Tracing Family Lines

When I was a child, family ties were murky. On random holidays, we would gather in some cousin’s yard in a loose flock. The adults would drink too much beer and the kids would run in circles, weaving in and out of tall bodies, tagging each other with reaching fingers.

It wasn’t important how we were related. We answered our elders with the obligatory Southern “ma’am” and “sir.” We called everyone older than us “uncle” or “aunt,” though they were much more likely to be our first cousins once removed.

It was only confusing in school, where classmates with small families don’t struggle to understand the concept of aunts and uncles. With a vast sea of local relatives, it was difficult for my young mind to grasp that your aunt was only the sister of your mother or father. In my world, she could just as easily be my grandmother’s first cousin. Family ties were foggy like that.

I started researching my family history in 2012. A friend had informed me that ancestry.com was offering a 30-day free trial. He had traced his family tree back to English royalty.

With a simple 30-day free trial.

What did I have to lose?

The better questions was: What did I have to gain?

I dove into the Jones line first, hoping to find a great-grandfather who abandoned his family in 1931. The man had disappeared like a vapor. No census records. No death certificate. It was like he walked off the edge of the world, leaving behind three children and a disgruntled wife. It’s hard to chase a ghost. I’ve often joked that maybe my great-grandmother buried him in the backyard. Weirder things have happened.

Thirty days isn’t long enough to trace centuries of relatives. What was supposed to be a little month-long project of curiosity instead turned into crazed obsession. I purchased an ancestry membership, got lost in census records, dug into family trees. In that first furious foray into family lineage, I discovered a link to British baronets, my grandparents’ marriage certificate, and my great-grandmother’s birth mother.

But when I emerged with birth records and passenger lists, the sweat of battle still glistening on my brow, I realized my efforts were largely unappreciated. Having expected glory and praise (or at least a modest pat on the back) from my relatives, I was disappointed to find that nobody seemed to care.

I announced we were descended from the Bickley Baronets on social media, tagging aunts and cousins with the amusing (if not earth-shattering) news. While I grasped the triumph of this discovery firmly in my hand, waving it like a victory banner, not one person so much as “liked” my discovery. When I told my dad, he grunted and turned up the volume on the television. Reruns of Gunsmoke were apparently more interesting to him than family history. I couldn’t relate.

My grandmother was worse. When I informed her I had found her grandmother, she was mildly interested. But only until I unraveled the story for her as I sat cross-legged on her living room floor. A precious family story had been passed down, one of how an infant (who would become my great-grandmother) was pried from the stiff dead arms of her intellectually disabled mother. But I had found her mother on the 1920 census, alive and well and working as an office clerk in Maryland. This piece of evidence would suggest she was neither dead nor intellectually disabled when my great-grandmother was adopted.

My grandmother drew her lips into a thin hard line, and shaking her head slightly, said one cold word.

No.

I had been shut down but not entirely demoralized.

Instead of giving up, I buried into birth records and death certificates like a mole, digging in the dark, keeping to myself. It really didn’t matter if anyone acknowledged what I was doing. I  needed to trace the intricate lace of my family lines. I was driven to understand how I came by the DNA that gave me blue eyes, long fingers, and wide feet. Why could I roll my tongue and carry a tune? Could my great-grandfather? What about his mother?

It was an impulse to know myself by knowing them, though they had been reduced to nothing more than names on ancient documents or etched in marble headstones.

But genealogy is hard work. It will unravel your insides and leave you with more questions than it answers. There are probably things you don’t want to know, like how my mother had an aunt and uncle who died of neglect and malnutrition when they were just babies. Research will leave you mourning people you never met. Blood is thicker than water.

Two years ago, my children gifted me with a DNA test for Mother’s Day. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it put an end to the family stories of Cherokee blood. I am boringly European, although my family is anything but boring. That DNA test revealed more family evidence, proving that Maryland clerk was in fact my grandmother’s grandmother. DNA doesn’t lie.

Now I find myself sorting through hundreds of DNA matches, relatives I’ve never met, names and faces of strangers. Deciphering relations is like ciphering impossible math problems.

If my mother and your father were half second cousins, what does that make us?

DNA results have left me more confused. I am less sure of who I am, and I didn’t think that was possible. There were Earth-shattering surprises. The kind that makes the family tapestry seem to unravel at the edges.

I am still the kid weaving her way through a crowd of relatives, wondering which are uncles and which are cousins. Reaching out to tag them with fingers.

“Tell me your story.”

“I thought I knew who you were.”

I thought I knew who I was. But DNA and marriage records and death certificates just muddy the water. It swirls around until I’m lost again.

If I stare at those connecting family lines long enough, the Henrys and Oscars and Catherines that dot the generations swirl in a muck until they run together, forming a blur that sometimes has my father’s eyes.

That blur is me.

I’m still trying to bring myself into focus.

Surviving Graduation - A Commencement Speech for Moms

It is graduation season, and I’ve seen pictures of smiling graduates just about everywhere. Whether your kid is graduating from preschool or law school, as a parent, graduation is an emotional day.

I recently sat through commencement exercises for my oldest daughter. I felt a whirlwind of convoluted feelings as I watched her march across the stage in high heels to grasp her diploma. I was certainly proud, but also sadly nostalgic as I caught fleeting glimpses of the toddler who once rode my hip and pulled my hair.

Speeches are an inevitable part of any graduation ceremony, and this one had its fair share. As my shining child approached the podium to give her speech as valedictorian (Yes, I am taking this opportunity to brag), I glanced around the room at all my fellow moms, and something occurred to me.

Sure graduation is all about the kids and their accomplishments, but the mothers sitting in the audience clutching tissues and trying to hold it together have accomplished something monumental, too.

We won’t get to walk across any stages or receive any official paper acknowledgement of our accomplishment. There won’t be recognition of our hard work, because like moms throughout history, we don’t do it for the accolades.

But since we don’t get our own ceremony, I’ve written my own mom graduation speech. Because if your kid is crossing a stage in a cap and gown, you have both accomplished something great. Kudos, Moms, on a job well done.

A Mom's Graduation Speech

Welcome, friends, family, teachers, and staff. We have finally made it. It is graduation day. Today is the culmination of years of hard work. For our graduates, that hard work occurred mostly as research papers, algebra problems, and multiple choice history tests. But for most of the moms in this room, the work looked quite different.

We didn’t have to study for tests or obsess over MLA citation format. There were no formal evaluations, and it was left mostly to ourselves to obsess over our performance.

For us, the work began long before these distinguished scholars were even born. When we suffered through horrible bouts of morning sickness, obsessed about prenatal nutrition, and worried about brain development. When we pored over books about pregnancy and marveled at our growing bellies, gasping at the first butterfly flutters of movement.

If you are a birth mother, your body was wrenched and your soul twisted by childbirth. With a gush of blood and pain and unearthly love, these people entered the world, wet and wide-eyed. And we lost ourselves in those eyes and the exhaustion of hard work and little sleep. There were so many diapers and so many tears (both theirs and ours... the tears, not the diapers).

Our work took the form of judgmental stares during grocery store tantrums. We dealt with marathon nursing sessions, night terrors, croup and stomach viruses.

There were broken windows, broken bones, and broken hearts. We have hovered nearby as they learned to walk, to ride a bicycle, to fall in love.

