A Resolution Revolution

Like all of you other suckers, I've often been guilty of making New Year's resolutions on December 31. And like 92% percent of the population, each and every time, I've failed miserably within the first 31 days of each new year.

My attempts at past resolutions have included more exercise, less eating, more reading, less cursing, more sleeping, and countless other pipe dreams I cannot recall. You probably have a list of similar good intentions.

Maybe, just maybe, you've even been an 8-percenter and succeeded at keeping a resolution or two.

And if you are among those strong-willed and committed few who eat carrot sticks, love to sweat, regularly expand your vocabulary, are positive role models for your kids, and get 10 hours a night ... well, then, as we say in the South:

Bless your heart.

I, on the other hand, wised up a few years back and began making the only resolution I have ever kept. Actually, I have made it every year since, and I've been able to keep it year in and year out with hardly any effort at all.

My New Year's Resolution is to not make any resolutions.

See how easy that is?

But all kidding aside, as I was eating some kale chips and working out on the elliptical earlier today (while simultaneously reading the new novel I just downloaded), I began to think about the year ahead.

I may be anti-resolution, but that doesn't mean I can't aspire to live my life better in 2015 than I did in 2014.

And that's when I thought about my late father-in-law, Jack Rogers.

Jack, who passed away suddenly in March 2003 at the much-too-young age of 53, was full of life and had an enormous personality.

One of my best memories of him was when he would recite his "Three Rules to Live By."

I can picture him now, animated, emphatic, and dramatic in his delivery:

Jack's Three Rules to Live By

1) Anybody can do anything.

2) Everybody does exactly what they want to do.

3) If you don't get what you want, it's your own damn fault.

Jack's "Three Rules" may not "resolutions" per se.

You may or may not agree with them.

And you may or may not see the same beauty in these rules that I do.

Jack holding LJ, December 2002

They are simple and truthful, and they cut straight to the point. They offer no room for excuses. How you live your life is up to you and no one else.

As the clock strikes midnight and the book closes on 2014, I will -- once again -- stand firm in my resolution revolution. I will not be promising to do anything I know will fall by the wayside before the new calendar even turns to February.

I will, however, be thinking about Jack's Three Rules.

And when things get tough in 2015 and I want to make excuses for why something won't work or why I 'can't,' I will do my best to keep his words in the forefront of my mind.

I will begin my New Year by raising my champagne glass in toast to Jack and his Three Rules, and just as he used to say, I'll be doing exactly what I want to do.

Going off the Grid

Two days from now, I'm going to do exactly what each and every mother of a young child has dreamed of doing at least once.

I'm going off the grid.

It's true.

I'm turning off the cell phone and leaving my laptop behind. If you need to reach me, forget about it. I'm as good as gone.

For seven nights and eight days there will be no email, meetings, conference calls, deadlines, laundry folding, dish washing, lunch packing, grocery shopping, homework correcting, checking for monsters under the bed, or picking up dog poo in the back yard.

I need a break. And I'm getting one.

But I'm not opting for the white, sandy beaches of the Caribbean, or the secluded mountains of the Rockies. In fact, I'm not even heading for the Hampton Inn right up the road.

Moms, I know you're with me when I say that some days, a room alone at the Hampton Inn would be a freaking 5-star vacation.

Instead, I'm going to the Amazon jungle.

To stay in a hut.

With no air conditioning.

With no roads in or out.

With the kids.

And I can't wait.

I've never experienced anything close to this type of adventure, and as I begin my 40th year, I'm at the top of the proverbial hill looking down. It's exactly the perspective I need. I'm hoping to push both my mental and physical limits in a way I haven't done since, well, ever.

As for the kids?

They will be so far out of their iPod element that they won't know what hit them. And what could be better than that?

This will be a week with nothing but family time, new experiences, and immense challenges.

I'm sure we'll have many stories, photos, and memories to share when we return from Peru. But all in due time.

For eight days and seven nights, as they say in the jungle ...

Hasta luego y no trates de encontrarme.



For more info on where we're headed, visit www.perujungle.com. 

A Teenager's Lesson for Vince Lombardi

"Winners never quit, and quitters never win." - Vince Lombardi

Vince Lombardi (Photo from Sports Illustrated)

If anybody could speak to being a winner, it was Vince Lombardi.

As the coach of the Green Bay Packers, he won two Super Bowl titles and five NFL championships. And the Hall of Famer never experienced a losing season as an NFL head coach.

But thanks to my 13-year-old son, Lombardi's quote now rings a bit hollow for me. Just a few weeks into his first season of conditioning workouts with the school's football team, LJ quit on his coach and his teammates.

