Tag: momlife

On Raising a Doctor

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

“I saw someone die today, Mom,” my daughter told me on the phone, her voice four octaves higher than normal, like she’d been sucking on helium.

“Where are you?” I heard street noise in the background.

“I’m on the 101. I’m driving home from the hospital.” Again, her voice was…off—too high, too cheery. “I saw her die, Mom. She was fine, then she flatlined and died.”

“You OK?”

“I am.” She was practically giggling. “Really. It was bizarre, for sure, but I’m fine.”

She didn’t sound fine. “Honey, I want you to get off the freeway at the next exit and pull over so we can talk about this.” I was in my office, a thousand miles away.

“I’m telling you, I’m fine. I can handle this, when I’m a doctor,” she insisted in that squeaky voice. “I was cleaning her room, and we were talking about her daughter at UCSD—” her voice cracked right then and she stopped talking.

“Jade, I want you to get off the freeway. Right now. How far to the next exit?”

“I’m taking it right now.”

“Pull over on a side street, and shut off your car, then talk to me.”

I raised our kids with an open forum, not the surface, pc-level shit most people spout. The ‘I’m fine! Biz is great! Everything’s dandy’ bullshit my parents and colleagues pushed down my throat daily wasn’t going to fly in the family I created (or my friendships that stick). “Talk to me,” is my personal mantra.

“OK. I pulled over,” my daughter said, her voice deeper now, though still not exactly normal.

“Good. Now turn off your car and tell me what happened.”

“She just had gallbladder surgery, just like you did last yea—year.” Her voice cracked, like a teen boy entering manhood. “She was fine…” Gasping breaths and I could hear, even feel her anxiety attack coming on. “Her daughter was in the hallway…When she flatlined a bunch of nurses came in and then doctors and they were shocking her and it didn’t work then they did it again and again and I just stood there, holding the trashcan I just emptied.” And I heard my beautiful daughter sobbing on the other end of the phone, and I was a thousand miles away from being able to hold her.

“Honey, I’m right here. You’re OK. Deep breaths. Breathe with me. Breathe in… Breathe out… It must have been really hard to witness that. I can’t imagine it. It’s why I never wanted to be a doctor,” I say deadpan to lighten the mood but could still hear her struggling to catch her breath. “OK. Let’s do some box breathing.” And we did, all four sides, in and out. In and out.

“Her daughter was my age,” she said, weeping as she spoke. “It could have been you, Mom. It could have been you and I can’t lose you yet.”

“I’m right here, baby. I’m healthy, and I’m active and I’m here for you.”

“Does this mean I’ll make a lousy doctor?”

Of course, I said it made her human—the best kind of doctor. Maybe too human, but I didn’t say that. I listened as she unraveled from giddy shock. She told me how one of the nurses asked her to get a sheet to cover the dead woman, then helped the nurse place it over the body. She saw the doctor talking to the daughter crying in the hallway.

“She kept asking the doctor, ‘What? What do you mean?’ like she didn’t believe him that her mom was dead. She wasn’t suppose to die, Mom. And now she’s dead. And I don’t want it to be you.”

“It isn’t me, Jade. I’m right here.”

“Now!” she almost yelled. “But what if you never get to know my kids, like that daughter today, or your mom?”

I listened, empathized, and helped quell her fears for another half hour before she was calm enough to get back on the road and go home to her shared apartment off-campus. She’d have roommates to talk to there, two young women also pursuing the medical pathway at UCSD. I told her to call or text me when she got home, just to check in she got home safely, and fifteen minutes later she texted she did.

Heavy sigh of relief, but in the distance, far beyond my grateful nod my daughter was safe to an almighty I don’t believe in, I felt…annoyed. I never wanted to be a doctor. Never played one as a kid. Didn’t like them because every time I had to see them either I, or someone I cared about was sick. And they’re so sure of themselves they don’t listen beyond test results, and half the time don’t know what they’re talking about even though they pretend they do. I don’t like doctors. And my daughter is on her way to becoming one.

I try to keep my personal disdain for her career choice to myself, but beyond my distaste for the medical community, I hate blood and gore. I can’t look at it on TV or in the movies. I have to look away because it literally makes me feel like I’m going to vomit. I won’t let her describe to me the process of guillotining rats for her spine research lab assistant position on campus, but on the phone I did remind her she got used to doing it after a few times.

My daughter’s wanted to become a doctor since she was child. At 10, when we allowed her an email account [under her choice of pseudonym], her first address was doctorscientistsoccer@. She got accolades when she told teachers to girl scout leaders she wanted to be a doctor, but that seemed to be the extent of her interest in medicine. She played soccer but I never saw her play doctor. People in wheelchairs or maimed or missing body parts scared her when she was young, and no matter what I said she would not engage with them. If a movie involved a child losing one or both parents, or parents losing their kid, she’d come undone—start crying that would sometimes escalate into a full-blown anxiety attack. She ran up to her room sobbing towards the end of Dances With Wolves when the wolf was killed.

Handling illness and loss didn’t exactly seem to be our daughter’s forte. Becoming a doctor requires compartmentalizing your feelings—locking yours away to deal with the patient or situation at hand. And maybe she could learn this skill over time, but I don’t want my daughter burying her emotions, denying her feelings, and becoming the automaton most doctors I’ve met seem to be. And let’s not forget, spending her career jumping through hoops of insurance companies to give patience the care they need without killing them financially. I wish for my daughter so much more than a lifetime of attending to others’ suffering.

I’ve never ever wanted to journey down the path of practicing medicine, yet I feel like I’ve been unwittingly roped into it. Along with her undergrad degree in Biology, volunteering at Palomar hospital was resume building for medical school. Before the death of this mom, she called me often to unload—overwhelmed by the coursework, or the illness she saw at the dermatology clinic she worked for, or torn over the moral quandary of ‘murdering rats’ in the lab.

Becoming a doctor requires more education than becoming a rocket scientist. I never considered endeavoring down such a very long, hard, expensive career path, self-doubt assuring me I’d fail if I attempted it. Since she’s ventured down the medical road, I’ve been our daughter’s emotional and financial support system through her undergrad degree; four, nail-biting waiting for scores, MCATs; spent months helping her edit countless essays for various med school applications. And right when I think maybe I can get a break from all this, she’ll be on pins and needles for the next 6 to 8 months waiting to hear where, if, she’s been accepted to study for four more years before another four to seven years of residency. And even when, if, she gets in, it’ll cost her $300k in student loans on top of the $100k we’ll give her. Becoming a doctor is very expensive!

When she was little, she used to build these incredible structures—towers 8 ft high out of Magnatiles. She has a great sense of physics and I used to imagine she’d get over saying she wanted to be a doctor when she realized what it takes to get there, and the hardship of constantly dealing with people in pain and corporate corruption. She’d become a civil engineer or architect, create structures of beauty and utility, and still live well.

I set up an open forum of communication for the family I created because I never had it in my own growing up. My ‘turn that frown upside down,’ or ‘make lemonade out of lemons’ mother denied every negative feeling of mine, of hers, until her deathbed when she spewed hate at her husband, my narcissist of a father, for two straight weeks before the cancer silenced her.

