Tag: momlife

The Problem with Today’s Parents

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

We play GOD when we give birth. With great power comes great responsibility…

There is a child in my daughter’s preschool that everyone dislikes. She hits, pushes, slaps, and throws a fit every time she doesn’t get her way. All the teachers at the preschool dread having this wild child in their class. Her mom has been notified multiple times in regards to her child’s poor behavior.

Speculation from parents and teachers alike ranged from ADHD to genetic disorders. I’ve often imagined the parents to be self-centered workaholics who had children as a matter of course, and then abandoned them to expensive daycare to manage their child rearing. This is somewhat typical in the area in which we live.

I met the mom recently at a class party and she shattered all my preconceived notions. We talked for quite some time and she was thoughtful and articulate. She worked only part time and mostly late at night so she could be there for her two kids. Her older daughter was in second grade and in her second year of GATE classes for gifted children. She spoke openly about the problems with her youngest, even seemed mystified, as her older daughter had always been easygoing and cooperative.

At my daughter’s fourth birthday party it became clear why her youngest daughter was so ‘challenging.’ We supplied crafts, a magic show, and a yard complete with a bouncy house, as well as a full-size playhouse with kitchen. But all this wasn’t enough for the problem child. Bored by the offerings, she went upstairs to my daughter’s room and proceeded to try on her clothes. Her mother and I became aware of this when my daughter came to me crying.

I immediately asked that the child take off my daughter’s favorite princess dress and return it to the closet. “NO! I don’t want to!” she screamed. Her mother stood beside me and sighed heavily but said nothing. Nothing. I repeated my request and the girl continued screaming that she wanted to play dress-up, that she wasn’t going to take the dress off, and I couldn’t make her. Her mother looked at me, sighed again and shook her head. In a nice, pleasant tone she suggested to her daughter that perhaps she could take the dress off and maybe play dress-up after the party was over. Still, the girl refused.

I couldn’t believe it. If it was my daughter, I would have instantly given her a time out, then demanded she apologize for speaking disrespectfully, and for using things that didn’t belong to her without permission. If she didn’t cooperate within one second, she would have lost privileges like watching TV. And every subsequent second that passed that she didn’t comply she would lose more privileges for longer periods of time.

I felt awkward disciplining the child with the mother standing right there but I didn’t know what else to do since the mother wasn’t doing anything. In a very low, gravelly voice, I informed the child if she didn’t take the dress off I would do it for her. By my tone the girl knew I was serious, and she acquiesced. She literally threw the dress at me and ran off to play with the other kids. And her mom let her. She didn’t chide the child for her poor behavior. She looked at me and shrugged as if to say, ‘See what I have to deal with?’ But instead, she said she was sorry. SHE was sorry. She didn’t have her daughter apologize.

It is no wonder her child is a raving lunatic brat.

I see this again and again — parents who do not consistently discipline their children and then wonder why their kids are out of control. They take parenting classes that are taught by psychologist who tell them with authority to be supportive and encouraging. And while this may work with easy kids who above all seek approval, it is not the solution to most children whose greater interest is pleasing themselves.

We are all born solipsists. We have to learn to consider the world outside ourselves, to cooperate, but this must be taught and constantly reinforced. It has been said that it takes a village to raise children. But I don’t want to be part of a village in which the parents are clueless, or more accurately — couldn’t care less.

I held a Cub Scout meeting at my home a few days ago. One of the mom’s came an hour late and her child missed the rocket craft. Her son was so angered by this he went up to his mom and slugged her, hard, in her shoulder. And SHE APOLOGIZED TO HIM for being late, and then turned to me and justified his rage with some lame excuse about how hard it was for him to transition. It took all my will not to step in, demand he apologize and then put the kid on time out.

I did not restrain myself last night at a Pack meeting with fifty other children, when the same boy became disruptive. Several parents stood in a tight circle scowling and complaining about the boy’s poor behavior. The child’s parents were too busy talking to other parents to notice. I got so annoyed at the boy’s constant goading of the kids around him that I took him by the hand and pulled him aside and told him to knock it off. The mom came over moments later and challenged ME for being overly strict. All the other parents looked away.

Offing your kids to daycare so you can pursue your muse/career or accepting solipsism from their child because the parent is too tired or too lazy to fight the necessary battles to raise conscientious adults, will not help our children learn create a thriving society. Twenty five yrs after the original writing of this essay, more parents than ever are raising self-absorbed brats, not only keeping humanity from reaching our amazing, creative potential, but reversing our progress! War. Poverty. Famine. Strife. These are curable if we raise the next gen, and the next, to CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER WAY BEYOND SELF. In other words, GROW THE FUCK UP — out of solipsism, (as all of us are born into), through the narcissism of our teens, and into adulthood. Adulting means expanding our awareness outside of self.

We play GOD when we give birth. With great power comes great responsibility. Parenting offers many rewards, but one of the least appealing aspects is constantly iterating the seemingly endless list of rules. And as hard as this is, it is mandatory. Social standards apply to all of us — if not, we have a society in chaos, and eventually no society at all.

The TRUTH about Mark Zuckerberg

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

IMAGINE working your ass off all through high school, studying instead of partying, volunteering with school and community groups so you can get into a good college. You send out your applications, to Stanford, Harvard, Princeton, as you have a 4.8 GPA, and all the right clubs on your resume. Your mom kisses each envelope before mailing, “for luck,” then hugs you, with her silent prayer that you’ll be accepted everywhere, that the world will see her beautiful daughter the way she does.

Pins and needles until the letters start coming in, or maybe they won’t, and no college will want you, keeps playing in your head, until March rolls around and letters DO come. Cal Berkeley wants you! UC Davis wants you! Stanford wait-listed you. And Harvard ACCEPTED YOU!! You’re dancing in the kitchen with your mom, dad, and little brother, laughing, hugging, celebrating your achievement of hard work and tenacity. For the moment, you let yourself bask in the glow of your family’s pride.