This parenting thing was much more difficult than we expected, but also much more rewarding. While we are mostly happy that the days of dirty diapers, spelling lists, and broken curfews are over, we would trade almost anything to go back, just for a short visit, to experience the grounding weight of our babies in our arms, the sticky-faced toddler grins, even the endless questions of “Why?”

While this day is a huge and exciting beginning for our children, it is a monumental ending for us as moms. As our young people move off to college, work, or service, we are likely to find ourselves floundering, wondering what to do when there are no lunches to pack or carpools to drive.

Our kids don’t realize it yet, but our relationship is teetering on the verge of change. No longer will our children be a constant presence, even if usually behind a closed bedroom door. After they’ve drifted off to places of employment and higher education, they will become more like visitors at our dining room tables. Although, I hope they still barge through the front door without knocking, kick off their shoes in the middle of the room, and make their way to the fridge to gulp milk straight from the carton, their presence will almost startle us, shaking us out of what will inevitably become our new normal.

Because daily, since we heard that first tiny heartbeat, our lives have been knitted together forming a beautiful, if somewhat dysfunctional tapestry. Each thread woven and knotted to form the fabric of our lives as a family. It is no wonder that graduation makes mothers feel as if we are beginning to unravel.

We are standing on the cusp of a life where our presence is no longer required. We get to stand by and watch them fly, whether just across town or across the country. They are still leaving us, just as they have been leaving us in the tiniest of ways every day. Those first steps they took, wobbling into our open arms, were actually the first steps away from us. Every day they have needed us a little less.

And while this is a sad day for us moms in many ways, this is how it is meant to be. This is what we’ve been working so hard to accomplish. When mothers do their jobs well, they become almost obsolete.

So, for the graduates sitting out there getting ready to turn your tassels, be patient with us. I know its hard, but don’t meet our tears with your usual sarcastic eye roll. This is one of the hardest things we’ve ever had to do, and some of us suffered through a 36-hour childbirth to get you here.

As you turn your tassels, we’ll be cutting our apron strings. And although you’re more than ready to meet the world head on, anxious to start this next exciting chapter in your lives, we are already missing every little version of you we’ve loved through the years. The wheel keeps turning. Even when we missed our babies, we never loved the toddlers or the children or the teenagers that replaced them any less. In fact, love grows more fierce and fiery with every turning of the page.

So, to the moms out there struggling just as hard as I am, I think I know how to survive this. We have to keep looking to the future, embracing change just like we have all along. To survive this momentous milestone, we must look forward to the future through the exciting lens of their life, the one ready to burst forth in full bloom, not backwards through the lens of ours.

They have become amazing young humans, and the potential they hold is no less than it was when we heard them take that first crying breath. I am excited to see how this story progresses. I’m ready to read the sequel to what has been the most divine and exhilarating story I have ever witnessed.

Moms, we’ve arrived. And yet we really haven’t. The parenting finish line is a myth. We are mothers. That doesn’t end at graduation. Every exit is an entrance to somewhere else. And this tiny goodbye, just like all the others we’ve experienced from birth to walking to driver's licenses, may not be a goodbye at all. Maybe it is just time to turn the page and see what’s next.

But it's still okay if you want to get lost in a bottle of wine and a box of baby pictures. That is definitely my plan for later tonight.

And to my graduating daughter: Congratulations, Sweetheart. You have always amazed me, and you continue still. I love you to the moon and back.

I always will.

Do Scones Really Need a Gun-Free Zone?

I was super excited when a real live bakery opened up in our small town. Before the grand opening of this local business, fresh bread and baked goods required hours of kneading, rising, and patient waiting. While totally worth the labor efforts, I am not a particularly patient person. So, the fact that warm, delicious, gluten-filled goodness was within walking distance of my home, made me giddy.

I felt like I had hit the jackpot. Suddenly, I was reaping the benefits of small town life while having almost immediate access to an amenity usually only found in some progressive urban area.

I quickly became addicted to this bakery's fresh scones. Those scones are "to die for." Warm and buttery, they came in all kinds of flavors - chocolate espresso, sweet potato ginger, cranberry walnut. Asking me to choose a favorite would be like asking a mother to choose her favorite child. I loved them all for different reasons. Typically, my favorite flavor was whichever one was in my hand.

Like any good junkie, I needed a daily fix. I began to view this cozy corner bakery as my dealer, dishing out the only thing that  could calm my intense desire for buttery scone goodness. That corner bakery was my dope peddler, and I was more than happy to dish out my hard-earned dough to purchase their deliciously flaky dough.

I am not ashamed to admit I am addicted to scones. Some people might call me nutty.

Some people might also call me a gun nut. I grew up around firearms, support the Second Amendment (Although I equally support the other amendments. "All Amendments Matter" is my motto), and am more than proficient when it comes to shooting.

I also regularly carry a firearm. Not because I think it makes me macho, or because I want to make a statement, or because I think it is a great accessory to my outfit. I carry because I want to be able to protect myself and my family. Period.

We initially moved to a small town because the low crime rate was incredibly attractive. We live in a "good" neighborhood in a statistically safe county. However, in recent months, we've seen a surge in gun crimes. A few weeks ago, a shooting occurred in the church yard right next door to our home. A few weeks before that, shots were fired at the house across the street from us, breaking our neighbor's living room window.

It has started to feel like we are caught in some inner city cross fire, only without the traffic or urban decay. I still contend, however, that we live in a "good" neighborhood. The problem is our "good" neighborhood backs up to a "bad" one and individuals are starting to cross those invisible boundaries.

Recently, two young men verbally threatened me with violence. I was simply walking in the neighborhood, minding my own business (an anomaly in a small town), and enjoying the warm weather. Two strange men crossed the street toward me, and as they approached, one yelled "BANG!"

Then the other threatened, "You're dead, Bitch."

The two of them walked past me, traveling on down the street. Both of them were doubled over, laughing hysterically at my expense.

Not my idea of fun, but I truly believe these two young people were only trying to frighten me for some twisted sadistic amusement. I am not one to take chances. That is why I carry a firearm. Luck favors the prepared, after all.

Back to the scones...

One recent Saturday, my family and I wandered up to the neighborhood bakery to stock up on some of those addictive pastries. We bought giant cookies for the girls and beautiful scones for me.

We had a pleasant exchange with the staff, smiling and making light of my very real scone problem. We talked about the weather. My husband used his teacher discount. While there, we even chatted amiably with another customer.

The whole visit was like something out of an old episode of Andy Griffith. If it had transpired in black and white, I would have been convinced we'd been lost in Mayberry. The entire encounter had been polite and charming and uncommonly neighborly. We were simply a happy family buying baked goods from a local business, coexisting in harmony and friendship and intense community. It was rather lovely.

We had been carrying our sidearms that day, because some of our other neighbors are not quite so congenial. But we had noticed another customer big time eyeing my husband's handgun while we purchased our bread products. For that patron, I suppose the sight of our weapons had somehow smashed our image of friendly, neighborhood, nuclear family.

When the bakery reopened after the weekend, there was a sign plastered to the front door.

I thought, "Well, this is new."

I couldn't help but wonder if this was in direct response to the weapons we had carried (without ill intent) into the establishment on our most recent bakery run. And because I am an individual with a rampant imagination, I worry there was a highly negative conversation after we departed with our pastries. It would have been a conversation we weren't privy to, one that painted my family as nefarious, my husband and I as monstrous and depraved. Even though we were friendly, chipper, and polite. We even held the door open for a sweet little old lady as we left and wished everyone a good day.