The next 2 to 3 months are going to be tense at home. We’re all waiting to hear from medical schools my daughter applied to that are interested enough to ask for ‘secondaries’—school‑specific applications requiring their own essays and fees. Assuming she gets requests for secondaries, I’ll have to work with her for another 2 months helping her edit more essays for each school. Then we have to wait another 3 to 5 months to hear if she’s been accepted anywhere.

My daughter is going to be a doctor. Oh joy!

Not so much…

Assuming she gets into a med school, I’m going to have to hear about gruesome details of human anatomy, disease, diagnosis, pain, death, and many of her experiences through residency. Except I never wanted to be a doctor, or walk the path of becoming one. And I still don’t. Just the thought of blood, cutting someone open in surgery, makes me ill. But a part of me, the adult part with a broader view than my personal gratification, understands my daughter is honoring my vision by choosing to devote her life to the welfare of others, and I’ll do whatever I can to support her achieving this goal.

I can hear the chorus of non-breeders and parents more devoted to their work than the kids they create dissing me for helicopter parenting. But the road to becoming a doctor, or even a rocket scientist isn’t like becoming a soldier or real estate broker where the barrier to entry is extremely low. “Emotional support from family is one of the strongest predictors of admissions and persistence in medical school,” AAMC, AMA, and tons of medical education studies have found.

We play God giving life, having kids. My sister had three. The first two she pursued her own bliss, playing tennis for hours daily, taking two week vacations 3 to 5 times a year leaving her kids with our mother, or a nanny. Her husband, their father, found his value devoting his life to his career. Both their kids struggled academically regardless that they had the financial means for expensive tutors. Both dropped out of college and have no discernible careers. At 46 and 44, they both are always hustling to make ends meet, pay the bills—get by.

My sister had her third child seven years after her daughter. This boy loved the violin from the first time he heard the instrument. My sister gave him one at 5 yrs old and signed him up for lessons. The instructor told her son the proper posture for holding and playing the violin, and for the next decade my sister worked with her son most every day, for an hour or more, coaching him to: “Lift your elbow. Drop your shoulder. Center your chin.” She took him to his lessons, attended his recitals and proudly invited friends and family. A guitarist herself, they played music together often—a bizarrely bonding experience (if you’ve not done it and don’t know). My sister formed a connection with her last child she’d neglected to establish with her first two. She gave her baby her most precious gift—her TIME.

Her son, at 37, is a successful ARTIST—likely the hardest career to attain. He got into the prestigious Berkeley School of Music with my sister’s emotional and financial support from applying through attending. He now co-owns a gallery in the posh Wilshire district of L.A. where he showcases famous and up-and-coming artists. He shows and sells his work globally. Financially stable. Happily married with kids. A resounding success by every measure.

Tell me parental support doesn’t really matter and you’re lying to you.

I always wanted kids, not only to raise them better than my parents did, but to create human beings that were better than me—kinder, more receptive, perceptive, smarter choices and actions for themselves and the lives they touch. I had this notion that if each gen raised their children better than the last, people could rise above our petty prejudices and squabbles and learn from each other, work together and reach our true creative, compassionate potential. Our children’s children’s children wouldn’t know poverty, inequity, blind faith or hate. Imagine what we could create…

Thing is, most don’t share my vision, so absorbed in their day-to-day they can’t see the forests [we’re killing] through the trees [on their block]. And that’s a shame, really. Contrary to popular perception, our individual lives don’t really matter in the long run. Regardless of how famous you become, or the amount of money you make, or even your memories from life experiences, it all goes when you die. You may be remembered by family, friends or fans for a while, but even your memory will fade for most everyone in short order. The greatest contribution we can make in our lifetime is in service to others. Raising kids, supporting parents, friends, colleagues, strangers, we create a better world when we invest our time, energy, and heart into each other.

© 2026 J. Cafesin

Letting Go of Adult Kids

by jcafesin, posted in parenting, parents, psychology, raising kids, writers, Writing

For as long as I can remember I wanted to be a mom. I was absolutely convinced I could parent better than my mother. My father was the breadwinner — king of our small kingdom — and more into himself than raising the two kids he produced and the one he adopted.

I became a mom at 40, after six pregnancy losses. I grieved every loss as my failing, since I was 37 when we started trying to have a child, but sperm degrades in men over 35. My husband was 40. Three years later, after another loss, I had our daughter. I’ve been a full-time mom since.

Along with being a mom, I’ve run a marketing consulting biz helping entrepreneurs launch ideas into startups. I taught at Cal and Stanford for close to a decade, wrote two marketing books, two novels, and two short story collections. And in all my career, I’ve never, ever, put in the amount of effort, time, money, and heart that it’s taken raising two children.

There are no words to describe the love I feel for my kids. Now in their mid-20s, they are kind people — my #1 goal raising them. They are thinkers. Productive. Grateful. Giving. Loving. I could not be prouder of them. Full stop. And while they are both at home this moment, they are moving on, as they should.

The issue: I am unclear how to let go.

Right now, I’m in my office trying to focus on writing fiction, but my mind keeps drifting to my son. He’s been with the same nonprofit for 4 yrs, and he’s been trying to find another job [on and off] almost as long. He had his first ever on-site interview last week and is waiting to hear back today. I keep listening for the back door of our house to open. He wouldn’t come out to my office a quarter acre from the house if he didn’t get the job. Since I’m not hearing the back door, I’m checking my email obsessively. He’ll email if he doesn’t get it.

Seems like I’m a bit over-invested in my son’s career, and I’ll walk that. But here’s a bit of my investment in this job he’s waiting to hear about:

  • I talked him into taking the in-person interview against his resistance since he’d be spending close to a grand to make it happen.
  • Talked him into flying instead of blowing 3 days driving and his other interviews set up for later in the week. Then I helped him set up a flight to get to his on-site interview.
  • I looked up BART times from SFO to be sure he’d get there on time with a short time frame from landing to getting there.
  • My husband drove him to the airport at 4:30a.m. to make his 7:15 flight, but I was his emotional support on the phone with him from 7:00a.m. until 10:20a.m. that morning. He called when all passengers were kicked off the first flight over an hour and a half delay. He’d be late for his interview if he waited so we worked to find another flight leaving sooner. He found one, got on it, and some guy the flight attendant didn’t like wouldn’t leave the plane when asked. My son, and all the other passengers, sat on that plane half an hour for security to come and escort the guy off. My son was now guaranteed to be late.
  • I dictated a text to send to the hiring manager that he’d be late for the interview, which was trickier than it sounds since he was flying in and they’d assumed he was local.

I won’t even go into the hundreds of hours I’ve spent editing our daughter’s school essays, to the tens of thousands of dollars already spent on her undergraduate degree, to emotionally and financially supporting her through college and four MCAT tests…etc.

I wonder if focusing on our son’s job prospect is an excuse to avoid writing fiction today…

Is my focus on this potential job of his justified by the hours of my life I’ve invested parenting him, and guiding his career?

  • Pushing him constantly to look for a new gig with every complaint about his current job.
  • Helping him write his LinkedIn profile, bio, and micro-messaging to potential hiring managers.
  • Edited his CV, including yr over yr updates.
  • Be his cheerleader to lift his depression with constant rejections.
  • Pushing him to network, go to uni and tech meetups. Socialize more!
  • Fully funding his master’s degree…etc.

