Frightening Things at the Local Laundromat

My washing machine has died. It didn't go peacefully either. No, it was rather violent and savage. In the middle of a spin cycle, the drum came loose from whatever magic of mechanical engineering keeps that thing from flying free and causing wreckage. It screamed in agony as it went, too. Horrible death. Very tragic.

My dryer followed soon after, like a widow who can't bear life without her companion. They were a pair, after all. Unlike her partner, the dryer slipped away quietly. We didn't even know she had left us until a good three days later when the stench of the mildewed clothes that we had trusted her to dry came wafting out of the laundry room.

We are a family in mourning. Your thoughts and prayers are greatly appreciated, but please don't send flowers. Instead, make your donations of sympathy in the form of quarters, because laundry must now be hauled by the truckload to the local laundromat, at least until we find suitable replacements, which is hard, because we were rather attached to the ones that left us so suddenly and without warning.

Laundromats are interesting places. Lots of quirky people hang out there. Like the older woman who sings gospel music at the top of her lungs as she folds her unmentionables, and the middle-aged man who meticulously lines up all of the rolling laundry carts, or the weird guy who doesn't actually have laundry, but comes in just to watch his soaps on the big screen TV.

Laundromats are a great place to people watch (and I'm not talking about watching the people on the Soaps). There's nothing else to do while your laundry tumbles, and if you've forgotten a book to hold your attention, there's nothing else to really do. I find myself listening in on other people's conversations with intense interest similar to that of the NSA. I actually think I've learned most of the lyrics to the old lady's favorite hymns.

This week, while lamenting my lack of reading material and debating an impulse purchase of junk food from the vending machine, I zeroed in on a rather disturbing conversation. A young, overly-tattooed mother, complete with wobbling curious toddler (who was also contemplating the vending machine) was having a passionate discussion with another woman who barely spoke English. They were talking about clowns.

Oh, God!

I don't mean the fun birthday party clowns who twist balloon animals and juggle hacky sacks. These women were all up in arms about the recent creepy clown sighting in Winston Salem, North Carolina.

A few weeks ago, several children reported that a clown with a red nose and bushy hair tried to lure them into the woods of a Winston-Salem neighborhood. He apparently offered them treats if they would follow him. An adult claims to have heard the clown, but didn't see him. A few days later, the Cleveland County Sheriff's Office received an anonymous call claiming there was a clown lurking outside of an elementary school. Turns out the report was false.

These two women were visibly shaken. There was real and serious fear as they both yammered back and forth about how dangerous the world was becoming, how they needed to keep their children indoors at all costs, how they weren't going to let their babies be abducted by clowns who would do god knows what to them.

I can understand why they were so concerned. I mean, Winston-Salem is at least 3 hours away from our small town (two and half hours if you drive like my husband). And no one was actually stupid enough to follow a strange clown into the woods. But we all know children are very reliable sources, especially children who've heard a rash of creepy clown sightings in other states. After all, everyone knows children these days have no imagination. It's been completely squashed by public school and helicopter parenting and mindless video games. And just because no one with credibility actually saw that clown outside of that elementary school, half a state away, doesn't mean it wasn't actually there and didn't have nefarious plans.

I get that clowns are pretty terrifying. I've had my fair share of clown-inspired nightmares. No one should trust a dude with over-size shoes and questionable fashion sense. And anyone who's seen Clownhouse or Killer Clowns from Outerspace is going to be a little wary of trusting anyone in pasty white makeup. But locking your kids away, hovering more protectively than usual, because some vague reports of clowns in wooded areas is trending on Facebook is rather extreme.

There have been reports of clowns terrorizing people in more than ten states now. But if you read the actual news stories instead of trusting the dramatic over-reactions of mothers at the local laundromat, it is easily apparent that the threat isn't very real. Almost none of the sightings were confirmed by police. Most of the clowns didn't attempt to harm anyone. Most were only staring at people. Almost none were armed (excluding the two clowns armed with explosives that robbed a Memphis bank on September 28). There have been large numbers of threats on Facebook, but most of them have been since shut down. Several of those were discovered to be school kids attempting to scare other school kids. You can read the full list of recent creepy clown sightings HERE.

If we make an honest assessment, our children are not in any real danger. Most of them have watched enough horror films to know not to follow random circus performers into the forest. To be honest, everyone dumb enough to don a clown costume this Halloween are the ones in real danger. Redneck vigilantes all over the South have already vowed to hunt down and control the creepy clown population good ol' boy style.

It's ridiculous really, that parents are wasting so much mental energy on a threat that may be disturbing, but isn't very real. Believe me, there are plenty of real threats to our children that don't stir up nearly the kind of laundromat or social media chatter they deserve.

For instance, the United States has suspended talks with Russia over Syria, while Russia expands bomber patrols near U.S. bases. And Russia is currently engaged in a large scale drill involving 40 million people that some think could be in preparation for dealing with a nuclear strike. A US war with Russia is a far greater threat to our children (and Russia's too) than vague reports of clowns hanging out in wooded areas.

Also, the United Nations has declared that the rise of "superbugs", or antibiotic resistant strains of bacteria, are a major threat to modern medicine. They are, as England's chief medical officer described, "the greatest future threat to our civilisation." Moms, step away from the hand sanitizer.

And let's not forget the rising rates of childhood obesity. It's basically a public health crisis. As more and more children pack on extra pounds, they are developing adult illnesses like high blood pressure and type 2 diabetes. We are basically killing our children, no clowns necessary.

So all of you well-meaning mothers who are frightened for your kids by a few random reportings of circus clowns, you are a greater threat to them by locking them inside where exercise is nearly impossible and junk food abounds.

Besides, I've seen some of your precious babies. A few laps around the woods being chased by a balloon-wielding Bozo might actually do them some good.

Why is Back To School the Most Wonderful Time of the Year?

Most of the country's kids are back in school now. Parents everywhere seem to be celebrating the end of summer like it's the end of a summer long imprisonment. They've ushered their offspring to the bus stop while humming "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year". With their kids stuck at school all day, parents seem to be celebrating the fact that life just got a whole lot easier.


I suppose when you aren't used to it, wrangling kids all summer long is kind of an energy suck. Those pesky children are underfoot, making noise, making messes, demanding to be fed. Their presence is just there cluttering up life, making it super difficult to run the simplest of errands or hear the latest episode of Dr. Phil over the clamor.

It's easier to just send them back where they belong, lock them up behind cinderblock walls while they breathe recirculated air and become someone else's problems for at least six hours a day. At least they won't be trashing the kitchen or requiring supervision or running with scissors through the neighborhood scaring little old ladies.

Life is much more peaceful and quiet when the kids are back in school.

I will admit that the neighborhood seems kind of like a ghost town now that all the kids, who were just days ago riding bikes and skateboards and creating a ruckus, are safely tucked away where we can't see them. I'm pretty sure I just saw a tumbleweed roll down the middle of my suburban street. I didn't even know we had tumbleweeds in North Carolina.

While life may indeed be quieter now all those school-aged kids are out of sight and out of mind, I'm not convinced that life is easier.

When my oldest child reached school age, I had just given birth to his baby brother. My mother was certain that my life would be easier once he was enrolled in government-funded kindergarten. I had my hands full with an active toddler and a nursing infant. She was convinced that one less child underfoot would be a huge blessing.

