Tag: kids

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Grandchildren

Posted on by Susannah Warner

We’re lucky to have our little Bean over so often and so blessed to be grandparents. I mean, our kids were fun, but raising them was a lot of work; emotional and physical.  For one thing, they never slept well, even years beyond the baby stage, and since they are 6 years apart, I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep through the night for nearly a decade. They fought a lot, usually just the garden variety, “she’s looking at me,” and “he keeps coughing in my ear,” followed by bouts of hitting or relentless teasing, but I also seem to recall, buried in the recesses of my brain, a rather unfortunate incident, involving a glass bottle thrown at someone’s head, and an even more egregious accusation of someone being chased around the dinner table by someone else who was wielding a knife. Who the aggressor was in each incident, I really don’t know, as I’ve just now stumbled upon this forgotten file in my brain, stored away at least 15 years ago and aptly titled, “Cure for baby fever!!” This, after I’d spent a dreamy 5 minutes, waxing poetic about the joys of having small children in the house.

And then there’s the guilt; a heavy, cumbersome mantle sitting securely on the head of every mother; working or stay-at-home, single or married. There is no escaping it, almost each day brings a fresh supply, and we as mothers accept the heavy burden with only the small consolation that we must be doing an ok job, or we probably wouldn’t feel guilt at all. Through all this; the fighting, the drudgery, the long days and short nights, there were plenty of good times too. But, it all seemed to go by so quickly, and even though the days often dragged, there is this strange phenomenon I heard a wise person explain like this, “the days are long, but the years are short,” I’ve found this to be quite accurate.

I actually enjoy my children so much more now that they are adults, because they are the friends that I raised. They know all my quirks, and think nothing of them. They  understand my need to quote my favorite movie lines every time someone says something that reminds me of one, or when I can’t help but sing the chorus of a song that seems to suit the occasion. When I say, “oh your father, you know how he is,” they nod fondly and smile, and they politely  remain nonplussed when “The Bickersons,” our evil, alter ego couple come to call, since they’ve seen their act many times before. Best of all, neither one can be bothered with staring at each other anymore, or coughing in each other’s ears and I’m quite confident that any squabble that might arise in the future, will not sink to the level of a thrown glass bottle, nor a threatened brutal knife attack, although a bout of relentless teasing cannot be entirely ruled  out. Thus, family gatherings with adult children is generally peaceful, if not a little bit predictable.

But a grandchild! Oh, what a joy! She lights up our world with her funny sayings, and her adorable little eyeglasses. We have all of the fun and none of the guilt. We really don’t care if she has cookies for breakfast, or if she doesn’t brush her teeth. We buy things we’d never buy for our kids…a milkshake at a restaurant instead of water! Noisemakers and glow sticks at a parade! Build-a-bear at the mall, and candy at the movies, instead of smuggling in our own! All fun, no work! Unless she wants to help, in which case we have all the time in the world for her to crack eggs and help pound in a nail.

In most cases, the less time we have on earth, the more patience we have for these little ones, and this is one of the many reasons they love us. Because, something all grandparents know is that as we age our days are shorter, but the enthusiasm and vitality of grandchildren, keep our years long. And that is just one of the many reasons that we love them.

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The Golden Arrowhead

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Once upon a time, many years ago, in a land not too far away, an adorable little boy lived an unhappy life with unhappy parents. He was a sweet little boy, but he was full of energy, he liked to talk a lot, and he loved to see other people laugh, so he was often in trouble for being a class clown, or for being rambunctious although he meant no harm. In fact, he tried very hard to be good so that his parents would be proud of him, but he never felt like he was good enough.

The little boy was very active, and he liked to play outside with his friends, but he was often grounded and not allowed to go out, so he was very surprised when his mother told him that he was going to go to church camp for a whole week. He had heard his friends talk about camp, and it sounded like so much fun that he could hardly wait.

At last the day arrived, and although he was a little bit afraid, because he didn’t know any of the kids he saw playing outside, he bravely carried his little suitcase, and rolled up sleeping bag to the bunk house. Inside, there were other boys settling in for the week, and before he’d finished making up his bunk, he’d already made new friends and no longer felt nervous.

Camp was just like his school friends had said it would be. He ran and swam, played games and had so much fun with his new friends that before he knew it, it was the last day of camp, and that afternoon, his parents would come to pick him up and take him home. He was sad to think that camp was almost over, until lunchtime when one of the teenage counselors stood up, and made an announcement.