I told myself I’d do better than my mother, and so I have. I’ve extended an open forum for our kids to share anything, and ask me anything that strikes them. I’ve challenged them to find their true feelings often masked as anger, or in defense of destructive behavior. By their measure, I am still their best friend. It’s easy to be with them back at home, sharing their day to day. But our daughter will be in med school soon. Whether this job or another, our son will be leaving soon too.

The virtually electric connection I feel with my kids will be lost with distance, and their shifting priorities. Family will take the background to their ‘real lives.’ As it should be, but nonetheless, their independence leaves me a bit lost. Our kids health and welfare have been my #1 priority from the day I knew I was pregnant. Made my body a temple of health before working at pregnancy — killed Diet Coke, all caffeine, weed, processed and fried foods, salty snacks, and passed on desserts. I also ran five miles five days a week. And in an effort to model healthy habits to our kids, I’ve continued working out daily.

My kids have been great motivators for me to model the best of myself — disciplined, motivated, creative, caring, loving freely, fully, without reservation as I do our kids. I will miss talking to them daily, keeping abreast of their lives in real time, hugging them, being their greatest advocate as they find partners to stand beside them.

The hiring manager texted my son early today they’d have a decision about the on-site job he’d interviewed for by 4:00p.m. It’s minutes away and he’s yet to hear anything. Is that bad? Or maybe he’s talking to them now and I don’t know in my office a good distance from his. I keep checking my email and listening for the back door to open. My heart is beating so hard I hear it.

I’m proud of my son for flying down to the interview, staying chill during a nightmare flight, and managing to get to the interview only a few minutes late. I passionately want him to get the job offer! A deserved win after much effort. Great life lesson. If he gets it, he’ll move out, down to the Bay, close to a thousand miles away.

Waiting to hear if he got the job, I’m battling my desire to hang on to the last of these moments we have together. He’ll be upset if he doesn’t get it, and I’ll be here to help pick him up and dust him off and push him to keep looking and applying.

Ultimately, no matter how much I help my kids, or am there for them along the way, I cannot protect them from heartbreak. And as they move on, I am too. I’ll have to find my value, the best of me beyond being their mother. I’d likely be doing just that — engaged in writing fiction right now — if I wasn’t so focused on hearing about our son’s job opp…

Do You Matter?

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

Typically, on Sunday mornings my husband and I share articles from the New York Times. He’ll often read me pieces while I prepare breakfast or vice versa, and we’ll discuss the ones that pique our interest. The year-end edition of the Sunday Magazine runs detailed obituaries on a handful of famous and infamous people who died that year. Though many are well-known — actors, x-presidents, and the like, some are more obscure, but they all share one thing in common. They all had [at least] 15 minutes of fame.

I began to feel increasingly irritated as my husband read the list of obits this morning. My mom, who also died this year will never be in the NYT. Where was the balance with the everyday hero — the dad who worked his life to support his family, or the career woman who slated her ambitions to be a mom? The nurse who stayed through the worst of Covid? The teacher that ignited their students’ passions laying the foundation for careers? The rideshare driver that played therapist to his passengers? Their stories are equally important as some one-hit wonder or marginal actor.

Even the most common among us had lives that mattered, that touched many, and their stories deserve to be told.

On my mother’s death bed she asked me, “Did I make a difference?” She stared at me with sunken eyes, her skeletal face practically begging me for an affirmative answer. And I gave her one. And, of course, it was true. She was my mom. She made a difference to me.

She turned me on to love, color, beauty, nature, music, art. She would often point out a vibrant flower, stop everything to view a sunset, and be truly awestruck by its magnificence. My mom was childlike in many ways, always curious, and loved learning. She genuinely liked most people. She was open to ideas, as long as they weren’t filled with hate or born of ignorance.

In the late 1940s, from 16 to 18 yrs old, my mother sat on the back of the bus with Blacks to protest segregation on her daily ride to the University of Florida. Christmas Day for 20 yrs she booked us, and anyone else who’d join us, to serve the homeless at Hollywood Methodist. She was a humanitarian before it was trending, and without prejudice, and, by her example, she taught me to respect all things equally.

She was a wife for nearly 50 years. My dad used to call her his ‘sunshine.’ Laughter and joy came easily to her. They danced beautifully together. He’d glide her across any dance floor in perfect sync, though he was 6’3” and 230 pds, and she a mere 5’ and slight. She sang all the time and had a beautiful voice, carrying the harmony that blended perfectly with my father’s melody.

My mom was a passionate and devoted teacher. She created an ocean science program through the Cabrillo Marine Museum she taught to underprivileged kids that is still active today. I’ve had the privilege of meeting several of her students while with my mom in the market or mall. They’d stop her in the aisle and tout her praises, often claimed they became oceanographers and biologists because of her influence. She loved kids. They were uncomplicated — what she pretended to be, even wanted to be, but wasn’t.

I sat cross-legged next to her lying on her death bed trying to exude the love I felt for this woman, my mother. But as I ran through her list of accomplishments, her expression became darker and sadder, and my “turn that frown upside down” mom started to cry. She wanted to give so much more. And she had so much more to give, but she realized, lying helpless in bed and gasping for every breath, her time had run out.

Two weeks later I stood over her grave and refused the dirt-filled shovel the clergy handed to me. I knelt and scooped a handful of moist, sweet earth from the freshly dug ground, smelled its musty richness, and then let it fall off my hand and run through my fingers as I released it onto her casket. And then I silently thanked her for teaching me to recognize natural beauty and engage with it at every opportunity.

My mom died of cancer at 73. Over 100 people attended her funeral. Another hundred or more have contacted our family since her death to give their condolences — lives she touched, who will touch the lives of others, and so on.

Andy Warhol was wrong. Most of us live and die in obscurity.

But we make a difference.

Racism—Up Close, and Personal

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My daughter came home crying from her job as a barista for a local Boba Tea shop.

“They don’t like me, Mom! I’m doing the exact same level of work that all the new kids are, and they keep calling ME out cuz I’m not Asian.”

Several other barista-type jobs at various local businesses to which she applied told her flat out they only hire Asians (which, at least in my neighborhood, includes Indians, from India). Since most of the fast food and convenience stores here are owned by Asians, this has severely limited her choices for simple, flexible, part-time work while in high school.

A month ago, on the first day of this first job my daughter’s ever had, she came home and said, “My manager called me their “diversity hire,” since I’m the only White person who works there. It hurt my feelings. He made me feel like I didn’t get the job cuz I deserved it.” Every day since, she’s come home with other racist comments most of her managers continue to make.

Our daughter has a 4.3 gpa, is a hard worker academically, and socially. She is the only White person in her small group of all Asian friends. She’s worked very hard, and continues to do so, to be a part of this bunch of kids, to fit into the Asian culture that is now well over 75% of her high school in our East Bay suburb of the San Francisco Bay area.

My son wasn’t so lucky. Boys going through puberty are all about bravado, one-upping each other. Girls are about connecting, communicating, building their community. Our son was excluded and bullied for not being “A”sian, throughout middle and high school. He had no friends at all, though he tried again and again to ‘fit in’ with them, from Karate to Robotics to Chess club and more. It broke his heart daily, and mine as well, watching my beautiful, open, kind kid ostracized for being White. He will likely struggle with a damaged self-image for the rest of his life because of those formative experiences.

