Ch-ch-ch-changes . . .

by Judy Merrill Larsen

This has become my summer of whiplash. No, I'm not teaching a kid to drive (thank God) or scheduling visits with a chiropractor.  I'm just experiencing those moments that point out to me how quickly time is passing.

This was crystallized for me at our annual 4th of July party last week.  I've been having this party every year since 1991.  I have the perfect front porch and yard for our annual get-together because we live two blocks from the park where they shoot off the fireworks, so while we party on the lawn, bathrooms and beverages handy, we are entertained by the parade of park-goers pulling wagons and coolers and hauling lawn chairs.  Folks who haven't managed to cultivate friendships with people who have houses close to the park.  Some years, we've been known to good naturedly heckle the folks walking by (never loudly enough for them to hear, just for our own amusement.  Well, except for the year an adult dressed as Uncle Sam sauntered past.  Is it too late to issue a formal apology?).  But, I digress.

These parties have a comfortable sameness to them.  Year after year.  It's a toehold.  A touchpoint.  My kids love the tradition, and the families who've been coming year after year don't even need an invitation.  The 4th of July?  We go to Judy's.  Simple.  The tubs of ice and beer will be under the same tree.  The speakers will be placed in the open window and Springsteen will be blaring out for all to hear.  

But, this year, sitting on the porch, sipping an icy drink, I glanced at the kids sitting under the tree laughing and talking.  And it hit me.  Half of them are adults.  Most of them are my height or more.  None of them needed help with a juice box straw.  I looked at the parents, all dear friends, and we don't seem older.  A few lines here or there, yes.  A paunch, maybe.  How did these kids dare to grow up on us?  Wasn't it just last year--or maybe the year before--that they were playing with dolls and legos and ninja turtles?  That we parents were overseeing the use of sparklers?  ("Careful!  Watch out for the little ones!  Not so close to his face!  Put them in the bucket of water when you're done!").  This year I actually discussed the merits and drawbacks of the Bacardi Mojito mix with the girl (now 22!) next door.  (Add some lime and mint and they are boffo.  Um, and dangerous.)  And when I lamented that we were running out of ice, another girl offered to drive her car and pick some up for us.  This was a girl who hadn't been born at our first party.

And it all got me to thinking about the years passing and how lucky I am to have these friends and traditions that serve as a yardstick of longevity. I always wanted to be the kind of mom who religiously marked my kids' height on the closet door or kept perfect scrapbooks documenting each step. Alas, I'm not. But I am the kind of mom who throws a great 4th of July party every year. And these same kids who grew up on us overnight, dammit, and who make food and beer requests as I prepare my grocery list, have these parties as a mid-summer marker in their memories. And these same kids will, in a few years (please, not too soon!!), bring their own babies to these parties and the chain will start all over.

And so, while I glance longingly backward at the little kids they once were, I also am looking into the future at the young ones who'll be joining us down the road. And I can sit here in the present, on this hot July day, and be happy for parties and traditions that seem to go on and on and on.

To Make a Grown Man Tremble

This weekend was the first anniversary of my husband's summer hobby - a backyard theater. Which is just a fancy way of saying "a projector, a big screen, cheap speakers, lawn chairs and lots of bug spray."

But it's been a big hit with our neighbors, and it's done us a lot of good, socially. We've become quite the entertaining mavens. I think this summer, with the economy in the toilet, more people are very happy to descend upon our backyard and eat free popcorn, candy and see a free movie. And really, I can't blame them. And we really do enjoy having them.

I was reminded, though, of our initial effort last year, and how much trouble my husband had with the wording of the first invitation.

Of course, as the only person who actually gets paid to write around here, I am the Oracle of Grammar, Punctuation and Vocabulary. So as a "favor" - actually, as a "requirement" because I'm very anal about this kind of thing - I read various incarnations of the invitation, and kept pushing him to make one thing a tad clearer. And that one thing was — no small children allowed. I felt this had to be spelled out, because we were talking about an outdoor movie situation and I think many people could easily interpret that as an event for the entire family. Which is fine, except that wasn't what we had in mind.

Or course, you have to be careful because if you say “adults only” and you’re talking about movies, well — people can get confused. So you have to be pretty specific and focus on the “no kids” part.

Now, my husband is a Titan of Industry. Well, OK, he’s really not — he’s more like a Foot Soldier. But still, he’s a man who regularly walks into large businesses and meeting rooms full of corporate executives with absolutely no fear, ready to do battle with just a cell phone and a Power Point presentation. He’s ruthless. He’s respected. He’s powerful, in a nerdy, numbers-obsessed kind of way.

