In with the Old

My husband and I both grew up just west of Phoenix, in Glendale Arizona. Our neighborhood was suburban, but if you were to drive about ten minutes north when we were kids there was nothing as far as the eye could see. Nothing but orange groves, cotton fields, and a few old farm houses scattered here and there.

Then about 30 years ago, developers bought up most of the land, built Arrowhead Towne Center - a million square foot shopping mall, and from there it was a domino effect. Arrowhead was followed by a megaplex, strip malls, restaurants, hotels, MLB spring training facility and eventually NFL stadium (go Cardinals!).

But right at the center of all this change, there was a little broken down farmhouse. And somehow, with everything changing around it, this home managed to stay put. I have tried unsuccessfully to find records of the eminent domain battle that must have taken place over that house, but I can only imagine.

Because literally, on one side of the avenue was the mall, south of it a movie theater, then on the corner of the intersection was a brand new shopping center with a Jack in the Box. And in the PARKING LOT of that Jack in the Box sat this house. With people living in it.

I used to sit in a line of cars at that drive through and scratch my head wondering how on earth the house remained. At some point in my adolescence, while waiting for my tacos, a thought occurred to me. That house taught me a lesson that I'm now trying to teach my children.

At the time it was built, it blended in with its environment. It looked like it belonged. But as everything around it changed, it began to look more and more distinct. Conspicuous. Odd even.

There have been occasions in every phase of my life that I have felt distinct, conspicuous, and even odd because I believed or acted in a way contrary to what was popular. Having survived high school, I can look back now and be grateful I held my ground, and credit parents who taught me that when deciding what to do, one thing I didn't need to take into consideration was what everyone else was doing.

I want my kids to be confident, comfortable farmhouses. The moral compass of society is changing at a rapid pace, and as the definition of right and wrong evolves I hope they will be more concerned with standing the ground of their principles than with trying to blend with their environment.

When they were babies and we lived in Santa Barbara, I was fortunate to be surrounded by mothers much wiser and more experienced than I. There was one in particular, Leslie, who has raised her children into five confident, accomplished adults. I remember when they were in high school, she would have them repeat, over and over and over, "It's okay to be different, if different is good."

The Jack in the Box farmhouse is no longer there. I wish it was, and that I could go back and knock on the door. I would ask its residents why they held out for decades. What was it about the house that was so dear to them, that they insisted on staying put? How did they withstand the pressure of developers for so long, and how did it feel to see the surrounding landscape change so drastically? I'm certain they would have something to teach me.

I would love to visit the old Jack in the Box itself while I was at it, but it's also gone. It too was demolished, and replaced with an In-N-Out, appropriately. Out with the old. In with...

I'd like to go back there anyway and buy my kids hamburgers.  Through the window we can look at the corner of the parking lot where the house used to sit, holding its ground. And hopefully, between dipping fries I can help them understand the difference between things that should evolve throughout their life, and things that never will. Truth. Principles. Right. Wrong.

Although as much as I enjoy an In-N-Out burger, nothing compares to the Jack in the Box tacos of my youth. Am I right? It's an inconvenient truth, but no one has been able to convince me otherwise.

Six Honest Men

My mother raised her children on the philosophy of Rudyard Kipling. He once wrote -

I keep six honest serving-men
(They taught me all I knew)
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who

At any given moment, and of any of her four children, she could tell you

✔ Where we were
✔ What we were doing
✔ Why we were doing it
✔ How we were doing it
✔ Who we were with, and
✔ When we would be home

I admit there were times, particularly in my teenage years, that I found this exhausting. There were of course no texting or Find My Friends apps then, so I was always excusing myself to find a borrowed phone to update her on my plans, and answering to her six honest serving-men before, after (and sometimes during) dates, parties and dances.

Now of course, looking back, it's among the laundry list of things that make my sisters and I say, "Oh my gosh, Mom was right about everything."