But all I could think about was how difficult life would be if I placed that child on a bus everyday. I thought about having to adjust my schedule and the schedule of a toddler and infant to the biddings of the public school calendar. That I would have to wake to an alarm, dress a tired child, make lunch, and get him off to school all before 7:30 AM while still managing the needs of his younger siblings. And then I would have to stop whatever I was doing when school was over, napping babies be damned, so that I could safely retrieve him from the bus stop. And then there was the possibility of homework. (And a very selfish part of me also realized that the one human being capable of helping me with the business of feeding and diapering and entertaining his small siblings was the school-aged son I would be putting on a bus to sit in circle time and learn colors and shapes and how to be quiet... things he already knew. Except the how to be quiet part. He still hasn't mastered that.)

It might have been the severe amount of sleep deprivation talking, but my brain wasn't convinced that sending my youngest to public school would make life easier for me.

There are so many mothers who, upon discovering that I homeschool, ask me how I handle it all day everyday. To be honest, I wonder how they can do it, sending their kids off, getting them ready, staying on top of things.

I love being with my children and don't mind sharing my days with them, but I also love the freedom that homeschooling affords. When all of my children were homeschooled, we could sleep late and not worry about lunch until we got hungry. We could take spontaneous trips and not have to wait for Fall Break or Christmas Vacation. As a homeschooling mom, I didn't have to worry about grades or teacher conferences or disciplinary records or school bullies. There wasn't any homework to oversee or double check or pester them to complete. I didn't have to keep track of school fundraisers or permission slips or after school activities. I didn't have to schedule my days around bus schedules and early dismissals.

Listen up jubilant moms singing the virtues of back to school, the idea that having your kids in school all day is "easier" is an illusion. You've just traded one set of hard work for a different set. While you're considering me some kind of half-crazed martyr, sacrificing my sanity to provide a decent education for my kids at home, I'm looking at you half asleep in the school drop-off line and thinking, "Thank God I don't have to do that." (I'm just kidding. I'm not really looking at you in the drop off line. I'm still asleep in my bed.) You're juggling your own life while making sure your kids get up at the right time, get dressed in the right clothes, have all the right school supplies, meet the bus at the right time, get off the bus at the right, finish all of their homework and get it turned in at the right time. That doesn't exactly sound easy.

Sending your kids to school isn't easy, I don't care how hard the back-to-school commercials are trying to convince us. I think you already know it isn't easy if you're being honest with yourself.

Just like having them around all the time isn't exactly easy either. But who ever said this parenting thing was supposed to be easy? There isn't a parenting easy button. I know because I've looked everywhere. Even under the couch.

We just have to decide which difficult road is really worth it.

But What if They Outgrow Us? Dear God, I Hope So

I am not a short person.

Although both of my sons and several of my taller coworkers would strongly dispute this, I am in fact incredibly average when it comes to height. Measuring in at 5 feet 4 inches tall, I am right on par with the average American female, at least according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

And yet, I am short when standing next to my children.

After posting a photograph to social media this weekend, one in which I am standing smiling next to my youngest child, someone asked when she had grown taller than me. Which can't be right. She is my baby. My youngest. She's only twelve.

And yet, she is taller... by almost an inch.

When did that happen? Someone forgot to remind me to pay attention. I swear I only looked away for a brief moment, got distracted by the laundry or the dust bunnies or that last really horrible season of The Walking Dead. I didn't see it happen. And yet, here we are.

When my children were small, with shorter legs and tiny feet, they used to have to run to keep up with me. It took them at least two strides to every single one of mine, their small hands clinging to mine, being pulled behind me through parking lots and across streets, down grocery store aisles and around fast food dining rooms. They struggled to live life at my pace, afraid of getting left behind. I was so much bigger. Faster. Stronger. More than them.

But not anymore.

They are so much more than me. All of them.

Last week I watched my youngest son handle himself with grace and dignity in a difficult situation. He was confronted by another parent, accused of some nasty acts of bullying. In the face of an angry adult, pointing fingers and questioning his character, he spoke evenly and calmly. He explained himself with such poise and maturity that I could hardly believe what was happening. I, on the other hand, pretty much lost my shit. Looking back on the incident, I realize that I had let emotions get the best of me, that I had too easily lost patience, that I had behaved like a child who just wanted to run away. In that moment of confrontation, I realized that my 15 year-old son is a much better human being than I am.

Meanwhile, my youngest, the one who so recently surpassed me in height, could totally own me on the dojo floor. She is far better at martial arts than I will probably ever be, in spite of my higher rank and life experience and general mastery of adulthood. She is faster and stronger and more skilled. And on top of it all, she carries it well, with a quiet confidence tempered by humility. She, too is a better human being.

My oldest daughter is the kind of go-getter I have never been. She is smart and driven and competitive. This past Saturday, I watched from the audience as she spoke to an auditorium full of strangers with a clear voice and confident words, without nerves. And she walks in heels much more skillfully than I do. Again, she's a better human.

And my oldest son just earned his Army jump wings. He may be one of the bravest and strongest men I've ever met. He lives his life with a level of integrity, loyalty, and grit to which I can only aspire. He's going places and now that he is Airborne, he can get to those places much faster than the average soldier.

The day of my oldest son's basic training graduation was an incredibly proud day. I cried big fat soppy tears. But his graduation wasn't only a culmination, a marking of hard work completed. It was just one step, a launching point, to bigger things. He is living a life, learning things along the way, that I, as his mother, will never understand.

On that day, when things had quieted, the excitement and chaos calmed, and my husband and I were alone, we marveled at how that little boy in footie pajamas had grown so tall and so strong and so brave, in what seems such a short time. We knew he was starting a life without us, that he had big plans and bigger dreams, that he would be learning and experiencing things that we could never have provided him.

"I just worry that he's going to outgrow us," my husband had said, a little misty-eyed. And while I understand what he meant, as we both waded through what seemed like a huge goodbye to the little boy we've loved so deeply, as we watched our adult son march off to places we can't follow, all I could think is:

"God, I hope so."

All four of these incredible people, the ones I am truly blessed to have raised and honored to call my children, are more than me. They've already outgrown me in so many ways. They no longer struggle to live life at my pace. Instead they set their own gait, measure their own miles, stretch for their own goals. They are so much more than I am.

They are speeding on through life toward their own destinations, learning and mastering new things, things I struggle to understand (like tech support and teen lingo).

And I find I'm the one rushing to keep up with them. Stretching my own stride to keep their pace, stretching myself to be the kind of mother they deserve. They inspire me to be better, to reach higher, to live braver, to breathe deeper. I find myself setting larger goals, working to be stronger, faster, bigger than I was just yesterday. Because I want so desperately to keep up. I don't want to get left behind, and I certainly don't want them slowing down to wait for me.

Isn't that what we're working for? All of the sleepless nights and math homework and carpools to soccer, isn't that what we're in it for? So our children can have more than we had? That they can be more than we ever were?

We should be hoping and praying and actively encouraging them to outgrow us.

Because the world needs better people than we are. Our children can be those people.

And they can make us better people in the process. The world still needs us, too.

The Joy is in the Journey

My daughter bought a car.

Like all-by-herself, saved-for-two-years, payed-all-the-taxes, doesn't-have-a-car-payment, hers-is-the-only-name-on-the-title bought a car.

It's the real deal. She's only seventeen, by the way. It's okay for you to be impressed, because I certainly am.

She got her driver's license this week, too. She actually took the driving test in her very own vehicle, so that's kinda cool. I went with her to the DMV because I love her and she was nervous and I enjoy smelling other people sweat on a Thursday afternoon.

When she arrived back from the driving test, she kind of made eye contact and sort of shrugged in my direction as she followed the administrator back to her desk. I could just make out the sound of her voice over the piped-in elevator music as she signed things and posed for her picture. I knew she had passed. I knew I was now the mother of another licensed driver.

