Mama's Musings

Why Tweens are Like Weather

The saying, "If you don't like the weather in London, wait a minute" reveals a common truth about the meterological mood of the island country. It is as fickle as the tween that lives in our midst. One minute it's rainbows and sunshine. The next minute it's Hurricane Kathrina raging down the hallways of our home.

While she has gotten better at attacking my cooking (less), she has taken on the habit of lashing out when the world is too much with her. Come to think of it, that aspect of her personality has merely changed form ~ in the shape of an avalanche and a twister and a dash of helter skelter.

On Friday, dear daughter got to have two of her friends spend the night. They took over the laundry room and made it into their clubhouse (without asking, really, but since they were having fun, I didn't want to interfere). They watched a movie, got to eat pizza and two bags of chips and finally, after my final nerve had been plucked, settled down to the tune of 10 o'clock.

The morning greeted them with homemade waffles, syrup and powered sugar. They played til noon, then continued the fun at one of the other girls' houses. By 4 pm when she returned home, my daughter was a heap of oozy exhaustion. And I had failed to reminder her (for the third time), that we were going to attend church at 6 pm.

"Wha------huuut?" The look of disbelief quickly bled into a mass of horror and indignance. "You will be going without me!" our dearest daughter retorted to our casual, matter-of-fact, by-the-book parenting instruction. 

You can now imagine what happened next. If our family life were a concerto, you would see Mama moving from pianissimo to fortissimo in the pluck of a violin string.

"We would like to go as a family. End of discussion."

We entered official family meeting mode. He who held the tennis ball got to talk. That was fine when dear daughter held the ball, which she did incessantly, until I pried it from her fingers, reminding her of the rules of turn-taking (linguistics 101). We reasoned, we argued, we demanded.

The thump of a door like a timpani followed.

We went with dear daughter in tow.

We even sat one pew behind our good friends who had let us know about this monumental event. It was not just any old church service. It was the very first time in history (and our town is 1000 years old) that a joint Protestant-Catholic church service had been held. As a member of the minority (Protestant), we were going to support this effort, by golly!

The service lasted all of thirty-five minutes. When the kids found out the service was over, they gave us a jolted look of disbelief (a more pleasant one than the one shot prior by my daughter's sling-shot pre-church gaze).

But the crescendo, my friends, has yet to occur. Here it comes. Out of the blue, a harmonious word tumbled from our daughter's lips at lunch time today (thirty-six hours after the huff-n-scuff on Saturday night). With a ponderous look heavenward, she revealed a most melodious revelation: "I really shouldn't have made such a stink about attending church the other day. You were right, Mom. Gosh, you really were right."

I danced to the beat of my daughter's heart, giving her a loving sniff as I encased her in my arms like a cellist about to play.

"Forgiveness," I whispered, "is the key to love."

Amen to that!

Mama Bear Resting

Gaaarrrrrrhhhhhh.

That's the sound that came out of my mouth an hour after lunch. The dimness of mid-November sliced my pupils just so, making driving to my son's hair appointment a real drag.

"You should be a brown bear, Mama," I heard my son's eight-year-old voice rising from the back seat.

"I really need to hibernate," I said in sleepy tones made for bedtime.

"You could work off those thousand kilos like the bears do in the wintertime, Mama." The innocence of my son's insult made me giggle.

Giggle-gaaarrrrrrhhhhhh. There I went again.

Winter is made for hibernation. I claim we redefine the word productivity for the months' until we see the sun again. After all, how can we possibly be be as productive as the month's in which days are lighter?

Love means you really should say you're sorry

Even though my eyes seemed stuck to the back of their sockets in a weirdish, inverted position, I slowly rolled with a groan lept from the bed and into the shower this morning. It was my daughter's first day back to school after fall break, and I had promised her I would drive her to school at the ungodly hour of 6:50 am. She had lain in a puddle of tears the night before, casting off some mean girl saga I missed while I was traipsing about the universe sprinkling messages of slow and abundance.