August comes around, and you are settling into your dorm room at Harvard. Your roommate is nice enough, though she’s hardly there. Unlike you, she’s very social. She got into Harvard on her daddy’s dime. He went there too. She has a 3.6 GPA, but got a free pass into the school, as did ex-president George Bush Jr (with a 2.35 GPA). If nothing else, Harvard is incestuous. Known as ‘Legacy students,’ over a third of Harvard students are related to past students, with money.

You love your classes. Your professors. A few months into your Harvard experience you are doing well academically, even if you haven’t made any real friends. You assure your mom you’re fine, though you don’t tell her you’re feeling more than a bit lonely. The popular girls, like your roommate, came in with money, and come from money. They dress trendy, buy expensive, look sharp, act confident. Make it in Harvard, or not, they have no worries after school. The rich rarely have to worry like the rest of us.

You come back to your empty dorm room one afternoon, turn on your computer, and are about to get started on the paper you have to write for Expository, but the image on the screen stops you dead. Your face stares back at you, next to some sexy female student. Headline reads, “We were let in for our looks? No. We will be judged by them? Yes.” Subhead says, “Who’s Hotter? Click to choose.” Under YOUR PICTURE voters agree you’re not.

This is the beginning of Facemash, which eventually became Facebook. This is MARK ZUCKERBERG’S idea of fun — making women feel like shit for his entertainment. IMAGINE what that girl must have felt when she saw NOT under her Harvard profile picture. IMAGINE if it was YOUR CHILD. Or YOU.

And here’s what ZUCKERBERG said the first night he released Facemash: “I almost want to put some of these faces next to pictures of some farm animals and have people vote on which is more attractive.”

This is MARK ZUCKERBERG then, and THIS IS MARK ZUCKERBERG NOW! He is still the same ugly, petty, small man/child, pulling the same ugly crap, indifferent to anyone but himself, ignoring the pain he is causing around the globe now.

Zuckerberg was already a second-year student at Harvard when he began Facemash. He was not a child. If ZUCKERBERG was a decent man, a man of compassion, empathy, not cruelty, he never would have COPIED HOT OR NOT, an app that was already out there. Zucky just ripped it off! To debase Harvard WOMEN. Shame on you ZUCKY, and your MAMA and PAPA, for not teaching you how to treat others with respect and kindness!

ZUCKERBERG is still indifferent to anyone but his own needs, even today. His Facebook recommendation engine helped get TRUMPY ELECTED! Twice! How? Facebook only shows you what ZUCKY WANTS YOU TO SEE. You do NOT see all your connection’s posts. ZUCKY only shows you posts that REFLECT YOU. Upset about inflation? FB will show you Russian and Republican advertisers (disguised as friends and connections) who sell you that Trump will fix the economy. We are all merely seeing posts that reflect our personal concerns and opinions now.

ZUCKY only sees his own reflection too. It’s what allowed him to debase women at Harvard. It is allowing him to keep his screwed-up recommendation engine on and running. Republicans spreading lies, ZUCKY doesn’t care. He cares about getting and keeping advertisers. His “fake news” AI department is a joke. I know someone working there, and they tell me he isn’t trying to stop it at all. It doesn’t serve him to do so. He wants advertisers, and you don’t get them, and keep them, limiting ad sales.

He got lucky debasing women from an app he RIPPED OFF. Now he’s god to so many in Silicon Valley. Sadly, they are so blinded by his “success” that they cannot see the ugly little man/child he was @Harvard and still is. Humans get our moral fiber, our value systems, between 0–8, maybe up to 10 years old. Mark clearly didn’t get much moral guidance from his parents. And amoral people rarely change. They need a brick to the head, to ‘hit bottom,’ and ZUCKY ain’t fallin any time soon. In fact, Mark’s aligned himself with powerful Republicans to protect his self-interests.

The spoiled, self-serving brat is guiding the world to disaster after reaping huge profits on fake news without restraint to get Trumpy elected again. We now have a fascist running our country [into the ground] for the second time. Why? On top of getting him elected again, ZUCKY is paying Trump millions (billions?) to stop the Fed’s from breaking up Mark’s META monopoly.

MARK ZUCKERBERG, your power was wielded by the wealth of your parentage — mere chance, dumb luck. You’ve prioritized status and image over compassion and authenticity. Behind every great fortune is a great crime. Your crime, Mark, is the narcissist you’ve chosen to be.

Imagine how you and your wife, Priscilla Chan, would feel if YOUR DAUGHTERS, Maxima and August, were voted NOT HOT, deemed UGLY their first year at Harvard, as no doubt they’ll go there with the money you have made on the wasted hours all of us have spent on FACEBOOK and INSTAGRAM.

DELETE Facebook

DELETE Instagram

Parenting

Trump

Musk

WhatsApp

Looking for Cancer

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

I’m scared out of my mind, though I suppose I shouldn’t be. Cancer is not unexpected. I’ve been waiting for the diagnosis for years. Still, when I felt the tenderness in my breast a month ago I passed it off as a pulled muscle from weightlifting. I tried to ignore it last week too, told myself my breasts were just swollen from my impending period. But my husband felt it too during sex the other night. He moved the lump under my skin with the tips of his fingers, clearly troubled, and I had to stop pretending.

I find out the results from my biopsy tomorrow. A part of me already knows. They said it would feel ‘uncomfortable’ getting a core sample but it hurt like hell. As I sit here in McDonalds, across from my daughter, watching her stuff fries into her angelic face, I think of our limited time together. She runs off to the play structure and I wonder if she’ll remember me when I’m gone. She’s so young. I wonder how long she’ll miss me. I can’t help crying. People will see. I hide my face, stare down at the page.

It’s not death I fear. It’s the process of dying. I watched my mother grasp at every last second with each new experimental treatment while her body and mind withered, and it was horrific. I’ll opt for chemo, even though I don’t want to. I’ll do it for my kids, model not quitting, to never give up. Show them to fight for life against all odds. I’ll lose my hair, my thick auburn waves—my one feature I’ve always been proud of. I’ll be sick and tired all the time and it’ll all be for naught, just like my mom. Six months, a year, even a few, but cancer will kill me. Once it’s manifested in the system there is no stopping it.