She was ecstatic. I, however, felt a bit somber, but managed to muster some enthusiasm for her as she showed off the awkward license photo (Does anyone ever take a good photo for their license?) Then my husband and I sent her off in her new-to-her vehicle for her first solo run.

As we walked toward home from the DMV (one of the perks of small town living), I watched her stop at the first intersection stop sign. She glanced at us and waved before checking both directions for oncoming traffic. As she turned to check toward the right, I knew she was realizing that there was no one in the passenger seat. She was on her own, experiencing her first real taste of freedom, realizing that she is the master of her own destiny.

Watching her pull away from that intersection and drive away without me, something heavy hit me and hit me hard. It wasn't an incompetent student driver, either. It was a sudden realization.

All of my children are going to leave me.

I suppose I already knew this. They've been slowly leaving me since that first moment they were each laid in my arms. I knew, at least on some level, that they would all one day grow into adults (hopefully responsible and productive ones) and create their own lives, pursue their own dreams. I remember marveling at each of their newborn faces and wondering what kind of people they would be when they were grown.

So I knew they would grow up, but it always seemed so very distant, like a beacon pulsing far off in the distance, just barely visible beyond the strewn legos and scattered bath toys. I suppose I've been too busy wading through the everyday stuff, cooking dinner, folding laundry, paying bills, keeping them from killing each other, to look up and see just how rapidly that horizon was approaching.

It's been a rough summer. Child #1 left home in March. He's been in the care of the U.S. Army for the past three and half months, and we've had scant contact with him, only receiving a phone call about every third week. His absence has been felt in surprisingly tangible ways, always looming like it's own presence. His absence felt in his empty chair at the dinner table, the perpetually closed door to his bedroom, his missing opinion in every conversation.

And through these three months, with Child #1's departure to adulthood still so fresh, his sister has been working diligently on her own exit strategy, touring three college campuses, while Child #3 prepares to enter high school, already chatting it up about his future career plans.

I feel like I am coming undone. I have always been an incredibly goal-oriented individual. Put a target in front of me and I'm going toward it with laser-like focus. So, I'm surprised at my reactions to all of this growing up stuff. The goal has always been to raise adults, to get my children safely to adulthood, having them arrive ready to move forward with purpose and drive, capable of taking care of themselves and be productive members of society.

And here we are. I should be feeling all of those big giant feelings of accomplishment and achievement and triumph that come packaged together with a destination reached, a goal realized. It has been a long road. It's taken an awful lot of effort to get here. I should be thrilled.

I suppose I am thrilled and excited and proud. For them, at least.

But I'm left here missing them. Missing the legos and scattered bath toys. I'm missing the sleepless nights and having my arms full of babies. I'm already missing them and I'm missing me, missing the me that was "Mom" when that word meant to them the whole world.

It's true what they say about life and journeys and happiness. The joy really is in the journey, not the destination.

And it has been one tough journey, full of temper tantrums and tears, doubt and second guesses, mistakes and messes, heartache and hurt feelings, and "Are we there yet?" whining. So many times I wished for an end of some sort, or at least a brief reprieve, to the bickering and the stress and the energy-suck that was raising children. So many times I thought the journey was the hard part.

But let me tell you...this destination... well, it kinda sucks.

Why I Don't Want My Children To Just Be Happy

"I just want her to be happy. You know?"

I heard these words from a young mother in regards to her small daughter over the weekend, and they have been itching at my brain for days. They aren't uncommon words, I've heard them spoken by other parents of other children on other days. In fact, it is a pretty common sentiment, almost a modern parenting mantra. But something about those words just haven't felt right to me.

Surely, the highest goal, the pinnacle of parenting success, the mother of all attainment is that we produce happy people. We speak of it as if nothing else matters. Because if they achieve greatness and money and success but are miserably unhappy, it has all been for naught, right?

In that light, achieving a high level of happiness seems pretty important. But should it really be the ultimate goal?

Maybe we've placed happiness in the spotlight because we've found it so fleeting and difficult to achieve. A 2013 poll showed that two thirds of Americans are not "very happy". Antidepressants are the third most common prescription drug. And with the majority of Americans unhappy and dissatisfied with their jobs, the lack of happiness in the United States starts to look like a frightening epidemic.

Or maybe the placement of happiness on such a high pedestal is a reflection of the new culture of acceptance. Today's parents have seen friends cower in closets of sexuality because they were afraid of disappointing their parents. They've also watched adults while away their days miserably working a job they hate just because it pays well. And so we've decided to accept our children as they are and support them no matter their goals, because we want them to "just be happy".

But here's the deal... there is a whole lot more to life than just being happy.

By saying, "I just want my kids to be happy" without qualifying the statement, it insinuates that any choice is acceptable as long as it makes them happy. Does this mean that we are okay with our children choosing to live in our basement and smoke pot and play video games? ... as long as they are happy. Is it okay for them to drop out of school and work the rest of their lives as a cashier at McDonald's, getting people's orders wrong, and counting out incorrect change? ...as long as they are happy. What if the become big bank brokers or corrupt used car salesmen and cheat old ladies? ... as long as they are happy. What if they insist on ordering their steaks well done at nice restaurants? ... Surely we have to draw the line somewhere.

By telling our children that we "just want them to be happy", we are sending a message that is apt to develop little narcissists. It tells our children that there is nothing more important than their feelings, that their personal happiness is the ultimate pursuit. We've already sent them that message through our helicopter-style parenting, orbiting around them like planets around the sun. So telling them that our only desire for them in life is that they be happy reinforces the notion that they are all that matters. Screw other people and their feelings. Screw higher causes and deeper meaning. Screw doing anything challenging or difficult. And while we're at it, let's just selfishly encourage them to consume senselessly while using other people to get what they want.

Happiness is such a fleeting thing and it is all too often confused with pleasure. The pleasure of eating a cupcake or buying a new blouse or engaging in casual sex may seem like they bring happiness at the time, but those things, while surely pleasurable, can leave us feeling unfulfilled. Happiness isn't something you can consume or buy or sleep with. But because pleasure feels so much like happiness, we often find ourselves grasping and reaching for the next pleasurable experience because we think that's what it takes to make us happy. And since happiness is all we want for our children, it could leave them grasping at brief moments of gratification, never accomplishing anything and never achieving any real and lasting happiness anyway.

And there are far worse things our children could end up being than unhappy.

I don't want my  kids to just be happy.

I want my children to be productive and empathetic and gracious. I want them to be generous and hard-working and passionate. I want to raise people with purpose and character. The world needs more citizens who are honest and genuine and humble. I want them to give of themselves, to work hard for a worthwhile cause, to be part of lasting solutions to big problems, to be part of something bigger than themselves. I want them to strive to be better than they already are, to pursue goals that aren't easily achieved, and most of all I want them to be kind.

Interestingly enough, happiness seems to be a natural byproduct of those things. It's almost like when we stop looking for it, chasing it, desiring it, and focus on the really worthwhile things, happiness seems to find us. By focusing on others, while reaching for the things that are truly valuable, happiness just kind of happens.

So I hope that isn't all you really want for your kids, because if that's all you want for them, they'll likely never find it.

How Many Moments of Distraction Make A Bad Mother?

I wasn't going to write about the infamous Cincinnati gorilla incident that happened over the weekend.

It's the only thing anyone seems to be talking about. It's all over my social media news feeds, I had no idea that there were so many perfect parents and gorilla experts on my friends lists, or at the grocery store, or the coffee shop, or local mall. I had no idea that there were so many professional gorilla specialists or child rearing authorities walking amongst us. The things you learn when a news story goes viral.