So here we were, sitting on the kitchen floor and sorting through school supplies and my daughter's feelings to get to the bottom of things.

"And the worst part? She never even apologized!" my daughter exclaimed. I guess she was used to apologies being the normal ending to conflicts. Not so in the real world, I told her. We say we're sorry, but not everyone learns that courtesy.

I am roughly 27 hours into the full-time motherhood/work-from-home consultant gig, and I already feel worse for wear. Some of it has to do with residual jet lag. The other part has to do with getting back into the swing of things after a few weeks on travel. You can never fully simulate the feelings to marrow-deep exhaustion when you are away from home. It's only when you get there that you realize how much energy is required to keep the ship at an even keel.

Luckily, my kids are used to hearing and saying 'I'm sorry.' We've had a lot of practice, and my guess is it won't be the last time they hear it from me!

You gonna change the world, Mama

We have officially entered the tween years, those bittersweet days of little girl turned fire-breathing something or other turned little girl again. Just as you think you are about to hang her by her toes, my daughter does or says something that leads to redemption every time. And when I catch her at the right moment, there's downright love in her eyes.

This morning I awoke to the furious rantings of a ten-year-old whose father wasn't listening. In our adult way, we like to admonish, instruct and guide our young-uns towards, well, what we want them to do. Never mind we don't always do it ourselves.

No, you can't watch TV. Honey, where' the remote?

Because I said so. Now don't do what I'm about to do cuz, uh, it's not allowed.

I want you to come down here. Right. This. Minute. (Then we wonder when they use the same tone right back at us).

Sigh. So in my melodramatic half-sleep state (waving goodbye to the little REM I had acquired in a virtually sleepless night), I stomped down the stairs and into the corner where my daughter cowered with a blend of defiance and fright.

We battled in a weirdish Mom-not-awake way, then said goodbye in softer tones. By the time she had gotten home from school again, I knew she had taken a detour (again. And not allowed) via her old schoolhouse where her fourth grade teacher always listens to my daughter's concerns about getting a bad grade on her test.

She came home dragging her feet and announcing she had gotten a C- in biology. I ignored her for a moment, allowing her to hear herself before jumping in. Then I calmly asked her if she wanted salad. She appeared relieved that I wasn't addressing what she just had. I helped her print out a few pictures of cells for her science poster, then let her type up her text on her computer, something she loves to do.

"You know what, Mama," my daughter said in a wise-like (and not at all wise-a$$) tone. "Your new book** is gonna change the world. All those people are gonna step back and take a moment to actually think before they destroy the planet and themselves. I mean it. It's cool." Then she trounced off the hang up the wash without a single vitriolic huff, leaving me with my mouth agape at the transformation, and the trust, my daughter just displayed.

**Book events calendar here.

All Made Up

Starshine Roshell's latest blog post, Gloss of Innocence, got me to thinking about tweens and make-up and what role models our children have today. Heck, in Germany we have Bill Kaulitz of Tokio Hotel who really makes his smokey eyes stand out. I'm still dealing with my daughter, much less my son. Boys and make-up? Now that's a blog post for another day.

So let's get to this one because it's a hot topic in my sister's household, too, right now. When is it okay for your daughter to wear make-up?

My ten-year-old daughter and I have had the make-up conversation several times. It goes something like this.

"Are you wearing make-up?"

Silence.

"You are, aren't you?"

More silence, squirm, then the denial.

"No, I'm not!" She pouts.

"Then why do you have dark rings under your eyes?"

She chews her lip and looks sideways, then punts:

"I want to look more like you!"

Is she referring to the dark circles under my eyes or that she wants to look more grown-up?

A classic Catch-22 of parenting ~ you take the heat either way. And, it's a topic we mothers of young girls can't merely gloss over...

The Pushing

We push our kids into the world. Literally. As if to make up for all that pressing, they push back fairly quickly - and it lasts for years, I'm told. At first, it is through their infant cries at all hours. Later it's through their incessant requests such as candy for breakfast. 

