M.O.M

Good Night Books

2011-02-08T19:36:00.000-08:00

Farenheit 451 has this chilling monologue about the burning of books, and how "They" will tell us how books are irrelevant, and that we don't need them. Books will corrupt our minds, and limit our thinking. I understand I am paraphrasing here, but Ray Bradbury writes it,I am sure, as a warning. A warning to be on guard. To guard our minds, and keep them strong. How does one do this, I wonder, with technology fighting to deaden our senses. Of course, it was written so long ago, and made quite a stir, at the time. If you were to ask anyone in the upcoming generations who Ray Bradbury is, I wouldn't be surprised if they responded (while taking out their ipod earbuds) "Oh yeah, isn't he a Rapper?"

Today, was a sad day. I was teaching an introduction to The Great Gatsby, and the students were thumbing through the dictionary to look up some words. F. Scott Fitzgerald uses language like none other, in my opinion. The words are like butter on the page, they melt into one another, and glisten. His language can get lost in translation, so I asked them to look up some of the words before we began. I heard one young man getting frustrated, as he was trying to figure out the alphabetical order of things. He turned to his friend, and commented how ridiculous dictionary's are. "Why can't we just use our phones?" he complained. The boys tangent for a minute, at how antiquated (of course they didn't use this word) the use of dictionary's are, and for that matter books.They even sort of pushed the big book, in a disregarding, haughty superior manner. They felt fervor, and I saw some sort of momentum building. It was, as if they were colluding about their own holocaust of pages, and bindings, and print. One turned toward me, and blurted out "Ms. O, when are we going to get rid of books?" As the other confirmed, "It's 2011."

For a few seconds I couldn't speak. I was stunned, and honestly, for a moment, however brief-I saw my old friend, Dictionary, looking rather large and uncool. He dwarfed the desk, and his pages seemed worn. Then, I felt sick, and ashamed at how quickly my betrayal happened..the thought of my first true love being thrown into oblivion, made me hot. I sat behind my desk, and pictured a world without Him. I turned to the boys, and simply said, "That makes me want to cry, and throw up at the same time." They laughed like bullies on a playground. They were describing a world of ebooks, and how simple it could be. They motioned a swift movement with their finger to their imaginary screen. Everyone smiling in their fantasy world of technology. I tried to explain the love one feels for the fresh new smell of the first edition. Picturing, as I spoke, the collection of hard covers that strewn my bookshelf, and wanting to explain the gift of the early editions. Falling asleep in a beach chair, and waking to the book softly laying on your chest. They were patronizing, and commented how maybe they'd give that one a try, but continued laughing and began finishing their work.

As they left me in the aftermath, I sat clutched to memory. How summer would come, and my mother and I would rush to the Book Stack for the newest Judy Blume. Sitting on my bed for hours, engrossed in the words, holding the cover, earmarking the pages. Rereading them, and highlighting the best sentences. I remember reading the dictionary before I would go to bed. I couldn't imagine, that someone like Webster, thought to compile all these amazing words, and put them in one place. I always pictured him as being the smartest man alive-not even knowing at the time if he was truly a man, or if it was just a name. I was lost in a world of language, and books became my paramore.

Wandering into college, to discover that I could spend a life analyzing, and reading, and get paid to do so. I remember feeling the tingle in my stomach at the thought of being an English major. Philosophising over the author's use of language, and how Nathaniel Hawthorne's "Young Goodman Brown" was my first kiss, in the sense that he taught me that words, and the spinning of a sentence could move and seduce me. I would read him aloud to roommates, who amused me by listening to my zeal. I remember my first boyfriend becoming jealous of my latest find that would be clutched between my hands, taking up space in my mind, and body where he wanted to occupy. He would pose pretend conversations with me, and ask me ridiculous questions, as I would say "Uh huh, or Oh!" Pretending to listen. He would then reveal his frustration, and tell me that I just agreed to have my head shaved. There were even times that he would hide my books, and I would have to search. I was cheating on him, and my lover smelled of pressed ink, and filled me like no other.

