Parents Just Don't Understand

Shades of vintage Will Smith!

Faced with frustrations and inequities in his young life, my son has started uttering the classic phrase, "You don't understand! You don't know what it's like to be a kid these days!"

I don't know where he got it from, but it's not a new protest by any stretch of the imagination. I bet Cave Kid used to grumble, "Ma not get it. She still living in the Paleolithic Age. Things different today in Neolithic Age."
  
And it's partly true. The world I grew up in was different in many ways from the one my kids know today: less technologically advanced, a little slower-paced, more private, safer and less safe at the same time. So maybe I don't have a complete handle on what it's like to be a 21st-century grade-schooler in the age of Twitter, texting and Tea Partiers, but there's a lot more I can relate to.

I understand how it feels to be young and under parental supervision and scheduling. I still remember early bedtimes, school routines and being dragged along on errands when I would have preferred to hang out in my room.

I recall the frustrations of having to share with a sibling, eat meals I wouldn't have chosen for myself and do homework before going out to play. I remember hearing "no" to requests for toys. I still feel the sting of being excluded from the cool girls' club. Late at night, a little part of me still fears the shadows in the room and the mysterious thumps and squeaks (the ones that don't come from our upstairs neighbors, that is).

I also remember a time when my biggest problems were understanding long division, washing my long tangly hair and being the only kid in town whose parents drove a lime-green car with black-and-white houndstooth interior.

I remember when I didn't have bills to pay, an apartment to clean, deadlines to meet or doctors' appointments to make. I remember when my parents were young and active, not the demanding, forgetful nonagenarian and the overworked, stressed-out caregiver they are today. And I remember when a decent proportion of the day was mine, not taken up by the needs of employers and children (as loved and wanted as they are).

But I also remember that when I was their age, I couldn't imagine a time when I would be my age now. I know that for them, "the future" means next week and "the distant future" means their next birthday. I know that they can't imagine ever feeling any differently from the way they are now.

So all I can do is sympathize as best I can and let them feel the satisfaction of being misunderstood by adults who have no idea what life is like for today's youth.

One day, they'll be the ones who don't understand.

What I love about my children today:
The way they cheerfully helped pick up each other's rooms - no small feat, considering how reluctant they normally are to keep their own bedrooms neat.

My daughter saying to her brother, "I have a spot in my heart for you as big as this house."

My son saying to me with a grin, "Okay, I guess I have a little spot in my heart for her, too."

Scrooge's Gay Heart and Dickens's Language Lessons

I guess it's no surprise that both my kids love to read. After all, their mom read the word "Tide" on the detergent box before she was three years old, and their dad was poring over high-school science texts in elementary school. At homework time, reading is the first thing the children want to do, and they don't consider themselves too old to have bedtime stories read to them.

So I figured this year would be a good time to introduce my son to the original "A Christmas Carol." It's got Christmas, ghosts and a classic villain - how could it miss? And though the language can get pretty dense - when you get paid by the word, conciseness isn't your primary goal - I refused to use the edited-down version created by a columnist trying to reach today's attention-span-challenged kids. An almost-9-year-old who's racing his way through the Harry Potter series should be able to handle a few run-on sentences about Saint Dunstan nipping the Evil Spirit's nose and low-browed, beetling shops with masses of corrupted fat and sepulchres of bones.

So we began with the first "stave." (Stave, Charles? Really? Surely they called them "chapters" even 170 years ago, didn't they?) Since it takes a few pages for the ghost-action to rev up, I did worry a bit that D would get restless. But when I finished for the night, he said - and I quote -

"That was the most powerful language I have ever heard. It's making a movie inside my head!"

Huzzah! He was hooked! My first attempt at a Get-Them-to-Love-the-Classics Momsperiment was a triumph!

And so we went for the next couple of nights. Marley arrived, yoked to his weighty cash boxes. Scrooge relived his boarding-school boyhood and Fezziwig's raucous celebration. (Now that was an office party.) The Cratchits had their modest feast of goose and plum pudding before reluctantly toasting the Founder of the feast. Then, right after the round of guessing games at cheery nephew Fred's house, we came to this sentence:

Uncle Scrooge had imperceptibly become so gay and light of heart...

