It's July. Where did that come from? What happened to the happily middle ground of heat and cold called June? It was cold, rainy, miserable. And now it is unbearably hot. Really? Come on. If you don't believe in climate change, let me just invite you to peruse our spring weather here in the "desert" of Idaho.
My brain tends to go in random directions. So if you're not in a rambling mood, please desist immediately.
It occurred to me yesterday that we spend more of our lives as parents of adults than we do as parents of children. Granted, childhood seems very, very long when you are the befuddled parent of three small children. but now that I've been parenting for almost 22 years, I am really enjoying parenthood more and more. Because the hard part (I hope) is done. They are transitioning into adulthood and doing well at it. They like to hang out with me (mostly because they get free food/laundry/gas if they do, I'm not naive), and I like to hang out with them. So it seems to me that fostering a close and pleasing relationship with our children is the most important thing we can do as parents. Yes, yes, we want to instill in them strong values, a good work ethic, and a drug free lifestyle, but really most of those things are a result of living by our own values. You can't beat that stuff into your children. And no matter what kind of grades they get, if they drink before they turn 21, if they hang out with the wrong crowd, if they don't share your religious or political beliefs--none of that matters in terms of parenting. What matters is can you talk with them as equals? Can you find common interests. Can you stand each other? I can happily answer yes to all these questions. So the future of parenting for me is looking good so far. That makes me feel great. After all, they're the ones who have to take care of me in another 40 or so years.
On a related note, living in a house with a pre-menopausal woman and a nearly 15 year old boy is not always congenial. I have determined that I think 15 is the worst of the teenage years. My son Peter will turn 15 in a couple of months. He is often surly, grouchy, hungry, tired, unmotivated, and irritated by everything. I've been through this twice before, so I don't take it personally, but I'm older now. I'm also tired, irritated by everything, etc. You get the picture. However, at least I have the experience to know that engaging in arguing or pointing fingers does no good. I usually just wait until a better mood finds its way into Peter's psyche. Usually when he's talking about Dr. Who, has been watching comedians, has just had a large caffeinated beverage, or I'm taking him to Burger King. Then I can broach the subject of the pile of crap he needs to do. Nevertheless, we do have a close, similar-interests kind of relationship mentioned above. We both like comedians, camping, and other stuff. So I think we'll make it. Until the hot flashes hit. Then it's every male for himself.
Speaking of males, tomorrow is my oldest brother, Mike's, birthday. He's a LOT older than me, just to clarify. (No offense, I just want to emphasize what's left of my own young years.) So, since I've profiled my mom and dad recently, I think I shall briefly comment on Mike. Mike was always kind of removed from my life as a kid, since he graduated and left home when I was in 4th grade. I do remember his hippie years fondly. How my grandma Ruth commented, upon seeing his long, long curly hair when he returned from Spain, that he looked like a girl. High five, grandma. I remember how he hitchhiked to and from college. My mom worried like crazy. Our family liked to play games like Monopoly, hearts, and Risk. It seemed to me that he always won. He was kind of a ruthless competitor.(Okay, not "kind of." He was a mean ruthless competitor.) Being the little sister, I often finished out these games in tears. He liked to argue. (Who of the McClanahans doesn't like a good argument?) Again, being younger and not as world-wise, I usually ended up in tears. As we got older and I became more liberal in my politics and religious views than Mike, we had a frequently contentious relationship. Even so, he has always been my big brother and I looked up to him. Even if he did royally piss me off. Several years ago, though, Mike made a move to forge a closer brother/sister bond. He reached out to me and began calling once a week. We talk on the phone now more than we ever talked in many years. We still don't agree on quite a few things, but we can manage to talk and share of our lives together. Happy birthday, big brother.
I think that's all my brain power for now. The heat has zapped what else I might have had.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
My Dad
It's father's day, and I just wanted to share some memories of life growing up with my dad, Lester McClanahan. He's still with us on planet earth, but I don't get to see him very often.
One memory that occurred to me the other day was Sunday afternoons with dad. We lived out in the country, and didn't have much on the tv, except sports. While our Sundays were often full of football or baseball on tv, much of the time, we relaxed. One favorite of mine was playing the card game War with my dad. As you know, War is one of those games that can be over in a minute or can go on and on for an hour. We sat on the living room floor and played and laughed.
Our Sunday morning routine was to stop on the way to church to pick up the paper. Since we had a 13-mile drive into town, my dad would toss me the comics which I read while we drove to town.
When my family moved from New York City out to South Dakota, my parents decided that is where they would retire. They promptly bought a gorgeous 23-acre ranch and proceeded to spend every Saturday for the next decade preparing it, building a house, and digging a well. My dad had this old jalopy of a Jeep pickup truck. On Saturday's I would sit in the back and we'd drive up to the ranch. At first, we dug post holes for fence. Hard work, so I am pretty sure I helped out for about five minutes then went off to explore the hills. Then we dug the well house. Same story. Then the house. We all put in a ton of hours on that place. As a teen I sort of got tired of spending every Saturday up there. But those are fond memories of bouncing along the dirt roads in the back of the pickup.
During the summer when I was home from school, we would eat lunch together. We would have a bologna sandwich (or maybe fried spam or peanut butter--I know, right?) and listen to Paul Harvey on the radio. Then he would watch a soap opera and take a short nap. Then he'd go back to work. How many kids watched lunchtime soap operas with their dads? Not many, I'm guessing.
Coming from Irish and Scottish stock, my dad had a temper, and it was best to stay on the good side of that. But he also was quick to laugh and paid attention to his children.
I remember routinely getting off the school bus at Wind Cave and going into my dad's office to just say hi. It was really cool that I could do that. Just pop into his office.
When it was time for me to go off to my sophomore year of college, I transferred to Carleton. He drove me out. I don't remember a single thing about the trip except that it was cool having a road trip with just me and my dad.
I am always glad that I had the privilege of having my dad walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I have known many women whose dad was already gone by that point. I am one of the lucky ones who got the joy of my dad by my side on that special day.
When my first child was born, Dad would hold her in his special grandpa hold and sing "Clementine" to her.
Dad and I have had many differences throughout the years, but he is always my dad. He always is proud of me and will always listen to me. Like many of us do, Dad has mellowed with the years, and nowadays he is more ready to apologize when things get tense. He cries when it is time to say good-bye because no one knows if it will be our last good-bye or not. He gives big bear hugs. I know my dad would have done anything for us, because he did. He worked hard and he took his role as dad seriously. Lots of fathers were not very present, but he was.