And I support it.

In fact, not only do I support it, I can say that I watched my son mature and grow through the process -- even as he pronounced himself to be a quitter.

First, let me say that I absolutely love LJ's football coach. He's the right blend of tough and tender; cares deeply for his players; and always puts academics first. He holds his players accountable for their actions and choices, and as a parent, that's really all I could ask for.

LJ's issue with football wasn't the coach. And really, it wasn't the football.

It was everything else.

Although LJ just began workouts in January, he was already feeling the pinch on other areas -- wanting to participate in activities like Science Olympiad and chess, while also juggling his regular academic load in school. He arrived home exhausted after workouts, and started to feel the effects in the classroom with forgotten homework assignments and careless mistakes.

LJ wondered aloud how he would possibly manage it all when the "real" season began in August with even longer and more frequent practices, late night travel on game days, and an equally tough course load.

But Jack and I encouraged LJ ... told him his grades were fine (which they were), and that he could do it all if he just put his mind to it and just wanted it enough.

The mantra?

Our children will not be quitters.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win.

LJ kept a positive attitude through it all. He didn't complain about sore muscles. He talked excitedly about being part of the team and "earning" whatever minutes he might get on the field. And he began to develop a deep respect for his coach.

But earlier this week, I found LJ in my office after school, when instead he should have been at football practice.

I asked him why he was in my office, and he said, "Didn't you check your email, Mom? I sent you an email."

Irritated and feeling like I was about to hear some lame excuse, the mantra went through my mind:

My children will not be quitters.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win.

I started in on LJ, but his expression spoke volumes, so I opened my email:

Subject title:  I have Decided to Quit Football

"The stress produced from football far outweighs the benefits. This stress has prevented me from performing my best academically. I'm sorry I have had to make this decision but I am too stressed from football to continue."

And then I looked at LJ, curled up in the armchair in my office, and I simply said: "Okay. You can quit."

Future football dreams ... dashed.

With some cajoling, LJ talked to his coach in person, and gave him the same reasons for leaving the team. To his credit, the coach sensed LJ's anxiety, agreed that academics have to come first, and left the door open for him to join the team in future years.

As we walked back to my office, the relief was tangible. LJ's mood was lighter and he couldn't stop smiling.

Watching your child quit something -- walk away without remorse -- now that's a humbling moment. 

But on the inside, I was smiling too. 

Once again, my child had been way smarter than me. He knew his limits, knew when he'd reached the tipping point, and knew when to quit and be okay with it. In this case, quitting equated to winning. 

At least for LJ.

"Mom," he said, "I feel like half of my brain has just cleared out. I can think again."

Not exactly sure what was in the other half of his brain, but I didn't want to press.

Instead, I just gave him a hug and kept my mouth shut.

The NFL Hall of Fame may not be in LJ's future, but this was most definitely a Hallmark moment.

Popping "The Bubble List"

Image from chicagonow.com

Last month, Huffington Post published an article by blogger Emily Mendell called: The Bubble List: 31 Things My Sons Should Be Able To Do Before They Move Out.

If you haven't read it yet, I suggest you do. It's a well-written, poignant, and endearing piece that both moms and dads can identify with, no matter the age of your children.

The first 30 items on the list are basically actions or life-skills your child will, in theory, have to tackle at some point in his or her life. 

If I'm being honest, though, there are many items on this list that fall into one or both of two categories:

1) Never done it or had to do it (and I'm rapidly approaching 40)

2) Will be made obsolete or altered to a point of such ease that they are afterthoughts (thanks to technology and smartphones)

I couldn't care less if my son knows how to check the oil (#10) or if my daughter ever learns how to make hospital corners (#25). 

And it hasn't held me back in life that I have no clue how to sew a button (#26) or replace a fuse (#28).

There is one item on the list, however, that deeply resonates with me. And it's the final thing that Emily lists:

31. Say "no" with confidence

Now this is a skill worth learning -- and teaching.

Will my daughter confidently tell a friend, "No, I'm not getting in the car with you because you've had too much to drink." (And even more importantly, will she take the keys?)

Will my son confidently tell a teammate, "No, I'm not cool with you picking on that kid because he looks different/acts different/seems different." (And even more importantly, will he make the "different" kid feel welcome?)

Will my daughter confidently tell herself, "No, I don't need to lose five more pounds so I can look just like the model in Abercrombie?" (And even more importantly, does she realize how beautiful she really is, inside and out?)