"HEY!" cried my boy. "He used a BAD WORD!"

Whoa. I knew what was coming. And while I knew this discussion would come up sooner or later, I wasn't sure I was ready to tackle it right at that very minute.

Blast. Why do Important Teachable Moments always come at the most unexpected times? Couldn't this wait till, like, 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon instead of bedtime on a school night? Couldn't we just keep going and zip ahead to the part where Scrooge buys the Turkeyzilla for Tiny Tim?

Nope. I signed up for the full mom-package when I took on the job, and having deep talks about social issues is mentioned right there in the small print. So I jumped in.

" 'Gay' isn't a bad word," I said calmly. "At the time the book was written, it meant 'happy.' What do you think it means?"

"It's when guys kiss guys," D said succinctly.

"Well, yes, today it's come to be used to mean men who love other men. Is that a bad thing?"

"It's just weird," he said. "Justin Bieber's gay."

I sidestepped that part. "Okay, you think it's weird. And I understand - it's a new idea to you. But that doesn't mean it's bad. Isn't it more important to love someone and have someone love you, no matter who it is?"

"Yeah. But it's weird."

Deep breath. "Being gay is a difference, just like being black is different from being white. You're Jewish, so you're different from your friends who are Christian. It's just the way the world is, and there's nothing bad about it."

He nodded.

"But here's the thing. What's not okay is to call someone "gay" as an insult. That's wrong, and it's hurtful. You wouldn't want someone to insult your religion, would you?"

That he understood. "Uh-uh."

By now it was way past bedtime. Time to wrap this up - but not before making one final point. "You know," I said, "you actually know some people who are gay. Not your own friends, but friends of Daddy's and mine. People we care about very much - and who you like a lot, too."

"Really?"

"Yeah. So using "gay" to mean something bad is hurtful to them. And I know you'd feel really bad if you found out you were saying something that hurt them. Right?"

"Yeah." A pause. "Mom, can you turn on the Star Wars radio show CD?"

So much for that. Well, at least the ice was broken. Maybe he'll bring up the subject again soon, or maybe it'll just get forgotten in the crush of more important third-grade thoughts like LEGOs, Pokemon cards and winter vacation. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing; it'll give me more time to prepare for the next deep discussion.

But now we know that Dickens's language certainly is powerful.

God bless us, every one.

Toddlers, Tramps and Tiaras

You're going to want to sit down for this one. Have the smelling salts ready. All set? Here goes:

This week's People cover story breaks the staggering news that the kiddie beauty pageants featured in TLC's Toddlers & Tiaras might be (gasp!) sending the wrong message to their sweet young contestants and the girls who might want to be just like them.

Bad enough, say child development experts and critics of the show, that these girls have to be subjected to spangled dresses, spray-tans and waxing, heavy makeup, hair additions and "flipper" false teeth in order to stay competitive. Now they blast the moms of recent episodes for pushing the limits of taste when it comes to costumes. For a celebrity look-alike pageant portion, one mother dressed her daughter as Dolly Parton, complete with mini-boobs and a padded rear.

Another "outfit of choice" featured 3-year-old Paisley strutting her stuff in a "Pretty Woman" getup:

"I would never, ever do that to my little girl - ever," sniffed the mom of a more modestly-dressed competitor. "It's outfits like that that give us a bad rap."

But when the crowns were handed out, guess who walked away with the Grand Supreme title?

Enough, cry the experts. Stop sexualizing our innocent girls. Stop telling them their value as people is directly tied to their looks. Stop pitting them against each other in contests where appearance and cuteness is all and prizes are won or lost on the brightness of their smiles and the style of their shoes.

Fine and dandy. Right behind you.

But don't waggle a disapproving finger with one hand and then dig into your wallet with the other to pay for the trappings of a very mixed message.

Why is it terrible to decorate a girl's room with trophies and crowns, but not with Disney princesses? Why is it wrong to spend tons of money on beaded pageant gowns, but not on T-shirts that say "Her Highness" and Halloween costumes of Rapunzel and French maids?

Why, yes. There's a huge difference here.