Then later in life, after marriage and kids, my favorite past time was reading to my girls. Crawling into the Winnie the Pooh covers, or Strawberry fields, and repeating the pages of "Go Dog Go" for weeks,only to see that Dog needs to join the party. Or lifting the pop-up of the Chicken Pox book, and hearing my oldest say.."That's what I would do" when the big chicken with pox says to put them in a "pox box" and send them away. Good Night Moon, and the bowl full of mush, and The old man on the stump of the Giving Tree.. How can an ebook-bring this to a mom and her children? These moments, and memories, and small sweets of deliciousness.

In the moment the students said it, and the others agreed, I all of the sudden felt selfish and continued to feel this gnaw at me throughout the day. Not selfish because I wanted to keep my precious books, but selfish in the sense that for the first time I could feel empathy for the arts in a way I hadn't before. I bet artists felt this way when photography crept onto the scene. Or chefs, maybe felt this with the phenomenon of the microwave, and frozen dinners. Musicians had to take a step aside, when people started downloading music for free, and purchasing music almost seems like a thing of the past. Stage actors, adjusting to the big screen, and later reality television. Maybe our ancestors all felt this, as things began to progress and change. I can't help, but feel such shame.

For the first time, I am feeling my age. I am feeling like I understand the saying my parents used to say, "When I was younger..we had to walk a mile in the snow." i am sure I laughed, like the young man who sat in my classroom today. Change isn't always good I am realizing.I see it clearly, and it feels so Orwellian to think it.

I feel like issuing an apology to all generations past, telling them that the way they did things had value, and meaning. That even though our world has progressed-the card catalog, the typewriter, the reading by candlelight all holds a purpose, and a memory. I'm sorry if I didn't see this until now. Simplicity in a lot of ways bleeds imagination, and ingenuity. It's invaluable.

Lost Hallways

2010-11-16T00:45:00.000-08:00

I had dinner the other night with some old friends. I guess you could say they were friends, even though I rarely speak to them. I use to gather with them, at a time in my life that was whole, and acceptable. I say this with sardonic tones because at that time of my life I was married, and playing by the rules. It seemed the logical thing to do was to have friends that looked the part, as well. We all sent our children to a private school, we drove the SUV’s that drank too much gas, and sat too many children: all equipped with airbags and television screens. We helped out at the annual school auction, and attended the Christmas Choir Program that usually would bring us to tears, as our little one’s gathered on stage, and sang with their hearts full of hope. Red and green sweaters adorned the risers, and matching mom and daughter dresses filled the aisles. It was a magical time, the early years of parenting, and we all believed our children were bound for glory. We were smug in our chatter of accomplishments, and awards that our children were receiving. Casual mention of the praise “Little Tyler, or McKenzie” received from the most loved teachers would float in the air. Happy to spend whatever it cost to make sure that Connor, or Jimmy, or Bailey was able to be “Principal for a Day” or that they received front row seats at the annual “Donkey Basketball” Extravaganza. We had no idea that years later, we’d gather around a small coffee table filled with wine, gourmet cheese, and sadness. We’d sit and divvy up the disappointments of body piercings, tattoos, sexual promiscuities, and lost innocence-wondering where we’d gone wrong. Still talking without listening. Sharing war stories; recognizing that some had fared better than others.
I sat there and listened to my old friends, as I began remembering the sadness of my divorce. I remembered the envy of leaving the school and being thrown into a different bracket. I was a working single mom, and I somehow didn’t belong. Private school was a luxury I no longer could entertain. I left my apron on the counter, and put on a suit and went to work. There were days that I grieved over the missed bake sales, and special birthday parties that my children would miss out on. Dropping my children off in a rush, and realizing that “Room Mom” and “the linger” in the hallways, that were adorned with the art work of our children, were no longer experiences I had time for. I was thrown into the world of derogatory statements, sideways glances, and global statistics. Things like “Broken Home”, “Single Mom”, and “60% of daughters from a divorced home are promiscuous, and suffer teen pregnancy” these were now my passageways. I no longer attended the end of the school carnivals, and most likely seemed altogether forgotten. One of the fathers at the dinner was kind enough to remind me of my forgottenness with his remark, “What are you doing here?” And I do remember feeling lost so much of the time, and believed that my path and mistakes of marrying the wrong man would become the burden my children would carry for the rest of their lives. At the time, I was so engrossed in this way of thinking; I was unable to let the shining light ahead of me peek through. What I didn’t know was that my strength, and willingness to let go of what I held so dear would be the key that released my girls and me into a new reality.