Will my son confidently tell himself, "No, I don't need treat girls like sexual objects just because I see other guys doing it?" (And even more importantly, will he respect a girl when she says "no" with confidence?)

#31 -- Yes, this is the one thing on The Bubble List that keeps me up at night. Not just for my own kids, but for their friends, their acquaintances, and for those I've never met. 

Growing up wasn't easy for any of us, and it's exponentially harder for our own children's generation. 

Our children are constantly connected, frequently distracted, and always seeking instant gratification. Language skills are eroding because of text messaging, 140 characters, and diminished face-to-face conversations.

Saying "yes" these days is just way too easy.

So is the real issue that my kids should learn how to shave with a razor (#11) or catch the subway (#7)?

Of course not. 

It all boils down to #31.

If there's one skill we give our children -- one gift we bestow upon them before they leave "the bubble" -- we must teach them to say no with confidence. 

It's a monumental task, but it all begins with modeling. 

It's on us as parents, as educators, and as human beings, to teach our children not only to say "no" with confidence both face-to-face and in cyberspace, but also to stick to their word and stand strong when those around them cave into pressure.

Thank you, Emily, for a thought-provoking piece. 

And I especially thank you for saving the best for last.

I'm the Proud Parent of an Aspie

April is Autism Awareness Month and today, April 2, is World Autism Awareness Day. Seems like the perfect time to share our family's story.

You know those bumper stickers? The ones that say "I'm the proud parent of an honor roll student?" Or some crap like that?

Facebook has become the auto bumper of parenthood. And our status updates are the bumper stickers.

Now I realize that I'm just as guilty as other parents for filling your timeline with tales of my children's triumphs. I too share videos, photos, and updates about my two amazing kids winning chess matches, singing on stage, and well ... practically everything else they do.

After all, LJ and Julianna are incredible kids, and despite my best efforts to ruin them, they are going to turn out just fine.

But something changed in our family a few months ago that has given me a very different perspective about what parental "pride" is and how we identify our children's true successes.

In December, LJ was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, which is a developmental disorder that is considered to be at the "high functioning" end of the autistic spectrum.

Anyone who has met LJ knows what a smart kid he is -- but they also might have noticed that he's shy, often withdrawn, and might even seem rude -- sometimes he won't make eye contact, shake your hand or answer your questions. He often gets along better with adults than kids his own age.

We've been searching for answers for awhile, which for years came as a long list of diagnoses from a longer list of doctors -- ADHD, OCD, SPD, dysgraphia, and general anxiety disorder.

Finally, in December, it all came together when a doctor told us he wanted to evaluate LJ for Asperger's.

Every single day is a challenge for LJ: keeping organized, making and keeping friendships, following instructions, working with others, waiting his turn, noisy cafeterias at school, crowded hallways -- all of this creates an unbelievable amount of anxiety for an Aspie.

Teenage drama is hard enough for the average kid. For one like LJ it can be unbearable.

Through it all, LJ has shown unbelievable character and resolve.

He has played in the band, slogged through two advanced classes, found a hobby in electrical engineering, and carried himself with grace and dignity when his peers fail to understand him.

And he got his first-ever D last quarter.

And I don't care.

My respect and love for my son are not impacted by his test scores, his chess trophies, or his stats on the basketball court.

Every night when we get home from school, I am thankful for his smile, his perseverance, his desire to "know more about himself", and his pure, innocent heart that aches to not be "different" anymore.

I'm convinced the world needs more LJs -- "quirky" as he may be. It sure would be a boring place without kids like him.

Yes, I am the proud parent of a child with Asperger syndrome.

I think I'll put that on a bumper sticker.

I Can Do Anything You Can Do ... Better

We all want to be better parents than our own were. It's human nature that we hone in on the little things our parents "did wrong" ... things that, as parents ourselves, we vow to do differently -- BETTER.

My parents made two enormous, perhaps even unforgivable, mistakes when I was a child:

1) I didn't always have clean socks to wear.
2) I wasn't allowed to eat sugary cereals.

GASP! 

Now, as an adult, I realize how ridiculous it was that these petty things seemed like such injustices years ago.

At the time, of course, it was all about me and what I wasn't getting, not the abundance of everything that I did have.

I am acutely aware of my own shortcomings as a mom -- I yell too much; my eyes roll back into my head when I'm forced to watch the Disney channel; I'd rather chew glass than clean out the guinea pig cage; and I'll buy a new pair of pants before I'll learn how to sew on a button.

And, yes, there also have been plenty of times when LJ and Julianna have frantically searched for a pair of clean, matching socks as we should be leaving for school.

