Search results matching tag 'domestic'

We are Boston

Anonymous — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 00:56:00 GMT

Last night, my ten-year-old daughter slept in the bedroom with my husband and me.

She was freaked out.

I didn’t know I was until I woke up in the middle of the night, and the previous five days’ events whipped around my brain.

When 09/11 occurred, I lived in New York. The magnitude of what had happened shocked our nation and the world. I lived an hour away and knew people whose lives had been irrevocably changed as a result.

A month later, I moved to Cambridge, MA.

Eleven years later, I moved to Arlington.

A couple of months ago, I posted an article about how I felt at the time of the move from Cambridge to Arlington http://arlington.patch.com/blog_posts/open-letter-to-cambridge-ma. I learned that, for some, there was a divide between the two places wider than the Charles River.

Monday, two bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon.

I’ve never gone to the marathon. Each year I mean to, but somehow don’t. I wasn’t directly in any danger. I knew someone who raced, who was fine. Later, I found out a woman who died worked not far from my house.

But I felt it profoundly. Boston is my home. Not Cambridge. Not Arlington. I don’t identify just with a street or a neighborhood or even a town. The reason my husband and I moved here is because we’d vacationed around Massachusetts when we were still in college and fell in love with the state. The whole Boston-area is home to me.

I wasn’t alone feeling Bostonian. Yankee Stadium played “Sweet Caroline.” Each time, I think about it, I get chills. Other cities, other people made similar gestures at other stadiums, plastered posters of solidarity on Facebook, set up races to honor Boston’s fallen.

The whole week felt surreal. It was spring break, but there was this unease. The persons who committed the atrocious acts were out there… somewhere. Would they be caught? Would they strike again?

Then Friday morning at 6:15, the events familiar to all of us began to unfold. For the next 16 hours, I was glued to the radio and TV and social media. Even though Arlington wasn’t on lockdown, the towns around us were. I had faith in the Boston Police and every unit of law enforcement on the case.

But other parts of the day were even harder. The picture of the suspect who’d escaped. He looked so earnest. I’ve taught children about the age he was in the photo in Cambridge for years. I’d even subbed at Cambridge Rindge and Latin two of the years he was there. I lived just blocks away from the suspects’ home. I had just PARKED MY CAR right by his house and walked past it on WEDNESDAY. Were either of the suspects in there at the time? What were they doing?

Had I walked the same streets with him at the same time? Had our paths crossed?

Even though the terrorists didn’t affect me directly, I was affected.

He looked no different than the kids I’d taught, the children my kids went to school with, the people I saw in the street. I’ve met the teachers in his elementary school. I can picture the kindergarten classes there.

I’ve seen terrorists on the TV before. It was easy to demonize them. While I know this suspect should and will be punished, I know he was here living with us.

How did he live with us, yet still de-humanize us? How could he plan something so big and horrible?

He was a part of Boston, yet he hurt it.

He hurt us.

More than ever, I am not just a part of my street or neighborhood or town. The Boston Marathon is an international event. Our world is as big or as small as we make it.

If we make our world big, then there is no us vs. them. There’s just us.

No matter where we are, we are Boston.

This appeared on the Arlington Patch: http://arlington.patch.com/blog_posts/we-are-boston

Anticipation and Experience

Anonymous — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 02:25:00 GMT

“A great source of calamity lies in regret and anticipation; therefore a person is wise who thinks of the present alone, regardless of the past or future.”

- Oliver Goldsmith

My childhood was filled with negative dog experiences. My maternal grandfather had a “crazy” dog. I remember hearing him, sequestered in the basement, barking and scratching. My aunt had a French poodle that jumped when people first came into the room. Imagine 4-year-old me looking at a large dog with its paws on my shoulders. When I was 6, a dog chased my friend and me down a driveway. My friend was faster. The dog bit my calf.

But my paternal grandmother had a nice Beagle mix.

My daughter LOVES dogs. When she was 2-years-old and full of Shirley Temple curls, she’d tell a giant golden retriever to sit in what she thought was a tough voice. It didn’t work. If that same dog passed by and knocked her down, she’d laugh.

Over the years, she begged for a dog.

I said, “I’d rather have another kid. At least they’re potty trained after 2-3 years.”

At some point my husband said, “Of course we’ll get a dog.” I told him it would be harder than he thought and that my daughter would do less than he believed.

The two of them broke me down. I agreed to get a dog once we’d moved to a bigger place and she was 10.