"Opinions are like asses," my grandmother used to say. "Everybody's got one." And a lot of people have been seriously showing theirs, spewing hate and vitriol about crappy mothers, and the sanctity of gorilla lives, and bratty children all over the place. Like apes slinging their own poo.

I felt like everything that could be said about the incident had already been said.

So I wasn't going to write about how small children can be assholes, how they have amazing willpower and skills of manipulation. I wasn't going to write about how unfair it is that short humans under 36 inches in height who can't even tie their own freakin' shoes could possibly be so fast, so agile, so determined that they can get away from even the most attentive parent in less than 2.7 seconds. I wasn't going to write about how the government should probably recruit some strong-willed toddlers for study into how to train the country's spec ops, because the world has not seen the likes of the skill and strength and sneakiness of a toddler focused on the cookie jar perched atop the refrigerator.

Moms know. We've heard the Mission Impossible theme music that starts to play the instant we answer the phone, or close the bathroom door, or take too long blinking.

I wasn't going to write about the gorilla or the child or the mother.

But there is actually a petition, as of this writing containing over 476,000 signatures, that demands the parents be held responsible for the gorilla's death. The signers of the petition demand an investigation by Child Protective Services "of the child's home environment in the interests of protecting the child and his siblings from further incidents of parental negligence that may result in serious bodily harm or even death."

Gah.

Perhaps a list of more than 476,000 childless people, because I don't know a single mother who has watched the disturbing video of Harambe the Gorilla violently dragging that small child around the moat by his ankle who has not muttered words of thanks to whatever powers that may be, "There but for the grace of God go I."

Because I know I could have easily been standing in that mother's shoes. I've lost my children at the grocery store, the park, even my own front yard. While I'm thankful there weren't any large male silverbacks around to drag my lost wee ones away, it is the exact same attitude of inattention coupled with my children's spirit of adventure that led to me losing track of them. Perhaps the only difference is the location of our laxity.

And I am a good mother.

I read bedtime stories and made sure they brushed their teeth before bed. I taught them the importance of honesty and made them eat their vegetables. I taught them basic table manners and kissed away boo-boos. I watched them and loved them and mostly made sure they didn't destroy things.

But I still lost track of my children.

Perhaps it is, ultimately the responsibility of the parents, because at the end of the day, it is our basic duty to keep them safe. And in that, this child's parents failed... if even just for one moment. But to cast a sweeping judgement of their parenting skills based on one single careless act is highly unfair.

One single moment, one manifestation of danger due to distraction, one moment of lowered guard, and the world wants to sweep in, declare the parents unfit, and possibly take away parental rights.

One moment of failure. One moment.

Meanwhile, also in Cincinnati, 19 juveniles were arrested at the Taste of Cincinnati event for charges ranging from curfew violations to fighting to discharging a firearm. That's right, children accused of firing shots into crowded areas. One 15 year-old arrested for assaulting an officer. Several others for fighting, and no one bats an eye. There is not one signature on one petition demanding that the parents be held responsible for their children terrorizing the general public. Not even one.

How many times must the parents of those Taste of Cincinnati juveniles have failed them? More than once if they are guilty of such dangerous and violent public displays. More than just one moment of distraction. Perhaps thousands of moments of distraction and inattention and lowered guard lead to that kind of behavior. These parents are guilty of neglect and endangerment stretched out over years.

And yet, we haven't even heard about it here in North Carolina. No petitions. No outrageous news stories. No accusations of neglect uttered at the grocery store or the coffee shop or social media news feeds. No judgement of parental skills. Where are the parenting experts and their assessments and convictions and decrees about unfit mothers? Why are they all so silent? If Zoo Mom is such a horrible parent, then certainly the parents of these teens are evil monsters. Why aren't we casting stones at them?

Perhaps it's because those mothers never took their sons to the zoo.

Are Loyalty and Resistance to Change the Same Thing? - Saying Goodbye to the Family Minivan

We once had a minivan. It was spacious and practical and thoroughly uncool.

For nine long years, that minivan was part of the family. It saw us through cramped car seats, then on to booster seats, and finally to epic Rock/Paper/Scissor battles for the privilege to ride shotgun. It was the first vehicle my son drove, the one that survived the little fender bender he caused in the parking lot of Waffle House on his sixteenth birthday. It was also the vehicle my daughter first tenuously steered with caution and trepidation, the one that helped her gain confidence to eventually venture out onto the highway.

That minivan carted home thousands of bags of groceries, family christmas trees, garden supplies, and new bicycles. It hauled this family and all of our luggage to upstate New York (to visit family), to Cleveland, Ohio (to visit friends), to Gatlinburg, Tennessee (for a karate tournament), to Stone Mountain, GA (where it almost drove away without one of our children). It toted camping gear and beach gear and karate gear and dirty laundry to the laundromat when our dryer croaked. It made family trips to the wilderness and to big cities, along back country roads and six-lane highways.

Along the way it acquired a new engine and picked up a few quirks. The passenger sliding door didn't close quite right unless shoved with muscular force. The air-conditioning quit working about two years ago, a great thing during muggy Southern summers ... very character-building. The defroster only worked when turned on full-blast. There was a crack in the windshield that kind of resembled a swan stretched out in flight, and an ant colony that had moved into the center console, making it's living on leftover car snacks and spilled or forgotten juice boxes.

But it was ours. Paid in full. Part of the family with all of its smudgy fingerprints and dog hair and stained floor mats and that petrified cheeseburger rammed between the seats.

Nine years is a long time for a rough family of six to maintain a vehicle, especially one that has been ridden hard and put away wet. The vehicle should have been let out to pasture (or something else more humane) long ago, but we don't give up easily in this family.

This weekend we finally succumbed and purchased a new vehicle. It's not a minivan (So now I can be the cool mom, right?). As we filled out the paperwork on our brand new "wagon" (It's really not any cooler, is it? Well, dang!) a pattern started to emerge.

How long have you owned your current vehicle? ...9 years.

How long have you been at your current residence? ...12 years

Your part-time job?...almost 7.

Mr. Webb, how long have you been teaching school? ... 22 years.

With each answer, the "product specialist" (just a non-threatening term for "car salesman") seemed genuinely surprised. Apparently people in this day and age don't stick with things quite so long, but remember, we've never been ones to give up easily.

Some might call it loyalty, commitment, fidelity. Some might call it a resistance to change.

But aren't they the same thing, differing faces of the same coin? It proves that you can put a positive or negative spin on just about anything.

We didn't want to give up on that van, so we pumped money into new engines and extensive transmission work, prolonging a life that just wanted to end. It cost us several hot North Carolina summers with no air conditioning and an extended hassle of impatient waiting after the keyless entry gave up the ghost. We paid for our loyalty with inconvenience after inconvenience after inconvenience. It makes me wonder if loyalty in such extreme circumstances is a virtue or a vice.

And now we have a shiny new (to us) vehicle with AC and power windows and cruise control that actually work. We have a view out the windshield unobscured by swan-like cracks snaking their way across our field of vision. We have doors that don't have to be slammed and a reliability that we haven't experienced in at least a handful of years. I wonder how long it will take us to release the nervous tension we've grown accustomed to holding as we cruise down the highway.

I should be happy, right?

And yet, I felt heavy and sad as we drove away from that car lot. As the back of that van with its "Proud Army Parent" and zombie family stickers across the back window grew smaller and smaller in the rear view, I realized that leaving behind that van was like closing a chapter, a chapter I'm not sure I'm ready to close, because I can still see those tiny faces smiling (and sometimes screaming) at me from their carseats in the back. I can still smell the sour juice boxes and the stale french fries. I can still hear laughter and silly songs and "Are we there yet?" questions. I can still see my son's face the first time he rode shotgun. I can still see my daughter's white knuckles the first time she gripped that steering wheel.

