New Canaan High School’s Senior Prom is tomorrow night. I have pictured this evening for my daughter Jess numerous times over the past four years, and in my fantasy, she was going to attend it with one of her old boyfriends — just for old time’s sake — or with some new, sweet, kind-hearted beau.

But no. Instead, she was intending on going to prom with a cardboard cutout. Of Nick Jonas. In reaction to hearing this news, one of my good friends remarked, “Well, he’s hot, he won’t try and hit on her best friend and he will keep his mouth shut. He won’t drink and drive. Plus, he’s a cheap date; brilliant.”

And so a month ago, I Googled “Nick Jonas cardboard cutout” and bought him for $31.95. UPS dropped him off two weeks later, coincidentally at the same moment that three of Jessie’s girlfriends pulled into the driveway. She was conveniently in the shower, so we pulled Nick out of his box and hurriedly put him together. One of the girls made a small sign that read, “Prom?,” and taped it to his hand. We propped him up against the front door and yelled up to Jess that someone was here to see her.

As she started down the stairs and caught sight of him, she squealed and blushed and put her hand up against her mouth, just as any girl would who was being invited to the prom in a happily surprising manner. We both choked back tears, as bizarre as that sounds; I love my daughter’s steadfast devotion to all things Jonas, because it brings her such joy.

Although Nick was without a doubt an unconventional choice — to say the least — I had to admire her gumption and complete comfortability in her own skin by deciding that waltzing into the Stamford Marriott with a one-dimensional prom date was OK by her, looks of shock, bemusement and the rolling eyes of her classmates be damned.

And then the unexpected happened. Two weeks ago, the mother of a boy who is her best guy friend — someone she has known since elementary school and with whom she “dated” for four seconds in the seventh grade — phoned to tell me that her son Stewart was heading into town to ask Jess to prom.

“He called and also texted her that Nick Jonas and his bodyguard are at Starbucks,” she said excitedly.

“She is never going to believe that!” I cried. Indeed, Jess had reportedly texted back, “You better not be [insert expletive here] with me.” Nevertheless, she dashed away from the May Fair and drove like a bat-out-of-hell into town (insert cring here regarding such driving).

“No way did I think Nick was there,” she told me later, “but if he really was, and I missed him, I would never forgive myself.”

Stewart had corralled and convinced a small gaggle of girls to stand near the entrance and to begin whispering: “Omigod, Nick Jonas! Do you believe it?” when he alerted them that Jess was about to come in.

Breathless, she fell for the ruse, heart pounding, eyes darting around for the sight of her obsession. And then the girls parted, revealing a smiling Stewart, bouquet of red roses in hand, asking her to prom.

“I hate you!” she cried (probably not the best reaction to such a heartfelt query), but because they are best friends, “I hate you” really translated into, “I love you, yes and you’re the best!”

I can report that cardboard Nick Jonas is flat-out heartbroken, so perhaps tomorrow night I should prop him up in the passenger seat of my convertible and drive him around town to get his mind off the rejection. It’s the least I can do for the stand-in prom date.

 

Doing the next right thing

I had an unpleasant experience last month with a local automotive-related business, when I discovered that a valuable item came up missing after being in their care. The owner and an employee were both dismissive of, and condescending to, me -  a customer of over a decade. Not cool, as a younger person would categorize such treatment. The experience offered up a teachable topic for my teens.

It is not always easy - or comfortable - to do the next right thing. (This is true for all humans, including that special breed of people called teenagers.) Here are some examples of the right thing: apologize promptly, even if you’re not 100% certain you were in the wrong; always be truthful; look before you leap; practice restraint of pen and tongue; respect those in charge and/or who are older than you; avoid arrogance and all manner of behaving badly, as karma is indeed a real thing. And a... well, you know the word.

For children and teens, two more examples of doing the right thing - using good judgement - are to say “no” to a substance you know you shouldn’t ingest, given both your age and perhaps a previously bad experience, and if you see someone being bullied, in person or via texting or on Facebook, tell someone, i.e. a teacher or school administrator, or your parents.  Confronting the bully yourself is also taking positive action, rather than the stance of imitating a turtle tucking its head into its shell in the face of cruelty.

In the movie remake of “Freaky Friday,” starring Jamie Lee Curtis and Lindsay Lohan, Curtis’ mother character drops her daughter off at school everyday with the charge, “Make good decisions!” I have repeated that to my daughter over the course of her high school career, along with my own mommy-to-teen motto: “Be safe, be smart.”  She has thus far accomplished the “safe” part, if not always the “smart.”  This hardly makes her unique among the high school population, which is a comfort of sorts.

One of the best ways to teach good judgement is to try and model the behavior that leads to such an action. Over the past decade I have become more adept at apologizing to all of my children if I fly off the handle with them, or accuse them of a “crime” before thoroughly investigating.

“I’m really sorry for saying that,” or “I feel badly that you had to witness that out-of-control behavior of mine,”  I have said. And I own up to my responsibility in the action or actions: “I’m not really so angry/disappointed/frustrated with you; I am really upset or angry about, or fearful of, X, Y, or Z.”

Making amends, seeing one’s part in a disagreement or resentment, is often uncomfortable to do, but it is freeing in many respects. We need to remember that it “takes two to tango.”  Again, this amend-making isn’t always our go-to action, but if we can encourage ourselves, our spouse and our children to at least attempt it, everybody wins.

Which leads me back to the the owner and employee of the aforementioned business. The next right thing would have been to A) ask me nicely if I had looked around my car for the item, B) voice concern for what might appear to be a theft and assure me that he (they) would look into it, and C) apologize for the experience having perhaps occurred on their watch. Their defensive rudeness was not the way to keep a customer. Or attract several other potential customers.

I realized that I should have been more careful about removing items, especially the ones that “live” in the car 99% of the time, and were therefore not top-of-mind when I took out the obvious wallet. This admission is an example of “keeping my side of the street clean,” as a saying goes.

It’s a shame that others insist on not doing the same.


How to underwhelm yourself

“Worrying does not empty tomorrow of its troubles, it empties today of its strength.”

 It’s very easy to become anxious and stressed when faced with what appears at first blush to be a mountain of work, responsibility, pressure - sometimes self-imposed - and the barrage of emotions that are part and parcel of all of the above. If you are a parent of a junior or senior in high school, that feeling of being overwhelmed is its own special brand of crazy.
 The acceleration of expectations begins with the PSAT’s, careening through both parent and child, often felt more so by the parent. Why is that? Are we reliving our own past experience with the whole college preparation process, projecting that onto our offspring? Or is it a combination of both that post traumatic stress syndrome and wanting our teen to conform to our notion of success, the “best” college -  and how that reflects both on them and on us?  (For the record, feeling as though your peers will view you as better or worse parents, depending upon where your kid matriculates, is simply an ego-driven exercise.  If another person is so shallow as to whisper unapprovingly about your child attending community college versus an Ivy league school - or no college - well, that’s their issue. What your child chooses truly has no bearing on who either of you are.)
 My oldest son decided that the military, not college, was best for him; his passion and desire to become a United States Marine was far stronger than wanting to go off to a more accepted institution of higher learning. And so he grabbed his New Canaan High School diploma and a month later marched off to boot camp. Son number two began exploring the traditional type of universities in which to study recording arts production, but he really didn’t want to sit through all the core class requirements before getting to the meat of his intended major. With the help of his NCHS guidance counselor, he found a school where he could study recording arts in a year- ‘round curriculum, graduating with a bachelor of fine arts in just two years.
 And now child number three, a daughter, will also march to the beat of a different drummer, by attending a performing arts college - also with a year ‘round curriculum - and she, too, will be able to graduate with a bachelor of fine arts in under four years. Her decision to apply to the type of college that she was eventually granted entrance to, and our acceptance of said decision, still came with the anxiety of matching her GPA with her SAT scores, her intended major (acting), the desired city in which to study (New York versus Los Angeles), as well as to which schools she would apply.  Somehow, we were able to realistically narrow it down between the sure bet’s, the maybe’s and the not-a-snowball’s-chance-in-hell-but-crazier-things- have-happened choices.
  But when I began making myself an insane, overwhelmed woman - in the face of the person who was actually writing the essays and filling out the applications - it was she who cried out one day, “Mom, you need to chill out!”
 Six words. That’s all it took. This was her journey, not mine. Having a wild fling with the “What If’s” was a waste of time, energy, sleep and calories. I had temporarily forgotten the mantra I try to employ when life seems out-of-control (“seems” being the operative word):  “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”   
My friend Elaine Llyod has triplet seniors; can you imagine all the overwhelming-ness times three? Even being the parents of twins is mind-numbing when you think about the college road trips and applications (not to mention tuition!) It should give parents of but one high school senior pause with a dose of humility.  You think that you have stress?  Think again and then move ahead with gratitude.
 Oh yeah... and remind yourself and your teen to breathe. I’m serious. The process will all get done - especially if you take the whole thing in small doses, rather than all at once. You don’t need to visit every single college in Boston in one day;  maybe just fill out two applications a week, write one or two essays the next. And parents of current seniors, please don't take it personally if your child does not get into the college of their (or your) choice.  A college or two will mail out an acceptance letter. Really, they will.


Mom: yes. Room service: no!

  Oh dear, I have inadvertently created a monster. Or two.
  I have allowed my teens to bring a bowl of cereal, ice cream or pasta up to their room while they study or watch the television. Sometimes they bring the food upstairs themselves and occasionally I will prepare their craving and deliver the snacks.  But last week my daughter took it a step too far: She left her empty bowl, milk glass and a crumpled up napkin outside her door. Her closed door.
  What does she think I am, room service?
  When children are wee, most of us don’t allow them to have food anywhere but in the kitchen. As they start to get older, we might bend the rules a bit -- a sippy cup in the playroom, a bowl of popcorn while watching a movie in the den, that sort of thing. Usually the drill is that the child is responsible for bringing their empty juice box, Gushers wrapper, banana peel or apple core, etc., back into the kitchen, specifically to the waiting and welcoming garbage can.  And, in our house, that happened. Sometimes.  But not always, and by “not always” I sort of mean not without much screaming on my part and procrastination from the kids. And in our other house, where the line between kitchen and family room was literally blurred, they felt as though their snack remnants were already in the kitchen, when in fact the plates, napkins or juice boxes were left abandoned and forelorn on the sofa, the rug or the coffee table.
  I would love to paint a picture of darling, responsible, tidy and parental law-abiding teenagers, but, honestly, I can’t.  Frankly, if I did have perfect children than I would be out of the job of writing this column, and it’s kind of nice to have this gig. Plus, something tells me that I am not the only mother who discovers day old, macaroni-and-cheese encrusted bowls on their child’s bedside table, or depleted Capris sun pouches perched atop a dresser, although I may be the only mom whose daughter leaves her meal remnants sitting outside her door to be collected and brought down to the kitchen without so much as a five-dollar tip!
  Of course it goes without saying that I have enabled this behavior by impulsively fetching and clearing, in part due to the former college waitress in me, another part disliking messes, a splash of wanting to do whatever I can to please despite their ungrateful-ness and a dash of the unexplainable.
  If you are a parent without a teen in your household yet, let this be a cautionary tale: Hold a figurative gun to their heads while they gather up their trash and walk it to the kitchen sink or rubbish container.  Unless they are ill or have suffered an injury to their leg, they can darn well clear out the snack remains themselves.  
  It may not be too late for me to enforce the bring-it-up-take-it-down rule. Yelling at teens never works, so that method is a no-brainer not to employ. And although my teens have decided to be selectively lazy, I think I shall nevertheless ask them to bring the leftover gook back to where it belongs only twice. I will then grit my teeth and let their crap build up to the point where their rooms resemble that of a complete isolationist, or strung-out crack addict or a wildly depressed person who has lost the energy to move, until they cannot stand the squalor and finally take it upon themselves to remove the finally offending garbage.
  In the immortal words of John Lennon, “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” Admit it, some of you have also reached the end of your rope. Heed my advice: The slothful teen can be tamed and taught more responsible behavior;  Room service exists only in hotels and resorts, not in your home.
  Now, if you’ll excuse me, the impressive tower of empty soda cans in my 14-year-old’s room is just begging for me to kick it down.







Harmonizing with testy teens

“Music is forever; music should grow and mature with you, following you right on up until you die. “ ~Paul Simon

This is how mornings with my two teens begin: We three pretty much sleep-walk to the car in which I will transport them to school (at least until Jess finally gets her license in January!). I start the engine, and either a song from my iPod blares, or one from the “70’s on 70” Sirius station; the song never makes it out of the garage.

“Ugh!” Jess will utter with great irritation, quickly plugging in her own iPod or changing the channel to “Hits One.”

“Really, mom?!” Jack will grunt, in response to any of my choice of musicians, from the admittedly saccharin Cowsills to the awesome Stevie Wonder or Van Morrison.