While I hope that the new signage had nothing to do with me or my family, I'm skeptical. The timing is just too coincidental. 

Now, to set the record straight, I sincerely respect the rights of this business owner to declare his place of business a gun free zone. Have at it. This is (at least for the time being) a free country. I'm all about freedom. If that is how you want to operate your business, if guns are so evil and scary that you don't even want to see them in the hands of good people, you have the right to make sure they never enter your bakery. (No guarantees on the ones that might be in the hands of bad people, though. Those people tend to do what they want. Signs be damned.) 

As long as you don't refuse to bake any wedding cakes, you should be good to go. 

However, I don't have to shop there. That's the great thing about freedom, right? All of us get to exercise it. And while there are many things I'm willing to lay down my life for, scones are not particularly high on the list. Even though they are incredibly tasty.

I'm not willing to disarm myself for baked goods I could theoretically make at home. Because, according to the Crime Prevention Research Center, 98.4 percent of mass shootings have occurred in gun-free zones. Meanwhile, just 1.6 percent occurring where armed citizens are allowed. So when at all possible, I'm sticking to places that care about my safety rather than how uncomfortable someone might decide to feel about the presence of a simple inanimate object.

Pelting an armed robber with healthy wholegrain breads seems ineffective. Facing violence armed with nothing but a french baguette seems comical, cartoonish in fact.

And since I'm also walking through my questionable neighborhood to get to this gun-free utopia of wholesome baked bread, the same neighborhood where I was so recently threatened by passing strangers, I don't think I can feel completely safe shopping there. 

Nope. I'll be making my own scones, feeding my own buttery, gluten-rich obsession, thank you. Because while the ones from the local bakery are admittedly delicious, and I did once describe them as "to die for," I don't really think I'm willing to do that.

Thinkers, Doers, and Free Speech - A Response to Gregory Salcido's Anti-Military Rant

California teacher and Pico-Rivera councilman, Gregory Salcido has made the news for an anti-military tirade he recently made in a public school classroom. After publicly humiliating a high school student for wearing a Marine Corps sweatshirt, Mr. Salcido went on a major rant that insulted everyone from active military members to Blue Star families to your stupid Uncle Louie.

If you haven't heard the audio recording from Mr. Salcido's classroom, it is definitely worth the listen, if for no other reason than to witness a major waste of time in an average American classroom. I won't go so far as to claim that every school teacher uses classroom time to push personal philosophies, but it is probably far more common than we want to believe.

Bullying students, insulting their families, and issuing ultimatums ("Don’t you ever freakin' bring the military into this freakin' classroom.") is not the way to make a classroom environment conducive to learning.

Plus, I'm pretty sure the military will have to come up in conversation...considering it is a HISTORY class. Call me crazy.

I will warn you that Mr. Salcido's diatribe is full of expletives and gross racial stereotyping (“We couldn’t beat the Vietnamese — they’re a bunch of people this freaking big throwing rice at us.”).

You should watch it anyway.

Help me make this go viral. My friends son was sporting his marine sweater while this liberal douche teacher rants about the military. The school is called El rancho high school in the city of pico rivera california. The teacher's name is MR. Salcido. pic.twitter.com/HMSmfSLDpK

— kimberlie (@kimberlieflauto) January 27, 2018

Since the teacher's hate-filled speech hit the internet, and the proverbial poo hit the proverbial fan, Mr Salcido has disappeared. He is understandably worried about his own safety since he literally ticked off every member of the world's finest fighting force as well as most of the American population. He poked his head up briefly to make a brief comment on social media claiming support of Free Speech.

"I want my friends, family, and students to know we are fine and we respect the rights of free expression for all individuals."

And while I agree that Mr. Salcido has a right to free speech, I'm not sure that right completely extends to what he can lawfully say in a public school classroom. And it certainly doesn't protect him from any public backlash.

But I also might add, that Mr. Salcido violated the student's free speech rights. As a teacher in the classroom, Salcido speaks on behalf of the local school district. He told the student not to wear any clothing supporting the U.S. military. That command could be interpreted as a violation of the student's First Amendment rights.

"Don’t you ever freakin' bring the military into this freakin' classroom."

That doesn't sound particularly respectful.

Personally, I think the student has a better claim to First Amendment protection than Mr. Salcido, but I am admittedly NOT an expert in the law, so take my opinion with the grain of salt it deserves.

However, there is at least one area in which I can claim expert status.

I am a Blue Star mother.

My son is a U.S. Army soldier. He is one of the dumbshits Mr. Salcido spoke about in his filthy rant.

Meanwhile, my oldest daughter, a senior in high school and top of her class, is contemplating a career in the U.S. Navy.

Not only are they two of the smartest people I know, but they are also the bravest, strongest, and most driven people I know.

Salcido told that classroom of high school students:

"If you join the military, it’s because you have no other options because you didn’t take care of business academically, because your parents didn’t love you enough to push you and you didn’t love yourself enough to push yourself…So now you’re thinking what do I do now…and your parents even encourage [joining the military] sometimes because they want to get you off of their ass.
" Why would anyone ever sign up for that… Think about the people we have over there. Your stupid uncle Louie or whatever, they’re dumb shits. They’re not like high-level thinkers. They’re not academic people. They’re not intellectual people. They’re the freaking lowest of our low."

I call bullshit, Mr. Salcido. You don't know Jack. Perhaps you need to come have a conversation with my two oldest children. You should probably also ask them if their parents love them or pushed them. You now? Just for shits and giggles.

First let me throw a few stats at you, Mr. Salcido, just to prove you're an idiot. And I'll even post it in graphic form so even a dumbass like you can understand it.

Sources: 

US Department of Defense: “Demographics 2010: Profile of the Military Community”

US Department of Defense, Office of the Secretary of Defense: “Report of the Eleventh Quadrennial Review of Military Compensation”

That's right. The United States military is actually more educated than the population it serves. And since Gregory Salcido only has a Bachelor's degree from Whittier College, I'm not sure where he gets off ranting about the lack of academics and intellectuals in the military. 

Perhaps a rant about the lack of academics and intellectuals in education would be more apropos. 

Listen up, Mr. Salcido. Here's the thing. There are a lot of "thinkers" and "academics" in the world and they sit around doing a lot of thinking without actually "doing" anything. They sit behind desks and think big thoughts. They teach classrooms full of captive students. But unless thoughts are put into action, they are worthless. 

Thinking and doing are two very different things. Our military does more than think. When the rubber meets the road and action is required, they do not hesitate to act. And that action is what has protected your right to stand up in front of a class of high school students and spew misinformation and outright lies.

My oldest son announced that he was joining the military at Thanksgiving dinner two years ago. 

It was a goal he had for years, and in the months leading up to his enlistment, he was up at dawn, hitting the gym or the track to increase his pull-up reps or decrease his run times. At night he cracked books, studying for the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) with intensity and focus. I watched that young man push himself harder, both physically and intellectually, than anyone I've ever seen stretch for a goal. 

So, Mr Salcido, you don't understand what it is to love yourself or push beyond your comfort zone toward a goal. There are just some goals you don't understand.

After my son announced his intentions to the family, one person casually asked him what he had scored on the ASVAB. When Daniel told him, this person attempted to one-up him by reporting a significantly higher personal score.