I now have a teenager that I'm raising in the age of smartphones and social media, and feel like the six honest serving-men that were sufficient for my generation need to train as six merciless tail-kicking ninjas.

Which leads to my daughter, and her cell phone.

But first a disclaimer.

**Disclaimer** I'm about to tell you how my husband and I are raising our child. I am not about to tell you how to raise your child. I understand that cell phone and social media use among youth is an emotionally-charged subject, and wouldn't dare offer advice because I don't know your family, and I don't know what works you. I'm aware there are parents who do not allow their children to have cell phones, and I think it's commendable. I'm aware of others who only allow flip phones, which I also find commendable. Parents who install monitoring apps, or prohibit access to social media? All of it, and every parent doing the best they can, commendable.

None of that, however, is what works for us.

We have a 13-year old daughter. She has her own iPhone. And Instagram and Snapchat accounts. And we do not employ monitoring apps.

And this is why.

When she (I'll call her "Jolie." Because that's her name) was in elementary school, her academic performance at one time was dismal. Her grades were below average, and she was perpetually procrastinating and neglecting assignments. As our oldest child, this was new territory for us and my first instinct was to intervene. Crack down. Take away privileges. Establish an accountability chart. Rule with an iron fist.

My husband's (whom I will call "Jack," for the same reason) response to this proposal was that it would probably work. Hovering over Jolie would without a doubt bring up her grades, guarantee completion of her assignments, and alleviate my concerns. In the short term. But would do nothing for her personal development, or long-term fostering of self discipline.

Instead, he suggested, we called to duty the six honest serving-men.

We began asking her questions -

✔ How are you doing in school?
✔ How does that make you feel?
✔ Why do you neglect assignments?
✔ What do you think would turn that around?
✔ What is the purpose of homework?
✔ What happens to people who succeed in school? And those who fail?

And on, and on.

We asked the questions, and she led the discussion. Our goal was not to impose solutions, but to create an atmosphere where she devised them herself.  She made the rules, and we provided the accountability.

Then slowly, we began to see a change in her. She started making to-do lists and prioritizing homework, all of her own accord. She's now entering high school, and is a remarkable, self-motivated student with a 4.0 and enrollment in all honors and AP classes. She's also adorable and a friend magnet, but that has nothing to do with this post. I just wanted to brag about her while I have your attention.

When Jolie became a tween and her room was a disaster, we didn't make a chore chart or stand over her while she cleaned it. Rather, we summoned the six honest serving-men.

✔ How do you feel when your room is messy?
✔ How do you feel when it's clean?
✔ What habits prevent you from keeping it clean?
✔ What strategies do you think would work best?

And on, and on.

Again slowly, but internally, a change took place and now we never have to remind her to clean her room. Of course gets messy. But when it does, she notices on her own how it makes her feel, and uses strategies she has developed to clean and maintain it.

And then, we entered the age of cell phones and social media.

This summer Jolie will turn fourteen, which means we are on a four-year countdown until she is an independent adult. Four short years until she is out of the house, on her own, and absolved from our perpetual influence whether we like it or not. And for the record I do not. Sob. But when she inevitably does leave, she will have unlimited access to a cell phone and social media.

We see this window of time as an opportunity, not to sequester her, but to train her.

So we gave her a phone. And we allowed her to join social media. And sometimes at the dinner table, or occasional nights when we're sitting at the foot of her bed, the six honest men come to visit.

✔ What accounts are you following on social media?
✔ Which ones make you feel better about your life? Which make you feel worse?
✔ What can you do about that?
✔ What have you seen that resembles pornography?
✔ How did it make you feel?
✔ What did you do about it?

And on, and on.

The objective isn't to know every move she makes on her phone. The objective is to help her develop the internal compass she needs to navigate the waters of technology.

And over time, with mistakes and lessons learned, we've witnessed the rewarding path of her navigation. When she sees something inappropriate on her phone, she shows it to us and we talk about it. When she's bothered by a social media account, she unfollows it and articulates why. Without being asked, she has put her phone away because she can recognize the symptoms of having been on it too long.