Yet, neither of my children are racists, unlike so many of their classmates. My daughter gets bullied often, even by her ‘friends’ with thoughtless comments: “I only date Asians. I don’t find White girls attractive,” from the 4 out of 5 boys in her group. My daughter would love to get asked to proms, on dates. She watches her Asian girlfriends get asked out. She does not.*

These are REALITIES for all of us, Asians and Whites, here in the global melting pot of the San Francisco Bay Area.

My daughter’s half-White, half-Chinese best friend had a sleepover the weekend before Thanksgiving. Her BF told me their family didn’t celebrate the holiday. Her mother is a tech-visa transplant from China. She had no association with U.S. traditions and did not adopt them for her kids. My daughter’s BF confessed she’d always dreamed of celebrating Thanksgiving. Well, of course, I invited her, and her mom and brother, right then. She was so excited she texted her mom the invite, and the girls were jumping up and down, cheering, moments later with her mother’s response.

The seven of us ate turkey, and stuffing, and shared stories of thanks around the table that night. We played Pictionary after dinner and laughed and laughed. When the kids exited the scene to play video games, Yi, my husband and I spoke of relationships, politics, religion, ignoring social lines of polite conversation. And though we have radically different perspectives, and I felt no personal connection with few common interests, a profound one exists between us. Yi is raising two kids, same ages as mine, and Yi loves her children the exact same way — with the same intensity — as I do mine.

Globalization is a REALITY. It’s happening right now. Most first world nations are being inundated with immigrants looking for that illusive ‘better life.’ Like it, or not, global integration is here, and, as my husband, and our kids know, it is mandatory, simply must happen, for humanity, and our very small planet to survive.

My husband is a software architect. He’s been creating and deploying SaaS offerings for over 25 years here in Silicon Valley. Every job he’s ever had in the software industry, and trust me, he’s had a lot of jobs, he’s worked almost exclusively with Asians. While offshore H1B labor has been brought here by the tech industry since 1990, this massive Asian influx into the U.S. was not anticipated. In the last five yrs, the companies he’s worked for in software development, or any other department now, whether the staff is 30 or 3000, 60% or more are of Asian descent. And yet, my husband is not racist, though he’s been passed up for many positions by Asians on work visas and H1Bs.**

“One wish,” my mom asked my sister and me on our drive home from elementary school back in the old days. “Anything you want, what would it be.”

“World peace,” I’d said. It was the mid-1970s, and a common catch phrase, but I meant it. Without war, or economic disparity, I believed in our creative potential to problem solve, and our unique ability to work together to realize our fantastical visions. I didn’t know about the hunger of greed then, insatiable, and colorblind.

It has been particularly hard on my kids, this globalization process. It deeply saddens me that they must suffer the slights of blind prejudice, just as the Asians in past generations, and today have to suffer the racism of the ignorant Whites here. It terrifies me — the global competition for fewer jobs my kids will be competing for after college. Yet, I still advocate for globalization. This very small planet must integrate, or we will perish, and likely take much of the life here with us.

My daughter worries she’ll never meet anyone to date, yet alone marry, but I assure her she likely will. And it’s even likely that man will be Asian, since 60% of the global population are Asian*** and more than half of them are men. “It doesn’t matter where someone came from, what their heritage, or place of origin on the planet,” I’ve preach to my kids. “Choose to be with someone kind.”

A border wall surrounding the U.S. entirely will not stop Asians from flying in from China and India, Korea, Viet Nam, Indonesia and other emerging Asian nations. Nor will it stop the Middle East, South Americans, Cubans from coming here. Seeking to keep us separate is a fool’s play. Communication is key to build bridges over our differences, allowing us to meet in the middle and mutually benefit from our strengths. Ignorance and mistrust breed with distance. Nationalism is just thinly disguised racism.

Asians, Latinos, Syrian’s, and Palestinians, are all different cultures, not separate races from Caucasian. We are one race, the human race. Globalization — the blending of cultures — is hard for everyone, scary, new, threatening to our social structure, but a must if humanity is to survive, even thrive. The beauty of interracial marriage is the same thing that bonds Yi and I, as parents. We both passionately love our kids. She can’t possibly hate Whites, since her children are Asian/White. Combining two cultures, at least on a localize level, defeats racism, as most every parent loves their kids with the intensity Yi and I do. It’s one of our best bits about being human — the magnificent, spectacular, all-encompassing love we get to feel, and share.

—

*Dating app data (in the U.S. and abroad) shows White men prefer Asian women.

**Hiring offshore workers for less money, now being exploited by every social network from Facebook to Instagram to YouTube, to Mr. Trump’s summer staff at his Mar-a-Lago estate, lowers the pay rate for all of us. It’s no wonder U.S. income levels have been stagnant for years. There has been 308,613 H1B registrations for 2022, a 12.5% rise over 2021.

***Asia Population 2022 (Demographics, Maps, Graphs) (worldpopulationreview.com)

The Price of Brilliance

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

How do you get good at anything?

Practice.

How do you get great?

Obsession — Practice most all the time.

Pick any famous author, artist, or musician, and they’ll all have obsession in common. And while we, the public, enjoy the fruits of their creative labors, those closest to these individuals were/are generally left wanting more of them, more from them.

Charles Schulz, creator of the Peanuts comic strip, “was an indifferent and often inattentive father and husband.”

Rod Serling, of Twilight Zone fame, “worked 12 hours a day seven days a week, [and] his wife, Carol, tended to their daughters, Jodi and Anne.”

Adrienne Armstrong, wife of Billy Joe Armstrong of Greenday, said of her husband after the release of the album American Idiot, “I think it challenged us to a new level, pushed us pretty far, the farthest I ever want to go.”

The creatives above are all men. All married and all had/have children.

Now let’s explore a few famous women.

The romance novelist Jane Austen never married. She was, in fact, ‘relieved in later life to have avoided the pitfalls of married life, not least the huge risks of childbirth, “all the business of Mothering.’”

Georgia O’Keeffe, the surrealist painter, “wanted to have children but agreed with him [her husband, Alfred Steiglitz] that motherhood was incompatible with her art. She needed to focus all of her attention on her painting.”

Oprah Winfrey, the media mogul has never married. “The very idea of what it means to be a wife and the responsibility and sacrifice that carries — I wouldn’t have held that very well.” And she never had children. “If I had kids, my kids would hate me. They would have ended up on the equivalent of the “Oprah” show talking about me; because something [in my life] would have had to suffer and it would’ve probably been them.”

Ms. Winfrey had the guts to address the unvarnished, unspoken truth when she referred to the “responsibility and sacrifice,” in being a partner and mother. She understood the investment of time, physical and mental energy it takes to be a conscientious parent would have interfered, even waylaid immersion with her siren to grow a multi-billion-dollar empire.

Men have historically been the breadwinners of the family. And while this trend is slowly changing, the fact is women who seek personal excellence, especially in the arts, often have to choose between pursuing greatness and being, at least, an available partner and parent. Even today, men rarely have to make this choice.

Regardless of this sexist disparity, anyone, man or woman, obsessed with becoming great [at anything] should recognize the sacrifice and cost of pursuing brilliance.

