Tag: raising kids

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.

On Raising a Modern Man

by jcafesin, posted in education, Emapthic, Emotional Intelligence, Family, family life, parenting, parents, racism, sexism

My 21-year-old daughter decided to give me an assessment of my parenting of both her and her brother on her visit home from college at the end of summer break. Among my many crimes, I was cheap, though my college senior has never paid a bill in her life, not for her education since we float those bills, not her phone, not her car, which I gave her mine when she needed one, not even car insurance. Every birthday she received piles of presents that she actually wanted, (not clothes, like my mom gave me), usually well over a grand. And let me be clear, we are squarely middle-class, and at times throughout their formative years, we struggled to make the bills.

Spoiled brat? Maybe. But both my husband and I felt our kids should focus on academics and socialization, and use their meager part-time job earnings for fun. Adulting would come after college, along with the pressure of earning enough to pay their bills.

We sat at Caliente’s eating chips and waiting for our meals as she continued to list my failures. I gave unsolicited advice when we spoke, and she just wanted to rant. I tell people when and why I’m disappointed in their behavior, like customer service reps who show no desire to help, but no one cares what you have to say, Mother. I was violent sometimes when I got angry.

Did I ever hit you, or even spank you? Throw anything at you? I asked her, trying to be patient, listen carefully and address her complaints.

No, of course not.

Have you ever been afraid I’ll strike you? Or hurt you physically, ever?

No. I know you’ll never hit me, or throw anything at me, or hurt me like that. But when you yell, or cuss, or throw your napkin down on your plate when you’re angry, it’s really aggressive, so those times you’ve been emotionally violent. My daughter is on the medical track, to become a doctor, with a minor in psychology.

Wow. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Do you feel like I’m aggressive a lot? She was completely undermining my self-image. One of my best bits is I am non-violent in the extreme. I’ve preached to both my kids that violence is unacceptable other than in self-defense when in imminent danger.

No. Most of the time you’re pretty chill, except when you and Dad are at it, then you trigger quicker.

We went round about over aggressive vs violent, then she finally moved on to the coup de grace.

You raised your son like a girl, she said as the waiter put our meals in front of us, then retreated. You did, Mom. You taught him to share his feelings, and he does. Too much, for a guy. You made sure to point out sexism in social norms, movies, in politics, and business, and how often men think with their ‘little head.’ You raised your son to think like a woman, and it hasn’t helped him any.

I sat there chewing my first [and last] bite of the three Street Tacos on my plate. I chewed until it was basically mush in my mouth to swallow it because my throat had constricted with my daughter’s harsh critique. To her point, our son battles depression and has since his first year in middle school. But until my daughter called me out right then, I hadn’t considered raising him to be empathetic, more aware of his own feelings and how he affects the world around him as a ‘girl’ thing.

I raised you both the same, I told her, fighting the tears now welling in my eyes.

I know, she said with the confidence of a professor. That’s the problem. Beyond logistics, most boys don’t learn to communicate. They’re taught to compete, which is why boys make friends through sports.

We enrolled your brother in baseball, soccer, Boy Scouts, taekwondo—

Yeah. But he liked talking to his teammates more than playing the game. You made his life totally harder because he doesn’t fit into his gender. And he’s not gay. So, you really screwed him up —

I’m done, I said. You’ve spent the entire day beating me up. And I’m done. I threw my napkin on my plate. Oh, shit, that was aggressive, I said to my daughter, then got up, paid the lunch bill, and came back to where she still sat, staring down at her Carne Asada. I could not stop the tears from streaming down my face when I told her to take the car, and that I’d walk to get mine at the shop, but I didn’t want to be with her anymore right then. Then I walked away. I’d never, ever, walked away from either of my children.

I got maybe 100 yards, out of the mainstream and melted down, sank to my knees against a shop wall. It took me a good five minutes to stop hysterically crying before I was able to walk to the repair place and deal with the mechanic. I got my car and drove out to the lake, walked to the end of the pier and sat on the bench, sucking in the wet air to catch my breath, and reasonably, calmly, assess my daughter’s many assertions.

I’m cheap. Hmm, she didn’t use the word ‘cheap.’ She said, you’ve been tight with money. Too tight. A politically correct way to say ‘cheap.’ Since my daughter doesn’t have a clue about the cost of even her current lifestyle, I discounted her assertion I was cheap with her lack of actual knowledge.

I was violent. As I explained to my daughter over our brief lunch, the word ‘violent’ means “using physical force intended to hurt, damage, or kill someone or something,” a la Google, as I asked her to look it up over chips and salsa. I abhor violence. Growing up, my 6’3”, 230-pound dad used to hit me when he encountered my resistance. My father was violent. I’ll cop to being aggressive when I’m angry. Maybe too aggressive, and I will work on backing that off.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a first step towards calm over anger, reason over rage.

