Boys Will Be Boys - Why Masculinity Is Actually Heroic Not Toxic

Raising boys is not for the faint of heart.

I am the mother of two boys. The two of them are responsible for every single gray hair I have on my head. For those with no experience raising little ones, boys are generally loud and rambunctious. Like most young boys, mine toppled Christmas trees, wrestled in the dirt, and repeatedly tried to jump from the top of the playground slide. (Not the tame little toddler slide, either, but the giant, twisting one that the Parks and Rec department finally removed because it was dangerously tall. That thing was like 20 feet high and little boys kept trying to jump off it. )

My boys were wild. They ran with sticks. They tried to ride the dog. They would take running leaps down the hallway stairs. They rode bikes with no hands. They literally climbed the walls of my house like miniature versions of Spider-Man.

And I let them.

Attempting to rein in their excessive energy was futile. So, I let them run and climb and jump off things, constantly testing their courage and their physical boundaries.

I let them be boys.

And when my boys came to me with dirty faces and scraped knees I often uttered this horrific, four-word phrase:

“Boys will be boys.”

I know the Karens and Jennifers of the world, with their self-righteous views of what constitutes civilized behavior, are out there clutching their pearls and gasping in horror, but it’s true. I totally, 100 percent, unapologetically let my boys behave like boys.

I get it. “Boys will be boys” has often been a poor excuse for bad behavior. From bar fights to sexual assault, the bad behavior of some men has been swept aside, trivialized, and normalized as just something that is part of their nature. Something they can’t control. Boys will be boys.

However, typical male behavior isn’t all bad, and we shouldn’t be throwing the baby out with the bathwater. Even if that baby does have a Y chromosome and a penis.

Boys do have a natural tendency to be adventurous and active, to be risk takers and push limits. But it isn’t “uncivilized.” In fact, it is those very traits that created civilization in the first place.

If you’ve ever watched baby animals play, you’ve seen them actively working to hone skills they will need to be successful adults. The lion cub that pins his sibling to the ground is practicing how to make dinner. Twin fawns playing chase are practicing how to not become dinner.

Human boys are doing the same thing. They are perfecting the skills they need to be men.

Physical activity strengthens muscle and develops physical coordination. Taking risks helps develop courage in the face of fear. And even that aggression, when properly channeled, cultivates ambition and determination, not to mention the skills needed to defend themselves and their loved ones.

Lately, masculinity is being painted with broad negative brush strokes. The narrative is that masculinity is “toxic,” ultimately responsible for the ills of society, from wars to rape to a lack of seat space on public transit.

It has become popular opinion that limiting masculine behaviors, including rough and tumble boyhood play, is the answer to all Society’s problems. If men would just be less manly, the world would be a better place.

Wrong.

Masculinity isn’t intrinsically toxic. In spite of Gillette commercials and the new feminist diatribe, manhood is not dangerous or destructive to society. Yes, there are men who are those things. However, it isn’t because they are too masculine. Whether its pathology or poor home training, that causes individuals to be destructive, we can’t blame manhood for the deadly actions of a few.

Whenever there is danger, it is men who rush in. With strong muscles and brave hearts, they put aside concerns for their own well-being. They rush toward fires, and raging flood waters, and the sound of gunshots to save the weak and the innocent. The masculine traits of assertiveness, strength, aggression, dominance, and control save lives and prevent tragedy every single day of the year.

We can’t argue with hard facts and statistics. Most violent acts are committed by men. But so are most acts of valor and bravery. Masculinity isn't inherently toxic. Rather, it is virtuous and courageous. Masculinity isn't misogyny and homophobia, posturing and compensation. Masculinity is action and strength and bravery. It is using inherent power, not to harm, but to serve and protect.

There is an alarming trend in this country to emasculate our boys. Participation in once popular contact sports has seen a rapid decline. From 2009 to 2014, student participation in wrestling fell by 41.9%, while the number of kids playing tackle football decreased by almost 18%. While it may be mothers and school officials who are concerned about danger and injury that have spawned this decline, it could be a serious detriment to our young boys. This could be the beginning of generations of men who lack strength, physical skill, and a competitive edge.

Our public schools are formatted in ways that favor the learning style of girls while neglecting the way boys typically learn. In recent years, learning has become more language-based and less hands on. Recess has been shortened or altogether banned. We are expecting our boys to sit still and be quiet for longer and longer stretches of time. In short, we expect them to learn and behave like little girls. And when they can’t, we medicate them.

But boys like to be rough. They like to take things apart, climb to the top of the monkey bars, and roll in the dirt. It is in their nature. That is what we mean when we say, “Boys will be boys.”

If we constantly tell them that their very real needs to move and be physical and take risks are “bad”, Society is going to be in big trouble. When we convince men that their natural masculine inclinations are negative, we destroy masculinity as a whole. The good parts of masculinity far outweigh the negative, even if those aren’t the ones that make the evening news.

Men are pretty freakin’ awesome. We should be acknowledging that instead of tearing down boys, expecting them to behave like girls, and telling them that masculinity is toxic. As a modern Society, we cannot afford to eradicate masculinity.

If we destroy masculinity, who will rush in to save the suffering? Who will brave danger to help the innocent? Without aggression, courage, strength, and action we will be a society without heroes.

When all the heroes are gone, we’ll be left with a bunch of demure guys in skinny jeans, albeit with perfectly trimmed beards (thanks Gillette!). Those “men” will be too concerned with offending someone to take risks or speak their mind. They will lack the drive and courage to change the world. They will be too afraid of their “toxic masculinity” to pick up a suffering woman and carry her to safety.

After all, it is really hard to rush into a burning building or a dangerous war zone in skin tight jeans, especially when you’re concerned about spilling your latte...or breaking a nail.

Gillette did get one thing right in their new commercial.

The boys watching today will be the men of tomorrow.

Rather than making them feel guilty or inadequate for being intrinsically strong, strapping, and male, we should let them know it is okay to be men.

Heck. Maybe we should even encourage it.

(AFP/Getty Images)

(CNN)

(David J. Phillip/AP)

(Getty Images)

Always Leave A Place Better Than You Found It

As a kid, I was lucky enough to spend a lot of time hunting with my dad. Because Daddy wasn’t a private landowner, our hunting trips were spent hiking through state game lands, national forests, and other tracts of public property.

Often while we were hiking over rough terrain, either following crude trails or striking our own, Daddy would bend down to fetch some piece of garbage that wasn’t his own. Candy wrappers, beer bottles, soda cans, plastic baggies, were all fair game. He would pick them up, stuff them in his pack, and tote them out of the woods for proper disposal later.