It’s getting crowded in here now. Moms and dads with their kids eating Happy Meals celebrating life. I sit in the corner. I can’t stop the tears. My beautiful child comes running back to our table, her cheeks flush, her expression joyful. I’m afraid to look up, look in her eyes. She senses my fear. Her expression darkens. I’ve robbed her her joy. She asks me why I’m sad. I lie and say I’m not, tell her how beautiful she is. She hesitates, then smiles. She’s flattered but it falters as my eyes fill. I’ve never been brave and I suck at pretending. I’ve let her down again.

There’s a woman staring at me. Her infant son sits on her lap trying to suck a shake up his straw. He stares too. They’re wondering what’s wrong with me. It’s more than just cancer. I can’t breathe. I can’t hold it together. I’ve never been able to hold it together.

There’s no line for the slide, I inform my daughter. She hesitates and looks at the play structure then runs off to play, lost to the moment, lost from me. I stare down and write.

I’ve never dared write about things that profoundly scare me. The written word is so concrete, like casting a possibility into reality. I’m writing it down now because it doesn’t matter. The foundation was laid years ago. The result of reckless behavior is inevitable. I knew it then. I know it now. I’m writing it down because my fear is consuming me, and I don’t want to look up.

If I have it I’ll deserve it. It’s just a reprieve if I don’t. The bullet is coming at me. No doubt about it. I’m not being fatalistic. All the years of partying, smoking, six or more Diet Cokes a day, and of course genetics. I’m a realist. Nothing happens in a vacuum. I set this up with my obsession to be thin, and in. There’s no point in pondering if it was worth it. It’s done. Live healthier now? Somewhat. But I still partake in binging and treats and other bad habits. I only know how to go too far (a la Ed Sherran).

I feel her arms around my waist but know it’s my daughter from her embrace. I melt, barely contain sobbing. I gather her hands in mine and bend to kiss them then let go. She comes around the table and sits across from me. She’s staring at me, assessing my mood. I’m afraid to hold eye contact and look past her at the happy family at the table behind her. Don’t be sad, Mom, my daughter says, and I look at her. ’Cuz I’ll love you forever.

My beautiful child, forever is not as far as it used to be, I think to say but don’t of course. I’ll love you forever, too, baby, I assure her but it feels like I’m lying. Can’t love dead. If I hold her gaze another second and I’ll won’t be able to hold it together. You finished? I ask her as I gather the detritus we’ve left on the table.

She dramatically crunches her empty bag into a ball and goes to trash it. We’ll go home tonight, snuggle in bed and read aloud together. Her first—The Magic Tree House, then we’ll listen to her older brother read Harry Potter. They’ll both go to bed tonight, sleep soundly, and tomorrow will be just another day in a long life to come. Tomorrow will change my life forever forward, even if simply a precursor to what I know is coming.

I’m scared out of my fucking mind.

6M Yrs of Human Evolution

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

or Review of The Hunger Games series…

ONE WISH. Right now. What would it be? Mom asked me and my sister on our drive home from school when I was 10. She often came up with non sequiturs to kill the silence following our monosyllabic responses when she asked about our day.

To get those new knee-high black leather boots, my sister said, and she paused for our mom’s response but got none. Which I know you won’t let me, she snapped.

What about you, Dolly? What would you wish for, Mom asked, looking at me in the rear view mirror.

World peace. I gave her my canonical answer when anyone asked what I’d wish for. I wanted it more than anything else, growing up watching my mom cry fixed on the TV News looking for her son, a front line Marine in the jungles of Vietnam at the height of the war.

What a stupid answer, my sister proclaimed. Never happen. Why don’t you ever wish for something you could actually get?

I slumped, but crossed my arms over my chest and countered, Peace is possible. Anything is possible.

Not world peace, she assured me. She was parroting our father.

Nothing ever changes, was Dad’s canonical refrain. Humans are aggressive, territorial, warring beings. We will always be combative, competitive, violent— a product of our foundation, forever encoded in our DNA.

Not true, I’d argue through the years. We’ve advanced from apes, developed complex languages, laws to protect and care for each other. We’ve risen from hunter/gatherers to farmers that now feed billions, created technology that allows us to communicate globally—

And we’ve invented better ways of killing each other, was always Papa’s rejoinder.

But we can learn how not to, I’d add with less vigor, sensing he was right, at least in that we’d invented a way of killing every living thing on our planet decades before I was born.

–

Fast forward 20+ years— a generation drop. Went to see Dances With Wolves at the Piedmont Theater with some friends. An epic film, made for the big screen, about an Army Lieutenant’s experience with Native Americans in the Dakota/Wyoming territories in the mid 1800s. Opening scene: U.S. civil war, blood, gore and all. Two scenes in, Army Captain blows his brains out. Couple scenes later, wagon driver pierced threw the chest with an arrow. Scene after scene showed violence. Americans killing Americans; Americans killing Indians; Indians killing Americans; Indians killing Indians with warring tribes. Ten minutes before the film ended I’d had enough. I ran from the theater, outside to the curb and threw up in the gutter.

My father is right. My father is right, was screaming in my head. We were engaged in the Gulf War back then, yet another stupid skirmish over territorial control, like dogs peeing to mark their spot. We’re better than this, a part of me pleaded. No. We’re not, I heard my dad say.

A beater BMW full of young guys watched me as they slowed almost to a stop alongside me on the curb. The driver stuck his tongue out and waggled it at me. A guy in the back seat behind the driver was catcalling me, making whistling noises like he was calling his pet. Piedmont is a wealthy suburb of Oakland, but it isn’t immune to assaults or drive-bys. Fear and disgust suddenly had me retching in the gutter again and the BMW took off.

My father is right. Nothing ever changes. We’re still barbarians, taking what we can, killing each other over nothing everywhere. My father is right.