Why do we tsk-tsk over 5-year-olds in full competition makeup, but post pictures of our own girls getting their nails done at birthday parties? (Nearly half of all 6-year-olds wear lipstick or lip gloss, by the way.) Why do we scream at the moms on the TV screen when "Toddlers" is on, but say nothing to our children when they watch commercials for dolls with pouty red lips, elaborate wardrobes and hair-styling paraphernalia? Why is frill-loving Fancy Nancy a better role model than Fancy Paisley?

For that matter, why put on the I'm-shocked-shocked! act over a girl dressed as the ultimate hooker with a heart of gold, when we were part of the audience who made Julia Roberts a star because of that very role? Why are we suddenly squeamish when a child wears a belly shirt, short skirt and boots? Don't we see similar separates in the juniors section of the mall every day?

How about this "lingerie for girls" line from the French company Jours Apres Lunes?

Speaking of the mall, let's not even get started again on the Forever21 T-shirts that proclaim, "I'm just a girl - I don't need to bother myself with silly things like math and school."

"Oh, but that's different," you argue. "What we really object to is the whole idea of competition and parading these girls around in public."

Mm-hmm. And you'd never enter your daughter in a soccer match or a dance recital, either. You've never made a fuss over a girl dressed in her holiday best or exclaimed to a trick-or-treater, "What a beautiful princess you are!" Your local high school has to beg its female population to try out for the cheerleading squad - no Cheerios here! Nope, it's the kiddie beauty pageants that are wrecking our girls' self-esteem and tarnishing our otherwise spotless ideals of femininity.

As Peggy Orenstein points out in her excellent Cinderella Ate My Daughter, girls are bombarded by the pretty-pink-princess culture virtually from day one. But while parents can't avoid the exposure entirely, they can monitor what their children watch and wear, talk to them about what it means to be a girl and be aware of their own language when they talk about women, beauty, sexuality and self-worth. We can encourage our daughters to follow their own paths and discourage them from the negative messages.

What we can't do is get outraged about a show while still watching it often enough to make it the topic of magazine covers. And if we're truly serious about changing our society's fixation on beauty, let's examine our own behavior before we cast the first rhinestone.

Spiders, Crocodiles and 9/11

"Moooommm?" It's five minutes past bedtime. Stories have been read, water fetched, lights turned out, soothing classical music is playing. But all is not well in my son's world: "I hear a tapping noise, and I think it's coming from the CD player. Could you turn on the light and see if there's a spider there?"

There's no point in citing the infinitesimal odds that there actually is an eight-legger in wooden clogs doing the cha-cha in his room. At eight and a half, he's going through an arachnophobic stage  - "the more I know about spiders, the more I'm afraid of them," he says. I know it's best to respect his young fears, keep the ceiling corners clear of cobwebs and conduct the occasional CD-player spider check.

Later that night, my daughter wanders into our bedroom. "I had a bad dream," she confides. "There was a crocodile, and I fell into the water, and it was going to eat me, but then it ate you...can you come sit with me?"

Crocodiles show up in her nightmares often; she grabs my hand while walking through the zoo and aquarium just in case we happen to pass a croc tank. Sometimes it's ghosts, but the toothy reptile is tops on her terror list.

Soothing these nightly terrors is costing me a bit of sleep these days. But I just gulp an extra coffee (or two) and say a prayer of thanks that the only bad dreams they have are normal childhood fears of scary animals, which will go away in time. I'm grateful they don't have to live with the memory of the day far more evil monsters attacked their city and took away a nation's sense of security forever.

Born a few years after the attacks, my children are only just starting to learn what happened on that clear-blue September day. We use simple language, taking care not to overwhelm them with grim details, and offer reassurances that Mom and Dad will always do their best to protect them. For now, it is enough.

In years to come, they'll hear and understand more from the family members who actually lived through the horror. They'll learn how their father saw the towers collapsing from his office window and how he later saw coverage of  7 WTC - where he'd worked just a couple of years earlier - turning to rubble. They'll hear how their mother saw the buildings burning on her commute to midtown, spent a morning trying to get through to family on lines that went dead, then later joined the hundreds of panicked, tearful and stunned people walking across the 59th Street Bridge, hoping to get to a safety that no longer existed. They'll hear even more sobering memories from their paramedic aunt and Marine reservist uncle, whose son is named for a firefighter and former Marine lost in the attacks.