He held out a clear plastic box, and inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet, was a golden arrowhead. The counselor said that there would be a contest to see who could go the whole afternoon without saying a word. The winner would be announced at the closing ceremonies with all the parents present, and he or she could bring the golden arrowhead home. The little boy was so excited. He knew that he could win that arrowhead if he tried really hard, and he just knew his parents would be so proud of him. He could just imagine their faces when his name was announced, and he walked up on stage in front of everyone to collect his prize. He knew just where he would put it in his room, and he imagined taking it to school for show and tell. He was so sure that he could win it, and so eager to start, that he stopped talking even before the contest began.

At last lunch was over, and after a countdown, the contest officially began. Silently, all the children ran outside, a few pushing excitedly past the slower ones. “Hey!!” one of them protested. “OHHH! You’re out!” a counselor shouted, pointing at the talker. The little boy smiled to himself; he knew there was no way that he was going to make that mistake! Outside, the playground was eerily quiet, as all the children tried their best not to talk. But, after a few minutes, more and more children were pointed at by the counselors but still the little boy did not speak. He knew he could win, and he was determined to get that arrowhead.

An hour passed, and at least half of the children were “out.” The ones still in the running for the arrowhead, walked around but did not play for fear that they would speak, but the ones already caught talking had gone on to play kickball, and jump rope, and swing on the swing set. The little boy wandered around, hands in his pockets, thinking to himself that he wished he could play with the others but that it would be worth the wait, to see the look on his parent’s faces, when they saw him win that beautiful arrowhead. Scuffing his feet, he turned towards the swing set, just in time to see a little girl, younger and smaller, fall backwards off a swing, her pigtails covering her face as her head hit the ground.

The little boy ran over to the little girl, and said, “are you ok?” as he helped her to her feet. Crying, she nodded, just as a counselor pointed at the little boy and said, “You’re out!” The boy protested, “but, I was asking her if she was alright!” The counselor, who seemed quite big to the boy at the time, but who was probably no more than 14, was quite sure that the rules were black and white, “doesn’t matter, you still talked!”

The little boy gave up, he knew he would never get the arrowhead, and although he was angry with the councilor, he wasn’t sorry that he’d helped the little girl. He knew even then, that he wouldn’t want the prize if it meant that he couldn’t help someone. The rest of the afternoon passed, and at the closing ceremony, a girl about the little boys age was awarded the arrowhead. Everyone clapped as she proudly went onstage and afterwards, as he and his parents drove away, he saw the little girl’s mom hug her while her dad carried her suitcase and sleeping bag to the car, so that she could hold on to her award.

Years passed, and the little boy grew up. He continued to get into trouble sometimes, and he never really thought that his parents were proud of him, even when he went on to serve his country, or when he was the first person in his family to earn a college degree. The boy married, had children of his own, and eventually his parents passed away. The little boy was a father himself for many years before he remembered the story of the golden arrowhead again, and told his wife. He chuckled remembering how much the little boy wanted the arrowhead, and laughed when he told his wife how the joke was on him for losing the prize at a church camp because he’d tried to help someone. But his wife didn’t laugh, she felt sad for the little boy, who was punished for doing a good deed, and who couldn’t see that he was a such a good person inside, no matter how many times he got in trouble. She was proud of him, but rarely told him so.

Many more years passed, and the wife never forgot the story of the golden arrowhead. She thought to herself many times that she should tell the little boy that she was proud of him, and grateful that he had a merciful, sweet spirit, but she never did. Until one day, the story spilled out of her head, into her fingers and onto her keyboard. She wrote about the little boy because she wanted him to know that she was so proud of him for losing that contest, and that she loved him just the way he was, even though he sometimes talked too much, and was still quite rambunctious. The wife wanted him to know that even at his worst, he was still good, and that together they could live happily ever after.

The end.

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Grace Under Pressure

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Here’s to you mom, the young and the old,

with dishes to wash, and shirts to fold.

Here’s to you mom, the rich and the poor,

the one herding everyone out the door.

Here’s to you mom, the single and married,

with lives that are full, and too often harried.

Hold on Mom, your time will come,

when there is no more work, it’ll all be fun.

So, enjoy it Grandma, now it’s all downhill,

A feast to enjoy, and never a bill.

