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.

But What About Me?

Now that LJ is a teenager, I never know what to expect when it comes to conversation.

Many days, our only interactions consist of him rolling his eyes at me and taking deep, exaggerated, annoyed sighs.

Okay, maybe we both do that.

LJ tells me that I nag him too much (hence the eye rolling and deep breathing), so I have begun to tread lightly when it comes to poking and prodding him about the details of his mundane day-to-day activities.

As we navigate "the drama years" of teenage-hood, LJ and I seem to have come to an understanding: if he's awake by noon, wears deodorant, and does most of his homework, I should not ask questions and just stay the heck out of the way.

This arrangement seems to be working quite well for us.

But today, as I picked LJ up from his Javascript programming camp, I was feeling curious. I was feeling brazen.  I was feeling ... well, maybe I was feeling the three cups of coffee I had during my staff meeting.

Whatever the reason for my feelings, I decided to throw caution to the wind and ask LJ the always combative and often controversial question ...

"How was your day?"

I braced for impact. And eye rolls. And deep, exaggerated, annoyed sighs.

Instead, I got a flurry of excited, non-stop words. Actual words that didn't include, "Go away" or "close the door behind you."

Instead, LJ preceded to gush about how awesome his camp counselors were, and how they were going to personalize the next day's lesson just for him.

When I asked LJ to explain what he meant, he said that much of the camp's curriculum was centered on self-directed web-based learning. LJ knows that passively watching something on a computer screen is not how he learns best -- he learns by doing and prefers to have a "guide on the side" to lead him down the correct path.

LJ told his counselors about his learning preferences and, lo-and-behold, they responded by saying they would tweak their program to make sure he was getting what he needed.

*******

The parent in me was thrilled to hear that LJ is enjoying camp and that his counselors are making sure he has a positive experience.

But the school administrator in me began to consider the greater meaning to LJ's interactions with his counselors.

LJ has been fortunate to attend two schools (Ravenscroft and Academy at the Lakes), that encourage students to advocate for themselves and recognize that each student has a unique learning style.

But what if all schools (and all classrooms) looked like this? What if all students were empowered to say, "That's not how I learn best."

And what if all teachers, classrooms, and schools were equipped to answer, "Then let's do it your way."

What if? 

What could learning look like? Especially for the students -- like LJ -- who know themselves well enough to articulate that they don't learn by staring at a screen or a whiteboard?

What if all students like LJ could do, touch, and feel their way through their educational journeys?

What if?

*******

I realize that this is a meta-existential-uber-level hypothetical question with no real answer.

But as a parent and as a someone with a passion for education, it sure is fun to consider and dream what it could look like for our students.

Just imagine if more students weren't moved to roll their eyes, or take deep, exaggerated, annoyed breaths when we asked them to learn in a way that fits like a square peg in a round hole.

Just imagine if all students never had to ask the question, "But what about me?" 

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 Letter to My Son

As part of a family history project for Jack's 7th grade Language Arts class at Academy at the Lakes, parents were asked to write a letter to their child. If you haven't ever done this for your own child, I strongly encourage it. What a wonderful gift for us both.

Jack, I have so many good memories of you that I hardly know where to start. But how about I start with Halloween night -- October 31, 2003?

You were not quite 3 years old but there was no doubt what you were you going to be that night. Your favorite TV show at the time was Bob the Builder, and I can remember watching it with you every afternoon in the den of our home in Greensboro, N.C.

Of course, you chose to dress up as the man himself, Bob the Builder. This was a man who was in charge, knew how to get things done, and was never too busy to lend a hand to friends and strangers alike.

As the theme song says, “Bob the Builder, can we fix it? Bob the Builder, YES WE CAN!”

Donning your blue jumpsuit and yellow hard hat, and with a hammer by your side, you were ready to conquer anything that came your way while trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, Adam’s Farm.

That Halloween, the street of Old Fox Trail filled with children and their parents as they trick-or-treated up and down the road. With you and Julianna being so young, your Ladybug sister sat in a stroller, and you rode in your green and grey Little Tykes Wagon.

What is most memorable about that night for your dad and me was how, at each house we visited, you eagerly jumped out of the wagon, navigated the steps to the front door, and before even asking your neighbors for candy, boldly declared to them, “I am Bob the Builder. I will fix that for you!”

And then you proceeded to hammer their front porch.

Cute story, I know … but why does this particular one stand out for me?

I think it’s because even at the young age of 3, we were beginning to see the type of young man you would become: straight to the point; caring; a “fixer”; and someone who is always was willing to help out a friend or stranger.

Today, I see those same traits in your willingness to help your sister with her math homework; in your genuine love and concern and for all animals and those people closest to you; and in your ability to help me conquer any technological or engineering task.

You’re my go-to guy -- the one who I know can get things done. I can always count on you to “fix it for me.”

Jack, although you are only 13 years old, I have already collected a lifetime of memories: birthdays and holidays; sports games and chess tournaments; talking football on the ride to school; racing at the annual Woolly Worm Festival in the mountains; riding rollercoasters with you until you are satisfied and I am sick … I cherish every moment -- even the ones where I’m nagging you to get out of bed or put away your laundry.

As I used to tell you when you were 3, I love you more than a million hippopotamuses.

And I can’t wait to remember the rest of what’s to come. 

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.