We moved in June.

She turned 10 in July.

***…

I had a long dog wish list:

Not too big

Not too energetic

Doesn’t drool

Doesn’t bark

Doesn’t lick

Doesn’t jump

Doesn’t shed

Needs little grooming

Has a BIG bladder

I knew dogs would be a mix of breed, temperament, and training.

But it’s hard for me to not control everything.

When I worried about owning an out-of control dog, my husband reminded me that our kids weren’t out of control. We’d have similar expectations.

I hoped he was right.

We visited two shelters before we found a potentially right dog for us. He was a two-year-old beagle that loved people. We asked to meet him. We completed adoption paperwork. We were interviewed. Because of a technicality we were told we couldn’t adopt him that day, so we might be better off not meeting him.

My daughter still wanted to meet him.

I braced myself for her future tears.

He was sweet, scooting backwards to sit in laps. We were told he was low on aggression (yay). He’d also scored low on activity, which is rare for beagles.

We liked him.

But we couldn’t take him home.

This was good for me. If I’d just been able to take him home, I would’ve had an anxiety attack. The situation made me (slightly) regretful instead.

The employee saw how well we’d bonded that she was able to figure out a solution.

My daughter named him Milo, after the main character in The Phantom Tollbooth. We took the dog home. My husband and I had the same disembodied sensation we’d experienced when we took home our son from the hospital after he was born. We’re in charge now?!? We don’t know what we’re doing!

The next few days were overwhelming for my husband and me, but not because Milo was “bad”. Neither my husband nor I had ever owned a dog before. My daughter and I read books to prepare. When I had a question, I’d scour the internet. But it was an adjustment.

A week into owning Milo, we fell into a routine. My son had become a huge help. Our poor cat was warming up. A little. I’d boasted how well things were going to a group of people. They proceeded to explain to me how the dog was being good because we were in a honeymoon stage. They warned there’d be exuberance and howling.

I freaked out inside.

It was like “veteran” mothers scaring pregnant women about childbirth or how their kids won’t sleep through the night or behave in restaurants.

Afterwards, I told my husband we’d taken on too much, and couldn’t back out now because our children would never forgive us and I wished I could go back a year and say no to getting a dog and how this dog would be our responsibility when the kids went to college and I missed my cat…

We calmed down.

The next week was our biggest challenge. My kids and I were going away. My husband would be in charge of the dog all week. He’d leave the dog all day while he worked.

Would the dog destroy the house?

Would the dog hold his bladder?

Only time would tell.

I’m happy to report nearly 3 weeks in, Milo is:

Not too big

Not too energetic

Doesn’t drool

Doesn’t bark

Doesn’t lick

Doesn’t Jumps rarely

Doesn’t shed

Needs little grooming

Has a BIG bladder

And the cat is back snuggling with us on the couch.

The dog has learned:

to sit

patience when the cat is eating

to stay off the couches… at least in our presence

I’ve learned a few things too:

I need to relax to be a good pack leader.

When all four of us chip in, it’s not so much responsibility.

Walking dogs is good exercise.

Like with raising kids, keep expectations high.

And, as with almost everything, anticipation is worse than experience.

Have you ever feared anything

that wasn't as bad as you thought?

Honorable Mention II

Anonymous — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 12:13:00 GMT

Going through the archives was scary business. Back in 2009, I mostly wrote about subbing. *shudder*

I originally posted this on 12/01/09. It had 6 comments. (It’s actually a comment thread between Alesa Warcan and me a year later.) Poor me, writing those early posts with no readers. I’m reposting this piece (with a smaller word count) because I wrote it from the heart.

The mother-women seemed to prevail that summer at Grand Isle. It was easy to know them, fluttering about with extended, protecting wings when any harm, real or imaginary, threatened their precious brood. They were women who idolized their children, worshiped their husbands, and esteemed it a holy privilege to efface themselves as individuals and grow wings as ministering angels."

- Kate Chopin, The Awakening 

As a rule, I try not to shove my children down people’s throats. Besides, I pride myself on being woman-mother, instead of a mother-woman. But my children are still a large part of my identity, and there are moments when something they say or do stops me in my tracks. I've compiled a few highlights:

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1. My daughter periodically and sincerely tells me that I’m beautiful.