As a wife, mother, and writer, my creative muse is constantly vying for prominence in my hierarchy of desires. When my kids were babies, my creative process encountered fewer distractions. I could stay rapt in storytelling, run dialog in my head while watching them play at the park or practice Lil’ Kicker’s soccer. Small kids, small problems. Now the parent of two young adults, my muse is often drowned out by the very real traumas and trials of adulting my children face every day. To help them navigate these tumultuous times, I question, probe, and even invade their space to stay connected, be there for them as a sounding board, a trusted confidant, be their ground when they’re falling, or envelop them in a hug.

I chose to marry and have kids. And while I am present, available for my family, forfeiting the hours I could have been making it with my muse writing was a battle I engaged in daily. Much of my fiction focuses on this internal war. My novel, Reverb, illustrates the cost of a guitarist’s obsession with creating music. Disconnected confronts the reality that women can’t ‘have it all’ — be everything we want to be, and still be there for our kids and family.

We glorify the brilliant author, the renowned artist, the genius scientist, and successes in business, often secretly wish to be one of them. Entrepreneurs that have built global companies made their startups their newborns, investing their time and energy in growing the business. To become great at anything means obsessively working at that job or craft, honing a skill set with relentless practice, which is the fundamental reason why genius is so rarely achieved.

Google “Genius,” and “Einstein” is in the first several pages of search returns. Einstein had intellectually incoherent views on politics, economics, and psychology, and by most accounts from colleagues and family, he sucked at relationships. Focusing solely on math and physics, he neglected most everything else, but he was one hell of a physicist.

Obsessive practice, to the exclusion of most everything else, is a reliable indicator of achieving brilliance. And now that my kids are grown and on their own, I have more time to make it with my muse, and I do. But truth be told, while it used to matter to me to be someone, achieve ‘famous writer’ status, or at least a Wiki page, not so much anymore. I’d never have been a creative director, a founder and entrepreneurship educator. So absorbed in my own greatness, I’d never have cultivated the truly intimate relationships I now have, or earned the status of Partner and Mom if I’d chosen the road of pursuing the title of ‘brilliant.’ I’d miss too much living such a hyper-focused life. Besides, it’s so much more fun to hang at home with loved ones, watch Netflix and be entertained by those who’ve ‘made it.’ ;-}

Raising Kids without Religion

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My husband and I raised our children without religion. We gave them no religious identity (as in claiming to be Christian or Jewish because of our parentage). We are both devout atheists, and I use the term devout with purpose. We don’t believe in a higher power, or any gods, or even the possibility of one. We are not agnostic. We believe awareness begins by the sixth month of gestation and ends at death. Upon birth, our combination of chemistry defines individual uniqueness, so often mislabeled as a ‘soul.’

No heaven, or hell. No rebirth awaits us after death. Reincarnation is a myth. There are no second chances to get living ‘right,’ and we never ‘ascend to a higher plane of existence.’

You, me, Hitler, all end up the same. We cease to exist upon death. Only our contributions throughout our lifetime remain when we die.

Frightening and harsh though this may seem to believers, the fantastical bible stories and the ‘jealous’ malicious god, (Exodus 20:4–5), described in them never resonated with us. Much to our parent’s chagrin, we grew further from all religious ideologies with their spiritual indoctrination. Ancient dogma conjured by men to control the masses by creating an outside deity that could not, and by its own commandments, must not be questioned, religious leaders were telling us not to think. They required blind faith, and neither my husband nor I were willing to buy into thoughtless beliefs.

We agreed before having kids that we’d raise them without religion. We could not teach them what we do not believe, and what we both feel is fundamentally destructive at this point in human development. The value system we hoped to impart is based on a keen awareness of self, and others, our planet, and the immense responsibility each of us has to preserve all life here.

Picture a bull’s-eye, we told our kids, like the Target logo. You are the center dot, obviously, as you can only perceive and participate in life while living. The first ring out from you is your immediate family; the second is your extended family and friends. The next ring is your community, then your country, and then the world. And all rings must be considered when making choices and/or taking an action.

The Target philosophy is a model for a thriving society. Consciously considering the radiating effects of our actions forces us to think before we act. Our ability to think conceptually, project into the future, then alter our behavior to achieve that projected outcome is what separates the human race from all other life forms here.

There was no need to sell our kids on religious dogma such as promises of heaven, or threats of hell. We taught our kids not only to be considerate and responsible to family and friends, but to humanity as a whole, and all things on this Earth. We expect them to honor their debt to those before them by striving to deliver a better world to those here, and those yet to be.

As atheists, we are considered by many to be heathens– uncultured, uncivilized people. Our parents are constantly trying to convert us, under the delusion that we are what they were raised to believe, whether we admit it or not. They vehemently express their disgust in our ‘denial,’ and barrage us with threats that our children will be lost without a religious upbringing.

My brother, a born-again Christian, assures us that Christ died for our sins. He promises my children will be ‘saved’ after death from all wrongdoing if they just accept Him as their savior. He never stops to consider the catastrophic lack of responsibility this ideology instills in his, and every other blind believer’s behavior. My brother and his brethren real estate brokers lie, cheat, and rob unsuspecting clients of their life savings without ever considering the destructive effects of his actions, believing in his own righteousness, and having ‘faith’ in the forgiveness promised him.

By everyone’s reckoning who’ve met, or known our children, from family and friends, to teachers, to restaurant servers, my kids are liked and well respected. They are courteous and conscientious, more considerate than most adults, and 90% of their so-called ‘god-fearing’ peers. They are team players in sports, strive for excellence in their studies, and are both straight-A students from grade school forward. They share what they have, and compromise to ensure fair play. And they do all this, not by threats of eternal damnation, but because they understand their role in, and responsibility to humanity, and this planet we inhabit.

My children are not lost. They experience no spiritual void. They find beauty and wonder in many things, like nature, and sometimes even in the nature of man.

With the advent of technology and advanced weaponry, our world has become so very small and fragile. We must stop pretending we are powerless, under the will of various deities, or follow the divisive rhetoric of religious leaders who preach if Christ exists then Judaism is wrong. If Allah rules, then Christianity is a lie. Religion has been and still is the problem, giving excuses, or worse, forgiveness for whatever crimes we commit. Christ will not save us from global annihilation. We are all responsible for saving us from ourselves.

At the dinner table recently, my husband asked our young adult kids a simple question: “What are you?” Both answered: “Human.” Touché! Religion, skin color, and/or economic status, my children see no division between themselves and other people. This position is mandatory for the survival of humanity. We teach our children to recognize their radiating effects on all they touch, and not only acknowledge their mighty power, but embrace the responsibility that comes with it. Humanity’s future depends on each of us taking individual responsibility for the actions we take in life. Not for rewards in an afterlife, but to enrich the lives we touch here and now, and to make it possible for those yet to be — the generations to come — to experience the unfathomable wonder in being alive.

Outside Looking In

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

Spent my life looking in at the world I live, but never ‘fitting in’…

Ever been with a group of people, and everyone is talking amicably, (or on their cellphones), and you’re sitting there watching and listening, and you feel like an alien? Not a foreign national among a group of natives. More like you’re from another planet. Or they are.

