UnchartedParent.com

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So I didn’t post at all last week, and now it’s Friday. What’s up with that? Well, there was this school break, and the laptop got sick and had to go to the computer hospital, and then there were one, no two, no THREE snowstorms…yeah, so the dog ate my blog post. Except we don’t have a dog. Never mind. Let’s get to it.

Seven-year-old “Emmie” has been thinking about her origins lately. No, this isn’t an adoption post. She’s been thinking about her origins as a human being–about our collective origins. Early in the week, she approached me with this question:

“You know how God made the world? Well, when did the dinosaurs come in?”

You’d think I would have an articulate answer for this one at the ready. After all, we’ve been through this with eleven-year-old “Jack,” who was obsessed with dinosaurs between the ages of two and eight. He long ago had to work out the inconsistencies between what he read in his encyclopedias on prehistory and what he learned in Hebrew school.

But that’s just it: Jack worked out that dichotomy on his own. He never came to us with questions, never seemed troubled that both the Genesis story and the theory of evolution couldn’t both literally be true. One was Science, one was Not. That’s always been good enough for him.

But kids are different.

Not wanting immediately to discredit too much of what Emmie had learned in Hebrew school, and feeling a corresponding need to ease her into the science, I explained about dinosaurs preceding humans and talked about the allegorical nature of the Genesis story. She nodded, and didn’t ask any more questions.

But Emmie always has more questions. Sure enough, she just needed some time to cook them. (more…)

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Last week, I wrote about the adjustments in our house–and my attitude–toward the tween and his new technology after I realized that “Texting is the New Phone Call.”

“Jack” is now allowed to text seven days per week. It’s a big exception to our previous screen-time rules, but I believe it’s a good one.

Texts aren’t the only exceptions that have crept into those rules, however. The iPod Touch in a tween’s hands is like the tiny, hairline crack in the foundation of your basement that your handyman tells you might possibly one day let in a smidge of dampness, only to discover that by the end of the spring rains, you have three inches of standing water covering your basement floor.

The rules began with a bright enough line: no screen time during the week. The inevitable result of this declaration was that both children got off the school bus on Fridays, tossed their backpacks aside and dove for any and every device within their reaches–preferably all at once. Food, verbal interaction, even bathroom needs were secondary.

The kids hoarded their screen use into the weekends, and we began to impose limits then, too. Jack in particular had a tendency to turn into a grunting, Neanderthalish version of his usual self following too many hours in front of the small screen. After witnessing this phenomenon repeatedly and consistently over a long period of time, we explained what we had seen. He didn’t deny it, and mournfully agreed to comply with the limits.

Enter the iPod. (more…)

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Here we are again. Back in the murky, increasingly complex world of kids and technology, where, unless you are an IT professional, it’s almost a given that your teen or tween offspring knows more about everyday tech than you do. They’re certainly more comfortable with it.

And yet, you–we–are the parents. We make the rules, we transmit the values. We must apply the rules in a manner consistent with our values. Be flexible, firm and fair.

Sounds good, doesn’t it? But as the kids get older, I’m finding that it’s not that easy.

A few months ago, eleven-year-old “Jack” got an iPod Touch, something he’d coveted for nearly a year. Jack received an affirmation of rules with his iPod, which was essentially an extension of “screen rules” that were already in place. The edict was simple: follow the rules–no screen time during the week except for homework and other approved exceptions, obey all email rules–and you keep your iPod privileges. Break the rules, and we revoke them.

That’s clear, right?

First, a primer: for those of you unfamiliar with an iPod Touch, it’s basically an iPhone without the phone capability. It operates on a wifi connection, you can load it up with apps, and so far as I can tell, it can do everything else that an iPhone can do. (Apparently, there are even workarounds that will allow you to use it as a phone, but what my kid doesn’t know won’t hurt him. In any event, that’s definitely on the “forbidden” list.)

Thus, an iPod Touch allows you to text, using your email account as the contact instead of a phone number. This was the first place I discovered that we had entered new tween territory.

Jack was the last among his group of friends to get a Touch, and the texts began almost immediately. At first, they seemed a novelty. But they persisted, and after the first week, I wondered what had happened to our “no screen time during the week” rule. I thought about bringing his weekday texts to an end, but something I couldn’t define held me back. So the texting continued.