2. My son is a gourmet, so if I make an effort with plating, it never goes unappreciated.

3. When my daughter was a baby, if she was hysterical, my humming would be enough to soothe her.

4. When my son was just out of babyhood, he was struggling to attach two Little People farm fence pieces. Determined, he kept at it, until he exclaimed, “I did it,” which demonstrated his perseverity, dexterity, and first three-word sentence.

5. When my daughter was two, she idolized and tried to keep up with her big brother. He was a in big Star Wars phase at the time, so she’d circle the house with him, toting a play gun and squeaking, “Byoom, byoom, Storm Troopers.”

6. My son is a voracious reader, which makes it hard to believe that he ever went through a long and painful period of insecurity about learning to read. When he’s excited about something he's learned, he has to tell everyone about it in vivid detail. I'm not the only one to call him a walking encyclopedia.

7. Until my daughter turned five, any time I checked on her while she was sleeping, she would instinctively turn towards me, and try to burrow into me without waking up.

8. My son has a strong sense of fairness, is kind to his friends, and avoids troublemakers. Because of his “calming influence”, he won Class Peacemaker at the end of fourth-grade.

9. My daughter dives into everything with enthusiasm. She has passion for anything that she does. An aura seems to radiate from her, and her eyes sparkle when she's excited.

10. One evening, my son to watched my daughter for a couple of hours. When I returned, he had cleaned the dinner table (okay, coffee table, where they ate dinner and watched television - I'm a bad mother), washed the dishes, and was in the midst of microwaving apples that he and his sister had cored and spiced. Even though they sometimes fight, she adores him, and anytime he’s in charge of her, he takes the responsibility very seriously.

I love My son is stubborn and bossy (like me), but can be so thoughtful that my heart swells. My daughter is easy-going (except when she’s not), and possesses an intuition to gauge people’s moods, and responds accordingly. My son screams like a banshee when he’s angry, and my daughter has a gift of throwing herself on the ground when she’s furious. Sometimes I’m enraged when they behave this way, and work on teaching them self-control, but other times, I have to smother a smile.

Before I had children, I was sure that differences in gender were nurture, rather than nature. Then my son turned one, and everything that had wheels and could move, became sources of fascination: police, fire trucks, construction vehicles, guns, Star Wars, army, and World War II. When he turned two, I bought him a doll and carriage, which he had zero interest in. When my baby daughter had only begun sitting, she’d gravitate towards baby dolls and pretend to be their mother. As soon as she turned two, her favorite color became pink, which lasted five years. Although she’d play war with her brother, she used her pastel dolls and animals alongside his army guys. In other words, they've learned to compromise in unique ways.

I learn something from my own children every day. Raising them is a privilege. And having the luxury of time to do so is an honor.

For other blogfest entries starting 12/16, click HERE!

Giving Thanks

Anonymous — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 21:35:00 GMT

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My son wants to succeed on his own.

I ask questions:

Is your homework done?

Do you need me to look it over?

Do you have any questions?

Did you call your partner about completing that social studies project?

I receive responses:

Yes.

No.

We can’t do it now because we didn’t bring home the instructions and the textbook, but I’ll talk to him tomorrow.

Seventh-grade. 13-years-old. 4 classes. 4 teachers. Transition.

He wants to attend Harvard. He plans to volunteer because it’s not just about grades, but also being well rounded.

Should I hover, interfere? When I push, he pulls. I was a seventh-grade teacher, so I know how to help. But I need to let him make his mistakes, right? I fret.

He comes home, telling me about students who don’t care, don’t work well in groups, bringing his grade down, while he takes over parts that aren’t his or gives up.

What do I do now?

Math test. Mediocre grade. My husband helps him understand the material.

I ask about that social studies project. Is his response a real answer or an excuse?

New rules: No video games or You Tube until homework is done. Don’t save your work until nighttime. Make sure you write your assignments down.

I spy a Halloween worksheet. Not done. A week after Halloween.

Am I nagging or helping?

Progress report. I unfold the paper with trepidation.

His grades are lower than last year’s.

I’ve failed.

Do I yell? Say how disappointed I am? Have the teachers e-mail me weekly with updates? Make him show me his agenda? Demand he go over each and every assignment with me?

I thought we were past this type of intervention after fifth-grade.

Before I say anything, he says, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I’m so disappointed in myself. I’m going to do better.”

He means it. I can’t say anything to make him feel any worse than he does.

My son, my husband, and me - we talk strategies, priorities.

We buy another agenda. A blank slate.

The three of us head to parent-teacher conferences. I brace for what I’ll hear. I’ve prepared what I’ll say. He’s better than this. I’m better than this. How did we all let this happen?

