Bitten

        Has anything you believed about parenting before you had children come back and taken a giant bite out of your back-side? It's been happening to me pretty regularly for the last twelve years. I'm beginning to think it's the only predictable thing about parenting.

        I worked at my college library as a student, and I remember having a conversation with the library secretary about being a working mother. She had two or three school aged kids and I was taking a psychology class. So, naturally, I thought we were equally knowledgeable on the subject. I talked about how important it was for an infant to bond with his parents in the first few months of life. She said, “I guess. But, sometimes I think they need you more when they get to middle school.” That sounded like crazy talk to nineteen-year-old me. After all, the Psych 101 textbook didn't say anything about that.

        Those bite-marks are really starting to sting.

        My kids can bathe and dress themselves. I don't have to ask them if they need to go to the bathroom any more. They know where the food is and are capable of making a sandwich or pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. My older son has been certified by the Boy Scouts of America in first aid. He's even received credentials to use a pocket knife and start a campfire safely.

        But with all of their knowledge and skills, there is no substitute for having time to talk to Mom or Dad about what is on their mind. And there is SO much on their minds. Between the things they hear on the bus and the news on the radio and TV, these years are a minefield of awkward conversations. In the past few weeks my husband and I have fielded questions about bullies, heroin, alcohol, mass shootings, French kissing, twerking, suicide, genocide, terrorism, theology and measles.

        But we do it. Maybe not joyfully, but willingly. Just like the thousands of diapers changed, and lullabies sung, and late-night feedings, it's part of parenting. Parenting a middle-schooler isn't much easier than parenting an infant. It's just different. And it isn't any less important. Back then the focus was on keeping their bodies nourished. As they become older, we focus on nourishing their brains and souls. Today after school my son just wanted to talk to me about the latest Lego sets that are coming out. So I sat with him flipping through the catalog feeling relieved it wasn't a “big” topic. But he's going to need the talk about all those “big” questions. Maybe if I give him my full attention when the topic is Legos, he'll continue to seek me out when the topic gets a lot more complicated.

Hi there! I know I've been a very sporadic blogger lately. So thanks for stopping by! Be sure and check out my next post. I have an exciting give-away coming soon.

Monday

                    Since my children got off the bus Friday afternoon I have tried to shield my boys  from the news of Newtown. Like every parent I know, I was particularly anxious to see their faces that day. When they got home we drank hot cocoa with peppermint marshmallows and sang silly songs while we worked together in the kitchen. Saturday night we watched Mr. Popper's Penguins together. I thought I might use the opportunity to wrap some Christmas presents while the movie played, but I found myself unwilling to disentangle myself from their snuggles.

                   Now it's Monday and I suspect there will be discussion at school. We've already gotten a “robo-call” from the Superintendent about security measures. As much as I'd like to continue to shield this news from them, I'd like to be in control of how they get it.

                   I suspect that somehow Owen has gotten wind of the story. He asked me why they don't have police in school. I assured him that our city has police officers at the high school and I often see police cars patrolling near his school. I also told him they always have a detail officer assigned to events such as his band and chorus concerts. One of the benefits of living in an urban area is the presence of law enforcement.

                   It's a little after seven and the boys are still in bed. That's unusual for them. Normally, they're up at the crack of dawn to try to get some play time in before school. But it's dark and rainy and I'm sure their beds seem even more cozy than usual. Soon I'll have to wake them or we'll be late. I wonder what we'll talk about at breakfast this morning. Will you be talking to your children about Newtown this morning?

Heavy Things

            Last fall, my eight-year-old son Owen came home from school with a lot of questions about September 11^th. We had never discussed it. I guess I never thought he was old enough to hear about it. They had been talking about it in school and he had a lot of questions. I did my best to answer them. I fought back tears and tried to explain what happened on that day. I did about as well as any parent would do considering how unprepared I was to discuss something so difficult—which is to say badly. I can only hope I handle the birds and the bees talk better than I handled the September 11^th talk.

When I was in eighth grade, we had an assignment to ask our parents if they could remember what they were doing when they heard the news of JFK’s assassination. On September 11, 2001, I thought to myself, someday my kids are going to ask me what I was doing today. I remember every detail of that day—the perfect clear blue of the sky, watching the second plane hit the World Trade Center live on television in the trading room of the investment firm where I worked, wondering if any of my former classmates were among the thousands running in terror from ground zero (there were several), watching one particular stock broker I had always thought of as heartless falling apart as he watched, seeing a woman in the same wine-colored suit I was wearing as I walked from Cambridge to South Station because I was afraid get on the subway, and trying to call my parents from my cell phone for the entire walk. Ten years later, I still cry when I think about it.

            Knowing that the death of Osama bin Laden was likely to be discussed at school on Monday, I thought we’d talk a little bit about it before hand. A few years back, Owen had seen a brief scene on the news of American forces in the mountains of Afghanistan. He couldn’t have been more than five or six years old at the time, “Mommy, what are the Army guys doing in the mountains?” he asked me.

            “There is a man who did a very bad thing before you were born,” I told him. “Those soldiers are looking for him.”

            “I want to help them find him,” he told me.

            “You have to be eighteen to join the army. They’ll probably find him before then.” I said.

            Since Owen never forgets anything (except things like homework and putting his dirty laundry in the hamper), I knew he’d recall that conversation. So on the walk to the bus stop this morning I asked, “Owen, do you remember asking me about the soldiers in the mountains?”

            “The ones looking for the bad guy?”

            “Yes. His name is Osama bin Laden. They found him and now he’s dead. I thought it might come up at school today and I thought we should talk about it. A lot of people are very happy he’s dead. But I don’t think it’s okay to celebrate someone’s death.” Of course, I started tearing up.

            “Are you crying because he’d dead or because of what he did?”

            “I’m crying about what he did. I wouldn’t celebrate his death, but it doesn’t make me sad either. He caused the death of thousands of Americans and we’ve been looking for him for a long time.”

            “What did he do?”

            “Do you remember learning about September 11^th? That was his idea.”

            He asked me a lot of questions—really good questions. Sadly, I didn’t have answers for all of them. I doubt anyone does. By the time we reached the bus stop, we were both a little teary. I said to him, “There is something I always want you to remember Owen. There are some bad people in the world. But for every single person who is willing to do something this awful, there are a hundred people who are willing to put themselves in danger to save someone’s life. That’s what we need to focus on and be grateful for.”

            I hope the end of the search for bin Laden brings closure and comfort to those who need it. I am relieved that the search for this embodiment of evil is over. I hope this means some of our troops can come home to a grateful nation. But I won’t celebrate this news. I’d like to share this quote a friend (who is a New Yorker to the core) posted on Facebook yesterday:

 “I mourn the loss of thousands of precious lives, but I will not rejoice in the death of one, not even an enemy. Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that” MLK Jr.