I am loyal to those things, committed to those values that are somehow expressed in those memories. There was joy and patience and strength and a large measure of grace there. It is those things that make me resistant to change, that make me want to hold on just a tiny bit longer.

The new vehicle doesn't yet feel like ours. It's like a new pair of shoes that hasn't yet been broken in - tight, unfamiliar, almost alien. I suppose it will take time to make new memories in this one. I'll admit that I'm slightly disappointed that I will never snap my children into car seats or pull over to soothe a crying child or sing "The Wheels on the Bus" an excruciating number of times in this new "wagon".

But doesn't the word "wagon" already make it sound like we are going on an adventure?

Do Electronics Steal Your Family At The Dinner Table?

My family took me out for dinner on Mother's Day. Apparently, a lot of other families took their moms out too, because the roads were packed and the restaurants were full. It's an easy way to treat mom to a night off of dinner and clean-up duty without having to actually cook or clean up. It's kind of a win/win for everyone involved, including the restaurant industry.

Since my children are older and actively working on their personal family exit strategies, I was keenly aware of the other families around us, especially the ones with younger children. I'm currently feeling overly nostalgic about the life that was raising small children. With the oldest off at basic training and his younger siblings so incredibly self-sufficient, I can't help myself.

So I watched them all like a creepy person. And I noticed something besides their cute faces and chubby fingers, something a bit disturbing.

Electronic entertainment.

It was everywhere. Young children with their parents, and sometimes their grandparents, aunts, and uncles, at a nice restaurant, one complete with white napkins and candles and attentive servers who bring fresh utensils for each course, were almost completely unaware of their surroundings. No matter which direction I turned I saw little eyes glued to miniature screens.

To the left was the five year-old who held his tablet mid-game as his family entered the restaurant. As the host walked them to their table, where grandma and grandpa were already seated, he kept glancing down at the game like he couldn't wait to get back to it. He reluctantly hugged Grandma, and then, as soon as he was seated, his eyes got that glazed-over hypnotized look to them. Several times during the meal, Grandma attempted to engage her cute little bowtie-clad grandson in conversation, but he wouldn't have any of it. He whined when his mother made him put the device down to eat dinner, and couldn't manage to sit still in his seat, popping up regularly like a jack-in-the-box. He took maybe three bites before he was done and back to his game. The whole of his dining experience was a tiny pixelated screen.

In the center of the restaurant was another family. Accompanying mom and dad and grandma was an older child, maybe 10 years old. He had the look of disdain that you can only find on the face of a pre-teen. As soon as the family was seated, out came the tablet. Again came the glazed-over hypnotized look as the child slouched in his seat watching some insignificant movie on an 8-inch hand-held screen. His mother made him order, but his eyes never left the tablet in his hand. He just mumbled something to the waiter that mom had to ultimately translate. Several times, the child snapped at his mother for interrupting his show, and he didn't even put the device down when his food came. He ate while leaning all over the table, eyes attached to the screen as if by some invisible cord. Dinner went on around him. Several times I wondered if the kid even knew where he was.

I get it, parents. My children were small once, too. Taking them to eat in public is a daunting enough task at a restaurant where everything comes to the table wrapped in paper, but to brave an establishment that wraps its tables in white linen and its dining room in ambience, music, and candlelight, where diners are intolerant of noise and commotion, can cause stress-induced bleeding ulcers and a new slew of gray hairs. Under thaose circumstances, you will keep your kids quiet and seated at any cost.

Thankfully, my children were small before the prevalence of tablets and smartphones and wifi connections. When we took them out to eat, we had to actively keep them distracted. We had to engage them in conversation. We had to play games like Eye Spy. We had to play the "Sit Still Statue" game. It was exhausting work. We didn't have the luxury of handing them a smartphone and pretending they weren't there while they stared at a screen and forgot where they were.

And that's the biggest beef I have with electronics - that kids aren't really there. The kids in the Mothers Day restaurant were physically present, but they weren't really there emotionally or mentally. Their minds were trapped inside of their games and their videos. Their parents were paying for the experience of a nice meal, but the children weren't experiencing it at all. They were too trapped by technology.

The parents were so concerned that their children wouldn't know how to behave in that particular setting that they felt a need to distract them with inane entertainment. But the problem is that those children will never learn how to behave in that particular setting. Children learn important social cues and standards of conduct by observing the adults around them. When a child sees the way his father interacts with the waitstaff or the manner his mother uses her salad fork and engages in conversation, that is how they learn to do the same. They learn how others interact with their surroundings and that's how they learn. Those skills don't magically manifest themselves when a child turns five or ten or twenty. They are learned through observation and experience, both of which are powerful tools. The kids in this restaurant weren't observing or experiencing anything outside of their electronic screens. Their Mothers Day dinner became a lost opportunity.

It's a catch 22 - the children are given electronics because they don't know how to behave in public, but they will never learn how to behave in public because they've been given electronics.

But even more important than the etiquette training these children are missing while dining with their parents, is the missed opportunity for conversation. A missed opportunity for conversation is a missed opportunity for learning and bonding and connection. Not everything worth learning is taught in a classroom. The most important things are learned around the dining room table.

So yes, parents. I know it's hard. I've been there, too. But remember that you aren't raising children. You're raising future adults. They won't always be able to lose themselves behind an electronic screen. Do the hard work now. Engage with your children. Make them engage with the world around them. They will be better people for it.They will one day have to interact with the real world.

Although the number of adults in the restaurant who were glued to their phone screens may suggest that I'm wrong.

As we were leaving, my oldest daughter told me, "Thanks for not ever letting us be assholes in restaurants, Mom." My children had been watching the other families, too.

"You didn't have time to be assholes," I told her. "We were too busy talking and being a family."

It must be hard to be a family when the youngest members are held prisoner by electronic devices. I should probably feel sorry for them.

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.

10 Ways Playing Outside Will Make Your Kid Smarter

When I was a kid, I lived outside. Most warm evenings would have me and most of the neighborhood kids riding bikes, building forts, catching lightning bugs, or just laying in the grass until the streetlights blinked on or our mothers called us for dinner. I grew up in an age when organized athletics for five year olds were rare, when parents didn't orchestrate their children's every waking moment, when mothers and fathers didn't feel so pressured for their kids to perform and succeed. There was an abundance of free time and my mother didn't want me in her hair. I am a much better person for it.

Today, the average American child spends as little as 30 minutes outside in unstructured play each day. Let's be honest, that's not enough time to organize a game of stickball or terrorize the neighborhood in a bicycle gang or even to get lost in thought lying in the warm spring grass. What are our kids doing with their time? Most of it is spent indoors behind a desk or dazed behind an electronic screen. The average American child spends as much as seven hours using electronics every day.

It's a sad fact that our kids would generally rather FaceTime with their friends than actually play with them.

But aside from "free time" spent on computers and tablets and cell phones, parents are overly concerned with artificially enriching their children's lives. Organized sports, and dance classes, and math camps, and scouts are where parents want their kids to spend their "extra" time. By organizing and carefully constructing a childhood, they hope to give their kids a leg up in the human rat race.

It's a common thought that if a child isn't spending time in school achieving academic excellence, then they should be studying and completing worksheets, and if there is still time left over, they should be engaged in carefully coordinated activities designed to make them better, smarter, higher-achieving people. All of this is going to have to go down on college applications one day, so we might as well start now and make it look good.