I was blowing the blind date my girlfriend and her new husband set me up with that evening, silently staring down at the sidewalk while he paced me as the four of us walked to the Rockridge Cafe near the theater. I couldn’t stop tears from welling as we all sat down for a late dinner, excused myself and hid in the bathroom to get it together, but stood in the rather small, dim space and cried. Within moments my friend knocked to come in.

What is going on, she demanded, less concerned than annoyed. My ‘date’ was a friend of her husbands, and I suppose I was shaming them.

I apologized, willed myself to stop crying, but almost every time I blinked tears fell anyway. It’s just…I hesitated. Then I tried to explain to her I’d spent a lifetime denying my father’s ideology, and it turns out he may be right about humanity. We are a doomed race, with the emotional maturity of monkeys and the technology to annihilate our planet.

What difference does it make what we are or aren’t, my friend snapped. There’s no way to know what’ll happen in the future, so why worry about it? And if you’re a little less sad sack, even if you don’t like Mike (the date), you’ll find a guy like I have if you lighten up. You’ll start a family, move to some safe enclave with people like us and you’ll be so busy raising your kids and living the life you won’t feel a need to save the world anymore.

I stopped crying then, wiped my eyes on my sleeve and looked at her. She sounded like my pollyanna mother. You don’t get it. What’s the point of having kids if not to move us toward a more creative, compassionate, kinder, equitable future? Seriously, do you really want our kids, or theirs, or their kids kids to wade through the mire of the crap we do today? The sexism? The systemic racism and inequity it perpetuates? The violence we tolerate. Still!

She just stared at me. Then, You really need to chill! Splash some water on your face then come out and have a glass of wine or two, or three, and something to eat and you’ll feel better. And be nice! She commanded before reaching for me and pulling me in for a hug then left the bathroom.

–

Fast forward 20+ years more— another generation drop. Just finished The Hunger Games series with my 13 year old son. Normally, I never see movies or read books that involve kids getting hurt anymore. As a parent, I can’t touch that terror. But my son insisted Suzanne Collins was the ‘best writer he’s ever read,’ a high endorsement for a kid who reads three or more books a month, and requested we read it together for our traditional nightly read. And as a fiction writer, I just had to see why my kid loved this series so much more than any before it.

The first book, The Hunger Games, was captivating at first read. Engaging. Fast. Edgy, but a smooth, entertaining ride. Knowing there were two more books in the series made it plausible the main character, Katness, went along with the games with only the vaguest of questions about the morality behind them. Alliances were formed for survival, not partnering for innovation or love. The novel focused on the games themselves, the dystopian society, exploitative, ugly, and violent in the extreme, but it didn’t occur to me until the end of the first book there were no real characters on the pages. Ultimately, most everyone was out for themselves.

The Hunger Games was sad, dark, deeply disturbing from opening line to closing sentence, a grotesque statement on our character— Ms. Collins’s self-proclaimed interpretation on the popularity of the reality show Survivor. My son promised me the series provided a happy ending.

We finished Mockingjay last week, the last book in the series. The novel was disjointed, too many quick cuts with no real depth scene after scene. Beyond exploitative, reading it was like watching CNN— a barrage of video clips of what’s happening, and only the briefest explanation (and generally singular POV) as to why. And though Katness and her band of tortured cronies eventually win the day, the author makes it very clear the new order is the same as the old one, equally ugly, most having learned nothing from their past persecution and perilous fight to overthrow ‘the Capitol.’

My father is right, according to Suzanne Collins.

Nothing ever really changes is not a happy ending. After finishing the full series, I realize the novels are more effect than substantive content, on par with reality TV, as the writer claimed was her model for the series.

Been feeling somewhat ripped off for wasting my time with her three novels, and a bit pissed off for the message that Ms. Collins is subtly selling to our children.

My husband and I are raising our kids with the belief that people are malleable. We can, will, and do change. In fact, the human race is in the process of change constantly, albeit slowly, and not just our physicality, but our minds— we are evolving beings. We encourage the notion we can reach our amazing potential for invention, empathy, connection, with enough collective intelligence to create and sustain flourishing societies through communication, cooperation, compassion, and compromise. We promote these concepts to empower our children with the mindset they are changeable, bad habits are breakable, contempt and anger minimized when we are respected, feel valued, loved. War, famine, disease, hate are all eventually resolvable if we allow our massively complex, creative brains a safe harbor to thrive.

Idealist, my father, and seemingly Suzanne Collins mock me. Better an idealist then the cynic resigned to impending doom, or the author who exploits our frailties from voyeurism to sadism for book sales and then lays our current character flaws in stone to our children.

We must believe fundamental change in our character and nature are possible for each of us to begin living our kinder, smarter, more creative and productive selves forward.

Gen Z Dating IRL

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My 25 yr old son started dating someone for the first time in his life, and what I’ve been wishing for him isn’t happening as I’d hoped.

I was excited by the idea of him dating. It made me sad he didn’t in high school, or even in college when most of his contemporaries were. It made my son sad too. He was lonely a lot, and like so many guys of his gen chose gaming to risking rejection.

I was on him constantly. ‘There’s a tech meetup in the city.’ He’s a software dev. ‘There’s a speed dating thing on EventBright.’ Of course, I was infantalizing him, but I couldn’t just sit there watching my kid waste his life away in front of a computer screen turning into an incel. I’m his mom. I love him. I had to do something to encourage him to go out, so I found networking and dating events and needled him to go.

He went out when I pushed him, so I kept pushing, but he didn’t meet anyone because he didn’t try engaging. He’d go, and then leave the event within an hour or so to say he went. ‘See! I’m going out, but I’m wasting my time and money. I feel stupid at bars or clubs and hate going to them. I feel like I’m boring and I have nothing to say. I’m going for you, Mom, so you’ll get off my back.’

But I didn’t. His sister and I helped him set up a Tinder account, which yielded even more hurt feelings when he consistently got no matches. He tried Bumble BFF, just for friends since he had none of those IRL either. Most guys who responded were gay, looking for a lover, not just friends. By his own measure, my son is heterosexual.