I love my dad. And I wish you the most awesome father's day today.
One memory that occurred to me the other day was Sunday afternoons with dad. We lived out in the country, and didn't have much on the tv, except sports. While our Sundays were often full of football or baseball on tv, much of the time, we relaxed. One favorite of mine was playing the card game War with my dad. As you know, War is one of those games that can be over in a minute or can go on and on for an hour. We sat on the living room floor and played and laughed.
Our Sunday morning routine was to stop on the way to church to pick up the paper. Since we had a 13-mile drive into town, my dad would toss me the comics which I read while we drove to town.
When my family moved from New York City out to South Dakota, my parents decided that is where they would retire. They promptly bought a gorgeous 23-acre ranch and proceeded to spend every Saturday for the next decade preparing it, building a house, and digging a well. My dad had this old jalopy of a Jeep pickup truck. On Saturday's I would sit in the back and we'd drive up to the ranch. At first, we dug post holes for fence. Hard work, so I am pretty sure I helped out for about five minutes then went off to explore the hills. Then we dug the well house. Same story. Then the house. We all put in a ton of hours on that place. As a teen I sort of got tired of spending every Saturday up there. But those are fond memories of bouncing along the dirt roads in the back of the pickup.
During the summer when I was home from school, we would eat lunch together. We would have a bologna sandwich (or maybe fried spam or peanut butter--I know, right?) and listen to Paul Harvey on the radio. Then he would watch a soap opera and take a short nap. Then he'd go back to work. How many kids watched lunchtime soap operas with their dads? Not many, I'm guessing.
Coming from Irish and Scottish stock, my dad had a temper, and it was best to stay on the good side of that. But he also was quick to laugh and paid attention to his children.
I remember routinely getting off the school bus at Wind Cave and going into my dad's office to just say hi. It was really cool that I could do that. Just pop into his office.
When it was time for me to go off to my sophomore year of college, I transferred to Carleton. He drove me out. I don't remember a single thing about the trip except that it was cool having a road trip with just me and my dad.
I am always glad that I had the privilege of having my dad walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I have known many women whose dad was already gone by that point. I am one of the lucky ones who got the joy of my dad by my side on that special day.
When my first child was born, Dad would hold her in his special grandpa hold and sing "Clementine" to her.
Dad and I have had many differences throughout the years, but he is always my dad. He always is proud of me and will always listen to me. Like many of us do, Dad has mellowed with the years, and nowadays he is more ready to apologize when things get tense. He cries when it is time to say good-bye because no one knows if it will be our last good-bye or not. He gives big bear hugs. I know my dad would have done anything for us, because he did. He worked hard and he took his role as dad seriously. Lots of fathers were not very present, but he was.
I love my dad. And I wish you the most awesome father's day today.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A Mother's Day Tribute to Wanda
My mother, Wanda McClanahan, deserves all the best things this Mother's Day. I've been wracking my brain trying to think of what to give her. David, the husband, always useful, suggested that what she would like most would be a poem or something written by me. I'm not much in a poem writing mood, mom, so I'm writing you a blog post.
My mom and I have not always had the best relationship. Once I hit puberty, she probably wanted to send me far, far away. And as I recall, I would have happily gone far, far away. I have to confess, I wasn't much better as a daughter when I hit adulthood. I had a lot of issues, none of which are her fault. But I spent a good many years thinking she was at fault. I'm sorry. That was unfair.
However much I complained, fought, blamed, my mom never gave up on me. She always supported me in every way, never told me to go to hell (which would have been perfectly understandable and deserved if she had), and always told me how proud she was of me.
Here are some of my best memories of life with my mom. My earliest and favorite memories of my mom are of curling up next to her while she read to me. And she read to me a lot. I had this one book about a silly witch who had a haunted house and some people bought it and turned it into a tea room. I loved that book, along with the one about the muskrat children who didn't get along and Miss Twigglie's Tree (I think that was the title). These memories are cozy, warm, and loving. What a great thing to give me. Thank you mom.
My mom was an efficient production unit, sewing all our clothes, canning food she either grew or picked, and doing all kinds of community work. I remember really early on, when we lived in New York, she would go sew sheets or something for needy people. I got to tag along because I wasn't in school yet. Later on, I tagged along when she went to every farm within 50 miles and picked corn, beans, berries, and all kinds of yummy food to be canned at home. I'm sure I complained a lot about that, but looking back, it is a good memory. I especially liked picking wild berries with my mom. She never let a berry bush go by unpicked. We picked gooseberries, chokecherries, raspberries, everything. She transformed these into delicious jellies we ate all year long. I'm sure I complained about all the icky home canned vegetables, but now I wish I had paid more attention and learned how to do it myself.
I have fond memories of coming home after school in August and September to the smell of pickling spices. It's a very vivid sensory memory.
Because we lived in the country, Mom had to drive me into town for every thing I did. Swimming lessons, band practices, girl scouts, everything. This she did willingly. I know I was glad for the day I got my driver's license, and I'm sure she had mixed feelings of relief and terror at the thought of me driving myself along those windy roads into town.
My mother tried to provide the stability and safety to her children that was lacking in her own childhood, and I never understood this until much later in my life. She doesn't talk much about the hardships she faced growing up, but I admire her tenacity and the choices she made to make a good life for her own family.
We did have a good life. In those days, moms told their kids after breakfast to go outside and play. When your playground is a national park, that's the best. We spent all our summers playing outside, hiking, pondering, mulling, and otherwise occupying ourselves. It was the best.
When it was time for me to go off to college, I wanted to go out of state, and to a private school, no less. At first my parents weren't sure that scheme was feasible, but Mom eventually realized it was what I needed, and she supported me in that choice. I'm sure it was a hardship financially. But they did it. When I wanted to transfer after the first year, my mom's main concern was that I not drop out. She really wanted me to graduate from college, because she did not. Thank you mom.
I am not an easy daughter, and I wish my mom had had a daughter who was kind, respectful, easier to raise, and appreciated her more. All in all, though, I feel that my mom gave me a great start in life, and I think I'm pretty okay. After 48 years, I find myself appreciating my mom more and more all the time. And I just wanted to let you know. There have been times when I've been downright horrible to you, mom, and you did not deserve that. I am sorry for those times. I hope the good things have overshadowed those times. These memories are precious to me and I hope to you as well.