But my children have the blessing of distance. They and their peers will be shocked and saddened by what they learn, but it will never have a visceral impact on them, just as my generation can't fully comprehend the enormity of Pearl Harbor, Vietnam or the Kennedy assassination. (I'm told that after RFK was shot, I tried to comfort a sobbing aunt by saying, "Don't worry...there'll be another Kennedy.") Only a special subset of under-10 children will feel a true personal connection to relatives lost before they were born. For the rest of these 21st-century babies, September 11 will be a history lesson, not a part of their life story.

We parents, along with all who can and do remember, have an obligation to share the story and lessons of 9/11 to this new generation and the children who will come after them. We can't force them to mourn losses they don't truly feel - nor should we. But through our words, and more importantly, through our own actions, we can instill in them a pride in their country, a respect for those who serve it, a deep love and respect for all their fellow human beings and a passion for peace.

If we tirelessly make this our mission, then perhaps future generations of children will have nothing to fear but an imaginary spider in their bedrooms.

Summertime, and the Living Is...Full of Homework?

A friend of mine pointed out this morning that today is the start of classes in Washington, DC, and nearby Prince George's County in Maryland. Another neighboring county opens its school doors next week.

That news might have shocked me - if I hadn't just returned from a family trip to Tennessee, where public schools started on August 8. It took us a while to figure out why the hotel staff kept asking our kids how they liked classes so far, and why the local amusement park was only open on weekends.

Nearly three-quarters of all U.S. school districts now start their year before Labor Day; we in New York are among the few September stragglers. While our southern neighbors are prepping for tests and marking soccer-match dates on their calendars, we're only just getting around to hitting Office Depot for pencils, dry-erase markers, marble notebooks and schoolwork folders (five two-pocket ones, each in a different color even if your child hates green and purple, and label each one with your child's name and check it every afternoon and try not to freak out when he forgets to bring his assignments home for the third day in a row, kthxbai.)

The issue of school calendar length isn't a new one. The summer break was established in the 1840s in response to poor school attendance in urban areas and the fear that a year-round schedule was bad for children's health. Now we seem to be moving in the opposite direction, with some education experts arguing that an extra month of school could improve grades and boost American students' embarrassingly low international ranking in math and science. One of Rahm Emanuel's first acts as Chicago mayor was to add more hours to the city's relatively short school day. Even in cash-strapped districts that have opted to shorten the school week - cramming five days' worth of learning into four - parents worry that the lost day will spell academic doom for their children.

I'm all for better grades and educational excellence, but I'd still hate to see our children miss out on a season that's brief enough as it is. One minute we're turning on the air conditioner and biting into the first luscious berries of the season, and in an eyeblink, we're picking up yellow leaves from the lawn and retrieving jackets from the closet. To a child, summer is a magical space between the wool-wrapped gotta-do months of homework, curfews and extracurriculars. It's pools and playgrounds, family trips and camp friends, fireflies and dandelion fluff. It's even a time to be just plain bored - a concept kids hate, but which actually helps nurture their creativity and lets them unwind (especially if we resist the temptation to fill their boredom with TV and hand-helds).

Bad enough that across much of the country, two weeks before the unofficial end of summer, anthills lie unexamined and roller coasters wait impatiently for the weekend. Fewer ice-cream cones are being eaten, fewer sandcastles built. The smells of new-cut grass, salty surf and sunscreen are being replaced by more cold-weather aromas: Crayolas, gym floors, science-lab chemicals, cafeteria tacos.

Have a great school year, all you early birds - and I hope you'll spend at least a few of your post-dismissal-bell hours appreciating the warm-weather joys before they're gone for another year. Knowing that we're among the fortunate ones makes me appreciate these days even more, and I'll do my best to make my kids' final vacation days memorable.

(NOTE: The preceding opinion subject to change without notice, depending on how many times Momsperimenter hears the phrases "Stay out of my room!", "You stupidhead!" and "There's nothing to doooooo!" prior to September.)

Momsperiment Commandments on a Friday Afternoon

1. Thou shalt continue with thy vow to get thine act together, in hopes that thy offspring mayest see thine shining example and follow it like unto Patrick following SpongeBob.

2. In attempt to do same, thou shalt continue to be merciless in thine attempt to organize office space. If thou wouldst not want to pack it if thou had to pack up thy worldly goods tomorrow, it's outta here.