But you know what. It didn't matter. That "higher-level" thinker with the impressive ASVAB score wasn't doing anything with it. For various reasons, that person never joined the military. 

My son took a huge step and vowed to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. He took action.

Whose score mattered more?

What does it matter how well you score on a test if you never do anything with the knowledge or ability the test measures?

There are valuable characteristics that have nothing to do with intellect or education level or test scores. Action, hard-work, ambition, loyalty, integrity, perseverance, initiative, communication, and confidence just to name a few. 

These are all qualities that are valued by members of our U.S. military. And these characteristics often have far more to do with success than education level. Although, our military isn't exactly lacking in that area either (see previous graphic).

So you might want to think again when you claim our military is comprised of the "lowest of the low."  Because you're quite wrong. 

About 75% of America's 17-24 year-olds are ineligible for military service due to lack of education, obesity, and other physical problems, or criminal history. Of those eligible, only a fraction actually have the drive or the desire to serve.

Nearly one in four students fail the military entrance exam. That suggests that maybe teachers like Mr. Salcido should shut up with the personal diatribes and do what they were hired to do. Teach our kids.

The United States military is actually comprised of this country's "best and brightest." 

And just because I can't let this comment go:

“It’s a lie that our military is freakin’ bitchin’.” 

In response?

This....

A Fitting Farewell for an Old Salty Fisherman

This past weekend we spread my father's ashes.

Only half of them actually. His wish was for half to be spread over his favorite fishing spot and the other half spread in his favorite deer hunting spot. That means he'll be split between the Chesapeake Bay and the Blue Ridge Mountains. It's completely appropriate since that is how he spent his life -  split between two loves, separated by the seasons.

So, on the first Saturday of the Virginia cobia season, I boarded my dad's boat, the Alice Grace, for the last time. We sat the little black box containing what is left of my father's body in the Captain's chair while my uncle drove along Buckroe Beach standing behind the wheel and leaving my Dad to sit in his favorite seat. It was a beautiful day for fishing, with the wind turning mid-day to blow from the South West.

The old Buckroe Pier

When I was a kid on summer break, back before we had instant access to weather apps, I would religiously watch the afternoon news. Not because I was particularly interested in current events, but because I needed to check tides and wind direction.

When Daddy's truck came pulling up the gravel road in the late afternoon, I would meet him in the yard.

"South West at five miles an hour."

That was all I had to say. We'd throw the heavers and a bait bucket in the back of the truck and head for Buckroe Pier.

I can't tell you how many hours my dad spent on that pier. Some of the earliest memories I have are of me riding his shoulders out to the end or of my tiny body wrapped around his leg like a vise because I was afraid I would fall through the cracks in the boards.

I know he fished long before I came along. There are old black and white pictures of him with large cobia and the red drum that held the pier record for decades. But I know that half my childhood (the summer months of cobia season and the early bluefish run) was spent on that pier with him, watching storms brew up over the Bay, catching fish, getting sunburn, laughing at stupid jokes.

Most of the time we spent there wasn't spent catching fish at all. Fishing for big fish is a bit of a waiting game. You bait the hook, toss it out, and wait. We would go weeks without catching anything. But when a big cobia grabbed your line and headed for deeper water, the sound of a screaming drag would make your heart race as you rushed to grab your pole. You have to let them run just long enough to get a good hold before setting the hook and starting the fight.

Waiting for the cobia run
Photo Credit: Buckroe Fishing Pier

So, we scattered half his ashes, the half that loved to fish, just off of Buckroe Pier. It seems like a place he would want to be. It's a spot that must feel like home.

My father's sister has a bad back. For her, climbing into a boat was out of the question. Instead, she took her walker all the way out to the end of Buckroe Pier. She planned to watch from there as we spread his ashes from the boat. It takes time to launch a boat from a public marina on the first Saturday of the cobia season, so she got there long before we did. Which gave her plenty of time to chat with the cobia fishermen parked on the end of the pier hoping for a big one. Some of the older guys remembered my dad. There are still pictures of him up under the shack where you pay to fish.

It was pretty quiet fishing, not much going on in spite of the beautiful weather and favorable winds.

On the boat, I pried open the black box with a filet knife and sliced open the plastic bag inside. I had a moment of panic as I held the bag poised over the port side remembering that Daddy couldn't swim. But I dumped him anyway, figuring it was time, and his ashes floated on top like a good chum slick across the end of Buckroe Pier. Then he slowly dropped through the water and out of sight as we rode off down the beach.

Meanwhile, on Buckroe Pier, my Aunt watched from the railing. As the ashes hit the water, the lazy quiet of afternoon fishing erupted into excitement as people dashed for their poles. Because the reels that had been still and quiet all day were suddenly screaming with the first good cobia runs of the season.

And while you can chalk it up to coincidence if you'd like, I think it was probably something else entirely.  It was like a farewell 21-rod salute for an old salty fisherman. A fitting exit, don't you think?

Rest easy, Daddy. See you when I see you.

Dear Husband, I Don't Love You Like That

Dear Husband,

You know that I'm not generally one to put the ups and downs of our relationship out there for the whole world to see, but this is pretty serious, so I'm making an exception.

I have something important to tell you.

Remember when we were young, when we were first dating? Remember how exciting that was? Remember how thrilling it was just to see one another? It was like we couldn't get enough. How many times did we see the sunrise because we couldn't bear the thought of saying goodnight?

Ours, like most new loves, was a relationship based on wild desire and hazy dreams. It was bright and white and consuming. In my mind there was nothing so wonderful as what I felt for you. Surely no two people had ever felt that way, at least I couldn't imagine it. I never wanted it to change. I believed that "happily ever after" would have us riding off into a continuously setting sun of raging passionate beauty.

But I have to tell you . . .I don't love you like that anymore.

It's true. I don't feel that white hot burn to be with you. Perhaps it is because we've laid beside each other 8,158 nights. I've heard you snore and you've heard me make that annoying sound I make when I have an itchy throat. I've seen the unattractive you that rages with temper and avoids doing taxes and leaves dirty dishes next to the computer.

Of course, you've seen the me that lived through the 3-day stomach virus, smelling like vomit, and the postpartum me that could barely get dressed and forgot to brush her teeth. You've seen the me that can't keep a clean house and loses important mail and dumps entire pans of baked ziti all over the kitchen floor. So you probably don't love me like that anymore either.

The sunset we rode off into wasn't as pretty as I had imagined. Instead it was full of dirty diapers and screaming babies, budget strings we couldn't make meet and late-night trips to the emergency room. It was broken appliances and crazy stressful family holidays and you working 3 jobs so I could stay home with 4 kids who drove me crazy. It was having the lights turned off because we couldn't pay the bill and hocking my diamond engagement ring to get them turned back on. It was sleepless nights with colicky babies, and toddlers with night terrors, and worry about teenagers staying out too late. Life has been messy and hard and utterly complicated. Maybe that's why all of the fairy tales end at the altar, because the very real and very exhausting stuff that comes after isn't the kind of material that sappy Lifetime movies are made of.

We've changed. Time has a way of doing that to people. We aren't the naive optimistic young people we once were. We've been too busy muddling through to be those people. We've somehow managed to raise one kid all the way to adulthood and self-sufficiency, and there are three more hot on his heels. It's been cluttered and dirty and chaotic. It's like we've been through a long hard battle (even if the battle has been dotted with the most sparkling and beautiful moments imaginable) and I'm tired.