 

Yesterday was Monday, and every other Monday during the school year, starting today, I’ll be playing mom to my six-year-old granddaughter for the afternoon. This is because my daughter and I have unusual work schedules since we both work at a hospital; she in the ER, and I work on a medical/surgical floor. She works every Monday, from 8-8, and has to rely on her father and me to pick-up Bean at school, take her to dance, and get her to bed. It turns out, that this is an exhausting afternoon for a grandmother, even a fairly energetic one like me.

it’s not that I haven’t done something like this before—my children are 27 and 21, and they both participated in a variety of sports that required numerous trips to and from school, not just after school, but before it as well…as in 4:30 am for a powerlifting program they inexplicably loved. I somehow acclimated to rising at 3:50 am, throwing on sweatpants and a hat and winter jacket (hey! This is Maine!), and sleepily driving the five miles to school, a silent teen, huddled like a turtle in it’s shell, inside a hooded sweatshirt beside me. Afternoons were more lively; sweaty, dirty and triumphant after a great game, or sometimes loaded down with friends bemoaning a loss, the afterschool task of chauffeuring my kids was always fun. I’m used to all the “running around” required of a mom with active kids—Or, at least I used to be.

“School gets out at 2:50, get there 10 minutes early, go to the office and fill out the pink sign-out sheet. Then wait in the hallway. You will have to watch and pluck her out of the herd of kids because she doesn’t always see me. Dance arrival is 3:45, her pink dance bag is in the living room. Please pack a water. Dance pick up is 5:30. Please ask her if she has homework. She should go to bed at 7:30.” My daughter is very organized, and gives explicit instructions which I appreciate, because I seem to have lost any sense of urgency that I used to employ to make sure that we were all where we were supposed to be, with clean faces and a minimum of five minutes to spare. I ran a tight ship back in the day, but now my ship is more like a pleasure cruise, and I am happy to let my daughter be the captain. She’s very good at it.

After a few clarifications, I showed up at the school and waited with the others, 3/4 of whom were moms. They’re easy to spot. Some hold coffee cups, some hold toddlers, all hold their phones, either in their hands, or stuffed into the back pocket of their jeans. They lean comfortably against the walls and chat about mom stuff, “I know! Harper always wants to watch that show,” and “I just can’t believe how fast they’re growing! My oldest just turned 15!!” The dads look uncomfortable and shuffle their feet, communication limited to a nod of sympathy to other dads, angling for a spot on the wall. I could almost hear them thinking of each other, “poor bastard, wonder how he got roped into this…” They too hold their phones, squinting fervently into the screen, which I know instantly is a ruse, because being an outsider myself, I also tried casually scrolling through my phone, so that I would feel less awkward and out-of-place, only to find to my disappointment that there was absolutely no service in that part of the school. Everyone waits for the kids to come out. Finally they do—and just as my daughter predicted, I did have to fish her out of a stream of kids. She threw her arms around my waist, and shouted ”Noni!!” She smiled a jack-o-lantern smile, while looking over her pink glasses like an adorable little librarian. French braided pig tails with loose strands springing out, and a giant backpack on her back, water bottle tucked in the side pocket, off we went, through the school doors and into the unseasonably hot September afternoon.

I can happily say that we did everything we were supposed to do (except for the shower her mother requested when she called at her dinner break; because, well, it just seemed like all too much), she had a snack, got changed for dance, got there in time, came home, had dinner, did homework, had a little tv time, brushed her teeth, read a story, and went to bed. But, because I’m a grandmother, I cheated a bit. Her snack was a cupcake from a local bakery, I let her watch YouTube videos in the car, dinner was a happymeal, and honestly, if she had whined about brushing her teeth, I’d have said, “oh well, it won’t hurt just this once!” But she didn’t.

However, even with all these shortcuts, I still found this afternoon exhausting. Usually when I’m with her, we have no agenda at all, Sure, I’ve had to pick a sick Bean up at school a few times, much to her working mom’s relief, and I’ve even taken her to an appointment or two, but usually we while away our days playing Barbies, baking, shopping, and going out to lunch.