I love you. Happy Mother's Day.
My mom and I have not always had the best relationship. Once I hit puberty, she probably wanted to send me far, far away. And as I recall, I would have happily gone far, far away. I have to confess, I wasn't much better as a daughter when I hit adulthood. I had a lot of issues, none of which are her fault. But I spent a good many years thinking she was at fault. I'm sorry. That was unfair.
However much I complained, fought, blamed, my mom never gave up on me. She always supported me in every way, never told me to go to hell (which would have been perfectly understandable and deserved if she had), and always told me how proud she was of me.
Here are some of my best memories of life with my mom. My earliest and favorite memories of my mom are of curling up next to her while she read to me. And she read to me a lot. I had this one book about a silly witch who had a haunted house and some people bought it and turned it into a tea room. I loved that book, along with the one about the muskrat children who didn't get along and Miss Twigglie's Tree (I think that was the title). These memories are cozy, warm, and loving. What a great thing to give me. Thank you mom.
My mom was an efficient production unit, sewing all our clothes, canning food she either grew or picked, and doing all kinds of community work. I remember really early on, when we lived in New York, she would go sew sheets or something for needy people. I got to tag along because I wasn't in school yet. Later on, I tagged along when she went to every farm within 50 miles and picked corn, beans, berries, and all kinds of yummy food to be canned at home. I'm sure I complained a lot about that, but looking back, it is a good memory. I especially liked picking wild berries with my mom. She never let a berry bush go by unpicked. We picked gooseberries, chokecherries, raspberries, everything. She transformed these into delicious jellies we ate all year long. I'm sure I complained about all the icky home canned vegetables, but now I wish I had paid more attention and learned how to do it myself.
I have fond memories of coming home after school in August and September to the smell of pickling spices. It's a very vivid sensory memory.
Because we lived in the country, Mom had to drive me into town for every thing I did. Swimming lessons, band practices, girl scouts, everything. This she did willingly. I know I was glad for the day I got my driver's license, and I'm sure she had mixed feelings of relief and terror at the thought of me driving myself along those windy roads into town.
My mother tried to provide the stability and safety to her children that was lacking in her own childhood, and I never understood this until much later in my life. She doesn't talk much about the hardships she faced growing up, but I admire her tenacity and the choices she made to make a good life for her own family.
We did have a good life. In those days, moms told their kids after breakfast to go outside and play. When your playground is a national park, that's the best. We spent all our summers playing outside, hiking, pondering, mulling, and otherwise occupying ourselves. It was the best.
When it was time for me to go off to college, I wanted to go out of state, and to a private school, no less. At first my parents weren't sure that scheme was feasible, but Mom eventually realized it was what I needed, and she supported me in that choice. I'm sure it was a hardship financially. But they did it. When I wanted to transfer after the first year, my mom's main concern was that I not drop out. She really wanted me to graduate from college, because she did not. Thank you mom.
I am not an easy daughter, and I wish my mom had had a daughter who was kind, respectful, easier to raise, and appreciated her more. All in all, though, I feel that my mom gave me a great start in life, and I think I'm pretty okay. After 48 years, I find myself appreciating my mom more and more all the time. And I just wanted to let you know. There have been times when I've been downright horrible to you, mom, and you did not deserve that. I am sorry for those times. I hope the good things have overshadowed those times. These memories are precious to me and I hope to you as well.
I love you. Happy Mother's Day.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Let Me Just Say This About That
So, most of you who know me know I went on a cruise to the Bahamas last week. Sounds glamorous, right? Not really. I have to, in all fairness, state right up front here that I was biased against cruising before I even went. I've never, ever felt interested in going on a cruise. (So why, then, did I go on this one, you ask? Well, it was all paid for and it was with a group of people with whom I volunteer, and we got a ton of great information during our meetings.)
My idea of a great vacation/trip is one in which I can be far, far away from other people. Ideally, I should not see another person besides my family. Barring that, I should see minimal amounts of people. Or at least have somewhere I can go to get away from the madding crowds. In short, I'm not fond of vacationing with hundreds, or thousands, of others. Cruising is like the antithesis of that. You cram 3,000-4,000 people on a floating high rise hotel, complete with disco, casinos, bars, shops, coffee, and liquor. You see them everywhere, in all their horribly touristy glory. You see them in their spring break drunkenness--so attractive. You see them in their leathery-from-spending-too-much-time-in-the-sun skin, sagging out of the bikini they wear to show off their multiple tattoos. You see them stuffing their faces with endless piles of always-available food. If you aren't a little sick right now, then I guess you might like cruising.
Another element I like in a good vacation is plenty of peace and quiet. Preferably with the sounds of the natural world all around me. Again, cruising does not equal that ideal. I mean, you might imagine that you'll have the sounds of the waves, the breeze blowing through the palm trees, or the call of some native bird. No. What you get is constantly piped in bad 80s music. Unless, of course, there's live music, which is usually louder and worse. I wanted to sit out on the deck drinking my pina colada (okay, there are some nice things on the cruise, namely tropical drinks) and reading my book. But the live band was so loud, there was nowhere on deck you could escape from the booming bass. Even when we spent the day at the beach, piped in music and/or live music (which was a little more tolerable, since it had steel drums and a reggae beat, which at least felt somewhat in the spirit of the surroundings). The only place I could get away from this constant drone of bad music was in my cabin (more on why that was not pleasant soon) or on the fabulous sea kayaking excursion I went on. Now THAT was my kind of thing. Out on the water, no music, lots of sea life. I wish the whole trip was like that. (And yes, I am strongly considering a return trip for just that purpose, minus the cruise.)
I was hoping that getting off the ship at Nassau would be a delightful moment to see what a real Bahamas town was like. Oh, so naive. Can you say tourist trap? We walked through a port area with so many people hollering at us to sell us water, photos, tours, hair braiding, and total junk, it almost made me cry. A local friend showed us to the straw market, which is supposedly one of the really cool things in Nassau. Why? I don't know. It's a giant tent spanning about a city block. Inside are hundreds of vendors with products piled up to the roof, and they are all hawking their wares at you, all at once. The aisles are only wide enough for one person to pass through, so it is slow going--all the better to sell you something. Most of the items are pure junk. This is supposed to be special?