As I sipped my wine, and laughed and reminisced, I began to speak softly about my girls: their jobs, their schooling, and their lives. One of the dads turned to me and said, “Wow-I wish my daughter would do something like that.” I was surprised. I realized that all my worries had been false. The girls and I weren’t destined for doom. We took a different path, is all. We did what we needed to do.

Later that night I crawled into bed with my youngest and said “I am sorry I had to go to work. Sorry, I couldn’t help out in your classrooms more.” She looked at me surprised, and said “I hate moms like that!” then hugged me, “I love that you have a life outside of us, Mom. That you aren’t so wrapped up in us, and let us breathe.” I started to cry and said, “Really?” All this time I have been feeling guilty for nothing.

Choosing Life

2010-07-16T16:53:00.000-07:00

I remember being in the Salt Lake City Airport. It was the summer of my divorce, and I had just lost a baby. She was twenty six weeks in utero, and I delivered her, but left the hospital breasts full, and hands empty. It was a low point, to say the least. Many well meaning friends would say trivial comments, “It’s for the best.” Stuff that let them off the hook, but made me feel sour. I would lie in my bed and wonder how hard it needed to get before it felt better. The girls and I were heading to our annual family trip to Montana. I was heavy hearted from my loss, and full of woe at the trek ahead. We brought our new kitten, our family lap dog, car seats, toy bags, purses. When I think back, I can’t remember a finger that was free to discipline or offer direction. We arrived at our gate, for our two hour lay-over. The girls scurried to let the cat out of the bag, play with the dog, and giggle/argue with one another. I stepped back and caught my breath. As I watched them play and love their animals, I thought how hard the last few months had been: fighting for my girls, carrying and losing a baby, defending myself to friends that wanted to choose sides. It was overwhelming and harder than I ever imagined a beginning of a journey to be, but in that moment, out of breath and empty inside, I believed that as hard as it was it was a lot easier than being in a marriage full of hate and anger. I knew in that small space, intercoms overhead and suitcases whizzing by, that whatever I had to defend was necessary for a new life.

Today is thirteen years forward. Again, we are packing up our things to head out to Montana. Our family lap dog is very old-he is partially blind and deaf, we have since lost the kitten to a stroke, and my girls are growing to be young women. I look back to the moment of exhaustion and ask myself if it was worth it after all? I have become more than I ever imagined for myself. My friendships are true, and the relationships I have built are deep and defended. My daughters are sure of themselves, and full of love and life. My oldest daughter finished her first year of college. She just emailed me from a volunteer trip to Thailand. She is helping to save the elephants and the abuse that they undergo. My younger daughter is in high school. She is funny, and has more friends than I can keep track of. Everywhere she goes people comment on her tender heart. I live in a new home, with neighbors who love us. We are surrounded by love and grace.

Choices in life aren’t always easy. It wasn’t easy to walk away from what I knew. It was hard to face a life alone, pregnant and young. I wondered often if I was doing the right thing; if my life would ever look different. The only way to have different is to do something different. I chose life, and I think from the results it was hard, but worth it.

