“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”

In the age of helicopter parenting where no stone goes unturned in the raising of a successful, passionate, perfect child the one tenet that has failed to be conquered is that the world will often not comply with all of little Johnny or Sally’s wants and needs. Little Johnny or Sally’s feelings will get hurt, they will fail a test or their heart will be broken. When they are young, most of these areas are covered by the best of helicopter parenting. Social engineering ensures that little Johnny or Sally has the right friends, tutors will be hired to assuage learning impediments and cash will be thrown at hobbies because Carnegie Hall or Shea Stadium is on the horizon.

It’s no wonder that many students suffer from anxiety or are unsure of what path to pursue in college. The yellow brick road to college is filled with endless nights of tutoring, practices and extracurriculars – flying monkeys and houses have been swatted away by well-intentioned parents. The acceptance letter to the “right” school is the denouement to success. Once you arrive on campus, you have one goal that is to be happy. Why wouldn’t you be happy? You’ve landed a spot at a coveted institution; you are the pride and joy of your family and friends. Your parents have scrimped for years for you to be happy at college. There’s no dearth of articles either with lofty titles such as “The 50 Colleges With the Happiest Freshmen.”

So why are parents suddenly taken for a loop when they hear undertones of dissatisfaction from their esteemed offspring?  A recent New York Magazine article chronicled the pressure so many college students are under to appear “perfect.” There’s even a moniker for it at some universities. At the University of Pennsylvania, it’s known as “Penn Face.” That’s the happy face plastered all over social media and the one parents flash at the relatives to let them know how happy their child is. At Stanford, it’s called the “Duck Syndrome” in homage to the way ducks hide their feet when they swim.

From a social context, happiness has upped its game. I don’t recall anyone ever investing in my happiness as a college student. I doubt I’m alone. As a boomer, I also ran my own show, picked my own major and made my own mistakes and lucky me no one was waiting in the wings to hear all about it. It was also a slow journey sprinkled with happenstance and lots of serendipity. Social media was not even on the horizon. The pressure to showcase your latest accomplishment is a growing cancer for our children. Clearly, the “Emperor” has no clothes on but who will be the first one to admit it? Times have changed but one thing that hasn’t is growing up isn’t easy. In some ways kids have it easier than they did 50 years ago and in many ways it’s a lot harder. Our kids have access to a much wider audience and the constant ping on their phones shouting out another peers’ accomplishments can cause an undercurrent of anxiety.

When you get that call from college and hear, “I’m not happy” do not send in the clowns. The struggle to grow up and figure yourself out is not sunshine and daisies. Land that helicopter, walk off the tarmac and show your kids who you truly are. Provide them the tools and observations from your own life experience to help them figure out what’s next. Teach them to laugh at the endless stream of self-promoted posts on their newsfeeds. There is no college in the world that will make a student happy, sorry not even you Harvard. Let’s stop selling college as the “promised land” or “nirvana.” College is wonderful but the bountiful experience has one person driving. It’s up to students to turn their experience into what they want it to be and a little struggle often goes a long way. On point, the orientation program for my son’s college began with this appropriate e.e. cummings quote: “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”

Thoughts on change…

Artwork by Melissa Morgan

I wouldn’t trade the moments of beauty I’ve had as a parent. The first time I laid eyes on my two children will always be the most perfect moments of my life. My daughters’ eyes as big as saucers absorbing the world around her and my son’s instinctive nursing confirmed for me the power of the maternal bond and the existence of a higher being.

These were connections that started in the heart but ended up becoming my core, my essential being and my purpose in life. Yes, I’ve done a million things besides parent but for nearly 20 years nothing came close, nothing was more important and nothing could stop the locomotive.

The locomotive that’s been slowing down and making fewer stops will be making its last stop this August. I know I will still be needed but I also know that I need a new course and a new track. I’ve been thinking lately, “Who am I?” I’m not sure if it’s an identity crisis or the inner workings of my mind trying to sort out a home without children. I’ve always had hobbies, freelance work and passions outside of motherhood so I’m surprised by this feeling. It’s not unlike the feeling I had when I stopped working full time to stay home with my children. I was plagued with disbelief that I was walking away from a career that was just ripening for a position I felt I was sorely unqualified for. I had never changed a diaper, barely ever held a baby or even babysat. I waited months before I cleaned out my office and I took a leave of absence. There was a mourning period, moments when I felt so lonely, inept and shocked at some of the mundane tasks of motherhood that I felt as though I had traveled back in time to an alternate universe. When I finally disposed of my outdated professional clothes it was another assault, another loss and another goodbye. I mourned all these stops in my life.

