It’s a cliche to say that crying will get you what you want, but by damned, it sure works for my kids. There’s nothing worse than seeing your child cry. The little mouth starts to quiver, and then the face reddens and eyes water, and before you know it, that gymnastics class that occurs right at the most inconvenient time, during dinner and rush hour, becomes a happy reality for your 10-year-old budding Nadia Comaneci.
What is it about tears? They say “trauma,” “crisis,” “pain.” Crying is the “there” in “Don’t go there.” I rarely cry — well, except during bad TV and commercials. No, I rarely cry over my own experiences. But the few times I have — in 20 years of marriage I recall a doozy of an argument or two that ended in tears — I almost always end up the victor.
Once I discovered this, I confess to having tried to conjure up tears a couple of times in “disagreements” with my husband just to get to the win, but found that’s harder to do than it looks. I haven’t gone as far as to think of something really sad — I guess that’s what actors do — but now that I’m writing this, even admitting this, it doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.
I’m wondering if my kids are onto this idea as well.
In the previous post I described spending many hours making a photo album for my father’s 87th birthday. We presented it to him last weekend during a big family celebration. All in all, it was a huge success. But there was one small glitch that ultimately presented itself as an opportunity for me (once again) to “deal” with imperfection — and my own temper. Not that I expect perfection and niceness all the time, but considering all the effort I’d put into the album, this instance was, in retrospect, pretty, um … funny. (Apologies in advance to my husband, who is an amazing person and not only managed to spend the entire weekend with my family, but actually seemed to enjoy it.)
Here’s the scene: It is lunchtime Friday and my parents have just arrived at the hotel. Since our kids are swimming in the pool and not ready to eat yet, my husband decides to have lunch with my parents in the cafe. Toward the end of this meal, my daughter and I, dry and dressed by now, decide to join them. As I settle into the extra seat at the table, there are smiles and hugs and happiness all around. Then someone — maybe my mother — says something about how my husband has just let my father read what I wrote about him that week — including the part at the beginning where I say we are surprising him with a photo album for his birthday.
As my parents express appreciation for what is essentially a tribute to my father’s values and even temperament, especially as a parent, I can barely keep a lid on my own temper. I just look straight across the table at my husband, as my parents on either side glow and say nice things, none of which I hear because of the steam shooting out of my ears.
I give the “laser look” to my husband, trying not to be too obvious to my dad, seated at my right, so it probably looks like I have a weird tick of smiling to my right, then turning to glare straight ahead at my husband, then smiling right, glaring ahead, smiling, glaring …
My husband throws me a quizzical look like, What is wrong with you?? As my parents chit-chat, I mouth to him, “It was a SURPRISE”… I do that, demonstrably, a couple of more times, as I see it dawning on him what has happened.
“Sorry,” he mouths back.
I am fuming. How could anyone be so mindless? He let my dad read it?? ARGHHHHH!!!
But there is literally nothing I can do except sit there, simmering, try to slap a smile on my face and change the subject. And, of course, talk only to my parents for about 10 minutes and not so much as glance at my husband.
Finally, I shoot him a look, and he looks right back. I can tell I am going to have to suck this one up. His mistake comes from a good place, after all, and my father is behaving as though nothing has happened and he has not just been informed that the family gathering this weekend is essentially for him and that furthermore, there is a surprise gift we all conspired to keep secret from him for weeks.
I keep up light conversation, but inside am still incredulous. I mean, what??? I am going to need some time to calm down. I know this is my husband being sweet, supportive, loving — it’s all good!! Right?? Except I am pissed.
We rise from the table and my mother, also in on the secret, murmurs to me, “Don’t worry, I don’t even think he got it.”
Yeah, right.
My husband and I speak briefly and I say something not very conciliatory like, “I can’t believe you did that,” and then we all walk out of the restaurant. Yeah, I am really proud of my generous and understanding behavior. I know I need to just shake it off and move on.
It takes about a day — in the workout room on the elliptical machine I realize that I’m still ruminating over The Big Slip — but I eventually calm down and am even able to tell myself that maybe it’s a good thing my dad knows about the album. He doesn’t love the limelight, and perhaps this has given him a little time to prepare.
When we finally present him with the album two nights later, he appears to express genuine surprise. And delight.
And my husband and I don’t talk about it again. Oh, there is one moment on the car ride home, when he turns to me out of the blue and says, “By the way, your dad didn’t know anything about the album. It was a complete surprise.”
I say nothing for a few seconds. Tiny vapors waft from my ears. I look back at him.
