UnchartedParent.com

2009 was been a magical year for “Jack” and me.  What better word than “magic” can you use to describe the act of reading aloud 4,100 pages of prose to my seven-year-old son while he cuddled against me in bed, his head on my shoulder and his mind completely absorbed in what I read?

The credit for this act of magic goes, naturally, to J.K. Rowling.

Jack and I began reading Harry Potter at bedtime in January of 2009, less than a month after his seventh birthday.  Though he’d been reading on his own for nearly two years, we had never wanted to punish him for his reading ability by taking away the ritual of parental bedtime stories.  Jack had watched my excitement build over the release of the seventh book in the Harry Potter series, been warned not to talk to me during the day-and-a-half that it took me to read it, and questioned me over and over again about the books, the movies and all things Potter.  So my husband and I decided to give the first of the books a go with Jack, and the mommy-son nighttime Potter ritual was born.

We began by reading ten pages per night.  Jack was quickly so enraptured, however, that I often yielded to the pleas for “just a few more pages” that became a regular feature of our reading time by February.  By the time we reached the end of book 7 in December, I didn’t even try to stop our sessions mid-chapter.  I knew better.

Jack loved the story, the sub-plots, the characters and the settings, and Harry Potter became, I think, the first genuine mutual interest I shared with my son.  I was already a fan of the sheer fun offered by Rowling’s ability to create a richly detailed, believable fantasy world.  But now I saw that world anew through my son’s enthusiastic eyes.  We journeyed through Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, Godric’s Hollow and London together, and we had fun every step along the way.

We also talked.  Regular readers of this blog know that Jack is hardly the most forthcoming child when it comes to conversation, and I’d be exaggerating if I said that Jack and I spent long hours discussing issues that emerged from the books.  But I used the books as launching points for early discussions on violence and the opposite sex (I referred to the latter as “boys and girls thinking about each other in ways you don’t really think about girls yet”), on good and evil and on the difference between fantasy and reality.  I asked questions and offered explanations; he nodded and gave answers and occasionally did the asking.  He learned something about books and the world, and I learned a few things about him.

We watched the movies, too, with the understanding that a movie could only be viewed once we’d completed the corresponding book.  These movie viewings became highly anticipated special events, nudging aside almost all other aspirations once we finished a book.  They were a treat for me and a privilege for Jack.  (Part of the charm, it must be noted, came from the fact that his little sister was not permitted to participate; she sometimes gets scared by the Cat in the Hat.)  And wow, did this writer-mom’s heart fill to bursting with pride each time Jack said that yes, the movie was good, but “the book was better because there’s more in it.”  I love that boy!

I don’t know that I’ve ever been so reluctant to close a book as I was after reading aloud the final words in the oddly substandard epilogue that ends the Harry Potter series.  Jack and I both sat on my bed, unwilling to move and thus acknowledge that our year of journeying through this fictional world together was at an end.  Fortunately, I remembered that I could briefly postpone the conclusion by reading aloud the Potter-related Tales of Beedle the Bard, but that lasted only a few nights and then we were forced to bid our nighttime ritual goodbye.

We still have the final two movies of the series to look forward to, and it will be fun to take Jack to the theater with us the weeks the movies come out.  But for the most part, our Year of Magic has ended.  Jack now moves on to a new nighttime reading adventure with his father, while I read picture books and more basic stories to four-and-a-half year old “Emmie,” a turn of events about which Emmie is more than pleased. 

I’m sure 2010 will offer lots of fun in ways Jack and I can’t even imagine.  But I will always remember 2009 by the magical ritual I shared with my son—the ritual of Harry Potter.

How do you know for certain that you’ve reached a new stage of parenting?