The difference now is that I see the erosion of time for what it is. I have a lot less time than I did as a young mom in my early 30s. I often consider I’m at midlife but I’m probably a little overdue, since 104 doesn’t sound so appealing. As parents when we exclaim our surprise at how old are children are getting, those years have ticked off for us as well. I recently read an article about the available time most of us have complemented by a visual of how many books you can actually read, how many more summers you have, etc. It was sobering. It is likely I’ll never read all the books I’ve been meaning to read, or travel to all the destinations I’ve dreamed of or write all of the stories that keep house in my head. The aging parents in our family are another reminder of my place in the universe. My train is moving to the next station where there are consolations – I’m wiser than my younger self, more self-assured and less likely to care about the minutia of it all. I know I’ll never do anything as important as raising children but I’m hearing a tiny little voice in my head saying, “don’t succumb to the goodbyes but look toward new beginnings for all of us.”

This beautiful piece of artwork is by artist, Melissa Morgan. You can view her work on her Facebook Page: Melissa Morgan’s Art Page and her website: www.not-so-ladylike.com

There are moments in your life when the years seem infinite…

The New Year reminds me of the relentless passage of time. When my kids were young I played a game in my head imagining their next year, what they would look like, what new interests they would acquire and how their personalities would change. Having two children 22 months apart I played out their ages using the two times table musing, “I wonder what it will be like when they are two and four, four and six, eight and ten, and so on.”

The fondest memory I have of this game was when they were two and four. We rented a cottage in Montauk. We’ve done a lot of traveling since then, but it’s still one of my most treasured vacations, one which they likely don’t recall. Simple, serene and still, the cozy cottage spilled out into a grassy knoll and a small bay. We would barbecue or get take-out and then run down to the still water and throw stones or watch my husband skip rocks. He skillfully made the small pebbles by the bay come alive. I can close my eyes and see their clothes, the striped earth tone colors of my son’s t-shirt, the navy blue and white bathing suit my four year old daughter lived in. We were on our way to no diapers, high-chairs and strollers. Plus, just a drive to the ocean, the park and ice cream turned a simple vacation into paradise. I miss that.

I stopped playing the time game at the intersection of hormones and double digits. The joy, wonder and awe of what’s next seemed to be burned out by time sucking activities, school demands, the minutia of everyday life and sometimes even fear. The sweet spot of that little vacation, when time seemed to be all we had has been usurped by the passage of time. I suspect my game is not uncommon among parents, the hopeful dreams, the wonder and awe of how your children will grow up, what will they excel at and maybe even how tall will they be. The ride has been exhilarating, exhausting and gone by too fast. You suspect the clock has a sneaky way of cheating, how has the time passed so quickly? Do I even remember the ages of eight and 10? Was I too busy getting dinner on the table, washing clothes, worrying about trivial details I don’t even remember? Have I missed some of the best parts of their childhood?

The idea of time travel has also been fascinating. Most fictional characters who grab a ride back in time have some sort of epiphany along the way, like Scrooge’s foray to the past. There are moments in your life when the years ahead seem infinite. The summer when my children were two and four was one of those years. I can still see their beaming faces as they watched the skipping stones leap up, dance, fall down and reappear again. I miss the anticipation and the wonder of those magical moments of childhood.

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/52532834@N00/27541009″>skipping stones</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a>d.

Lucys’ hands – the masterful creators of homemade Italian food for over 70 years.

Sometimes food is well…more than food

I should be the last person to save the baccala salad. I had never even heard of baccala salad until I met my husband’s family. Though I’m of Italian descent the family traditions my grandparents brought back from Italy which included making fresh fettuccine and laying it out on a bed to dry faded with the next generation. My mother who referenced a dog-eared New York Times cookbook and favored Jacques Pepin endeared herself to a more American palette. Her mother was a good baker but her culinary skills were limited and she subscribed to a minimalist approach to eating. Whether it was the hardscrabble life in the Italian mountains or the immigrant experience they did not revel in excess. My paternal grandmother was a better cook but she too knew her way around stretching dinner, with a family of six to feed. Since our family typically ended up as guests, my sister and I married without the holy grail of foodstuffs that define holidays. Enter my husband’s family, this is a clan that doesn’t fool around and the calendar year represents a tour de force of indispensable holiday dishes.