I took off on my own after that. I did see a really wonderful museum exhibit on slavery. I saw the many historical buildings, some beautiful churches, and the Nassau public library, which had once been a jail. The parliament, supreme court, and other government buildings were all a pastel pink color, which I thought quite amusing. But then I stumbled back into the fray of tourist-town, where shopping was the name of game, and duty free was the theme. I tried to get away again, finding myself walking through vast stretches of very depressing, empty or burned out buildings. Aside from the touristy crap, what I saw of Nassau was really sad. Now, of course, there's a whole lot more to the city than that, but I would venture to say it is not pretty, which is why tourists don't get there.
My lifestyle has never been about luxury accommodations, and I'm just as happy in a bunk in a yurt as in a resort suite. So our broom-closet-sized cabin did not bother me. It was actually kind of fun to see how small they can make a bathroom and have it be still functional. (Answer, about three square feet. I suppose I exaggerate a bit. Maybe four square feet.) The nice thing about our room was QUIET. Room service was fast and tasty. (And free, with our group package.) Everything about it was fine, except for the lack of window and the smell of mildew. (which might explain why I am now sick after returning home.)If I am going to sleep on a hard surface with no space to spread out, I might as well be in a tent in the mountains, preferably next to a river.
Finally, my life is so not about stuff. It's more about experiences. (And let me tell you, this was some experience.) So it really turned me off that every three seconds, someone is trying to sell you something. Whether it's an upgrade, a drink, a tour, a bingo card, or whatever. Even my massage (which I did indulge in--see experience) therapist wanted to sell me hundreds of dollars of products.
Another turn off was the sense of being in a herd of cattle, from the line to check in on board to the safety drill to the disembarkment routine to the buffet line. I felt like just one of the many other cows being guided into the corral.
Despite all this, I had a wonderful time. Why? Because of the exceptionally fabulous people I was with--the SCBWI regional advisors and others. What an amazing, creative, funny, and hard working group. It was all worth it. And we did enjoy making fun of the oddities of life on board.
The one day I dreaded most of all--the private island belonging to the cruise line--turned out to be the most fun. We sat around no the beach chatting, then kayaking, all the while finding it odd that bulldozers were planting palm trees, which are not native to that island. It was surreal.
I probably won't be cruising again anytime soon, but some sun and sand was a welcome respite from days like today, with gloomy skies and sleet. And meeting all these wonderful new friends will be something I will always treasure.
My idea of a great vacation/trip is one in which I can be far, far away from other people. Ideally, I should not see another person besides my family. Barring that, I should see minimal amounts of people. Or at least have somewhere I can go to get away from the madding crowds. In short, I'm not fond of vacationing with hundreds, or thousands, of others. Cruising is like the antithesis of that. You cram 3,000-4,000 people on a floating high rise hotel, complete with disco, casinos, bars, shops, coffee, and liquor. You see them everywhere, in all their horribly touristy glory. You see them in their spring break drunkenness--so attractive. You see them in their leathery-from-spending-too-much-time-in-the-sun skin, sagging out of the bikini they wear to show off their multiple tattoos. You see them stuffing their faces with endless piles of always-available food. If you aren't a little sick right now, then I guess you might like cruising.
Another element I like in a good vacation is plenty of peace and quiet. Preferably with the sounds of the natural world all around me. Again, cruising does not equal that ideal. I mean, you might imagine that you'll have the sounds of the waves, the breeze blowing through the palm trees, or the call of some native bird. No. What you get is constantly piped in bad 80s music. Unless, of course, there's live music, which is usually louder and worse. I wanted to sit out on the deck drinking my pina colada (okay, there are some nice things on the cruise, namely tropical drinks) and reading my book. But the live band was so loud, there was nowhere on deck you could escape from the booming bass. Even when we spent the day at the beach, piped in music and/or live music (which was a little more tolerable, since it had steel drums and a reggae beat, which at least felt somewhat in the spirit of the surroundings). The only place I could get away from this constant drone of bad music was in my cabin (more on why that was not pleasant soon) or on the fabulous sea kayaking excursion I went on. Now THAT was my kind of thing. Out on the water, no music, lots of sea life. I wish the whole trip was like that. (And yes, I am strongly considering a return trip for just that purpose, minus the cruise.)
I was hoping that getting off the ship at Nassau would be a delightful moment to see what a real Bahamas town was like. Oh, so naive. Can you say tourist trap? We walked through a port area with so many people hollering at us to sell us water, photos, tours, hair braiding, and total junk, it almost made me cry. A local friend showed us to the straw market, which is supposedly one of the really cool things in Nassau. Why? I don't know. It's a giant tent spanning about a city block. Inside are hundreds of vendors with products piled up to the roof, and they are all hawking their wares at you, all at once. The aisles are only wide enough for one person to pass through, so it is slow going--all the better to sell you something. Most of the items are pure junk. This is supposed to be special?
I took off on my own after that. I did see a really wonderful museum exhibit on slavery. I saw the many historical buildings, some beautiful churches, and the Nassau public library, which had once been a jail. The parliament, supreme court, and other government buildings were all a pastel pink color, which I thought quite amusing. But then I stumbled back into the fray of tourist-town, where shopping was the name of game, and duty free was the theme. I tried to get away again, finding myself walking through vast stretches of very depressing, empty or burned out buildings. Aside from the touristy crap, what I saw of Nassau was really sad. Now, of course, there's a whole lot more to the city than that, but I would venture to say it is not pretty, which is why tourists don't get there.
My lifestyle has never been about luxury accommodations, and I'm just as happy in a bunk in a yurt as in a resort suite. So our broom-closet-sized cabin did not bother me. It was actually kind of fun to see how small they can make a bathroom and have it be still functional. (Answer, about three square feet. I suppose I exaggerate a bit. Maybe four square feet.) The nice thing about our room was QUIET. Room service was fast and tasty. (And free, with our group package.) Everything about it was fine, except for the lack of window and the smell of mildew. (which might explain why I am now sick after returning home.)If I am going to sleep on a hard surface with no space to spread out, I might as well be in a tent in the mountains, preferably next to a river.