But there is no "extra" time. Kids are like us, they only have time. There's nothing extra, and too much is sucked up by living a script someone else has created for them. Kids need to write their own scripts, just like adults. They need freedom. And quite often, they need to be outside and engaged in free play to become whole human beings.

Parents, if you're worried about your kid getting into Harvard (and if so, I argue that you might be worried about the wrong things, but that's a subject for another blog post), you still might want them to back away from the worksheets and violin practice and just go outside. There are a number of ways that playing outside makes kids smarter.

1. Playing outside improves focus. A 2008 study from the University of Michigan explored the cognitive benefits of interacting with nature. The study found that just walking outside, no matter the weather, and no matter whether the experience was actually enjoyable, helped improve memory and attention by 20 percent. So even when they don't want to put down the tablet, and they complain about being miserable, just send them outside anyway.

2. Playing outside stimulates creativity. During open-ended play, kids have to make up ways to entertain themselves instead of relying on adults to do it for them. Being outdoors where there are rocks and dirt and sticks presents limitless opportunities for play experiences. No two playtimes will end up looking exactly the same. Being outside presents a plethora of opportunities for imaginative play, creative building, and inventive activities.

3. Playing outside promotes problem solving. During free outdoor play, children make up their own rules. They learn what works and what doesn't. They learn when to keep trying and when to try something else. If playing with other children, they learn what types of interactions promote cooperation and which cause frustration. By solving their own childhood problems, they'll be much more independent problem solvers as adults. Practice makes perfect in this area of life. If never given the chance to practice solving their own problems, how can we expect them to magically do it once they turn eighteen?

4. Playing outside develops leadership skills. Playing together outside, children must negotiate rules of games and the roles they play in them. Natural leadership skills will be developed as they play. No special workshops or lessons required.

5. Playing outside improves language skills. Children are so often told that they must be quiet indoors. "Use your quiet, indoor voice," we often hear teachers tell their young pupils. But outside, children are free to be loud. Instead of others encouraging them to hush, they can experience a freedom to speak that the indoors doesn't always provide. Many children (especially boys) are able to find their voices outdoors. And cooperative play, gives plenty of opportunities to communicate with one another. Children may issue instructions to each other on the building of a fort or the intricate rules of a spontaneous game.

Being outdoors always creates a lush context for vocabulary development, too. From discovering tiny animals, to expressing changing weather and seasons, to describing the texture rich environment of trees and stones, children are encouraged by the outdoors to try out new words and make them their own.

6. Playing outside is multi-sensory. During outdoor play, a child uses all of his senses: touch, sight, hearing, smell, and even taste (If I had a dollar for every time I told a child, "Don't put that in your mouth!"). Not all children learn the same way. By opening up experiences to all of a child's senses, we help each child learn in their own unique way.

7. Playing outside relieves stress. It's no secret that today's kids are stressed out. As many as one in eight children and 20 percent of teens suffer from severe anxiety disorders. Modern children face pressure to perform from their parents, their teachers, and their schools. Children and their parents start thinking about colleges as early as kindergarten, and school systems place a huge emphasis on student test scores. It's no wonder our children feel stressed out. But more than 100 research studies have shown that time spent outdoors reduces stress, anxiety, and depression. The cure for childhood depression and anxiety is literally waiting right outside our door. And a relaxed and unworried person makes a better learner.

8. Playing outside makes children healthier. You might not think that healthier equals smarter, but sick kids miss school and can easily fall behind. Besides, learning is more difficult when you don't feel well. Spending time outdoors strengthens immune systems, making children healthier and less prone to catching common illnesses, and therefore less likely to miss school.

9. Playing outside encourages physical activity. Outside, children are free to run and jump and climb. There are opportunities to be physically active that just aren't available in most indoor environments. There is a growing body of research that shows how physical activity positively affects brain health. Here are just a few:

• A 2007 study from Columbia University discovered that regular exercise increased blood flow by 30 percent to the part of the brain responsible for memory and learning. 
• Psychologists at the University of of Illinois found that physically fit children scored better in a series of cognitive challenges.
• A 2007 German study discovered that after exercise, people learned vocabulary words 20 percent faster than before they exercised.
• A Swedish study showed that cardiovascular fitness is associated with cognition in young adulthood. The researchers hypothesize that aerobic activity produces specific growth factors and proteins that stimulate the brain. 

10. Playing outside is fun. Learning is easier and longer lasting when it is fun. Being outdoors riding bikes with friends, organizing neighborhood "army" battles, and rushing to home base in impromptu games of tag are just plain fun. Those are the experiences that will stick with kids long after they've grown up and moved on to the "real world".

So if you want your kid to get into Harvard, you might just want them to step away from the homework and just go outside and play. They'll be smart for it... and certainly happier, too. 

The Wisteria Stays

The first spring we lived in this house, I was ambushed by a smell. Stepping out onto the back porch, a strong heady fragrance hit me unawares. One second I was a 30-something mother of four, baby balanced precariously on one hip, a bag of garbage clutched in one hand, innocently headed for the backyard dumpster. The next I was five years old, on my cousin’s farm, fishing with my dad.

When we bought the house, I didn’t know what the thick twisting vines climbing the pecan tree on the corner of the property were. I vaguely remember thinking that we should pull them down before they pulled down the tree. But it was summer then, they just looked like a generic green nuisance.  Then our first spring in the new house burst into fullness, and those vines bloomed bright clusters of delicate lavender flowers.

That day on the back porch, the fragrance from the wisteria (once only known as the "generic twisting vines") smacked me right in the face with a memory so clear and so vivid it brought tears to my eyes (although the water that collected there could have just as easily been caused by intense seasonal allergies). For just a brief second I was no longer a mother toting a toddler and a sack full of kitchen garbage. For just a millisecond I was an excited little girl, toting a short little fishing pole, afraid to cross the bridge to my cousin’s pond because of the bees floating in and around delicate purple flowers.

There are so many memories knitted through my brain from that tiny little farm pond. I caught my first largemouth bass there, took my first trip in a rickety little john boat, desperately clutching the sides for fear of it tipping. I remember family picnics eaten on the cool, pounded dirt banks, my mother with the sun on her face. My father happy with fish slime on his hands. It was such a rare thing for them both to be happy at the same time.

And climbing and twisting through those childhood memories is the wisteria. It grew all over the banks of that farm pond, twisting through the trees in a knotted mess. And the smell of those blossoms, it hung so thick and sickly sweet, like a fog. My memories are drunk with the fragrance of it.

When my husband took to the back yard with an inspired motivation to conquer the tangle of vegetation along the back fence, I stopped him short of the gnarled mess that climbs the pecan tree.

“The wisteria stays.” I told him with an authority he didn’t dare question.

Every single time it transports me back to childhood. Every spring, when the wisteria blooms, I am a little girl without a care in the world beyond a vague threat of buzzing bees. But my hand in the big protective hand of my father takes even that fright and soothes it away.

It's been there every spring, with big bursting purple blossoms, as my children have played in around the tangle that still threatens to pull down the pecan tree. They've played hide and seek in the gnarl of vines, using the pecan tree as "home base". They've suffered bruises and scrapes in desperate squealing childhood attempts to just touch it with the tips of their fingers. The base of that tree and the wisteria that winds around it has meant safety. Home base is the only safe place in childhood games.

All of their childhood they've played in the shade of the tree. They've grown up in and around it. The wisteria must be tangled through their memories in much the same way it is in mine. Backyard picnics and Easter egg hunts, watching neighborhood squirrels and jumping from the backyard swings, all of those memories must be laced with the smell of the wisteria. It must smell like Home.