“Always leave a place better than you found it.”

That was his only explanation. Few things irritated Daddy more than careless, inconsiderate hunters. Littering the natural landscape was one of his big pet peeves.

I must have heard this statement dozens of times over the years, a mantra carved into the crevices of my brain matter through repetition and respect.

I learned this principle following in my Daddy’s footsteps, my hiking boots literally stepping into the prints left by his. I still follow in Daddy’s footsteps, even though his boots are empty now. I always try to leave a place better than I found it.

Last week, my oldest daughter was stopped in a small town restaurant by two local women. The three of them chatted politely, mostly about my daughter’s first semester at UNC and her future plans. As always, Hannah was articulate and polite, answering questions with confidence and appropriate enthusiasm.

After their brief conversation, the two women commented about what how intelligent, confident,  friendly, ambitious, and well-mannered my daughter is.

“Yes. She’s nothing like her mother.”

Of course those words were never meant for my ears, but you have to be careful what you say in a small town. The walls have ears and secrets travel faster than green grass through a goose. And because those words were uttered in private, of course they got back around to me.

Now you might think hearing someone utter an insult to my character would get my panties in a wad, but you’d be wrong. I totally recognize the comment for what it is: a sincere compliment (although admittedly a backhanded one).

Of course my daughter is a better person than me. That was the point all along. The fact that these women could so clearly see that proves my success as a parent.

My daughter is smarter, kinder, and more driven than I have ever been, but that was all part of the plan. And if you think she’s awesome and amazing, you should meet the other three. Passionate, strong, motivated, brave. These are all words that could describe any one of my four kids. They are all better human beings than I will ever be.

Saying my daughter is NOTHING like me might be a bit of a stretch. She has lived with me for almost two decades, following round behind me or beside me for large portions of that time. We share strands of DNA. She once watched the world from my hip, ate my cooking, and listened to my singing. Surely that’s left a small imprint of me somewhere in her psyche.

However, I appreciate the acknowledgement that this fabulous person is better than me. I put an awful lot of time and effort into her raising. And I’m glad to have been successful.

I’m just following in my Daddy’s footsteps.

I’m just trying to leave this world better than I found it.

Silent Sam and the Things That Never Change

Friday, we dropped my oldest daughter off at UNC Chapel Hill for her first year of college. I had put off thinking about it all summer, stuffing down emotions, procrastinating in my usual way, promising to deal with it later.

That morning we packed the family car with everything she would need - at least a dozen pairs of shoes, a case of ramen, over-priced text books, strings of Christmas lights. There was only a small space left for her. She had to carry her potted cactus plants on her lap for the entire two-hour drive.

The weather was sunny. The temperature well into the mid-90s. It was hot work toting box after box up several flights of stairs to a tiny, drab dorm room where she will spend the next months. We lofted her bed, assembled a brand new futon, hung pictures.

It didn't take long for us all to get sweaty. It felt like labor. It made me remember another kind of labor, 36 hours of contractions to birth her.

Letting go of a child is hard work.

In my normal procrastinating way, I put off good-bye as long as possible, making her bed, unpacking her clothes. I actually unfolded, then carefully and deliberately refolded each piece before tucking it inside the dresser drawer. We bought sushi on Franklin Street, eating slowly, savoring each individual bite, dragging out dinner much longer than was necessary.

But you can't procrastinate forever, in spite of your best efforts. Good-bye was inevitable and the emotions came gurgling up from the place I had been stuffing them all summer long.

"I'm going to wait to have my emotional breakdown until I'm in the car," I told her.

"Me, too," she said throwing her arms around me as the tears started flowing. Hers first, then mine. Just like the day she was born.

And suddenly, in that moment, she wasn't the stunning and confident young woman I had lived with all summer. In her place was a toddler, the one who had held my neck with a death grip, clinging to me like a cuttlefish. She had super human strength, like her arms were made of suction cups, impossible to pry open.

I could have held her forever, but that isn't how things work.

The walk back to the car without her felt all wrong. In my heart, it still felt like I was walking away from that small, helpless toddler. How was I supposed to protect her from so far away?

My mothering instincts hadn't caught up to the fact that saber tooth tigers weren't lurking around every corner waiting to rip my baby to shreds. Although college might hold some danger, my rational brain knows she can handle it. She is a confident, mature, responsible young lady.

Children grow much faster than mothers are able to let go.

Monday night, she sent a message to the family chat. (Yes, we have an active family chat. I like to think that makes us the cool family.)

"Silent Sam is down! Protesters toppled the statue."

Silent Sam was an iconic Confederate monument on UNC's campus. The statue, an image of a Confederate soldier, had stirred up a lot of controversy in last year's Southern hysteria surrounding historic monuments.

We had passed him on our way to get sushi.

"I'm surprised nobody has torn him down yet," my daughter had commented.

All of us had known it was only a matter of time.

My husband quickly pulled up internet video footage of the mob shouting and kicking at the fallen statue.

Panic.

"Where are you?" My thumbs could barely type the message.

In that brief terror-filled moment before she answered, I thought my child might be in danger. In that instant, it didn't matter the reason behind the mob's actions. It didn't matter if they were right or wrong. It didn't matter whether I agreed with their reasoning or their morality. It didn't matter if I understood their motivations or if their ideologies conformed with mine.

The only thing that mattered, the ONLY THING...

Was whether my child was safe.

"I'm in my room. It’s a bit scary, being this close to that. I’ve never been this close to this stuff before."

She grew up in a small, quiet, Southern town. The rowdiest people get is right before the threat of snow flurries, as everyone rushes the local Piggly Wiggly for bread and milk.

"Stay in your room," I typed back, thumbs still trembling.

Mothers spend 18 years in vain attempts to keep their children safe, only to send them out into the thick of things where they are anything but.

And she is in the thick of things. In the thick of thinking and social change and questioning everything. And for her it is exciting.

Silent Sam was not a real person, but a representation, a symbol of the more than one thousand UNC students who fought on both sides of the War Between the States.

I can't help but empathize with Silent Sam's mother, symbolic just like her son.

Each of those mothers, on both sides of the conflict, spent 18 years keeping their children safe only to send them out into the thick of things, where they were anything but.

I suppose everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before things had to come crashing down.

They were mothers from small towns like mine, where people don't get particularly rowdy. Those mothers must have felt the strong arms of their children as they said good-bye. Those sweet mothers must have thought of the toddler grip those arms once held on their skirts, their hands, their heart. They remembered the feel of chubby arms wrapped around them.