We do have passwords to all of her accounts. She charges the phone in our room at night, and we perform random checks of her messages and activities.

But aside from that, we allow her independence.

With the aide of six honest serving-men.

In hopes of raising one honest self-sufficient woman.

Easter Bear

My dad was not a collector of things. When he passed away, there were very few treasures to sort through - some favorite books, his baseball mitt, golf clubs, guitar, and a handful of sentimental novelties, including this

A souvenir polar bear, purchased from the San Diego Zoo in the 1950s.

I first held this heavy pewter bear sometime in the mid 80's, when I was about 5 or 6. It had arrived in the mail in a small box, hand-addressed to my Dad. On the return address label was the name Joe Jeffries.

This was curious. The Jeffries, Dad recalled, had lived down the street from his family in Phoenix when he was a boy. He and Joe had been occasional playmates, but weren't particularly close, and hadn't been in touch for over 20 years. What could he possibly be sending him in the mail?

Inside, wrapped in newspaper, was the bear, and a handwritten note. In it he reminded him that when they were young, Dad's parents had taken him to the San Diego Zoo to see the polar bears, and that he had come home with this souvenir. Joe recalled how much he loved that polar bear, and wished that it was his. And that one day, when my dad wasn't looking, he stole it from him.

Since that day, he said, and for the next thirty years he felt guilty. He had carried the bear with him through every move and phase of his life, and was happy to have finally tracked him down to return it and ask for forgiveness.

Of course my Dad carried no ill feelings. He had forgotten all about the bear, and wrote back immediately, expressing his gratitude and how touched he was by the gesture.

I love this bear. It was one of my favorite things to play with as a child, and I especially love the memories it triggers of my dad telling me the story of its return to him. But it also makes me sad. I always hated picturing little Joe Jeffries encumbered by his mistake, and carrying it into adulthood.

It's such a small thing, and seems like such a futile burden to carry. And yet, I wonder how often I've needlessly carried burdens of my own. Stupid things I've said that play in my head like a broken record. Mistakes I made years ago that still haunt me. Arguments I wish I didn't have, guilt over missed opportunities, or blunders as a parent that keep me up at night with remorse.

This Sunday I won't be telling my kids stories about the Easter Bunny, but we will be talking about the bear. Of course they'll be spoiled with chocolate and eggs and baskets and that stupid grass I'll be vacuuming up until December, but they will also be reminded that Easter is about the Redemption made possible by Jesus Christ, and that because of Him they don't have to live their lives burdened by the mistakes they will inevitably make, or the mistakes of others.

He paid the price for all of it, so they won't have to. There is always hope. There is always change. There will always be fresh starts and second chances and new beginnings.

I was curious what connection there is between bunnies and Easter, and the best I could find on Google was their identity as prolific breeders, which I think would resonate with my children about as much as Easter grass resonates with me.

Bears, on the other hand, emerge at springtime from the hibernation of winter; rested, renewed, and ready to welcome the beauty and demands of a new season.  I find this far more symbolic, and another reason to adopt them as our family's new Easter mascot. This heavy statue that for so long symbolized the weight of Joe's mistake, now represents for us the gift that makes ours bearable.

Related: Dad

I Could Never Live in Utah

Two years ago, our family made the decision to move from Northern Virginia to Utah. My husband had spent six years working for the federal government in DC, and decided to make the switch to the growing technology community in Utah known as the “Silicon Slopes.”

Leaving the DC area was gut-wrenching. We had fallen prey to “Potomac Fever,” and couldn’t imagine a spring without cherry blossoms, weekends without national museums, or our favorite nighttime walks around the monuments. Surely no other city had as much culture, energy, and patriotism, and don’t even get me started on the friends we were heartbroken to leave behind.

Amid the tears though, was an excitement for the prospect ahead of us. When we broke the news to our friends and family in Virginia, most were benevolently sad to see us go, but supportive and eager to share our enthusiasm.