Instead of Carly Simon yearning for things to come around again, Li’l Wayne may begin bleating about women or drugs and such, using the F-word as noun, verb, adverb, or adjective.  Or perhaps Nick Jonas will croon about introducing himself from the Disney movie “Camp Rock,” or Bruno Mars will giddily sing about liking a woman just the way she is.

When Jess’s iPod selections are the soundtrack of our morning trek, I will object to Li’l Wayne in no uncertain terms (“It’s first thing in the morning! Get this off!”), resign myself to the oft-played Nick Jonas song - unconsciously singing aloud - and completely agree with the stylings of Bruno; even 50-year-old women can get on board with this dude. If the songs on “Hits One” are serenading us down Weed Street, I usually find myself doing the happy, subtle head bop along with the kids.

So, if I can listen to and even enjoy the music of the younger generation - including the rather catchy Cee Lo ditty, “F.U.” - then they can darn well learn to appreciate the tunes that I still thoroughly relish.

“My tunes, my car,” I will tell them, a statement to which they usually respond with hilarious laughter and general disregard. I almost always relent and resign myself to hearing more top 40 hits of the millennium. My Insistence on blaring Cat Stevens, Boz Scaggs, Sly and the Family Stone or the Doobie Brothers is really a battle not worth picking as there are always bigger fish to fry with teens than my taste in music versus theirs.

It is galling, though, that they will make fun of the monikers of such artists I like and have just listed - “What kind of name is that?!” - when some of their favorite singers and groups include equally ridiculously sounding titles, such as: Ke$ha, Black Eyed Peas, Pitbull, Pink and Flo Rida. And Lady Gaga? Don’t get me started.

For the past couple of years, they oddly took to giggling, with a splash of scorn, at my wanting to play Christmas carols in the car, especially the classics sung by Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole.

“What is wrong with you?” I would implore. “It’s Christmas! Relax and listen and enjoy you little Scrooges!” It made me so wistful for their childhood, when they would sing along to all carols and holiday songs, in their whispery, joyful, elementary-school-aged voices.

This year, however, I was successful at tricking them into hearing a bit of holiday music (nearly everyday!), by creating an i-Pod playlist that interspersed artists I really like, with ones that they prefer. I threw in a couple of tunes from musicians closer to my age, but whom they know to be New Canaan residents - Harry Connick, Jr. and Paul Simon - (and therefore are worthy of being listened to by two musically-snobbish teenagers), as well as seasonal songs from the “Glee” cast, Chris Brown, Mariah Carey and Michael Buble.`  Cleverly, I designed the playlist to have a carol styled by, say, Frank Sinatra, Dan Fogelberg or John Lennon, to sandwich between one of Jessie’s favorite songsters, Demi Lovato, Miley Cyrus, and, of course, the Jonas Brothers.  

Ha, ha, ha and ho, ho, ho; who’s the rock star, now? I’d have to say it’s mommy!

Happy New (Y)ear!



No more hovering: You’re grounded mom and dad!


“Less is more; hovering is dangerous; failure is fruitful. You really want your children to succeed? Learn when to leave them alone. When you lighten up, they'll fly higher. We're often the ones who hold them down.”  -Time magazine 2009

Are you a “helicopter parent?”  Maybe even just a little bit?  It’s okay to admit it. Really. That’s the first step: Recognizing it. And then learning to abstain as much as you can, or as much as possible. Heck, I have been known to strap myself into the cockpit on more then one occasion, certainly when my children were younger and I seemed convinced that they couldn’t possibly advocate for themselves (and, often, they simply couldn’t, so grabbing the wheel of the heli was the absolute best course of action; sometimes I even parachuted in).

It’s parental instinct to want to help your child, protect her, right a wrong - actual or perceived - and make sure he is doing the next right thing; basically to want the best for your kid. Sometimes, though, especially when your child is a teenager, the parent’s idea of the best may not necessarily be what’s best for the child. We need to check our motives when the situation warrants, whether it’s the grades they can or cannot achieve, which sport to play, which dance to dance, to what college - if any - they choose to apply.

Simply put, which battles do we fight for them, and when do we let them fight their own?

Here’s an anecdote I can offer:  In high school, my son Kenny was the only player on the soccer team he was a part of, who after four games hadn’t seen a minute of playing time; he was upset.  He was a good athlete and there didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason for the coach overlooking him. Even his fellow teammates were puzzled. The thing is, my son is quiet by nature; even though he can feel an inequity, he is not one to make waves with authority. By the time the third game came and went, we encouraged him to ask the coach to put him in or, at the very least, question why he wasn’t playing. The fourth game was also played minus Kenny. On the sidelines I was livid and the old mother bear began to growl, ready to pounce. My intellect kept reminding me that this was high school now, don’t say a peep, but my emotional self was wanting to punch the coach in the face. I joke, I joke, but I did want to say something in a kind but firm manner.

After the game I began striding towards the coach but my son grabbed my arm and cried, “Don’t!”  So I told him either he says something in practice the following day, or that I would. Really, it was high time for my kid to man up, so to speak. I knew it wasn’t my battle. I hoped against hope that Kenny would find his voice, and therefore be able to stop gathering splinters on his backside. The next day he did find that voice and I could tell from the way he carried himself that it had empowered him of which I was both proud and relieved.

By high school, our children need to do things without our hand-holding, such as advocating for themselves with teachers, administrators, or guidance counselors. Certainly we can step in at times, and are on occasion even asked to by the folks at school. But we need to try and let go, loosen the reins a bit.

Just for the record, even the whole college search and application process should be something in which our teen take more of an active role. Out of that hovering habit, I began the Google and Naviance searches, informing my junior and now senior daughter of some college options which might be of interest. And then it dawned on me that I am not doing her any favors, and I cried, “Wait! I am not going to college, you are. Become invested in this process or dad and i won’t become invested in it, figuratively and literally.”  Viola`! Backing off resulted in her moving ahead.

And moving ahead all on their lonesome is what they have to do in order to pilot their own course and fly into their future, whether it is the next day, or the next year.




Back like Favre: Parenting for teens a bumpy ride


One Coming, One Going

 My younger two kids started school today. The youngest faces his freshman year at New Canaan High, essentially beginning his journey through high school, and my daughter began her senior year, basically the commencing of the end of her journey.

 It was a bittersweet, gulp-down-the-emotions morning for the mommy as I watched them get out of my car and head in the front door, with nary a glance back at me. I felt proud, anxious, relieved and flabbergasted that somehow, after 27 years of motherhood I now stand four years away from the infamous empty nest of which I hear tell.

 One coming, one going. In June of 2001 I first had one coming and one going in a bit more of a spectacular and daunting fashion: My oldest son was graduating high school and a school system after 13 years, and my youngest son was going to enter kindergarten that September. I was looking at going all the way through for the fourth time; those 13 years never loomed so long and large!

 But now they are wrapping up maybe faster than I am ready for? I mean I comprehend that Jack is only a freshman, but those of us who have had a child go through high school before know that the time really zips by, almost in a flash. There they are, all kinds of gangly or awkward, short or tentative as ninth graders, still rather baby-faced, and then - BAM! - they appear on the eve of senior year all grown up, whiskered and brawny, female figured, filled out and sassy and chomping at the bit to get the hell outta Dodge!

 I will treasure this year though, observing Jack navigating his way around the social and academic maze of high school, and watching Jess anxiously as she tidies up her final year, emerging a more confident, settled and fully formed young woman on the cusp of, well... greatness.

 One coming, one going. And one mother holding a handful of hope.

 

Students on bored

During one of those gross, incredibly hot, humid dog days of mid-August, I asked Jack and a friend if they were looking forward to going back school, now that they were going to be eighth graders. Big Men on the Totem Pole. Kings of the School, etc.  (I know, I know... as if they were going to pipe up with anything but a collective groan).

"I wish I were going to kindergarten," Jack's friend mused.

"Not me," said Jack. "Kindergarten was lame. All you did was learn that two plus two equals four and have nap-time."  Spoken like my true eager-to-learn youngest. (At least that is how I have chosen to look at him through my rose-colored shades and all.)

"Actually," he amended, "we didn't need the stupid nap-time then. That was dumb. We weren't even tired. We need nap-time now because we have to get up at 6:15 in the morning! They should give us nap-time!"  His friend hooted his approval of this thought.

If any members of the Board of Ed are reading this, and can rectify the matter, Jack would be pretty pleased. And nap-time might be more feasible than the later start time thing.

I believe many parents pose the same question to their offspring and friends of their offspring as I did above, because - really and honestly now - it is we who are excited and looking forward to school starting.  It's not that we wouldn't mind maybe another few days of summer, but after eight-plus weeks of kids under foot, maybe whining hither and thither about being bored, the structure of a school day and the six or so hours of not being on call loom pleasantly welcome.

Even though our child may not openly (or at least enthusiastically) cop to being excited for the new year ahead, he or she is usually  anticipating some aspect. There's the stunningly big-kid feel the just-entering-kindergarten child experiences; the trepidation the incoming middle schooler tastes; the relief at not being a freshman that the high school sophomore enjoys, or the pure giddy yet at the same time terrifying sensation inherent in the senior-to-be.

Just as it isn't always so easy to get a kid to admit to their anticipation of returning to school, so to is it not such a piece of cake getting them to reveal how said school days are going for them.

Ask, "How's school?," and be prepared for "good," even if it wasn't, or "boring," even - again - if it wasn't.  Occasionally the response may be: "bad."  But do not ask "Why?" because nine out of 10 times, you won't get an answer. At least not right away. Although your brain is screaming, "Why-why-why, omigod why, what happened?!" please resist. Instead, try in a less inquisitive, less frantic manner the following: "Oh that's too bad, honey. Well, if you want to talk about it I'm here. All ears." Either they will launch into it, or they will wait a few beats, or maybe even a few hours. Try not to pressure them, as whatever it was that is making them describe the day as "bad" is giving them pressure enough. Their definition of "bad" may more than likely equal a disappointing grade, or a confusing lecture, or a poor performance in gym class. Of course it could also be a bullying incident or an unrequited crush. When they are ready to spill, let them, resisting the urge to editorialize or "fix it" immediately (except in the case of taunting or physical bullying, of course).

The other response to "How was school?" is the ubiquitous: "School is boring."  Sure. Of course it is, sweetie.  You are such a brainiac that you don't need to be learning anything new. You can read, write, solve mathematical and scientific questions in your sleep. Who needs to know about the history of this country or any other for that sake! Music and art? Pishaw - you could teach the class yourself you creative king or queen of the world, you!

"Boring" my backside.

All of my kids at one time or another claimed to like recess the best. They expressed annoyance that recess stops in high school, until I would remind them of the free periods which would exist in their school schedule.

"It's the same thing. Only better," I said.

And don't you know? Even the free period has been described as, wait for it... "boring."

Maybe if those free periods were re-designated as nap-time?

I think I'm onto something here...


Lazy kids in summer

Okay. So we are officially in those "lazy, hazy days of summer."  Heat, humidity and horrendously bored kids.

I should be cutting my two teens some slack and I have been. A bit. After all, Jack spent one month at Teton Valley Ranch Camp each day riding horses and/or hiking, plus an assortment of other activities; up early, out in the sun. No phone, no computer, no television, no video games and no music. Ditto Jess, who hiked and camped in the back country of the Tetons for 12 days straight (add "no showers" to her litany), and then spent three days hiking to and summiting the Grand Teton, and back down again. They both were deserving of some R&R.

So I have given them two weeks of said rest and relaxation. And now I want them to see more action!

Jess actually needs no encouragement to contact friends and meet up with them. But it's a record that skips (please tell me, dear reader, that you are old enough to understand this metaphor? Do you remember vinyl? And how a scratch on the record would make the needle skip over the same part again and again and...again?) Anyway, her days and nights follow a never-changing pattern. She is too bored to know how boring the pattern is: sleep until Noon - even though she asks me to wake her at 8:30 or 9 a.m. and then keeps requesting the wake-up call in hourly increments (yes, I know I shouldn't allow this; maybe I'm guilty of lazy-syndrome too!); then eat, shower, check her Facebook and Jonas Brothers updates, and ask me to drive her into town to meet X, Y and Z friends for dinner.  Back home at curfew. This is followed by phone calls to seemingly the same people she was just with, all the while glued to the computer and the statuses. Sleep. But not until 2 or 3  a.m. Awaken. Repeat.

"Change it up!" I cry. "Have people over here! Go to a movie! Take the train into the city!"

She did have to take a quick summer school course - online, no less, in a very flexible move provided by New Canaan public school's summer enrichment program. But even doing this simple thing was procrastinated by laziness. Ah well.

My fairly newly-minted teen, Jack, has adopted the lazy attitude, too. Wake up, waffles, ESPN; the broken record. He's certainly not interested in doing an organized activity after his time at camp, but even the suggestion of calling a couple of friends is usually met with a grunt. Of course in his defense a lot of his pals are out of town. Still.