Did those mothers wish they could hold that child just a little longer?

The reasons behind The War must not have mattered so much.  It couldn't have mattered whether it was right or wrong, whether she agreed with it or not. It must not have mattered whether she understood the motivations or if her ideologies conformed with what others considered "right."

The only thing that mattered was the safety of her child.

Panic.

"Where are you?" she must have prayed each night.

Only some of those mothers never heard from their children again.

It is in a mother's nature to wish a safe and peaceful life for her children.

It is in a child's nature to make a difference, to change the world, to be right in the thick of things.

Time marches on.

Things change.

Some things never will.

What Happened to Summer Vacation?

It is a Tuesday morning. There are only a few short weeks of summer left before school starts. The weather is perfectly sunny today, although admittedly warm and humid. However, the neighborhood is eerily quiet.

I know there are children here. Sometimes I see them, although I only catch glimpses. I see the child across the street as he ambles from his mother's car to the front door every weekday evening. I see the window decals on my neighbors' minivans for the local school. Sometimes, during the school year, I might see a few of them waiting for the school bus to arrive. I know they are here, although I rarely see them, and when I do it is only short flashes of their presence.

This neighborhood silence frightens me. It's too quiet. As the long days of summer have been drifting by, I haven't seen the first gaggle of youngsters ride by on bicycles. I haven't seen them running past the house. I haven't heard the patter of sneakers on the sidewalk. I haven't caught sight of even a single child in the neighborhood park or roaming free in any public spaces.

They are here, but only behind closed doors.

It really isn't the silence that bothers me. It is knowing these neighborhood children are contained in structured, adult-led, indoor activities, constantly told what to do, how to act... what to think. Structured activities, while terribly convenient for busy working parents, are essentially the bane of childhood.

Overly nostalgic adults like me laud our own childhoods. Our pant suit-clad, stay-at-home mothers sent us outside so they could mop floors and watch their stories in peace. They didn't want to to see us until dinner time. My mother even told me once to "go play in traffic." With nothing better to do, we made friends, played games, and created our own adventures.

Gone are those days of barefoot abandon. There isn't the time nor the freedom for neighborhood play and backyard forts. Today, nearly every waking hour of the typical child's day is orchestrated by someone else.

Summers, evenings, and weekends, times that used to be sacred space for childhood play, have morphed into time for structured activities. Too often, when we actually witness kids playing in a park, they are garbed in matching uniforms and being instructed by adult coaches or counselors. They follow instructions, wait in orderly lines, and only play games with clear rules imposed by grown-ups.

There is little free time to explore the environment, to play with sticks, squish in mud, or lay in the grass and daydream. Today's children are exiled from nature, caged and cutoff from the natural world. Not only are they not allowed to play with the unfettered freedom of previous generations, they are also segregated from the "real world." The only social interactions they experience are with children their own age, the ones also caged in the same confining structure of modern American childhood, and even those interactions are limited to the rules and restrictions of the adult-imposed environment.

The landscape of childhood has changed drastically in just a few short decades. Today's children probably wouldn't know what to do if they weren't given clear directions (although I suspect it wouldn't take them long to figure things out). But the strict rules and ordered schedules modern children endure, would have drive me absolutely crazy as a child.

But maybe it is doing that to today's children as well.

Perhaps the carefully arranged schedules children are forced to keep are, in fact, driving them literally insane, or at the very least having a severe affect on their mental health.

Dr. Peter Gray, research professor of psychology at Boston College and author of Free to Learn, asserts a causal link between the decline in childhood play and the marked increase in childhood psychopathy, including depression, anxiety, narcissism, and suicide. He had this to say in his 2011 article published in the American Journal of Play:

Play functions as the major mean by which children (1) develop intrinsic interests and competencies; (2) learn howto make decisions, solve problems, exert self-control, and follow rules; (3) learn to regulate their emotions; (4) make friends and learn to get along with others as equals; and (5) experience joy. 

Over the last century, Western Society has made amazing, almost miraculous advancements in medicine and technology. Quality of life has improved tremendously for large portions of the world's population. Our country has also made amazing progress in destroying old prejudices of race, sexual orientation, and gender. Today, life is undeniably easier than it was for even our recent ancestors.

However, if we measure progress based on happiness and mental health, we have actually been moving steadily backwards since the 1950s. Here are just a few examples:

• Today, approximately 2.6 million American children have diagnosed anxiety and/or depression.
  
• There are currently millions of U.S. kids on prescription medication for behavioral issues and depression.
  
• According to a study published this May in Pediatrics, the number of kids hospitalized for thinking about or attempting suicide has more than doubled in less than 10 years. 

Anxiety and depression often correspond to the feeling that an individual lacks control of their own lives. People who believe they have power to change their circumstances and control their own fate are less likely to experience anxiety and depression.

Children, especially those whose lives are an endless string of school, organized sports, and other planned activities, can easily feel like victims of circumstances beyond their control. These kids are  constantly being told where to go and what to do, when to eat and when to use the bathroom, when to sit and when to run. Even when they are allowed to run, they are told how far and how fast to do it. Even kids choose their own activities, they may still feel little control over how their time is spent since outside authorities are still decide how they will spend each individual minute in those activities.

Modern children have very little time for free play.

This is a serious issue.

Play deprivation can have far-reaching affects. Angela Hanscom, a pediatric occupational therapist and author of the book, Balanced and Barefoot, describes the importance of childhood play and its impact on physical and emotional development.

“We are keeping [children] from attaining the very sensory input they need in order to grow into resilient and able-bodied people. They need to climb, jump, run through the woods, pick up sticks, jump in mud puddles, and fall and get hurt on occasion. These are all natural and necessary experiences that will help develop a healthy sensory system–foundational to learning and accomplishing many of life’s goals.”

Behind closed doors, in single file lines, herded from one organized activity to another, children are not given the freedom they need to develop and reach their full potential. Even when the activities are designed to give them a jump start on educational success, it may actually hinder that success. Many of the qualities that contribute to success in the adult world - like problem solving, creativity, cooperation, compromise, and a willingness to take calculated risks - are all developed on the playground, not the classroom or the sports field.

There are plenty of reasons for the lack of childhood activity in the typical American neighborhood. Working mothers, television and video games, academic pressure, fear of dangerous predators, and being reported to Child Protective Services are all factors keeping modern kids in carefully controlled and supervised environments.

It really doesn't matter why. The result is the same regardless of the reason - anxious, stressed-out kids who will grow up and struggle to find balance, motivation, and happiness. If they are never given the freedom to be well-adjusted children, they will never develop the skills necessary to be well-adjusted adults.