I don’t know the line I’m supposed to stay behind in regards to my involvement in his life. At 25, I’ve been his mom, his mentor, his closest, and only confidant. I watched him suffer through bouts of depression so dark I was afraid he’d commit suicide. My fear was so pervasive when he went black, I made a deal with him. I won’t. He can’t. ‘Till after you’re dead, Mom,’ was the only way he’d agree. Lonely is a killer, on par with heart disease and cancer.

It made me sad that my son hadn’t had a friend that lasted, no girlfriend, or sex yet. His isolation scared me. Twenty six was coming. Clinical depression often manifests in males at 26. So I kept pushing him to find friends, lovers, girlfriends — people to experience life with. And he kept getting nowhere on Tinder and at Meetups until he got on Facebook Friends and met Grace.

Recent BS in Data Science, she is 23, works half the year in Manhattan and half the year remotely for a small tech startup in New York. Born and raised in South Korea, her devout Christian family relocated here when Grace was 10. I’ve raised both my kids without religion and to value character over culture. Kindness is what they should seek and treasure. And a safe harbor when together.

They began a friendship with Grace’s invites to parties and tech events to attend together. At most of them she was on her phone, or taking selfies for her socials. When she went back to Manhattan, they spoke on the phone often, for hours, mostly about her life, her many health issues, her job. She asked him few questions, didn’t really engage with his responses, often putting him down for what she felt was his lack of ambition in business, and in becoming a master musician. My son plays the guitar, sax, and piano well, but for enjoyment. Grace made it clear she considered him weak whenever he cried. She expected attention, encouragement, empathy, but gave none.

To say my son was desperate for connection would be understating his psyche’s need to associate with people other than me and his sister. His relationship with his father is fraught and he doesn’t feel comfortable being vulnerable with his dad. While he complained to me about Grace’s hurtful behavior often, she was all he had, so he kept talking to her, and hanging out with her when she was in town.

Six months into their friendship, and coming up on the holidays (when being single particularly sucks), Grace began to hint to my son she was looking for more. She stroked him, telling him he was cute, smart, witty. She became a lot more touchy — squeezing his arm or his hand kind of thing, my son relayed to me one evening in early December.

‘I don’t know what to do, Mom,’ he said. ‘I don’t wanta wreck our friendship cuz I like a lot about Grace — she’s smart, educated, ambitious, a math-head. But I don’t think I want to get into a romantic relationship with her.’

My heart sank. This girl was clearly interested in more with my son and he was rejecting her. He was blowing an opportunity to experience an intimate relationship without exploring the possibility that Grace simply didn’t know what he needed/wanted, and if he clued her in she may indeed be responsive. I asked him many questions about their interactions and listened to his misgivings. I suggested he voice his frustrations with her hurtful behavior. If Grace really wanted to be intimate, she’d acknowledge his trepidation and at least try to be less critical, and distracted, and show more interest in him.

Days later my son and Grace were officially a couple. He told me she’d agreed to put her phone away, and did, right before she kissed him…

And I’d love to say this story is happily ever after, but not so much.

It’s been over a month since their coupling. My son is stressed all the time. He literally passed out, the only time in his entire life, when she was at him for not playing the piano to her standards a couple weeks back. He had a bruise on his forehead and headaches for days. They spent New Year’s Eve together and consummated their boyfriend/girlfriend status, but their sex has been rather fraught. Being called “Daddy” doesn’t really work for him.

He talks to me about his relationship with Grace without my prompting because I raised my kids to freely express their feelings and thoughts to me throughout their lives with my solemn oath not to reprimand or judge them with their disclosures. It’s a hard promise to keep sometimes, but I guess for the most part I have because they trust me enough to confide in me. Again, I don’t know the line moms and sons are not supposed to cross in our communication. I’m still his most trusted confidant. I was hoping a girlfriend would take on at least part of that role, but Grace hasn’t.

The last couple of days he’s been asking me if he should break up with her. Dating eight weeks now, he’s falling behind in his Master’s program, he’s exhausted, anxious, tense a lot. Of course, I could not tell him what to do so I threw his question back at him.

‘You’re a math guy,’ I started. He nodded. ‘What percent of your time together would you say you’ve had fun with Grace?’

He thought about it a minute, then went through a couple fun dates and events he’d taken her to, since when they became a couple, my son’s been paying for everything they do. Then he added, ‘Maybe 20% has been fun with her. The rest has been pretty stressful. I get why you’re crazy now.’

He was referring to my 29 yr marriage to his father. Ouch. ‘Do what I’ve said, not what I’ve done,’ but I knew it was crap as it left my mouth.

‘Bullshit.’ He said it like dropping a bomb. ‘Kids do what we see.’

‘Yeah. I know,’ I admitted, guilt suffocating me. ‘I’m sorry your dad and I have had so much discord. I’m sorry I modeled staying with someone who objectified me.’

Like Grace does me. I really think she’s looking for a daddy figure. I want a partner, someone who’s a safe harbor, like I’ve been trying to be for her. He flashed a half-grin like ‘Surprise! I was listening.’

‘Touche,’ I said smiling back at him. And for a second I feel that electric connection between us. I don’t trust my parenting that I’ve set my kids up to take care of themselves better than I’ve taken care of me. And I want so much more for them in their relationships than to become filled with contempt. The best I can tell ya honey, is communicate. Tell Grace how you feel and why. Listen to her too. Maybe you two can still forge a path together. And maybe not.’

‘I get it. I just wanta feel like both of us are doing the 4 Steps.’ He grinned again.

I did too.

‘Gotta get back,’ he said, and got up from the table. ‘Thanks, Mom.’ Then he kissed the top of my head and left the kitchen.

