Career Advice

Dear children,

Here's some valuable career advice from your ever-loving mom:   
DON'T BECOME A WORLD-FAMOUS ROCK STAR.

Why?
Because I said so. Now, go clean your room.

Just kidding. There are many reasons to avoid this career option:

• Poor job security
• The grueling, mind-numbing travel of world tours
• People throw their underclothing at you

But there's more... If these disadvantages aren't enough to deter you on the road to rock stardom some day, I now have research findings [click here to read] that supports my cause. This study, published yesterday in the prestigious British Medical Journal, found that rock stars were statistically more likely to die prematurely than the general population.

Like we didn't know that already, right? But still, we moms appreciate having SCIENTIFIC DATA to back up our sound advice. We can print it up and leave copies on your pillow, in your electric guitar case, and on the front seat of your car, as needed. We can say, "See? I told you so."

We love saying that.

Here's a little more advice:  if you still can't resist the allure of rock stars, consider becoming a ROCK STAR SCIENTIST, like the university professors and British Health Department researchers who conducted this study. These authors got paid to read about 1,489 rock stars who were famous between 1956 and 2006. Elvis Presley! Jimi Hendrix! Kurt Cobain! Amy Winehouse!

Seriously. When I was a scientist, my research subjects were drosophila melanogaster (which is just a fancy way to say "fruit flies") and cultured fibroblast cells. They just weren't that cool. No groupies, no glitzy award ceremonies, no crowd surfing. Just me and a microscope in a quiet lab, maybe listening to some world-famous rock star singing on the radio, as I pipetted and aliquoted. The only exciting part was using a jellyfish protein to make the cells fluoresce. Then the whole microscope field glowed with little cells -- like a rapt audience raising their lighters in solidarity during a rock ballad. Beautiful.

Besides, there's just something so odd-ball and fun about researchers reading People magazine (or some such authoritative source on the lives of rock stars; or attend concerts as "field work"?) and then write lines like:

An actuarial methodology compares postfame mortality to matched general populations. Cox survival and logistic regression techniques examine risk and protective factors for survival and links between adverse childhood experiences and cause of death, respectively.  

Am I right? Anyway, just another little tidbit of maternal advice to help smooth the road to adulthood.

You're welcome.

A Response to Evil

(Or What I Was Trying to Tell Sally But She Was Too Busy Describing How She Could Hide inside Her Classroom Filing Cabinet)

Dear Huckle and Sally,

In the wake of the horrifying tragedy at the Sandy Hook Elementary School, there is so much I want you to know, so much I hope I’m already getting across to you. 

First, I love you so incredibly much. I can’t imagine life without you. I can’t imagine having you ripped from my arms and then life going on:  another weekend, another Monday, another anything. 

Second, I want to remind you that God never promised us easy lives. Evil is a real and constant presence. The same day as the Sandy Hook school shooting, a man in China stabbed 22 children outside their school. Syria and the Democratic Republic of Congo are humanitarian nightmares. Every day is tragic day for someone, somewhere. Some tragedies just hit closer to home than others.

Why does an all-powerful, loving God allow this constant barrage of evil? I don’t know. But I’ll bet he hates it more than we do, more than I hate it when you trip and need stitches on your chin. Or when I tell you “don’t push your sister” and you do anyway and then she gets hurt. Is this about free will? Is it about God allowing us to choose to believe in him rather than forcing us to believe because only those who do are rewarded with trouble-free lives? Is it because life, though it’s all we know, is a tiny flash in the bucket for our eternal souls and that the ultimate goal is far, far more wonderful than a trouble-free life, or not achievable with a trouble-free life? If I knew the answer, I’d be as smart as God. But I’m not. In fact, the main thing I learned in graduate school was that there’s far more that we don’t understand than that we do understand. If we don’t understand the creation, we certainly won’t understand the creator. I’m sorry -- that’s not a satisfying answer.

God doesn’t promise us trouble-free lives, but he does promise to be right beside us in our troubles. He is our Emmanuel, our God-with-us. I wasn’t there in the Sandy Hook elementary school, so I don’t know what that meant to the victims and witnesses. I only know what it has meant to me in my darkest moments. Huckle and Sally, God loves you and is right there with you.

That’s why, despite the constant presence of evil, I want to raise you to live fearlessly. Don’t just be aware of evil; don’t ever accept it. Hate it! Fight it! Love what is right and do what is right and fight for what is right. Be a source of comfort and strength to those around you. Be a hero. Be God’s arms and legs in a broken, hurting world.