I recall those summer days of yore when boredom would occasionally force the kids into the spirit of entrepreneurship, and rickety stands to sell lemonade or water or Gatorade would appear at the end of the driveway.

Or there were moments when Jess and Jack were younger and I could entice them to spend a little time re-arranging their bedrooms or organize their drawers in preparation for the upcoming school year. Ha! Fat chance of that now.

"Clean your room young lady, or you are not going into town!"

"But it's suuuuuuummmmmmmer!"

The clothes get rearranged from the floor of the bedroom to the floor of the closet. Ditto with Jack.

They used to beg me to go to the town pool; we now have one of our own which - oddly - they rarely use.

They are now too old to think going to Lake Compounce with mom is a viable idea, and Lord knows the movies with mommy on a hot summer's day or night is a hideous prospect.

I suppose I should lighten up a bit. Like they both say, it is summer. Better to be lazy in August then lazy come September. And I should also enjoy the down time where I am not shuttling from one child's activity to the next, nor is laundry such a must, and food shopping and cooking are additionally overrated on a soggy, muggy day, air-conditioned store or car be damned; it's still too bloody warm.

Perhaps these lazy, hazy days are Mother Nature's way of helping us to slow it down, take it easy for a month or two. I should just let the kids be, and turn off the pre-programmed tape that insists that there be structure and accountability. Several weeks of whatever the spirit moves is allowable.

See? I even chose a fairly lazy topic for this column, too!



The Yin and the Yang of Prom

WESTON, CT - The year is 1974. It is a week before high school graduation and the night of the Weston High School Junior-Senior prom, held - ironically, as it will turn out for me decades later - at Waveny Mansion in New Canaan.

The prom planning committee has chosen to be decidedly 1970's rebellious, declaring the attire for the event as semi-formal, thereby sparing the boys from adorning powder blue tuxedos with wildly wide lapels and shirts as frilly as a pirate's. It also means that the girls are free to wear dresses that will be decisively un-gownlike (my own frock was a full length, midriff bearing polyester number featuring garish red and blue flowers on it; my date wore a brown-and-white checked blazer, chocolate brown pants that matched a ridiculously broad chocolate brown tie topped off with a tie-clip fit for a grandpa). 

As it is 1974, the legal drinking age is 18. Pre-prom cocktail parties are thrown by someone's parents, and after sipping on an alcoholic beverage, the prom goers drive (!) to restaurants for dinner in neighboring towns. My group went to a popular steak house in Westport where we proceeded to order at least two pitchers of beer and one of sangria. And then drive to New Canaan, no questions asked, no adult eyebrows raised, nary a parent questioning the behavior.

There was no alcohol served inside the prom venue, although booze was easily available in virtually any vehicle parked in the Waveny lot. The teachers and parents chaperoning prom occasionally troll the parking lot and around the grounds, but to the best of my recollection, no incidences are reportable or reason for punishment.

Now here's how you know it was really the early, free-spirited 70's: at one point, my boyfriend and I were standing outside the mansion chatting up a favorite teacher. And the boyfriend and our teacher shared a joint; true story!

But that was then, and this is now.

My daughter, a junior, had her prom last month. The price of her prom dress was pretty much equal to my own high school clothes budget for the year.  She had her hair professionally styled. Due to unfortunate sunburn marks from spring break, she had to have a spray tan. Thank goodness we wear the same shoe size, because this whole deal was costing unfathomable amounts of coin, therefore I insisted that she sport the same heels that I had worn to my high school reunion last October; there was some poetry to that.

Nine girls got ready at our house, and then their dates and assorted parents came by for pictures and refreshments. We did not serve alcohol to the parents, and - obviously - not to the kids.  But I did hear the girls chatting about a post-prom party ostensibly being hosted by one girl's parents at which alcohol was to be served to the teens in attendance. I was stunned as I heard the details.  Allegedly the guests were going to be sleeping over, thereby avoiding any drunk driving exploits. That tidbit hardly made the whole thing sound like a good idea.

There were several of my classmates who didn't remember, still can't fully recall, exactly what occurred at the end of our prom night, and even some moments during the dance, due to the booze consumption. Which is really too bad. The prom, especially the inaugural one, is one of those special rites of passage during high school; beforehand you envision the magical-ness of it. Even if it doesn't live up to one's rose-colored projection, it is still a fun evening. Or should be. Lacing it with drugs or alcohol can often veer the experience into unfortunate and decidedly un-fun territory.

 I am glad that NCHS employs a breathalyzer at the prom door. You never know when the proverbial few bad apples might ruin the night for a few good eggs.

As I watched my daughter and her white-tuxedo- clad date (with tails, no less!), I was at once wistful and tearful. Happy tears laced with the expected "I-can't-believe-she's-so-grown-up" mantra.  And she was going to remember her prom.

My wish is that your teen stays safe on Senior Prom night. Oh - and in fashionable attire as well!



Memories of a Working Mom

Once upon a time, I worked full-time while I pretty much simultaneously raised my children, first one and then eventually all four (at least until the youngest was three years old).  Sometimes I marvel at how I did it, often I am relieved that I have not had to do it over the past decade, and occasionally I long for those days, especially for the days during which I ran my own company.

I worked out of financial necessity after the birth of my first child as his dad was usually not-so-much working full-time. And once I became a single parent with two toddlers, I didn't have the option of staying at home, even part-time. It began to wear on me, physically and emotionally, as I would hop a seven-thirty in the morning train from Westport into Manhattan and often not return until seven-thirty in the evening, getting very little time to spend with my two young sons. And so, when they were ages four and six, I decided to work locally; County Kids magazine was born.

Working initially out of my house, I was able to see the boys and participate more in Blake and Kenny's lives, and they became my wee helpers in the early days of the publication. I would bring them with me as I drove around Fairfield County distributing the magazine to stores, libraries, schools and such, often allowing them to carry inside the bundles of County Kids for a dollar a drop; they loved it.

As the magazine grew and I hired other moms to work part-time selling advertising space, they too brought their infants and toddlers on sales calls. This was done primarily due to the lack of childcare (nor was that really needed since the job was hardly a 40-hour gig). Bringing along one's child also served as a perfect sales gimmick, if you were, as it illustrated to the potential client that the rep was their market, too. They read the magazine and bought the products advertised within.

As tricky a juggling act as it was being both a full-time worker and a more-or-less full-time mom, the hours spent in the office with other mothers was precious. We shared stories of raising children, enduring our husbands' real or imagined foibles, we laughed deeply and often, and no day was boring or mundane. The friendships I was forging and the professional camaraderie made the job seem less like a job, and more like a privilege.

As I mentioned before, my memories are priceless gems: painting the office walls a bright hue of yellow - "County Kids yellow" we dubbed it - only to discover that the color was what was causing some employee's younger children to poop their diapers upon entering, as apparently that yellow stimulated the bowels; the dancing gaily around desks during the stressful production week; the love and support that was afforded me via car phone on the bleak November morning in 1996 I learned that my father had died during my long drive to Virginia where I had hoped to visit with him before he died, and the can-you-top-this childbirth tales that never failed to horrify our college intern.

I eventually sold the magazine when Jack was in nursery school and Blake was starting high school, effectively embarking on my first taste of all day, at home motherhood. Jack and Jess, too young at the time of my retirement to recall those County Kids days, just know that today my work entails not only tending to their every whim and need at a moment's notice, but also as your faithful columnist and now fledgling Web site owner.

Sitting here crafting this piece in my pj's, I am grateful for that, and do not entirely miss the days of commuting into the city in dresses, panty hose and heels. At County Kids we would wear anything just short of pj's, and for that experience I am thankful as well. 

Working mom and stay-at-home mom. I've done each because: A) I had to, and B), I wanted to. Each choice boiled down to this: I did it for my kids.

We all do.





When a Child Grows Into (or Out of) Their Name

Pop and television star Miley Cyrus  - who was born Destiny Hope Cyrus – legally changed her name several months back to: Miley Ray Cyrus. Her nickname as a child was “Smiley,” which was then shortened to “Miley.”   At the ripe old age of 15, she decided to chuck the “Destiny Hope.” This move in part prompted my own 15-year-old daughter to change her name this summer. But not legally. No way.

When perusing a baby name book nearly 16 years ago, my husband and I came upon the name “Jessie.”  Not “Jessica” but “Jessie;” it was its own listing. The definition of which included the fact that in Scotland, Jessie is the nickname for “Janet.”  My husband’s grandmother was named Janet and she was, in fact, a Scot.  So although we preferred Jessie we thought it was the hand of fate and family to officially name her Janet. But call her Jessie or Jess. Stay with me here… Until she started kindergarten at age five, she was known far and wide as Jess.  But there were a lot of Jessica’s running around the playground by then, so to avoid confusion, we began to call her by her given name, as did the school, friends and family members. Except for me and her oldest brother Blake. We couldn’t shake the moniker Jess.  So for 10 years, my daughter has seemingly been the only “Janet” under the age of 40, which has been kind of unique.

In early July, my kid asked me if she could legally change her name to “Jess Evans.”  When I queried “why” she said that “Janet Evans” has been done already (referring to former Olympic swimming gold medalist Janet Evans),

  and that Jess Evans sounded like a good stage name. Let me be clear here – my daughter is not on the verge of becoming a famous actress, at least not yet.  So while putting the kibosh on the legal action, I happily informed her boarding school, summer camp and family far and wide of her decision. Of course old habits die hard – as they did for Blake and me – and Jon and Jack are currently struggling with the name transition. (Poor Jack, 12, has known her as “Janet” his entire life!)

As they grow, children often prefer to be known as the shorter or longer version of their given names. “Mike’s” morph into “Michael’s” and vice versa.  “Katherine’s” may go for the jauntier “Kat” as a teen, and then turn back to Katherine once they begin a career. I had a friend growing up whose name was/is: Mary Frances Gannon. We all called her Mary until high school when she impulsively decided she wanted everybody to call her “Fran.”  A boyfriend after college had always been known by his middle name, “Tyler,” but when he became a police officer he felt his first name “Donald” sounded tougher.

Once people get to know me, “Julie” is shortened to “Jul” or “Jules.”   During my sophomore year in high school I tried writing “Jules Butler” on the top page of assignments, but it didn’t take. Like my daughter, I asked my parents about legally changing my name and received the same answer she did (don’t you cringe when you hear your parents’ voices echoing in your own?). There were some teachers who – like my pals – called me Jules anyway, but I could never get it in print. Ah well.

I drove Jess up to her boarding school a couple of weeks ago and she was thrilled upon arrival to pick up her student identification card with the name “Jess Evans” boldly imprinted on it. She began this school half way through her freshman year last January, so she is still fairly new. And the name change has given her the feeling and attitude of a fresh start. She was beaming as I drove away as her roommate cried out “Jess! I’ve missed you!”

I don’t know if one day down the line she’ll revert back to being called Janet; that’s her call. But she knows she’s really always been – and will forever be - my Jess.

Rumor Control

Rumor; 1 : talk or opinion widely disseminated with no discernible source/2 : a statement or report current without known authority for its truth.

Without rumor and gossip, scores of national magazines and tabloids as well as countless entertainment television shows would be out of business.

I dare say there are few among us who have not indulged in a bit - or a lot - of gossip. Although rumors hurt at any age, they are especially painful, and/or downright dangerous for children.

The age-old game of "telephone" we learned as young kids was not only for fun and laughs, but also served to illustrate how distorted a message can get when passed from one person to another.

Rumors may start, for instance, when one boy becomes jealous of another, and without the skills - and age - to handle it better, they may tell another child that the other boy wets his bed, or one little girl might in anger whisper nasty, unfounded comments about another little girl to her friends. The falsehood spreads and distorts and almost always returns to the person rumored about, causing embarrassment, shame and tears.

Feelings aren't fact, I've been told, and most bad-mouthing stems from a way a person, a child, FEELS about another child or a situation at the time. Rumor and gossip turns especially ugly in middle and high school when feelings and emotions are hormonally heightened.

We have experienced first-hand how insidious implication becomes. When my son, Kenny, was in the eighth grade, he entered a science lab with his fellow students. The Benson burners were turned on at each station, but there at his counter, a pack of matches lay. To paraphrase a friend of ours, "There are no bad kids, only bad choices with bad consequences" ; our heretofore good kid acted impulsively with far-reaching consequences.

Can you picture it? A 13-year-old boy, matches, a gas burner, a hair-trigger, huge lapse in judgement in an experimental setting? In a instant, the lit match fueled the gas and a shot of flame flared up for less than a second. And in place of a lesson-learned lecture for all on the danger of flames and gas, Kenny was sent down to the principal. The exaggeration murmurs began. For this was but a month after the tragedy at Columbine, and administrators, teachers, students and parents were still panicky. A bad impulse on the part of an adolescent became,  and nine years later, still lives as this rumor:  Kenny Flannery tried to blow up the school. The good kid instantly became the "bad kid," the one to watch carefully.