But last week, with Jack out of town and me scrambling to remember which day of the week it was (much less worry about clean socks for the kids), Julianna gave me an early morning wake up call I won't soon forget.

As I was on my way upstairs to finish getting dressed, I heard a cry from LJ, who was downstairs in the kitchen. He had spilled a whole glass of milk on the counter and desperately wanted my help to clean it up.

I muttered something under my breath, and turned toward the stairs so I could go to LJ's rescue.

Julianna, who was right beside me, grabbed my arm and firmly said: "Mom, STOP! He can do this himself. He NEEDS to do this himself."

I was stunned ... mostly because my daughter was absolutely right. 

I smiled and said: "You know what, Julianna, you are 100 percent correct. He can do this himself."

"You see, Mom," she said. "I've learned that sometimes you have to clean up your own messes, both physically and emotionally."

Spoken like a typical 9-year-old.

I yelled down to LJ that he should take care of it, and of course, he did.

As I finished getting ready with my little girl nearby, I said, "Julianna, I hope you know that someday, you are going to be a much better mom than I am."

And I meant it.

Julianna may not care about sugary cereals or clean socks when it comes to her own kids, but it won't matter.

She already knows what I should have been focusing on all along ...

Sometimes refusing to hold your child's hand every step of the way is the very best thing you can do to support them.

When Pigs Fly

Everyone has an Easy-Bake Oven. You know - the brass ring you couldn't quite reach as a child. The one thing you just had to have that you never got. It didn't matter how much you begged and pleaded, bartered or prayed -- it wasn't going to happen.

My parents, nor Santa, nor the Hanukkah Fairy were going to deliver the goods. The Easy-Bake Oven was my "Dream Deferred", my Raisin in the Sun.

Okay, maybe that's overstating it a bit.

But when Julianna approached me about a month ago asking for a pet rabbit, I knew I was in trouble. The Easy-Bake Oven was lingering in my mind.

At the ripe old age of 9, Julianna says her goal is to be an animal researcher, and she believes that having a pet of her own will allow her to study and learn more about the behavior of animals. To make her case, she produced a PowerPoint and presented it with great confidence to me and Jack.

When her rabbit research revealed that bunnies do not make ideal pets for children, she quickly turned her attention to rodents. And she eventually settled on guinea pigs as the pet du jour.

I initially said no. Nada. Not on your life.

And then she cried.

Hard.

Real tears.

And I caved.

It was that damn Easy-Bake Oven. I could practically smell the freshly baked cookies that never had the chance to melt in my mouth.

Oreo and Cinnamon the guinea pigs are now part of the family. No big deal, right? Tiny little creatures that hardly need a thing, I thought.

Until yesterday. Julianna became alarmed when Oreo was struck with a sudden fit of sneezing. As usual, I turned to my trusty friend, Google, for advice on curing the cavies' ailments.

EMERGENCY! PIGS NEAR DEATH! GET THEM TO A VET AT ONCE!

A trip across town to the "Exotic Vet" and $150 later, our pigs are now on antibiotics for upper respiratory infections. Apparently the twice-a-day dose of cherry-flavored Septra is a life-saving measure to ward of pneumonia of the cavia porcellus kind (Pig Latin, for those of you wondering).

As I waited in the vet's office for our furry friends' stool sample results to come back (really), I thought about the Easy-Bake Oven and whether all of this trouble is really worth it just to satisfy the childhood feelings I had clearly  projected onto my sweet daughter.

Of course it is.

The smile on her face as she cuddles those little critters makes it all worth while ... even as I'm shoveling pig poo into the trash can and chopping cucumbers for the sake of snacks.

And if I had to do it all over again, I would.

When pigs fly.

Clothes Make the Man

As LJ marched into the gym for his fifth grade graduation ceremony last Friday, I couldn't help but notice that -- although he looked extremely handsome in his brand-new shirt, first "real" tie, and freshly ironed pants -- he was the only boy in the entire grade who was not wearing a blazer.

Or a belt.

And he was probably the only boy sporting navy socks with his black pants and black loafers.

It was actually a minor miracle that LJ was wearing pants at all that morning. Suddenly, his black pants no longer fit him. And these were the same pants that, when I bought them just months before, were so big his ankles were practically swimming in the cuffs.

Now, just 30 minutes before he needed to be at school for the culminating experience of his elementary school career, we couldn't even get his pants to button. 

Zip, yes -- never mind it required a metal captain's hook and the strength of 10 oxen. But the button just didn't want to budge, and I had serious concerns that I would tear the button from its tenuous threads if I pulled much harder.