3. Thou shalt not dawdle in doing so, hard as it may be to motivate thyself. If necessary, thou shalt give thyself the old Mama Berenstain Bear "You'll feel so much better when it's done" lecture.

4. Thou shalt not, however, wear a polka-dot duster cap.

5. If thou shouldst delay, thou shalt keep this memory firmly in mind next time thou seest thine children yanking out all their Legos or setting up a tea party even as the clutter gathers 'round them. 

6. When necessary and convenient, thou shalt allot enough time in the day for adequate child-energy-burning. Thou shalt exercise patience and realize that in the eyes of the young, a day of swimming, playing games and painting murals in camp is considered merely a "good start." It doth not preclude 90 more minutes of scooter-riding and lightsaber-battling with the kids down the block, even as their dinner groweth ever colder.

7. Thou shalt not throw Mom Tantrums, even if thy children have just tossed a screaming and kicking fit of their own. Thou art the grownup, and as such must appear to be more in control than thou actually art. (Besides, adult tantrums don't even feel as satisfying afterward as childhood ones. Dang.)

8. Thou shalt not feel embarrassed about hanging on to old makeup sets. Thou never knowest when the visages of thy young may need to be covered in green eyeshadow for a space-alien party. (Purple eyeliner workest great for making extra eyeballs, too.)

9. Thou shalt remember the unearthed press release that emerged like a jewel under the piles of clutter and be grateful for clean desks, green eyeshadow, scooter rides and healthy children. (Thou need not, however, be grateful for polka-dot duster caps.)

10. Thou shalt not write another blog in pseudo-biblical language.

Clutter? UnBearable.

At our house, we're going through a big Berenstain Bears phase. You know the Bears: the literary ursine family that regularly tackles such nail-biting issues as fighting with friends, dining out, visiting the doctor, watching too much TV and - yes - nail-biting.

This week, we've been rereading The Messy Room. While the rest of the tree house down a sunny dirt road deep in Bear Country is in apple-pie order, Brother and Sister's room is a disaster area. Mama, sick of picking up after her sloppy cubs, is on the verge of tossing out all their belongings when Papa, the voice of reason, suggests a less drastic solution: organizing the kids' toys and sports equipment with the help of boxes, shelves and pegboards. The last page shows Bro and Sis playing amicably in the made-over space, proving the moral that a neat room is a more fun and relaxing place to be.

If this were my book, it would be called The Momsperiment Bears and the Rooms That Are Messy Because the Cubs Already Have Boxes, Shelves and Dressers, But Insist on Leaving Their Stuff on the Floor Anyway Even When Mom Asks Them to Put Their Things in Those Boxes, Shelves and Drawers.

Guess that doesn't quite fit on the cover of a paperback children's book.

Today, as promised, I started cleaning out my own untidy desk, on the theory that setting a better example might inspire my kids to follow it and reduce the need for nagging and reminders. (Also, the darn thing was so overflowing with paper that Tommy Gavin and the crew of 62 Truck were about to declare it a fire hazard.) It felt positively liberating to toss out the clutter, find long-lost items and see the workspace look like, well, a space for work. The last thing I found, like a little atta-girl hug from the universe, was a press release about writing a daily gratitude list, even when you don't feel grateful, to help you feel "conscious, aware and alive."

There's still a long way to go, but I did enough to make a difference. If this were a Bears book, I'd be showing off the neatened shelves to Brother and Sister and saying, "See how nice and organized the desk is? Now I can relax and focus on my work, and I feel good about what I've accomplished. If you try straightening up your rooms, I bet you'll feel the same way."

Then again, if this were a Bears book, the rest of the apartment would be spotless, my tulips would be well-tended, I'd be wearing a polka-dot duster cap and I'd have a hearty supper bubbling on the stove instead of wondering how to make a meal out of the orange juice, salsa and 10 strands of spaghetti currently in the kitchen.

Oh well. Good examples weren't set in a day.

(Random Thought: What's with the "Brother" and "Sister" deal, anyway? Were Mama and Papa so busy refereeing fights, cleaning the tree house and dining out that they forgot to consult their copy of Top 100 Cub Names?)