I’m in the midst of creating an album of photographs and letters for my Dad’s 87th birthday. As I cull through stacks of prints, I see my father in his youth—a dashing 6-foot-tall, blue-eyed blonde–and in later years, where he maintained his youthful look and more importantly, his lightness and humor. I am reminded of what a rich life he has led, filled with friends who’ve sent along pictures of the myriad trips they’ve take with him and of golf courses they’ve played. There are funny, heartfelt notes, but nothing too sentimental for a guy who doesn’t like to hog the spotlight. In fact, he will probably get pretty embarrassed when we give him this album. He has never wanted a big celebration around his birthday, and we are essentially sneaking this one in, going away for the weekend with the extended family to celebrate several birthdays, not just his.
Mostly, what I’m finding in the pictures are feelings–my own. Yes, I have the perspective of a daughter, second-born but oldest girl of four kids, when I look at these photos, but I’m also seeing them from my perch as a parent.
Parenting an almost-teenage son and twin 10-year-old girls seems for me to be a full-time, 12-hour-a-day job crammed into the hours between 3 p.m. and bedtime, encompassing driving, homework, dinner and all the crises that crop up along the way. When I pick my kids up from school, I try to chat with them, hear about their day, laugh, be relaxed. I’d like to make light of life, the way my dad does. He loves to joke (often cornily), doesn’t lose his temper (really), and is an all-around happy person. It’s very hard to roil him.
For example, I remember once when I was a teenager, my neighborhood friends came knocking on my first-floor window one weeknight after dinner. They were biking down to the convenience store a few blocks away and wanted me to come. I, supposedly doing my homework, agreed, locked my door and turned up my music–inexplicably thinking that would disguise the fact that I was AWOL–and hopped out the window. When I climbed back in a little while later, the first thing my eyes landed on was the open door to my room. Oops. I’d been caught–turns out my music was too loud. I remember sauntering through the den like nothing had happened. My dad just looked up from his newspaper and said, “Sugar, you know you can’t do that. You’re grounded for a week.” He tranquilly went back to his reading. And I was effectively neutralized.
I can’t imagine myself asserting this kind of calm with anyone, much less my soon-to-be-teenage children. In fact, I find myself getting roiled pretty often, even when I’m trying not to. Take yesterday for instance.
I drive my daughter to gymnastics class in rush-hour traffic, taking about 40 minutes round-trip. I pull back into the garage and my phone rings. It’s my son, who is in the house.
“Mom, I forgot my vocabulary book at school and really need it for homework that’s due tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I say. “I’m already in the car in the garage. Just come out and we’ll head up there.” I am thinking, let’s just get this over with. It’s the beginning of seventh grade, so do the kid a favor.
He emerges from the back door, his sister close behind.
“Can I come?” she says. “I don’t want to be in the house by myself!”
“Fine, just hurry,” I say. She climbs in barefooted. I am calm, my pulse normal.
We head up to school in what turns out to be crawling traffic–oh right, rush hour–and what normally takes 15 minutes takes 30. My heart beats a bit faster. Once we arrive, the security guard unlocks the doors, lets my son in, we wait a little bit, and he runs back out. There is no vocab book in his hand.
“Did you find it?” I say steadily, hoping illogically there is some explanation other than that he didn’t.
“No,” he says simply. “It must be in my backpack.” He closes the car door.
“At home.” I again say grimly, eyeing him squarely. I can feel my neck muscles start to strain.
“Um, yeah.” He looks down. “I could have sworn I left it at school.”
“So you didn’t even check your backpack before you called me?” My voice is higher and I’m starting to feel hot.
“Mom, I swear, I didn’t think it was in there!” He gives me a sideways glance and looks away. I know he is contrite.
Tamping down the tiny voice telling me to keep it together, I jump straight to the list of grievances:
“I’ve driven all the way back here and it’s taking up a lot of time and your sister is sitting here in the car and hasn’t been doing her homework and now I need to get home and feed you both and then go get your other sister from gymnastics and rush home to get you all to bed on time and Daddy’s out tonight and now you’ve got to finish your homework so good luck making THAT happen and this isn’t exactly how I need to be spending my time right now!!” I take a breath. I’ve said enough.
“Plus, I need to take a shower!!”
“I get it, Mom! I’m sorry.” Now he looks at me squarely.
“No electronics at all this weekend,” I say with finality. There.
“OK, Mom. I understand.” He is now perfectly calm, even calmer than before. “I get it. I’m really sorry.”
“No electronics. No computer, no i-touch. Nothing at all!” I am toast.
“I know, I know.” What he knows is that now he is in complete control.
Just stop, I tell myself. But that’s the hardest part–just stopping. What do you do after that? Turn on the radio and start singing?
I manage to restrain myself, and when we arrive home, my son goes immediately to his backpack and pulls out his vocab book. I just shake my head slightly and head to “make” dinner (code for leftovers).
I think now about how my father would have handled that situation. Granted, he didn’t have to face the daily after-school routine–that was my mother’s job, and yes, I’m sure she got frustrated–but if he had, he probably wouldn’t have said much. He would have put an expression of veiled disgust on his face–his pulse unchanged–and if it had been me in my son’s shoes, I would have felt really, really awful.