Finally, my life is so not about stuff. It's more about experiences. (And let me tell you, this was some experience.) So it really turned me off that every three seconds, someone is trying to sell you something. Whether it's an upgrade, a drink, a tour, a bingo card, or whatever. Even my massage (which I did indulge in--see experience) therapist wanted to sell me hundreds of dollars of products.
Another turn off was the sense of being in a herd of cattle, from the line to check in on board to the safety drill to the disembarkment routine to the buffet line. I felt like just one of the many other cows being guided into the corral.
Despite all this, I had a wonderful time. Why? Because of the exceptionally fabulous people I was with--the SCBWI regional advisors and others. What an amazing, creative, funny, and hard working group. It was all worth it. And we did enjoy making fun of the oddities of life on board.
The one day I dreaded most of all--the private island belonging to the cruise line--turned out to be the most fun. We sat around no the beach chatting, then kayaking, all the while finding it odd that bulldozers were planting palm trees, which are not native to that island. It was surreal.
I probably won't be cruising again anytime soon, but some sun and sand was a welcome respite from days like today, with gloomy skies and sleet. And meeting all these wonderful new friends will be something I will always treasure.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Benign Neglect as a Parenting Strategy
I realize there are as many parenting styles as there are parents. And of course, we usually think ours is the best approach. I can definitely say as the parent of three kids that one method does not necessarily work for every child. My three children are all cut from their own cloth and respond to things quite differently.
Overall, I think I've been a pretty good parent. Some probably think I'm way too lenient. I think they're way to strict. Some think I let my kids run all over me. I think I listen to them. In the end, the measure I use is this: as my children move into adulthood, do I like them? Do I want to hang out with them? Are they the kind of people I respect? Are they good, compassionate, helpful, kind? And here's the other piece: they all seem to want to hang out with me. Now, I'm not stupid. I realize that this is in part because they need money. But it's more than that. We have forged a relationship that holds meaning beyond the parent-child spectrum. We genuinely like one another. (Most of the time.)
I have often described my parenting style as one of benign neglect. Or laziness. Benign neglect sounds better. But here's the thing. It basically boils down to letting the kids deal with whatever consequences arise, unless I think they are putting themselves or someone else in serious danger. (Which has never happened yet.)
So when my child wants to stay up all night, I merely ask that they keep it quiet so I can sleep. They will discover tomorrow that they are tired, don't feel well, can't stay awake in class--whatever. And they almost always learn they don't enjoy that. Same with drinking a gallon of soda. I don't lecture them on nutrition. They've heard all that before. But when they don't feel good the next day--they know why. I've never censored television, books, movies, music, or anything else. They have proven that they have enough sense to self-regulate. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that most of tv is just trash and not mentally satisfying in any way. So they give up watching it.
I know friends who think I'm a wuss. Who think I'm not willing to stand up and be a real parent. Who think that I should learn that I can't be their friend. But here's what I notice. They are the ones struggling with their children. They are the ones whose kids continually go down the path their parents don't want. They are the ones who can't get their kids to talk to them.
My main goal as a parent of teenagers is to be the kind of parent who is approachable, who they can talk to about anything without being afraid they are going to get into big trouble. I would rather know where they are and who they are with and what they're doing so that I can help if things get to the point where someone is in danger: drugs, alcohol, sex, whatever. If they won't talk to me, they could get into big trouble that is difficult to find your way out of. Those things are way bigger than if they stay up too late at night or get a bad grade in a class.
My children know the expectations, though. They know that if they commit to something, we expect them to honor that commitment. They know we expect them to take school seriously--but not too seriously. Peter, our 14 year old, has some pretty awful grades right now. Instead of grounding him or lecturing him, we talk to him about it. He already felt bad, already made a plan to bring up the grades. We knew they were mostly a result of missed assignments, and that it will all come out in the wash by the end of the quarter. Peter knew he wouldn't get in trouble, so he knew there was no reason to hide his grades from us. He knew we expected better, and what's more important--HE expected better of himself.
That's really why I find my benign neglect strategy to be the best one for us. Our kids learn to think, plan, make mistakes, redo, and try again. They don't respond well to lectures or punitive actions. And I thinks that shows that they already know if they messed up, they already figured out what to do about it, and they know that for the really big mess ups in life, we are here to help them out.
I'm not putting this out there to say my way is better than yours. I'm just saying that I'd rather make sure my kid, say, uses birth control than have her be afraid to ever talk to me because she's worried I'll just ground her or something. I'd rather have my kid talk to me about drugs than to find him shooting up in the alley because he's worried I'll kick him out (for example).
And it seems to be working. None of my kids hesitates to talk to me about all manner of things. And none of them engages in dangerous behaviors. Why? I think because they only have to look around at their friends' lives to see how messed up drugs make you, or what crappy jobs their non-college-degreed friends are stuck in. They've mostly learned to think for themselves, rather than doing only what they know won't get them in trouble. I value that very highly.
Overall, I think I've been a pretty good parent. Some probably think I'm way too lenient. I think they're way to strict. Some think I let my kids run all over me. I think I listen to them. In the end, the measure I use is this: as my children move into adulthood, do I like them? Do I want to hang out with them? Are they the kind of people I respect? Are they good, compassionate, helpful, kind? And here's the other piece: they all seem to want to hang out with me. Now, I'm not stupid. I realize that this is in part because they need money. But it's more than that. We have forged a relationship that holds meaning beyond the parent-child spectrum. We genuinely like one another. (Most of the time.)
I have often described my parenting style as one of benign neglect. Or laziness. Benign neglect sounds better. But here's the thing. It basically boils down to letting the kids deal with whatever consequences arise, unless I think they are putting themselves or someone else in serious danger. (Which has never happened yet.)
So when my child wants to stay up all night, I merely ask that they keep it quiet so I can sleep. They will discover tomorrow that they are tired, don't feel well, can't stay awake in class--whatever. And they almost always learn they don't enjoy that. Same with drinking a gallon of soda. I don't lecture them on nutrition. They've heard all that before. But when they don't feel good the next day--they know why. I've never censored television, books, movies, music, or anything else. They have proven that they have enough sense to self-regulate. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that most of tv is just trash and not mentally satisfying in any way. So they give up watching it.
I know friends who think I'm a wuss. Who think I'm not willing to stand up and be a real parent. Who think that I should learn that I can't be their friend. But here's what I notice. They are the ones struggling with their children. They are the ones whose kids continually go down the path their parents don't want. They are the ones who can't get their kids to talk to them.
