parenting – Page 2 – Don't Gel Too Soon

CITY LIGHTS BOOKS, SAN FRANCISCO AND MY LOVELY SONS

When I was in high school this was one of the places I dreamed of coming: San Francisco’s City Lights Bookstore. Far from my home in Pittsburgh, arty, intellectual and free. Ironic then that all these years later I’m here, usually, to visit sons ten years older than I was when I set my sights on Greenwich Village or Bloomsbury. . . or San Francisco.

One lives here; the other’s girlfriend lives here so he pretty much commutes here from Seattle. It’s a perfect place to meet and spend the holidays. We came out for Thanksgiving and are here again, this time since Christmas day.

It’s been lovely, if a bit stressful: a new girlfriend for our younger one – we had dinner with her – and the pressure that comes from wanting infrequent visits to go well. At best we see one another every couple of months; both boys wish we lived closer which makes me feel good but it’s tough that we don’t — and have not much prospect of ever moving this direction.

Now it’s our last day and the usual burgeoning lump in the throat has appeared. Both boys have been genuinely happy to be with us and have ditched their calendars to spend the week with us. I’m very grateful for their attention – they think I’m nuts and say of course they want to be with us. For some reason this astonishes me. We do have fun – jabbering about everything from Benazir Bhutto to series television. Lots of laughter and the additional delight of seeing the boys and Josh’s friend Amy laughing and enjoying one another’s company. But as the time comes to leave, board the plane and fly back to our DC lives, a determined sadness permeates even the happiest of moments. I once interviewed Naomi Foner, mother to Maggie and Jake Gyllenhaal and the woman who wrote Running on Empty, a film about children leaving home in a particularly profound and complete way. "Parenthood is the only job" she told me, "where you measure success by how well you say goodbye."

Manifestly, we’ve done that well. Our boys are strong, self-sufficient, productive men who are friends to one another and love their parents. They know we’re here but know too that they can take care of themselves. In that way, we’d be defined as successful. But. But. No matter how proud I am, how grateful for their strength and wisdom, humor and goodness, I miss them.

They are the treasures of my days and will always be, and the physical distance that prevents an easy Sunday afternoon movie or Chinese dinner and makes every visit an event is always a painful reality.

I’ll deal with it and so will they. It’s the way things are – and it’s certainly better to want them more than we see them than to have them sigh with relief when we leave for the airport. And whether we’re there or not, their lives are rich and often joyful. And so, I tell myself, at least when I’m missing them, I know they’ve become the men I would have wished them to be – for their sakes, not ours. And that’s a lot. It doesn’t put them here next to me — but it does send with me a quiet peace amid the sadness. That’s really all I can – or should – travel with. The rest — working toward and achieving what they want from their lives and moving forward in the world — belongs, as it should, to them.

Happy New Year.

SHARING FRIENDS, BUILDING BRIDGES

These two little guys, Josiah (in the closet) and Noah (in the doorway) just met each other. That didn’t bother them, of course. Five minutes after they met, which was about ten after seven this morning, they had each grabbed a push toy and taken off down the hall, leaving their moms to get to know each other.

Josiah’s mom, Anna, is very dear to me. Once our neighbors, she and her husband moved back home to Atlanta once this sweet young man arrived. They’ve got great family and childhood connections here in the land of the peaches so it’s only fair, but we miss them like crazy. I’ve loved having this trip to see their new house and the life they’ve built here because seeing it and knowing it’s right for them makes it a little easier that it’s not near us.

Noah (now don’t get confused – I mean Noah in the picture though Josiah’s father is also named Noah) is the son of my friend Liza – also a blogger and good, good friend. I introduced the two moms; I don’t seem capable of not doing such “you two should REALLY know each other” matchmaking, and it made me so happy to be with them and their boys. Somehow it’s easier to be far from them if they’re near each other.