I raised my son like a girl because I taught him the same lessons that I taught to my daughter…

I sat on that bench staring out at the lake until almost sunset thinking about her assertion. I realized I was shaking, I assumed from the chilly night approaching, until I got in my car and turned on the heater but didn’t stop. I was trembling with outrage.

I got home half an hour later. My daughter was in her room, very upset, my son assured me, though he didn’t know exactly why. She’d only told him we’d had a fight and I left. I went to her room and asked her to meet me in my office, a private space a quarter acre from the house, so we could talk. She came in a bit after me.

I love you, I began when we were seated. I love you, I repeated, locking my eyes on hers hoping to transfer the intensity of love I feel for her. I want the best for you, and for you to be the best of you.

I love you too, she said. And I’m so sorry for this afternoon. You are my best friend, and I’m sorry I hurt you.

I get it. Me too, for leaving. I’m sorry that hurt you. I needed space to think about all the stuff you said to me. I’m ready to talk to you about that now. And I may get aggressive because I am so hurt by so much of what you said, but I won’t ever be violent. I smiled to ease the tension.

She did too. I know, she conceded. I’m sorry I said that. I know it’s not true.

OK. Thanks. I took a breath but kept my eyes on hers. First, when you start paying for your education, your car, your insurance, your phone, and all your other expenses that we pay for, only then will you have the knowledge to assess if I am cheap.

I didn’t say you were cheap, Mom —

Yeah. Ya did. And I’m not going to sit here playing word games with you. You know what I mean. I felt my heart racing. A typical passive/aggressive play my husband, her father, engages in when we’re in conflict is grammar-nazi, nitpicking every word I use to derail the dialog.

I’m sorry, Mom. I know how hard you’ve worked to make sure we got taken care of through college. I’m really sorry I said that. And she started crying.

And so did I, seeing her hurt, and knowing I still had a hard lesson to teach. My talented, beautiful daughter, I began. I love you, I repeated, to remind myself how much I did amid the outrage I felt towards her right then. You accused me of raising my son like a girl. And out of all the things you said to me today, this cuts the deepest. Have you said this to your brother — that I raised him like a girl?

She looked down, said No, but I didn’t believe her. Then she looked at me and said, I don’t remember saying it to him. I don’t think I did, anyway…

If you’ve told your brother I raised him like a girl, you’ve diminished the best of him. The best of any human — man or woman. He is kind. Truly kind, not just words but actions, volunteering at the food bank, and working in nonprofit. Your brother is compassionate. He really cares about how people feel, knows how to listen, and empathize. He examines his feelings and has the grace, and humility to look for and admit his culpability, and then take responsibility for his screw-ups. And I get your brother may have a harder life being different from most men his age. But I refused to raise my son as most boys are still raised — to reflect their father’s bravado from our caveman days.

I felt my heart race and heard myself getting louder and faster with my delivery. I stopped speaking and took a deep breath. My daughter sat in my high-backed leather office chair, her hands clasped in her lap, looking rather small, way younger than her almost 22 years.

I love you, I repeated, to give her ground.

I love you too, my daughter said, tears streaming down her face.

You’ve admitted I raised both of you the same. And I meant to. I worked hard to treat you equally, and respect you both as individuals. I gave you the same messaging, not as male or female, but as people. I raised you both not to reflect your dad and I, but to be better than us — smarter, more connected inside yourself, and more responsive to the world you touch. Not boy/girl, or sexist norms passed through generations, but to meet our compassionate, creative potential regardless of gender — be the best of what we are. I fixed my eyes on my daughter’s, trying to impart to her what I know to be true.

Children can stop racism, when they are taught to understand instead of hate.

Children can stop sexism, when parents teach their kids that their value lies in their actions, not their gender.

Children can stop the greedy few from controlling the many by implementing laws for an equitable society, and sustainable stewardship of this planet.

Tears now streaming down both our faces, I stared at my daughter.

No pressure there, she said with a half-smile.

I smiled too. Between theory and the need to change the direction of our current reality is the grand fucking canyon. An audible sigh escaped me. Sorry, kid. You were born owing the gen before you to contribute to the living and the lives that follow yours. It comes with the privilege of being Human.

I get it, Mom. And I said things I didn’t mean today. And I’m sorry.

I know. Me too. For all the times I’ve failed you, I’m so sorry. I get you’re mad at me for something, but I’m thinking it ain’t most of what you said today. So, let’s explore what you’re feeling, and drill down on what you’re really upset about…

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.