Teachers offer suggestions. They’re upbeat about him as a student. They remind me that other seventh-graders are struggling with the transition too. This is a progress report – not a final grade.

I know all this. It’s easier for me assure my students’ parents. It’s harder to be a parent and let your child flail.

These teachers say something else…

My son greets them each time he comes into the room. He asks about their weekends. He says goodbye at the end of the class and at the end of the day. Sometimes he thanks them at the end of a lesson.

One teacher said, “I don’t know if I should say this, but I look forward to speaking with him. He makes my day.”

My son reddened to the tip of his ears.

I went to the parent-teacher conference thinking I was going to hear certain things about my son. I left proud of him, but not for the reasons I expected.

Pickles and Peroxide

Anonymous — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 10:29:00 GMT

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“The human race has only one really effective weapon and that is laughter.”

- Mark Twain

Because I grew up in a less-than-happy house, I wanted my own home to be filled with love and laughter. I don’t want job searching and query rejections to leave a cloud over my kids’ heads. Have I succeeded? I hope so. Here’s a short window into our home:

Exhibit A

Sunday night, my husband and I were preparing dinner. For some reason that morning, my husband bought a GIANT jar of pickles. If you saw how crammed our refrigerator already is, you can imagine why I’d nag about said pickles.

While I tried to get my son to wonder with me why we needed such a large jar. He said, “Can I have a pickle?”

Guess my husband would be finding room in the fridge sooner than later.

My son put his pickle on the plate and left to set the table. I decided to take a bite of his pickle and pretend I didn’t do it.

Wow, it was sourer than I thought it would be.

While I chewed, I returned to the sink to wash dishes. I turned to see my husband take a bite off the other end of the pickle and return to the stove. That made me giggle. The vinegar burned the back of my throat. I began to cough and tears streamed out of my eyes.

My husband laughed at my appearance. This made him double over, coughing. I almost got control of it, but then glimpsed my husband, felt the sting, and started hacking all over again. My son returned to the room with my husband still laughing and choking and me spitting pickle bits into the sink.

“What’s going on with you guys?” he asked.

“We… were… playing… a joke on you… by biting your pickle.”

Exhibit B

Monday morning, my son and I lounged around reading, doing laundry, editing, and playing video games (guess who did what). Since my daughter is visiting her grandparents in New York, I decided to take my son out to lunch, just the two of us.

Around 10:00 am, my son returned to the living room from the bathroom. “We have no water.”

A couple of weeks ago, our third floor neighbor told us last minute a plumber was here because her shower hadn’t worked, so for two hours we were stuck without water when my nephew was visiting. We were smelly hostages in our own home. Was she getting work done again and failed to tell us?

I noticed there were several orange Cambridge-city trucks parked on our side street. Was it related?

I tried the water. Nothing.

“It’s probably the city, temporarily shutting off the water while they work. Let’s wait a little while. If it doesn’t turn back on, I’ll go out there and ask,” I said.

About fifteen minutes later, the water returned in little bursts. Was it beige? Must be a trick of the eyes. I ran it more. Nah, seemed clear. I announced the triumphant return of our water supply, and brushed my teeth and washed my face.

Then I turned on the shower...

It was like a scene out of a horror movie. Mixed in with the brown water, were bits of I don’t know what. Small enough to go down the drain at least.

Aaack! Was this the same water I’d just brushed my teeth with? I turned back on the sink water. Brown. What was in that water? Would I get sick? I put peroxide in my mouth and swished it vigorously. As my mouth fizzed, I realized I couldn’t exactly rinse it out with the contaminated. I ran to the kitchen and retrieved lemonade from my ultra-crowded (due to the pickles) fridge. I tipped lemonade in my mouth.

Except that I had just brushed my teeth… so, you know… lemonade.

I spit out the lemonade. I did it three more times to make sure I didn’t die of brown water bacteria or peroxide poisoning.

Then I went outside to talk to the workers. Turns out we had a water main break. Some “sediment” leaked into the pipe until they were able to repair it. (In a city, “sediment” means “You don’t want to know”.) I was told to run the water until it was clear and all should be well.

I did. After a few minutes of chunky brown water, it ran clear. I showered.

My son and I left for a lovely sushi lunch. We talked, we shared, we laughed.

See, my family is filled with the laughter I’d always hoped for.