Children need the opportunity to grow outside of fences. They need to run too fast and be too loud. They need to scrape knees, play in the mud. They need to find their own cure for boredom and make up rules to their own games.

And that is why the neighborhood silence frightens me. I worry I won't get the chance to be the grumpy old woman who yells at the neighborhood kids to stop trampling her grass. I worry about what kinds of adults the neighborhood children I rarely see will become.

Is the world ready for what we're raising behind closed doors?

More importantly... will they be ready for the world?

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.

Forget Football. A Walk in the Woods is Way More Dangerous

Look at all this DANGER!!!

University life is dangerous. What with all the rape culture and underage binge drinking, it's a miracle anyone makes it out alive, let alone with an actual degree. A lot of the activities college students engage in is inherently risky, but some of it just won't be tolerated by university officials.

Hiking, for example.

Penn State University recently shut down its 98-year-old "Outing Club' after school administrators decided the group was "too risky" for its student body. Why? Apparently, the Outing Club goes on outings (go figure) that occasionally take students beyond the reach of cell phone towers. This put them at risk of being disconnected from the rest of the world for short periods of time.

Its hard to imagine anything more dangerous that the inability to update your Instagram. Frightening stuff.

"Student safety in any activity is our primary focus," a Penn State spokeswoman told local media.

And while this sounds like a great reason to ban a bunch of young adults from backpacking in state parks, this statement is incredibly disingenuous.

The Penn State Outing Club claims it hasn't "heard of any injuries sustained on club outings in recent years."

Meanwhile, Penn State's football program remains in place, in spite of growing concerns about the long-term effects of concussions. According to the NCAA's injury statistics, 34 percent of college football players have had one concussion, while another 30 percent have had 2 or more.

A concussion is a much more serious and dangerous injury than the sunburn and bug bites suffered by student hikers. It seems off that the football program (along with the lacrosse and rugby programs) remain intact with all of this focus on student safety.

Of course, those football players are raking in millions of dollars in cash for the Nittany Lions, so I suppose the administration will just conveniently ignore the danger of those programs.

For 98 years, the Penn State Outing Club has planned hiking, camping, and canoeing trips into the woods. I bet cell phone reception was horrific back in the 1920s, and yet students wandered off into the woods without the University so much as batting an eyelash.

But they are right. Wandering off into the woods and disconnecting from electronic media IS dangerous.

Without an electronic tether, students might actually have to separate themselves from the constant stream of thought programming delivered by "news" sources and social media. They might actually have an independent thought (GASP!) or momentarily stop seeking validation in the form of likes and retweets (Oh, the horror!).

Plus, if students spend too much time in the woods, they might learn something that isn't on the approved curriculum. For instance, creativity and efficiency. Research published by The Wilderness Society has shown that time spent outdoors, away from technology, helps boost creativity, improve focus, and aid in problem solving, as well as strengthen work efficiency.

Hiking also makes you healthier. It improves cardiovascular health, sleep quality, and muscle strength. Hiking reduces depression, stress, and anxiety. It improves mood and boosts self-confidence and creativity.

Think about it. Could there be anything more dangerous than a bunch of healthy, creative, confident, unplugged, free-thinking young adults?

This isn't about risk assessments or protecting college students like special snowflakes at all. We wouldn't want anyone sitting still and quiet and pondering the meaning of life, maybe deciding that the societal constructs we take for granted might actually be destructive.

There is absolutely nothing more dangerous.

At least for the status quo.

Even if it is the best thing that could happen to a University student.

How to Survive Your Oldest Child Leaving Home in 15 Easy Steps

One year ago today, my oldest child left home. With everything he needed packed into one small backpack, he boarded a bus (and then a plane) bound for Army Basic Training at Fort Benning, Georgia.

Having a child grow up and leave home is a proud moment. It is that moment, looking at what amounts to a decent human being and a productive member of society, that you realize all of those poopy diapers, sleepless nights, grocery store temper tantrums, and insane grocery bills might have been worth it.

Having a child grow up and leave home is also a traumatic event. It is beyond difficult having someone you've been majorly responsible for keeping alive for almost two decades move hundreds of miles away, where keeping them alive is no longer within your parental power or control.

"How did I do it?" you ask. I have an easy 15 step program for surviving your oldest child leaving home.

Step One: Spend the last three weeks before he leaves trying to remember all of the important life advice you've forgotten to tell him over the past 20 years. Then tell him at odd moments.

Step Two: When the day of departure arrives, stall by taking copious amounts of pictures.

Step Three: Attempt to put on a brave face and fail miserably.

Step Four: Hug the complete stranger, official-looking government employee who just put your first-born child onto a bus...in spite of not being a "hugger."

Step Five: When the complete stranger, official-looking government employee asks you, "Ma'am, are you going to be okay?" assure her that you will, even though you suspect you won't.

Step Six: Wave at your son as the bus drives away. Remember when that very same hand waving at you from the window first curled around your fingers as you held him.

Step Seven: Have a good cry in the bread aisle of the grocery store, because sandwich rolls come in packages of six. You  realize you are now feeding only five people.

Step Eight: Express gratitude when your youngest child fills his empty seat at the dining room table with a large stuffed bear wearing a baseball cap.

Step Nine: Write to him every single day while he is in basic training, because you never want him to be without mail. (And it is the best kind of therapy to write about the things he is missing, and how much you miss him, and all of the memories that constantly flood you about when he was small.)

Step Ten: Linger just a bit outside of his empty bedroom every time you pass it.

Step Eleven: Tell yourself you won't cry when you see him at Family Day, but fail miserably.

Step Twelve: Feel like you will bust wide open at his graduation. Those aren't tears. They're liquid pride.

Step Thirteen: Brag about him incessantly to people back home.

Step Fourteen: Have him sharpen all of your knives, reach high things, and fill all of the empty spaces with his confidence and new muscles and his presence when he visits home.

Step Fifteen: Hug him tight every time you see him. Every. Single. Time.

A Letter to My Daughter on Her 18th Birthday

Dear Hannah,

We made it! Happy 18th birthday, Sweetheart! I don't know if you feel any different today than you did yesterday. Maybe you should. Today is the day you enter legal adulthood, the day that you can legally vote (please take the responsibility seriously and approach the voting booth well-informed and skeptically optimistic), purchase tobacco products (Yuck), enter binding contracts (Please don't enslave yourself to unnecessary debt), and purchase lottery tickets (You have better, more productive things to do with your money. Trust me).