He’s also deathly afraid of the words “no kids allowed.” He even said that. He cowered, mumbled, and stuttered, “I can’t put that on the invitation. I’m afraid to.”

Afraid??? To have the temerity to say “no kids allowed” on his own party invitation???? I have to say, I sneered at him. Scoffed. Turned up my nose. Hinted that I might have to find someone else to play the role of “Brave Knight rescuing Fair Damsel in her Nightie” the next time I was feeling frisky.

Yet still, he trembled in fear. “I just can’t. I’m afraid.”

Well, you know - I'm not. Afraid. Afraid to tell people I’m inviting into my own home, for my own party, to please find a babysitter. Does that make me a total bee-yotch? I don’t think so. But somehow, kids have taken over society. And just when did that happen?

I admit, when I think of entertaining, I somehow imagine myself in a tight little cocktail dress with a big bouffant hairdo a la Jackie Kennedy in the early Sixties. I envision hip cocktails, Frank Sinatra on the turntable, men in skinny ties dancing the Twist. Back then, in the Camelot era, children and adults did not mix. Kids played during the day, adults during the night — when the kids were safely tucked into bed, watched by the neighborhood teenaged babysitter. The adults talked about things like the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Peace Corps, and Marilyn Monroe’s latest love affair — they did not talk about Thomas the Tank Engine, soccer games, and Dora the Explorer.

Yet today, we bring our kids along to everything. Even when they’re not there, they’re — there. Haunting our conversation, claiming our intelligence. Defining who we are — we’re Johnny’s dad, Sally’s mom from the PTA. Tell me, you parents, when was the last time you introduced yourself as simply you? Your own name, no “I’m Jeffrey’s mom — I’m the one who volunteers at Market Day” tacked on to the end?

I’m guilty of this, too. Even when people stop to ask me how my books are doing, I find myself steering the conversation back around to the kids — asking how theirs are doing, have they started the college search, has so-and-so gotten her Driver’s License yet? It’s like I’ve lived this life, this mom life, for so long, I’ve forgotten that I had an identity before. And maybe I’m afraid— as afraid as my husband was — to neglect to think about the children. The children! What about the children?? As if to have the guts to carry on a conversation without mentioning them labels me as, well — a bee-yotch. A selfish shrew. Only interested in myself.

Well, what’s wrong with that, actually? Not that I want us all to be selfish. Just interested in things that have nothing to do with our kids. Interested in politics, culture, art. Pulling our heads out of the nursery, for a change. Brave enough to stand on our own, be defined on our own.

I want to believe there’s nothing selfish about that. I need to believe we’re all capable of forgetting about the children. Not permanently or fatally. Just more than occasionally. Because for sure, they’re going to forget about us, one of these days.

I also need to believe there’s nothing wrong in not wanting to be around them. That I choose not to be in their company on occasion. Even when mine were younger — and cuter and cuddlier — I desperately needed time to be away from them now and then. And now that they’re pretty much grown, I want to be able to say to my friends who still have younger children, “I’d like to spend time with you. Just you. Not your kids. Play time is over.”

I shouldn’t be afraid to say that. I honestly believe so. And my husband shouldn’t have been afraid to say it on his party invitation, either.

So buck up, hubby. And everyone else out there afraid to say to the world, “Sorry. Kids are great. Just not all the time. I’d like to be able to enjoy the company of adults only — talking about adult things. I’d like to think we’re pretty interesting people, all on our own.” It used to be OK to say this. Now, for some reason, it’s not.

I like to think, that in my small way, I’m changing that. Take back the night, people! Take back the sophistication and glamour! Drink your martinis, dance the Twist, and leave the kids in the nursery where they belong.

Or, as I suggested, so sweetly, to my husband — Why don’t we all grow a pair, OK?

Taste Test

By Margy McCarthy

“Mom, do you have a few bucks I can borrow?”

You would think that after eighteen years, Snooze might have figured out how ridiculous this question is; I am, after all, a public school teacher. But then, for that matter, if you’d seen his SAT Verbals, you would also think he’d have a clearer understanding of the definition of the word “borrow.”

“I don’t know, but go ahead and check, Honey,” I answer, from my place in front of the stove, “I’ve got my hands full over here.”

The kitchen is fragrant with the mouthwatering scent of Bolognese sauce. Pancetta and onions, ground beef, carrots, celery, garlic, and allspice have been tempting us all afternoon from a creamy sauce of Marzano tomatoes and wine. On the back burner a kettle of water reaches a rolling boil. I open a box of mostaccioli and pour it into the pot as my first-born rifles through my purse.