Christmas Eve is the feast of the seven fishes which means the menu must feature seven kinds of fish. What it doesn’t mean is that you can get away with a simmering bouillabaisse or paella. The feast includes baked clams, shrimp cocktail followed by your choice of linguini with white clam or lobster sauce. The courses continue with fish salad a melange of calamari, shrimp, scallops, mussels, polpo, olives and celery in the correct proportion as well as baccala salad. Baccala salad is a light concoction of escarole leaves, lemony dressing and savory baccala and Greek olives. The dish strikes a perfect balance apropos for any nouveau restaurant menu, so when my sister-in-law told me we were skipping the baccala salad I spoke up.

I’d like to say this is all about the baccala salad as I’m feeling triumphant about reprising its role in our seven fish fete, but it’s about so much more. My mother-in-law Lucy’s traditions are sacred to her and she’s passed the baton to her family. Lucy has sensed the tides of change, we’ve scrapped homemade lasagna on Christmas day, citing its heftiness and vetoed cardoon the stalks of the artichoke on Thanksgiving. We are holding the torch for the next generation but also trying to shed some of the labor and calories of Christmas past. However, this year Lucy is not well. We’ve taken jobs away from her and the changing menu is unearthing fears we all bury and some of it with food. Italians do a wonderful job of washing down fear with a finely fried zeppola. It’s brilliant and though we believe we have struck a delicate balance of preserving tradition and our sanity, we ordered fish salad to save the washing of seven different pots, Lucy will make baccala salad and its presence will serve as a resounding reminder of the importance of tradition, family and love.

I apologize to the “Helicopter Mom Police” but today I was one of “those” moms.  I trailed behind my son, in my own car, as he drove to school. No need to gasp, it was his first solo expedition and he had his license for a little over an hour. Of course, he’s been driving to school with me as a passenger for quite some time. He completed Driver’s Education and has been practicing for about a year. Yet, there was something monumental about today. The day he could finally legally drive to school. As I watched his car move farther away, his childhood flashed before my eyes.

I’ve been his cheerleader for every milestone serving as a precursor for this day. A beautiful fall morning with leaves dancing in the street punctuated this momentous event and the ever changing, fleeting and final year ahead. He’s 17 and a senior and I know this was the first of many goodbyes.

Goodbye to driving to school, since he was two and a half and in nursery school this has been my job. My minivan was filled with giggling boys, sticky juice cups and lollipop sticks. I was usually half conscious, sleep deprived and happy. Yes, there were years he took the bus but then I was driving to practice, a friend’s house and a million other places.

As I watched him pull out, I traveled back to the day he took his first step. He was enthralled with walking and joining his sister. Sitting was no longer an option and at two years old he told me flat out, “No more stroller, no more highchair, no more nap.” I was devastated, he was only two but he liked his mobility and he wasn’t wasting any time. I also remembered his first set of wheels, his beloved red wagon. Of course the fuel behind the wagon was me but he loved canvassing the same neighborhood he was driving through today to collect leaves, rocks and sticks. He loved the wind in his face, the speed four wheels provided and the thrill of the ride. I also saw his second set of wheels, his first tricycle, then his training wheels and the day the training wheels came off. He learned along with his older sister and his determination was amplified by his love of movement. I remember jumping and screaming hooray as he plowed into a bush, but he was riding his bike. When he passed his road test, I jumped as well as he eyed me with a “come on Mom get in the car” look.

There were other wheels, skate boards and wave boards and bikes and as he drove along the streets he slowly transformed from little boy to young man. I watched as he maneuvered the car and for every move forward I said my silent goodbye. Goodbye to the one year old who made his first step, goodbye to the two year old who ditched his stroller, goodbye to toddler in the wagon, goodbye to the boy on the tricycle and the little guy who gladly said good riddance to training wheels, goodbye to the middle schooler who sailed away on his bike. I said my goodbyes but I’ll never stop worrying, never stop celebrating his victories by jumping up and down and I know I’ll always be behind him the way I was today.