I’m sure there are many possible indicators, but one convincing sign begins when you come upon your eight-year-old rocking out to his new iPod that he got for Christmas.  Laughing, you glance at the tiny screen to learn the name of the band whose music he finds so engrossing, then pick your jaw up off the floor when you read, “Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

Isn’t this the kid who couldn’t wait to attend Wiggles concerts just a few short years ago?  Forget about the fact that “Jack” now owns the coolest iPod in the house.  (My husband is jealous that Jack’s iPod gets radio stations and can record videos.)  I know the kid is growing up, but I can’t possibly be mother to a child who is just one degree away from singing the lyrics to Freebird as he hoists his dinosaur backpack onto his back and trots down the driveway to meet the school bus. 

All isn’t lost yet.  Jack still believes that Santa filled his stocking and that the tooth fairy will visit if he finally loses that second front tooth—although he is convinced that the tooth fairy is cheap because she only leaves a dollar per tooth.  He’s still my little boy and he still hugs me and lets me kiss him as long as none of his friends is watching.

But if I catch him chanting the Pink Floyd mantra, “We don’t need no education; we don’t need no thought control,” I’m taking that sleek new iPod away faster than you can hum the opening line to Sweet Home Alabama.  There’s only so much I can handle at once.  Lynyrd Skynyrd indeed!

I was planning to write a witty post about, well, I’m not going to tell you, because I’m going to write it eventually.  But not today.  Uncharted Parent is completely worn out and is happy to leave the rest of the work to Santa.  (That’s his gift to parents, right?  He finishes up all of the undone buying, wrapping and baking, puts a nice bow on everything and guarantees that we can sleep until 9:00 a.m. at least one day of the break, doesn’t he?) 

Merry Christmas to everyone.  And if you don’t celebrate this particular holiday, then just enjoy the time off and the happy faces.

If you had driven by my house Sunday afternoon and stopped to peek into my living room window, you would have seen my kids blissfully working their way through dozens of Legos, baby dolls and other Hanukkah and birthday presents.  You would have seen candy and cookies and all manner of holiday treats spread throughout the room, subtly working their seductive charms.  And you would have seen me, lying on the sofa and unable to move, stupefied by the fatigue that comes from having squeezed what ought to have been several weeks’ worth of errands and events into the previous few days.  I know December is crazy, but this is ridiculous.

First, the Ecstasy: We threw eight-year-old “Jack’s” birthday party on Saturday, following the reverent observance of his actual birthday earlier in the week.  His party incorporated—what else?—a dinosaur theme, and partygoers traveled an hour north of our home to play in the Montshire Museum’s Dinosaur Days display.  Then it was on to Ben & Jerry’s for ice cream cake and Mexican appetizers (don’t ask).  It seemed to me that everyone enjoyed themselves reasonably well, but I obtained the most critical review when it came time to tuck Jack into bed that night.

“So, Jack, now that you’ve had your birthday and your party, how was everything?”

Jack momentarily stopped bouncing on his bed to toss a stuffed animal in the air.  “Fabulous!” he exclaimed.  His smile could have powered the house for the rest of the evening.  He then resumed bouncing until he landed in the appropriate spot for me to pull up the blankets.  I got a long, clear view of the gap from his missing front tooth as he added, speaking slowly for emphasis, “It was like a chocolate chip cookie bar!”  (Necessary backstory: we have recently discovered the chocolate chip cookie bars sold at our local Café Indigo.  They are possibly the best cookies ever created, as well as Jack’s personal idea of heaven.) 

Nothing beats a reaction like that if you’re a mom who’s busted your you-know-what to create a happy birthday for your kid.  It was worth every minute of effort.

And then, on Sunday, there came the Agony.

If you’ve been reading this blog, you know how sour I’ve been about the elaborate, expensive rituals that have been leading up to a dance recital for a four-year-old.  Sunday morning was the time of the big event.

I actually began the day feeling more kindly toward “Emmie’s” ballet school than I had earlier in this process, because after family members left me with a collection of paid-for tickets that would go unused, the school refunded my money.  I slicked back Emmie’s bangs as ordered and made up her face.  I even smiled sympathetically when she examined her image in the mirror and pronounced, “I don’t look like Emmie.”