Perhaps that is why I don't love you like I used to.

Instead, I love you like a battle buddy, like we are two warriors who've seen the wreckage of abandoned dreams and heirlooms broken by careless children, allies who have come out on the other side with a deep trust that comes from shared experience and obstacles tackled. I've got your six. I know that you've got mine. I don't even have to check to make sure you're there. It's like we know which direction the other is going before we even move. There is a sense of teamwork and dedication and confidence that can only be built over time, over 8,158 days of folded laundry and spilled milk and averted crises.

And I'm glad that I don't love you like I did in the beginning. That raging blaze would have consumed me. I would have lost myself in it, reduced to ashes. But this love, the love that we've created while riding side by side into this sunset, it warms me. It is like the glowing hot embers that temper steel. It makes me stronger, better than the person I once was. This love is different, like the soft hot coals of a hearth fire.

I don't love you like I used to. I don't love you with passionate, burning, consuming desire. I love you in a way that is warmer and softer and truer. Like warm wool socks. This love is comfortable and comforting. I love you like my favorite sweatshirt, the one I've had for years, the one that is frayed around the edges but has so many memories, so many stories it could tell. I love you for our shared history and the life we've made together, brick by beautiful brick. I love the glimpses I get of you in our children. They have your hands and your curls and your temper, and they are all the more precious to me because of it.

And I want you, not because of passion or desire, but because of faith and confidence and an intimacy forged over years. It hasn't been easy. This isn't a microwave popcorn kind of thing. But it's been worth every minute, no matter how harrowing some of those minutes have been.

So this is what we have now, still riding into the sunset, although maybe a bit more disillusioned than we were in our youth, and armed with something much more powerful and precious and rare. I'll gladly tend this fire in my warm wool socks and worn tattered sweatshirt. I hope you don't mind. It's comfortable and lovely just as it is. This is what "happily ever after" really looks like. It's a mess, but it's splendid.

The sun is still setting. Let's keep riding into it.

Always,
Your wife and battle buddy.

A Rey of Hope - My Take on The Star Wars/Rey Controversy

*This is where I should warn you about spoilers... but if you haven't seen the movie yet, you are certainly no true fan and you deserve to have your joy spoiled. Three weeks is more than enough time to have caught up to the rest of us real fans.

I saw the new Star Wars movie. I kinda had to. I saw the very first, Episode 4 A New Hope, at a drive-in as a child (I'm showing my age... but I was a very YOUNG child). My firstborn's very first theater experience was to see The Phantom Menace (as disappointing as that must have been for him). We are a family of Star Wars fans, so seeing the new movie was a non-negotiable. Personally, I just wanted to see if Disney was going to screw up a good thing.

They didn't. But could they really have screwed it up as much as Jar Jar Binks did? (Those were indeed sad times in the galaxy.)

There has been a lot of hoopla surrounding the character of Rey, and deservedly so. She has certainly turned the Star Wars world upside down, leaving us with more than a few burning questions. Who are her parents? How does she know how to use a lightsaber? Why can she use The Force without any training? How does she keep her hair in that elaborate up-do?

Rey is totally badass. She has some major martial arts skill, is an apparent mechanical genius, speaks fluent droid and wookie, and she's gutsy in a way that puts most Disney princesses to shame. Over night, she's become a feminist poster child. You could almost hear the collective sighs of female critics on premier night. "Finally," they shouted (and blogged), "A strong female character that can be a role model for our daughters."

Now let me just say here that Leia and Padme weren't exactly weak, whiny, damsel-in-distress types. But also, statements about Rey that start with the word "finally" sweep awesomely strong feminine characters like Disney's own Anna and Merida under the rug of social relevance.

And let's not forget Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games fame. No. Rey isn't the first independent, strong-willed, capable, I-don't-need-no-man heroine to hit the big screen. Will we have to do this every time an awesome, take-charge female character shows up in a movie? That could get old quickly.

It's true that Hollywood did drag its feet in giving us female protagonists that are empowered in ways outside of their sexuality. But if we were really looking for strong female role models for our daughters, maybe we should have had them pick up a book or two. Young adult fiction runs rampant with kickass female characters: The Hunger Games, Divergent, Matched, Birthmarked, Throne of Glass. And unless you think this is a modern development, let me remind you about Dicey's Song, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, To Kill A Mockingbird, and Little Women.

The voices that have been crying about a void of female heroes, must not read very many books.

Personally, I'd rather my daughters read tough tenacious female characters than watch them on a screen. Movie watching is a passive experience. You watch a movie as an observer, not as a participant in the action. Reading, on the other hand, is active. When our girls read the stories of Katniss and Tris, Scout and Jo, they actually become them inside of their minds. Perhaps they can take a little piece of those characters with them once they've turned the last pages of those novels. At least a mother can hope so.

Which brings me to the Rey action figure scandal.

How could the most badass character, the one who saves the day, the heroine, the freakin' main character of the whole entire movie be omitted from Star Wars merchandise? It baffles the mind, but it's true. Finally, women have a reason to celebrate the showcasing of an empowered female all-around badass only to have their rejoicing dashed against the rocks of despair (AKA the patriarchy).

Rey is glaringly absent from The Force Awakens Monopoly (In spite of the game inclusion of Darth Vader, who doesn't even appear in the film. But it's okay... because DARTH VADER!). She is also missing from action figure play sets, Lego playsets, and toy aisles in general.

WHY!?! Seriously marketing geniuses, what the hell were you thinking?

It's enough to make even me cry sexism.

But maybe the toy manufacturers are doing our daughters a favor. Stick with me here. Our daughters (and our sons for that matter) don't want to PLAY with Rey, although she would admittedly be the most amazing imaginary friend ever. No, they want to BE Rey. By stripping the playsets of  perhaps the greatest Star Wars hero in history, they've given our children no other alternative. Our kids will have to use their imaginations to conjure Rey. They'll be asking their mothers for elaborate up-dos and using mop handles as lightsabers. They'll be tinkering with household electronics and using The Force to open automatic doors at the grocery store. They will be forced to pretend, to role play, to actively cultivate their inner badass strength, resilience and ingenuity.

What more could we ask for our daughters (or our sons)?

Obligatory New Year's Post - Or The Grass Doesn't Have To Be Greener

Happy New Year, Everyone! I hope your Christmas/Hannukah/Yule/Solstice/Kwanzaa was fabulous.

You may have noticed I took a little hiatus from writing. (It's okay. I missed you, too.) I stepped back and spent two weeks of baking, laughing, lounging, over-eating, visiting, dreaming . . . living.

Now it's Monday. The very first one of the year. It's time to set goals, press forward, make changes.

I should write something about resolutions or new beginnings or some other inspirational crap. All of the cool bloggers are doing it.

But I'm really not one of the cool bloggers.

So I'm going to write about grass.

You see, I just spent two whole weeks enjoying mine. The weather was unseasonably warm, so there was a lot of time spent outdoors soaking up this winter's spring-like weather. We sipped morning coffee on the front porch, tossed around the football, there was even a loud group of teenagers that gathered around the fire pit on New Year's night toasting marshmallows and having a grand time.

My yard is a mess. Not necessarily from neglect, but from use. We live here, you see. The lawn furniture is askew. The kids have dug holes. The lawn is dotted with bare spots due to uneven foot traffic, and the dogs have left their mark in ways that most people don't want to hear about.