Turning 18 is a pretty big deal. This isn't your run-of-the-mill birthday. You only turn 18 once, after all. So on this momentous day of celebration, I thought I would write you a very personal letter. Sure I'm posting it to the internet for all the world to see, but you should be used to that by now. This is kind of my M.O.

I shouldn't write about the old motherhood cliche, about how I can't believe time passed so quickly, blah, blah, blah. But it's true. I can't believe how fast the years have flown by, especially when each individual day (especially those early ones) seemed to drag on forever, slowed down by the messes and the laundry and the inevitable tears (I admit the tears were mostly mine. You were a fabulously calm baby. But you've met your brothers, right?).

I know that things haven't always been easy for you. I'm fairly certain that your older brother made several attempts on your life (although he swears that Christmas tree just kept toppling over on top of you of its own volition. We eventually had to tie it securely to the wall with 550 paracord. Very festive.) and you didn't always get the best version of me. Too many times you got the rundown, terribly exhausted, paper-thin sanity model of a mother. You had so many hand-me-downs and divided attention and leftovers. There was so much less of me to give to you, and you've always had to cry more, share more, wait more than I would have liked.

But dear, sweet baby girl, I have loved you more than I thought humanly possible. Before you came barreling into this family (after 36 hours of labor. Yes, I plan to remind you of that every single birthday), I doubted the infinity of love. I honestly thought there was only so much to go around. But love isn't like the lap space you had to share with wiggly siblings. It can't be divided. It can't be shared. The moment you were placed warm and reaching into my arms, it was like I grew a whole other heart just for you. I didn't know how much love a person could feel until I felt you in my arms, until that first moment we finally met face to face.

I look at you with awe sometimes, wondering how you could possibly be mine. It is sometimes difficult for me to reconcile the confident, poised, articulate woman I see before me now with the pig-tailed little girl who rolled in mud and loved The Magic Treehouse and Play Doh and Angelina Ballerina. But here you are, so thoughtful and generous, hard-working and dedicated.

I feel like I should be writing this to impart some important and practical life advice, but it isn't necessary. The truth is you astound me with your maturity and tenacity, with your bold sense of purpose, and a wisdom beyond your years. You've proven to be trustworthy and prudent and responsible and all of the things that people your age usually aren't. Honestly, you're a better person than I was at 18. Heck! You're a better person than I am now, at least on most days.

Welcome to the adult world, Baby! I can't wait to see what Life has in store for you. Or maybe I can't wait to see what you have in store for Life. Either way it's going to be an exciting ride.

Happy Birthday! Your life is no longer in my hands, it's now in yours. I know you'll make it beautiful. That is certainly what you've made mine.

And now I am likely to lose myself in a fit of nostalgia and a large bottle of wine. Here's to you, my wonderful, fabulous, beautiful daughter! I am proud beyond words to be your mother. Just remember that no matter which roads you choose to travel, I will always be your number one fan.

Cheers!

Love,
Mom

This is Armageddon - College Students Cry and Why We're All Doomed

The presidential election is finally over, for better or for worse. I'd like to say that I'm relieved because my life could use a lot fewer political advertisements. By Tuesday afternoon I had a stack of political mail fliers that would put the old Sears and Roebuck catalogue to shame. My youngest had memorized most of the television ads and could recite them with frightening accuracy, including facial expressions and voice inflection. She's a scary kid.

Our family tucked in tight on election night. I spent the night stress drinking and wallowing in despair. My son checked the kitchen to be certain we were well stocked with milk and bread. "This is a shitstorm, not a snowstorm!" my oldest daughter fussed as she rolled her eyes in typical teen exasperation.

My youngest daughter was the only one who felt anything akin to excitement. She had a coloring sheet of the United States so she could fill in all the electoral votes as the results were announced. At thirteen, she is currently disappointed in her lack of opportunities to use crayons, so her coloring sheet was a thrilling chance to put her long-neglected red and blue Crayolas to use.

My oldest made a phone call home after jumping from airplanes and doing other badass military stuff. "Do we have a new supreme overlord yet?" "No... not yet," I told him.

At 1:30 in the morning I finally said, "Enough is enough!" (referring to the election coverage, not my wine consumption) and sent everyone to bed. It was starting to look like my greatest fear was coming to fruition. One of these two candidates was actually going to win the election.

And win one of them did. I'm sorry for the spoiler if you haven't been keeping up with the final season of America... but Trump won. (I know... I was shocked, too.)

I checked the kitchen to make certain we had plenty of bread and milk on hand for the ensuing political apocalypse. I wasn't certain what Armageddon would actually look like, but I figured bread and milk might be somehow important. But surprisingly, Armageddon looked like a fairly normal day. People went to work, dropped the kids off at daycare, folded laundry. The world didn't stop turning after all.

That is... unless you are a college student.

Many universities across the country cancelled classes on Wednesday and offered counseling to help their students cope with the trauma of the election results. Exams were postponed or made optional. Not only that, but therapy dogs, playdough, and crayons were made available in attempts to make the precious snowflakes feel better. And Cornell University actually hosted a "cry-in" to mourn election results, complete with staff handing out tissues and hot chocolate.

I understand that the results of this election have produced a lot of feelings of misery, discouragement, and out-right fear for the future. I totally acknowledge the gloom that has settled over portions of the population like yesterday's misty weather (Totally appropriate Armageddon weather. Thanks, Mother Nature). I get that things may seem bleak and confusing and frightening. I'm confused, too. I don't know whether to be ridiculously happy that Clinton didn't win or angrily upset that Trump did. Things are complicated right now.

But the images of despondent young adults weeping hopelessly while curled on the floor in the fetal position is too much. These are our future leaders we're talking about here. Are they just going to roll over, weep, and take whatever the government decides to dish out? If so, there truly is no hope for us.

Here's the deal, weepy tantrum-throwing young people. You are too old to behave this way. You're basically adults now. You don't get to scream and cry when you don't get your way. That's what two year-olds do, not the future of America. If you don't like the country you're inheriting, you get up off the floor, wipe the snot off your face, put on your big-girl panties, or grow a pair, or whatever gender-inclusive euphemism you choose, and you do something about it.

Sure, Trump might be the most disgusting incarnation of evil you could imagine. But Hillary was no sunshiny cupcake either. Stop calling your neighbors nasty names and accusing them of being hateful bigots. Most people left the voting booth (regardless of which candidate's name they marked with an X) feeling a mixture of guilt and shame, like they had just been complicit in spreading some nasty venereal disease. Very few people emerged feeling full of hope and progress and optimism. Keep that in mind while you're screaming and ranting at friends and family and members of your community who may have voted differently than you.