Finally, Sally and Huckle, value every moment of your life, but know something better awaits you. Our post-modern culture insists that there’s nothing after life on earth, that we end like snuffed flames –in endless darkness and nothingness. My Loves, this is conjecture. You and I understand that the absence of empirical evidence does not automatically mean the absence of anything; nothing can be proven without data. We must try to answer this question without the help of science. Can you accept that there is a source of wisdom higher and nobler -- yet more accessible to 6-year-olds -- than reason? Many can’t and consider faith to be foolishness. I don’t. In faith, I rely on the testimony of the living God in the Bible -- a God who loves us and who promises life with him in heaven. Cling to this, my sweet children. Live like survivors, knowing that the war is won even if the battles still rage. Think eternally. Good ultimately wins.

Love,

Your mom

An Open Apology to Santa

Dear Santa Claus,

First, I owe you an apology for that time at the mall when I was three years old and screamed bloody murder because my parents made me to sit on your lap. Sorry about that. No offense, but I still think it’s a little creepy to make a kid sit on a stranger’s lap. 

However, my main reason for writing is not to apologize for my own issues with you; it’s to apologize for my son’s. Any time your name is mentioned, he says things like, “If I saw Santa, I’d do a Jump Spin Crescent Kick to his solar plexus.” 

(Don’t worry – we’re steering clear of the mall this year.)

I didn’t mean to raise a Santa-hater. True, starting when he was three, I made it clear to him that you aren’t real. I wanted him to understand that I would never ask him to believe something I don’t believe myself. It’s a trust thing, setting the stage for the honesty I want him to expect from me his whole life. (By the way, I don’t judge parents who approach the Santa issue differently; there’s no “right” way.)

Still, not believing in you isn’t the same as wanting to fight you. So what gives with Huckle? Plus, it’s shocking to hear my son talk that way. We don’t condone violence or hate in our family. We hardly even use the word “hate.” (We dislike overcooked broccoli, homework, and anything pink.)

But then I thought more about my son’s reaction. 

I’m no expert on boys – I’m learning on the job and making plenty of mistakes – but here’s what I suspect. I think a ten-year-old boy needs an enemy. He craves danger and conflict, purpose and adventure. He needs an outlet for his energy and a challenge to his "brute" strength. I can’t understand it, but I can learn to respect it.

For boys that play team sports, their enemy could be the opposing team. For boys who read comic books or play video games, maybe it’s enough to fight vicariously through superheroes and avatars. Even kids from uber-political families have an enemy:  the other party battling it out in elections.

My son doesn’t play many team sports or video games and has politically unexcitable parents. I suspect he’s been missing out on having an enemy. So, when he rooted around in his peaceful little life, he only found you, Santa. And now I think you might be a decent choice, since you aren’t even real.

So thanks, Santa, for being my son’s nemesis. 

Respectfully,

Huckle’s mom 

PS. You might want to give the Tooth Fairy a heads-up. In case she’s next.

Sally’s a Quitter (and Why I’m Proud)

Sally quit karate this month. That’s just the latest in a long history -- for an 8-year-old -- of quitting:  before that was piano lessons, before that was gymnastics, before that was ballet. 

Every time, she started out enthusiastically. Those first few weeks of ballet, she couldn’t stop grinning and bouncing. But a few months later, Sally would groan when it was time to put on her leotard. “I don’t want to go. I’m too tired. I just want to stay home.”

Same with karate. After watching her older brother for years, she agreed to start lessons. But soon classes became preceded by : “I don’t want to go. I just want to stay home.” I made her stay through our one-year contract but then resigned to Sally never becoming a black belt.

I wondered, what’s my role here? Am I supposed to make her stick it out until she’s proficient to teach her perseverance? That’s what a Tiger Mom would do, but I’m more Tired Mom than Tiger Mom. Is this a sign of my lack of resolve? After all, I’m not-so-secretly relieved that I don’t need to drive to yet another after-school activity.

Worse yet was the question festering in the back of my mind, “Am I raising a quitter?” Quitting sounds like failing – a sign of insufficient effort or willpower or stamina. We all want to raise children who succeed or at least get the A+ for effort. 

I thought about Sally: she doesn’t lack perseverance. When she was 6, she biked 20 miles in a day. She was tired at mile 17 but wouldn’t give up until she had rounded her mileage off to 20. When she was 7, she jogged all the way down to the canal and back, no small feat for a little, bitty body.