Divine grace intervened ... or perhaps God just got tired of hearing me curse in Yiddish ... and the button somehow found its way into the hole.

After I made LJ swear that he wouldn't cough, sneeze or bend over until after the graduation reception, I handed him his belt.

Now, I should have known the belt -- which I bought more than a year ago -- wouldn't fit anymore, but it simply didn't cross my mind until it was too late.

And the navy socks? Well, I can't really explain that, except to assure you that I will be having my annual eye exam sooner rather than later.

As I helped LJ get ready that morning, I found myself panicked that we wouldn't make it to school in time, or if we did, my son would be sans pants.

But then, as I watched Jack show LJ how to put on his first "clipless" tie, I realized that these clothes did indeed make the man. 

Baggy pants to barely buttoned.

Brand new shirt that hardly stretched across his broad shoulders.

Belt that was more suited to my waist than his.

My oldest child is hardly a child at all anymore.

Despite his lack of a blazer, belt, and matching socks, LJ didn't miss a beat at graduation. He confidently strode in with his classmates during the processional, glided across the stage to receive his certificate, and even turned to the camera and posed when he shook the Head of School's hand -- just as he had been instructed to do during rehearsal.

For those of you who have been through a "milestone" experience with a child, you'll understand why I had to choke back the tears as he processed in and out of the gym. And you'll also commiserate with me on the "how did time fly so fast" sentiment. It may be cliche but could not have rang more true last Friday.

It's also true that LJ's first 11 years have gone too quickly. I haven't taken enough photos, scrapbooked enough pages, or captured nearly enough memories. I am, however, comforted by knowing that we still have Middle School and Upper School ahead of us. That's seven more years of moments I have to look forward to and memories to make ... and it's plenty of time to get him a pair of pants and a belt that actually fit.

Photos by Steve Abrahams

Standardized Testing for Parents

Yesterday's mail brought some standardized testing results for Julianna, who's now in first grade.

Like all good, neurotic parents who live vicariously through their children, I was curious to see where she stacked up among her peers.

This particular test was completed on a computer and gauged language arts and math skills. It gave feedback like: "Exceeding expectations," "Meeting expectations," and "Approaching expectations."

Not a whole lot for parents to sink their teeth into.

Nevertheless, it got me thinking ... if I were being evaluated by a standardized test for parents, how would I rate?

I tried to put myself in my kids' shoes to answer the questions ... how would my own kids score my mommy skillz?

My assessment was divided into six critical areas, each of which is expected of mothers -- like it or not.

Here are the results of my self-administered test:

The MOmmy Aptitude Norm (MOAN)

1) Laundry assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Successfully completed 18 loads of laundry in one week. This included correctly matching and neatly balling up 83 pairs of white socks in four different sizes. Slightly impaired in sheet folding, but made up for it by using two kinds of fabric softener. Unable to assess Mommy in the ironing portion of this section because she flatly stated, "If Daddy wants unwrinkled clothes, he can iron them himself."

2) Carpooling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is particularly patient in this area considering that she spends approximately 75 minutes in the car each day while traveling only 12 total miles. Extra points given for tying shoes, distributing snacks and band-aids, and changing music CDs multiple times while navigating bumper-to-bumper traffic. Room for improvement in the area of "SUV peacekeeper."

3) Cooking assessment: Approaching expectations. Note: Loses points because Daddy is the primary dinnertime and breakfast cook. If it were up to Mommy, the family would subsist on pizza, mac & cheese, and Chick-fil-a. However, points were awarded because Mommy packs 10 snacks and six healthy lunches per week. Extra credit was awarded for cookies and marshmallows.

4) First aid assessment: Meeting expectations. Note: Excellent at providing ice packs, gauze pads, antibiotic ointment, hugs, ace bandages, anti-itch cream, tissues, and Tylenol for bruises, cuts, aches, pains, and other mysterious boo-boos that appear mysteriously throughout the day and suddenly at bedtime. Also passed the "clean up the puke without puking" portion of this section. Loses points for making Julianna say "ow" when using an ear thermometer.

5) Sewing assessment: Frighteningly below expectations. Note: Mommy is completely incompetent in this area. When asked to sew a button onto a shirt, she was unable to proceed past "threading the needle." Also answered "How do you fix a hem?" portion of the test by snarling: "What do you mean? You just take it to a tailor." Remediation strongly recommended.

6) Snuggling/Cuddling assessment: Exceeding expectations. Note: Mommy is in the 100th percentile in this category. Perfect score.