Besides, if Trump does turn out to be the tyrant you fear him to be, we're all going to need to work together to make things right again. So stop alienating your potential allies. Most people are basically good human beings with good intentions doing the best with what they've got in the moment. Just because they disagree with you, doesn't make them thoroughly wicked or vile... and it doesn't mean they hate you, either.

Perhaps all of these tears and whining and unwillingness to cope are because of too many years of soccer and t-ball, where trophies were handed out for just showing up and no one kept score. Maybe that's why you feel like maybe you should get the president you want because you voted. You showed up. You participated. That's not how the real world works. People lose. Teams lose. Sometimes even when it seems like they deserved to win.

But you know what you do when you lose? Sure, you can go cry in the locker room or run off pouting or angrily take your ball and leave, but what does that accomplish? If you want to be successful, you have to work so hard that you ache. You have to be tired and sore and you have to get dirty. If you want things to change, you have to make them change.

If you don't like where this country is headed, then do something about it. And you don't even have to wait four years to vote for it. We don't have to be victims of our government, even the one we've elected. There's more to social change than stepping into a polling booth. That's just one aspect. I promise you aren't helpless babies, no matter how our institutions of higher learning may be treating you. The fastest way out of despair is action.

Trump is only one person, although a person who will soon be handed a large amount of power. If we are this afraid of the wrong person being president, that is a hint that maybe the president . . . any president . . .even if it's the person you voted for, has way too much power. No one should have that much capacity for destruction, oppression, or domination, even if they have a pen and a phone.

Do you know what your forebears did when faced with cruelty and heinous evil? Do you know what they did when they confronted tyranny? They stormed the beaches of Normandy. They wielded bayonets at Yorktown. They waded through rice paddies in Vietnam. They didn't waste time coloring mandalas or squishing playdough or crying inconsolably on the floor. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. You come from better stock.

I'm not saying it's time to take up literal arms, but even virtual arms or symbolic arms or metaphorical arms would be better than this pansy-ass whimpering wuss fest happening on campuses of higher learning. Your parents are paying too much for your education to waste it on skipping class to do coloring sheets, even if you are feeling despondent.

Remember, it is better to light a candle than curse the darkness. Even when it seems really, really dark.

And speaking of dark... it's okay to do your crying there. But let's show the world a braver face, shall we?

Are My Sons Really Safe From Your Daughters?

It's back-to-school time. This means that over this past week, a lot of parents have dropped their offspring along with their boxes of stuff off on college campuses across the country. Lugging mini fridges and ramen noodles and boxes of crap up narrow residence hall stairways can be exhausting, but even more exhausting than the physical moving in, is the dropping off. Every parent already knows that college is often characterized by underage binge drinking and casual sex. It's an unfortunate part of the culture. When we add in the fear of sexual harassment and assault, it's enough to bring on a parental apoplexy of Biblical proportions. A lot of parents will need some seriously strong anti-anxiety medication after freshman drop off just to maintain a shred of sanity.

Of course, the college students don't make it any easier.

Last year, it was a bunch of dudes from Sigma Nu fraternity with snarky and inappropriate banners at Virginia's Old Dominion University. The white signs draped over the balconies of an off-campus house read "Rowdy and fun, hope your baby girl is ready for a good time," "Freshman Daughter Drop Off" and "Go ahead and Drop Off Mom Too."

Source: Twitter

Of course, everyone and their grandma was offended. ODU's Sigma Nu chapter was suspended. School administrators condemned the messages in two separate official statements, and ODU's Student Government Association called the signs in their own statement "unwelcoming, offensive, and unacceptable." And social media lit up with rants about rape culture and feminism and rampant acts of sexual assault on college campuses. 

The hammer came down hard on those boys. This sort of disrespect and objectification of women just will not be tolerated. I mean, we are supposed to be "teaching our boys to not rape" right? Signs like these are like the gateway drug to sexual abuse. Give them an inch and they're liable to violently take a mile.

Basically everyone was gasping and clutching their pearls (and rightly so). Fear for your daughters, everyone! Men just cannot be trusted!

This year, it's the women having their turn. A group of sorority girls at West Virginia University have taken paint to bedsheets to create their own snarky and inappropriate banners. "Freshman son drop-off," one sign reads. And right next to it, "You can drop off daddy too." And while those are more than slightly suggestive, these ladies (term very loosely applied) went even farther with some verbiage that is even more vulgar and crass than their frat boy counterparts. "We hope your son's pullout game is strong" and "We burned our couch so you can sit on our face" should be enough to leave the masses desperately clutching their pearls, right?

West Virginia University

We Love Move In Weekend pic.twitter.com/NgrJlhfDZE

— Real College Girls (@R_CollegeGirls) August 13, 2016

Wrong.

In perhaps the greatest example of the double standard the University scene has ever seen, not one person has been suspended or reprimanded or slapped on the wrist or even given a stern talking to. And social media is busy with their virtual high fives of congratulations to these tasteless young women.

Why? Because apparently strong sexually suggestive signs by men are considered "creepy" and "offensive" and blatant violations of zero tolerance policies regarding sexual harassment. However, if the same content is painted by people lacking a Y chromosome it's just "tongue in cheek" and "lighthearted" and even "truly inspirational". (If you don't believe me, check out these two very contradictory accounts of the two events that were published in Cosmopolitan almost exactly a year apart: West Virginia Sorority Trolls Sexist Fraternity Signs With Giant Daddy Posters versus College Bros Hang Creepy Banners at Off-Campus House)

I'm confused. If women throw around sexually crass vulgarities on a campus of higher learning they are somehow innocent, even inspirational, because they are sexually liberated. They aren't afraid to show the world that they are sexual creatures, that drunken uninhibited promiscuity is almost an act of gallantry for them. 

But when men throw around the same crass language, they are pigs and potential rapists and taking advantage of women (which is apparently a horrible, nasty, inexcusable thing even if the women really, really, really want to be taken advantage of).

I'm sorry, strange liberal media weirdos, if language like that isn't appropriate for our sons then it isn't appropriate for our daughters either. It cannot be acceptable to objectify men if it is beyond reprehensible to objectify women.

I know, I know. I should be afraid for my daughters. Some sketchy statistics tell me that they have a one in five chance of being raped while attending college. The media is constantly reminding me that we live in a culture of rape that is incredibly dangerous for young women. Men are just waiting for an opportunity to rape them and they must be constantly vigilant.