The 4 Steps to Better Relationships (to which my son was referring):

  1. We are a TEAM.
  2. What does my partner need/want?
  3. What do I need/want?
  4. Compromise.

Missing My Period

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My period is six days late. I check throughout the day, hoping, but my old friend isn’t coming. There was a time when I would have been ecstatic it was late, gotten a pregnancy test and peed on the stick anticipating the plus sign. And there were times I would have been horrified I may be pregnant, too afraid to take the test while anxiously waiting for my period to start. But today there is a quiet sorrow, like mourning a loss. It’s possible I’ll never see my period again. Menopause has taken my friend and is robbing me of my youth.

Never in my life have I had the affection for my period I do now that it’s going away. Like most girls, I couldn’t wait for it to start. Menstruating turned a girl into woman, our mothers assured us. What my mother didn’t fill me in on were the cramps, the bloating, the wild mood swings, and the total hassle of bleeding for five days every single month. Once I became sexually active there was the constant concern of getting pregnant, regardless of using birth control. Everyone knows stories of women who claimed to be on the pill, or said they were using a condom but got pregnant anyway.

My period was more than a minor inconvenience; it was a major disruption to my life. I was one of the few women unable to take the Pill. Regardless of the dosage, it made me ill. I felt the full force of menstruation monthly. The gross mess and disgusting smell of the physical bleeding, on top of the intense cramping from passing clumps of bloody tissue were nothing compared to the mental ride every three weeks or so. Like clockwork after ovulation I’d get ravenously hungry, overwhelmingly tired, anxious, bitchy, with sudden bursts of manic energy. The closer I got to my period the more intense my feelings, all feelings would get. Right before I began bleeding, I often experienced bouts of deep sadness, wept with little provocation. But literally the moment my period began my darkness would lift as if it never existed.

Thirty seven years of this and I thought I’d be thrilled when menopause came along. It surprised me to feel so differently while waiting for my period to come and thinking it may not. Despite that I was one of those unlucky women with severe PMS, or PMDD, or whatever they’re calling it these days, my period gave me my kids. Having a period gave me the capacity to produce life. And though my two extraordinary children are all I’ll ever want, when my period goes I’ll lose the ability to have any ever again. What kind of woman will I be without the exclusive, inherently female capability to reproduce?

Menopause steals more than our ability to have children. According to Wikipedia, as women age our ovaries gradually produce lower levels of the natural sex hormones estrogen, progesterone, and testosterone until they diminish almost entirely. These are the hormones of youth. They keep our immune system and other vital body functions healthy so we are physiologically able to carry and bear a child, fulfill our biological imperative.

Estrogen accelerates metabolism (to burn fat faster). It increases bone density, and vaginal lubrication for better sex. Estrogen promotes healthy cholesterol levels. It helps regulate fluid balance which controls water retention. It aids lung function and reduces the risk of several kinds of cancers.

Progesterone acts as an anti-inflammatory and regulates the immune response. It normalizes blood clotting and cell oxygen levels, and use of fat stores for energy. It decreases risk of gingivitis and tooth decay. It appears to affect synaptic functioning, improve memory and cognitive ability. And progesterone also seems to reduce the risk of several deadly cancers.

And everyone knows testosterone is the premiere sex hormone — that sweet, dense scent that leeches through the pours right before orgasm. It also controls libido and clitoral engorgement. It increases muscle strength and mass, mental and physical energy. Maintaining testosterone levels has been shown to reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease, decrease fat and increase lean body mass.

The payoff to enduring my menstrual cycle was clearly much more than producing kids. In losing my period, I am not only grieving the loss of childbearing but the hormones that provided me privileges and protections. The end of menstruation feels harder, darker than the onset. Girls speculate in wonder waiting for their periods to begin. In menopause, women must undergo drenching sweats, memory loss, weight gain, and phantom pain. Get through all that and the light at the end of this ordeal turns out to be a death bullet. Perimenopause begins in our early 50’s and full menopause last upwards of 10 years or more. Surviving menopause means then confronting the perils of old age, and coming to terms with my eminently closer demise.

Dye my hair, work out daily, dress casual but chic, and still, losing my period means unequivocally, undeniably I am no longer young. I miss my old friend right now and wonder if like my youth it is gone forever.

What Makes a Great Man

by jcafesin, posted in masculinity

Men are the freight train comin’ at ya.
Women are the poison in your food…

I’m a guy’s girl, meaning I’ve spent most of my life hanging out with men instead of women. The freight train comin’ at ya, I prefer men’s straightforward nature, their directness, their unwavering, solution-oriented trajectory. Men are simpler than women. Not less intelligent, just not so round-about, from behind, underneath.

Women, by contrast, are the poison in our food. Eons of subjugation have forced us to become puppet-masters to get what we want/need for ourselves and our children. Not a judgment call, simply a fact that until very recently might was necessary for our species survival, putting men firmly on top of the human hierarchy. Greater muscle mass to kill mastodons gave men the ability to take what they wanted, including sex. From our beginnings, men have assumed they controlled the household with superior strength.

Notice I said, “men assumed they controlled the household.” Well, you know what happens when you ass(of)u(and)me…;-}

Seriously though, probably pretty early on, like cavemen times, women figured out how to get men to do what we want using our wit and wiles. Genetic transfer of memory over thousands of generations of women passing on how to be manipulative eventually became woven into the DNA and imprinted on our XX chromosomes.

Regardless of why women became… complex, the fact that we are scares me about us. Women don’t only manipulate men. Quite often our children, sometimes even our friends, and all too often ourselves. I’d much rather face a freight train because if I’m paying attention, I can get off the tracks before getting slammed. Hence, why I’m a guy’s girl.

Men have historically subjugated women simply because they could. A mere six generations ago, women were not allowed to own their own property or keep their own wages. The only way to keep her family fed and a roof over their heads was to placate to a man. Until as recently as the 1970s, women could not get a mortgage loan without a co-signature from a man. And even today, stats from Dept. of Labor for 2023 show women still make 83% of a man for the exact same job.