And so it goes. During Janet's middle school years she would come home and report on various chatter among and/or about her classmates. "Is that truth or just rumor?" I would ask, imploring her to seek the difference. "Please don't bad-mouth," I would warn upon overhearing phone conversations. "You never know what will get taken out of context," the sting of Ken's experience still clinging to me. But try as we might, we cannot always protect our children 100-percent, and fabrications seem to be part and parcel of the pre-teen and teenage experience. Sometimes the implications out of a 14-year-old's mouth are minor; at other moments. a 10-year-old's verbal suppositions can have far-reaching pain.

What's a parent to do? What is the maligned child to do?

There isn't any easy solution, but a few coping tools could be tested out.

If you catch your child speaking unkindly or exaggerating another kid's foibles to friends, take him or her aside and explain how hurtful that is to the other student. Ask them to imagine something negative and untrue being said of them or of a close buddy. Give examples of past school year rumors and their ensuing consequences. If they seem to truly believe that so-and-so is a bully, or a poor sport, or of questionable moral scruples, or of being a prima donna, etc., suggest that they keep their opinion to themselves if and when at all possible.

Now, I am not naive here, people - with four children under my belt, only two of whom are post-college, I know keenly how much of a struggle the above advice can be. The point here though is to try the suggestion as opposed to doing nothing and letting the verbal suppositions lie where they may. Remember karma - your child could be the next target.

If your child IS the recipient of hearsay, regardless of whether or not they have ever participated in starting a falsehood, the time honored phrase, 'That which does not kill me, makes me stronger," is a good one to intone to your teary, frustrated and/or fearful son or daughter.  They have a choice to fall apart or too angrily protest the rumor (which can in turn start new accusations), or they can attempt to rise above the noise and not give power to the rumorettes by not engaging with them.

Often - but not necessarily always - there is a kernel of truth to a rumor, so ask your child gently to reveal what is the truth or to recount whatever incident ignited the flames of the chatter. Accusing them or berating them of having contributed to the lie does nothing for their self-esteem, or their already shattered confidence, or their belief that you are someone that they can feel safe with, can rely on and can turn to when you-know-what hits the proverbial fan. No matter how much you may believe that they did, in fact, act in a way that perhaps encouraged the rumor, try (and the operative word here is "try") to keep your own fear and venom at bay, and voice your concern in a less-threatening, less accusatory manner.

"You know the truth," I have sadly and unfortunately had to counsel my daughter.  "That's all you need to say if somebody insists that the rumor is true."

Parents themselves should also check their motives for believing rumor and innuendo about friends of their son or daughter.

 I have heard a couple of whoppers in my day about   friends' children  and am mortified to admit that I partially believed what I heard. But I am even more mortified by the fact that I didn't telephone my closer friends and let them know what my child or another parent had revealed. This would have been done out of care and concern not only for the kid, but for the parent as well. Now, at least with a couple of Janet's girlfriend's moms, we keep one another apprised of any rumblings of negativity, and we have promised  to try and not take personally what we reveal.

I will forever be indebted to the mother of one of Janet's male buddies, who made the effort to come to my house early one school-day morning to inform me of an incident and the ensuing rumor that was beginning to whirl. Her upset son had recounted the story to his mom out of his loyalty to Janet as a friend. It was incredibly brave and courageous of her; we were then only acquaintances and she had no idea if I would punch her out or hug her when she delivered the news; I chose the latter, of course, despite initially how difficult the words were to hear.

Although maintaining the whole "innocent-until-proven-guilty" concept has become harder and harder for many of us to maintain, it's worth revisiting, especially when we're talking about children. I encourage you to ask your kid to attempt the thought. And if you question the validity of an especially outrageous-sounding rumor surrounding your son's friend, maybe take a deep breath, and with an open mind, ask the child's mom or dad what - if anything - really happened.

Big and small, young and old, people are inclined to gossip. But if we can try and make even a tiny bit of headway in our children's ability to separate fact from fiction, everyone will be better off.




When Happens When Santa Grows Up

Santa Claus hasn't made an official appearance in the House of Evans/Flannery in three years. By "official" I mean that come Christmas morning, there is no longer an array of wrapped and unwrapped toys spread across our family room like a Toys 'R Us catalogue had exploded in the night. Jack and Jess do not claim one side of the room or other as "theirs;" the side designated for Santa's bounty. And Santa has long since ceased seeking out a portion of the room for Kenny and Blake, respectively.


But, the jolly, old elf still leaves his "magic dust" sprinkled across the hearth, and tiny bits of glitter are nevertheless found within the hair and on the faces of the now-grown children, much too their feigned annoyance. Santa won't entirely give up his mission to spread joy and wonderment.

"No Santa Claus! Thank God he lives and he lives forever."

Well, in this case it is a She-Claus who lives forever. (Or at least for another 50 years?) 

Although I know Christmas isn't in any way all about Kris Kringle, I so love the ability of children to believe in him, in the concept of such a wondrous person. I remember with such fondness the Christmases when my kids first understood what Santa was all about. The unmitigated awe upon seeing him in the flesh at a store or on a sidewalk; he was the first celebrity that they fixated upon, long before Michael Jordan, Derek Jeter or Nick Jonas. (And as celebrities go, Mr. Claus has remained scandal-free!). 

The many wee-hour mornings of December 25th are embedded in my memory: two sons, and then years later a son and a daughter, being held back from tumbling down the stairs in a flurry of anticipation, waiting with baited breath for daddy to light a fire, turn on the tree lights and announce in no uncertain terms that, yes, Virginia, there is a Santa and he had arrived at our house during the night! Cue screams of delight and disbelief! And cue mommy-Claus to swallow back tears of her own elation at the frantically gleeful scene before her. I miss those days... If you are in the throes of them with your own children, cherish them; record them. I imagine you may only feel something akin to those moments again when you have grandchildren.

When Santa grows up, she still fills the stockings with care when no one is looking. Although it's more than likely that I am already nestled all snug in my bed long before those children of mine, I am nonetheless able to slip past them and deliver a few surprises where their stockings are hung with care. When Santa grows up, the gifts grow up, too, Playskool morphing into Playstation, I-pods and digital cameras taking the place of building blocks and singing teddy bears,  X-men figurines turning into X-Box 360, and Fischer-Price into pricey fashions. When Santa grows up, the grown-up children no longer try to spy to see if reindeer really know how to fly.

I though, still believe. Two years ago, I heard a scrambling - a "clatter" if you will - on the roof above our bedroom and the gentle jingling of bells (do not burst my bubble by explaining it away as a random squirrel and the wind chimes in my trees swinging wildly in the wind). I woke Jon up, imploring him to listen. Needless to say, he bah-humbugged me, falling quickly back to sleep. But I lay there motionless and silent for a time, wishing the sounds to come back.

"Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see."

Tomorrow night will find me once again - for the 26th year - tiptoeing into my children's bedrooms to lightly sprinkle Santa's "magic dust" onto their pillow cases and cheeks. Christmas tradition is tradition. And magic keeps the belief alive.

Happy Christmas to all, and to families of New Canaan, good-night!




Video games: The pros, the cons and the maybes

The first thing that I have against video games is this: I stink at them. In 1990, when Kenny and Blake got their first system (Sega, maybe?) and I tried to play "Donkey Kong," I could not - could not! - get the hang of the controller nor the point of the game whatsoever. When they graduated to Nintendo, I made one more attempt. And that, as they say, was that. Finito!

I watch kids play these things, with their thumbs pounding away faster than the speed of light, index fingers occasionally jumping out to decimate something or other, and I am baffled. I can barely use my thumbs to text on my phone, much less employ them quickly on a video game controller where I am supposed to be denying, destroying or dooming (although, when I think about it, occasionally my texts can do just that very thing!).


According to the National Institute on Media and Family, 83-percent of kids age eight to 18 have at least one video game system in their home and 97-percent of adolescents play games. Of course, video game playing starts much earlier than it did 20 years ago. Today, there are games for kids ages three and up that are educational tools, non-violent in nature, encouraging hand-eye coordination, strategy and problem-solving.

In general, video game playing offers practice in following direction, it's entertaining and fun, and it offers the occasion for parent and child to play together - just as long as your not the child of Julie Butler Evans, that is.

Parents of kids age 13 and older though, know about the downside of too much video game playing, such as the way women are often portrayed as weaker characters, and that an over-dependence on video games can foster social isolation as many games are often played alone. And - oh yeah - the violence prevalent in games rated "T" for Teens.

In the spirit of honesty, I reveal that my now 13-year-old son was first introduced to "Call of Duty" (rated "M" for Mature; games suitable for playing by persons 17 and older) last year by his oldest brother, who, well... began answering the real-life call of duty in 2001. I did not check the game rating after it was rented. I did, however, inquire into the rating after walking in on the two of them playing and seeing bloody body parts being splattered every which way on the screen. Not cool.

Now, then... Blake, when deployed, knows full well the ramifications of a gun firing, a knife stabbing and other assorted weapon's destructive tendencies, mass or otherwise. But many teens and young men playing these kinds of games probably do not.  Confusing reality with fantasy is another one of the cons of the more violent, war games type of video play.

But then are the better, more fun, and healthier ways to perhaps blur the line between reality and fantasy while playing video games. And that is with the sports-themed games, such as the Madden NFL series, or golf, baseball, soccer, etc. Even I wish I could master the freaking controller so as to pretend I am Kobe jumping mad high for a dunk. And all of the "Rock Star" and "Guitar Hero" games? Well, this year, count me in!

'Tis the season, of course. Jack has already provided me with his Christmas wish list, and - shocker! - a game system and a couple of games are on that docket of hoped-for presents. And I have my own, lone gift request: the new "The Beatles Rock Band" Wii game. If anyone can indoctrinate me into the land of video game playing, who better then The Beatles? They introduced me to music at age seven and they can bring me into gaming at age, well, never mind. Let's just say better late than never!

I am pretty certain that I can master a controller shaped like a guitar. I have even started thumb weight training. Yup, I'm getting those babies primed so that I can hit the ground running. 

Super Mario may have alluded me, but Ringo has never let me down.  Game on!



Happy Thanksmasoween, redux

George Bernard Shaw once said: "A perpetual holiday is a good definition of a working hell."  That sounds about right.

Is it just me, or is the holiday trilogy of Halloween-Thanksgiving-Christmas blending frighteningly into one confusing lump? And how is that affecting our children's view that Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas/Hanukkah are really distinct, separate celebrations?

Here it is, the day before Thanksgiving, and hardly any fanfare was paid to this wholly American holiday in stores or in the media. Any turkey day decorations were seemingly and clumsily displayed for about 19-seconds on November 1st, and then mysteriously relegated to the back storage rooms in retail stores.

Why? I'll tell you why - because this holiday doesn't include the mass purchasing of toys, clothing, costumes or gadgets for kids. One need only acquire food products, and not in fine stores everywhere, but solely in supermarkets. In our kid-centric world, Thanksgiving doesn't sell; it ain't sexy, folks.

This despite the fact that Thanksgiving is perhaps the quintessential, American family holiday.

Back-to-School: That's kid-friendly by far. The displays and reminders begin to pop up in retail stores in late July. By mid-August, even though our family is still out in Wyoming, even though it is still summer, the kids begin to query as to when we can go back-to-school shopping. Really?! Enjoy the freaking heat and sunshine and no school, I want to shout. There's plenty of time left! We can buy a few pencils and a notebook the day before school starts and procure the rest later. Thousands, nay millions, of us grew up on that theory and we're none the worse for the wear.

And seemingly two days after that first day of school dawns, in stores such as CVS, out come the ceramic pumpkins, humongous bags of candy and costumes sitting side-by-side with the dwindling displays of composition books and locker-ladders. Then - BOOM! - just like clockwork,  children start requesting the acquisition of a mask or wig or cape, et al, for Halloween. A holiday that is still six to seven weeks away.

The candy corn is barely digesting in all of our bellies, the jack-o-lanterns aren't yet rotting, and... Ta-da! it's time for the Halloween displays to be unceremoniously set aside, and out come the evergreen and holly and toys and the sounds of Christmas carols(!) wafting through the air, assaulting all of our senses.

What happened to the brief lull between Halloween and Christmas?

The season of "gimmes" begins far too early for kids. There used to be a clear break between trick-or-treating and holiday greeting. The doorbell rang on the last day of October, and candy was doled out. In late December, the doorbell rang and a gaily-wrapped gift was presented. And between the holiday of "gets" was the blessedly simple, altruistic celebration in November of thanks. It was more the calm-before-the-storm of the December festivals. Sure, the day after Thanksgiving - Black Friday - officially kicks off the consumerism frenzy. But we used to be eased into that with more grace (all puns intended).