I thought about my preconceived notions of parenting. Long before I had kids, I had decided that a well-rounded kid’s extracurricular activities should include at least one sport, one musical instrument, and one social/general club (eg, Cub Scouts). [Oddly enough, I also said I would never have my children in too many activities.] This worked for older brother Huckle, who has insatiable curiosity, drive, and enthusiasm for anything. Although Huckle’s classical guitar, karate, and cub scouts -- on top of homework and practicing -- have become a burden to both of us, I respect Huckle for not wanting to quit anything. But why isn't this plan for well-roundedness working for Sally?

Last weekend, as Sally floated lazily in the bathtub, she pondered a question we had been asking each other as a family. We had just returned from our first “adventure travel” trip to Istanbul and Zurich. To pass the time in the airport, we played “where would you go if you won a trip around the world.” She sat up in the tub and said, “Mom, if I won a trip around the world, I’d give it to someone else. I just like to be home.”

Then it struck me: it’s not that Sally lacks resolve or stamina or perseverance; it’s that she loves to be home. She entertains herself endlessly with our pets and with little dramas played out by stuffed animals. She paints and draws and bakes and builds and, unlike Huckle, is never bored at home. Sally is quiet, with a rich inner world of imagination. She is responsible, keeping an aquarium going since she was 5 years old and caring faithfully for our pet mice.

Maybe someday I’ll go through with my next nefarious plan to bribe Sally into restarting piano lessons by agreeing to Burger King lunch once a week (I'm a slow learner). But for now, I’m proud that my daughter knows what makes her happy. I love her, and I love that she finds contentment in the simple pleasures of being home.

In Which We Not-So-Brave A Storm

Hurricane Sandy. My family’s experience was inconsequential compared to those who lost homes or family members. Yet Husband and I are only half-joking when we talk about PSSD: Post Sandy Stress Disorder. It wasn't the storm itself but the nine days afterward without power in cold weather that was a demoralizing experience.  Here’s the play-by-play of our day-to-day:

Days leading up to hurricane: Husband and I are in Dread Mode. One year ago, we were traumatized by losing power for four (FOUR!) days after Hurricane Irene. We don’t normally watch TV but now find ourselves glued to The Weather Channel. (“Next up:  Xtreme Apocalyptic Storms Trackers!!”) 

The forecast doesn’t look good, even if you factor in the way this region freaks over a 1-3 inch snow forecast. (Groceries stores sell out of eggs, milk, and bread. Seriously. As friend Gerianne says, “What do they plan to do, make French toast?”) I am consumed with restless, possibly useless, storm preparations.

Husband sets up the generator, bought after Hurricane Irene, and we buy two extra tanks of propane. I even pack a suitcase of essentials in case we need to leave home. It feels like overkill. We are shame-faced Xtreme Doomsday Preppers. 

The day before the storm, I experience a Mommy Guilt Moment when Huckle sighs, “I used to like it when the power went out. Now I’m worried.” 

 “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “Dad and I are just getting us ready. Why don’t you find some candles?” Like all ten-year-old boys, Huckle is a pyromaniac. As a hobby, he collects oil lamps and opportunities to use them. Huckle finds every candle we own and arranges them on the dining room table and focuses his energy on begging to light them. Now. I congratulate myself on distracting him. We even have a Teachable Moment about taking our concerns to God -- though I'm convicted of doing too little of this and too much useless flurrying and worrying.

The night before the storm, Husband and I can’t sleep. The clock in the bathroom ticks “dread, dread, dread.” Husband agrees to have everyone sleep in the downstairs study the next night, the night of the Super-storm. It’s a relief to me that I’ll have everyone in one place. And yet, Husband taking this so seriously raises my level of concern. He’s not a panicky kind of guy.

Days 0-1: Husband cranks up the thermostat as the storm worsens. “We might as well start the power outage with a warm house,” he says. When the power goes out, we’re prepared. We’re warm, we’ve had a good meal, and each of us has a flashlight. Huckle proudly lights his oil lamp collection. We nestle together like baby mice amid piles of sleeping bags and pillows in my study. Huckle and Sally think it’s great fun, like camping. Husband and I don’t think it’s great fun. We are listening to the wind beat the rain sideways against the house and watching the trees bend like circus contortionists. But we all sleep soundly, which is a wonderful answer to prayer.

Days 2-3: The storm ends faster than expected -- another praise. We can’t get much news, because even the cell phone towers are impacted. But the worst is definitely over, as are many trees and telephone poles. 