There was a time though, when my life revolved around my children; their needs, wants and activities, and my husband and I managed it all while we worked and each went to college, and didn’t think anything of it. Not about the daycare that closed permanently one Friday afternoon, when I came to pick my daughter up, because as the daycare owner tearfully confessed, “my husband is cheating on me! I just can’t do this!” Not cleaning up vomit at 2 am, when I had to get up in 2 hours, or the battle royale faced every freaking night about homework (our daughter) and bedtime (our son). I look back now, and think, “how did we do it and not kill each other?” The answer is grace. God gives you the grace that you need for every season of your life. grace is quiet and gentle, like a soft sweater. You aren’t even aware of its presence at all, and there is only one way to know for sure that you were given grace, and that is when you look back at that time in your life and think… “How, did I do it all?” That does not mean that it’s not difficult, or that you don’t cry at night. Or nearly psychotically, endlessly, repeat Robert Frost’s “…and miles to go before I sleep” as you drive a wailing toddler to the babysitters at 5;30 in the am, both of you with blankets over your laps, and a scraper in your hand to clean the windshield of frost as you drive down the dark road because, the blower broke in your car, and you have no money to fix it.

But, I digress, clearly there is a lot of emotion left over if I  think about how hard it really was. It is difficult to be everything to someone, or several someones. It is scary to feel like your little ones future rests on your shoulders and that if you mess this up, they might end up being a bad person. It is tiring to always have to do things the right way and rarely “cheat” as I did with Bean last night. But, it is so worth it. Because someday, when you have come through that exhausting season of life, you might be the grandparent, breezing through the drive-thru, not a shred of guilt, or a morsel of remorse for that snack-time cupcake. Let me tell you, because I’ve been there, no grace is needed for this job. Hallelujah!

 

 

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What’s For Dinner?

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I’m not sure why I can’t decide what I want to eat. Maybe it’s from almost 27 years of being a mom. You know, like when the kids are little and your “meal” consists of toddler leftovers; three spaghetti strands (with no “red stuff because it’s yucky! only butter!”), a drying crust with a smear of peanut butter left on it, three bites of cold scrambled eggs, and a triangle of soggy toast…that kind of meal. The sad remains that you could not coax, or guilt, as my mother used to do -“there are starving children in Armenia!” – ( btw, I had to text my mother and ask which country was deemed the most appropriate to ship leftovers to for those poor kids in 1979, because I was thinking it was either China or Romania for some reason. I’m ashamed to admit that I had to google, “where is Armenia located?” after she promptly texted back the answer. It’s in Asia, in case you’re wondering too…), your child into consuming. So, you nourish yourself on what was left behind after declaring that they need to “take one more bite. ” This is a statement that I learned to regret when my then three-year old daughter would absolutely not take one more bite, and sat there, alternately crying and stamping her feet for over 30 minutes, until her father tried to intercede on her behalf, but seeing the grim set of my jaw, wisely determined that I would not give in, at which point he turned to our tiny tyrant and cajoled her into taking a little nibble. The story ends on a sour note in my mind, even 24 years later as I vividly recall her letting that “one bite” dribble down her chin, rather than swallow it, as she slid out of her booster seat and ran away. Clearly this was a power struggle and not about food at all, but at least I can console myself with the fact that she has turned into a strong, independent woman, which soothes my still ruffled feathers a little. But, I digress…

Obviously toddlers and pre-schoolers dictated my diet, but even when they were babies, and just starting to eat the oatmeal that comes in a box, I’d usually match every spoonful I fed them with two in my own mouth. Hey, don’t judge! It’s really good, and goes great with cold coffee. In more recent years, when my children were teenagers, they still called the sustenance shots; Pizza! McDonald’s! I just went with whatever everyone else wanted, hoping that I could find something I liked, or in the case of the fast food option, something with the least amount of guilt attached to it, and if nothing else, a bowl of cereal has always been my go-to, often eaten standing up by the sink, because why get comfortable when cereal takes like 10 seconds to eat?

But then they grew up, and my husband and I are left asking each other the same thing whenever we decide to eat out…”What do you feel like eating?” The response? If I am the one answering, I have a standard reply, “I don’t care, what do you want?” Except apparently I do care, I just don’t know that I do until he presents options that I find objectionable…

Husband: “Chinese?”

Me: “Nah, we just had Chinese, I can only eat that when I’m in the mood for it. ”

Husband: “Pizza?”

Me: “Ugh, I’m sick of pizza!”

Husband: “Big Mac?”

Me: *makes face while inwardly crushing on the “special sauce” …and those onions! How do they make them so tiny and yummy?!?* …”No.”