I’m supposed to be the wise older friend but I’ve mourned Anna, Noah and Josiah’s departure almost daily – happy for them and so so sad at their absence from our old movie weekends and quick last-minute meals. We’re wealthy in our friendships and deeply grateful for the families who have become part of ours, but loving one friend doesn’t mean you don’t miss another one. So it was a real joy to be with them and to know I’m leaving them richer for having met one another. See you soon my sisters.

BONNIE AND CLYDE, VIOLENCE AND TIME PASSING

Last Sunday the New York Times reminded us that Bonnie and Clyde, a film seared behind the eyelids of people like me, is 40 years old. I remember it particularly because just after I saw it, I went to a 21st birthday dinner for a friend at her uncle’s home on Park Avenue in Manhattan. I was new to such places then, and, despite my anti-war lefty politics, both thrilled and intimidated – particularly because her uncle was a writer of some renown. For a college senior, it was another experience milestone.

Along with most of adult America, our host had been appalled at the violence of the film. We, on the other hand, argued that the film was an accurate metaphor for the violence in Vietnam; a social comment that spoke deeply to all of us. The argument was long, fierce and audacious — and, of course, unresolved. I haven’t seen the film in many years and am curious how I would react.

I’ve become a lot more sensitive to visual violence as I’ve raised my sons. Beverly Hills Cop was released when my younger son was five. His big brother was nine and really wanted to see it; since we hated leaving Dan behind, he came too. Do you remember the ending? It was a gun battle too but multiples more gory and violent than Bonnie and Clyde ever dreamt of being. The worst part? My son was upset, yes, but the audience barely reacted – and many cheered. Film and TV violence in the years between 1967 and 1984 had escalated slowly, right in front of us – and we had barely noticed. That progression has continued.

It’s a creepy dilemma. I’m a true romantic who revels in love stories like Bull Durham (1988) and Shakespeare in Love (1998), oldies like Now, Voyager (1942) and two I’ve written about before, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947)and Rebbecca (1940) as well as decade-old satires like Wag the Dog (1997)and Warren Beatty’s (aka Clyde’s) masterpiece Bulworth (1998). But another of my favorite films is Pulp Fiction (1994)- steeped in violence, much of it random. Silence of the Lambs, too. And of course, The Godfather Trilogy (1972, 1974, 1990) None of these, and other more "realistically violent" films, would have been possible before Arthur Penn brought Bonnie and Clyde to life.

My protective instincts as a mother and activist clash with my respect for the vision of the artist and the gifts those visions can bring to the rest of us. This isn’t a new conversation of course, any more than it was new in 1967. It’s been going on as long as artists have. What’s different this time is that I was a kid when Bonnie and Clyde slammed into our lives; now I’m at least the age of that angry uncle. I know a lot more and that colors how I look at things I don’t know.

I named this blog Don’t Gel Too Soon because I struggle to stay open – available to understand, to appreciate, that which comes next, and to remember that no matter how lovely the lovely there’s more to life than that. And that, after all, if someone doesn’t help us to see it, we can’t join together to change it.

YOU ASKED FOR IT

That’s me with my older son, Josh, in Muir Woods outside San Francisco — pretty many years ago. I don’t know if you can tell but I’m pregnant with his brother. Happy to join the virtual shower although despite my adoration of and respect for both Liz and Catherine, I’m from the generation that put their babies to sleep on their stomachs and so may sound a little old-fashioned.

1. Don’t do anything that doesn’t feel right no matter whose advice it is. 2. Trust yourself. 3. Remember that everybody makes mistakes and anyway a child is not a product, she is a person. You’ve heard that kids are resilient. They are. Do your best with love and if you don’t dwell on your mistakes neither will they. 4. You can’t turn a child into someone. You can only help them become the best somebody they already are. 5. Don’t be afraid to say no. Parents who don’t set limits and help their kids learn self-discipline are selfish. It’s easier but it’s not right. 6. No experience is wasted on a child. Maybe they’re too young to remember, but if it happened, it had an impact. So share as much of what you love as you can – music, museums, trips to Timbuktu or Target — poetry, cooking, washing the car. 7. No child ever went to college in diapers. 8. Listen to experienced people you respect, preschool teachers, friends, even, God forbid, your mother. Experience really is a great teacher. Then, though, think it through and then do what you think is right. 9. Everything is not equally important. Pick your fights and win them. 10. Leave time to just be. Lessons are great but quiet time is where imagination and a sense of self emerges. 10. LISTEN to your kids. They are smart and interesting and wise and if you respect them you have a far better chance of having them respect you. 11. Did I say trust yourself?