Fast-forward a few hours, and I’ll give you most of what you need to know in the form of this lesson: If you are herding a group of nervous four-year-olds up and down several flights of concrete steps, DO NOT require them all to hold hands.

I foresaw disaster when this command was issued, but I was just a backstage mommy and as such, not authorized to counter an order given by anyone working on behalf of the ballet school.  I’m betting you can see what happens here, too.  Sure enough, one of the little girls tripped, and, linked together, they fell down on the stairs like dominoes. 

I and a few other adults on the crowded stairwell picked them up and shepherded them to the stage wings.  When we got there, I counted heads and was just about to exhale in relief when I heard loud, too-familiar bawling.  I knew before I turned around that it was Emmie, mouth open in distress and eyeliner and mascara streaking down her painted cheeks.  She pointed to her shin and sobbed that she’d been hurt on the stairs.  With great, panicked effort I managed to stop the crying and dabbed most of the damage from her face with the tissues someone dropped into my hand.  (I still don’t know who did that.  Thank you.)

But when the music cued Emmie’s entrance, she refused to budge.  She had overflowed with excitement and danced around the house for weeks in anticipation of her recital, and she had rehearsed beautifully on the stage an hour-and-a-half earlier.  But the fall completely freaked her out and she refused to go onstage.  I tried.  Her teacher tried.  Her teacher’s assistant tried.  But our efforts failed, and her class performed its dance without her.

I wanted to scream, “I TOLD YOU that four years old is too young for this nonsense!”  But I kept my mouth shut and saved it for my blog.

The good news (?) is that we’ll get to try this again at the time of Emmie’s spring recital.  I can’t wait.

Irving Stone thought Michelangelo’s life could be described in terms of agony and ecstasy.  Okay, fine.  But now that I’ve had a few beers and gotten some sleep, what I’d like to know is how Stone would have described a weekend of catering to his kids.

If you’re like me, you’ve searched for ways to inject a bit more meaning into our shop-til-you-drop season of holidays.  The consumer excess is particularly apparent in our house given that December brings Hanukkah, Christmas, my son’s birthday and my husband’s and my wedding anniversary.  To my kids, December means presents.  Sure, if pressed they can tell you something about the religious or historical significance of each holiday, they’ll talk with fondness about holiday foods and gatherings, but let’s be honest here: the reason my kids really love December is the gifts they receive.

My kids are pretty lucky, and I remind them often of that fact.  But my words don’t earn much more than a blank stare and a monotone, “Yes, Mommy” (much like the expression and inflection I hear when I ask one of them to apologize to the other one for, well, anything at all), and I have long searched for some way to imbue them with the knowledge that not everyone is fortunate enough to enjoy the holiday season with the same sense of abundance that my kids have come to expect.

This year, I finally found a way.  Last night, I brought eight-year-old “Jack” with me to sort canned and boxed foods at the regional food bank.  We walked into a warehouse-sized room piled high with empty cardboard boxes and thousands of cans of donated goods.  I had already given Jack a summary briefing on what we would be doing prior to our shift, so I offered no lesson to him at first.  We received our assignments, grabbed a grocery-store basket and began to sort the cans of fruits, vegetables, beans, pasta and more. 

Jack worked like a trooper.  Sorting is an activity well suited to Jack’s orderly, math-science brain, and he took to the task with enthusiasm and did as much work as any of the adults present.  I was proud of his effort.

Approximately a half-hour into our two-hour shift, Jack observed, “There’s really a lot of food in here.”

I pounced.  “Do you know where all of this food came from?”

“People donated it.”

“That’s right,” I replied.  “Do you know why we’re sorting it?”

“So it can go to people who don’t have food.”

Close enough.  Time to inject the moral before he loses interest.  “That’s right.  Some people can’t afford to buy enough food to eat, and the food they get from this room is the only way they’ll get to eat on the holidays.  We get to eat whatever we want on holidays, don’t we?”