But truth be told, I am far more frightened for my boys than for my daughters. In today's culture, my sons must walk on eggshells around women, worrying that any vague pickup line might be interpreted as offensive or that any consent that isn't notarized and signed by witnesses might not be consent at all. While their female peers get carte blanche when it comes to promiscuity and changing their mind and overtly flirting but not really meaning it, my boys will likely need to give a breathalyzer test, a lie-detector test, and probably a drug test to any potential female partners. Just to be on the safe side. And if they don't have a good "pullout game" they could potentially have to raise a baby they didn't really consent to making and certainly had no say in whether it was carried to term. All because they were lured into a sexual act by a drunken scantily-clad strumpet, who certainly wasn't asking for it (although she repeatedly did ask for it).

Funny thing how that consent thing works these days.

We seem to expect our boys to behave like saints while we allow our girls to act like sluts. That's just not fair. We can't expect our boys to behave like gentlemen if our girls aren't behaving like ladies. This is supposed to be about equality, right? Even if feminism keeps screaming at us that women should be sexually liberated. Perhaps it is time to wake up to the fact that we are holding our sons to incredibly high standards while we allow our girls to wallow in swill. 

Sometimes I can't help but wonder if feminism isn't just an excuse for women to act like bitches and whores.

I'm not suggesting lowering the standards for boys. I've never liked the "boys will be boys" excuse for men behaving badly. But maybe it's time to make sure our girls are living by the same standards. 

Are Bullies Really Evil? - The Waste of Anti-Bullying Campaigns

Middle school is Hell.

I recall with painful clarity the daily emotional warfare that preteen girls are capable of waging. As a 13 year-old girl, I was blindsided more than once, caught in intricate webs of social ostracization, the kind that would make the producers' of reality television shows heads spin.

To be fair, I often was guilty of doing the blindsiding, too.

Middle school seems to bring out the worst in people. The drama and intimidation and psychological combat that run rampant through so many middle school hallways, fueled by rampaging hormones and an animalistic drive for a decent seat in the social hierarchy, can lead to some deep-seated long-term trauma. Sure therapists and pharmaceutical companies and New Age life coaches are reaping the benefits of adults still dealing with painful middle school memories. They're preying on the survivors. The ones who made it out, however emotionally scarred they may be.

The truth is that everyone doesn't make it out of middle school alive.

Yesterday, Daniel Fitzpatrick's family buried the body of their 13 year-old son. On Thursday, Daniel's older sister found him dead, hanging from a belt in the attic. "I gave up," Daniel wrote in a long letter about his struggles with school bullying.

Only thirteen. It's sad and tragic and horrible in a way that just can't be put into words, but makes me hug my own pretten a little tighter with a huge sense of gratitude tinged with a kind of panicky fear. How could something like this happen?

Source: Facebook

Daniel Fitzpatrick's tragic suicide, so close to the start of the new school year, has brought the subject of bullying back into the national spotlight.

And so we're forced to endure hashtag activism from formerly bullied B-list actors. In the coming months, we might see some cheesy PSAs that are supposed to be designed to plant seeds of hope inside the hearts of suffering kids. New legislation will be introduced in city council meetings. Zero-tolerance policies will be added to student handbooks all across the country (You know, the kind that place guilt on innocent bystanders who witness bullying but do nothing? The policies that directly contradict the zero tolerance policies about violence? Do nothing and you're screwed. Stand up to an asshole by implementing a well-timed throat punch and you're screwed, too.)

Local school systems will be forking out loads of their scant funds on the social program du jour: Anti-bullying campaigns. There are a bunch, many of them making wild claims about their effectiveness at creating "bully-free schools". For only a large investment of funds these companies will help school systems implement their programs. It's a win/win, right? The company makes money, the CEO earns enough to buy a beach house somewhere posh, and the school kids get a drama-free, totally smooth, non-psychologically scarring educational experience.

Except that doesn't happen.

At least not the last part, but that beach house is totally bitchin'.

The bullying doesn't stop. In fact, research shows that students who attend schools with anti-bullying programs are actually more likely to experience bullying than students at schools that lack a program. Statistics make it easy to think maybe all of this anti-bullying hooplah is just a money-making scheme with a social agenda to make us feel good about what we aren't actually doing.

I'm no bullying expert, at least not aside from my own middle school experiences (as well as more than a few parental interventions on behalf of my own children), but maybe, just maybe, it has something to do with the focus on what to do with the bullies.

We believe that bullies are evil incarnate and must be stopped, shamed, suspended, embarrassed, and exorcised right out of our school systems. We must search it out and exterminate it. For the children.

But sometimes the definition of bullying is so vague that almost anything that almost kinda sorta makes anyone uncomfortable might fall into the category. It has often been said that the harder you look for something, the more likely you are to find it. Does searching out bullies and bullying, actually create the thing we are trying to prevent? Because we are looking for it so we can stamp it out before it gets out of hand even if it isn't really there in the first place.

Maybe in doing so, we aren't giving kids the chance to learn the skills to manage disappointment and adversity all on their own. Adults and our anti-bullying campaigns will swoop in with our super hero red capes to save them. We wouldn't want little Johnny to feel sad. We can't tolerate anything that might even have the slightest hint of bullying.

I get that suicide is horrible and tragic. I get that Daniel Fitzpatrick's might have been prevented, and that makes it all the more horrible and tragic.

Daniel Fitzpatrick told his teachers. No one swooped in with a red cape to save him.

I can't help but wonder if we are focusing on the wrong things.

Maybe we shouldn't be lurking around corners trying to catch someone being mean or shouting about the evils of bullies. Maybe instead we should be trying to create more resilient people.

A child who knows that they are worth something, not because they've been told this through empty platitudes, but because they have proven it to themselves and others, children who understand respect and empathy aren't just better able to deal with the stress of being bullied... they are also less likely to be the bully.

It's weird how that works. By building up kids, creating situations where they can build their own self-esteem, prove to themselves that they are valuable and capable and strong, we can better prevent bullying than we could with any pre-packaged, over-priced, flashy program or zero-tolerance policy. Because bullies bully for many of the same reasons that kids suffer from bullying (low self-esteem for example).

We can't always be the ones with the capes, swooping in to save the weak. We need to give the weak their own capes and let them save the day for themselves. We need kids who can adapt to stress, who have a capacity to overcome and even be strengthened by life's adversities, instead of weak kids who need a safe space because words hurt.

Because adversity doesn't only exist on school playgrounds or within the cold cinder block walls of schools named after dead presidents. There are difficult human beings that we will have to encounter through all stages of our lives. I've dealt with bigger, meaner bullies as an adult than I ever faced as a school kid (and that's saying something considering how my "best friend" treated me in 7th grade). And once out in the real world, dealing with asshole neighbors and co-workers and government employees and waitresses with issues, there won't be any expensive anti-bullying programs to hide behind when people are mean. We can't shelter children from ever hurtful word or mean person and then expect them to magically deal with them once they turn eighteen.