Later still, as they enter the delicious tween years of Hannah Montana and "Yo, Ma, I said 'Hel-looooo!" you begin to see where all this pushing leads. It can actually be great fun as you dance the dance of motherhood to the beat of your children's hearts.

Storytelling is one technique I've employed since the pushing began. It first came in the form of a lyllaby and one-way bedtime stories. Soon the kids could speak, and it took on a new quality of storytelling with a question and answer session before bed. As the children struggled with issues of sharing and compassion, I developed story characters who struggled with the same things ~ Mr. Heart and Mr. Head whose battle of wills taught them the heart is always right; Bubbly Bobbly, a southern boy from the Louisiana Bayou who'd rather fish than study and whose peach cobbler-baking Big Mama frets and wails at his indiscretions; Miss Kitty, the prim fluffy white Persian who resides in the penthouse of the Luxury Hotel and whose only desire is to be the Center of the Universe for all to admire (okay, who doesn't really have that desire, but as parents we realize you can't always get what you want, but you get what you need).

The tween years have presented their own set of pushing qualities - who am I and why does my mom act so weird? I have suddenly become an embarassment to humanity, especially to my ten-year-old daughter, who likes to hear stories about boyfriends and womanhood.

No sooner have I gotten used to all the pushing when a certain pulling away has begun. It was barely visible in the beginning ~ an odd look cast in my direction as I cracked the same joke that seemed hilarious just the week before; a petulant need for quietude in her room; a virulent "Mah-mmmm" uttered with a tinge of virtriol.

Inspired by life, sustained by my children, I have not run out of stories just yet.

A message from Andy Andrews

I don't normally post anything other than my own prose here, but I have to admit this one moved me beyond belief. Perhaps it's because I'm missing my own dad who visited us for a week last month. Or maybe it's Andy's moving message about hope, love, and being up to something greater than ourselves. At any rate, I am bending the rules on this one. I think it's worth it. I hope you think so, too.

A Father’s Day 2009 Message from Andy Andrews (author of The Noticer)
 
You remind me so much of my Daddy
 
I have been a Dad now for nine years.  First Austin, then about six years ago, Adam.  Beautiful boys.  They crawl all over me, watch me, run to me when they are hurt, and of course, I am trying hard to become the man they think I am—the man my father was.   Sometimes, I wonder if I will live up to the example he set for me.
 
“You remind me so much of your Dad.”  I still hear that often from people who knew him.  It is a compliment.  Though appearance is a factor, I believe it to be the similarity in our personalities to which they are referring.  My father was a nut.  Not a “professional nut” like I have become—but a nut nonetheless.
 
He was a minister—the minister to all the kids in town.  My friends loved him.  They had no choice; he made them laugh!  Coming home from a date on any Friday night, I might find as many as twenty teenagers at our house.  They would all be gathered around my Dad—all listening to him talk.
 
“Speak French, Mr. Andrews,” someone would say.  And he would do it.
 
“Speak Russian now!”
 
“Spanish!” 
 
He “spoke” them, too.  My father had never actually learned a foreign language, but he had a way of pronouncing individual syllables that seemed incredibly real.  Using facial expressions and hand motions, he could convey his crazy thoughts—though no one ever understood a word!  To my friends, it was the funniest thing in the world.
 
A local newspaper reporter once asked to interview Dad during what he termed “an unusually slow news week”.  When word got out about the upcoming feature, our whole church and neighborhood was in a frenzy of anticipation.   Everyone knew that “Brother Andrews” wasn’t very tolerant of people who couldn’t take a joke.  It was also a common theory in our town that the reporter conducting the interview must have had her sense of humor removed as a child.
 
No one was disappointed with the article.  It included the reporter’s comments about how fortunate the Baptists were to have a minister who not only spoke fourteen languages, including Swahili, but also to receive guidance from a man who often fished with Billy Graham!  I have wondered many times if Dad ever asked forgiveness for those lies.  I doubt it.
 
