do?""Cody is standing near the silverware and I need a spoon and he won't move." Just. No. I even tell hubby no, and he does offer.

• I cut up my kids' meat and/or portions for them ahead of time.

  Like, they don't even use knives. Come on, YES, they know HOW to cut their meat, but since I make one plate at a time (okay, shut it), it's easier to proportion out meals for six people if I cut the meat and/or portions first.

• I deliver each plate to each child and husband one at a time, wherever they are in the house (most of the time).

  This one is strange. I suppose the reason is this: I have worked my butt off making dinner. It's kind of like a craft project. I'd like to present my somewhat of a disaster masterpiece to them myself. We used to eat at the dinner table. Since we downsized to an apartment, we don't HAVE a dinner table. Sue me.

• I set my alarm and wake them up individually each morning.

  Sometimes multiple times, depending on the kid. I guess this one is just because I have to get up anyway, so it's not a big deal to wake them up. I figure, as adults, it's not really that hard to learn to wake up with an alarm. I'd rather start their days off semi-peacefully. Of course within 15 minutes, they are yelling and each other, the mirror, or me.

• This is the most embarrassing one. I don't make my children do chores. At all.

  Because I'm a SAHM, I feel guilty making them do that kind of work since I'm here all day and they have enough stress from school. I mean they DO pick up after themselves, and do their laundry, but I do the dishes and the house "cleaning."

I'm sure there are more, but these are the ones that I'm embarrassed of the most. Believe me, I'm well-read about the reasons having the kids do all of these things builds character.

I just know that my kids are well-behaved and good kids at school, are vastly independent, and they love me a lot, whether or not I clean for them. It's the least I can do, to make their lives just a little easier, for the last few years that I have them here. Ah, dang it. I meant for this post to be funny, but I got "the feels." It's worth it.

(I feel like I need to say that my husband helps in everything I do including wrangling the kids. I just wrote about this from my own perspective.)

~ Becky ~

No one likes a tattletale, least of all the English language. Any and all synonyms for the title conjure up nasty images; snitch, whistle-blower, narc, sneak, squealer all make you want to twist your face as if you’ve smelled something rotten.

So who would willingly attach themselves to such a negative moniker? I guess I’m one of those fools.

Tattle telling is as ingrained in toddlers as temper tantrums. They are just wired to rat. Or at least my kids were.

Playing the role of disciplined parent, I would chastise any child who tattled on another, often making the act of tattling seem far worse than whatever offense he or she was chirping about.

Tamp down the tattling urge at a young age and turn out children who learned how to play well in the sandbox was my thinking. But deep down I was grateful for the heads up.

“Mommy, I saw Mabel kiss the neighbor boy down the street,” my son would sing out in his well-rehearsed tattletale tune.

“Tsk, tsk, Jimbo,” I’d chide outwardly, but inwardly I’d relish the information. Note to self, I’d think, my five-year-old daughter needs a short leash as she grows and matures.

But there’s a fine line between informant and obnoxious, and often that line was blurred in our household and, in turn, at school. Many times the tattling was more than justified, like the myriad of instances when Jimbo was picked on and bullied for his religion by fellow classmates. Other times, he probably could have toned it down some. I’d hardly say he was being wronged just because Johnny swiped a second slice of pizza from the cafeteria line.

The problem is that once you are labeled, even if you reform and change your ways, it’s hard to break free from being known as a snitch. So sometimes a snitch, in an effort to distance himself from the image, goes to the other extreme and quits talking. From a rat to a clam before your very eyes. And suddenly you know nothing. Not how many pizza slices Johnny stole or if Belinda cheated on the French test or who was caught drinking at George’s house. Parents of teenagers are relegated to Need-to-Know status with most teenagers deciding we rarely need to know.

So we turn to other sources—social media, intuition, other parents—to get to the bottom of things, and that’s when our childhood tendencies to tattle creep back in. Only this time it’s not called tattling. It’s called protecting.

We read texts and we see photos and we overhear or inadvertently discover things, stupid teenage things, dumb teenage decision things, and then what? What do we do with that information? If it just involves your child, it’s up to you what you do with it.

But what if there are others involved? Do we tattle to the other parents? Is that tattling or does that fall under “It Takes a Village”?

Credit: tengrrl.

Recently, I was faced with this quandary. A handful of teenagers, a couple of bad decisions that took place under my roof, a scolding, a grounding (my kid), and then a goodbye to the teenagers. Mum’s the word, I decided. No need to tattle to the other parents since my kid decided to take the blame for everyone.