With love, admiration and the joy that comes from knowing all you wonderful, poetic and caring, committed and in one case, very new mothers on the occasion of this lovely virtual baby shower.

WINE, WOMEN AND PLAY DATES (Yeah I’m late on this)

I must have been one of the last people on the planet to hear about this ruckus — a profile of mothers together at the swing set, pushing the kids with glasses of wine in hand. As I read in Her Bad Mother, the story appeared on my old alma mater THE TODAY SHOW, where I worked for nine proud and happy years. I don’t know whether I’m more upset with the content of the story, the reaction or the fact that TODAY is, generally, so much less substantial than it was when I worked there. ADD THIS: I just read most of the back story to all this at the source: Melissa Summers’ Suburban Bliss. If even part of it is true (and I have no reason to doubt any of it) then it’s far more a scandal about television than it is about drinking and moms. PLEASE READ THIS. It also includes links to many comments on the matter.

As I said before I read Melissa’s very troubling post, "This story looked unbalanced to me – at least the video did, so I was glad to learn from Jenn Satterwhite’s Mommy Bloggers post that TODAY is planning a follow-up on Friday." In the mean time take a look at what Catherine (Her Bad Mother) and others (Google Blog Search turned up dozens of posts) have had to say about this. I want to watch the follow-up before I say anything. I lived around bad alcohol issues at one point in my life and am very sensitive to the issue so am remaining silent for now.

PLEASE COMMENT though if you have thoughts about this.

Teach Your Children Well

Much of what I enjoy about other blogs, particularly "mommy" ones, is the sense of irony that is so different from my own sentimental view of parenthood. Brutally honest and often painful, they reveal wounds and issues I don’t think I could talk about on line. Loving mothers and beautiful writers, women like Liz at Mom 101, Mir at WouldaCouldaShoulda, Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored and Jenn at Mommy Needs Coffee are all gutsy beyond measure in their honesty. Mocha Momma Kelly, Liza from Lizawashere and BeenThere’s Cooper Munroe are just as honest but with a different tone – one more familiar to me. All perspectives are worthy, moving and wise.

Here’s one of the few times I really feel generational difference though. These bloggers are substantially younger than I am; I’m old enough to be the mother of most of them. I don’t feel that difference often, but today, with one of my boys gone already and the other leaving tomorrow, I just can’t get un-sugary.

The great gift of raising children is I am sure the most profound privilege life brings us. The pleasures are infinite. To my delighted surprise, they don’t stop when these tiny people emerge as full-blown adults, taking their places as productive, loving, principled men. The entire time they, and Josh’s girlfriend Amy, were here this week, was so great that I’m struck dumb with gratitude and love.

For an entire afternoon excavating six boxes of treasures from 20 boxes of childhood stuff — from broken Nintendos and the Jerry Garcia’s death issue of Newsweek to Double Dare sweatshirts and high school yearbooks, they worked, sorted, laughed, read aloud, complained, laughed some more, and got it all done despite my best efforts to help. I wish I could tell you what it felt like to see them laughing together over a first grade "book" Dan had written or once-treasured but minor value baseball cards, remembering the pleasures and joys of their lives.

Nobody’s life is perfect and our family certainly has had its share of pain, but there is a beautiful foundation that holds us up – draws us to one another and fills us with love. That’s corny. We have two sons who are funny and attractive and honorable and productive and considerate and who clearly love us. We are grateful. That’s corny too. I don’t know how to say that with any self-restraint or discipline – stylistic or otherwise.