Cave Dwellers

2010-04-29T17:54:00.000-07:00

When my oldest daughter reached the age of "I'm smart and you're annoying!" I didn't really understand what was happening. I knew that others had warned me, and I had seen other mothers with their heads between their knees breathing into a bag while their badly dressed grungy teens stood above them oblivious. But I was young, holding my pigtailed little girls hands and shuffling off to get ice cream. I knew that whatever that mother's problem was-I would never be able to relate.

"Don't make today the day I lose my job! It would be horrible for you all to have to watch." I blurted this out in front of class to a student the other day. It's May and they're Seniors-if you are a teacher, I don't need more explanation than this. If you're not, then ignorance is bliss. I tell ya, teenagers can drive you to this point. Not the actual follow through (of course), but the thoughts..horrible extreme thoughts. And yet,I am amazed at my composure amongst over one hundered pubescent, pimple popping, Flaming Hot Cheetoh eating adolescents with the cloned argumentative spirit. I handle them like a quiet Prius, punching the gas, only when necessary. Then I come home. One Monster truck daughter with a glare and smug comment can send me over the edge. I have learned that breathing into a bag, saves lives-and not mothers! I realize the emotional connection and investment here. I get why I can disconnect to my students and not my own appendages. But when she smugly rolls her eyes as I am telling her about my day-it sends me reeling and all intellectual composure flies away.

My oldest survived which gives me hope. She is off to college and actually calls and misses her mother. She loves to come home and even said the other day that she didn't want to invite others to dinner when we meet because it wouldn't give us time to talk. This from a girl, who only a short few years ago, couldn't figure out why I was upset because she forgot my fortieth birthday. "You are selfish!" I think was the acid that rolled off her tongue. She was my Cave Dweller. She would hole herself up in her room, and I'd practically leave the food at the door. The sign of life from the dim hallway was that the crumbs would sometimes be left on the wood floor outside her bedroom. Cave Dweller immerged after a few years, a new creature-leaving the darkness behind.

So, I will venture on. My new journey with my fifteen year old, who chooses to not dwell in her cave, but dominate the rest of the house. I actually received a text the other night, as I was saying good-bye to friends who had visited. Behind the red blinking light was: "Could you all be quiet, I want to go to sleep!"

Recycling of the Heart

2010-03-30T18:40:00.000-07:00

Okay so this week hasn't been great. A broken heart once again. Oh the trials of being a single mom, dating and trying to figure out life and love. Just when you think it's safe to go in the water, the love monsters roar and crush the heart. Sounds a little dramatic? Maybe, but it's not easy sailing. I have been divorced for about 13 years. People are amazed when I share this, but most of my friends that were divorced after me, are already remarried and divorced again. I like to think that I am the tortoise in the fable of love. Just plodding along, taking my time. I've dated plenty, had my heart tossed around again and again, but it all comes back to my girls and my solitary life. I can honestly say- and some may find it rigid- but my girls have never had to wake up to a strange man at our breakfast table, they haven't had to look over to see Romeo kissing their mother, holding her hand or any other uncomfortable moments that they might need to endure. My philosophy on this has always been that this is our home. They need to feel safe here. So far, so good. Unless he is a fiance or a husband-no need for the residual memories after he has gone.

This week, my girls have gotten to see their mama with another broken heart. I have been dating someone for the last ten months and felt like he could possibly have been a kindred spirit. He lived a plane ride away, divorced and raising his kids. He was living his life, and I was living mine. We'd fly off and meet for a weekend, connecting and experiencing life together. My girls are both older (high school and college) and his kids are with their mother every other weekend. I honestly, couldn't imagine a better set up. Neither one of us pressuring each other for more time, or to move...just enjoying the journey.

Last week he informed me it was too much. He was overwhelmed. Needed space. Of course this makes me laugh everytime-you can only imagine why this is funny. Space between three states isn't enough? There isn't another woman, there isn't a fight, no conflict...but here is what I understand about divorce.