My main goal as a parent of teenagers is to be the kind of parent who is approachable, who they can talk to about anything without being afraid they are going to get into big trouble. I would rather know where they are and who they are with and what they're doing so that I can help if things get to the point where someone is in danger: drugs, alcohol, sex, whatever. If they won't talk to me, they could get into big trouble that is difficult to find your way out of. Those things are way bigger than if they stay up too late at night or get a bad grade in a class.
My children know the expectations, though. They know that if they commit to something, we expect them to honor that commitment. They know we expect them to take school seriously--but not too seriously. Peter, our 14 year old, has some pretty awful grades right now. Instead of grounding him or lecturing him, we talk to him about it. He already felt bad, already made a plan to bring up the grades. We knew they were mostly a result of missed assignments, and that it will all come out in the wash by the end of the quarter. Peter knew he wouldn't get in trouble, so he knew there was no reason to hide his grades from us. He knew we expected better, and what's more important--HE expected better of himself.
That's really why I find my benign neglect strategy to be the best one for us. Our kids learn to think, plan, make mistakes, redo, and try again. They don't respond well to lectures or punitive actions. And I thinks that shows that they already know if they messed up, they already figured out what to do about it, and they know that for the really big mess ups in life, we are here to help them out.
I'm not putting this out there to say my way is better than yours. I'm just saying that I'd rather make sure my kid, say, uses birth control than have her be afraid to ever talk to me because she's worried I'll just ground her or something. I'd rather have my kid talk to me about drugs than to find him shooting up in the alley because he's worried I'll kick him out (for example).
And it seems to be working. None of my kids hesitates to talk to me about all manner of things. And none of them engages in dangerous behaviors. Why? I think because they only have to look around at their friends' lives to see how messed up drugs make you, or what crappy jobs their non-college-degreed friends are stuck in. They've mostly learned to think for themselves, rather than doing only what they know won't get them in trouble. I value that very highly.
Monday, February 14, 2011
My Love Story
Happy Valentine's Day.
I don't need big diamonds, fancy dinners, or weekend trips to romantic beaches (although I would not turn down any of these) to know how much my husband loves me. He shows me in a hundred different ways each day. Like when he makes a quick trip to the grocery store because he knows I hate grocery shopping. Or when he empties the dishwasher to surprise me. He has been the primary breadwinner in this household for nearly 27 years. Wait, I take that back. For three of those years, while he was in law school, I was. But I digress.
I know Valentine's Day is mostly inhabited by those of us in the throws of young, excited, blooming love. That is a wonderful time of life. I feel more deeply in love with David all the time, but it is not always that fluttering heart kind of love. It's a love that knows anger, heartbreak, hurt, sickness, depression, and pain. It's a love that has been forged in a fire of living. Raising three kids. Making dumb financial choices and having to dig ourselves out of it. Muddling along together as a team, as partners. The kind of love that "does not alter when alteration finds." (I hope I quoted that correctly. I'm too lazy to look it up right now. If you catch me in a mistake, please comment with a correction.)
So I feel compelled today to tell a little of the story of my love affair with David, the man I've loved for 33 years. (Yikes.) Just a little.
My first memory of David is from second grade. That's right. We grew up in the same tiny South Dakota town of Hot Springs. My first day of second grade, a new kid in school, I remember seeing him across the room. Then I don't remember him at all until sometime around middle school. Our families went to the same church, so we were in youth group together. He also played flute in band--poor little thing. He was not a very good flute player. And he had to compete with me!I remember jr. high youth group trips when he and his friend Doug Tinaglia would sit on the bus or the van or whatever we were in and recite Bill Cosby routines. (Reminds me of my son, Peter, who now does the same with today's comedians.) They would pull silly pranks in restaurants. And in general be typical middle school jerks.
Another good friend of David's was Al Twocrow. We were all in debate, band, and almost everything else together. When there's only 400 kids in your whole high school, everyone has to be in everything. So we knew each other very well before we ever dated. In sophomore biology class, I could tell David kind of liked me because he sat right behind me and he would tease me. How mature. But it worked. I took notice.
I remember our first date. It was a dance in the city auditorium. I had spent the day downhill skiing and was really tired and sore. Dancing was not really what I wanted to do. But we went. He was very nice and asked if it was okay if he danced with other girls since I was too tired. I said okay. But I really didn't want him to. Despite that rather lackluster beginning, we went to many more dances, movies, and whatever else one could find to do in Hot Springs--some of it not so wholesome.
We ended up being debate partners our junior and senior years. We made a really good team. And we won lots of tournaments. I think I first knew I loved David when we were at debate camp in Denver. Spending two solid weeks together, even if was in such an academic environment, was wonderful.
David and I have always liked to joke about who is smarter. I was a valedictorian of our high school class. I had straight A's. He had one B in all of high school --in shop class no less. I studied harder, but he probably was more genuinely brilliant. He became a National Merit Scholar.
We started out at separate colleges, but I ended up transferring to Carleton where he was. Yes, mostly because he was there. Sounds sappy and hopelessly romantic, but I've never been good at being apart from my other half. Carleton was a wonderful place where we got to be total academic geeks and theater nerds. We got married two weeks after graduation.
That was nearly 27 years ago. It's really unusual for high school sweethearts to still be married. Although I have to say, it is probably because David is a practical and reasonable person, while I am more ruled by my emotions. I wanted to get married after high school, but he wanted to wait. Obviously, he was right. Who knows if we would still be together had we married at 17 or 18? But here we are.
There is so much story that goes with our lives together, but the main one is this: I love David because he is an honorable, loving, kind, considerate, smart, and noble person. Heaven knows why he loves me. I feel very lucky. He always has a comment to lighten the moment with humor, and that has made a huge impact on our lives. If we can laugh at ourselves and our situation, then we can probably get through it.
Happy Valentine's Day to my adorable, funny, loving husband.
I don't need big diamonds, fancy dinners, or weekend trips to romantic beaches (although I would not turn down any of these) to know how much my husband loves me. He shows me in a hundred different ways each day. Like when he makes a quick trip to the grocery store because he knows I hate grocery shopping. Or when he empties the dishwasher to surprise me. He has been the primary breadwinner in this household for nearly 27 years. Wait, I take that back. For three of those years, while he was in law school, I was. But I digress.