I was proud of the fact that even the “non-churchgoers” considered my father “an okay guy”.  I’m certain that part of that feeling stemmed from the fact that he quite often (and sometimes quite publicly) denounced hypocrisy in it’s many forms.  He could be extremely direct.
 
Early in his career, he spoke to a group of women who made up the Women’s Missionary Union (WMU), one of the most vocal (and volatile) forces a Baptist church ever generated.  As local legend has it, he said, “Ladies, I have three things to tell you.  Number one is that there are a lot of hurting people in this world.  Secondly, most of you don’t give a damn about any of them.  And thirdly,” he added, noting the shock on their faces, “it is a shame that most of you are more concerned about a minister having said the word “damn” than you are about all those hurting people!” 
 
Purely as a father, he was relatively simple.  He only had a few hard and fast rules.  I very clearly remember the Top Five. 
 
Number one:  “You will stand when a lady walks into the room.  This includes your sister and your mother.”  Dad was sure that my wife would appreciate him for that rule one day.  He was right—and my boys now do the same for their mother.
 
Number two:  “You will eat some of everything that is being served.  You will eat everything on your plate.”  Dad, having been raised during tough economic times, was a stickler about this one, but I was such a picky eater that this rule was no longer in effect by the time my sister arrived.  I think “The Big Liver Stand-Off of 1965” must have worn him down. 
 
Number three:  “Do not hit your sister.”  This was (no contest) the hardest rule to obey.  My sister never had a “do not hit your brother” rule in place, and as a result, did so quite often.
 
Number four:  “Never play in the living room with firecrackers, water balloons, skates, mud, a yoyo, bullwhip, or the dog.”  This rule actually started out a plain old “never play in the living room”.  All the other things were added in time.
 
Number five:  “Always tell the truth.  Half the truth is a lie.”  My father believed that the truth was like a wild animal—just let it loose and it will defend itself.  “It doesn’t matter if a thousand people believe something stupid and untrue,” he once told me.  “It’s still stupid and untrue!”
 
My Dad.  He had grown up in the South during the forties and fifties—a product of that place and those times, but without many of it’s prevailing attitudes.  He publicly dined with Wilma Rudolph, a black athlete, on several occasions in the early 1960’s—both  before and after the infamous church bombings in his own city.  Dad was a Baptist minister in Birmingham, Alabama at the time.    
 
He didn’t have the means to pay for my college, but he saw that I went.  And he saw that I worked and paid for it myself.  And when I left school to “be a comedian or a speaker or something”, he and my mom were the only people who didn’t publicly declare that I had lost my mind.  Dad told me, “Son, I’m behind you.  The measure of a man’s worth is not in what he does—it’s in what he is becoming.   I don’t care if you want to dig ditches for a living—just dig good ones!  Then I’ll bring my friends around and show’em the ditches my boy dug.  I am proud of you now and of what you are becoming!”
 
Daddy died in an automobile accident about a year after Mom lost her battle to cancer twenty-eight years ago.  He wasn’t wearing a seat belt at the time.  But that is, honestly, the only thing I hold against him.  He loved my mother.  He loved my sister.  And he loved me.  What a great Dad!
 
Last night, I watched Austin and Adam sleep.   I said a prayer for their future and one for their father’s part in it as the night-light cast a shadow over their sweet faces.  I thought about how proud I am about what they are becoming.  And in awe of the feeling that often comes over me lately, I whispered quietly to them:  You boys remind me so much of my Daddy. 
 
Andy Andrews is author of the NY Times best selling book The Traveler’s Gift (featured on ABC’s Good Morning America as a book-of-the-month selection).  His new book, The Noticer, has just hit the NY Times best seller lists and is available in bookstores nationwide. 
 
For more information visit www.AndyAndrews.com

My Name Ain't Baby

You might be getting tired of my woeful posts about my ten-year-old growing up, but people, it's not been easy. Sitting with a sense of unease, I pound the keyboard trying to make sense of my rapidly maturing daughter.