Husband: “Mexican?”

Me: “Alright, I’ll go, but I’m only going because all I really want is a margarita…and maybe just a bite off of yours.”

It sounds like I’m not very good at making decisions, but actually my job requires me to make decisions for 12+ hours a day, some that could be life or death, so I think its safe to say that on my days off, I succumb to a little “decision fatigue.” My husband seems to be used to my indecisiveness and since neither of us are very adventurous eaters, generally we agree on where to go. By not adventurous, I mean that we aren’t really fans of fruits and vegetables. I mean, I do love mashed potatoes, so much so, that my co-workers can vouch for the fact that I eat them every day at work in the hospital cafeteria, because the only thing I like better than institutional mashed potatoes, is institutional oatmeal. I also have corn on the cob once a year, when a local farm sells them, but I’ve been told by a dietitian where I work that they are starches and don’t really count and besides I think you are supposed to eat them like three times a day, not three times a year. I’ve also heard that potatoes are “nightshades” and therefore evil, but they don’t scare me.

My husband, for his part, eats more vegetables than I do, but never on a daily basis and certainly not the epic proportion that our daughter insisted on when she was little and inexplicably thought that peas were his favorite food. Every year, for years, for her “birthday dinner” and for her father’s as they share the same birthday, she would choose a “feast” (her term, not mine!) of steak, french fries, both liberally doused with ketchup, and “peas for Dad.” Poor Dad, who barely tolerates peas in a chicken pot-pie, had to choke down double portions, on his birthday no less, so as not to hurt her feelings.

In re-reading what I’ve written so far, it appears that what started out as a commentary on my indecisiveness regarding food choices, took a rather nasty veer towards the unsettling effect children can have on one’s ability to know your own mind. My husband and I sound like a couple of shell-shocked war survivors, trying to get a grip on our own lives, after 20 years were commandeered by little hands and big hearts. There is some truth to this, as any empty nester can tell you, and we wouldn’t change a thing. Especially since our “tiny tyrant” will be turning 27 in ten days, it actually was quite easy to decide on serving peas with her birthday meal.

Post Script: Upon reading this to my husband before posting, he blurted out… “I actually do like peas! Especially in potpie! I like they way they squish! It’s creamed corn I don’t like, but that’s ok, you can keep it that way, since it’s ‘loosely based’ on your life and apparently mine.” After I read that to him… “Jeez, you can’t say anything in this house!” Nope, not when you live with a blogger.

 

 

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Guilt Trip

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Have you ever been on a guilt trip? I have, and let me tell you that it is no vacation.  The cost? Too dear. Enjoyment? Not unless you are the sort who enjoys mental anguish. Guilt is a powerful tool when used correctly, and growing up, my mother was the travel guide to many a guilt trip.

When we were little, my mother, a sweet and mild woman, consistently used one weapon on my three sisters and me. But, what a powerful one it was. With two words, and one gesture, she could silence a whiny 4 year-old, or turn a sullen, foot-stomping pre-teen into a simpering fool. She could actually turn a surly teen from defiant to pleading in seconds. The reasons were varied but the effect was the same. Feigning casual indifference, tinged with sadness, she would say “suit yourself” and offer a slight shrug of her shoulders, physical proof that the burden was now on the offender’s shoulders and not on hers. Returning to her ironing, or cooking, the insurgent would realize that she had a choice, either pack her bags for a guilt trip and try to enjoy the ride, or choose the serenity and smugness of martyrdom.  I’m pretty sure that we usually chose the latter, I know that I did. The few times I decided to suit myself,  I realized in a hurry that guilt does not suit me at all.

If pleasing oneself is not all it’s cracked up to be, there is a reason. A happy life is not possible to achieve by always suiting yourself. As a mother and wife, I am thankful that I learned this lesson early. As a child, my mother’s happiness and approval was so important to me, that I was willing to give up what I wanted (sometimes), so that she was not unhappy. This was an important lesson to learn and has served me well. But, I don’t always choose the high road. I read this to my mother and she was not sure if she was happy about it. Ever a model of decorum, She simply said, “does it cast me in an unfavorable light?” “No, of course not!!” I scoffed, “Well,” she sniffed, “you know best” which is the grown up version of “suit yourself.” You know what? Thanks to her, I do, so I did.