Sense of Place

Anonymous — Sun, 22 May 2011 15:56:00 GMT

“If we are to achieve a richer culture, rich in contrasting values, we must recognize the whole gamut of human potentialities, and so weave a less arbitrary social fabric, one in which each diverse gift will find a fitting place.”

- Margaret Mead

I live with my family in Cambridge, Massachusetts. We chose its location because when my husband completed his Ph.D., we had to move for his post-doctoral work. Our first two years of marriage were spent in Queens, New York. Cambridge reminded us of the neighborhood in many ways.

My first nine years of life were spent in Queens, NY. Then I moved to Long Island, living in a post World War II suburb (cape, split level, ranch, repeat). Although I spent the next fifteen years + a number of adult years in the suburbs, it never felt like home.

Though I do miss the beach. A lot.

For a couple of years, we’ve been looking for a bigger place. Four people in a two-bedroom condo is cramped, especially with a daughter and son. But to get the kind of place we’re looking for is out of our price range. We’re either sacrificing space inside our outside or in both spaces.

There’s a house we really like but the expansion potential it has won’t be realized until I land a full-time job. We’ll still feel like we’re a struggling to find our way instead of having arrived.

We’re considering moving to the suburbs – Salem specifically. For little more than our house is worth now, we could have a whole house with more than two bedrooms, a driveway, and property. We could even be closer to the beach. Like,blocks away or even with a view.

What’s stopping us?

If we move, we’d be another family that left before our children were older, draining the middle school and high school. I’m sure most of those families left because of space issues too.

Also, it takes time to have a place fit like a glove. New friends, new restaurants, new stores, new schools, new routes, new routines. At first, we’d lose more than we’d gain.

Then there’s commuting. My husband works five minutes away by bike. There’s so much we’ll lose with that loss of proximity.

I can walk to see the Red Sox play. I can walk to see the Celtics play. Okay, I can’t afford to go very often. But still.

When I lived an hour from Manhattan, I rarely took advantage of it. When I lived 20 minutes by subway, I did. Now that I’m a 20-minute walk to Boston I go all the time. The river is no obstacle.

The Boston skyline is beautiful.

We love watching Fireworks on the Fourth of July.

But I really think my resistance is more than the new, alien feeling of a place. It’s more about who I am.

I’m a city girl. I love saying I love in a city. I believe in my city. Do you know that we live a few blocks from the compost place? We almost make more compost in a week than we do garbage. We now have one bin recycling. And we can recycle nearly everything now. Our family does fine with a small car And the city is as diverse and inclusionary as it gets. It’s home.

Our family, friends, school, after-school activities, routine – it’s all here.

But we’ve visited Salem a couple of times in the last couple of weeks, and I can see fitting in there too. Maybe?

How do you decide where to live,

what that means about who you are,

how you want your family to fit?

On another note, thank you for your kind comments and support of 100 Stories for Queensland.

Congratulations to Vicki Tremper who won a copy of White Glove by Holly Black !

Silent Scars

Anonymous — Thu, 12 May 2011 09:10:00 GMT

“Mothers are all slightly insane.”

- J.D. Salinger

For most of my childhood, I knew something was off with my mother. Her behavior would embarrass me. When I turned 13, something clicked and I understood that there was a problem beyond embarrassment.

Sarah Fine has a definition for my mother’s condition on her BLOG:

Schizotypal Personality Disorder--odd behavior and thinking

But that doesn’t tell you much.

As a teenager, if a friend visited my home for the first time, I’d be filled with anxiety. I’d warn them. How people reacted after meeting my mother would determine how strong our friendship would be. If people couldn’t understand my mother, then they couldn’t understand me.

Those who see her at family gatherings or at her workplace, mostly view her as a character. I have no tolerance for the trite comments they make. When she was in charge of me, I protected my sister from the sinister side. So I can’t pretend nothing worse lurks behind the veneer.

Yet she’s not a wicked person. She loves her grandchildren. She’s one of my biggest fans of my writing. She’ll compare me to authors who write nothing like me, but the sentiment is there. And as soon as I told her about my short story in 100 Stories for Queensland anthology, she requested a copy. Repeatedly. Unfortunately, she also requested a copy from my sister, so we both unknowingly bought her copies. That’s part of her problem.

I have friends and acquaintances who have no idea about her. It’s my choice whether or not to share that part of my past and present. When it does come up, I have to figure out how much to reveal. I can make a blanket statement, but it feels like avoidance. If I reveal more, it’s too easy to descend into maudlin.