The wisteria bloomed this week, just as Daniel was slinging his backpack over his shoulder and heading away. The first one of my babies has lept from the nest. It's been harder than I expected it would. He was much more ready to go than I was for him to leave.

But I'm glad the wisteria busted forth, its pungence calling in the bees, wafting across the lawn to tell him good-bye, while simultaneously calling him back to "home base". I know he'll be back, if just for a little while, to brush his fingertips against safety. Home base is always always a safe place, even after we've outgrown childhood games.

Yes. The wisteria stays.

He Can't Fit All That In A Backpack

Currently, my oldest child is tying up loose strings and packing for Basic Training. By "tying up loose strings" I actually mean seeing all of his friends, eating as much fast food as humanly possible, and surfing the internet on his cell phone. I wish it meant cleaning out his room, because God knows the thought of that place in its current state, closed up for 16 weeks, frightens the hell out of me. At the end of this, we could open the door and some new nuclear-resistant biological weapon could walk out on its own accord and shake my hand. I think it's already gaining strength under the bed.

But his sister is big time Jonesing for his room, so if he doesn't get around to it before his ship date, I could just let her deal with the Super bacteria festering in there.

He is however, packing his bag. 

Bag. 

Singular. 

As in only one small tote. Everything he needs to take with him can fit nicely into one tiny backpack. Just one change of clothes and an extra pair of underwear. That's all he needs to take with him on probably the most important trip of his life.

In dude-like fashion, he seems to think this is pretty cool.

I'm struggling with this. 

Years of mom-like preparedness has conditioned me to over-pack. "Luck favors the prepared" has been my motherhood motto. From the first time I packed a simple diaper bag for an hour at the park, I learned that having too much is better than having too little. Extra diapers, wipes, snacks, at least two changes of clothing, a jacket, definitely a blanket, an extra sippy cup, bottled water, a pack of tissues, clean socks, a hair brush, and a roll of duct tape (just in case) were the standard contents of my everyday travel bag. A trip to Grandma's might require a lot more. I could pack based on a case by case basis, but nothing less than those absolute essentials.

I've passed the prepper gene on to my children, too. My son carries a well-stocked first-aid kit in his truck. (It includes duct tape in case you were wondering). And my daughter has been known to have anything we might need tucked in her purse, whipping whatever it might be out with a flourish, leaving us all surprised and impressed with her thoughtful preparations. She keeps a pair of binoculars in there, for chrissakes. You know, for those random bird-watching emergencies. And I'm assuming the requisite roll of duct tape is in there, too.

And if you're with my family at the park or the grocery store or the public library, should the need arise, any one of us can whip out a pocket knife, a lighter, some loose string... or duct tape if necessary. (You never know what sort of grocery store emergency might require duct tape.)

It's difficult for me to come to grips with sending my firstborn child out into the world without at least a roll of duct tape. How could he possibly have everything he needs?

While actively fighting the urge to shove some extra socks into his pack, I came to a sudden realization. He already has everything he needs.

The meager pile of belongings he's cramming into that backpack doesn't represent everything he's taking with him. Not even close. He's taking far more than physical belongings. 

His mind and his character hold more than that relatively light bag he will sling over his shoulder as he walks away. 

In addition to that extra pair of underwear and a simple change of clothes, he's also taking a strong sense of family. Even though we aren't going with him, he knows that he has people who love him beyond measure, who are always on his side, and who share an abundance of corny inside jokes. He takes with him a sense of belonging that not everyone has when they first step out into the world. No matter where on the globe he might land, there is a cheering section over here that can get pretty freakin' loud. If he ever doubts that, I hope he can conjure up memories of his little league pitching career. Yeah... this family earned a reputation for being loud and obnoxious that year.

He's also taking his self-confidence. While I know that basic training will do everything it can to wear him down, I take comfort in knowing that he has a strong sense of self. He has a tough inner core and strong emotional fortitude. I am confident that in the middle of physical and mental torture, he will be able to hold onto the knowledge that he is valuable and capable of accomplishing whatever he wants to achieve. I hope that during rough times he will remember pushing through his perceived limits to gain something great, like having that black belt tied around his waist.

His appetite for learning will also come in handy. He can't leave that one at home. That desire to learn was fostered at home and fed through Google searches and trips to the library. It's part of who he is. Exposure to new situations and circumstances will only improve who he is already. I know that he will face challenges head-on with an eagerness to know more and to be better than he was the day before. 

He has massive amounts of drive and ambition. That wasn't on the packing list the recruiter handed him, but there's no way he's leaving that behind. He has a can-do attitude and a natural determination that will push him through difficult times, that will constantly compel him to exceed yesterday's results. For him, failure is not an option. 

And most importantly, he takes with him a sense of a higher purpose. That's the whole reason he joined the Army in the first place. He wants to make an impact, to inspire and help others. He wants to matter. I hope he understands that he already matters a great deal, but what more could a mother ask for from a son, that he want to make a difference?

Plus honesty, integrity, work ethic, hope, courage, and a corny sense of humor. Those are going, too.

As you can tell, he's pretty prepared even with such a light bag. He's taking an awful lot with him, things that can't be neatly folded and stacked in an orderly fashion, things that won't fit in that Army-issued duffel, because they aren't "things". But isn't that true of life? The "things" that matter most aren't "things" at all. 

I know he's ready for whatever the world throws at him. I'm thankful that he has actively cultivated such strong character, that he has put so much value on what really matters, and I take comfort in knowing that he takes with him things that no one can take away. 

I still wonder though... do you think he'll notice if I slip a roll of duct tape in his pack? You know... just in case.

Why I Don't Want My Kids to Have an Easy Life

As a parent, I often fight the urge to smooth the road for my children. It's hard to watch them struggle, to feel pain and frustration, without wanting to swoop in and save them. I have this inner gut-instinct that wants them to have an easy happy life.

Perhaps it is because I have struggled. There have been dark places in my life that I would rather my children not experience, conflicts that I would rather they not have to fight through, misery I would rather they not feel. Parents are supposed to want their children to have a better life than the one they experienced. And it's true that I want them to have an easier life than the one I have had.

But an easy life doesn't create the kind of people I want my children to be.

It is the struggle, the effort, and the problems overcome, that build character. They are the bricks stacked one on top of the other creating the qualities of responsibility, commitment, empathy, loyalty, fortitude, and strength. There is no shortcut to these qualities. They have to be fought for. They can't be given to you. They have to be earned. People grow because of adversity. It's like fertilizer. (Remember that the next time you're going through some shit.)

An easy life is a mediocre life and only creates mediocre people. I want my children to experience the awesome, the wonderful, the amazing. Have you ever seen the view from a mountaintop? The view is breathtaking, but it takes a lot of effort to get there. Spending all day sweating, muscles aching, breathing heavy to get there, makes the scenery even more spectacular. But mountaintop views are anything but mediocre, and average people rarely make the hike to get there. They don't like the effort it takes to make it.

"Difficult roads lead to beautiful destinations." ~Author Unknown

Normal and easy and simple is rarely beautiful. That is true in love, in art, in food, in music... in life!

So, I fight the urge to save my children from adversity, to make things easy, to hand them what they want. They must work hard, feel disappointment and sadness, tackle the things that stand in their way. They must hustle and sweat and delay gratification. They have to feel uncomfortable, stretch their own limits, work for what they want, fight their own battles. So they can be spectacular people. So they can live extraordinary lives. Extraordinary lives aren't just handed to anyone. Last time I checked, they weren't handing those out at the library or the local Wal-mart or the street corner downtown. Extraordinary lives are earned, they are built brick by brick, through hard work and perseverance.

They have to experience all of that to become the kind of people who climb mountains.

And the view from up here is spectacular.