And it's beautiful. (The grass, that is. Not the dog poop.)

If I were to set resolutions for the new year, I would have to peer over into other yards. I'd have to look away from the beauty that is my life to seek out more. I might need to glimpse what other people have . . . better cars, more money, beautiful bodies, flashy vacations to exotic places. And in doing so, I might start to think that the grass is greener over there.

And it probably is. But at what cost? How much fertilizer (and underpaid Mexican lawn guys) go into that beautifully tended grass?

I don't care how magnificent other people have it. I don't want what they have. I don't need fancy cars and a clean house or even enlightenment. I'm too busy enjoying my own grass to care what anyone else's looks like, to even care how mine might be different.

I've come to see my lawn as a reflection of what our family is: Busy. Active. Playful. Alive.

Our yard isn't beautiful on the surface. But there is a beauty that runs deeper, way down in the roots.

I don't want to set resolutions because I'm too happy rolling around in my own grass, gazing up at the stars laughing with my loved ones to worry about how green anyone else's might be in comparison. How could my life be better than this?

And maybe that's the key to happiness. Not always striving for the next thing, the better thing, the thing someone else has that is way cooler than ours. But in enjoying our own things, the things we already  have that are cool and wonderful and beautiful. The aspects of ourselves that are strong and full of grace. If we stop focusing on our lack or our flaws, and instead bask in appreciation of the good, won't life be so much more fulfilling?  Because there is so very much that is good right now... and all we really have is now anyway.

I just can't look away from my own grass long enough to care what anyone else's looks like.

Happy New Year. Enjoy your own grass.

(And as a side note to the busybody neighbors: Stop complaining about mine.)

Motherhood and Entitlement (or 12 Places You Can Change A Diaper Without A Changing Table)

It's not particularly surprising that I found myself at a restaurant this weekend. It was Father's Day, and what self-respecting father doesn't exploit his loving family for a good steak dinner on his one special day a year? While not nearly as busy as Mother's Day, the local restaurant scene was hoppin' with all sorts of dads and their kids of various ages, some footing the bill while others were just doing their part to wrack it up.

With so many holiday diners, it's not surprising that the line for the restaurant ladies' room grew to considerable length (as opposed to the men's room. I swear sometimes I wonder if men actually use the bathroom).

There was a mother with an infant in line for the restrooms. She was with a large party, including a mother with a toddler that seriously had to be rushed to the bathroom every 5 minutes. Both women had been waiting a while, one jiggling the baby on her hip while the other watched her toddler performing a stirring rendition of The Potty Dance, when a restaurant employee suggested to the toddler's mother that she might try the men's room which was unoccupied (since men never seem to use the bathroom). As the toddler's dance steps became more persistent, she went for it. Holding the men's room door open, the mother balancing the infant said, "I'm coming in, too. Is there a changing table in there?"

"Nope" called the toddler's mother over her shoulder as her son's footwork reached Riverdance proportions.

The young mother sighed a long sigh of exasperation as if to say, "Where's Ashton Kutcher when you need him?"

"Is there one in there?" she asked the restaurant employee, gesturing toward the occupied women's restroom.

For her part, the employee was incredibly courteous and apologetic and perhaps even empathetic to the young woman's dirty diaper plight. "No, ma'am. I'm sorry."

"Then where am I supposed to change this baby?" The woman's voice rose in pitch with each successive word, until it was almost a screech on the word "baby". She extended the baby toward the employee as if to hand it to her, like it was no longer her responsibility but the restaurant's, since they obviously didn't care about her needs.

The employee made herself busy, while the frazzled mother with the stinky child stormed back to her table to loudly complain to her relatives about the restaurant's lack of concern over her child's messy bottom (and the obvious needs of mothers and their young children).

This is where I count my blessings that my children have long been out of diapers while simultaneously shaking my head at the naivete of the angry and exasperated mother.

You see, young mother, the restaurant doesn't owe you a changing table.

If you were expecting facilities more accommodating to the needs of babies and parents, you might have looked somewhere that caters to families, not a restaurant that swathes their tables in white linen and lacks a kid's menu and free crayons. You are free to choose to patronize establishments that cater to your needs. You do not have to demand that those that cater to perhaps a different crowd meet your needs simply because you chose to be there.

Newsflash: Some restaurants (as well as other places of business) are not particularly kid-friendly. That's their right. Perhaps you should reconsider spending your dollars at those places if their lack of baby-related amenities offends you. You do not, however, have the right to demand that those establishments cater to you or your baby's needs.

Here's something else to consider: as sweet and darling and precious as your baby definitely is, they might not want her there. The restaurant, as well as the people who chose to patronize them, might be hoping that the restaurant's lack of diaper-changing amenities might persuade you to leave your often loud and disruptive infant at home. I know it's a shocker, but sometimes people prefer to dine without children screeching over the ambiance music.

Source: Kevin Phillips

Let me remind you however, it wasn't all that long ago that the baby changing tables you feel so entitled to use rarely (if ever) existed in public spaces. And yet... women still left their homes with babies and diaper bags in tow, and they met their baby's needs in spite of it.

This motherhood thing is an adapt-or-perish kind of situation, a survival-of-the-fittest mental game. You're a mother now... you gave birth to a human being through one of the messiest physical processes known to humankind (Or if you adopted, you survived the mental and emotional trauma of the whole draining process and you deserve your own kudos) and now that little helpless human is depending on you to figure things out, to meet his needs even when it isn't convenient or easy. Sometimes there just isn't going to be the support you think should be there, sometimes not from your family, or the government, or the businesses you frequent. But you know what? You still have to meet that kid's needs anyway.

As I stood there in line for the ladies' room and watched this uncomfortable exchange, I could think of a dozen places to change that baby, and none of them involved any intervention from the restaurant. Back when I was changing baby diapers (for miles in the snow, barefooted, uphill both ways), when changing stations were rare, I had to use good old-fashioned ingenuity.

In some ways, I think it made me a better mother. Maybe we're coddling moms nowadays, making them too soft. Maybe we're making things too easy for them. When they feel entitled to a changing table and storm off to grouse about it, leaving their child to sit in a soiled nappy, as they whine and complain, instead of rolling up their sleeves and just getting the deed done... it makes me wonder what kind of mothers we're producing. Are they too reliant on what others provide for them and their child instead of standing in their power as a mother, taking charge, and meeting their child's needs even in the face of adversity.

I wanted to waltz over to that mom and just show her how it's done. I wanted to take that wriggling, fussy baby and change his diaper. I wanted to tell that mother, so caught up in her shock at the inadequacy of a restaurant bathroom, to Just. Snap. Out. Of . It. Be a problem-solver. Think outside of the box of social constructs.

What did our ancestors do before celebrity crusades demanding public changing tables? Did they whine and complain? Did they get angry?

No.

You know what they did?

They changed their babies.

It wasn't easy or convenient, but when has parenthood been either one of those things?

Just in case that mother is reading, and through her frustrated tears she still isn't sure what to do with a soiled baby and a serious lack of diaper-changing convenience, here is the list of possible alternatives to the restaurant changing station (which in some cases you might not want to use anyway... how often do you think they clean those things? That's your baby's pristine bottom you're placing on that germ-ridden surface.) Here are a dozen places that you can change a baby in a pinch.