Divorce is such a painful process. When I left my marriage, I wasn't sure who I was. I gave myself over completely to my spouse. I tried to be the perfect wife-failing in the eyes of my controlling husband. I battled my way through and finally had a moment of truth with myself. I needed to be free, and live my life that was given to me. I left and never looked back. What happened after was painful and enlightening. I learned about myself and my character and strength. I think for a long time I needed to nurture the girl that once was, and figure out who she was again. Anytime love knocked on my door, I ran away. Of course the "love" that rattled was different face knockers of controlling men wanting to save this damsel from the woes of single motherhood. All I wanted was an understanding ear, and someone to laugh with. I was riding my own white horse. Someone who truly understood me was hard to find. Most men, I found wanted ownership, and they wanted it quickly. I was anxious about anything moving too quick. Of course, my marriage started after only an eight month courtship and ended after 6 and a half dreadful years. Slow paced was the name of my new game. I didn't know that thirteen years was my pace, but I've been busy.

My heartbreak is solid. Cracked in many pieces. I feel like Humpty Dumpty. But my daughters have been tender. My youngest is unsure what to say. She sees me cry and is ignorant to the woes of love gone awry. I am thankful for her misunderstanding. I feel grateful that her heart is in tacked. She keeps checking on me, and wants reassurance that I will be okay. My older daughter calls from college nightly. She gives me love advice that is sweet, things like "He will realize how great you are and be sorry!" or "Don't call him, make him miss you...he needs to feel the void!" and my favorite, "I'll buy you a kitty!" She called the next day after her sage words and said, "Mama-it's hard to give you advice because it's all the things you have said to me." Her heart broke a year ago, and it was a painful event. I love that she has empathy now and can be tender. Recycled advice.

These are the lessons of life. We love and cry, heal and rejoice. Nothing is a promise, but what is good is the journey that I have ventured on with my daughters. We have learned about heartbreak together. We have learned about intimacy of the purest kind. I have protected and sheltered them from chaos, and yet they still see that their mother wants to have her heart held by another. Thirteen years, and still mosying along. Divorce isn't easy. It's a journey of the soul.

Christmas Greetings from Our Home to Yours

2008-12-22T13:56:00.000-08:00

The girls and I are standing out on the low tide of Seal Beach….the sky is blue and there are low rolling waves washing upon the shore. We are playing on the sand, laughing and dancing. At one point I feel like time has stood still. I notice the ripples on the sand and the warm water touching our feet. When I get home I think about the day and realize that it is a metaphor for where we are in our lives. I can’t help, but think that the three of us have come so far. That our tide has gone out and left us in this state of joy and peace. And even though the heavy tides have gone the ripples have left their mark, as a reflection to where we have been. Knowing this makes me want to jump up and down and celebrate. I want to cry.

It’s been a fast paced year and time keeps slipping away. I want to stop the tide from turning, but I know that I can’t and so I deal with the few months I have left of my high school girl. Ellen is going to be graduating in June and heading off to college. For years she has been teasing me about leaving me, just to see me get teary eyed. She would say it, and watch my face change as water welled up in my eyes. In fact I have coined this year, “The Year of Tears”. I told her that it’s my God given right, as her mother, to cry about her departure and every little moment that leads up to that. In August she took her senior portraits and as soon as she slipped on the cap and gown, I needed to reach for the Kleenex. She looked at me and said, “Oh mama, it’s just a picture!” I know it is, but that picture represents so much. I just don’t know if I have prepared my heart for this. She plans to go to San Francisco State or San Luis Obispo depending on where she gets accepted. When we sent in her final college applications to San Francisco State she came in my room and said, “Maybe I don’t want to go so far away. Maybe I’ll stay a little closer.” I had to smile and replied, ‘You are going to miss me!” Ellen is a wonderful daughter and she has so many great tools to bring to her new world. I know she is going to manage her life with humor and confidence just like she does every day. Besides, she now has a new kitten that she will be dying to come home to visit. I’m no dummy.