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/11113739@N04/3945913161″>Day 256 – Red Wagon</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a>

My alma mater, Fordham University.

Sniffing The Elixir Of The College Experience

I’ve trekked through snow, ice, gale winds and smoldering heat all in the pursuit of the “right college.” First for a college that would propel my daughter and now launch my son into a functioning member of society, the son who calls me when he sees a spider, proof that we all have our dreams!

We’ve seen storied buildings, soaring sustainable ceilings, charming ivory encased stone edifices, professional gyms…even a planetarium! Two kids, two years apart I’ve been on over 20 college tours. Tours that have left me, at times, exhilarated, bored and befuddled. The $64,000 question, and tragically in many cases the price tag is: “Where will my child thrive, be happy, get excited about learning, make friends and find a major for a successful life?”

To gain the best insight for your college tour hit up their website to learn about academics and essentials. The information session, which is usually emceed by a faculty member or admissions representative, will review the basics. If you’ve done your homework you can dig deeper with questions. It is also here where you will hear some erudite quotes about the world today.

The tour is conducted by a student who has experienced the positives and negatives of the school, so ask away. Topics to consider:

1. Housing – Find out where freshmen live. I’ve found “freshmen only” dorms are wonderful for forming friendships. Don’t assume anything, there are schools that don’t house freshmen on main campus or they will show you the best upperclassmen dorms and skip freshmen housing. Find out where upperclassmen live. Housing can be complicated, get the facts before you commit.
2. Social Life – Ask what students do on weekends, your child may not forgive you but hey you’ll be separated next year! There are parties on every campus, but insights into cultural events, clubs and school offerings will provide a general overview of options.
3. Greek Life – Ask the guide, how pervasive Greek Life is and when rushing occurs. Many students thrive in Greek life while others stay away; consider how your child would manage in a school where a high percentage is involved. Beware of rushing before second semester where your child will have to make decisions before settling in.
4. The neighborhood – Find out how involved students are outside of school and address safety concerns.
5. Career Planning/Internships – I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the number of tour guides who have had internships. Granted these students are involved but dig a little deeper to find out about where they’ve interned and their experiences.
6. Students – Observe students walking around, eating at the dining area or in the library to get a feel of the culture and how your child fits in.
7. Majors – Ask about popular majors and if your child doesn’t know what they want to major in pursue a college with a broad spectrum of majors.

The overall tone of the tour will give you a good idea of how vested the school is in attracting quality candidates. I’ve seen it all from being addressed by savvy professors to a tour given by a clueless freshman who made us wait outside in the snow for a van that passed us by. College is a big investment so before writing that behemoth check get the facts!

One Woman At A Time

The other day my daughter made a comment to me about a situation at college. She bemoaned, “It’s like high school all over again.” I advised her that she has the control to change every situation as my mind wandered off to the many times, as an adult, I have thought, “high school never dies.”

I didn’t attend a traditional co-ed high school, so without boys and all of the sports and interests that align kids today it was pretty mild. Yet, my kids enjoyed the full kahuna of groups, cliques and posturing. In my daughter’s case we watched enough of Mean Girls for total immersion in High School 101. So I began to mull the events in my life that prove the inner workings of high school never truly go away…

1. The Senior Community – My father was losing his mind to dementia and a newbie in his senior community decided it was funny that he kept waiting for a car to bring him to the airport for a trip to Rome. One day this woman asked about his plans and began to laugh a la Regina George. So I approached her little clique, determined to ensure he wasn’t going to be her punch line anymore and said, “I assume you all know there are no travel plans and he is not well.” I walked away and said to my niece, “high school never dies.”
2. The Group – I’ve always been an equal opportunity kind of gal with friends of all ages but this whole idea of being friends with your children’s friends parents doesn’t always work. Sometimes you’re late to the table and a crew of women has already formed a group and well you’re just not invited. This whole grouping concept, which seems to be a social norm in high school as well, is counter to the kind of friendships I ever had which are open and inclusive.
3. The Opportunist – Oh, how high school rears its ugly head. Someone is showing a strong interest in friending you, play dates with your children seem to be increasing as well as phone calls. In the back of your mind you are thinking, “Isn’t this nice or not.” When the dust settles you find out that this person was jockeying for a favor. It’s important to note that this type typically moves on to new prey fairly quickly once they have no use for you.
4. The PTA – There are those that volunteer for the pure joy of it and those that think volunteerism will bestow privileges for their progeny. Lest I say anymore…
5. The Judger – I was told once that my suit was nice but the color was outdated. This was at a nursery school function. I had two children 22 months apart, I was barely functioning and happy the suit fit. Was I concerned that the fashion police was going to issue a ticket in the form of a “friend” who judged everything from my clothes to my car?