I adore these young men even as I struggle to retain the distance they deserve (reasonably successful), welcome them when they want to be with us (easy as pie), shut up when they need to be someplace else( do my best), keep my mouth shut when I disagree (getting better all the time.) I am very proud of their self-reliance and accomplishments, their candor about obstacles in their lives, their incredible humor — they are both very funny, particularly when they are together — and their gentle, loving souls. They’ve accepted our newly religious lifetstyle with interest and respect. They are also very good to one another. I revel in their friendship, all the flying back and forth for concerts and birthdays, and great gifts they give one another.

In other words, I’m a corny, unoriginal mom. My sons have brought an unanticipated portion of joy and satisfaction, fun and admiration, adventure and idealism, into my life. And they love us. Stupid us. Despite all the mistakes and complications. I’d love to be able to be a bit ironic about it, to ditch what my kids call my "pink Cindy glasses" for a while just to see how I would sound, but it ain’t gonna happen. So I hope all my edgier colleagues will tolerate this gooey post and understand my inability, tonight, as the year winds down and this family visit winds with it, to say anything except "God I love my kids."

WILL YOU STILL NEED ME, WILL YOU STILL….??

My older son used to shave his head. He’d lost lots of hair on top anyway so just shaved all of it off and looked way cool. I used to tease him that he needed an earring too but he said he was his own kind of rebel – being the only person to graduate from his free-spirited university with "no new holes." He’s always been his own self. Very cool, he and his equally groovy brother have kept me up to date with what’s new in music, books, film and world view. They are, honestly, two of the most interesting people I know. But I digress.

Thursday night at a Thanksgiving dinner in his new, very beautiful condo, he started talking casually about his grey hairs. GREY! Then his [younger] brother chimed in about "a couple" that he had. Now this is not easy. If my children have grey hair what does that make me? Not to be selfish or anything but it’s kind of disconcerting.

Aging is inevitable and I’ve been fortunate in my progress along this continuum but when your kids begin to demonstrate the passage of time you have to take a deep breath and accept it. I just read a piece in the New York Times about Baby Boomers refusal to join AARP. I can relate to that. My PARENTS belonged to AARP. No thanks.

Yeah — that’s me just above here. I think in 1967.

I feel about as silly as Peter Pan ( I won’t grow up. Not a penny will I pinch. I will never grow a mustache, Or a fraction of an inch. Cause growing up is awfuller, Than all the awful things that ever were. I’ll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up, No sir, Not I, Not me, So there!) but that doesn’t change my mind.

An old friend used to say "Call me adult anytime you want; just don’t call me a grown-up." I guess that’s how I feel. Counter-cultural and generational identity is strong in people my age and I feel it particularly. I did dozens of Boomer stories when I worked at the TODAY SHOW – including a series when Boomers (including me, Bill Clinton, George Bush, Ben Vereen, Donald Trump, Susan Sarandon, Goldie Hawn and Cubby O’Brien) began turning 40 in 1986 and an entire year of anniversaries of 1968 in 1988. I am formed and INformed by the time of my birth and have always known it. I joke that I’m a "walking demographic" but it’s true.

SO. I will handle the grey hairs on the beloved heads of my beloved sons. I pray for and wish them well in their own journeys and am more grateful than I can describe both for them– and for the experiences of my own eventful life. And that’s not bad — not bad at all.

WHOSE LIFE IS IT, ANYWAY? (PART 2)

I just found the ultimate wise woman post for how to deal with a teenager. Respectfully. Apportion responsibility gradually. Etc. It dealt with something I posted here a couple of days ago about blogging and our kids. And their privacy. And just who owns whose life? Everyone loves Grace Davis anyway, but this was just such a great thing. Take a look.

When I worked at iVillage Robert Schwebel, who is still their resident child psychologist and a wonderful man, told me he sees successful child rearing as "the gradual transfer of power." Doesn’t that make perfect sense? And what Grace did, with such, well, grace, was to transfer, to her daughter, power over her own story and respect for her privacy. I’m just so impressed.