Although often anxiety-laced with meal preparation and projection of certain relatives behaving badly, Thanksgiving is - or should be - a day where not only is Halloween a distant memory and Christmas an anticipation yet to be thrust into, but a day of family bonding. A day to recognize the genius of the pilgrims and a celebration of all there is to be grateful.

Thanksgiving should be a time to truly be hopeful of twinkly lights soon appearing on leafless trees and across front porches, of the thick-as-a-phonebook Toys 'R Us catalog arriving momentarily in the mail. It should not be an occasion to drive over the river and through the woods to grandma's house passing by garish lighting already in place and spying evergreen trees strapped to vehicle's roofs before the pumpkin pie is even sliced.

I am thankful that even when my younger two were gift-list crazed they were also bewildered by the premature "Christmasizing" of America. They remain bewildered and - with age - also a little amused. It's a small victory in my desire to try and keep them focused on one festivity at a time. To realize that each holiday is precious - and separate - no matter how hard some national retailers try to convince the collective Us otherwise.

Embrace tomorrow while it lasts, and of course, embrace each other before the feverish pace of December dawns. Happy Thanksgiving!


The Cool Mom

I am not the "cool mom," at least not consistently. I think that I would like to be, although sometimes the "cool mom" is in reality more the aloof, "do-what-you-want-kids," lax disciplinarian mom. Considered "cool" by kids' standards, but often quite "un-cool" by other parents.

I overheard Jess and some friends talking about a party where there was indeed a parent present - a mother. I'm sure the teens parents felt reassured that the mom would police the kids to make sure no surreptitious drinking went on. However, perhaps in attempt to endear herself to the young guests, she told the half-dozen or so 15-year-old kids that they could drink, but just not "get wasted."  I gasped upon hearing about this irresponsible insanity. "What a cool mom!" someone exclaimed. "My mom isn't that cool," another lamented.  I wondered how neat they would have thought it was if one of the party attendees had gotten alcohol poisoning and the perceived cool mom had been arrested.

I wish our house was the kind that kids all wanted to come over to (though certainly not for the above reasons; God forbid!). No, I mean a destination that meant fun toys and apparatus, electronics and entertainment devices. I certainly see it as such, especially when compared to the house that I grew up in, and even the previous house we owned in New Canaan a scant four years ago. I recall being very excited that this new house boasted a finished basement, large playroom, including a bathroom attached; whoa! How decadent.  But to my dismay, my bratty younger two have never entirely seen it that way. "It's gross," pronounced Jess when she was in seventh grade.

We have a trampoline in the back yard, a huge side yard where Jack and his sporty cohorts could have football and baseball games, plus a swimming pool. The basement features foosball and pool tables, an indoor plastic basketball hoop thing, and various video game systems. What more could a kid want, I ask? Well, according to Jack, we need an open space to play rug hockey like the trappings of his friend Eamon's basement (whose home is deemed the "cool house"). I believe Jack suffers from playroom envy. He has also complained about the television set in our playroom. So even though his dad recently won a nice sized flat screen in a raffle and replaced the offending t.v., the rec room is still not snazzy enough. Eamon's (or Drew's) is the place to be. I am always apologizing to their moms that we aren't reciprocating, but not for my lack of trying to convince Jack that it is the polite thing to do.

While Jess was in middle school our house was the go-to sleepover pad and I enjoyed getting to know her friends on a weekly basis. For one year Jess's bedroom was a very good-sized room above our garage and off the kitchen - the other side of the house from the master bedroom - so she could have the noisy nights, nab junk food at will, and we didn't have to keep imploring the gals to keep it down. So we were cool.

Perhaps a cool mom - or dad - is one who can be accessible not only to their child, but to their child's friends; not a buddy, but an easy-to-relate-to, trustworthy adult. I remember and cherish the couple of mothers of my girlfriends to whom I could confide concerns about my own mother, boyfriends, long-term wishes and goals. And yeah, a hip parent may also be the one that lets the sixth grader watch a PG-13 movie, stocks their pantry with Gushers and Oreos, offers a can of Coke over a juice box, or treats a gaggle of eighth grade girls to manicures and a meal in town unsupervised after dark.  These lenient allowances may get them temporarily into hot water with the more conservative parent, but they aren't illegal, highly questionable actions.

So for now the place to hang out after-school is Eamon's and Drew's. I will embrace that fact because I think the boy's moms - Eileen and Robin, respectively - are pretty cool in and of themselves. I hope our playroom, our house, will be a draw again. My cupboards are stocked, my fridge overfloweth with soda. And in the spring, if you see me cruising around town in my convertible with a kid in every seat, please feel free to shout: "Well aren't you the cool mom!"
 

The "Oy!" of boys


I have three sons, two in their mid-20's and one a young teenager. That amounts to drama cubed. Heart-stopping episodes and head-scratching times three. I also have a daughter, but she is a drama of a different flavor; the sort of drama that as a fellow female I can easily relate. But the boys? Oy!

My sons have provided me with over a dozen frantic trips to hospital emergency rooms. I receive very little information about any significant females in their lives, nor even basic information on their whereabouts in the world at times. They smell funny. Ergo, their bedrooms smell funny, foreign. Their feet grew/grow at ridiculously fast paces. They eat too much, too quickly, and leave the empty boxes, wrappers, and containers in the cupboard or in the refrigerator, or lounging on end tables, or perched on window sills, which is infuriating on several levels. One of which being they will complain about there not being any more cookies, chips, cereal, or soda, et.al, yet heaven forbid they actually open their mouths to inform me of this until they are once again ravenous.

"Mom!" Kenny used to whine. "There's no food!"

I would walk into the kitchen to find him standing in front of the pantry, doors flung open. Pantry, full of food.

"What are you talking about?! Look at all of that!"

"I need good food. Food I can eat," he'd claim.

"And what would that be, pray tell?" I would ask, exasperated. "Give me details and when I go to the store next I will buy it."

"You know," he'd reply, grinning and walking away from the kitchen, "Good stuff."

This annoying and confusing scenario is currently being played out with Jack, the one boy remaining in my nest. He will become indignant that I haven't returned from the grocery store with his beloved Gushers, or pretzels or chocolate milk, yet when I checked inventory before leaving, said items were still present and accounted for.  Why I am surprised that food vanishes in a whirl after raising two sons before him is a bafflement, but clearly I am constantly astonished anew.

The breaking and tearing and slicing of body parts on boys has been more drama than I believe I can handle and yet, each time it happens, I somehow manage to survive, right alongside of them. Kenny has broken his tibia twice, his wrist once, and several fingers were broken and smushed once when Blake - accidentally, on-purpose - slammed a door on Kenny's hand when they were ages eight and six, respectively.

Thirteen-year-old Jack's more dramatic injuries have included a significant, nine-stitch worthy, accidental gash to the upper forehead from a golf club-wielding Jess six years ago, the top of his middle finger being inadvertently sliced off by a heavy door two years ago (and luckily being sewn back on in the E.R. after yours truly found it smiling up from the pavement), and, most recently, he received 27 stitches to his cheek after a freak accident in his cabin at camp in Wyoming last month.

I sit or stand by them as they lie on the table in the hospital, gripping their hand as they are stitched or cast or prodded, blinking back tears as they try and do the same. I try not to vomit or faint. I smile though my heart is aching.  There is no chapter on how to do this in any of those "What to Expect When..." tomes.

There has been no manual to prepare me for a son going into combat, or for one who wanders aimlessly through and around the United States, or Canada or Mexico; when Kenny is traveling outside of the U.S. he does not have a cell phone with international call capability. I am at the mercy of him perhaps gaining some internet access and posting a status that he is, blessedly, still alive.

Blake, by virtue of his profession in the military, will not communicate with me for weeks and on occasion for a couple of months, and I always feel that this is drama I could well do without.

"Boys will be boys,"  the adage goes, but it is not specific as to what the boy will do or say to bear out the expression.  Parents of boys learn pretty early on though, I think, that boys actually do not always say, share or emote in a similar manner to girls, to daughters. Sons may tend to be a bit more spontaneous, reckless, fearless.

That said, sons are just like daughters, however, in their ability to at once break - and fully fill up - your heart. Neither the male or the female of offspring corners the market on that.


Celebrating A Leaner, But in No Way "Meaner," Christmas

Yes, Virginia, there is a recession. But Santa will still come. As always, we will celebrate the true meaning and origin of Christmas. And for what we may lack in "things" this season, we will more than make up for with people; family. This is as it should be.

I thought I would find my holiday shopping to be a bit glum. I get an odd thrill whenever I whip out that shiny piece of plastic money from my wallet, not unlike a gun-slinger whipping his pistol out of its holster in lightening speed, but this year the sheriff warned me to tone it down. My black belt in Christmas shopping was stripped. Instead of "ho-ho-ho!" I envisioned a chorus of "no-no-no!" Surprise! My holiday buying has been a delightful breeze this year as the list of gift-receivers was shortened, as was the number of presents needed to be purchased for my own family. It was a little strange not scooping up random wants or perceived wants, and performing my usual "one-for-you-one-for-me" routine. 'Twas humbling, really. And the most comforting part was knowing that I was not alone this year. Scrooging it a tad may even be of necessity next year. Yet it's palatable: a penny not spent is a penny earned.

The children -  from my nearly-teen to my 20-somethings - are heart-warmingly accepting of the pared down number of bells and whistles that will land under our Christmas tree. The lack of pining for many material items is a function of their getting older and maturing, and you may find that true in your own family. Santa continues to muscle his way down our chimney, but our living room on December 25 need no longer resemble a Toys 'R Us catalog come insanely to life. I believe that even without the sorry state of the country's economy the kids and I are more appreciative of the gift of each other's company.

Our six person member family has been sort of flung to the winds much more keenly during 2008. With a career in the military for the last seven years, Blake is pretty much by definition flung anywhere but nearby. For over a year now he has been posted in Okinawa, Japan and not the more "convenient" San Diego, California. Kenny is still hell-bent on wandering the country, laptop in tow, and so this year we met up with him infrequently. Jess has been away at a Massachusetts boarding school since January. It has been Jack's delight to be king of the Evans' castle (no, Jon and I are but mere duke and duchess), yet I know he has missed his siblings. So this Christmas, for the first time in three years, we will be as one; Jack is a daily gift, and my other three packages arrived one-by-one last weekend. This mommy need no other present than the four sets of arms of the people she helped create to hug her tomorrow morning.

I dare say all families will celebrate the simplicity of that same manner of gift. Of course, inevitably or inexplicably, there will be - there may and there are - relatives with whom we can longer gather near, not in person, nor by telephone. Our mother, father, sibling or child will be with us in memory, in thought, and in heart only; that still makes them "with" us, though hardly in the fashion for which we long.  We instead find comfort and joy and make merry with the family which remains beside us.

Yes, it's a lean, mean, holiday machine this year. But the Grinchy stock market et al didn't steal Christmas after all. We Who's here in Who-ville are still singing our happy song.

Childhood, Interrupted

My childhood was pretty simple. I could play in the woods without my parents fearing for Lyme disease or kidnapping. Everything on the three or four television channels available was completely G-rated. We weren’t faced with blatant sexuality in movies, nor on the internet, as that was some weird futuristic concept; something out of “Lost in Space.” Perhaps two kids’ parents got divorced my entire 13-year school career. Nobody’s mother or father died. One classmate got in a drunk -driving accident, but survived without major injury. There was a war, sure. It was a horrid, unpopular war in a place called Vietnam. But it was not provoked on U.S. soil and was fairly easily explained to me by my mom and dad.

Today’s sixth graders were in kindergarten on September 11, 2001, when several fathers or uncles or sons or brothers from this town lost their lives when our country was brutally and hideously attacked. They were too young – five or six! - to fully grasp the meaning of what had happened, but not too young to know that this was bad, really bad. And frightening. And that friends of their parents had been affected - permanently - either by death or exposure to the horror of that morning. In the years following September 11^th, this age group and those both younger and older in New Canaan have been exposed to more confusion or mourning than is necessary for a child; our job to explain has been made all the more difficult by the frequency.

On a grander scale, they have heard about or witnessed on the television news, the spectacular lapses in judgment of various celebrities, politicians, and professional sports heroes. Our children have seen our country go to war: Like us, they watched it unfold on their T.V.’s in 2003 and 2004. Some of them knew of a friend’s brother who had gone into combat. Many had then met said warrior(s) in their classroom, or around town, or during the Memorial Day parade. How to describe the why’s of an indescribable war? As parents we have all needed to attempt that, for better or worse, and no doubt with a heavy heart to boot.

And then there are the unspeakable New Canaan family tragedies and the life-threatening illnesses of their schoolmates which must be addressed by us. We’ve endured explanations and events that seem, especially this year, to number in the way too many.

There was the freak, accidental death last summer of middle schooler, (NAME). The unexpected demise of at least two parents this past fall, including Dianne Saitta, who left behind six children and, therefore, six classmates of our children; Mikey Czech’s battle with a brain tumor, as well as the recent passing this month of Andrew and Christopher (??) White’s daddy.