And so the tide turns and Jennifer will be stepping up to high school next year, but first, Middle School has one more year of my sweet Jennifer. If you live near us you might see her riding her bike, skateboarding, or hanging out at FNL (Friday Night Lights). She is the quintessential California middle schooler with her blonde hair and sweet smile. She is playing tennis and I think she may have found her “thing”- she’s been searching for years J. Jennifer loves to do accents. She does a “spot on” English bit and a Vietnamese nail salon that is hysterical. Jennifer doesn’t know a stranger, and this is something I worry about, but love at the same time. And as far as her relationship with her sister? Well, the two of them are Mars and Venus. Ellen had text me one day telling me that her sister wasn’t being very appreciative of her for driving her to school. I called Jen and asked what was going on. She told me that Ellen got angry at her for using a water bottle instead of a reusable water jug (my environmentalist…hence San Fran State). Then she told me Ellen made her ride in the back seat to school and was mad because Jen didn’t say “Thank you.” I told Ellen that it’s hard to hug and appreciate a porcupine and she laughed, but still arguing the point of the water bottle and the earth. Of course, Jen takes it all in stride…because after her sister leaves for school (on the days she doesn’t drive her), Jennifer strides into her sister’s room and borrows her pants! Oh, the trials of sisterhood.

The sun rises for me around these moments with my family. It’s normal, it’s hard, but we are at a low tide, the water is warm and we have come a long way. God is gracious and has blessed my girls and me beyond measure. I pray that you all seek His many blessings this season and find that the tide always turns, but God is with you. Many, many blessings and Merry Christmas.

Poetry and Softness

2008-09-30T20:38:00.000-07:00

I used to write poetry when I was a little girl. I used to write in a flower covered journal all my quirky poems: some I made up and some I copied down - just to remember. I remember I loved Helen Steiner Rice poems, but I honestly don’t know who she is now.

Last week our cat of eleven years died. After the tears, and the massive guilt, I thought about these old poems. When I was young I saw a poster about a man’s best friend being his dog. As a ten year old little girl, it made me query about a “woman’s” best friend. I was an early “Equal Rights” advocate, before the term “feminism” was even around. I sat on my bed with my childhood cat Puddin scrawled on my paper, grabbing my pen as I jotted these words:

“A Cat is a woman’s best friend!”

I must have felt some sort of satisfaction at this statement. I must have believed by writing these words I was righting some sort of umbrage the original poster implied. Who knows, what goes through a little girls mind. I do remember feeling a sense of loyalty toward Puddin with words contradicting men and dogs and this somehow elevated Puddin’s existence.

So what does this really have to do with my daughters’ childhood cat dying this last week? I’m not entirely sure, other than the incident brought to mind the love and homage we have for our dear four legged siblings. My daughters were broken, as we ruminated over “Ollie Cats” life. The image of my oldest daughter holding her love will be difficult to blot out. Rushing to the vet, interrupting the receptionist, pleading with her to hurry because Ollie was in trouble; it’s hard to get it out of my mind. It all seems like a fast forwarded movie- watching the flash of blurred colors on the screen, only to stop at the part that you were hoping to miss- Ollie was gone.

It’s been a week now, and we are coping. I know that time will move on and we will heal, but my daughters get quiet when they see the other animals in the house walk by. I made the mistake of calling our other cat “Ollie” tonight at dinner, and the whole table was silent. Until the dog ran after her and we all laughed…waiting for the moment to breathe.

To some, this may seem melodramatic. There are so many “Cat Haters” in the world- I almost feel that we have to grieve in silence.
So, I guess as I think about Ollie, and Puddin and all the other softness that has touched my life, it makes sense that poetry would trigger my mind. Poetry like pets is a door to our childhood selves. Rudyard Kipling wrote, Power of the Dog, he tells of the love one has of their dog:

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart for the dog to tear.