1. Your lap. If you haven't mastered the lap change, you need to start practicing. It's one of the essential skills of motherhood. It's definitely easier when they are small and less wiggly, but still doable when they are older. If the baby won't fit on your knees, try crossing your legs to resemble the number four. This one is a little easier because it keeps the baby from repeatedly kicking you in the stomach causing you to upchuck the expensive meal you just consumed. You can even do this at the dinner table if you're feeling daring, but your fellow diners would probably appreciate it if you did this one in the bathroom. The wafting aroma of a dirty diaper does not pair well with chardonnay.

2. Someone else's lap. If you can't handle the physical demands of the diaper change while controlling a squirmy baby, employ someone else's lap. This is a great job for the dad who might not be pulling his weight in the child care arena. Or you can ask you mother-in-law. She's always asking to hold the baby anyway.

3. The bathroom counter. It's really not all that different from a changing table. It just lacks a safety belt, so keep one hand on Junior at all times. It might be nice (although not entirely necessary) if you wipe up any diaper spillage from the surface before returning to your meal.

4. The toilet. But only if it has a lid. You don't want your baby going for a swim so soon after a meal. It could cause cramping. But if the toilet has a lid, just cover with a blanket or a changing pad and voila! You have a surface that gets the job done.

5. The floor. Although certainly not living up to the ultimate standards of sanitation, it is an option. If you carry a changing pad in your diaper bag, does it really matter what surface it covers? Baby is never going to touch the actual floor. You may need a few diaper wipes to clean off your knees when all is said and done. Still, Baby's butt will be fresh and clean.

6. A chair. If you want to make the restaurant reconsider their no-changing-table stance, this might be your best option. Once enough babies' fannies are flashing the entire establishment's patronage, they will be tripping over themselves to provide a more discreet option for your diaper-changing pleasure.

7. The backseat of your car. This one can be hard on your back but may offer the most privacy. It also has some handy safety features other options lack because there are fewer ways for an active baby to escape. Be sure not to leave the used diaper in the vehicle when you're finished... unless you enjoy the lingering smell of fermented excrement in your vehicle's interior.

8. The front seat of your car. In the event that the back seat is overly occupied by bulky car seats, this is a reminder that the front seat works just as well.

9. The trunk. It may sound weird, but this might be one of the better options. Baby can roll all over the place and he's not going to plummet to his death. Just don't forget him in there. The last thing you want at a random traffic stop is a body in the trunk of your car.

10. The hood of your car. In case you're in the mood for a little exhibitionism, the hood of a small economy car could double as a changing table. It's a little harder if you happen to drive a truck or an SUV (unless you're freakishly tall. In that case, carry on!). As a word of caution, wait until the engine has cooled before placing your infant on the hood. Baked infant is not usually a welcome addition to any restaurant's menu. You may also want to avoid this option if it's mid-summer in the South.

11. The table. If you're having difficulty finding a sufficiently flat surface for that necessary diaper change, there's always your table. Scoot aside the cutlery and the crystal ware, place the beef bourguignon and fois gras out of your little princess's reach, and have at it. You can even use the table cloth in place of a wipe (I mean if you're going to cross the line you might as well barrel right on past it). Ignore the horrified gasps and gags of disgust coming from fellow diners. A mother's got to do what a mother's got to do.

12. Go diaper free. Totally fed up with your options? Just snatch off that nappy and let it all hang loose. No changing table required. Sure some people might lose their appetite at the sight of freely flapping baby genitals, but you can just call them prudes. Diapers are for the inhibited. You just have to be quick on the draw with that empty wine glass should Junior need to relieve himself during the dessert course. But it's a good test of your parenting reflexes.

8 Reasons Why I Am The Meanest Mom In The Whole Wide World

Today I am the meanest mom in the world. Right now, my youngest child is writhing in agony on the floor because I am so horribly mean. I would probably be horribly ashamed of myself if I weren't slightly amused by her misery.

I'm a terribly, nasty, vile human being because... I'm forcing her to walk the dog and complete one household chore before I'll allow her to waste time on any electronic device.

I mean seriously, I already forced her to eat breakfast and finish schoolwork. I also required her to get dressed and brush her hair. Oh, the horror of my maternal torture!

But that's just the torment I've inflicted this morning. My children keep an entire list of reasons I am the meanest mother in the world (if not the whole entire universe).

1. I make them pay for their own stuff. Horrible, right? That's the way the adult world works. Because I don't want my kids living in my basement for the rest of their lives (You might think this is me being mean, but you're wrong. It's dark and moldy and gross down there), so I make them pay for the toys and gadgets and other stuff they want. I even make my teenagers pay for their own cell phone service. (Gasp!) I want them to realize that things have price tags and aren't just handed out as favors from the universe. I also think that if they pay for their stuff, they'll appreciate it more and maybe take better care of it. I figure if they aren't willing to spend their own money on something... they probably didn't want it all that badly in the first place.

2. I make them do hard things. Life isn't easy. Especially the things in life that are worth accomplishing. I don't automatically step in and take over when things get hard. I've watched them struggle through difficult belt tests in karate. I've stood by as they've had difficult confrontations with significant others and best friends. I've watched them struggle through the sometimes difficult consequences of their own bad decisions. And as much as I've wanted to throw on my Super Mom cape and swoop in to save them, I've stood by watching and biting my nails in stress in frustration instead. Sure, I've shouted encouragement from the sidelines, but I've let them struggle because I sincerely believe that working their way through the tough stuff will make them better people. Callous, aren't I?

3. I make them do chores... for FREE! I don't believe in paying my kids to help out around the house. It's my opinion that as members of this home, they should all pitch in to ensure its smooth functioning. Everyone who lives here helps keep this family running. That means the kids often take out the garbage, wash the dishes, fold laundry, pull weeds, sweep floors, and feed pets. And I don't pay them any cash money to do it. I might seem like an insensitive, abusive slave driver breaking all kinds of child labor laws, but if they don't help, that leaves me doing everything... and nobody's going to pay ME to do it.

4. I gave them watches and alarm clocks. They are responsible for getting to school or work or other obligations (including curfew) on time... not me. If they end up late, they will harvest the consequences. I feel like they'll be better off in the long run if they learn the responsibility of managing their own time. I'm not always going to be available to remind them to turn off the TV, put on pants, and get to where they need to be.

5. I let them feel loss. When they break or lose their things, I don't replace them. I'm just that mean. Instead, they have to deal with the consequences, either replacing it themselves or going without. There's a valuable lesson about taking care of things that matter which can't be learned without suffering through losing something. This goes back to learning responsibility. I admit that the side benefit to responsible kids is having them constantly remind me of things I forget... like my car keys. Where did I put those again?

6. I limit screen time. As much as they would like to waste away their lives and their health staring mindlessly at an electronic screen (whether television, computer, or tablet), I am constantly thwarting their plans. I step in to remind them that there is a life worth living away from the computer. They think I never let them do anything, but I still feel like I let them turn their brains to mush with passive entertainment far too frequently. Still, I make them interact with real human beings, and get fresh air, and exercise body parts other than their rapidly texting thumbs on a daily basis.