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Sunflower

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Today, as I dropped Bean off at preschool, we were a few minutes later than we usually are. The door to the classroom was already open, and she started to head in without saying goodbye. “Hey!” I said, “where’s my kiss?” “Ohhh, duh” she said, slapping her head in a gesture I’ve done myself, many times. I bent down as she turned her sunflower face to me, open and beautiful, framed by the purple petals of her dress and matching hair bow. “Have a good day, love you, see you later.” I said, after kissing her, a scene that has replayed countless times in my 25 years of motherhood, first with her mother, then her uncle. I will be there to pick her up when school is over, she knows that I will, as I know that she will greet me, face up, radiant smile on her face.

Our little ones are like this, at least for a short while, hungrily lapping up attention and affection rays as greedily as a seedling, their small stature forcing them to look up at us, their sun. But our sunflower will grow, and there will come a time when she will be your height or taller. Then, you will raise your face to your flower, as eager for affection and attention as they once were. If you have cultivated what you have sown, with rains of structure and discipline, winds of hope and love, and rays of joy, if you have tended your little garden faithfully, pulling weeds and whispering words of encouragement, and with a little luck on your side, someday your sunflower will smile down on you. Eagerly, you might say,  “hey! Where’s my kiss?!?” Your flower, woman sized now, will incline her lovely head and you will kiss her forhead before she leaves for school, driving now. “Have a good day, love you, see you later,” you cheerfully wave her off, while you throw a prayer out to the universe or to God, “take care of my baby, keep her safe.” You are no longer the gardener in her life and you can only hope that the seed you planted, cultivated, showered, and weeded, will bloom making the world a more beautiful place, bright and joyful like a sunflower.

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Bullies and the Lessons We Learn

Posted on by Susannah Warner

Minutes ago I read a blog post from a woman whose teenage, autistic son was made fun of at a mall by a group of teenage girls. She said that as far as she knew, he had never been made fun of before and that this event broke a thirteen year streak for them. She wrote that chances are, one of them will grow up to have a child or grandchild with a disability and that she hoped that they would not remember the incident if that child is bullied because they might not be able to stand the pain. I’m sorry that this happened and would not wish that any child be bullied, those with a disability and those without. I am happy for her that her son attends a school whose peers do not make fun of him and that a some small saving grace is that when she turned to confront the girls, her son “probably would not have understood much of our exchange if he had been listening anyway.” I am thankful that my children do not have a disability, but they have been bullied anyway and they were painfully aware of it all.

Not only have both my children been bullied, but my husband and I have been bullied as well. Given the fact that 100% of my immediate family has been bullied at one time or another, this must be extremely common. Of course this is not right. It is not good. It is painful for the children and heartbreaking for the parents, if they know. I never said anything to my parents, what would be the point? My mother is meek and mild and would have offered unhelpful advice such as “Just stay away from them,” and this is not something I would have shared with my father. My husband took care of his own bullies and the bullies of the less courageous kids with his fists, an effective but not recommended remedy. My daughter’s bully was small, but mean as a snake. She pulled the chair out before my daughter sat down and laughed when she fell on the floor. She teased and laughed at her so much that in the third grade, suffering from panic attacks, my daughter could not go to school for a while. My husband and I tried different tactics to combat this pint size tormentor. He offered my daughter 20 dollars to punch the girl in the face and it’s a testament to the desperation of the time that I secretly hoped that she would, even though I outwardly discouraged it, as a mother should. She wouldn’t do it. I tried calling the school and the parents but gave up on that idea when I didn’t get anywhere. Finally I decided that this girl was really just a little girl who was in pain, so we started praying for her every night (we both balked at this, my daughter outwardly and me inwardly) and invited her to a Awana, a weekly Christian based children’s ministry where the kids play games and earn badges for learning bible verses. The girl surprisingly agreed and ended up coming with us every Thursday night for years, sleeping over once a week on a cot in my daughter’s room. This arrangement actually worked but it was not an easy time for any of us.