I know Valentine's Day is mostly inhabited by those of us in the throws of young, excited, blooming love. That is a wonderful time of life. I feel more deeply in love with David all the time, but it is not always that fluttering heart kind of love. It's a love that knows anger, heartbreak, hurt, sickness, depression, and pain. It's a love that has been forged in a fire of living. Raising three kids. Making dumb financial choices and having to dig ourselves out of it. Muddling along together as a team, as partners. The kind of love that "does not alter when alteration finds." (I hope I quoted that correctly. I'm too lazy to look it up right now. If you catch me in a mistake, please comment with a correction.)
So I feel compelled today to tell a little of the story of my love affair with David, the man I've loved for 33 years. (Yikes.) Just a little.
My first memory of David is from second grade. That's right. We grew up in the same tiny South Dakota town of Hot Springs. My first day of second grade, a new kid in school, I remember seeing him across the room. Then I don't remember him at all until sometime around middle school. Our families went to the same church, so we were in youth group together. He also played flute in band--poor little thing. He was not a very good flute player. And he had to compete with me!I remember jr. high youth group trips when he and his friend Doug Tinaglia would sit on the bus or the van or whatever we were in and recite Bill Cosby routines. (Reminds me of my son, Peter, who now does the same with today's comedians.) They would pull silly pranks in restaurants. And in general be typical middle school jerks.
Another good friend of David's was Al Twocrow. We were all in debate, band, and almost everything else together. When there's only 400 kids in your whole high school, everyone has to be in everything. So we knew each other very well before we ever dated. In sophomore biology class, I could tell David kind of liked me because he sat right behind me and he would tease me. How mature. But it worked. I took notice.
I remember our first date. It was a dance in the city auditorium. I had spent the day downhill skiing and was really tired and sore. Dancing was not really what I wanted to do. But we went. He was very nice and asked if it was okay if he danced with other girls since I was too tired. I said okay. But I really didn't want him to. Despite that rather lackluster beginning, we went to many more dances, movies, and whatever else one could find to do in Hot Springs--some of it not so wholesome.
We ended up being debate partners our junior and senior years. We made a really good team. And we won lots of tournaments. I think I first knew I loved David when we were at debate camp in Denver. Spending two solid weeks together, even if was in such an academic environment, was wonderful.
David and I have always liked to joke about who is smarter. I was a valedictorian of our high school class. I had straight A's. He had one B in all of high school --in shop class no less. I studied harder, but he probably was more genuinely brilliant. He became a National Merit Scholar.
We started out at separate colleges, but I ended up transferring to Carleton where he was. Yes, mostly because he was there. Sounds sappy and hopelessly romantic, but I've never been good at being apart from my other half. Carleton was a wonderful place where we got to be total academic geeks and theater nerds. We got married two weeks after graduation.
That was nearly 27 years ago. It's really unusual for high school sweethearts to still be married. Although I have to say, it is probably because David is a practical and reasonable person, while I am more ruled by my emotions. I wanted to get married after high school, but he wanted to wait. Obviously, he was right. Who knows if we would still be together had we married at 17 or 18? But here we are.
There is so much story that goes with our lives together, but the main one is this: I love David because he is an honorable, loving, kind, considerate, smart, and noble person. Heaven knows why he loves me. I feel very lucky. He always has a comment to lighten the moment with humor, and that has made a huge impact on our lives. If we can laugh at ourselves and our situation, then we can probably get through it.
Happy Valentine's Day to my adorable, funny, loving husband.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Random Musings
My mind is in a whirl the last few days, so I am going to unload here. If you want cogent, thoughtful commentary, I suggest you look elsewhere. However, if you want an insider's view of a crazy person's mind, keep reading.
Okay. For starters, 14 year olds are difficult to raise. I'm in the midst of that with Peter, who is usually an even-keel kind of person. But he IS 14. As such, he has his moments. The last few days have been one giant moment. As far as I can tell, there is nothing of any major catostrophic urgency that is wrong, but that doesn't matter when you're 14. It's ALL catostrophic at this age. Thank goodness he is my last child. I am getting too old for this. I am sympathetic, and at the same time annoyed. Patient, but agitated. My children don't seem to realize that long after their problems have resolved, a mother's heart still carries the hurt for a while. We will get through this and many other times ahead, I know. It just sucks when you're in the middle of it.
Speaking of sucking and being in the middle of things, we have officially become the sandwich generation. David's dad has been in the hospital for a month with pneumonia. He was in ICU for two weeks, and finally this week, things seem to be going in the right direction. His white blood count continues to fall, he has a little more energy every day. David and his siblings have taken turns flying out to Oregon to help out. David is on his second stint this week. I hate having him gone. I have been very lucky in life that my husband has not had a job requiring travel. He is almost always here. And even for mundane things like teacher conferences or dentist appointments, he has always been available. I hate having him gone. Did I say that already? Oh. It's because I hate having him gone. Oh, I manage okay and stuff, but we are such a team that it's very hard to lose half your team for a week. He will be home Sunday. And I don't begrudge his dad the attention and care of his children; certainly he needs to be with his dad.
So my dad's birthday is next week. Wow. (So is David's dad's birthday, actually. Their birthdays are two days apart.) Happy birthday!
Living in a very conservative state like Idaho can be tough when you're a liberal like me. Frequent letters to the editor will use the word communist or socialist to desribe anyone more to the left than the right. I don't care if you're a centrist, independent; in Idaho you are a commie. Which makes me realize that my opinions are confirmed; most people don't think. At its base concept, communism is just the idea that everybody puts into the pot and everyone gets out their fair share. It's not really intended to be a centralized form of government. It works better in small community situations--kind of like Jesus and his disciples. Feeding of the 5,000 was communism. Living in community strikes me as a great thing. Really, that's what a family is. Out of five of us, only one makes a livable wage. The rest of us throw into the communal pot what we have. But we all get out what we need. Very fair and rational.
When you think about it, what is the system we have now. We all pay in taxes, varying levels depending on our income. Those taxes go out to various places, often in the form of someone's level of need: medicare, medicaid, welfare, social security, education. I'm okay with that. What is so bad about us all chipping in to make all of society better?