7. I stick by age limits. Most of our family's age requirements were determined with child number one (A.K.A the Parenting Guinea Pig), but we stick by our guns. No riding in the front seat until age 12. No social media accounts until age 13. No solo dating or rated M video games until age 16. This one might be hardest on the kids because "all of their friends are doing it", but I'm not raising a herd of lemmings. I'm not jumping off that parental bridge, and I don't want my kids going down with me. Besides, it gives them milestones of sorts to look forward to. It also helps me from falling into that alluring pit of the double standard. "You let my brother do that at 15!" will not happen if they are all held to the same age requirements.

It's been a delight to watch them on those milestone birthdays as they ride shotgun for the first time or carefully plan out their Facebook profiles months in advance. I'll admit there is a part of me (perhaps a very naive part) that because they've respected their parent-enforced age limits, hopes they'll respect other (arguably more important) age rules in regards to alcohol and such. We'll see how that turns out.

8. I hug them before bed. Every. Single. Night. Whether they like it or not. Even the 19 year-old. Because I love them... which is really the reason behind all of the things that make me The Meanest Mom in The Whole Wide World.

8 Things I Want My Daughters to Know About Men

Here it is! Different Than Average's very first guest post! (I'm excited. Are you?)

I'll admit to being more than a bit enamored by the author, but it's okay because he's my husband.

Let me know what you think in the comments.

8 Things I Want My Daughters to Know About Men

A Guest Post by Keith A. Webb

Back in March, Alice wrote a blog, 8 Things I Want My Sons to Know About Women.  It’s a blog flowing with truth and wisdom forged by years in the crucible of parenthood.  It gained quite a readership, so it was, I suppose, an inevitability that someone would eventually ask her, “Why doesn’t your husband write an accompanying blog for your daughters?”  Alice was intrigued and responded with something to the effect of, “I’ll have to ask him.”  Then the reader threw down the gauntlet: “I bet he can’t do it.”

‘Scuse me?!  Oh, it’s on now!

Here, Dear Reader, is my contribution to the cause.

I am the father of two beautiful girls.  As one might expect, I am hyper-protective of them, even though I am sure that they really don’t need it.  Nevertheless, as a father and a man, I know the ins and outs of maleness about as well as such things can be understood - and that fact alone scares the unholy hell out of me.

Lucky for me, my daughters are smart, so they will be far less likely to fall prey to the wiles of rampant male teenager manipulation.  I am, however, their father, and a part of my duties as ‘Dad’ include preparing them for the world out there.

Read closely, girls.  Questions and comments are always welcome.

1 - Until they prove themselves otherwise, males are pigs.  It’s been awhile since I was a teenage boy, but I still remember the locker room conversations and the general way that guys talked about girls.  Those scenes you see in movies where guys are talking about which girls do what and what they want to do (or have done) to girls they’ve been ogling - yeah, that stuff happens.  

In the inseminator stage in life, men are driven by one simple thing - testosterone.  They are driven by an innate urge to spread their DNA far and wide with as many females of the species as possible.  You don’t want to be one of those females.

Treat men with a healthy dose of caution and skepticism until they demonstrate tangibly and believably that they are interested in you for more than the physical pleasure they can derive from your body.  And even when they come through with a believable expression of love and/or compassion, it’s still a good idea to keep them at arm’s length for a while.

Believe me; you don’t want to be the subject of one of those locker room talks.  Ever.

2 - Despite the gruff outer appearance, men are emotionally intricate.  Sure, they’ll put on the brave face a lot of the time and behave as though nothing bothers them at all, but the truth of the matter remains - men are emotional creatures.  The difficult task for you, dear Daughters, is to sort out which emotions are normal in a healthy relationship, which ones are acceptable in moderation, and which are the sign of potential danger in the relationship.  And given that far too many men are either incapable of or unwilling to talk about emotional topics, figuring things out is that much more of a challenge.

Your mom fell for me when she saw how I treated a turtle.  Yes.  A turtle.  Keep your eyes open for those not-as-noticeable times when a man demonstrates that he’s emotionally capable of more than offering platitudes and taking advantage of you.

Here are a few givens: inappropriate displays of anger, excessive jealousy, debilitating fear, depression, guilt, and lust.  All of these are venom in a relationship.  Gentleness, tenderness, strength of character, bravery, and passion - these are the things of lasting relationships.

3 - Men are not your betters.  This is not intended to be a feminist screed in any sense of the word, but you aren’t required to kowtow to the will of man simply because he’s a man.  You bring a pretty healthy dose of alternate thought and ability to the table of life.  Any man that doesn’t at least acknowledge your talents isn’t worthy of them.  Even better is the man who is willing to recognize your strengths and create a mutually beneficial situation with them - and that applies to work, volunteering, friendships, and romantic relationships.

You have my standing permission to tell any man who attempts to lord his masculinity over you to go play in traffic.

4 - Be careful who you sleep with.  Your mother mentioned this to your brothers, but it goes double for you.  A sexual relationship means different things to guys than it does to you.  Remember the advice in #1above: you don’t want to be the subject of locker room banter.  Beyond that, you’ve got to honestly look at a guy before intimacy occurs and decide if this is a man to whom you want to be emotionally, financially, and legally obligated for the rest of your life.

For you, sex is quite often an emotional event.  Men are far more capable of making sex a purely physical act.  That is the danger - the detachment.  It’s where locker room conversations begin and end.  You are far more likely to be emotionally bound to him than him to you.  Unless you’re prepared for the kind of pain that comes with male indifference after the fact, it’s a really good idea to keep your clothes on.

5 - It’s a lot harder for men to switch off than it is for women.  A little intimacy goes a long way for a guy, and once he’s worked up, he’s hard to bring down.  Once he’s reached the point at which hormones and desire overrule reason, he will push for resolution.  And yes, there’s a danger that he will push harder than you would like.

The smart move is to never reach that point unintentionally.  Don’t allow yourselves to reach the point where he has to come back from the edge or you have to push him away.  The opportunity for frustration, anger, or regret is too great.

6 - Sometimes men want you to take control.  More times than not, the onus to take initiative falls squarely on the shoulders of the man.  While men will usually embrace that responsibility, sometimes they would prefer that you take control of things from time to time.

Start with date night.  You choose the day & time.  You choose the activities for the evening.  Doing so is an opportunity for you to show him your creative side and to introduce him to new ideas and interests - and it allows him to get to know you a little better.  Believe me when I tell you that he’ll appreciate not having the responsibility of planning a winning date for a change.

7 - Men are not mind readers.  What you consider to be an obvious clue, men hear as a casual statement.  “Gee, that sure is a pretty bag,” gets interpreted by a man as, “She thinks that bag is pretty.”  Sure, your birthday, your anniversary, or Christmas may be just a few short weeks away; that doesn’t matter.  The hint isn’t a hint, and the bag you expected will instead be a set of pots and pans and toe socks.

If you want a man to recognize the potential for a thing to be a gift, tell him.  If you want him to do something, tell him (note - this isn’t permission to nag; that’s an entirely different point).  If you like something he does, tell him.  Don’t expect a man to read the signals and behave according to your intentions.  You’ll wind up terribly disappointed if you do.

8 - Men are way simpler than you might think.  Despite everything I’ve said above about the relative complexity of the male persona, men are actually very simple creatures.  In general, men desire to be appreciated for their efforts in a variety of areas - work, relationships, home upkeep, parenting, and intimacy to name a few (and you don’t need to start working on those last few for several years, thank you).  A simple ‘thank you’ or ‘you’re awesome’ goes a long way to building a lasting relationship.  Just make sure it’s genuine and deserved.