More than once however, the response to our decision was something along these lines - “Congratulations! Good for you! Not for me though. I could never live in Utah.”

This always took me back. It didn’t offend me, but it did make me wonder. What is it about Utah that makes it exempt from social protocol? I can’t imagine anyone saying to someone who just made the decision to move to, say, Michigan, “Congratulations!” and then, “I could never live in Michigan.” But for some reason Utah is free game, and I was surprised how many people were comfortable expressing their aversion to the place we had decided to raise our family.

Not that I blame them for thinking it. Utah is a quirky state for sure. It welcomes you with fry sauce, dirty sodas, and alternatives to the F word (flip, fetch, freaking). It’s true you can’t buy a lottery ticket here, and that drivers don’t let you merge. The rivalry between its universities is a legitimate holy war, and I’m still trying to figure out what happened to letter T in the middle some of its words (Lay-on, moun-ain).

But. After two years as a resident here, I can now say with some authority to those who “could never live in Utah,” that you actually could. And I feel so incredibly lucky that I do.

First of all, have you seen this place!? If I don’t eventually crash my car because someone won’t let me merge, I will very likely crash it because I’m continually awestruck by the mountain views out my window. They are breathtaking in every season, but I’m partial to the snow capped vistas that reveal the first evidence of winter, and the fading of it into spring. Google any list of the most beautiful states in the country, and you will without fail find Utah in the top five; always number one among those without a coastline. And it’s not just the mountains. The red rocks and desert views of the southern region are my favorite scenery in the country.

And then there’s the climate, which is also unequaled. The beauty of all four seasons, but with zero humidity, and no matter how hot the summer day, the nights are cool enough to open windows.

I love Utah’s grid-system streets. I love the charm of downtown Salt Lake City. I love the soda shops on every corner, immaculate gas stations, the sight of wholesome teenagers on creative dates, and that Pet Shop Boys and They Might Be Giants play on the radio.

I love the women here. They are warm, giving, and remarkably creative. When they bring you a meal, plan a neighborhood playdate or host a book club they go all in. I’m continually inspired by the high density of educated, committed mothers here, who run the schools, rally together for charitable causes, and oversee homes where my children are welcomed, fed, and entertained.

Utah also has the largest average household size in the country, and trust me this has its perks. Children aren’t perceived as an inconvenience or annoyance, but rather are expected and graciously accommodated in meetings, waiting rooms and restaurants. They are also cheap to entertain. After living in Southern California and DC, we went hog wild when we moved here and discovered the comparative cost of sports leagues, bounce houses, roller skating rinks, etc.

I could go on, but I’ll leave it at that, and I’ll leave it here. I realize there's no point making a case for Utah to the next person who pities that I live here, because I understand it’s not for everyone. I’m just fetching grateful it’s for me.

Related: An Insider's Guide to Santa Barbara 

I Can't Hear You When You Talk Like That

I logged onto Facebook last week, and there it was again. Another version of a video I’ve seen a dozen times. This one featured an overwhelmed, haggard mother hiding from her children in the pantry, eating scavenged potato chips and milk from a discarded sippy cup while she bemoaned the lot of motherhood. “My kids are completely nuts!” she says. “I have to hide in the pantry!” “Parenting is haaaard!"

I’ve seen these videos before, and read countless blog posts in the same vein. This certainly wasn’t anything new, but for some reason it was one more than I could take.

I wonder if I’m in the minority, as most of the responses I’ve seen to messages like this, in the form of likes, shares, and praise, express a similar sentiment - “That woman complaining in her car, who says she hasn’t showered in a week, only eaten Cheerios off the floor, and whose singular accomplishment today is refraining from killing the kids who have robbed her of her sanity? She deserves a trophy! A trophy and a parade!”

And she does. Mothers do deserve trophies. And parades, and at the very least a Snickers bar and a nap. But. I don’t think they need to earn it by engaging in a competition of whose experience of motherhood is the most wretched.