We need to be focusing on raising kids who can suck it up, who can cope with hardship, who have such a confident sense of self that it doesn't make them feel less when someone doesn't like them. And yeah... we probably need kids with a sense of humor, ones who don't get completely butt-hurt when someone says something slightly crude or demeaning or inappropriate (like "butt-hurt" for example).

A kid with strong qualities like that... well, it won't matter what someone throws at them. Unless it's a wild right hook. But you can sign them up for martial arts classes to help them deal with that (Funny thing is: martial arts helps foster all of those other anti-bully qualities like self-respect, confidence, and tenacity, too. But that's a whole other blog topic).

I'm just saying that maybe, just maybe, it isn't about the bullies. Maybe it's never been about the bullies. Maybe we just need to raise better kids.

Maybe we just need to teach our kids to both literally and figuratively take a punch and have them keep on swinging. Maybe there are better things we can spend our money on than ineffective yet sanctimoniously satisfying anti-bullying programs. (Shameless martial arts plug: Karate only costs about $60 a month. That's way cheaper than the thousands the school systems spend on those stupid campaigns... Just sayin'.)

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.

Finding Grace in the None on my Son's Dog Tags

On Memorial Day weekend, my family made a trip through the hot and sticky South all the way down to Fort Benning, Georgia. It was only the end of May, but the weather was already hot and humid and gross in that stifling way that only the deep South can be. We made the trip for my oldest son's basic training "Family Day". At the time, we hadn't seen him for almost nine long weeks, our only contact with him crammed into short phone calls sliced and divided between five eager family members.

It was the first time we had seen him in uniform, the first time we had a glimpse of the soldier (and the man) he was becoming. There were tears and hugs. He showed off his budding new biceps and regaled us with drill sergeant stories. He told us about in-processing and the line-ups for mass inoculations... and he showed off his new dog tags.

Like with everything he had to tell us about his experiences since we tearfully watched him board the bus to Fort Benning, he talked on rapidly and excitedly, like he had to cram the whole of everything he wanted to tell us into a ten minute phone call. He pointed out his blood type (It was indeed AB positive just like we had speculated before he left) and explained how one of the tags could be snapped off while the other remained with his body if battle conditions prevented it from being immediately recovered.

While I shoved that little piece of information away for later mulling (or mental blocking, which seems way easier) I asked him what the word "NONE" was for, written in big capital letters.

"Oh, that's my religion," he replied rather nonchalantly.

It seems so odd that four little letters on two dog tags could cause a quiet feeling of panic, but they did. Not that I felt like I had necessarily failed my son spiritually in some way, it just seemed such a small way to summarize something so enormous and important. While I know that space is limited and there are only a few constrictive categories for soldiers to choose from, it seemed dismissive for the US Army to consider my child to be without a guide for the bigger, pressing, important questions of human existence. That word, with only four letters (three really... the N is repeated so it really only counts as one), is what would sum up my son's spirituality, the identifier that would remain with his irretrievable body should it turn cold, the potential marker of his final resting place. (Mental Note: I need to work on better mental blocking.)

Yeah. I was panicky. The image of that one word on those metal dog tags is one of the most persistent images I remember from that "Family Day" weekend.

I returned home from that weekend to find a pleasant surprise in my inbox, a request to review a book, Grace Without God: The Search for Meaning, Purpose, and Belonging in a Secular Age, by Katherine Ozment. 

I had made the decision to participate after reading the very first paragraph of the synopsis:

Meet “the Nones”—In this thought-provoking exploration of secular America, celebrated journalist Katherine Ozment takes readers on a quest to understand the trends and ramifications of a nation in flight from organized religion.

Can you say serendipity? There I was struggling with the "None" on my son's dog tags, when I get an offer to review a book about exactly what that word actually means. It is happy coincidences of finding exactly what I need exactly when I need it that keep me believing in something bigger than myself... perhaps something benevolent... perhaps just something with a great sense of timing and an odd sense of humor.

I didn't need to meet "the Nones". I am one, and apparently so are my children. My son's dog tags are cold hard proof.

I spent the next two weeks reading Ozment's book, even lugging it to the beach (It is, admittedly, a bit heavy for a beach read... in content, not in actual weight.)

Part memoir, part critical exploration, this book isn't just for atheists. It's for anyone whose spirituality doesn't neatly fit into a preformed religious box. Not only does Ozment examine the reasons why large numbers of people are leaving religion, but also seeks to find solutions to the gaps that a lack of organized religion can leave in people's lives. She looks for alternative ways to fill an individual's need for community, values, volunteer opportunities, support in times of need, meaningful ritual, and life purpose. 

She takes us along on her own journey as she treads the more remote and unexplored areas of secular life, searching for her own way to find meaning and belonging outside of religion. She leads us through her explorations and meetings with experts in the fields of psychology, biology, sociology, and history. She talks with atheists, Buddhists, secular humanists, agnostics, scientists, and scholars in a very thorough exploration of the ways the nonreligious find purpose and fulfillment in a life without organized religion.

While I spent large portions of the book feeling like Ozment was attempting to convince me that I needed religion, that nothing could adequately replace the connection, purpose, and fulfillment that religion often has to offer, after reading the entire book, I realize it was just the author's personal frustration with her own quest showing through her outwardly journalistic demeanor.

While I personally feel like my family has already found ways to fill the gaps in purpose, morality, ritual, and community, those who are still struggling will find Ozment's list of resources invaluable. The resource section at the end of Grace Without God is full of books to read, questions to consider, and websites to browse.

Grace Without God is a great read for those attempting to navigate the world without the prop of organized religion. It is definitely worth a read (although you might want to consider something fluffier to tote along to the beach. Or if deep and serious is your beach style, have at it. I'm not one to judge.)

My favorite sentiment comes from the author's epilogue, which is actually a touching open letter to her three children.

"Christians believe that it is God who grants us grace, but I believe we create it for ourselves, through persistence, awareness, and clear-eyed reflection. Grace comes from knowing that to be alive and conscious in this world is a rare gift. If we are open to it, we can see that there is grace all around us, with or without God."

Thank you, Katherine Ozment for helping me understand that the "None" on my son's dog tags doesn't signify a lack of morality, meaning, or grace. It is indeed possible to have those things with or without religion. 

And thank you, TLC Book Tours for your incredible sense of timing.