They were able to witness the miracle that is Mikey Czech, who - when his tumor shrank - against all odds strode onto the baseball diamond at Mead Park five weeks ago to pitch, hit and run with abandon. On his first day back, a huge banner was strung on the fence at Mellick field that read: “Welcome Back Mikey!” It was signed by scores of schoolmates and fellow baseball players. And the idea for that banner sprung from a man who knows full well how crucial community was to him in his time of intolerable grief: Paul Saitta.

Silver linings are found in all clouds. Despite a childhood seemingly littered with bewilderment, they have nevertheless learned to become good friends as well as compassionate people to those who suffer. They also discovered that they can be caring members of society. They have seen the concept of community in action. How the whole town rallies ‘round an affected family; a New Canaan group hug. Our kids and we have come to the aid of those mothers or fathers and children side-swiped by death or uncertainty. And then, if the situation warrants, we can rally around once more in those rare occasions of joy and relief. These are the lessons, the character-building moments our children now possess.

Still… the world in which they inhabit is a far more complicated one than we once knew. Kids could once be kids: Dressing like one, playing like one, not having to experience so many somber moments; not looking on as public figures implode, all of it slowly chipping away at their innocence.

It is a childhood, interrupted. It is our role to guide them towards the lemonade when life offers up lemons. We can compliment them on their sensitivity with their grieving friends and acquaintances. We can hold them close and dear, counsel and console , teach and help them to look on the lighter, brighter side. And encourage them to, yes, act their age, even when they are now wiser beyond their years.

 
For Parents of High School Grads

Depending upon your child's status - only child or youngest - it is here, graduation, the last high school event you will attend as a spectator. Your grad-to-be is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions: excited, happy, melancholic, confident, nervous, wary, maybe even a bit incredulous that the day is finally here; you of course, are containing those same feelings.

As soon as the first five or six notes of "Pomp and Circumstance" are played, you will either be swallowing a lump as big as a baseball, or you will be full on leaking tears, perhaps a fist pressed against your mouth, or dabbing a tissue about your eyes either frantically or with discretion, as you crane your neck or strain forward seeking to spot your grad walking jauntily into the stadium or auditorium.

The name for the song (actually entitled "Pomp and Circumstance Military Marches") was taken from Act III of Shakespeare's "Othello:"






Watching your child wheel away

We give our children roots and wings; often those wings come in the form of either two or four wheels of freedom.

The bicycle is our child's first taste of the thrill of the wheel. We start them on tricycles and/or "Big Wheels," sort of two-wheeled bikes-in-training. It's easy for them. Fun. They can go as fast as their chubby little legs will allow. When their legs grow a bit longer and leaner, we graduate the child to a big kid's bike with training wheels. Again, it's a relatively comfortable feat to master.

The expression, "it's as easy as riding a bike,"  is really kind of absurd, as any five-, six-, or seven year-old learning to ride a bike without training wheels can attest. Don't you remember your own first time those handy-dandy metal security blankets came off? Do you recall your  child's first attempt to go training wheel-less? Definitely not easy. Hard falls. Nasty scrapes. Head in helmet bonking down on pavement. It's probably the first time your little cherub may mutter, "This sucks!"

But once it is mastered, when that moment of realization hits you that mom or dad is so not holding onto the the back of your seat, the joyous sensation is intoxicating: You're free! Look at you go! The breeze hits your face, you balance like a pro and you don't require no stinkin' trainers or parental palm to get you going.

With a bicycle, you don't necessarily need your mom to drive you up the road to your friend's house. Maybe you live near your town's center and there is a relatively safe route to the candy store. Or, as you progress through elementary and middle school, your parents allow you to bike to the land of academia.

And eventually, you turn 16, and you succumb to the siren song of the shiny, four-wheeled mode of transportation parked in the driveway. The automobile! So much cooler and faster than your bike, not to mention it's a better way to travel when it's raining.

And you - the parent - quickly discover that helping your child learn to ride a bike is a piece of cake compared to teaching him how to drive a car.

I have maneuvered through this process twice before and am in the midst of Driving 101 with the third child. It is frightening, thrilling, other wordly and ultimately, joyful. Such a shared milestone, not unlike that first pedal without the training wheels. When you finally get them to the DMV, they pass the test, and are standing up against the blue (or is it a pinkish hue now?) backdrop for their license photo, it's a teary-eyed moment: pride, fear and unbridled love.

At 16 or 17, your kid is on the move without you, heading down the highway that will eventually lead to college or another chapter that doesn't necessarily involve them living with you full-time anymore. They will still need you, of course, but they will not need-need you. You aren't the sole wind beneath their wings, as they learn to roll with whatever comes their way in the fresh land of freedom.

"Look ma! No hands!" cries the new bike rider with astonishment and bliss.

The new driver lowers his or her car window down, waves and gives you the thumbs up sign as they make their way down the driveway, no longer required or requiring you as co-pilot.

Or so it appears. Don't be fooled or saddened for long. For those wheels which seem made to roll away actually do the reverse as well, returning to the eager palms (and arms) of their parents.




Try not to judge your child's friends

We have all heard the expression, "don't judge a book by its cover."  And we equally know that this can be easier said than done. However, not practicing this axiom once in a while can lead to a world of hurt for your son or daughter.

I speak from experience, both as the judge and the judged. In the interest of protecting my children, I will break from my usual anecdotal modus operandi and instead offer more generalized, as opposed to specific, experience.

The almost unavoidable judging of which child may or may not be a bully, mean girl, trouble maker, et al can begin as early as nursery school. Your son comes home and bursts into tears because Billy shoved him, or refused to share a toy. Your kindergartner relays a tale of how Emma got in trouble with the teacher by back-talking, and you think, "Hmmm... that's not someone I want my daughter to possibly befriend."

"David's mean!" your son may cry when you pick him up from a playdate, and then you hear from other moms that their child also experienced this behavior. And so you begin to make excuses as to why your son can't come over, and in your mind's eye young David's otherwise sweet face now sprouts tiny horns from atop his head.

What we as parents rarely think about, however, is that perhaps there are extenuating circumstances that make a youngster act out in inappropriate, even disturbing ways. Maybe the child's parents are in the midst of a volatile marriage or messy divorce. The child could be a victim of domestic abuse. There may have been a recent death in the family and the child is having a hard time processing that sudden loss. Maybe a child was bullied earlier in her school career and has misguidedly decided to be the bullier rather than the bullied. Risky behaviors may be the result of undiagnosed depression or bi-polar disorder, or again, as a response to whatever private hell the child feels they are experiencing, real or imagined; self-medicating as a teen is often rooted in this.

One of my children had a very rough and tumble adolescence, sparked by the deaths of both grandfathers with whom they were close. Following tightly on the heels of that was the birth of another sibling and a feeling of displacement took over. Grades began to plummet, and then rebellious and risky deportment came fast and furious.

After one spectacular, misguided mishap in science class, followed by a suspension, my child was branded a trouble-maker, maybe even slightly dangerous. But not by their friends, rather by some parents. Their children's tales, spun out of proportion in the way the game of "telephone" is apt to do, had these parents believing my child was someone to be avoided.

The rumors the teens had told and that their parents believed as Gospel, stung our family, and for a very short time, my child began to act "as if." As if they were a bad kid. Nothing could have been further from the truth. With the hindsight that only time allows, a few of the parents who were quick to judge since those middle school days have contacted me to make amends.

I have judged as well. I am guilty of listening to the tales that circulate in the parent mafia of the "easy girl" or the "loser guy."   I have on occasion steered my children away from someone I believed to be undesirable (which in turn, naturally, makes that person even more desirable!).  Yet I have almost always found myself surprised upon coming face-to-face with said villain; the young person turns out to be not nearly as evil as the portrait that has been portrayed. Their reputation as betrayed them; redeeming qualities are evident.

One of my children was recently betrayed by someone that they truly believed was a good friend, a best friend. A person for whom they had always gone to bat. A person who needed reassurance and kindness, and my child readily bestowed that upon them. Suddenly, without warning, this other child shunned mine. Actually looked them in the eye with steel, wordless coolness; my child is devastated and confused. Is it because they are also friends with someone this other person and/or their parent views as unsuitable? Has hearsay and uninformed judgment run wild? We don't know.

All I know, is that in the interest of perhaps "protecting" a child from mine, my offspring's heart and confidence has been shattered.

Judge and be judged? It's all a slippery slope, and one of the toughest parts of being a parent.

Reeling in the Years

Kids can sometimes be unforgiving about their parent’s aging process. At least I have found that to be true in my household. More than once I have caught Janet scrutinizing the maze of crow’s feet that have rudely appeared on the skin surrounding of my peepers. Jack, too, will inquire about the crinkles on my face and/or blatantly point them out to me, as if I were somehow unaware that Retinol cream is now my best, most coveted friend. The kid is also quite fond of nicknaming me “Oldilocks” and reminding me that I am exactly 40 years older than him.  Well, duh!

 

“What’s your point?” I will spit out in exasperation. I’m the parent; of course I’m older than him.

 

“That you’re old… and when I’m 40, you’ll be 80.”  I’m still in the dark regarding these pronouncements, although when he gleefully recounts the math, it does make me feel ancient and decrepit.

 

On that note, however, I recently attended my college reunion and it made me feel downright sprightly. Not just because I was back on campus, magically transported through time in the reverse to age 21 (that always occurs every five years), but rather because of the physical appearance of many of my classmates. Some looked as though they had wandered in with stolen name-tags, masquerading as a member of the class of 1978, when in fact they were really from the class of 1968. Or even ’63. The men, most notably, looked wider, bloated and follicly challenged. As my friend Michael Turpin (who also attended a college reunion the same weekend) put it:  “It does get to be a letdown when bloated, older people who look like they have swallowed your younger friends show up.” I do, however, need to give public props to fellow New Canaanite and Boston College classmate, Charlie McCool. Charlie – my roommates and I deemed you one of maybe three men who looked as young and handsome as the day we graduated. Decidedly still lean and sporting a good head of hair. Well done, dude! In addition, kudos to another New Canaan resident and former classmate, Debbie Conese Eagan. Debbie has also weathered the past 30 years admirably. Must be something in our town’s water.

 

My children saw a few pictures of my friends and shuddered. Suddenly old mom wasn’t looking so old in comparison. I am taking that as a small victory. For now. Their attention span and compliments have a pretty short shelf life.

 

Although Janet and Jack take great merriment in the fact that I am six years older than their father, I see that circumstance as a bonus. When we are together in social situations, I like to hope that people think I am his age. Especially because most of our friends here in town are, in fact, his age, so why wouldn’t his wife have as few years under her belt and skin as he? I could be completely in denial, of course, and the reality is they feel sorry for the young guy saddled with the geriatric girl.

 

Blessedly, not all of my offspring view me as the dying Maria from Shangri-La in the 1937 classic film, “Lost Horizons.” I bore Blake and Kenny when I was a good eight to 13 years younger than I was when I gave birth to their siblings. They rarely make as many disparaging remarks about my visage, or taste in music, or memories of yore as do Janet and Jack. Nonetheless, the actuality that I am now mother to a 23 and nearly 25-year-old is horrifying. “You’re only as old as you feel” goes the adage, and I don’t feel a day over 25 myself. So how can I possibly have children as old (young) as me? It doesn’t compute. So I am refusing to acknowledge the legitimacy of their ages. Except… Except when a person appears stunned that I could – and I gleefully quote – “possibly have children in their 20’s.”  They are probably politely fibbing, but I demurely take the compliment and back slowly away from said complimentor, lest they gaze a bit too closely at the facial lines I have earned through parenting for a quarter of a century.

 

I don’t know. I guess we parents can decide to simply roll with the punches (or paunches) and age as gracefully as possible.

 

“Oldilocks” indeed! Harrumph! With age comes wisdom, Jack, which makes me 40 years smarter than you. Take that, you young whippersnapper!

 

What happens when mom is off her feet

One true test of a child's mettle comes when mom is temporarily sidelined due to injury, illness, surgery, or even the common cold. Does junior step up to the plate? Or is your malady more an inconvenience for him or her?

A couple of weeks ago, I was helping Jack make a video of himself taking and making trick, crazy basketball shots. He sets his Mac laptop up on the lawn or on a chair outside, and shoots away until the ball soars successfully through the net. On this particular afternoon, he asked me to be his rebounder, and nice mom that I am, I scurried outside to help my young Kobe Bryant/Martin Scorsese. Long, painful story short, I zigged where my right ankle should have zagged off a top step outside our kitchen and broke said ankle. (Jack managed to find some humor in this and made a youtube video since the Mac's camera had kept on rolling, of course, during and after my fall; he's a boy, what can I say?)