Over the last couple of years, we have seen tremendous strides in women’s empowerment and feminist causes. At the forefront of national dialogue has been a demand for equal pay and equal treatment. Women have waged public battles to expand platforms for bringing these issues to light, and demanded justice for sexual discrimination, mistreatment, and harassment.

We’re women! We tell our daughters. We lead Fortune 500 Companies. We sit on the Supreme Court. We run for President of the United States!

 And then, as the message goes, we have a baby. And we become helpless. Grimy. Resentful. Overwhelmed, whining and incapable. We lose our ability to think, stop showering or using utensils, and surrender as victims to the needs of our pesky children.

I’m not talking about postpartum depression, which is an entirely different issue. I’m talking about the stark contrast of seeing women march on Washington and the steps of Capitals, at podiums and on panels, portrayed as proud, capable, and empowered; and then seeing women who are mothers, hiding in their pantries or sitting in their cars in selfie mode, fed up and exasperated, referring to their children as slobs, and demanding sympathy for their burdensome lives.

I have two daughters and wonder, if they were among the consumers of these messages, they wouldn’t run like hell from the possibility of someday becoming a mother, which is often portrayed as more of a punishment than a privilege. I wonder how it would have affected me to see my own mother lamenting on social media that my presence in her life was her undoing.

Motherhood is not my undoing. It is the greatest honor of my life. The greatest, most impossibly difficult honor. I have four children, born within seven years of each other, so I understand well the fatigue, overwhelm and exhaustion. I have experienced anxiety, depression, the heartbreak of a child with a disability, and the necessity of eating chocolate chips in the closet. The 13 years since my first daughter was born have introduced me to entirely new levels of inadequacy, fear and worry, all dealt with among a never-ending rotation of dishes, laundry, meal preparation, sleep training, homework, tears, and diapers.

I’m not asking anyone to pretend that motherhood is easy. There is certainly a danger in painting Pinterest versions our ourselves online. What I’m suggesting is that perhaps we’ve overcorrected. There’s a difference between sharing our struggles in the spirit of engendering empathy and creating a sense of community, and competing to elicit sympathy by painting the most pathetic portrait of motherhood. If you honestly haven’t showered in a week, and the only thing you’ve eaten today are Mac and Cheese from the bottom of a carseat, perhaps motherhood isn’t entirely to blame.

Consider how we react when a child whines, and why. It’s grating, exaggerated and totally unproductive. The most effective response I’ve heard to a child who is whining is a calm, “I can’t hear you when you talk like that.”

 To mothers who whine, I think this also applies.

We can’t hear you when you talk like that.

We can’t hear the surreal anticipation you felt the moment you learned you would be a mother. We can’t hear the indescribable joy of seeing your child’s face for the first time, or the wonder of recognizing your own features in theirs.

When you whine, we can’t hear the empowerment that comes from being responsible for a human life, or the realization that you’re the only person on earth who can calm this little soul. We can’t hear the gratification that comes from sacrificing your own comfort for theirs, or the perfect contentment of watching them sleep.

When you tell us your children are robbing you of a life you miss, we can’t hear the way it feels when you see their eyes scan the room for reassurance that mom is still there, or the delight you experience after a separation, when they race back into your arms. We can’t hear your connection to the Divine when you are the one pleading to heaven that they’ll turn out okay.

When you complain that your children are destroying your home, we can’t hear the pride you felt when recognizing in their scribbles a depiction of the two of you together, or the sense of accomplishment you get to share as they learn new things. We can’t hear the expansion of your heart as they grow, or the beautiful breaking of it as they gain independence.

When all we hear are the compounding of your burdens,

We can’t hear the compounding of your joy.

How are the Kids?

Earlier this year Cal received a school assignment to make a timeline of his life, so I came to this blog to search for photos. I couldn't remember the last time I had been on, and found myself getting caught up in this forgotten timeline of my own. It made me miss the tiny versions of my four growing children, and the time I used to spend writing and reflecting on the passing years. 