When people do hear snippets, they often say something like, “You should write about it.” And I do. Sort of. My manuscripts always have fractured relationships. I write for teens because I get that trapped feeling. Parents are in control of much of a teenager’s life, and it’s a teen’s job to loosen the grip so they can become adults. But what if the control is a chokehold? I hope my stories give teens the message that these hard times will pass.

I also write YA because I remember that time vividly. The reason I know a few exchanges with my mother by heart is because I’d repeat the words in my head to survive living in a house where words were twisted or forgotten.

I wrestled whether or not to share a specific story. My husband thinks it’s not right to write anything I wouldn’t say to her. That’s fair. I’ve only eluded to her in two posts, both many months ago. And with time, I can appreciate the good things she instilled in me:

- A love for reading.

- Seeing a person beyond race, religion, and sexuality.

- Feminism.

But most of her lessons were inconsistent. While she read to me, she also plopped me in front of the TV for hours. While she preaches equality, she’s also said some pretty inappropriate things while trying to relate when meeting a person of another ethnicity or religion.

Now that she’s older, I have different worries about her: health, decision-making, and job retention. It’s a battle. I have to work on keeping my patience when I talk to her. I should call her more. I should be many for her things I’m not.

But I’ve made great strides from the girl who hated her. Who worried that any moments she’d become her.

When I was around 17, after a pretty horrific scene, I called a friend in tears. He said, “That’s who she is. It’s not a reflection of you.” I exhaled for the first time in many years.

Yet I see pieces of her when I look in the mirror. When I was young we want to break free, be my own person. I can’t remove the physical characteristics my mother and I share. I could copy her speech patterns in a heartbeat. But I am not her. I strive to take the best of what she’s given me while I learn from the worst. But I also have to acknowledge that the good and the bad are part of me.

All these years later, Mother’s Day still resurfaces conflicting emotions. But I’m not embarrassed anymore. What to reveal? I’m still figuring that out.

Sideline Support

Anonymous — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 10:03:00 GMT

My daughter is second from the left.

Her 2nd sparring partner is 2nd from the right.

“If you make every game a life and death proposition, you’re going to have problems. For one thing, you’ll be dead a lot.”

- Dean Smith

My eight-year-old daughter participated in her first Taekwondo tournament this weekend. She confirmed she’d do her forms, but she didn’t know if she’d spar. Sparring has been a challenge for her because it’s against the kind of person she is.

From an early age, I’d describe her as: Generous. Fair.

As a toddler, if someone asked for her a potato chip, she’d hand out a big one.

If she has food or toys to split for a game, she made sure everyone had the same amount.

She lets her playmates get first choice.

If playing a board game, she lets the other person go first.

In soccer, she had a hard time with the concept of stealing the ball from an opponent.

In sparring, it was hard for her to be aggressive. But Taekwondo has helped her harness her inner-fierceness into competitiveness.

We sat in the middle near a group of women with girls about my daughter’s age. I noticed one girl about my daughter’s size shared my daughter’s name. I forgot about it.

My daughter did her forms to the left. She was nervous but did okay considering it was her first tournament.

One of her coaches convinced her to spar. Bouyed from doing her forms, she agreed. Her first match went well. She won. I was so proud of her and she was beaming.

Here and there, I noticed the women near me shouting for their girls louder and more aggressively than any of the other parents. The mother of the girl who shared my name was particularly vocal. It reminded me of when I was a kid playing soccer, and there was always a parent or two who cared way too much. I’d feel sorry for those kids because they were under more pressure than me. And my dad was the coach!

My daughter rose to spar in the second round.

So did the girl who shared her name.

The mothers shouted the girl’s name. When they realized both girls had the same name, they added “D” for her last name. My husband, two other parents from our Taekwondo place, my son and I all cheered for my daughter, even adding “M”. We used her nickname “Bee”.

But we were drowned out.

My husband went closer in hopes of being louder.

The women stomped their feet.

When my daughter got a point for a kick, the mother shouted, “That wasn’t fair. I’m going to speak to that judge.”

My daughter was clearly thrown off. The other girl a stronger opponent and the crowd was against her.

Then the girl gave my daughter a kick, and she fell to the floor.

I knew my baby was holding it in. As soon as the matched was called, she went to the sidelines, sat down, and cried. Her coaches came over. Her brother came over after them. She calmed down.

I felt helpless.

I wanted to run over and hug her.