If I had discovered this little gem of a poem when I was little, I may have felt compelled to leave a kitten on Mr. Kipling’s doorstep.

Vegetables and Tofu

2008-09-21T17:47:00.000-07:00

My daughter was in fifth grade when she was asked to be in the school Spelling Bee. Her teacher thought she was a pretty good speller and had a great chance of moving up to the next level of competition. When she told me of her good fortune, I automatically had visions of my four-eyed daughter, clad in a white button down, front and center spelling words like: soporific or abranchiate.

Of course, this never happened. My vision was shut down the day I came home with a book of words (just to practice) and at my exuberance she informed me that she had no intentions of winning the Spelling Bee. I couldn’t believe her lack of fervor. Incredulous, I inquired. She told me that she was not willing to be known as the “girl who won the Spelling Bee” for the rest of her life.

If anyone knows my daughter, then they understand that this was a definitive answer. I set the book on the counter and watched all the letters, from a-z, scurry down the road into someone else’s home. We recovered, however and on the afternoon of the Spelling Bee, I wished her luck and sent her off to school. I wanted to go, but she again assured me that it was going to be short and not to bother.

She finished in record time and was out on the third or fourth round. The word she misspelled was none other than vegetarian. Her teacher made fun of her, as did her family. She said that she didn’t throw the competition, but she also wasn’t disappointed when it was time to sit down.

As irony would have it, four years later, she declares homage to animals and becomes a vegetarian. It’s funny how life brings stories to our doorsteps to either be welcomed or rejected, and if rejected, they keep knocking in other ways. Vegetarianism is her persistent knocker- I guess it is mine, as well.

She vowed her diet to vegetables just about when other teens vow their lives to partying, drinking, and/ or drugs. I was frustrated, at first, being a meat loving, steak and roast cooking guru. I fought with her over the dangers of “lack of protein” yada, yada, yada…but just like the Spelling Bee, there is no movement when pushing a brick wall. What I concluded was that this was her doorway into a world that I wasn’t a part of. I became comfortable with my daughters new identity and even relished in teasing her about it. When people would ask I’d say, “While other teens find their solace in a beer, my daughter identifies with broccoli.” She’d roll her eyes and spout off some statistic of slaughter houses or the woes of little lambs. It’s become our banter. I’ve even gave her the moniker of “Vegetesbian.” I don’t know why, other than it makes her respond passionately, with rote knowledge from PETA.

One day while we were heading to the market, I cried “Uncle!” She looked at me and I said it again. Perplexed she smiled and asked why I was saying that. I told her that she’s been trying to win since she was two and I am finally surrendering. “This tofu and vegetable thing is kicking my butt!" I smiled and said again, "Uncle! I wave the white cotton flag!" She laughed, sat tall and proud, as we continued down the road in my hybrid Prius, to get an alfalfa, tomato sandwich.

Year of Tears

2008-09-20T22:47:00.000-07:00

Okay, so it is September and my oldest daughter and I went to get her senior pictures taken a few weeks ago. She insisted that I needn't escort her.....ahummm....and I insisted that I needed to. She rolled her eyes a couple of hundred times, adamant that she wasn't a baby anymore. Since I had the cash and the keys to the car, I won out. Don't you love "feeble" power?

We arrive and we see a girl that knows my daughter. They both covertly wave, and I ask, "Who is that?" She quickly mumbles,"No one," while picking up pace to try and ditch me before we enter the studio.

Catching up I say, "Well, that 'No One' just said hello to you." Again she rolls her eyes and assures me that I don't know her. I don't tell her this, but I'm pretty aware of "who" I know and don't know, but this information is nebulous, and would only be met with further eye weaponry. The next half hour continues on this path- me embarrassing her by my mere presence and her pretending as if she'd rather me not be there. I tease her and tell her I want her to hold her newspaper articles (she's the editor and chief of her school newspaper, after all) in the "Personal Touch" senior photos. We both laugh, knowing that this is an absurd request as we giggle at the pictures advertised on the wall of swimmers firmly holding medals, or teens clad in Indian headdresses.