“There’s just three bucks here.”

“Then I guess that’s how much I have.” I give the pasta a stir, and finish tossing the salad. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, ATM cash is not shorthand for ‘Always Take Mom’s.’” Snooze scowls at the three singles as I continue. “Hmm. Wait a minute! What happened to the change from the ten I gave you to buy a bag of ice with yesterday? You can take some of that. You’ll have to dig around a little. It’s probably loose in there.”

Somehow, while both of my children are gifted at the art of removing cash from my wallet, neither has developed the fine motor skills necessary to return bills to their proper place. Once stuffed into their pockets, crisp new tens and twenties close in upon themselves protectively, taking on the shape and texture of the subterranean larvae of an extinct species of moth. Paleontologists have been known to spend inordinate amounts of time dissecting crumpled bank notes.

So have mothers of teens.

“Um-- about that…” Snooze rattles off a list of expenses that includes his lunch of Pop-Tarts and Diet Coke the day before, a grievously belated Christmas gift for a friend, and a pint of gas for the car.

“Oh.” I sigh, checking the pasta. “So it’s gone?” He nods. I sigh again. “Then I guess you need to ask your dad.”

“Ask me what?” Sparky enters the kitchen, pulls open the freezer, and pops a bag of broccoli into the microwave. Reaching for the bread basket on the top of the fridge, he begins slicing a fresh loaf for dinner. “Shriek?” he calls, “Come set the table.”

“Snooze needs some cash,” I tell him, draining the pasta and folding it into the sauce.

“Well? You have a job, Son, what’s wrong with your debit card? Shriek? Come set the table, now!”

“I put my check into savings,” Snooze explains. “because if I put it into my debit account, I just end up spending all my money.”

Sparky rolls his eyes. “But if you put it all in savings, you end up spending all my money.”

“Right.” Snooze’s eyes can be just as sparkly as his father’s. “See how much better that works out? I’m saving a fortune!”

You gotta hand it to him. His SAT math wasn’t bad either.

Sparky carries the basket to the table, sidestepping our daughter as she saunters into the room, tossing silverware in the general direction of the table. He reaches for his wallet with a sigh. He peels off a few bills and hands them to our son. The microwave dings, heralding the readiness of the vegetable, and I ladle the pasta onto plates, grating fresh parmesano reggiano over each steaming serving.

“Thanks, Dad. Oh- Mom?” I look up at my son who is twirling a set of car keys around his index finger. “None for me, thanks. I’ve gotta run-- I’m meeting the guys for pizza. I’m really hungry for Italian food.”

Sparky and I stood slack-jawed, staring at our plates as the door swung shut.

“What does he think this is?” my husband asks.

I shrug. Maybe someday there will be a standardized test on international cuisine.

Independence? What Independence?

As you are reading this, I am stepping into the chaos I like to call our Bi-Annual July 4th Family Reunion. Every minute of this holiday I will be surrounded by aunts, crying babies and pregnant cousins, husbands trying to avoid the creek and pre-schoolers trying to sneak into it, frogs, poison ivy, and noise.  Sweet, glorious, family noise that cannot be duplicated by any other gathering.  There will be arguments and political discussions much snappier than any fireworks display, lots of hugging, sitting on laps, porch swinging, and water fights.  In short, if one thinks of "independent" as solitary in the least, my weekend will be anything but.  It will be, however, jam-packed with love, a tribute to all things family!  So, red, white and blue hats off to the all-American family picnic weekend, ants and all.  I will survive!!  Have a great holiday!! 