“And we get presents,” Jack added.

“That’s right.  We’re pretty lucky, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

If you’re waiting for me to tell you that Jack experienced a Great Epiphany and offered to donate his gifts to the needy or give up the chocolate-chip cookie bars I’d purchased for his birthday, I’m going to have to disappoint you.  This is Jack we’re talking about, after all.  Any insight into his thinking is a precious gift unto itself, and even if he did spend a lot of time considering the plight of the needy in contrast to his own, fortunate life, it’s unlikely he would share those thoughts with me or anyone else.

But by taking Jack with me to the food bank, I know that he at least gave passing thoughts to people in need.  A parent can talk all she wants, but as any teacher knows, there’s nothing like participation and visual aids to reinforce a lesson.  For two hours last night, Jack was confronted with one small piece of the reality that is hunger and poverty.  I won’t go so far as to assert that an altruist was born, but my goals for this holiday season are nowhere near that lofty.  If Jack takes twenty seconds away from his new Lego sets to consider that there are other eight-year-old boys who wish in vain that they could possess the same thing, then he will have gained something more than material goods out of the holiday season.  And for now, that’s good enough for me.

 Happy Hanukkah!  Has everyone recovered from the weekend’s indulgence of food fried in oil?  Do yourself a favor if you ate latkes and sufganiyot all weekend; give your system a break and eat salad for the rest of the week.  Remember: Rolaids can be your friend.

 On to today’s topic: last week, I waxed nostalgic about my daughter’s entrance into the world of ballet and what that meant to me, once a dancer and now a writer and a mom.  I wrote about pink tulle, little girl dreams and womanly aspirations and the demands that come from being devoted to an art.  I combined present and past with an eye to the future, revealing story and detail and I attempted to achieve just a little poetic quality.

Enough of that.  Every holiday season has its Scrooge moment, and this year, mine is wearing tights and ballet slippers.  Bah, humbug.

As everyone knows, Scrooge was notoriously tightfisted.  He kept watch over every penny, and he was convinced that if he let down his guard for even a moment, someone would reach into his proverbial pocket to deprive him of his hard-earned money.  What could have created such a defensive, curmudgeonly tightwad?

I’m guessing that maybe Scrooge had a secret daughter, and when she was four years old, she participated in a holiday-themed dance recital during a down economy.  That would be enough to turn anyone into an miserly grinch; I know it’s had that effect on me.

Now, I’ll admit I’m a ballet snob.  To me, ballet is an art and a profession that ought to be taken seriously, respected, loved and studied like any art.  But I’m also mother to a four-and-a-half year old daughter who poses in preschool arabesques and executes tendus as she dances her way through the house on a daily basis.  Little-girl dreams are as important as any art, and so at first, I was content to bury—at least temporarily—my snobbish notions beneath “Emmie’s” enthusiasm.  A recital?  Fine; I’m in.

But then her ballet school started asking me to pay for it.  Then they asked again.  And again.

Let’s get down to brass toe shoes.  Thus far I have shelled out in conjunction with this recital:

• $25 in costume rental fees (for a costume already owned by the ballet school);
• $72 for six tickets to the recital (and I don’t even get one; I will be backstage with Emmie’s class, a position for which I volunteered when I learned that I could save $12 by becoming one of the two requested “backstage moms” who MAY be permitted to watch from the wings); and
• $70 (approximately) in makeup (“full stage makeup” is required, and as I don’t wear heavy makeup of the sort necessary for stage performances, nor do I wear the required bright red blush and lipstick needed for this purpose, I had to buy everything new).

In addition to these expenditures, I am required to bring a plate of individually wrapped baked goods for the ballet school booster club to sell at intermission to raise additional money for the school. 

Did I mention that my daughter is only four years old?