Last night during the Presidential debates, Trump was accused by Rand Paul of “junior high” behavior for his predilection of judging candidates by their looks. This behavior is just everywhere and now I’d like to add “we all know what they say about people who peak in high school”!

Watch out College Process

You know how it is with the first one. You walk around with sanitizer 24/7, ban sugar consumption and delude yourself that you can protect your progeny from all evil. Number Two is a different story.

Number Two is applying to college this fall and since I still have lingering post-traumatic stress disorder from Number One’s senior year, she’s now a college sophomore, I’m heading into this terrain with a brand new mindset.

Last time I absorbed, inhaled and feared the massive amounts of information headed my way. From college nights, websites, computer match-ups, articles and other parents proclaiming they knew better, the process owned us. This year I vow to:

1. Ignore the college tsunami of information. For every truism that was out there I could hold up examples that negate it. Lesson: Mind your own business and schools fill up with many different kinds of students and yes some of it is not fair. So, if you want to give a reach school a try, why not, it’s only money and keep your checkbook open.
2. Hand the reins to Number Two. During round one, I was too involved. I enjoy my sanity too much for that to happen again.
3. Keep my mouth sealed. Remember naming your baby? Everyone wants to know your choice and then they will tell you what they really think. There is so much more to consider in choosing a college than impressing others, like programs, grants and distance. So you won’t have to ask when we meet in the supermarket: “My Second is not going to Harvard.” The 5 percent acceptance rate got in the way.
4. Not spend my year in fear. Go through the process once and the curtain has been revealed. Colleges play games like sending out free applications as a ploy to lower their acceptance rate so they place better in the rankings race which is so flawed that’s another article. The lesson here is that colleges are harboring their own fears, managing a business to pay for rock walls and group study rooms. The hype is everywhere, so remember they need you just as much as you think you need them.
5. Demand more for my money. From a recent Washington Post article: “…everyone, except for the super wealthy, is having a hard time paying for college. Tuition has risen faster than the rate of inflation. Wages certainly have not kept pace with the costs of college, neither has any form of financial aid.” Enough said.
6. Like my child. When child Number One went off to college; I was too exhausted to enjoy many of the milestones.
7. Develop a new kind of kitty litter with college mail. I threw this one in to make sure you were paying attention!

If there is anything I learned during this process two years ago is that shedding the pomp and circumstance of finding “the perfect school” is an absolute necessity. You may believe one school will set your child on the correct path but there is no school that will magically achieve this. This is your child’s job and whether you see it in them already or you’re still waiting, this is what we all should get worked up about – helping them build the skills to succeed. Deciding on a college is just the beginning!

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/92574222@N00/5427517501″>The Fighter</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>(license)</a>

“Men have become the tools of their tools.” – Henry David Thoreau

I’ve adapted to technology but I do recall a time where documenting every restaurant meal, new haircut or your pet’s cone of shame would have put you in the minority. In those days, I survived and thrived, and sometimes in the wee hours of the night or when I’m facing the “beach ball of death” on my Mac I wish someone would take me back to a place where I don’t have to see these messages:

1. “Safari Can’t Find Your Server” – My MacBook has aged or maybe it’s my internet provider who is going through their own midlife crisis, thanks Netflix, but whatever the reason this message keep popping up on my computer: “Safari can’t find your Server.” If there’s been a “server” in my house and if this “server” is hiding I implore you to come out. I can assure you that you will be a welcome addition to my world and as long as my meals are lukewarm, but served to me, I will be elated.
2. “You Haven’t Logged Your Dinner” – The year I paid for the Weight Watchers app would have been better spent on a pair of leather boots. I attempted to reach lifetime membership but I broke up with their app and downloaded My Fitness Pal for free. The point is to track your meals and I often lose steam by dinner. I now receive alerts telling me that I haven’t logged in dinner. Well, maybe I’d like to keep that to myself. Perhaps I don’t want to share that I inhaled 50 pistachio nuts or smothered artisanal cheese on a rosemary, olive baguette before dinner so ponder that the next time you stalk me for my dinner log!
3. “Storage Is Full” – My Iphone is on the way out since upgrades are stolen from you in the middle of the night in my household. “Storage is Full” when I attempt to take a photo of the dog looking cute or the dress I’m considering purchasing, events I would never dream of documenting when photos carried some import. So now it’s not just my kitchen cabinets that need to be decluttered.
4. Facebook Notifications – I’m a magnet for folks who tell me their secrets in store lines, various offices and when I’m trying to buy a pair of shoes but it’s the endless oversharing of happiness on Facebook that puts me on edge. I’m happy you are happy but please let’s have some balance here – either mess up your hair in some of those pics or let us in on the secret that you don’t really know all those good looking people!
5. “You’ve Got Mail” – I’ve never been a numbers person, so AOL stop counting how many emails are sitting in the account I escaped from by creating a new account that I attempt to keep under 500. If you’ve just asked me for my email because you are a manning the register at Ace Hardware I’m sorry I responded as though you asked me for my kidney.

So before “Big Brother” was a reality TV show, this omnipotent force introduced by George Orwell spooked me. Fretfully I have to advise that the time has come and the “server” I never met has been abducted, I’m now forced to report what I had for dinner, Marie Kondo lives in my phone, happy perky people have invaded the planet and if I open one email a day I might catch up before the “beach ball of death” stops spinning!

On becoming what you need…

For as long as I can remember, my brother wandered. He never sat but paced back and forth, so it made sense that he followed his sense of wanderlust. Yet, I secretly knew he wasn’t just someone who loved to travel and see new places. He also didn’t possess the naiveté of a tourist, who shared photos of their journeys, and allowed yearly vacations to fill photo albums. No, he was moving, pacing, thinking and trying to outpace his desire to change his past – but he knew all too well there was no way back.

My brother’s father died when he was three. When you lose a parent that early you lose a piece of yourself as well. It’s not just the isolation of knowing that your friends have two parents but the knowledge that you will never share an ice cream cone with your Dad, have him teach you to ride a bike or have the chance to stare at his angered face when you dent his car. The years of adoration, rebellion and gift of loving acceptance were never an option for him. The senseless arbitrary unfairness of life ushered him to keep moving. This roving, sensitive brother of mine became my idol and in an ironic twist a second father. I saw the missing piece he yearned for, very early on, as he shared his love of books and reading and mocked my taste in music.

Ours was a little universe of broken pieces. After his father’s death, my mother married my father and my twin sister and I were born. Ten years our senior, he was a babysitter and antagonized us with endless tickling. Years later, he brought me on my only college tour and advocated for me to make a better college choice. He took my sister and me to museums and the beach and although he sometimes forgot to feed us he nourished us with the outside world. He somehow knew what we needed and threw pillows at my sister and let me browse through his books. When our family suffered the untimely death of my mother when he was 21 and we were 11, he left for graduate school in California. Postcards filled us in on his travels which led him to cities across the U.S. and ultimately Europe. He traveled forward and in the past, finding long lost relatives and becoming the keeper of memories and old family photographs.

An aunt once advised me that there was too much pain for him here and he felt the need to flee but I knew, at the ripe age of 11, standing in his room weeping at my concurrent losses, and gazing at his Don Quixote poster that he possessed what he was searching for. He had already gifted it to me and when he had his children the light went on again. As a new father, he balanced sensitivity with warding off worry. He was a kind and gentle father to his children when they were young but avoided hovering, knowing all too well the need to build resiliency. He lovingly continues to share his love of travel, photography, food and life. Fathers come in all shapes and sizes and though he was my brother, he was a beacon of light for me – precipitated by the light that went out for him too early in his own life.