I wanted to YELL at those women.

During the final round, those mothers were just as cutthroat. The girl with the same name lost. Her mom clearly disappointed that she only received a silver medal.

When it was over, my daughter came to me. I held her close.

“Nobody said my name,” she said.

(My heart breaks here.) “We did. You couldn’t hear us because they were louder. I even called you ‘Bee’ but it probably sounded too much like ‘D’.”

“I heard the woman say she was going to talk to the judge when I got the point.”

I sighed. “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to remember it. There are parents who care a little too much about their kids’ games. It becomes their life. They forget that there’s another kid out there whose feelings are being hurt if they lose. You have to learn to tune them out. You want to win or lose based on who you’re up against. Not the audience.”

Then she smiled and said, “My strategies for sparring in the first round didn’t work on her. Next time, I’ll have to use different strategies.”

Just like that, she was over it.

She wants to spar in another tournament.

What did I expect from a girl who can kick clear through an adult board?

Since then, she hasn’t mentioned the match, and she’s back to her sunshine self. I’ve thought about it. A LOT. It’s hard to let our children go out in the world and get hurt. We can’t coddle them each time something is hard. And the older she gets, the less I’ll be able to shelter her from life’s kicks.

Good thing she’s got inner-fierceness.

Thankful

Anonymous — Tue, 23 Nov 2010 14:16:00 GMT

“Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn’t learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn’t learn a little, at least we didn’t get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn’t die; so, let us all be thankful.” - Buddha

(This is a revised post I entered in a contest last year.)

I never thought much about what Thanksgiving meant to me until last year, which should be a blasphemous confession coming from someone who’s taught American History for years.

Thanksgiving just wasn’t ranked high on my holiday favorites list. There aren’t presents, like on Christmas and Hanukkah. It’s getting colder rather than warmer, unlike on Easter and Passover. There are no fireworks, like on Independence Day. And I don’t get to dress up and eat candy, like on Halloween. Worst of all - there’s always a dish of yams, which are vile, even if you dress them up with brown sugar and/or marshmallows. Besides, everything is decorated in oranges and browns, which are not flattering colors for my complexion.

Over the years, Thanksgiving has grown on me. Twenty years ago, I was a Catholic girl who began dating a Jewish boy from the same high school. While there were other issues with us being of two different faiths, choosing which side of the family to visit for the holidays wasn’t one of them.

All Christian holidays were celebrated with my side of the family. In comparison with his family, my family is huge. I had the pretty sedate Irish side of my father’s and the boisterous Italian side of my mother’s. Virtually everyone lived near one another on Long Island.

The Jewish holidays were reserved for my husband’s side, which were usually at my boyfriend’s parents’ house. Then came Thanksgiving.

Since my family seemed to have more of everything: people, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, and so forth, Thanksgiving at my boyfriend’s parents’ home became a tradition. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but in the last sixteen years, several events occurred that made the location and the holiday take on a greater significance.

First, my father’s side of the family began dropping off like flies for various reasons: moves, deaths, and alcoholism. As my father’s family demised, my mother-in-law began encouraging me to invite my father and sister for Thanksgiving.

Second, my mother’s side began to stop making the effort for all holidays, but Christmas. As a child, my parents, along with my mother’s siblings, took turns holding holidays. Over time, divorces, moves, and estrangements messed with our traditions.

Christmas was fun, but never had deep meaning for me, and once I converted to Judaism, I only celebrate at my Aunt and Uncle’s home.

The fact that Thanksgiving has become more important to me is a direct result of my mother-in-law. Most people I meet do not get along with their mother in laws, but that isn’t the case with me – she’s more like a mother. For twenty-one years, she has extended an invitation to my mother, father, and sister, and other relatives and friends she thought might need a place to go. Just like her, her home is a warm and inviting place.

Since I was nineteen, I’ve always felt welcome in her house, enhanced by the fact that my relatives were welcome as an extension of me. When my husband and I made the difficult decision to move all the way to Massachusetts nine years ago, she set everything up to feel like our second home. We’re always invited to visit as often as we want, and to stay as long we’d like.

Thanksgiving is a whirlwind three days of cooking, feasting, cleaning, and visiting relatives. I look forward to it more with each year. When so much of life feels like chaos, the holiday feels like an anchor. The Thanksgiving tradition has become just that.

Our “traditional” Thanksgiving is atypical:

- There’s never a designated time to begin, so people show up when they feel like it. Sometimes this means that the turkey is done hours before dinner.