The house grows cold and colder. The kids bicker constantly -- probably helps them stay warm. Husband goes on long walks looking for cell phone reception because his clients in other parts of the country are still hard at work and so he must be too. Our nights have cozy “Little House of the Prairie” moments during which we snuggle in blankets around our tiny (= inadequate) electric space heater and read by candles and lamps, all the while waiting for the power to come back on. Huckle is feeling very self-satisfied. He studies by the light of his oil lamp “just like Abraham Lincoln” and keeps making comments like, “Aren’t you glad I collect lamps? Remember how you didn’t want me to buy this many oil lamps?” I let him light another lamp. 

The house feels especially cold and dark in the morning. Husband, an early riser, goes downstairs and starts the generator. We use it for a few hours twice a day: morning and evening. It keeps our water heater hot and our refrigerator cold. But every day it gets harder to get out of bed and face the cold. I think about Almanzo’s mother in the Little House book called Farmer Boy. I used to pity her, getting up before sunrise and spending all day in the kitchen preparing huge meals for her field-working men. Now I see the pleasantness of her situation: she hangs out with a warm fireplace and good baking smells all day long. My kitchen doesn’t have a fireplace, but it does have warm dishwater. I find myself doing lots of dishes to keep my hands warm. (“Hey, anyone have another mug to wash? Take your time…”) 

Days 4-5: Cell phone service is back, so we are again connected with the outside world. We learn that almost everyone else in our area has power back by now, including most of the streets around us. It’s a little maddening and a lot hope-inspiring – it might only be a matter of hours before we get ours. I call the power company repeatedly in case they’ve forgotten our street, as they did after Hurricane Irene.

Husband’s workplace gets power, so he is able to work from his office, which is a relief after all his challenges of keeping the high-tech world moving from our low-tech living conditions.  But I’m home in a dark, cold house with two squirrelly kids who don’t have homework (the opiate of the little people) because the school doesn't have power. I try to stay active but feel my brain shutting down. I wander around the house numbly putting stuff back in the basement and attic, breaking up arguments, doing more dishes. On Day 5 we venture far from home in search of propane. The stress of potentially not finding more wears me out. By the end of a day, I’m cold and tired and bitter and complaining -- NOT a Teachable Moment.

Huckle shines. He is a little Man of the House. I need to print a document but nearly give up in despair when I realize I’ll need a three-prong extension cord. ALL these cords running through our house and NONE are three-pronged?? My dear Huckle scrounges through a huge box in a dark corner of the basement. He finds and patiently untangles the sole three-pronged cord and connects my printer for me. Then he repeatedly shakes the near-empty propane tank to keep the generator running until my printer is done. It’s a beautiful role reversal moment, humbling and encouraging. I catch of glimpse of the wonderful man my son will become. He’ll probably visit me at the nursing home on Saturdays and push my wheelchair to the park. I think I’ll give him extra dessert tonight.

Day 6: Sunday is an especially good day. Resourceful Husband figures out how to hook up the generator to the furnace in our family room addition. It’s the warmest and most hopeful we’ve felt in days. Life seems normal-ish and we feel optimistic-ish. We even plug in a real lamp instead of finding our way in the flickering beams of flashlights and Huckle’s oil lamps. And we can be less stingy with generator time, because Home Depot has plenty of propane and our power could come on at any minute. We run the generator most of Sunday, feeling like hedonists. We have a lovely meal in the warm, welcoming home of dear friends Chris and Danielle.

Day 7: I realize that we have developed some strange new routines.

• On weekday afternoons, as it gets colder and darker, the kids and I hang out at the public library. I charge my cell phone and computer and call the power company, while Huckle and Sally do homework and check out every Hardy Boys book in the county that they haven’t already read.
• Every night before dark, I collect all our flashlights and kick stacks of Hardy Boys books out of the walkways so nobody trips.
• Once it’s dark, we all must be constantly on guard against the many, many extension cords that Husband has snaking through our whole house: up the stairs to Sally’s aquarium to try to save her tropical fish, down to the basement to power the chest freezer, through the back door to the study at the front of the house. Our house is one big fire hazard, and Husband is the Duke of Hazards. But that’s okay – we’re just making do a few more hours, because the power should come back at any moment. I call the power company, just in case.

Day 8: When we wake up, the furnace has broken. Apparently, connecting the generator has damaged the furnace. I can’t do this anymore. I give up. While the kids are in school and Husband is at his office, I pack our belongings and move our family in with the family of my kind and generous friend Carolyn. Sally is thrilled – we just moved in with her best friend! It’s like the ultimate multi-day sleepover! Husband and I are grateful to our dear friends but really, really just want normal back. We feel demoralized, defeated. We feel like refugees.