But when I broached this topic with some mothers, they felt I was wrong for not reaching out to the other parents. Their contention: You’d want to know if your kid did something stupid; why wouldn’t these other parents want to know when their kid made a bad decision?

I heard the truth in their words, and when I bumped into one of the offending kid’s mothers, I blurted it out. As the words tumbled out of my mouth, and the truth hung stale in the air, and the mother threatened retribution and “ass-kicking.”

I shrunk and began questioning my decision. Why, oh, why hadn’t I just left well enough alone? And then I recalled what another mother had told me, and I found a bit of solace.

She said, “Amy, if my kid is ever involved in something, please, please tell me. I want to know. Because we all have to look out for each other and be the eyes and ears for each other and let our children know that we are all watching and that the truth always comes out sooner or later.”

Have I reverted back to my childhood tattling or am I just a concerned parent or is it a little of both? I’m conflicted about that.

Some days, I’d like to just stick my fingers in my ears, close my eyes tightly and sing out, “La, la, la, I can’t hear anything!” so I wouldn’t have to be faced with that dilemma. Nothing to snitch about if you are ignorant.

But then I hear my friend’s words and realize that I don’t get to just drop out because it’s the easier path. That I’m a member of a village—sometimes the town crier, yes, and a fool all too often, but, hopefully, never the village idiot.

This past weekend was a tough one. Adrian received his first real punishment.

He has been misbehaving at school, saying disrespectful things, and not listening when spoken to various times. By Thursday I had had enough, and I punished him for four days. There would be no TV, no playing on his tablet, no playing his 3DS, and no going out.

His response? "I don't care."

I thought to myself, "Oh boy, you are going to hate this!"

He isn't a toddler anymore so the "five minute time out" no longer works. It was time for a real extended punishment.

Thursday and Friday went by quickly since he is at school all day until 5:30pm when I pick him up from after-care, and then he is in bed by 8:30pm. The big test came on Saturday.

After his soccer game in the morning, we went back home and that's when the punishment really hit him.

He couldn't do anything. He actually got bored.

So what's the next option for him? To attach himself to me!

Yup, he asked me a million questions and wanted to help me with whatever I was doing. If I'm making dinner, he wants to help. If I am packing our home to move, he wants to help. If I am cleaning, he wants to help.

It started becoming really difficult to try to get anything done. Same went for Sunday. Boredom really kicked in, and he would roll around on the floor, run back and forth down the hallways, anything to have something to do.

So how did I handle his four-day punishment without losing my mind or caving in? I was tough and stood my ground. It wasn't easy, but it was definitely doable!

So for all you parents out there that are dealing with tough eight-, nine- or ten-year-old kids, here's what I did:

1. Stand Your Ground: You punished your child for a reason. Do not let them convince you to shorten the punishment time.

If you said "No TV for one week" then it's no TV for one week. NO MATTER WHAT! If you back down now, then they have the upper hand. Being tough now while they are eight or nine will help when they are teenagers and think they know everything.

Nothing gets them out of punishment. Be strong and accept no negotiations. Believe me, they are going to try it all to get out of their punishment!

2. Play Up Homework and Reading: Advise your child to use this time to do their homework or read a book. Tell them to use their time wisely. They don't have anything else to do anyway.

3. Have Your Child Assist in Chores: An extended punishment is also a good time to get them to help you out around the house. Like I mentioned before, your child is going to attach themselves to you because they feel bored. Get them to do laundry, wash dishes, clean-up the yard. They will actually keep coming back for more to do, and you get some help around the house!

4. Talk to Your Child About His Behavior: Every time they complain about being punished, remind them what got them there in the first place. Sure you will sound like a broken record, but your child needs to know that misbehaving or being disrespectful is not acceptable to you or anyone else.

Do not yell or threaten, just talk to them. Ask them why they misbehaved. Use this talking time to try to get to the root of the problem and ask them to work together with you to find a solution.

5. Let Them Get Bored: This is important. They need to be bored out of their minds. Punishment is not supposed to be fun.

The whole point of the extended punishment is for them to not repeat the behavior that got them there in the first place. Let them complain and be upset. You are not a cruise director. They did this to themselves.

Parents, you got this. Most of us got punished as children, and we still remember. We remember being bored, remember having to do extra chores. I believe children need punishment to grow. They need to realize that if they do something wrong, there are consequences. You don't want the consequences? Then behave!

Have you punished your kids yet? A real extended punishment? Please share how you survived that first punishment.