All Washed Up by Jenny Gardiner

Wet towels have become the bane of my existence. I’m practically drowning in them. I find them everywhere. Damp towels on the bathroom floor, saturated swimming pool towels on the hardwood floors. Dripping hair towels soaking into the carpets.
With my three kids home all summer, the soggy towel factor has increased exponentially. It’s almost out of control. By my calculations I am faced with at the very least nine wet towels a day, and that’s if the kids only go to the pool once. If they go to swim team practice in the morning, that’s three more soaking wet towels. Don’t even get me started on swim meet days: two to three more sodden towels per kid (that is if they don’t lose them at the meet), bringing me to a grand total of six thousand four hundred and twenty four soggy towels per week, give or take a few.
I try to encourage the kids to hang up the towels, give them a chance to air dry. But they’re just so darned wet. The towels, not the kids. So even assuming the kids did hang their towels regularly, which they’re not, the damp towel dilemma has taken over my life.
I’m washing, and drying, drying and washing. But I don’t seem to make any headway.
And supposing I do get all my wet towels washed, there’s the other problem of the towels in the closet. Every day, I wash those towels. Fold them neatly. Place them in an orderly manner on the shelves of the linen closet. And every day I find the clean towel pile overturned. In an effort to get to their favorite towels, the kids pull from the bottom of the pile, allowing the stack to tumble. Dead soldier towels, strewn about the floor. At least they’re not wet.
My husband came up with a solution to our towel problem. Unfortunately he announced it at 11 o’clock at night to an audience of overly tired kids.
The idea was this: pit each kid against the other. Whoever finds a wet towel on the floor can confront the towel offender, and force a payment of 25 cents. My teen-aged son, who never met a get-rich-quick scheme he didn’t like, started to gleefully calculate how much money he could make annually off of his sisters by merely busting them violating the towel rule.
My older daughter, our number one towel offender--but aside from that all-around wonderful helper--burst into tears, feeling persecuted. We couldn’t calm her down for thirty minutes.
My other daughter, another towel violator, stomped off to her room, slamming the door shut.
Today, my son, the mercenary, happened into his sister’s room in search of our kitten, when what did he come upon, but a wet towel. Now mind you, at least it wasn’t heaped on the carpet. It was draped across a chair. But nevertheless, it was not in its designated spot on the towel rack. Excitedly he thrust the towel in his sister’s face. She shrieked at him, accusing him of sneaking into her room, her private space. He leered at her, that ire-inducing smirk that every brother in the world knows will elicit hatred, venom, retribution from a sister. Usually in the form of a slap, smack, pinch, punch or kick.
There’s a lot more noise in my house today. Whereas yesterday, I spent the day in relative peace, stooping to pick up the myriad of wet towels laying about, today, I had to don my striped shirt, secure my whistle over my neck, and adopt the role of referee. It hasn’t allowed me much time for washing towels.
I think my life was easier when all I had to worry about was picking up wet towels off of every horizontal surface in my house. Excuse me while I go run interference with my kids, I think it’s getting violent.

Declaration of Independence or, Common Sense, Baby!

by Judy Merrill Larsen


Don't worry, this isn't going to be a little history lesson. Or a quiz about who signed what and when. Uh uh. It's about the power of natural consequences and how letting those consequences take their natural course can lead everybody--parents and kids--to the independence that we all want. It's necessary, but sometimes it can be a painful struggle. Just ask the British.

As adults, we get this. If I eat less and move more I'll lose weight. Doesn't always make me do so, but that's a natural consequence I understand. Same with, oh, say, paying bills so the electricity stays on. In my fifteen years of teaching, I often found myself preaching this to my students. Especially when they'd ask about extra-credit. I'd launch into my song and dance about "Well, if you'd done the assigned work you wouldn't need extra-credit. now, would you, so why should I give you a chance to make more work for me?" That always brought them around, yes indeedy.

But as a mom, it was often much harder for me to hold to this. For a few years, when my sons were in elementary school, I was on a first-name basis with the night janitor at their school because we seemed to need to ask him to unlock a classroom door at least once a week to fetch something we needed to complete a homework assignment. Part of me knew I should let them deal with the consequences of not remembering. But it seemed so cold. Harsh.

No more. One thing teenagers teach you (and the sooner, the better) is that they often only respond to natural consequences. For example: (and I need to make a disclaimer here. Not all of these examples come from the children living under my roof. Some come from their friends. I swear. But they're all instructive.)

~If, when you are "assigned" community service by a judge because of some hi-jinks you were caught participating in, "forgetting" to perform said hours will cause those hours to be doubled. Plus you'll be fined. So maybe next time you shouldn't ignore your mom's nagging.

~If you keep calling in sick to a job you no longer like, you'll get fired. And the company who sends you your cell phone bill doesn't care the reason, they'll stop your service. And, no, they don't have to warn you in advance.

~If you blow through all your lunch money/allowance by noon on Tuesday, you're going to be hungry (or brown-bagging it) for the rest of the week. Not to mention that you can forget about any extra-curricular fun.

~If you buy clothes that scream "Skanky crack ho" to your parents, but "sneak-wear" them under your t-shirt, the school will likely call your parents to explain they don't mesh with the dress code and you'll be assigned a detention. Also, said clothes will likely disappear the next time your mom does the laundry.

~Speaking of which, if your mom tells you to put all your dirty clothes in the laundry basket outside your door so she can get the laundry done and you don't, there will be no clean clothes for you. Deal with it. Ha.