I know that blogging has gone the way of Instagram - I myself have made the switch - and that writing this is like shouting into an empty cave to hear my own voice echo back. But after twelve years of parenting I've become quite accustomed to shouting and empty echos, so here is a little catch up post. 

Jolie.

Jolie turns twelve this week and just completed her last year of elementary school, but that's irrelevant because I will never let her leave the nest. She is a joy - kind, obedient and helpful. She organizes, babysits, buckles seat belts, and sets a peaceful tone in the home.

Still, she's turning into a teenager before our eyes, consuming all the pop music, hip hop dance, Justice clothes and YouTube videos she can get her hands on. Jolie has a talent for home design and is always decorating and redecorating, arranging and rearranging. She is a list maker like her mother but takes the most pride in being compared to her dad.

Achievements this year included joining the 6th grade chorus, filming a promo for her favorite show, Studio C, and submitting the winning design of the school yearbook cover contest. 

Wait, did I say I've missed blogging, or bragging?

Leah.

Leah, Leah, Leah.

Leah is nine and just completed third grade. She both challenges and melts us in ways we never thought possible. I mention only to her credit that most things in life have been an uphill climb for Leah - neurodevelopment, vision, coordination, academics, socialization. I don't know if I could get through a single day having to hurdle obstacles the way Leah does, but she's as tough a fighter as they come, and has been blessed with a compensating abundance of beauty, joy, kindness and determination. We are eternally grateful she is ours.

Leah enjoys watching Full House, stuffing her purse, and entertaining younger children. She loves chewing gum, helping in the kitchen, dance parties, photography, and second helpings of dessert. She's a discerning shopper and has a talent for finding anything that is lost. At school Leah is a sweet, hard worker, who has stolen the hearts of every teacher, doctor and therapist with whom she has come in contact.

You can't spend five minutes around Leah without falling in love.

Cal.

Cal is seven and just completed first grade. He has inherited his mother's anxiety ("Dear Heavenly Father, please bless that scary things won't happen to us today"), and his father's math mind. On shopping trips he can calculate percentage discounts in his head, and once beat Jolie in an algebra challenge, though I can't elaborate because it's a sore subject around here.

We're grateful for the way Cal keeps us safe. He has a knack for risk assessment, advises Jack against doing his own electrical work, and is disapproving of family photos taken on railroad tracks.

He also keeps us on budget. When Cal's teacher asked what he wants to be when he grows up he said, "Someone who makes money," and is well on his way. He complains loudly in stores about things that are overpriced, and when his siblings spend their allowance at Dollar Tree says, "Wow! Look how much you wasted."

Cal loves sports, Legos, and the claw machine at Walmart. He is an incredibly likable, popular kid who, after just two months at his new school, was selected as the 'First Grade Leader of the Year.' He is affectionate, clever, confident, and fills our home with laughter. 

EDDIEEEE.

Eddie Jack is four, our only brown-eyed child, and the last one left at home on school days. He gets what he wants, when he wants it, and as much of it as he wants, and I make no apologies for it.

He and I have a daily ritual - every morning after we've dropped off the others I say, "Eddie, do you want to go home and have a boyhood!?" At first this confused him, and he turned down every activity I offered in favor of the ever-elusive "boyhood," but now he gets it. Yesterday, boyhood meant setting up a battle between dinosaurs and Hot Wheels. Before it commenced I heard him warn, "Guys, this is gonna hurt."

He loves playing catch in the yard with Dad, watching NFL games, and is eerily adept at navigating electronic devices. He also enjoys Duplos, honey on toast, and trying to gauge the number of stairs he can descend at once without getting hurt. Last week while running errands, Pearl Jam's "Can't Find a Better Man" came on in the car, and he declared it his favorite song.

Whether or not Eddie is our last baby, he completes our family in the best possible way.