- Since I’m complimented for my soups, I usually cook one for a first course, which is also probably not normal.

- We’re the only family I know that does Thanksgiving dinner buffet style, with tables set up in the dining room, and people eating casually at chairs in the kitchen, on couches and on the floor at the coffee table in the living room.

- Because of the Jewish influence, there’s usually at least one dish per person, so leftovers are enough to feed many people for many days to follow. The atmosphere is light and festive, while we all weigh ourselves down with food. Everyone leaves satisfied.

When I look back twenty-years-ago, my family seemed so large, while my husband’s seemed too small. So much has changed in twenty-years. Our one constant is my in-laws’ home. Each year for Thanksgiving, there’s a slightly different group of people at my in-law’s home, but the same core are always present: my mother and father-in-law, my sister-in-law, her husband, and two children, my sister, my husband, our two kids, and me. My mother always stops by for a while. Everyone else is just gravy.

Dancing (Dis)Abilitites

Anonymous — Mon, 13 Sep 2010 00:24:00 GMT

“I’m just a horrible dancer. Terrible. In fact, I’m so gad I even have a rule against it. No dancing unless I’m alone in my room or it’s pitch-black dark.”

- Catherine in Rules by Cynthia Lord.

I don’t know how to dance.

Really.

When I was in kindergarten, my best friend took ballet, so I asked if I could take ballet lessons too. My mother said it was too far to walk. We lived in New York City then. She only went out when she had to. It was hard for her to make room for other activities around “Ryan’s Hope”, “All My Children”, “One Life to Live”, “General Hospital”, and “The Edge of Night”. Besides, a nap followed.

When I turned nine, we moved to the suburbs. I asked again for dance lessons a couple of times, but my mother didn’t drive and my father came home too late after commuting in from Manhattan. By the time my sister, who is six years younger, wanted to dance, my mother knew how to drive and my father’s schedule was more flexible. On the upside, I was allowed to play soccer, which is pretty much mandatory on Long Island.

When I was in high school, for one quarter I took Dance as a gym elective. I’d been to a couple of dances in school and didn’t know what I was doing, more shuffling than dancing. Would this class help? Apparently not. Our teacher was in charge of the Tigerettes, who performed at every ball game. They were good. Most in my motley crew of beginning dancers were not.

I recall the teacher’s frosted hair and painted claw fingernails, frustration flooding her face as she called out dance moves in her thick Long Island accent, “Now the Madonna!”

Fumbling through Whitney Houston’s “How Do I Know?” spoke volumes.

At dances and weddings, I observed other people, trying to imitate their movements. I got better. But I never felt competent. I felt miles away from those who had flair, like my sister. I still felt self-conscious.

(This is why I write for children and teens. Not only do I recall the awkwardness and the angst, I still live it.)

My husband, who never took formal lessons either once quipped I dance like Elaine in “Seinfeld”. Harsh. That comment set my confidence level back YEARS.

I swear; I’m not that bad. But that is how my hair used to look.

Over the years, I’ve tried not to care. I’ve tried to just enjoy myself. A drink (or two) helps me ignore everyone else. I still peek at the moves of better dancers.

My daughter takes ballet lessons. She’s doing so well that she’s in a class with mostly older girls. My son took ballroom dancing in fifth-grade, so he knows seven different dances. They’ve had opportunities I was denied. My children aren’t self-conscious when they’re on a dance floor, and I hope it stays that way.

My daughter at her recital.

My son and his partner at ballroom dancing.

This spring at my husband’s cousin’s wedding, all four of us danced and had a wonderful time. This summer at my cousin’s wedding, all four of us danced again. I watched my sister dance, and she really knew what she’s doing, though she made light of it when the spotlight was on her instead of basking in the moment. But each year I get older; I care less about comparing myself to others and less about my abilities. Who’s wasting their time watching me anyway? I’m not on “Dancing with the Stars” – I’m supposed to be having fun. (And burning off calories from all the food I just devoured.)

My husband, daughter, and I at the wedding, not dancing.

“Dancing like

nobody can see,

finally.”

- Sophia Bush in More Six-Word Memoirs

What has made you self-conscious?

Were you able to overcome it?

If so, how?

About my daughter and dance:

http://theresamilstein.blogspot.com/2010/03/dancing-queen.html

About my son and ballroom dancing:

http://theresamilstein.blogspot.com/2010/05/mad-hot-butterflies.html