We enter the studio and are greeted by a man with a heavy accent whose only access to creativity is a plastic rose on the edge of a white, foam, Greek column. When he places the rose delicately next to my daughters dark nail polished fingers, she and I glance at each other and laugh, and we can't stop- which makes for some rather stunning pictures-despite the rose.

Finally, my daughter puts on the cap and gown for the final photos. As she moves the tassel over, I am awed at her poise and presence. She looks at me and I see that she is beautiful. I am sniffling, and trying to stop the tears, but she notices and is surprisingly tender. She smiles with an, "Oh Mama...it's just a picture." She leans on the Greek column as the photographer snaps a few more pictures. I am caught in this still life, for just a moment. Through tears we both smile knowingly, about who the baby really is.

I explain to her later over a nice lunch of tofu and vegetables (she's a vegetarian!!!), that it's going to be the "Year of Tears" and there is nothing she can do to stop it. I can't help it; I feel I've earned this "Right of Passage." Later we shop and as I try to lose myself in the store, she finds me and asks for my help. She hugs me and holds my hand and I again feel a deep sense of warmth.

What I come away with is the realization that despite all the troubles that come with having a 17 year old-I love my eye rolling, try-to-ditch-me, vegetarian-kick-my-meat eating-chops teen. Even if she talks to "nobody" and waves at "no one!" In the end, at the commemoration of this senior year, she's my medal of honor and I'll hold her proud.... as our camera keeps flashing.

Traveling through Teenagehood

2008-08-16T16:14:00.000-07:00

Robert Frost speaks of a 'road less traveled'. I often think of parenting this way. It's a journey that parents venture into without previous knowledge or experience. I remember when my second daughter was born I told the doctor that she wasn't eating as well as my first daughter had. He had been around to understand my question, even better than I did, at the time. He said, "throw the book away on the first...you get to start all over."

I remembered this advice throughout the years and began to accept that each experience with my daughters was as unique as they are. Sometimes, I wonder if they truly are biological sisters. Even though they share the same genes, their "jeans" are much different.

It reminds me of my youngest's question about genes. She was in second grade and asked if she was a twin. I said that she wasn't. She said that she had heard that everyone has a twin somewhere. I explained that there is a theory that everyone has someone that looks like them in the world, but that didn't make them twins. She thought about this quietly as we were driving to the library, to check out a book for a school project. I continued that in order to be twins you have to have the same genes, which means that her "twin" would have to be in our family.

As we walked from the car I noticed that she was thinking, and doubting what I was telling her. I asked her if she understood. She argued that "Girls at my school are twins, but they don't have the same jeans?" I asked her if she understood what genes are, and she nodded assuredly and said, "Yea," as she rubbed her thigh, "my pants."

So genes or "jeans" can be very different in a family. In my experience, like the good old doctor said, 'Throw the book away and start over!'

As I think about Robert Frost and his poem about traveling and taking the road less traveled I wonder about teenagers and their parents. So many of us travel down a road unaware and we go the path of many who went before us: We yell at our teens, we seem perplexed at their behavior, we are shocked at the disrespect. It seems we don't stop to consider the path or journey we travel and question if there are other trails to take.

My question today and throughout my blog is about the journeys you have taken with your teenagers. Have you done something that has made your travels less tiresome and rugged? Or maybe you've found yourself in heavy traffic...blindly doing what you think is common and "normal".

I have had my own battles and successes with child rearing. My oldest is 17 and so far we've maneuvered and navigated fairly well with some minor bumps and bruises. My other daughter is right behind, entering these tumultuous years. Unfortunately, what I may have gained from my first won't help this go around.

_Nina