Posts

Posted on

The “Letting Go” of Parenthood Starts Early

My youngest started at a new preschool last week.  I have all the feelings about this — a sense of triumph and seeing that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel coupled with that awareness of how quickly our kiddos grow up and out.  He is our last, so we just had our last first day of preschool complete with photos and excitement, and in his second week, more than a few tears (his and mine).

His very first cubbie!
His very first cubbie!

Separation anxiety, albeit mild, has found its way into our lives this past week.  While our guy sailed through his first week of being away from home, the second week kind of snuck up on him and when we walked into his classroom, the tears and clinging started.  “Don’t leave me!” he wailed, as he clung to my hand.  His first task after walking into his class environment is to wash his hands (thank you, teachers!).  He would do so only if I held his hand through the process.  There was no chance of his letting go, his grip was tight.

But I did let go, because it was time.  Letting go is what parenting is all about, isn’t it?  It starts early and childhood becomes a series of events where we let go of them, literally and metaphorically, then, catch our breath and hope for the best.

I know I am biased about this, my perspective different than many of my parent friends.  When we buried our daughter, that was the ultimate “letting go.”  These other milestones with our sons are but a whisper to the roar of watching dirt being shoveled over our daughter’s casket.  And there has yet to be a milestone, a mark of letting go with my boys, that I have not celebrated, even when there are tears.

The crazy part of me has a bit of a thrill when watching my boy cry out for me.  I don’t know if it is because he is adopted or because we know he is our last child, but I take nothing from him for granted.  Every kiss, every, “I love you,” is a gift.  When he cries out, “Mama!” as I see him through the small window on the other side of the door, my heart breaks just as it fills to hear that word — it is such a prestigious and wondrous thing to be a mother, his mama.

My boy’s pleading call of “Mama!” is everything to me right now.  It is my role, my identity, my job.  When I hear it I transform into that sobbing Sally Field winning her Oscar and shouting out “And I can’t deny the fact that you like me!  Right now you like me!”  If I were to swap out the word “like” for “need” that could be me, standing on the other side of the door watching my boy try and cope as I let him go, humbled and honored that he needs me, certain there is nothing greater I will ever experience than being needed by my little ones.

And so, I let them go.  Because it is what they need.

 

 

Posted on

Hitting on Donald Trump: Pinata or Effigy?

I am not a fan of Donald Trump.  This is no secret.  Should he be elected the next President of the United States of America, I fear greatly not only for America, but for the world.  We talk about politics at home, so our sons have no doubt overheard us and we’ve certainly answered questions about the upcoming presidential election and the candidates when posed by our son.

Last weekend my older boy and husband went to a neighborhood block party.  It was an end of summer celebration on a warm day.  Lots of food and drink and good cheer.  Oh yeah, and a Donald Trump pinata, too.

I first heard about the Trump pinata sensation a few weeks ago at a party with the parents of my kid’s classmates.  I laughed with the others, thoroughly enjoying the irony of Candidate Trump’s likeness being made into a pinata — a symbol of celebration so closely associated with Mexico, our neighbor to the south that Trump intends to build a wall of separation from as a welcoming card.

But here’s the thing — enjoying the irony of an idea is a completely different thing that learning my son was taking a whack at a likeness of our Republican presidential candidate, even if it is a man I fear and don’t respect.  When my husband texted me an image of the pinata surrounded by young kiddos greedy for candy and the ring of smiling adults around them, I won’t lie, it made my stomach turn.

Photo courtesy of Matt Farmer.
Photo courtesy of Matt Farmer.

We are better than this, folks.  At least we should be.  At least I thought we were.

I asked my son about it when he returned.  He was fairly animated, telling me that when it was his turn to hit The Donald with a stick he thought about how angry he would feel if Trump were elected president.  Oh, man. I can’t lie, that was hard to hear.  The thing is, a seven year old, even one as precocious as my son, doesn’t typically hold anger and ill will towards people he doesn’t know personally.  It is clear that the thoughts and feelings my husband and I share about a Trump presidency have trickled down to our boy.

While I am A-OK with introducing politics to children, encouraging them to think critically, ask questions and come to their own conclusions, I draw the line at whacking an effigy of someone we disagree with, not only politically, but morally and ethically as well.

My boy and I had a chat about how I disapproved of the pinata.  We talked about anger and disagreement and conflict and how best to handle those things. We talked about pinatas and effigys and how those things are better off separated.  They are, in fact, very different things.  I told him that when I was a girl watching the evening news (remember when we used to actually watch the news?), it always scared me to see effigies of Uncle Sam or American presidents being destroyed.

As adults, we have to be responsible about how our own views and opinions are perceived and often embraced by our children.  It’s not so easy, though.  For me, my personal values — those things I wish to instill in my sons, are very much present in my politics.  Of course I support candidates whose values most closely mirror my own. It is an important aspect to the privilege of voting and democracy — choosing a candidate that best reflects our own views.