I’ve known I was different for most of my life, always on the outside looking in at the world I live in. I’ve never been popular, never had a large group of friends to hang with like in sitcoms. Beyond theology like my atheism, there are actual, real differences that separate me from most.

I don’t drink alcohol. Can’t stand the taste of the stuff. Wine. Beer. Hard liquor. BLA! Even rum wrecks some would-be-great desserts, like tiramisu. Virtually the first thing that happens at any gathering is the ritual serving of the drinks. I always refuse, which immediately raises suspicions that I’m either a friend of Bill W, or on some fad diet, or a hippy-vegan. The first brick in the wall between me and the group.

I have no internet connection on my cellphone. I don’t carry my phone with me most of the time, don’t look at it except to make a call or send a text, which I do rarely, especially when I’m with other people. Use a scheduler for posts, so I’m not on any social media platforms. I follow no one intentionally (as X automatically follows back anyone who follows you). I don’t know what is trending online which puts me outside most lite banter about the latest cat video or influencer’s recent divorce. Another brick in the wall.

I don’t watch TV much. I average three movies in the theater a year, and rarely go to plays. I don’t watch or follow sports. Any. Ever. I don’t know the latest shows, any of the actors, or what rock star is hot on YouTube. I must have some mental disorder because people who play no active role in my life just don’t register with me. Not remembering names or faces is yet another brick because I cannot engage in dialog about celebrities or their latest movies.

As a woman, with other women, I feel particularly off-planet. I have no interest in discussing my kids for the most part. I’m with my kids a LOT. I don’t want it all about them when I’m not. I don’t care about sales or shoes. I dress for comfort, prefer my old, soft, often ripped clothes to new. I never wear makeup, much to my mother’s chagrin. Don’t even carry a purse. The diamond studs in my ears have been there for 30 yrs. I wear no other jewelry. Had no grandparents to babysit (or cash) to travel beyond summer vacations once we had kids, so I feel awkward when everyone’s talking about their romantic getaways with their DH to the Big Island, or Caribbean while grandma watched the kids.

I want to talk intimately about issues that matter to all of us, without being politically correct, or woke, and with virtually nothing held sacred — an open forum of communication and healthy debate. But it seems every time I bring up feelings of frustration globally, nationally, locally, or even personally, I create a void in the group’s dialog, this vortex of weighted silence. Either no one wants to share their real feelings, or they don’t know what I’m talking about, or they have no opinion, or they’re too afraid to state it.

The bitch is, I want to fit in, be a part of, integrate as I see others do.

Sort of. I just don’t want to DO what most seem to.

I don’t wish to remain ignorant about global and local issues so not to disrupt my personal bliss. My husband is the son of a holocaust survivor. I grew up on horror stories of the camps told by family, some who lost everyone they loved. We all need to be vigilant it never happens again.

I couldn’t care less about celebs and influencers. Studio City born and raised — where the film studios originally set up, hense the name — at the north base of the Hollywood Hills. Most of the kids’ parents I went to school with were actors or musicians or writers. By high school, half of my contemporaries were artists themselves. The ones who ‘made it,’ were regular people to me, who worked, and networked (partied) obscene hours. Intoxicated crowds overwhelm me. Not my jam. 

While I enjoy playing racquetball and pickleball, I’ve little interest in watching someone else play sports. Pro athletes work towards excellence 24/7, yet somehow fans take on team victories as their own while they sit on the couch downing beer. I just don’t get it.

The ‘little bit of color’ my mother insisted was mandatory to put on my lips and cheeks to attract a mate, makes most women who wear makeup look like clowns, or mannequins to me. And it’s a rather ironic twist that the media convinces women they need cosmetics to be attractive, especially since it’s a proven cause of cancer, and cancer isn’t pretty.

Clearly, I am damning myself to the outside looking in. As an atheist, in faith-based (mostly Christian) America, I don’t belong to the neighborhood church, or celebrate any religious holidays, or get how seemingly reasonable people can believe in myths and fairytales at this stage in human development. And since it’s unlikely I’ll develop a taste for alcohol anytime soon, or become addicted to my cellphone, I’m unclear how to move forward, to integrate, fit in with the group at the table now on their second or third drink. They’re getting sloppy, and rather loud, and all I want to do is leave.

So I do. I get in my spaceship (my Prius among the SUVs) and venture home to my sleeping kids and working husband. He’ll ask me how the Mompreneurs’ Meetup went and I’ll say fine, and later I’ll be standing in the shower feeling invisible, valueless.

The road is empty and dark. Houses are lit inside and look warm and welcoming. Mine will be too, a safe harbor where people ‘get me,’ but I know I isolate there too much. I want friends, to be a part of the world beyond my fam, I just don’t know how to step inside where most seem to live. But truth be told, it’s rather lonely out here.

Empty-Nesting IRL

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

I’m no longer, and will never again be my kids’ demigod…

I wanted kids for as long as I can remember. Have 2. Adopt 1. I was absolutely sure I could raise them better than my mom [and dad].

I’d give them ground instead of ripping it away with critical judgments. I’d show my love unconditionally, not doled out with achievements or ‘acceptable’ behavior. I’d be the best friend they ever had, there for them when they needed me, even when they didn’t know they did but just needed to be heard. And I’ve been all this for my kids for the most part. By their measure, I am their closest confidant, even now.

Now 26 and 24, though both are back home for the moment, we almost never eat meals together and seldom interact beyond quick exchanges. My kids are moving beyond family with boyfriends, girlfriends, media becoming their greater influence. While they both still share with me intimate details of their lives, it’s different now. We truly are friends. Not mom to kid, but adult to adult. And while this is good, and right, it hurts, in almost the abstract, like I shouldn’t be feeling sad they are launching.

I am no longer and will never again be their demigod. As adults, their trust in what I say wavers, knowing my propensity to infuse parables into storytelling. They see me now, know my history, watched much of it unfold. They understand my frailties, and love me anyway, but they [rightfully] no longer believe that mine is the final word.

I was into the arts from the beginning too — drawing, sculpting, building, writing. I was obsessed with creating as far back as I can recall, so my desire to produce children wasn’t lack of other interests or just to do better than my mother. I wanted to put people into this world who would be kind, compassionate, lead with their head and their heart. I figured if each gen raised their kids to embody these traits, in some number of generations forward humans could reach our amazing potential for boundless creation, innovation, intimacy, love. My kids are kind, empathetic people and I am proud to know them, but I get I made it hard on them, pushing them to care beyond themselves in a world that generally does not.

I had kids late, in my early 40s after 6 pregnancy losses before our son, and another before having our daughter. I married late too, at 37, pursuing my career while searching for Mr. Right to father the family I wanted so badly. Together we chose to have children. And together we agreed not to raise latchkey kids as our parents had done. One of us would be home for them, at least through most of puberty.

My husband became the main income provider as a male software developer in Silicon Valley, making much more than me as a female marketing consultant and full-time parent. I focused on being there for my kids — taking them to school and picking them up daily, planning activities, groups to join, sports to play, shopping, preparing meals…etc. And talking, endless talking, being available to help them define and navigate their world. I also helped launch and market startups, taught entrepreneurship at top unis, authored 3 novels, 2 short story collections, 2 business marketing books, and an edtech course.