This is for all the folks who have rejected my children, whether deserved or a biased assessment, I’d like to express my gratitude.   My kids accuse me of bragging about the hoops I jumped through during my childhood and though it was a different world theirs is far too easy sometimes. To truly develop skills to become an adult, rejection is a necessary evil. Starting as early as grade school through high school, here are some rejections I’m thankful for:

• The Dreaded Cut – Thanks for allowing my child to see that sometimes you’re just not good enough or sometimes you should make the cut but for reasons beyond your control the spot was not yours for the taking. Picking up the pieces is what life is all about. Most kids are able to assess their performance honestly and this is a prime time to “talk.” I once heard one of my children say, “What can I do, sometimes life isn’t fair.” A great and necessary lesson to which I added, “One person does not define you.” There’s so much value in acknowledging you may have to work harder, accepting that the tides won’t always go your way or choosing another path.

• The Friendship Dump –  I’ve found that friendships that last are often developed in middle or even high school. Hanging out with your friends’ children may work but beware kids often move on and develop their own friendships. Don’t be surprised if your child is dumped or your child does the dumping. I’ve witnessed this with both my children.  I worried but in the end I’d like to say thanks. When you lose friends, you become more empathetic and open-minded to others. This is also a prime time to teach sensitivity.

• Losing & Failing – These are not textbook rejections, but still disappointments that make kids feel inferior. If your child is winning all the time, that’s a problem. My sister and I played cards often when we were growing up and she was always won. It was irritating but it was just not my thing. Losing allows you to learn about yourself, your capabilities and skills. Let’s talk about grades. First of all no child should have their self-esteem tied into their academic performance or any activity. Secondly, you don’t want them to fall into the trap of expecting perfection all the time. So what if your child always earns a 100? Praise them for their hard work and find appropriate challenges for them. Believe me this child won’t always achieve perfection and you don’t want their world to implode when it happens.

I’ve been thinking about the importance of rejection because the focus on performance in my suburban town is seismic. I’ve also been reading stories of college suicides. These are students blessed with outsized talent who feel stuck in a maze of high performance. These actions represent a small percentage but there’s a larger majority of teens, college students and young adults who face disabling anxiety because they are in a race to keep up with unrealistic standards.

Don’t swoop in to fix every taxing situation your child faces.  I say bring on the rejection, the nepotism, the losses, and failures – and once again thanks to those for those rejections!

Strokes your ego or kicks you to the curb?

I don’t believe in absolutes, not viewing the world as black and white but weighing different shades of grey I was open to my daughter’s foray into rushing for a sorority. It wasn’t as though I didn’t have an opinion, I wasn’t crazy about it, yet I didn’t have enough ammunition of my own to burn out the fire. I went to a college that was void of  Greek life and if they did I likely wouldn’t have been a part of it. I prefer to make my own friends and they don’t need to be connected to each other. The herd mentality did not seem to appeal to my daughter in high school but freshman year has been going great with good friends who were all rushing.

She shopped for new clothing and was genuinely excited. I listened and suggested some Google searches in case she wanted to delve more. She was beginning to sound like she was repeating the party line when she advised me to “trust the process.” I was proud; she recounted interviews where she shared her love of photography, art major, high school yearbook skills and work experience. I believed the interviewing stage was a worthwhile endeavor. Disappointment started early, after visiting 12 houses she was asked back to six, some of her friends were asked back to nine and some three houses. She felt she had good conversations with two of the houses and had already developed some favorites. The next step she was asked back by two and she texted me letting me know she was dropping stating,“It’s not worth my time unless I love it.” She did not feel either house suited her. Her friends were continuing on in the process. She seemed fine but I could sense she wasn’t. I personally thought that it may not be for her but she went for it and for that I give her credit.

Now the hard part, she began to question the process, “How could they make a judgment about me after a five minute conversation?” The whole “speed dating” mentality started to bring her down. She questioned her looks, her intelligence – the rejection was a blow to the ego. She was the first one of her five close friends to leave, three more would follow. It was hard for her; the school was abuzz with excitement. College was beginning to feel like high school, where impenetrable groups were the norm. While I believe many women do have wonderful experiences as members of a sorority the process indisputably either strokes your ego or kicks you to the curb. How can women do this to each other? Surely, there has to be a better way. She began to see how superficial it all was. Additionally, girls were advised that it was very rare not to be offered a bid which turned out to be untrue as many girls were left without bids.