Then I think about facism. In my understanding, that is where the corporate world pretty much owns the government. Hmmm. Think it's not how it is in the good ol' U S of A? Think again. Look at all the lobbies in Washington. Who's lobbying? Monsanto. Tobacco companies. Pharmaceutical companies. Look at how many former Monsanto employees now work in the agricultural agencies of the government. Coincidence? Not at all. Look at the votes congressmen and women are making, then look at who is contributing to their campaigns and try to tell me with a straight face that the government is not beholden to the corporate world. We in the US like to think of ourselves as so wonderful and advanced, but we're not. I think most of the rest of the westernized world has a better grip on things than we do. Of course, we have a huge country and they don't. But still. I would rather have individuals paying taxes to help out fellow citizens than have my government owned by the corporations. If that makes me a communist--why, then, hello comrades.
I don't even want to get started on our own state government. It is so messed up I have lost all hope. Our superintendent of public education, whose name I will not print here in order to keep a little dignity on my blog, is such a lunatic that he wants to force high school students to take two classes a year online--not by choice, but by mandate. He thinks this will improve education. Yikes. Guess who contributed to his campaign? Educational software and related companies. Hmmm.
Lest I come off as uber curmugdeonly, let me say that I am heartened almost every day by the spirit and effort, mostly of young people to make their world better. I am heartened by my dogs' tail wagging every time they see me. I am proud that my city gave us all enormous recycling bins so that I can fill it up and leave my own garbage can barely filled at all. I am heartened by the aborist who came out to tell me how he could make my trees healthier and his love for what he does. I am thrilled that Emily loves her gas-saving car. I like working for people who believe in small, local businesses and making connections in that community. And I am in awe of the farmers and local businesses who deliver me a bunch of delicious stuff every week and every month. People right here, down the road a ways, who I can talk to if I want. Real faces, not corporations. See, I'm not really that much of a downer, am I?
Of course, I haven't opened today's newspaper yet. Don't even get me started....
Okay. For starters, 14 year olds are difficult to raise. I'm in the midst of that with Peter, who is usually an even-keel kind of person. But he IS 14. As such, he has his moments. The last few days have been one giant moment. As far as I can tell, there is nothing of any major catostrophic urgency that is wrong, but that doesn't matter when you're 14. It's ALL catostrophic at this age. Thank goodness he is my last child. I am getting too old for this. I am sympathetic, and at the same time annoyed. Patient, but agitated. My children don't seem to realize that long after their problems have resolved, a mother's heart still carries the hurt for a while. We will get through this and many other times ahead, I know. It just sucks when you're in the middle of it.
Speaking of sucking and being in the middle of things, we have officially become the sandwich generation. David's dad has been in the hospital for a month with pneumonia. He was in ICU for two weeks, and finally this week, things seem to be going in the right direction. His white blood count continues to fall, he has a little more energy every day. David and his siblings have taken turns flying out to Oregon to help out. David is on his second stint this week. I hate having him gone. I have been very lucky in life that my husband has not had a job requiring travel. He is almost always here. And even for mundane things like teacher conferences or dentist appointments, he has always been available. I hate having him gone. Did I say that already? Oh. It's because I hate having him gone. Oh, I manage okay and stuff, but we are such a team that it's very hard to lose half your team for a week. He will be home Sunday. And I don't begrudge his dad the attention and care of his children; certainly he needs to be with his dad.
So my dad's birthday is next week. Wow. (So is David's dad's birthday, actually. Their birthdays are two days apart.) Happy birthday!
Living in a very conservative state like Idaho can be tough when you're a liberal like me. Frequent letters to the editor will use the word communist or socialist to desribe anyone more to the left than the right. I don't care if you're a centrist, independent; in Idaho you are a commie. Which makes me realize that my opinions are confirmed; most people don't think. At its base concept, communism is just the idea that everybody puts into the pot and everyone gets out their fair share. It's not really intended to be a centralized form of government. It works better in small community situations--kind of like Jesus and his disciples. Feeding of the 5,000 was communism. Living in community strikes me as a great thing. Really, that's what a family is. Out of five of us, only one makes a livable wage. The rest of us throw into the communal pot what we have. But we all get out what we need. Very fair and rational.
When you think about it, what is the system we have now. We all pay in taxes, varying levels depending on our income. Those taxes go out to various places, often in the form of someone's level of need: medicare, medicaid, welfare, social security, education. I'm okay with that. What is so bad about us all chipping in to make all of society better?
Then I think about facism. In my understanding, that is where the corporate world pretty much owns the government. Hmmm. Think it's not how it is in the good ol' U S of A? Think again. Look at all the lobbies in Washington. Who's lobbying? Monsanto. Tobacco companies. Pharmaceutical companies. Look at how many former Monsanto employees now work in the agricultural agencies of the government. Coincidence? Not at all. Look at the votes congressmen and women are making, then look at who is contributing to their campaigns and try to tell me with a straight face that the government is not beholden to the corporate world. We in the US like to think of ourselves as so wonderful and advanced, but we're not. I think most of the rest of the westernized world has a better grip on things than we do. Of course, we have a huge country and they don't. But still. I would rather have individuals paying taxes to help out fellow citizens than have my government owned by the corporations. If that makes me a communist--why, then, hello comrades.
I don't even want to get started on our own state government. It is so messed up I have lost all hope. Our superintendent of public education, whose name I will not print here in order to keep a little dignity on my blog, is such a lunatic that he wants to force high school students to take two classes a year online--not by choice, but by mandate. He thinks this will improve education. Yikes. Guess who contributed to his campaign? Educational software and related companies. Hmmm.
Lest I come off as uber curmugdeonly, let me say that I am heartened almost every day by the spirit and effort, mostly of young people to make their world better. I am heartened by my dogs' tail wagging every time they see me. I am proud that my city gave us all enormous recycling bins so that I can fill it up and leave my own garbage can barely filled at all. I am heartened by the aborist who came out to tell me how he could make my trees healthier and his love for what he does. I am thrilled that Emily loves her gas-saving car. I like working for people who believe in small, local businesses and making connections in that community. And I am in awe of the farmers and local businesses who deliver me a bunch of delicious stuff every week and every month. People right here, down the road a ways, who I can talk to if I want. Real faces, not corporations. See, I'm not really that much of a downer, am I?
Of course, I haven't opened today's newspaper yet. Don't even get me started....
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