Hey, Mom! Watch This!

The weather has been beautiful this week. Warm temperatures and sunny skies have driven us outdoors in efforts to melt off the lingering winter doldrums. What better place to enjoy early Spring than the park?

Heading to the park with four teenagers (well . . . really only two. The oldest just turned twenty, but I'm still in denial. And the youngest is an incredibly angsty twelve.) is different than I remember. No diaper bags had to be packed or snacks prepared. There was no strapping into car seats or remembering favorite toys. We just decided on a whim and left.

But, to be honest, once we got there, I didn't know what to do. I no longer, have to keep a watchful eye on the kiddos to make sure they don't kill themselves, or each other, or perfect strangers. My attention isn't pulled in four different directions at once. I didn't have to help anyone up the slide or push anyone on the swings.

Basically, I spent an hour sitting on a park bench looking lost.

When my children were much younger, park trips were harder. I always planned for them to be a retreat from the house, a chance to unwind and relax, to have fun and decompress. But they rarely were any of those things. A trip to the park usually meant an hour of being hyper-aware of everything the children did or said, coupled with nasty feelings of guilt and embarrassment as the kids said things in the presence of perfect strangers that were just a bit too intimate or socially awkward.

But the thing that always wore on my nerves were the cries of "Hey, Mom! Watch this!"

No less than 47 times per park visit my darling oldest child would shout these words. From the top of the slide. The edge of the monkey bars. The corner of the sand box. From two feet in front of my face. I realize that being the oldest of four, he craved attention that I wasn't always able to give him. Too many times he wanted me and I was tending to messy diapers and hungry babies.

But the cries at the park for my undivided attention often irritated me in ways that mothers should probably not be irritated, because when a small child begs you to "watch this" there is a 95% probability that the thing he does is not going to be particularly impressive.

His "watch this" was most likely to be followed by a failed attempt to hop on one foot, or a display of his questionable running skills, or a really goofy face. Sometimes it was just him smiling at me, just an attempt to pull me out of my own world and into his. A plea to connect, to see him, really see him, not just with the glazed-over look that exhausted mothers view the world.

"Are you watching, Mom?" he would stop to make sure he had my full attention before plunging through with the typically unimpressive feat he had planned.

"I'm watching, Buddy. Go ahead."

So I would watch him each time, rarely impressed with his bunny hops and hole-digging and log rolls that coated his thin curls in playground sand. But I watched anyway, because that's what we mothers do. We watch from park benches, even when we can barely stand to watch.

At the park this week, not once did my oldest beg me to "watch this". Perhaps that is why I felt so lost, like I didn't know my place.

He's leaving home for the Army in13 short days.

At the park, he sat next to me on the bench not saying a word.  I think I could still hear him whispering though, as he teeters on the edge of the nest. He whispers, "Hey, Mom... Watch this!" just as he spreads his wings and soars away. Beautiful and capable and strong. This time, what he's about to do is so very impressive that I can barely stand to watch, but this time it is totally worth watching.

"I'm watching, Buddy. Go ahead..."

I Have Something To Say To Parenting Critics

Today, I am feeling vindicated. It's been a long time coming and a tough road to get here.

This is a post for the parenting critics, the family and friends, neighbors and acquaintances, who judged and disapproved, either publicly or silently. It's for everyone who looked at me and my children when we were in the trenches of raising and growing, and scowled or gossiped or criticized. It's for people who made snide comments or called my children names. For everyone who thought I was ruining my children.

Raising kids is hard. It is inherently difficult to just get through the long days, keeping everyone alive and fed and the house standing. It wears on the body through exhaustion and the mind through constant stress. There is already a high level of self-doubt that goes hand-in-hand with being a mother. No one wants to raise a serial killer or a lazy freeloader or someone who orders a well-done filet mignon at a nice restaurant. Because the stakes are so high and we love our children so much, it's easy to freak out and overstress. It's a miracle if we get to the end of this parenting gig without an ulcer. I'm losing my hair.

There are already enough "parenting experts" out there to offer advice and judgement for everything a parent does in raising their children, but when I chose the road less traveled, to veer from the mass-American parenting herd, to do my own research and think for myself, the critics came out of the woodwork like swarms of bugs.

So this post is for whoever called the Department of Social Services after my son's home birth with accusations of neglect and endangerment.

It is for the family members who openly criticized my nursing toddlers and my decision to let my young children take the lead in the weaning process. For everyone who thought I was making my children too dependant, who believed they would never be able to function without Mama.

For the critics who thought that sharing sleep with my school-aged children would make them sissies, who thought my children would never learn to be independent.

It is for the people who questioned our decision to homeschool, thinking we couldn't challenge them intellectually and that they wouldn't gain the social skills they would need to function in the real world. It is for my children's "friends" who told them repeatedly that homeschool kids weren't as smart as kids who went to "real" school.

It is for the neighborhood ladies who fussed about my barefooted children running up and down the street, waving sticks and being loud. For the ones who thought it better if children were kept indoors and made to walk in orderly lines, rather than allowed to roam free and play outside.

It's for the family friend at Thanksgiving dinner who suggested I beat my child because he was "being mean" to hers.

This is for everyone who viewed us in the midst of the process and jumped to conclusions about how my children would turn out.

You were wrong.

I know that you saw a  whining toddler, tired and frustrated, who was comforted only by nursing. It was easy for you to think he should be less dependant. It was easy to blame the unusual practice of child-led weaning on his apparent over-attachment to his mother.

I know that you saw an eight year-old child who couldn't fall asleep without his mother's presence and you thought I was babying him, stunting his emotional development. It was unusual to see young children, at least in our country, who aren't forced to bed in dark rooms by themselves each night, forbidden to enter the comforting presence of their parents after 9 PM.

I know that you saw my children struggling with reading and multiplication tables. You saw me slowly move at their pace and you wondered why I didn't push them more, wondered how they would ever keep up with their peers.

I know that you saw my children running free and making noise and being wild and you wondered why I didn't tame them. You wondered how they would ever learn manners or civility.

But you see, I wasn't looking at my children as they were in the moment. Because I wasn't raising children. I was raising people. I was raising adults. How they needed to be in the moment at age two or eight or eleven didn't matter all that much to me. I was making decisions in my parenting approach that I believed with deep conviction would help produce mature, emotionally healthy, well-rounded, intelligent men and women.

And here we are. Just look at them.

My oldest just turned twenty. He's a well-informed freethinker and a registered voter. He's a second degree blackbelt in karate. He's held down a steady job since he turned seventeen. He pays his own bills, owns his own vehicle, and has a generous chunk of money saved. He has joined the US Army (which has been a goal of his forever) and leaves for basic training in under three weeks. He is thoughtful, confident, independent, intelligent, and polite. He isn't who you thought he would be at all.

His sister is 17. While she isn't quite considered an adult by Society's standards, she is definitely not awkward or stunted. After being homeschooled until 9th grade, she is now top of her class at an alternative early college program where she completely and independently keeps up with her own schedule. She has an active social life and a large group of friends. She has a job and pays her own bills. And she recently participated in a scholarship competition which included an individual interview by a panel of judges, speaking on stage to a crowded auditorium, a talent performance, and a scholastic overview. She won! Not bad for an awkward sissy homeschooler, huh?

And I have two more fabulous children coming behind them. Just wait to see what they accomplish. Just wait to see the people they are becoming. I assure you it isn't awkward, or unmotivated, or shy, or dependent.

So listen up, anyone who ever thought I was ruining my children. Listen up, everyone who said mean things or thought mean thoughts about the way I was raising them. I have something very important to tell you.

In.

Your.

Face!