Sometimes no words are more effective than any at all. Maybe I should have given my son a chance to reflect on his actions and feel guilty on his own. Maybe I should have then asked him how his actions affected others and what the consequences for him should be. Maybe I should never have driven him back to school.
Today I came across an essay I wrote years ago for a graduate school application. It made me wonder what I can do that would inspire my kids to write about me the way I wrote about my father:
“As I grow older and reflect upon what factors have influenced my decisions, ideas from particular authors and classes from certain professors come to mind. But it is the people who put into daily practice values upon which others only reflect that serve as the examples I wish to follow. My father claims first place among the people I admire most for the simple reason that I have never seen him contradict in deed what he has put forth in words. I have learned more from my father’s mere presence than from any sermon delivered on a Sunday morning.”
I guess that’s my answer. Whatever my father did, he would have done it with conviction, kept his word, and most of all, reacted in a way that his children could ultimately (even if years later) admire. To that, all I can say is, there’s always next time.
Plus, I better make sure that computer stays off this weekend.
Sometimes In the middle of the night when I’m awake and alone with my thoughts, or sometimes in the middle of the day when I’m driving and surrounded by chip bags, backpacks, and sweaty kids, I think, motherhood is a bit of a stretch for me.
Wait, maybe I should say, motherhood in today’s world is a bit of a stretch, especially with three children. Of course I love them, but occasionally the thought creeps in that it would have been so easy to parent just one child. Now that I have three–twins, age 10, and a son, almost 13–I’m constantly amazed at the amount of energy, generosity and altruism required for parenting. I think about my own mother, who had four kids, drove carpool, cooked dinner every night, even sewed clothes for me and my sister. She and my dad took us on trips, including the requisite pilgrimage to Disney World. We stayed at the exotic Polynesian hotel, went to the Mad Tea Party, and dined to the vocal stylings of Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gormé (live!). It was about perfect.
I took it for granted, all that my parents did for us, which I guess is the job of kids. Children are too busy growing up, living the movie, to catch on to the fact that their parents are helping to write and direct it.
I think about my homemaker-happy mother, whose day before the kids got home included bridge and tennis and garden club–and grocery shopping. She lived (and still does) a happy life, with little talk of stressing out, leaning in, and getting away. Yes, life was simpler. Those were the days of kids having fewer organized activities after school–I remember walking to the local drugstore many weekday afternoons with my best friend Allison and ordering ice cream sundaes at the counter (and putting on the pounds to show it!). I don’t recall if my mother even knew what we were doing. I just knew to be home by dinnertime.
Today, I talk to my mother from my command center behind the steering wheel. We catch up while I, like the operator of the local train, make various stops along the way. These are the snatched moments where I find out about her or Dad’s latest checkups (they are insanely healthy for the 70’s and 80s), who they dined with at the club last Saturday night, whose funeral they attended the other day. Then always, it’s “I gotta go, Mom. I’m at [insert destination] now.”
Once I pick up the kids from school, I’m off to a gymnastics class, a baseball practice, a dance lesson. Forget the stay-at-home mom–that would be fantastic. No, I’m a “stay-in-the-car” mom, and covet the rare day where I manage to avoid my car entirely (especially since it’s so damn dirty, with pretzels and Power Bars and god knows what ground into the synthetic carpet and seat crevices.)
I’m not a great dinner planner, (ugh, the routine) the way my mother was, and I often get home from these carpool laps around the track to open the fridge and simply stare. Then I turn to the cabinet and reach for the box of pasta. I silently give thanks that my husband will eat just about anything and at the same time curse him for needing to eat at all. Every fall, I vow to “figure out the dinner thing” just like I vow to “figure out the homework thing” and “the driving thing.”
The thing is, this is what parenting is, largely. It’s being there for your children’s lives, being there when they need you. We give our kids so much, it seems, this generation of parents. We sign them up, plug them in, buy them off. I’m just as guilty as anyone, yet I occasionally try to fight these tendencies. Hell, we haven’t even taken our kids to Disney World. But, as I’ve seen with friends whose kids are older, it does eventually taper off, and one day it’s over, this part of parenting.
I feel I’m just getting a glimpse of what life will be like once my role in the movie is reduced to, say, Executive Producer. My kids are starting to become more independent, making their own breakfast in the morning, running to the corner market, walking the dog, and doing chores (sort of). Now, as opposed to standing over them and tying their shoelaces, I’m glancing sideways and driving them to the shoe store. I’m supervising when needed, and of course, nagging often.
Oh, I know those teenage years are coming and things will keep shifting–too quickly–and suddenly, I will yearn for these “easy” years when they don’t mind hanging out with their parents (or have no choice). We’ll all get our independence soon enough.
But for now, Disney World is starting to look pretty good. Maybe we’ll even get there before they’re all in college.
Through the trees 