In my opinion, $167 plus baked goods for a four-year-old’s recital is absurd.  We’re not talking about a budding professional dancer who requires stage experience, nor is my daughter’s class possessed of a skill level that justifies shelling out large amounts of cash just to witness their talents.

I am fully aware that I could have done a few things in addition to giving up the chance to watch my daughter’s dance recital to mitigate or eliminate these expenses.  I could have told family members who will be in town that they could not attend Emmie’s recital unless they coughed up the cash themselves.  I could have told her almost eight-year-old brother that he doesn’t need to be around for his little sister’s events, thereby prioritizing money over the idea of supporting one’s family.  I could have bought the really cheap, crappy makeup and applied that to my young daughter’s eyes and sensitive, eczema-prone skin and just waited to see what would happen.  Most of all, I could have told Emmie that she couldn’t participate in the recital despite the fact that at least half of her class time every week has been devoted to rehearsing the dance they will be performing.

But for each of those things to occur, I would have had to be the heavy.  I would have had to be the one to disappoint the relatives, to impose requirements contrary to our family’s values or to crush Emmie’s excitement by pulling her out of ballet altogether in order to avoid paying these expenses.

When it comes down to it, I’m just not Scrooge enough to do these things.  So I bit my lip and opened my checkbook.  Emmie is excited beyond words for this weekend, and I won’t ruin the experience for her.

But I never promised I wouldn’t write about my discontent.  I thank you, dear readers, for permitting me to air my holiday grievance.  Now maybe I can get on with enjoying the rest of the holiday season.

And in case you’re wondering: yeah, I’ll be checking out other ballet schools come spring.

I’ve written about this topic before, but this is the new and improved (and rewritten) version.  Please check out my latest article, published today on Babble.com: “10 Things Not to Say to Adoptive Parents–especially in front of their kids.”  (And for you adoptive parents out there, there are also some thoughts for you to offer in reply when you do hear these things.  And you know that you do.)

My question for this post is: What Would Benjamin Franklin’s Mother Have Said?

My husband walked into the living room with an announcement one evening.  “You don’t want to know this, but ‘Jack’s’ really into electricity,” he said.  “Electricity and magnetism.”

“Oh?”

“Well, he already knows that electricity and magnetism are related,” he explained.  “When I was in his room the other day fixing his curtain rods, he took that night light of his that’s been out for a while and plugged it into the socket with no bulb in it.  Then he took those magnetic rocks of his and held them against the socket.”

I raised my eyebrows.

My husband continued, but he had trouble getting out this next sentence because he was laughing.  “Then he picked up a screw and inserted it into the socket.”

I stared at him for a few seconds, waiting for him to tell me that he’d grabbed my son’s arm and pulled it away from the socket as he scolded him.  It became clear it would be a long wait.  “Uh, at any point here did the subject of safety come up?”

He laughed harder.  “Then he took the screw out of the socket and observed that it was warm.”

I dropped my head into my hands.

My husband’s face reflected disappointment, presumably because I was not laughing at this anecdote as much as he was.  “But don’t worry,” he assured me.  “After he said the screw was warm, then we had the talk about safety.”

Oh, good.  I’m glad that came into this exchange somewhere.

I’m a mom.  You can’t tell me a your-kid-stuck-his-finger-in-a-light-socket story and expect me to laugh.  It’s not funny.  It’s dangerous.  He’ll put his eye out.

(And by the way, apparently it’s not just fingers I need to worry about.  My husband added to this anecdote by revealing a few days later that my son occasionally, if his hands are full, turns on a light by lifting the switch with his lips.  Oy.)

I love the fact that my kid is interested in scientific exploration.  Maybe he’ll grow up someday and build a car that runs on compost, or he’ll cure diseases or figure out a way to alter my brain so I can actually remember when I walk into a room why I wanted to go there in the first place.  The potential here is huge.  But the kid’s actually going to have to grow up without electrocuting himself if he’s ever going to make any of these life-changing discoveries.