Day 9: As I’m taking another load of laundry over the Carolyn’s house, the power comes back on. It’s beautiful. Do you really appreciate how miraculous electricity is?? I press a button and the garage door opens! I flip a switch and the kitchen floods with light! I’m giddy with delight and thankfulness. The big furnace works for hours to raise the temperature from 42 degrees to 62. And 62 feels steamily, dreamily hot like a day in the tropics. 

One week later:

We’re okay now. We’re slowly winding up the extension cords and getting our lives back in order (and looking into whole-house generators). But Husband and I still feel the effects of Sandy, the PSSD. We still feel a little unsettled in our home and in our minds. I find it hard to concentrate and have to fight the urge to be a closet fatalist, expecting disaster to strike at any moment. I have irrational fears, like tortilla shortages. I can't look out the window without wondering which trees are so weakened that they'll fall on the house at the slightest breeze. I obsess over weather forecasts. But I know this will pass. 

The lesson I hope won’t pass is this: I see now how hard it is to provide thoughtful guidance to your children when you are in survival mode, when meeting the daily needs of your family for adequate shelter and food are all-consuming tasks. Our experience was only a superficial, first-world version of subsistence living – when the going got tough, we went out for Chinese. But now I think about parents who are truly “just making it” -- single parents struggling to make ends meet, families coping with severe physical or mental disabilities or emotional hardships, fragile communities caught in war or natural disaster. I have a new respect for anyone parenting under duress, since I nearly folded after nine days. It’s a lesson in being generous not only with what I have but with how I view others. "God bless us, everyone!"

B Isn’t Just For Bus, Kids

Yesterday my children learned a new word on the way to school. They learned it on a school bus. Literally on a school bus – our car came up behind a bus, and there was this new word, written in the thick dust coating the back window, right at eye level. 

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Huckle, leaning forward as we approach the bus at a stop sign: “Hey, there’s something written on that bus! Is that a real word? It says b-tch.”

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Oh. I didn’t see that coming. Hearing the b-word from acquaintances or on television hardly phases me. But hearing it from the mouth of my child knocks the wind out of me. 

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Here we go again, I think -- another intrusion of the world’s hate and injustice into my kids’ lives, another important but unwelcome Teaching Moment. Like last year when Huckle was studying the Civil War in school and I had to explain that racism is still prevalent. Or earlier this month when he asked me why we never eat at Hooters and got an earful about the subjugation and objectification of women. 

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My Inner Feminist and my Inner Sunday School Teacher are in collusion any time someone raises hate subjects. They prepare impassioned (but long-winded) lectures about respecting and valuing others as individuals, as God’s children. 

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Today, my Inner Mommy signals them to settle down and let her handle this with a simple, unemotional, and age-appropriate answer:

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“Yeah, that’s a real word. But it’s vulgar, used to insult women. So we don’t use it in our family.”

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Huckle gives a small “huh.” 

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Our car is filled with awkward silence. Poor kid. I can tell he’s now uncomfortable with that word brazenly staring at us from the back of the bus. I’m uncomfortable too. And when I’m uncomfortable, I often switch into Over-Explaining Mode, my coping mechanism for awkward situations. Inner Feminist and Inner Sunday School Teacher rush back to the scene with reams of lecture notes and sermon notes. They have words! Lots of powerful words! But – oddly -- my Inner Word Etymologist wins out:

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“Originally, the word referred to a female dog. Now it’s more frequently used as an insult. Interestingly, it’s has been used as a vulgarity for hundreds of years old, even by Shakespeare.”

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 There. I’ve changed the subject, sweet boy. Now we can safely discuss Shakespeare. Or the history of words. Or dogs. (Or even Mom's nerdiness. What -- you mean you don't have an Inner Word Etymologist?)

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Not the best use of a Teachable Moment, think my Inner Feminist and my Inner Sunday School Teacher. They frown over this wasted opportunity.

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The back seat is quiet as my son and daughter digest their new knowledge, an unwitting Adam and an unwitting Eve. The palpable loss of innocence in my car almost hurts. It’s like seeing a condom wrapper on the playground. 

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Still, on reflection I consider it a triumph in parenting that my son didn’t know the b-word for the first decade of his life, that the worst insult he has for his sister is “purple monkey.” [“Mooo-ooooommmm. Huckle called me a purple monkey again.”] Plus, more important than any Teachable Moment is the lifelong example we give our children, modeling respect for all people. 

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Best of all, everything comes full circle by evening. Though I had to start the day by sharing a painful word that wasn't my own, I was able to end it by sharing uplifting words more wise than any of my own. Providentially, our evening reading was Ephesians 4:

Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen. (v29)

Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you. (v32)

And that's a good place to end.