Her freshman dorm, morphed overnight into a hotbed of drama, whispering, crying, hysteria as some girls experienced their first rejection. Many pondered what they were lacking or did wrong as the process you are supposed to “trust” does not provide feedback.

So this week, the new sorority sisters at her school ran through the streets and dorms celebrating their bid. The celebratory mood overshadowed bruised egos, strained friendships and for some heartbreak.

While all will fall back to place again and those not chosen will find other paths and those who eventually pledge may find happiness, the process should be questioned by all young women. I found this quote from a wonderful article titled, “Why Sorority Recruitment Is Horrible And Needs To Change” written by a woman who breezed through recruitment just to find out when she was on the other side how debasing recruitment can be:

“…why do we have a selection system that forces such incredible women to judge and reject other women almost arbitrarily? Why do organizations based on sisterhood pick their members in a way that destroys the confidence of so many young women? We should be encouraging and welcoming new women, not sorting them based on high school activities and 20-minute conversations, tossing many out along the way. Sorority recruitment has become a rigid, overly-structured, needlessly stressful numbers game. You can’t explain “quota” and what Nationals expects for your chapter to a PNM who can’t understand why, after what she thought was a great conversation, she wasn’t asked back. We say things like, “…really, don’t take it personally–they don’t know you after one conversation,” but none of it matters to a young woman who feels as if she’s been told, “We don’t want you.” Women are still fighting for equal rights and equal pay in this world–the very last thing college women should do is tear down new college women.”

photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/okiboi/85271515/“>Joe_Focus</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com“>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/“>cc</a>

Being grateful for this year’s conifer

He was there to fix the clogged shower, part of owning a house is you get to know the plumber or electrician. Somehow between talking shower heads and the weather he shared his story. His daughter, a drug addict who just delivered a baby would rehabilitate only to spiral back into addiction. He was burned out from years of providing help which only led to disappointment. When he left he said, “I haven’t had a Christmas tree in three years.” His words washed over me, especially the part about the Christmas tree.

It takes effort to put up a Christmas tree, whether artificial or real. A tree is the embodiment of the holiday season for Christians. A shelter for gifts and, though pagan, it serves as a symbol of hope, renewal and celebration. It’s hard to get on that train when you are suffering.

Growing up our family had a year without a Christmas tree. This was the year my mother died and my father declared we wouldn’t have a tree. I held it against him; we were already wrestling with so much loss, and not having a tree set me off on a path of ambivalence about Christmas trees. As fate would have it, I married a man who has to cart home the largest tree in the nursery. Our first year of marriage and pretty much every year thereafter I’ve struggled to fill the tree. I’ve done it all from silk poinsettias to a more sparse look the first years. We’ve now accumulated enough ornaments to trim a large tree. I can now understand my father’s resistance to putting up a tree that year, perhaps he thought it was a symbol of inappropriate celebration or the task was too laborious. The labor part I get, since I’m married we’ve had lots of tree challenged moments like the time we thought the tree was crooked when the stand was defective, we replaced the tree and all its accessories only to find another “leaning tower of tree” or the time we strung lights around a seven foot tree to find we couldn’t plug it in because we were left with the female end. We’ve also had years with “tree blackouts” you know how one light goes out and there goes all the lights or the year the cat found shelter smack center in the middle of the tree and wouldn’t get out.

It’s taken a long time, but our tree has grown into a tradition, well despite the lights, that I look forward to. I treasure childhood ornaments and those that my kids have made through the years. For a long time, I carried that treeless year with me and have learned to appreciate the freedom to celebrate. I’ve learned as life moves on that the unexpected can hit like a ton of bricks but the indefatigable human spirit never ceases to amaze me. All we have to do is read the first few pages of the newspaper to be struck down by despair and we all share heartbreak of some form but somehow there’s always that glimmer of hope, that persists, even when we think it’s not there. So I hope my plumber finds his tree again and I’m going to be more grateful for this year’s conifer, despite what happens to the lights, and what it represents – time with family, faith and enduring hope.

photo credit: <a href=”https://www.flickr.com/photos/bas68/5250149045/“>Bruce A Stockwell</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com“>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/“>cc</a>