There’s science, and there’s motherhood.  Sometimes the two come into conflict.

What would Benjamin Franklin’s mother have said?

Earlier this fall, on a wet, cool, New England day, I brought four-and-a-half year old “Emmie” to her first ballet class.  She’d begged me for months to sign her up for ballet, and, after multiple conversations to embed in her mind the requirement that my paying money for these classes meant that she would actually have enter the ballet studio and participate (lesson learned from last year’s failed attempts at ballet and gymnastics), I registered her for class and wrote the check, and we embarked on Emmie’s balletic adventure. 

That first class turned out to be a milestone for both of us. 

“I’m so excited for my first ballet class!”  The sentence tumbled out of Emmie’s mouth as we drove to the ballet school, her enthusiasm as contagious as her smile.  I grinned at her through the rearview mirror.  Then I held Emmie’s hand as together we crossed the threshold of a poster-covered storefront sandwiched between a Kmart and a strip-mall Laundromat.  I pinned her long, dark brown hair into a bun and, clad from shoulder to toe in pale pink, she joined the line of tiny, hopeful dancers-to-be.  They tiptoed away from their parents and disappeared behind a closed studio door.  I took my place on a folding chair in the narrow hallway with the other mothers.  

I was relieved that Emmie’s enthusiasm survived beyond the threshold of the ballet studio, but something else took place, too.  Time rushed backward for me when I sat in that chair.  It was Emmie’s first time inside a ballet studio, but I grew up in one.  Decades earlier, my mother was the short-haired brunette who gathered with other mothers in the waiting area.  They chatted about children and husbands, cooed over the new baby in the group and compared their kids in friendly banter that masked fierce competitiveness.  I was the little girl in ballet pink, my long, dark hair pinned up in a bun.  I walked into a studio that seemed as large as the world, gazed at the bewildered faces in the mirror, then placed my hand on the barre and began a life. 

In the twelve years that followed, I learned to pin up my own hair, sew the ribbons on my own toe shoes and squeeze my homework into the breaks between two or three ballet classes each day, six or seven days per week.  The smell of sweat grew omnipresent and familiar, the rosin I ground onto my ballet slippers and toe shoes left miniature ghosts on my clothes, and the dance floors on which I leapt gave way a bit to cushion the shock of every landing. 

In those years, I learned that art—any art—requires dedicated, persistent struggle, constant thought and preparation, and love, all lessons that serve me well now that writing is the art I pursue.  I learned to work when I was motivated, but also when I was tired or discouraged.  I came to understand that the result of thousands of hours of training and practice can be the unparalleled satisfaction of a job accomplished to the greatest reach of one’s talents.  And I knew the reward of all this effort the first time my dancing became effortless on a stage, when the music and the technique and the practice finally merged to create an illusion of weightlessness so convincing I barely noticed my whirling feet touching the stage floor.    

I don’t know yet what ballet will mean to Emmie—whether it will be a childish, pink tulle fantasy or something that evolves into much more.  But as I sat for the first time among the ballet mothers and listened to the chatter and the recorded piano music seeping under the closed door of the studio before me, I remembered what it meant to me.  And then I knew that from my new perspective in the hallway, I could add a dimension to those memories and take something previously unknown from a world I once loved.  I recorded all of the sensory details, all of the sights, the sounds and the smells and I let them sift through my remembrances.  Present and past mixed and danced and rearranged themselves in my mind until finally, I had no choice but to sit down and let the words run from my fingertips onto the keyboard.  I took my daughter to her first ballet class, and then I did what I do every day in my not-so-new, adult life: I wrote.

Well, not so much about health as more about those pesky “man-colds.”

WebMD interviewed both me and my husband about the difference between men and women when they get sick.  I wasn’t around for my husband’s interview.  I guess I could have come off a lot worse!

I’m married to a great guy.  Except, of course, when he’s sick . . .