I’ve been busy, for sure, but now I’m tired. I don’t have a ‘second life’ like most women who had kids in their late 20s or early 30s. I’m old, or feel old.

I hate having more memories than time to make them.

When I was little, I would fantasize about my life forward. I’d marry my BFF by mid to late 20s. We’d have kids in our early 30s. I’d be home for my kids, and a successful author too. (I was clearly naive about the time and head space required to really ‘be there’ for your kids.)

Imagining this stage of my life as a kid, I assumed my children would have launched by now (and likely would have if I’d had them earlier). I’d be well into my second act, engaged in writing fiction, and traveling to beautiful and bizarre places with my beloved husband. We wouldn’t be worried about making money anymore. We could spend freely, like never before. I wouldn’t be grieving the loss of my revered position as a mother because I’d be a selling author, and hanging with my BFF.

The kids are moving on, aging out as a mompreneur, and I still have no cachet as a writer, still relatively unknown. I’m back to being what feels like… nothing. And now there’s an additional twist. Younger, there was always time to make the future what I wanted it to be. But I’ve learned that hope, like time, is fleeting.

The life I pictured is so far from the reality I live it’s verging on surreal. I don’t feel like I’m in my body so much of the time lately, just sort of watching from the outside. I am truly lost, consumed in mourning the loss of my past, and the end of my future. No longer atop any hierarchy, like I was in my kids’ eyes when they were growing up, or my entrepreneurial students. I’m back to being nobody with hardly any time or energy left to create the future I wanted to be living by now.

I am grateful for the life I have, for my spectacular kids, my marriage, and the home we’ve built and share. But I still want more. Don’t you, (whatever your age!)? I want everyone who reads me to share my work with their fam and friends. I wanta be at my kids’ weddings, and play with my grandkids, teach them, listen to them, learn from them. I want to stay close to my kids, as integral a part of their lives as always, but now see that I won’t be as they move on.

Common advice is ‘live in the moment,’ but lately I don’t know how to shake off the suffocating weight of aging. My body reminds me often with injuries taking so much longer to heal. Society tells me I’ve become valueless. I can’t fall back asleep at 4:00am when I get up to pee for the 5th time. Back in bed I start looping on the reality I’m losing the family life I lived. And loved. Sleeping now seems… wasteful since the bulk of my life is over. I can’t get off the bullet of time, out of the tunnel I’m in railing towards the light that I know is the freight train comin’ at me.

While it’s true no one knows when they’re gonna die, let me tell ya, death begins looming — the proverbial ax over your head the older you get. Every illness I wonder if this one will take me out. Past a certain age, you don’t keep getting over it.

In 20 to 30 yrs I will likely cease to exist. My body will return to organic matter. No heaven. No hell. No afterlife awaits any of us. Like my biological clock to bear children, my life clock is running out. I can feel it coming, the light at the end of the tunnel brighter than ever now. Aging is a bitch, but I suppose it’s better than not. Love to end this blog on a cheerful note, since we all love happy endings. Thing about being alive is our ending is always the same.

Parenting Social Media

by jcafesin, posted in addiction, ADHD, artificial intelligence, social media

Australia killed social media today for under 18. YEA AUZZIES!

My almost 24 yr old daughter came downstairs Saturday morning giggling with glee. She told my husband and I she was ‘so excited!’ Something ‘great’ had happened.

She was in a car accident 1.5 yrs ago that is resulting in a lawsuit, and I thought she’d talked to our lawyer and he gave us great news. Nope.

“I got an audition on The Button!” she said, pridefully. “It’s a really popular YouTube series.”

I went with her excitement. My beautiful daughter got an acting audition, or for her melodic singing. Or a baking show for her excellent macaron cookies!

“How many subscribers?” I asked.

“Millions! It’s a reality dating show.”

As her words registered in my head, so did dread.

“You sit at a table across from each other with a large red button between you,” she explained enthusiastically. “The show’s producers ask personal, intimate questions to push conversation.”

I bet they do. Build tension. Push the show’s platform of ‘Shaming Spectacle.’ Corrosive dread was quickly turning into explosive rage.

“If one presses the button before the other, that person is out of the game.”

“You mean rejected?” At this point, my rage was boiling over. My daughter was seemingly so addicted to her phone and social media she could not see the ugly, sick fuck piece of trash YouTube show she’d signed on for.

“Yeah. But if neither press the button, then you win a date,” she said, more cautiously seeing my expression.

My tolerance dam broke right then. “Are you stupid!? Why would you sign up for a show designed to SHAME YOU? Are people allowed to leave comments?”

“Yes, Mother, but it’s not like that.”

“What’s it like, then?” my husband asked. “How can this possibly serve you going on this show?”

“It’s not about that. It’ll be fun to be on a show I watch.”

She watches this crap!? But I didn’t voice it. “You’re supposed to be studying for your MCATs. Why do you want to go on this show that’s designed to make you feel shitty about yourself?”

“It’s just for fun,” she defended. “I probably won’t even get on.”

“And if you do, how are you going to feel with being rejected in front of millions? Or rejecting someone else?”

“Maybe I won’t be rejected.”

“And what? You’ll find Mr. Right on this bullshit show? You have MCATs in 8 wks, honey. What are you doing!?”

“I thought it would be fun to be seen by that many people,” she said flatly.

“But you won’t be seen,” my husband chimed in. “You judge everyone on the show when you’re watching. And millions will be doing the same to you.”

“Are you ready for negative comments about your looks, or things you expose when the asshole producers trigger you in front of millions?”

“I won’t read the comments.”

“Are you talking about the Red Button show?” our son comes in the kitchen.

“Yeah,” she said to her older brother. “Have you seen it?”

“Yeah. Couple times. It’s really brutal. A race to the bottom — who can push the button first. No one wants to be the one rejected. You like it?”

“Yeah. I think it’s funny.”

“She got an audition to do the show,” I filled him in.

“Your mom and I don’t think it’s a great idea.”

“Even to audition,” I said. “Won’t help your self image any if you get rejected for the show.”

“So, you don’t think I’m pretty enough to be on the show?” she asked, practically glaring at me. “You think I’m not good looking enough to get picked.”

“I see my beautiful daughter. But this isn’t about what I think. You’ve cried to me time and again you’re not pretty enough,” I manage more softly. “You’ve admitted you compare yourself with influencers, and how you feel ugly by social standards. You’ve told me you hate your nose. Don’t like your body shape. Breast size. Your face. How is this going to be ‘fun’ if you’re rejected, get bad comments, or even get a second date? At best, this show’s a distraction from your goal to get into med school. At worse, and more likely, it’ll make you feel even worse about yourself.”

“Not fun,” her brother added. “I wouldn’t do it J. Not smart,” he said as he left.

“I’m doing the audition anyway,” our daughter said, and followed him out of the kitchen.

—

Ever written a blog, personal essay, or even an email, and as you write it you realize something is fucked up with your reasoning — the point you set out to make?

I realized I may have shamed our daughter, just as the The Button is designed to shame its participants.

I wrote her an email this morning apologizing if she felt I did when I lost it after she told me she was auditioning for the game. I explained my intention was to protect her, educate her from the dangers of predatory online content. She clearly failed to understand the broader consequences of signing up for, or even frequently watching the exploitative game show.