Times truly are changing, though. Want a mastodon? Buy one on Amazon. Men’s physical prowess is unnecessary in today’s world. Upwards of 60% more women graduate college then men today. Most educated women pursue a career path and can pay their own way through life now, even if we still typically make less then men. Most of us don’t need a man’s financial support to survive or even thrive. Technology — from the Pill to the PC — has made it possible for women to control our own destinies, and function equally alongside men in most of today’s business environments. The few jobs still requiring brute strength are being replaced by robots.

Men are losing their position atop the social order with every advance of technology, and every law enforcing equal rights. And falling off the tip top position of authority hurts. I get that. It’s why more men voted for Trump than women, by a lot. The new pres elect promised to MAKE MEN GREAT AGAIN, but this is a lie, like most everything else out of the man/child’s mouth.

  • Great men don’t need to subjugate anyone. They value input and recognize insights from their spouses and colleagues to their children.
  • Great men don’t need to be ‘right’ all the time. They respect other’s POV, often learn from them and alter their position.
  • Great men think with their brains, not their ‘little heads.’
  • Great men are humble, remorseful when they screw up. They don’t blame the people they’ve hurt when made aware. They apologize and try not to repeat the hurtful behavior.
  • Great men know how to listen. Hear. Remember and learn from what is said and discussed.
  • Great men can disagree without rancor or hateful rhetoric. They’ve no need to put down their wives, their colleagues, or their children’s behavior or POV.
  • Great men don’t make their career/job, watching sports, doing hobbies, or fulfilling personal desires more important than anything else in their life.
  • Great men are connected outside themselves. They consider the lives they touch and care about the radiating effects of their actions before taking any.
  • Great men do not need to be served but take pleasure in serving others.
  • Great men are aware of their own emotions. They understand what they are feeling in real time and express their feelings instead of brooding with silent contempt.
  • Great men are not afraid of looking vulnerable or asking for help.
  • Great men truly care about the world around them. Not just in words but deeds — volunteering, teaching, giving, sharing, investing their time in not just personal pursuits but helpful and kind actions.
  • Great men are empathetic. Compassionate. Kindness is the foundation of what motivates most of their behavior towards others.

All of the bullet points above (and many more not listed) are also what makes a Great Human Being.

I’ve been privileged to know a few great men in my life. I am free to express my thoughts and feelings to them without worrying they’re going to dismiss what I say, put me down, stonewall me, or try to silence me by derailing the dialog when they’re losing their position with my reasoning. Our relationships are of mutual respect. I never need or desire to play puppet master with them.

Playing the role of puppet-master is exhausting. Figuring out and then implementing the primers and triggers to motivate the behavior I want takes more energy than I care to invest. I prefer just TALKING and honestly expressing what I need, which is why I generally suck at puppeteering. And quite frankly, with so few great men, or women who aren’t honest with themselves or those they try and manipulate, it’s been a lonely life, always on the outside looking in on communication games I don’t care to play.

Gaming honest communication to get your way, get what you want, or ‘win’ a dispute is destructive in the extreme. Successful relationships — where both parties feel heard, respected, appreciated — from partners to parenting to friendships and colleagues require listening and caring about the other person’s feelings, thoughts, and preferences, and of course, understanding you can’t always get what you want, but both get what they need in equal measure. Only in doing so can each be a safe harbor for the other.

It really is time to eradicate from the human lexicon these ingrained antiquated gender roles and social positions that have been in place since the beginning of our existence.

It’s time for men to realize that to be a Great Man now requires more than brute strength or bringing in an income. Step down from the throne, shed the bravado and learn to build partnerships on a foundation of trust through mutual respect and compromise.

Women must come out from underneath, behind, quietly poisoning the well of honest communication with puppeteering. Instead of continuing to play puppet-master, stop accepting slights to avoid conflict. It only builds resentment. Boldly, honestly express how you feel and what you need. Don’t settle on being ignored, undervalued, invisible, constantly acquiescing to his desires over your own. Don’t manipulate. Communicate. Keep pushing the envelope of awareness, and know evolution takes millennium to change what has been since humanity began. We are all works in progress, and we must learn from one another to thrive together.

The Fallacy of Palestinian Protests

by jcafesin, posted in Uncategorized

My daughter, a college senior, told me yesterday that she joined the Palestinian protest on campus.

“I believe that genocide is wrong, Mom. So, I stood up for what I believe.”

I think she expected me to be proud of her, but her words made my skin crawl. My daughter knows nothing of the history of either country. She has no idea why there is a war between Israel and Palestine now, how the war even started, or why Israel is bombing the Gaza Strip. In fact, she has no idea where the Gaza Strip is, or why it is there, or who their govt is.

I raised my kids to stand up and speak out when they encounter racism, sexism, ignorance, hate. I did not teach them to blithely go along with the crowd. That’s how Nazis came about.

Do you know that Hamas, the government of Gaza, launched an unprovoked attack on Israel, killed over 1,200 people, and kidnapped 253 in October of last year?

No.

And did you know Hamas was raping 12–48 yr old girls and women they kidnapped, then posting it online to terrorize victim’s loved ones?

I haven’t heard that. All I heard was Israel was bombing civilians in Palestine and killing mostly women and children.

Do you know that the government the Palestinian people voted in are using their women and children as cover for their terrorist shit, and that is why they were getting killed in Israeli bombings?

No. But it doesn’t make it right that Israel is killing kids.

No. It doesn’t. I didn’t say Israel is right. There is no right here, baby. Both sides are wrong. I’m not pro-Israel. They know that Hamas is sacrificing Palestinian children, yet instead of targeted strikes against Hamas, they are wielding an iron fist. Badly. Ugly. For sure. 100%.

So, what’s wrong with me joining the protest then, when even you don’t believe Israel is right? she asked me, exasperated.

My beautiful daughter, siding with one side or the other is divisive in the extreme. It perpetuates the problems there, and creates more here, between us. Call out bad behavior, like Israel knowingly killing civilians regardless of their reasons. Or Palestinians voting in a fanatical religious government with an agenda to kill all Israelis. Neither is right. Call out bad behavior, not an entire nation. Do not get on the PC train because your friends are and you wanta fit in. Do the research before taking a stand. Blind faith means turning off your brain. And that is never OK.