But here’s the thing:  I could easily see Donald Trump whacking away at a Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama pinata, laughing and hitting, hitting and laughing the whole way through.  The act of whacking an effigy is an ugly image.  It is base and primal and unsophisticated and not something I would ever condone, a lot like Donald Trump himself.  It would be hypocritical of me to condemn Trump for his hate and ignorance, then engage in hateful and ignorant behavior myself by whacking an effigy of the man.  And if it’s not good for me, it’s not good for my children.

This political season is one for the books.  It is ugly and dirty and only going to ramp up in the next two months.  During that time, as we listen to the news, comment on the latest outrageous sound bites, watch the debates, I am going to think critically about what I am adding to the situation that my son’s will see and absorb.  There is enough hate and ugliness in the world.  Our children don’t need to see more coming from their parents.  Disagree, discuss, clarify to your heart’s content so that the values you hold dear are what your kiddos see instead of a hanging effigy in the front yard being whacked for fun.

Posted on

Winona Ryder Is Middle Aged, So I Must Be, Too

This week I binge watched the new Netflix series, Stranger Things.  Loved it.  I watched it, in large part, because I really adore Winona Ryder. We are similarly aged (I’ve got two years on the gal), so my life milestones felt, in many ways, like they mirrored her characters on screen.  Imagine my surprise when I realized her starring role in the series was as the frazzled single mom.  Man.  It’s hard to deny your own middle aged status when your spirit ingenue has bags under her eyes that look so much like your own.

Sigh.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am not trashing Winona for having the audacity to age.  Nope.  Not going there.  I am simply and honestly stating that its hard to deny my own aging (and my relationship to said aging) when you see the aging, up close and personal in high definition, in the muse of your youth. Sobering is the word that comes to mind.

Winona as frazzled single mom of missing child.
Winona as frazzled single mom of missing child.

As I watched Winona through the eight episodes, there was the undeniable effect of watching my life fly by me at a startling speed.  I kept thinking of my Mom and I at the movies in 1982 when we went to go see E.T. Remember the single, frazzled mom from that movie?  Dee Wallace. Winona Ryder, and by extension, myself, are now Dee Wallace.  We are the overwhelmed, middle aged moms.  YIKES, I say!

When I think of Winona, I think of Heathers (1988) and Reality Bites (1994). I think of youth and beauty and pale skin with red lips.  I think of the MTV Best Kiss award she won for Bram Stoker’s Dracula in 1992 and watching that movie sitting in a different theater next to my crush at the time, the love of my life, and how our legs kept touching in the dark of the theater and how that felt electric to me.

In my head, Winona and I will always be young and fresh and 20 and misunderstood by the world.  Winona and I will forever be joint travelers on the path of “finding ourselves,” whatever the hell that means.

But the truth is that reality is not what happens inside my head.  Time passes, wrinkles happen, gray sets in and waist lines expand.  That is reality, and yes, it kind of bites.  The person I see in the mirror is not always someone I recognize anymore.  It’s kind of shocking to me.  I want to be that gal that is like every leading man that ever made a movie or a fine bottle of wine — getting better with age.  Yada yada yada.  The thing is, I’m not quite there yet.  I think part of me needs to say goodbye to the young woman that was — my inner Winona Ryder.  Ingenues grow up and so have I.

Winona in 1991, the year I graduated from college; Winona in 2016, the year I fully embraced being middle aged.
Winona in 1991, the year I graduated from college; Winona in 2016, the year I fully embraced being middle aged.

After I wrapped the series, I did a quick Google image search to see how real life Winona looks different than her character on Stranger Things.  Whew.  Order restored.  Winona remains the gorgeous creature she always has been.  Her penchant for wearing black remains intact.  Her warm brown eyes are as expressive as ever.  She maintains that edgy style I have admired in her since the late 1980s.

But I recognize the signs of middle age that I see every time I look in the mirror.  The eyes are a bit wearier, less bright, and more sunken.  The skin on the decolletage has the slightest whisper of crepiness to it.  The texture of hair is different, courser, and less shiny.  Yes, the signs of aging are undeniable.  And if I see them in Winona, I must, too, embrace them in myself.  Dammit.

I am middle aged, yo.  Just call me ma’am (short for middle-aged aging mom).

My hope is that I lean into my aging gracefully.  Embrace what is new and different.  Highlight those changes in a way that owns them rather than attempts to hide them.  I still love many things about the way I look, even if I don’t always recognize the gal staring back at me in the mirror.  The task at hand, I think, is to learn how to frame the changes that come with aging.  A new haircut, perhaps.  Different, lighter makeup is a possibility.  And I should probably stop shopping at Forever 21, except for costume jewelry.  They have the best costume jewelry, my friends.

Oh, Winona, my Winona.  We’re getting older, my friend.  Ain’t life grand?  It’s a bitch, too, but it’s a grand bitch!