My sons bullying experience was shorter but considerably more violent. He was taunted at the age of 12 by a 14 year-old indigent with a striking resemblance to my son, both blonde haired, blue-eyed with a slight build. I wondered then and still wonder if he noticed the similarities and the heartbreaking differences. This boy was brought up by an allegedly abusive, alcoholic father. I’m sure he never felt cherished and loved a day in his life and maybe because my son looked something like him, decided to take it out on him. It started with threatening my son in school and online, progressed to yelling threats about bringing brass knuckles to school while following him home, and ended with this kid waiting outside of his classroom, and while my son’s head was turned, knocking him out with one punch and climbing on top of him, punching his face the whole time until one of my sons friends pulled him off and the teachers finally heard the commotion. The kid was suspended, although many teachers favored expulsion and the bullying stopped. Shortly after that, the boy went on to high school and we didn’t see him again until one day, my husband came home and told us the story of his own interaction with the troubled kid. The story goes like this:

My husband was in the garage one day, when he heard the sound of a dirt bike, zipping up the road. He came out of  the garage in time to see what appeared to be teenager riding my son’s old dirt bike. We live in a small town and this was the only one of its kind in the area. We had recently sold it to a friend for his son after our son had outgrown it, and just the night before, the man had called my husband and asked him to be on the lookout for it because it had been stolen.  My husband, an adrenaline junky, and adventure lover, jumped in his truck in hot pursuit of the kid and followed him until he saw the kid turn off the road and in to a field. He pulled up in time to see the boy drop the bike in some high grass and duck down. Undaunted, and now sure that this must be the stolen dirt bike, he got out of the truck and walked through the field until he saw our old dirtbike and the bully, now 16 years old, cowering in the tall grass. “Get your a*$ up,” my husband said, “and help me load this thing into the truck.” The kid jumped up and together they loaded the dirtbike into the back of the truck, “I’m not going to say anything about this” he said, “but you leave my son alone.”  The kid stammered and mumbled something, probably surprised and relieved that he had escaped both a beating and a summons. My husband drove off and gave the dirtbike back to the grateful owner but kept his word and did not report it. We never saw or heard from him again. That kid is 22 now and it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he is prison somewhere but I hope he isn’t. I wish him well because I know that his bullying came from a place of insecurity, jealousy and anger as it often does with bullies.

Unfortunately, being bullied is all too common in childhood and sometimes even for adults, in the workplace. For the four of us, I think it has made us stronger. My daughter and I are alike in that we often speak for those who cannot speak up for themselves, she and I and have both been described as “feisty” when the situation warrants it. My son and husband always stand up for the underdog, individually, and on one memorable occasion, together, taking down and subduing a crazed, dangerous man (but that’s a story for a different day). These experiences were not pleasant when we went through them, and as a parent I wish they had not happened. I wonder though, if we would have turned out differently if we had not had them. I want this mom to know that although her son was made fun of for the way he ran, due to his disability, quite likely he would have been bullied at some point in his life even without his disability. Children are made fun of for the way they dress, how they talk, if they are too skinny or too fat, where they live, and for being too pretty or not pretty enough.  This is the sad reality of childhood. There is no right or wrong way to deal with a bully (I think we tried them all), and girl bullies and boy bullies are very, very different. But what we did learn is that families need to stick together, that you cannot allow anyone to push you around and if you can, stick up for those who can’t stick up for themselves.  Finally, try to show kindness to the bully because they may not have seen it at home and they are hurting too. You never know what seeds you may be planting in their lives that may grow into flowers later, when the soil is more fertile. To the mom at the mall, your children are lucky to have you and you are doing a great job.

 

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How it feels to be three

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I actually wrote this piece last year, on a Facebook post. It was one of the reasons I decided to start a blog. There is so much to say when you have a preschooler in your life, Facebook cannot possibly contain all the material that a child provides.

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If you could remember back to when you were three, you might remember how terrible it would be to not be able to find a Cootie body to match your beautiful red sweater. You might remember raging against the impracticability of Milton Bradley’s color choices of either pink or orange when clearly a simple red would be a much more popular choice. You might remember being so angry with the unfairness of Cootie and life that you were tempted to throw the offensive pink body at your beloved Noni, particularly because she is taking a picture of you at that moment. You might remember instead, being so vexed that you scattered Cootie body parts in utter frustration. You certainly would recall how your Mama made you clean them all up; every last Cootie head and foot and antennae. You would surely have turned your anger on your mother at this point and might have even cried out, “I’ll never eat Noonies again! Never! Ever!” , when asked about having your favorite dinner of buttered noodles. But, if you know anything about being three, you would also know that as quickly as the winds of fury descend upon a household with a three-year old, they also depart, leaving in its wake a sweet, smart little girl and a grateful, exhausted family.