So you think I shouldn’t have joined the protest?

Do you know professional agitators are targeting campuses like yours to get all you kids riled up? And that most of these protests wouldn’t even be happening if not for the pro-agitators who are paid big bucks to get online and throw a protest.

I thought they were all student here. Who would pay someone to do that?

I don’t know. But right now I’m betting on the Republican party. They want to destabilize our nation because the more chaotic the better Trump’s chances of winning the election.

Seriously? she asked, aghast, as she feels like I do about our misogynist x-pres.

I don’t know, honey. What I do know is ninety-nine point nine nine nine…etc. percent of these college protesters have no clue about what is going on over there, just like you don’t. They catch news bites online, and the bloodier the bites the more eyeballs they get. The news just loves a great car crash!

Standing up for ONE SIDE when you don’t know the history, the region, the people, the conflicts that have been there since the UN decided Israel’s borders, the wars, how they started, or why they started is, well, ignorant. So you were out there with a bunch of ignorant students who are creating more conflict, more hate, more antisemitism with their protest. And it won’t change a thing because the universities will not cut all ties with Israel. Ever. Israel is a collaborative partner in research and development of medicine to tech, the primary function of any university. With all this in mind, do YOU think you should have been out there protesting?

The energy was so electric with all those people, Mom. It sure felt like we were doing something meaningful.

Promoting ignorance and hate is never meaningful, baby. Don’t just go along with the crowd and create more conflict like these protests do. Making a real difference takes work, honey. Lots of work, over a long time. Think, research, a LOT, since so much of the internet is lies. Then form your own opinion, and act to be part of the solution.

The Good Life

by jcafesin, posted in aging, Family, family life, lonliness, parenting, parents, Uncategorized

To escape the bickering, and whining, and catering to the needs and desires of everyone’s demands, I took our dog, Annie, for a walk on a quiet fire trail near our house. Bright and beautiful out, a sweet sea breeze came over the Oakland Hills with the afternoon sun. The mile and a half dirt path along the base of the foothills was mostly vacant, rarely used by even residents of the neighborhood, so I did not leash my dog for the walk.

I saw someone from where I stood on the ridge while I waited for Annie to finish marking her territory in an open field. A woman was coming towards us on the trail below, and I tensed as I scanned for the dog she was most likely walking, but saw none. Still, I called my 70-pound Shepherd-mix to me. My beautiful pound-hound was a bit unpredictable with other dogs. Play. Fight. Run. I never knew which, or why. She passionately loved people, though most didn’t appreciate her bounding up to greet them.

Annie came to me, and I held her collar as we stood on the ridge and watched the woman trudge up the hill. Her white hair looked almost like a silver helmet in the sunlight. She walked slowly, and carefully, and hunched. I made her out to be in her mid-70s. My dog started whining the moment she noticed the woman approaching, then practically yanked my arm off trying to pull away from me and go meet her potential new friend.

The woman was 30 feet away when she noticed us, looked up and stopped. I loudly assured her my dog was very friendly and loved everybody, and that I held her securely, asserting there was no need to worry. The old woman looked at my dog wagging her tail wildly and whining incessantly, and she smiled. She confidently told me she loved dogs, then called mine to her with a pat on her legs and words of welcome. I let go of Annie’s collar. She lopped over to the woman, ears back, but tail up and swishing, and sidled up to her, leaning her downy-soft, muscular frame into the woman’s legs. I joined them on the path where the woman stood stroking my pound-hound.

The old woman gently ran her hand along the length of Annie’s back again and again while extolling the animal’s Sphinx-like appearance and friendly nature. Annie was mesmerized with her touch, as my dog was with just about anyone’s, but the woman seemed to really enjoy the contact as well, her expression set in a soft, contented smile. She explained she’d had several dogs during the years she and her husband raised their three kids. The dogs had passed on, the kids had moved on, now with families of their own. Her husband died two years back and for the first time in her life she was alone.

Her kids, even her grandkids kept telling her to get a dog. I chimed in with words of encouragement, told her about getting my dog at eight weeks old from a kill shelter in Manteca, and ranted about some great local shelters where she could find a great companion.

My graceful hound took off after a squirrel, startling us both. The woman began brushing the dog hair off her pants, but a lot of short hairs were woven into the navy polyester and clung to her pant legs where the dog had leaned against her. “I’ve spent the last 50 years of my life attending to others needs—cooking, cleaning, and more cleaning, and taking care of everyone else. I told myself I deserved a break after my husband lost his three-year battle with brain cancer. I would travel, get out to the movies and play canasta, live the good life.”

Annie came bouncing back, long tongue dangling from her panting (grinning?) mouth. She came to me first to get my pat, then went back to the old woman for more strokes, which the woman gave willingly. “I’ve been on three cruises in the last two years. I play canasta twice a month, and see all the new movies I want.” Again she seemed…pacified, by patting my dog. “Turns out, the good life was when I was needed. Being counted on made me feel vital, and valued. Now, no matter what I do, I mostly just feel lonely.” She straightened and brushed her pant legs off again as my dog swaggered over to the tall grass and lay in it. “I think you all may be right. It’s time I got a dog.” She gave me a pleasant smile. “It’s been a pleasure chatting. Good day to you.” And she went on her way.

I stood there watching her walk along the path, her words echoing in my head. My kids were 12 and 14, and beyond their bickering, and continual demands of my time and energy, parenting them was simply the richest, most rewarding experience of my life. They made me feel vital. Valued. And with my life so integrated into theirs, and my husband by my side joining me in this grand adventure, I virtually never felt lonely anymore, like I had so often before them.

Annie lay in the grass sunning herself. I gave a quick whistle, and she popped up and joined me on our walk home. I stroked my dog as she walked by my side, glad to have her with me, counting on me, as my kids and my husband did, and probably would for many years to come. I imagined the old woman’s empty house and anticipated the tumult in mine.

And suddenly, I felt very lucky indeed to be living the good life.