I have been on crutches and in a cast/splint ever since. Obviously I can't carry much of anything and so just as instantly as my ankle went crack, both Jess and Jack found themselves carting their own laundry down to the basement, fixing their own dinners when daddy worked late, and fetching me ice packs, or Diet Cokes, or sweatshirts off a high shelf.  But they became annoyed with it all pretty quickly. I cannot drive and they began insisting that I give it a try with my left foot! And they and their older siblings have found my spectacular tumble to be just so hilarious, a tribute to what they claim is my lack of coordination.

Just for the record, I am not uncoordinated. I ski, I hike fast and high, I take karate, and... well, sometimes I am a little clumsy. And my balance is occasionally off... But I digress.

I have had friends who have gone through chemotherapy and their children have been incredibly helpful and supportive. Children who perhaps before simply took their mothers for granted, or felt entitled that their parent take total care of their needs, never once offering to help. But faced with a serious illness, the child transformed. Better still, they remained as such, long after their mom's remission.

It can be quite frightening and confusing for young children to see their mom (or dad) for the short or long term unable to care for them as they once had.

While I was pregnant with Jess, I was ordered on bed rest for over three months. Blake and Kenny were nine and seven, and they were a amalgam of concern, confusion, and frustration. Kenny would bring his homework into my big bed, and we would play spirited games of Battleship after school every day, but Blake was somewhat wary of me; tentative. The Energizer Bunny was suddenly Jabba the Hut. He was still very loving, but also frightened, not only for me, but his baby sister inside of me.

I believe most kids can rise to the occasion of a parent being down. As guided by the still vertical parent, they can pitch in where needed and where able, dependent upon their age. They do, however, have convenient memories, and although we dote on them like a nurse on steroids when they may be sick or injured - murmuring "poor baby, poor you," and leaping to fulfill their requests - their patience for you the patient can have its limits.

I requested a soda from Jack as I sat in the den, compromised foot elevated. He grabbed my crutches, put them under his arms and exclaimed: "Ooh ooh look at me! I'm mom! I'm on crutches and I can't do anything!" as he bounded around the room with my temporary "legs."

Now, Jack is as sweet and as kind as boys come. I chose to look at this display of insensitivity with a dash of humor, and a side of guilt - directed at him.

"Laugh all you want, but the reason I can't do anything, is because I was helping you! This," I said, grandly sweeping my arm in the direction of my ankle, "is all your fault."

His smirk faded and that Diet Coke appeared in a flash.

I'm down, but the momma ain't out.

Kids and Cleaning: Do They Really Mix?

Although the phrase, “Clean your room!” is uttered by every parent to every child twelve zillion times a day all over New Canaan and the rest of the cities, towns and villages in all of the 50 states, the cleaning is something that seems to take kids a very long time to understand, let alone follow through on in a meaningful manner.

If you are the fellow parent of a teenager, you know exactly what I mean. “Clean” means shove everything under the bed or into the closet. Even clothes you have just freshly washed and folded and placed onto their unmade beds are thrown willy-nilly into the laundry hamper, rather than placed in dresser drawers. Hand them a can of Pledge and a rag and they will most likely just spray the scent into the air and use the rag to circulate the lemon fragrance throughout the room.

The faulty cleaning gene goes beyond the teenage years, unless of course you are lucky to have a child in the military – as I do – and then they truly understand tightly made beds, mopped floors and clean-until-they-shine toilets.

Last week I traveled to Astoria, Queens to my son Kenny’s apartment to offer my cleaning services. Four young men are sharing one bathroom. It was an absolute horror; worse than anything I have ever seen in the way of filthy. The cleaning up literally had me gagging, but the toilet was so disgusting that I didn’t dare throw up in it for fear I’d never stop. I relied on bleach fumes to keep my lunch in place. Disinfecting the bathroom was all that I could handle that day.

I left all of my cleaning substances and several rolls of paper towels behind with a strong suggestion that Kenny and his cohorts actually use them. More than once a year. I highly doubt I will be making a return cleaning engagement.

When Kenny and Blake were about 9 and 10, I would ask them nicely to pick up their toys and clothes in their bedrooms. After the second request would go unheeded, I took some advice I read somewhere and would take a black, plastic trash bag and simply put everything that was on their floor into the bag; I wasn’t going to throw the bag out. But they didn’t know that. I only had to do this about three times before they got the message.

Younger children usually delight in helping mommy and daddy to clean things – spraying the window cleaner and mopping it up with loads of paper towels; trying so hard to navigate their sheets and blankets to made their bed; helping to push the vacuum cleaner over the rug. Yet at some point – usually around kindergarten or first grade – they seem to lose interest. And ability.

Blake began washing his own clothes in about the fifth grade (Kenny was in college before he ever met a washing machine!), and Jack, 9, learned his way around a washer-and-dryer in third grade. I introduced Janet to the vacuum cleaner late this past fall, but she hasn’t been especially interested in making another date with the Dyson since.

Because I work at home more these days, I let our cleaning woman go.

“What?!” screamed Janet when I told her. “Who is going to clean my room now?”

I simply smiled at her while she grimaced, realizing the harsh reality of what my smile meant. And then she quickly recovered.

“Oh good, “she said like a princess before closing the door to her bedroom on my Cheshire cat face. “That means you can clean it!”

I’ll have the last laugh though: the only princess she will resemble will be Cinderella before the Ball. I’m so wicked. But it’s all good, clean fun.

Moms gone wild!

"By and large, mothers and housewives are the only workers who do not have regular time off. They are the great vacation-less class."
~ Anne Morrow Lindbergh


Yes, I am a mother, to four fine children. For over 26 years now, my maternal instincts have been in overdrive and there is no foreseeable finality to that. It never gets old, this motherhood gig, but it does - on occasion - make me weary. And that is when the mom becomes the woman becomes the girl. And she goes wild.


Every year for the last decade, my college roommates and I get together for a long weekend. We have convened in such locales as Martha's Vineyard, Jackson Hole, Chicago, New York City and Las Vegas (twice). We doff our mommy hats and become 20-something college kids, sans work, husband, offspring (okay, we do check in a few times; we're not completely irresponsible!). Still. For four days we do what we want, when we want.  Nobody whines "Mom!" or "Honey!" We smile at the handsome men we pass, and in Vegas we squeal at nearly-naked men at Chippendales-type clubs. We stay up way past midnight, giggling and weeping and philosophizing.  We do not change diapers, or wake up early for bottles, school buses, or cranky, sleepy teenagers. We rock and we roll in the symbiotic rhythm forged long ago as girls on our college campus in Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts.

The magic and memories that are created during these annual escapes help us to rejoin the sorority of motherhood with renewal and a reaffirmation that we are, in fact, women first.

"Mrs. Evans."  "(Blake, Kenny, Jack, Jessie)'s mom."  I am those, I am her. But first, I am Julie.

Sometimes I forget.

This past year, I enjoyed the mini-reunion with my roommates as well as a milestone high school reunion. Both were essential in reclaiming the girl within the woman within the mother.

In July, there was a warm-up of sorts to the "official" October reunion. Dozens of former students at Weston High School circa 1970's, met up in Westport at Splash bar. Two of my girlhood friends stayed at my house for the weekend, and it was as though time had stood still as we primped to leave. I poured myself into a slinky, red-salmon sundress and the three of us jumped into my Mustang convertible, leaving my two bemused teenagers in the dust, as it were, as we headed off into the sultry summer evening.

Upon our return home about one in the morning, Jess and two of her friends were still awake, a bit dumbfounded that we three old broads were nowhere near ready for sleep.

As they rehashed their own evenings, so did we, roaring with laughter out on my porch, until Jess inquired at three a.m., "Mom, when are you going to bed?!"

"When I'm good and ready!" I replied, relishing the role reversal of sorts.

At the big reunion in October, only three wayward souls brought their spouses to the event. Thanks mainly to the advent of Facebook, most of us didn't need to steer conversation in the direction of what one did for a living, marital status, or how many children one had produced, because we had already done our due diligence online. For a night, we weren't defined by career, spouse, or offspring accomplishment. Instead, we essentially transported ourselves back to a simpler time and sat lazily around linen topped tables as if it were the high school cafeteria. We casually draped ourselves across one another's laps or shoulders; this was not done in an adulterous fashion, but innocently, nearly out of old habit.

We unearthed the boy inside the man, and the girl inside the woman, in a way that no one in our present lives could or can do. It was a precious evening. And for this mom of two current teenagers, going back to the future turned a key into understanding better the teen that I was, with the teens that I had produced.

Going "wild" for a night or two is something in which I believe mothers need to indulge. I don't mean flashing your boobs in an inebriated state, of course, but rather flashing your girlhood with eyes clear and heart wide open. Mothering yourself, if you will, while not abandoning the mommy-hood that is as deeply ingrained in you as anything else.

Check back in with the girl who became the woman who became the mom. It's a priceless vacation.





Mommies Who Drink Too Much
This past summer, Diane Schuler sped drunkenly down the Taconic Parkway - the wrong way - tragically killing her daughter, six other people, and herself. The ensuing outrage, even bewilderment, over mothers who drink far too much, detonated for weeks.

Mothers have sought relief and solace in alcohol for a very long time; Diane Schuler just put a very public face onto the excess of drinking.

"My kids are driving me to drink!" exclaim many moms at times, followed by a laugh. It is not uncommon for mothers of young children - infants, toddlers, pre-schoolers - to get together for play groups and, while the kids busy themselves with one another, the mommies sip a glass of wine. Or two. And on occasion, a mom may make it a chardonnay hat-trick. She then tucks her child into his or her car seat, and drives.

Full disclosure: I am not judging nor being holier-than-thou. Because I have been there. Not there-there watching this happen to others, but there-there as in participating, by being the one mom who enjoyed the alcohol a little bit too much. By also being the mom who would eventually pick up her preschooler and kindergartner (her third and fourth children, respectively) at after-school care at five in the afternoon, with a Diet Coke can full of white wine, or beer. And get behind the wheel of her car, mercifully - and amazingly - never driving the wrong way down a one-way street. Or into a pole or a tree or a ditch. I am the mom who very shortly after a number of these trips with her wine roadie - my "mommy juice" I called it -put down the drink for good. This was over 10 years ago. The strongest thing I drink now is pure, unadulterated Diet Coke.

I am far and away not the only mommy who drank too much. If you visit a local 12-step meeting you might be surprised to observe the number of mothers of young children. And they aren't the bedraggled, low income or perhaps uneducated people that society often stereotypes alcoholics to be. They are your neighbors, your small and large business owners, the ones with the Masters degrees, the multi-volunteering moms... even your friends. I am also describing the still actively drinking mothers, the ones you notice imbibe a tad too much socially, and those who fly under-the-radar; the women who couldn't possibly abuse alcohol because they - what? - seem too perfect, too together, too nice?

Let me tell you, although I am far from perfect and my have-it-all-together days don't necessarily equal the headless-chicken days, I was and still am, well, nice. I didn't look as though my body and my mind had begun to crave alcohol. I lived in a decent-sized house, I had the ubiquitous Suburban, I had just sold the magazine I had founded. My drinking hadn't destroyed my marriage, hadn't made me lose my house, my job, nor my children. What it had made me lose was Julie.

I had lost Julie and thought perhaps I could find her in a bottle, that maybe, too, that drink would help me feel less overwhelmed and stressed about suddenly being a stay-at-home mom to four kids under age 15. That being a little bit buzzed would make the kids' fighting, screaming and needing me less intense. The drink did none of those things. The drink just made me drunk. A drunk mommy, not a better mommy.

I wasn't a daily drinker. One doesn't need to drink every day or evening to be an alcoholic. It's a disease that is cunning and baffling; insidious. And it begets denial. Which is why many people who probably should stop, simply don't.

My younger two kids have never seen me drunk (that they remember). I was able to be present-and-accounted for during my older sons' teen years, and of course for the present ones. Getting sober was the best thing I could have ever done for my family.

 If someone reading this perhaps recognizes a little of themselves in me, please do not feel ashamed to admit to a problem. And to seek help. I know I felt more ashamed to keep on drinking; it took courage and love to stop.



Hugging it Out

Hugs - most especially hugs between teenage boys and girls - seem to be big news recently, with the New York Times, the network nightly news and even Time magazine getting in their two-cents about the friendly, brief or not-so-brief, collision that is the young hug.

“It’s a wordless custom, from what I’ve observed,” writes Beth J. Harpaz, the mother of two boys, 11 and 16,  in her new book, “13 Is the New 18.”

I, too, began observing this need for pre-teens and teens to greet and part with hugs after my daughter's first season of sleep-away camp when she was 11. When it came time to throw her and her camp trunk into the car, there was a very prolonged display of "good-bye" hugging. There were the bear hugs with fellow campers that were marked by a slow swaying back and forth and shoulders hiccuping from sobs. The grab-onto-the-shoulder hugs with a slight and brief sway for the female counselors and a briefer version of that with the male counselors and trip leaders; no swaying involved however.