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Please stop asking your kids if it’s OK (it’s not always OK and it’s not supposed to be)

Posted on by Susannah Warner

I know, that title is rude and presumptuous and kind of know-it-allish. After all, I’m not a Child psychologist (although I did take psych 101 and developmental psych in nursing school soooo, there’s that…), a teacher or an expert of any kind. What I am, is a mom of adult children and since the saying goes, “Hindsight is 20/20”, I  have a pretty clear vision on the subject. At least I do now, I certainly didn’t then and God forbid I ever find myself in the position to have to raise another one, I would surely revert back to legally blind status.

It’s just that when you are in the throes of child rearing, the tantrums, the homework, the last-minute projects they “forgot” to tell you about, the sleepless nights and harried mornings, it’s all you can do to keep your head above water. Any unexpected event, a feverish child for instance, Now what? You can’t stay home from work today. Daycare provider is calling it quits, effective in two weeks? NOOOO! Suddenly, you are no longer treading water, you are starting to go under, grabbing on to anyone you can, a spouse, your mom, a friend to help.

And so, when the workweek is over and the worries are few, at least for a couple of days, it feels good to take the kids to the movies or the zoo or the playground, They are having fun, you are doing what you feel parents should do and all is well. This where I see you. I am here, at the playground  too, with my granddaughter while her mother is at work. You look tired, overburdened. You are carrying a coffee, a phone, an oversize designer bag on your arm and your child’s jacket that he has tossed off because he thinks it has hindered his ability to run fast. You catch him as he runs by and this is what I hear you say, “Hunter, let’s put your coat on OK?” Hunter shrugs free and off he goes like a blue blur, not concerned at all that it is 50 degrees out and his little arms are bare. But you are. You chase after him with the jacket, he runs away, faster than ever without his coat.

Now,  that’s all I can hear, parents everywhere, asking for it to be OK. “Brayden, we can only stay for a few minutes, OK?” Brayden gives no response and takes off as fast as Hunter, who still does not have his coat on. “Ainsley, I said come here right now, OK? It’s time to go!” one mother call ineffectually for her daughter while Ainsley is busy chasing both boys, having no intentions of leaving right now. Another woman leans over to give her daughter a kiss, “have fun, I love you, okaaaay?” I can see and hear all this because my attention does not have to be on my granddaughter, Bean at all times, since her grandfather is with her. She is attempting to cross the monkey bars, hand over hand, while she swings her feet, clad in bright pink “puddle boots” to propel her, Papa is standing below her with a smile on his face, ever ready to catch her if she slips.

I know that it is different for grandparents, we have our little blessing for such a short time that we often let her set the schedule. We play until she is actually ready to do something else and says so,  or until it is time to bring her home to her Mama, sweaty, dirty and tired. Hardly anything is off-limits and we rarely have to set them. That is why being a grandparent is so great, all of the fun, none of the culpability.

But you mom, wear a heavy mantle of responsibility,  I can see it and I remember what it felt like. Let me make your job a little easier for you. Don’t worry about pleasing the kids all the time. They please themselves., it is their job, not yours. Don’t try to make sure every direction you give them is well received, it wont be. Don’t bargain, wheedle and plead and end every request or declaration of love with “OK”. Give them a clear directive, count to five if you have to, and if they still wont listen to you, or do what you ask, go get your Brayden or your Ainsley and take them home. They will kick and scream. yes. The other moms will look at you, true, but they wont be thinking what you think they are thinking. And the grandparents? They will silently cheer you on for your bravery and for your foresight. I will even carry your coffee and designer bag so that you can hold on for dear life to your backbending, squealing Brayden.  It will suck, and you will wonder why every “fun” time seems to end in tears and why do you even bother. But, you will do this because, 10 years and a few sleeps from now, Brayden will be a lanky teen, with long hair and a short attention span. He will duck past you as you are making dinner and say, “Bye mom, Hunter and I are hanging out, he just got his licence and his dad said he can use the car.”  You will turn to him and say ” Be home by 11 and text me if you are going to be late and if anyone is drinking, you, or Hunter or anyone else, call me and I will come and get you, no questions asked. ” He will have one foot out the door, his face turned to the road while you speak, but he will look you in the eye for one moment and say “OK.” and his OK, will carry all the weight that it should.