~And, if you decide your mom isn't all that bright and why can't you just put all your dirty clothes in the wash together (because she is no longer willing to do your laundry (see above)), don't expect that same stupid mom to replace your now pink underwear. But you can expect her to laugh at you when you make your request. And, if you've blown through your lunch money/allowance this week, you'll be wearing the pink underwear to school.

~If your economics professor has told you that your homework is all to be done on-line, and you sign up for the wrong on-line program, and then notice that your classmates have homework, but miraculously you don't, that doesn't mean you're off the hook; it means you'll be retaking the class in summer school. At 8 a.m. if your mom has anything to say about it.

~If the bank explains that if you bounce a check there will be fees assessed--which will deplete your checking account even more, they really mean it. It's not like when your mom used to tell you she'd fine you for having to go up to the elementary school at night to pick up your geography book. She remembers how cute you were at age 4. The bank doesn't, and even if they did, they wouldn't care.

Natural consequences. They rock. In part because your kids can't be mad at you or blame you. Not that they won't try, but even they have to realize that they brought it on themselves. And that's where the real power comes in--they have to take responsibility.



That's a pretty powerful lesson. And it leads to independence. Possibly even adult behaviors. And all you've had to do is sit back, watch it unfold and bite your tongue. And maybe sacrifice some tea tossed into a harbor.

How My Teenagers Spent Their Summer Vacation

We just returned from a good ol’ fashioned family vacation. Me, my husband, two teenagers, ten days away. It was wonderful, we didn’t get on each other’s nerves (mainly because we were witnesses to a spectacular family meltdown at the Grand Canyon – the kind where we really thought someone might actually be killed, especially as there was a handy giant hole in the ground nearby, just perfect for shoving annoying family members into), and now that we’re home, I’m finding that I’m somewhat of a heroine among my friends.

“How did you do it?” they whisper, notepads out, ready to jot down ideas. “How did you manage to get them to agree to it?”

By them, they mean – the teenagers. My 19 and 17 year-olds. Because it’s a well-documented fact that teenagers wish to spend as little time as possible with their families, isn’t it?

Actually – it isn’t.

Our brilliant method of “getting” our teenagers to agree to a vacation was the assumptive close. As in, “We’re going on vacation in June; here are the dates, mark your calendars.” No discussion, no pleading, no bargaining.

It’s a parenting method that’s always worked well for us, but I see other parents struggle with it. Especially once they get into the teen years.

I have always scratched my head at the parents who excuse bad behavior – even before it’s begun – by saying, “Well, what can we do? They’re teenagers, you know!”

I’ve heard this said as an excuse for broken curfews, dented cars, speeding tickets, drunken parties, cell phone bills in excess of $500, failed grades, ruined holiday plans, obnoxious behavior in general. I’ve heard this said in anticipation of the same, too – parents who nervously prepare themselves to be the recipients of such behavior. Thus, I believe, granting their teenagers permission to behave as giant a$$holes.

I know it’s a scary prospect, parenting teenagers. We all have fresh memories of our own teen years, of course. And we’re a different generation; we want to be friends with our kids, not the myopic authority figures we remember our parents to be.

And some of that is fine. I look back at my teenage years and I realize, now, that my father just did not have a clue as to what a typical teenager was like. He’d had to help support his family from the age of twelve, you see. He never had time to be a teenager himself. But I did, and I remember my frustrations with him, so I do think I’m a little more understanding.

But that doesn’t mean I excuse my children from a responsible, respectful life. It doesn’t mean I grant them permission to ignore all the rules just because “they’re teenagers, you know!”

I think some of this is based in fear – fear of what they’ll do, fear of being the bad parent, fear of losing control. So it’s easier to absolve them – absolve ourselves – of responsibility in advance.

But the truth is, teenagers crave direction and guidance and – gasp! – rules. Every time I hear a teenager grumble, with an eye roll and a toss of the hair, “My mom said I have to be home by midnight,” I also detect a little whisper of relief. Because being home by midnight means less decisions that teenager has to make – decisions that teenager probably doesn’t want to make, even though he doth protest too much.

The young adult years are scary. They’re full of decisions to make, questions to ask, boundaries to test. We’re doing our kids a favor by not giving them free reign over their lives, at least in part, where it matters most – at home.

So instead of asking my teenagers permission to include them in our lives – something too many parents do – we just assume that they will. And because we’ve always assumed this, the funny thing is – they do. With no questions asked, no cell phones thrown in frustration.

And I think it bodes well for our future, as they truly do leave the nest. We assume they’ll come back, and particularly, we assume we’ll always make time for each other in the summer for some kind of vacation. They know this, we know this.

So it is written, so it is done.

And that’s my miraculous way of “getting” my kids to spend their summer vacation with us.