"Huh," I thought. "This is new."  And I repeated that same, semi-stunned "huh" as sixth grade progressed in the fall and her hello's and see-ya-tomorrow's always brought on the embraces.

It was curious. For me as a youth and young adult, hugs were A) given only to my parents and close girlfriends if there was a protracted absence, B) to a friend who had just received some bad news (i.e. break-up, death of a family member, etc), and C) to my boyfriend. Exclusively. Not another random male. Never. That might imply a romantic interest.

Not so the youth of today. I recall recoiling in horror when picking a then seventh grade Jess up from the Outback Teen Center, only to witness her hugging her boyfriend, and  then offering up brief good-bye hugs with two of his friends!

"What on earth are you doing?!" I exclaimed when she got into the car. "You can't hug another boy! Especially in front of your boyfriend! Are you crazy?"

She looked at me with the disdain that only a 14-year-old can muster. "They're just friends, mom. Zack understands. Chill."

Would I ever understand? Actually, in a way, I imagine I already did.

In the certain circles I have frequented over the past decade, it is not unusual for men and women to hug out a hello or good-bye. It's practically customary. In the beginning, I didn't know what to make of the mutual wrapping up of arms, women with women, men with men, and especially the men with women. I was both skeptical and a little uncomfortable. Was this guy coming onto me? He's married, I'm married... I got used to it pretty quickly, however, when I realized it wasn't intended as a sexual innuendo (maybe in a couple cases it was/is, but if I sense that I back away from the lock immediately).  As with teens today, the hug is simply a social greeting, an unconscious and innocent display of affection.

It's kind of contagious. At least for me. But I know it's not for everyone; I have caught both men and women off-guard with a spontaneous squeeze of both shoulders. Certainly I have spied a wife or two eying me with understandable suspicion and so I will even out the score with a hug for her, too (to any friends of mine out there who may be wondering if my embrace has any other intent, the answer is "No!"). 

Because the hug is the friendly expression of choice for the younger generation, I find myself hugging Jessie's girlfriends and even a few of her close guy friends and vise versa. 

"Mrs. Evans!" they will cry and throw their arms around me for a few seconds. I like it. I get it. It is at once meaningless and meaningful. A "hello" or "good-bye" with a twist.

"Hugging used to mean something," I heard a woman my age grumble as she observed a pack of teens in the midst of their ritual.

To me, it still does. As the Peanut's cartoon character Snoopy used to say: "Happiness is a warm hug."  And everybody could use one.



Ready, Set, Let Go

" Letting go doesn't mean we don't care.  Letting go doesn't mean we shut down.
Letting go means we stop trying to force outcomes and make people behave." ~ Melody Beattie


Perhaps one of the hardest lessons in life a person faces is letting go; letting go of people, places, things... even ourselves at times, as well as emotions or feelings.  As a parent, the ability to let go as opposed to hanging on is especially - and keenly - agonizing.

I left claw marks on Blake, 26, and Kenny, 24, not only as they left the house for the Marines and college, respectively, but also as they entered their 20's.  I watched helplessly as my authority, responsibility and influence seemed to vanish as vapor. I had to reluctantly allow them to explore, perhaps flounder, face fears or dangers, and make decisions based on their needs, not my desires. Letting go completely ebbs and flows within my heart and in my inherent actions.

As a mother, I have been trained to fix. I fixed hunger by offering bottles of formula, snacks, meals. I took care of discomfort by changing a diaper, burping, administering to tummy aches and boo-boo's, proffering my shoulder to cry on, or my side of the bed in which to snuggle. I went to bat with teacher troubles, mean kids, unfortunate situations. But once a child leaves the house, after they then they reach the milestone of age 21, it is no longer my job to fix, to restore, to protect.  Even for the children yet to leave the nest, it has been uncomfortably necessary for me to back off, step aside... let go.

When my daughter, Jess, went off to boarding school for a year-and-a-half, I had to turn the reigns of her day-to-day over to the school deans, headmasters and teachers, who acted "in loco parentis."  It was an initial torture, and then actually, a bit of a relief (she is a teenager, after all). Now she is back at home and back at the high school. And I am trying to resist wearing a Harry Potter-like "cloak of invisibility" and be by her side as she negotiates the social and academic minefield from whence she once fled.  But in letting go, I am reminded of the strength of her spirit now. I remember that when she left for boarding school I passed on to her a Carl Jung saying which in and of itself is really about letting go of what and how we may perceive ourselves: "I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become."

Jess overcame and became. And she continues to define herself and not allow others to apply their own label. I like to think that we have inspired and inspire one another to shake off that which is not important in the big scheme of things.

It is, of course, not always easy to see the forest for the trees. To recognize when to hold 'em, or when to fold 'em.  Sometimes my grip on my kids is so tight that it hurts.  Yet at the same time, I comprehend the word serenity and I know peace. It occurs when I loosen my hands and exhale, knowing that I am not as in control of their destinies as I once so fiercely believed.

All humans need to fail in some way, shape or form so that they may grow; become stronger, better. Sometimes sadder, but wiser. We have to learn to let go of resentments: Resentments are like taking poison and expecting the other person to die.  I was harboring one against someone recently, and the result was, it was eating me up and taking up too much space in my head rent-free. The way in which I was able to let it go was to speak with the individual, who clearly hadn't died from the poison, in a calm and loving way. Was I still sadder? Yes. And wiser, too. That's the key.

It saddens me to imagine that I am an unemployed mother to Blake and Kenny, these young men well into their 20's. That image, that reality is false. Of course I am still their mother! Of course they will still consider my opinions, suggestions, offers for aid both financial and emotional. And even though my two teens at home often hallucinate that I am no longer of use (except as a chef and a taxi driver and a human ATM),  my heart and sensibility reassures me that they, too, need me for so much more than that.

"Some think it's holding on that makes one strong; sometimes it's letting go."  

Be a strong parent. And avoid the obvious claw marks whenever possible.

And they call it puppy love...

If spring is in the air, then yes, so must there be love. In particular, young love. Are you ready, Mom and Dad?

I so keenly recall my own youth and the mating rituals, so to speak. How in seventh and eighth grades the warmer weather and bud-bursting-open trees seemed to also give way to a Noah's Ark syndrome. Boys who may have ignored or tried to ignore us during the cruelly cold winter months became as bold as a daffodil that makes its way out of the mud. My girlfriends and I found our unrequited crushes materialize into the hoped-for status of "going out."  New couples openly strolled the hallways holding hands. Our house phone would ring and I would dash and jump over ottomans, screaming "I'll get iiiiiiitttttt" as I bounded up the stairs to my bedroom, not two-by-two, but three-by-three; my parents couldn't make a call for the next two hours.

In high school, spring signaled prom and therefore the need/want for a date. And, of course, hormones seem to suddenly take a giant leap forward as the temperatures soar as well.

My older three children all dallied in the "spring fling." My youngest, seventh grader Jack, hasn't let on - at least to us - about a need to hang out with any particular girl, but I am sure it's coming. My daughter had boyfriends in seventh and eighth grade and it seemed that the two boys she wound up in a relationship with during each of those grades began their courting in springtime. Of course the word "courting" is too quaint a term to actually describe what goes on in this day and age, but I want to cling to a notion of a more innocent time. Or at least I want to cling to a convenient memory of my own spring loves.

If your child is experiencing their "first love" then you are observing the giddy joy of your daughter or the Cheshire Cat grin that pops across your son's face. If they are in the younger grades in middle school, "going out" usually just means phone calls and texting, instant messages, video chats, and maybe hanging out together in town on Friday afternoons. More often than not, the boyfriend-girlfriend thing will either last a day to perhaps a month or two (although Jess had a beau in fifth grade and they were "in love" for six months; still her record for a relationship!).

Later in middle school and into high school, things take a different - perhaps more serious - tone. It's then that as a parent you should try and monitor what's going on and certainly meeting the object of your child's affection is in order. And trust your instincts. That said, also realize that books can't necessarily be judged by their covers. Rumor mills can paint unfortunate pictures, distorting the truth of a young man or woman's actual morals or experiences. I caution you: be the adult, not the teenager.

I would also err on the side of asking too many questions and providing time-honored safe relationship practices (those last two words are euphemisms). And arm yourself with the knowledge of the following two terms used by teens in this millennium: "hooking up" and "friends with benefits."  These mean and mean not what you and I might imagine. The first does not imply one friend "hooks you up" with a place or a thing, or even with another person in the way we understand the phrase. The latter means pretty much exactly what you suspect it might. So eavesdrop whenever possible, voice your concern, as well as what you expect from them. The reality is that the outcome is out of your hands, but do the next right, responsible thing first. There is more than a modicum of relief in that.

But back to the sweetness and light of young love. Remember your own and enjoy the tiny thrill that accompanies that memory. I loved the way Kenny shyly and sweetly informed me of his seventh grade girlfriend, and I feel gratitude that Jess feels comfortable enough with me to share of an impending romance (whenever she begins a sentence with "so guess what?," accessorized with a blush on her cheeks, I know I'm not such an icky mom after all).

Spring and romance truly do go together. If you're so inclined, enjoy the ride, even however brief.


I'm getting ready to leave the Teton mountain range area in Wyoming and drive Janet and Jack back to the sloping ridges of New Canaan. Both spent a month each at the same ranch camp (Teton Valley Ranch) southeast of Jackson Hole, and Jack additionally had a month with us at our lodge unit at the base of the Jackson Hole ski area while Janet's camp session was going on. My mountain kids; I'm grateful that we have been able to provide this gift to them.

I was basically a summer "beach child," spending upwards of six hours a day lying prone on the sand at Comp Beach, especially as a teenager. My family also spent at least two weeks a summer on a beach island off the Jersey shore. Although a couple months of our childhood winters lead us up to the mountains in and around Stowe, Vermont, my brother and I were not mountain kids (until my brother lived in Stowe year 'round during his twenties). But Janet and Jack - they're most assuredly of the mountain variety.

Both children have been spending time every summer and one week per winter out in Jackson since they were toddlers. They learned and continue to appreciate and respect the wide and varied, rugged landscapes out here, as well as the power and beauty of the Snake River that winds it's way through the Teton Valley. With their Jackson-based aunt and uncle as their first guides  - and now their camp counselors - they have trekked through sage brush and shale up and around many a peak. They've stood on the tops of mountains at elevations that astound. It's all a far cry from Connecticut in many ways and that's what makes it special and unique. And Teton Valley Ranch serves to keep them grounded, if only for those 30-days and a few more 24-hours beyond the final campfire of the session.

When my sister-in-law first told us of the camp during the summer of Janet's fourth grade summer, we felt it would be a terrific way to get her away from her "safe" cocoon of New Canaan and get her unplugged from all things electronic for a month. She would meet and bunk with girls from all over the country, spend an inordinate amount of time outside, active and hopefully eager, all with the Grand Teton as a backdrop.

Since her fifth grade summer, Janet has had one month a year where the most amazing things happen. All of the other 11 months, she is a shower-a-day girl, practically panicking if it looks as though that can't happen. Her clothes must match and be oh-so-specifically purchased at the "right" store, and feminine and pretty and clean. And the hair, oh the hair! Brushed and flattened or curled and blow-dried and styled just so. The eye make-up application is an art even her 50-year-old mother hasn't managed to master. But from the middle of July through the middle of August, she is going three to four to five days without a shower when her group goes on back-packing trips and/or pack trips into the mountains with the horses. Through the wonders of e-camp I can see her wearing mismatched socks, mismatched rain gear, baseball and knit caps pulled jauntily over her pleated hair. Her knees are sometimes cut-up, her western riding wear is dusty and worn-in and decidedly not East Coast trendy. And in every photo she is wearing the biggest smile I have ever seen and she has never looked more gorgeous. On the day of the final rodeo, my pampered pet is roping like a champ, giddyapping around the ring like the cowgirl she has temporarily become and doing the "boot dance" like a pro.

For one month a year, she - and now Jack - prove that they can easily exist without cell phones, television, I-pods, and computers. I should only be so lucky the rest of the year.

And for one month a year I get to be a mountain mama, doing a lot of what the kids are doing but without cool counselors and in a more cautious manner; ah, youth!
I love the peace and serenity I find at this altitude and the sound of the fluttering aspen leaves and swaying pines is as calming as waves on the seashore. The vastness of the Wyoming sky is a marvel.

At the final campfire of the camp season, I feel as wistful as the campers, and the melancholy is palpable. There is one camp song in particular that never fails to choke me up as we take one final look around at the hills and mountain ranges and the dry, western heat sinks away into cool nip. The first lyrics haunt me and comfort me all at once, and I find that every July they spring immediately to my ears as we set our sights Westward.

"Yellowstone winds, oh they're calling me back again. 'Come here to me my friend,' they whisper to my soul..."

I love that my mountain kids' souls are also being nourished by those winds. And that in addition to New Canaan, they can call Teton Valley "home."