‘Game show’ my ass. Nothing playful about The Button. I wanted to protect my beautiful baby from being publicly shamed.

Some raw facts (I didn’t iterate to our daughter, but likely should):

  • Social media addiction amplifies low self-esteem leading to higher rates of depression and suicide, especially in her age group.
  • Watching and engaging with shaming, bullying, predatory, and exploitative content increases low self-esteem, depression and suicide rates.
  • The development team of ignorant, arrogant, short-sighted, self-serving slime, AKA, the Cut: David Alvarez, Blaine Ludy, Marina Taylor (former), and Desmond Vieg, are making bank on what they call “a social experiment.”

‘Experiment?’ Get real! No science. No controls. These parasites are profiting from exploiting shame and destroying self-esteem of young people establishing their self-images. How ugly is that!

Regardless of my faulty approach of admonishing our daughter for signing up for The Button, my heart was in the right place. The Cut developers are clearly heartless. Would they entice their own kids into some twisted social ‘experiment’ for their profit? I pray they never have children. Narcissists generally make suck parents.

I’m ashamed, feel I failed as a mom that my daughter signed up to be on The Button, or even chooses to spend one minute of her life’s time watching it, essentially promoting it with her views. I thought I taught our kids to be aware of the consequences of their actions. Parenting the perils of the internet seems a constant work-in-progress now, coming up against social platforms luring kids in like the Pied Piper, and addicting them like Purdue Pharma with OxyContin.

The Cut founders are young, naive, arrogant, and ignorant in the extreme. (So is most social media, from Insta to Snap that blows away your life’s time). Ugly games like The Button teaches watchers and participants it’s OK to torment, mock, insult, shame people, for profit.

The Button creators get richer with every hit to their “mean‑spirited,” “cruel,” “superficial,” “shallow,” YouTube channel. And ‘Seen by millions’ if you join their cast of fools won’t make you rich like they’re becoming on you.

Modeling cruelty spreads it. When you View or Engage with The Button, or any online game, platform, or app that makes it acceptable, (profitable, and therefore admirable) to be cruel, you are participating in becoming so.

The Fundamentals of Effective Communication

by jcafesin, posted in communication

My husband was upset with our 7-yr-old Shepherd-mix pound-hound this morning. “Ellie won’t come with me to Frisbee anymore.”

He generally takes her to the park every weekday afternoon to play. I take Ellie Maze on the weekends. I stand at the top of the hill and hurl the disk as far as I can to get her running. She needs the daily workout.

“I had to take her in your car again to get her to go.” He paused, glared at our dog laying on her fluffy blanket near the kitchen table. She stared back at him then looked at me. “I get she wanted you to take her, not me.” His pout made it clear he felt dissed. “I take her 5 days a week and somehow that’s not good enough.”

My beautiful Maze is a brat, to everyone but me. Raised by four adults—two grown kids, my husband and me—all placate to her desires since we adopted her at just 8 wks.

“I don’t know why she gravitates to you,” my DH said. “We all take care of this dog, but you’re her Alpha. Clearly,” he added, looking down at El. “Is it just because you trained her?”

“I was on her more than anyone else, but we all trained her. Give a dog what they need, and consistently express what you need from them, and it’s really not hard to communicate.”

“For you. You’re like the Dog Whisperer,” he said, and still believes it.

“I’m not. All you gotta do is talk with them, like I do with you and the kids. Communication is the key, and easy with a dog. Dogs never ‘mature’ beyond toddlers. Expectations are simple, limited. Dogs want to please. So I wanna please them. Perfect synergy—mutual respect.”

“I talk to this dog all the time,” he defended.

I shook my head. “Not so much. You talk at her, give her commands, or praise her prowess or cuteness.”

“You do too!” he attacked.

“Yeah, I do. Who could resist that face?” I said, looking at Ellie, her rocket ears up, her big brown eyes fixed on me. “But at Frisbee, I talk to her—tell her where I’m throwing it, when to take off to get it, ask if she wants to wait before the next toss. And she does, a lot, especially after we’ve been playing a while. So, we wait. She stands by me or leans against me panting, and drooling.” I flashed a smile, but my DH didn’t acknowledge it, so I continued. “I’ve asked her to circle me when she’s ready for the next catch, and now she does. Didn’t take her long to learn. Frisbee’s her game. I let her lead, respond to her needs. That’s why she wants me to take her.”

“Last Sunday, when you couldn’t take her, she just laid on her blanket instead of going to Frisbee. I told her to come over and over but she wouldn’t move.” He looked at our dog and Ellie’s huge ears drooped. “She didn’t come, until you commanded her to go with me.”

“But I didn’t command her. I explained I’d hurt my back, and that I couldn’t take her, even though I usually do on weekends. I told her she wouldn’t get to play at all if she didn’t go with you. I looked her in the eyes, told her I was sorry and acknowledged her disappointment, as I would with anyone I let down.”

He looked at Ellie. She looked at him, ears drooping, then back at me, rocket ears up, her fixed stare connecting us. Then she got up and came to me for strokes of approval.

It is known that from birth until 8 to 10 yrs old our foundation is laid—our personality, patterns of learning, observing—how we interpret what we see, our identity are all established in early childhood.

Dogs imprint faster. In about a year most dogs are locked into behavior patterns they’ll carry into adulthood. Ellie’s been [over]active since we got her. Vet called her a ‘high-energy dog.’

I’m imprinted on El’s psyche as her Alpha, like I am on our kids’ because I’ve talked with them endlessly, sung to them, with them, constantly. Music is a fantastic conduit! Preschool through middle school, I picked them up daily, planned activities, camps, sports, scouts. We talked about everything, no holds barred, sharing details I’d never have told my mother. I was, and still am their Alpha.

Just like our dog.

Ellie Maze will never grow intellectually beyond a 3 yr old child, topping out. But toddlers feel and express compassion, assert independence, understand rules and words by their tenor, if not their direct meaning. They bond to family, as El has made us her pack.

Most Sundays I make breakfast while my husband reads the NYT aloud. In the column ‘Social Qs,’ 99% of Philip Galanes advice: TALK TO THEM. ‘Tell your partner/mom/friend/neighbor/[dog] how you feel, what you need, and why. Then listen to their point of view, and compromise if necessary to preserve the relationship.’

The desire to communicate, instead of just get your way, is paramount. I’ve raised three dogs and two kids. They’ve raised me too, helped me feel seen, heard, respected through constant communication. While El’s needs are simpler, we all share real feelings, desires, hopes, disappointments, even in one another.

We don’t Defend, Deny, Attack, Retreat (DDAR) when confronted. For the most part, we listen, anticipate and respond to each other’s needs/desires. We don’t shut down and leave when challenged. We talk it outuntil we harbor no internalized anger or resentment. While my feelings for and commitment to my kids is far greater than my dog, my love for Ellie is also without reservation.

Our dog does not DDAR when we rebuke her behavior. She learns, and adapts for the most part, as my kids do for me, and I for them. And while Ellie Maze may have stopped maturing at the age of most toddlers, we have established mutual trust and respect. Like the kids and me, Ellie and I are a safe harbor for each other. I’m still working on effective communication with my husband of 30 yrs.