This morning at 7:30, I dropped her off in the rain at the busstop. She is going on her first overnight school trip to a town about one hour away. Standing with the other talkative mothers, I felt like a duck out of water. They didn't seem at all concerned (or perhaps their incessant chatter was masking their own discomfort). My daughter stood next to her friend, beaming with a blend of thrill and fear.

Should I go? I whispered to her. She looked down at her shoes, then quietly replied, "Sure." Then, with the confidence I know so well, she added, "But don't you dare call me..." Baby. I mouthed the word, then smiled weakly, walking backwards and away from her. She grinned encouragingly, then turned to her friend, engaging in a lively conversation of which I am no longer a part.

If I can make it there...

Dashing off to New York today to meet with a few interesting people, including my publisher at St. Martin's Press. It's an exciting moment in time as my life dream of publishing a book with a major New York publishing house comes true. The kids are excited to be, as they say, released from the Mother Thumb. If only they knew their father has two of them...but they'll find out in time (crescendoing laughter orignating deep in the throat...).

In a kind of strange, almost sickish way, I enjoy watching my family squirm with slight discomfort at my departure. It tells me how much they really rely on me. In those moments of heigtened awareness, my children tend to be a bit more loving.

"Here's a picture for you, Mama," my daughter offered. "I'll give it to you for a bargain price. Two euros."

Capitalism enters the Romper Room.

I could tell something was eating at my husband last night as I packed my cosmetic bag. Standing in the bathroom at 10 pm, he finally blurted out, "I'm gonna miss you."

The cost of a hand-painted Sophia original? Two euros. The mountain-size love they give me as I leave for six days? Priceless.

Money isn't everything, but your credit might be

The first time I got a credit card, I was eighteen years old. Although my mom co-signed the card, I knew better than to rack up the bills. She taught me well. You could say she passed along her good credit karma to me.

 

So it's no wonder Credit Karma (www.creditkarma.com) has come into being. The brainchild of CEO Ken Lin, it is a site that provides consumers free access to their credit scores, offers free advice to parents on how to establish good credit habits with their children and helps them prepare their kids for a healthy financial life.

 

Ken shared his finance tips for kids with me. I hope you'll enjoy them. And pass on the karma. We could all use a little of that right now.

Start small by teaching young children about money management through their interactions with you.

·         Teach them by using daily errand activities as small impromptu lessons about money and budgeting.

Give a weekly allowance as a way to teach your children about spending responsibly and budgeting.

·         Pick a reasonable amount of money and give it to them in small denominations like $1 and $5 bills rather than a $20 dollar bill. Encourage your children to save a portion of their allowance every week by calculating the amount that could be saved in a month or in a year. Older children can benefit from opening a savings account which will educate them about deposits and withdrawals.

Explain the difference to your children between wants and needs.

·         Encouraging your children to save and earn for something that they really want is a good way to teach healthy spending based on delayed gratification. Help your child keep accurate track of their money by giving them a chart and piggy bank incentives like $5 for every $20 that they save.

When your child grows into a teen, you may consider giving them a prepaid credit card or access to a parent’s credit card**.

·         This is a convenient way for you to introduce them to credit, but it might end up leading to startling monthly bills if your teenager is not careful. You should sit down with your teenager every month and show them how their spending is affecting your credit score so that they will understand how theirs would be affected. (**Editor's Note: with a very low limit. If you can't pay off the total amount in one month, rip it up before it gets maxed out).

Help your child choose the right credit card.

·         Users tend to be very loyal to their first credit card, so helping your child compare annual fees and interest rates is important to establish the right long-term credit relationship.

Students who have credit cards in college can find it difficult to handle their money because of the pressure that they have to spend on a limited income.

·         Teach your children early about responsible credit card use, debt and late payments and fines. Check their balances with them to help make sure that they stay on budget and take the time to go over their credit score and reports often to help them stay on track at all times even while away at college.

Luckily, I only ever maxed out my credit card once as a teen. And I learned my lesson never to do it again.

 

Karma.

 

It's a good thing.