As the chirping that heralded the arrival of new texts persisted, I puzzled over my reluctance to enforce my own rules. I examined some of the text exchanges, wondering what these kids could be talking about at the rate of more-texts-than-I-can-count in fifteen minutes. None of them were nefarious. They consisted of classic, fifth-grade boy chit-chat. Some of them didn’t even make any sense. (Seriously. Some of the messages consisted of letters that didn’t form actual words.)

And then one day, after exchanging texts with Jack when he was home alone, I realized why I was so reluctant to cut off the mid-week texts: texting is this generation’s phone call.

Texting is how these kids communicate. When we were kids and we reached a certain age, we picked up the phone. And, to our parents’ consternation, we never put it down. (more…)

It’s Tuesday night, and we’ve just finished our family dinner. We begin to clear dishes and rinse off plates as we chat about this and that.

Eleven-year-old “Jack” contributes a school-related topic. “On Friday, we’re going to have a combination lockdown drill and fire drill. And they told us that if that happens, we should listen to the lockdown drill, and only leave the building if we actually smell smoke.”

In less time than it would take to say, Holy crap, what kind of a world are we living in?, my mind runs through the implications of this information. But all I manage to sputter aloud is, “Um, what?”

“If we get both alarms, we only leave the building if we smell smoke. Otherwise, we listen to the lockdown.”

“But…”

“So we’ll be safe because if there’s smoke, we’ll leave,” pipes up seven-year-old “Emmie,” who attends the elementary school.

The seven-year-old is familiar with this procedure, too.

“Yeah, unless a crazy guy sets the school on fire to get us to go outside,” says Jack.

“Hmm,” says Emmie.

The two of them are discussing this in the same matter-of-fact tone they use to discuss the constitution of their breakfasts. I, on the other hand, am so unnerved by their casual conversation that I have to leave the room momentarily and chase from my mind the images that have been present there since Jack’s introduction of the topic. The crazy-guy-pulls-a-fire-alarm scenario. A mistaken lockdown alarm resulting in a too-late attempt to escape a fire. Bodies.

Come on, mom, pull it together.

I suppose I should be grateful that my children are not terrified by what goes on around them. I should be–and am–thankful that my children’s schools are clearly handling security in a manner that prepares the kids for various, unthinkable events without scaring the hell out of them. (more…)

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Oh, yuck. Did you shudder when you read the title of this post? I did, and I wrote it. But that’s why we have to talk about it.

First, let me clarify: this post is not about my kid. As most readers know, my kids are eleven and seven. There are no fuzzy lines for me on this topic right now. If I caught one of my kids taking an alcoholic drink tomorrow, I don’t think the situation would pose much of a dilemma.

But. Someday, in some way, it will be about one of my kids. Because though I wish otherwise, I know that my kids are not perfect. They will not always do exactly as I say. As much as I want them always to be good, one (or maybe both) of them will break an important rule someday. And I will have to deal with it, and it will suck.

Second point of clarification: everybody is okay in the following scenario. Nothing major happened, which is why this is a mere parenting dilemma and not a tragedy or an easy, “You lose all of your privileges for a year” kind of situation.

So here’s the dilemma:

Recently, a friend’s teenage son attended a party at his friend’s house. He later told his parents that alcohol had been present at the party, and that he’d had some. Specifically, he said he’d “taken a sip.” He also reported that he’d hated it.

So, parent, what would you do? (more…)

“‘Jack,’” I yelled at precisely 11:45 a.m. yesterday. “Get in here. Come watch the television.”

Eleven-year-old Jack ran in from the room where he’d been assembling a science project. Sometimes, history trumps homework. Besides, I’d timed my call to him carefully. His attention span for the inauguration was going to be limited at best, and the science project would still be there when that attention span ran out.

Jack watched Justice Sotomayor swear in the Vice President, then began to twist his body into unnatural positions on the couch as James Taylor looked around for his guitar. (“Mommy, who’s James Taylor?” Weep for this generation, really.) He turned his full attention to the President for the swearing-in, but was literally upside-down by the time the President made it halfway through his inaugural address.

Jack squirmed his way through the speech. He asked at one point how long he had to watch. And if I’m being honest, much of the sweeping, elegant language of the speech probably swept over the head–or feet–of this kid who really didn’t want to be listening to it at all.

But… Jack did listen–to the whole address. He witnessed this moment when the nation’s first African American president affirmed not only his own place in our history, but took the opportunity to affirm equality for all Americans–including gays and lesbians–in a way no president before him has ever done. He was both broad and specific, traditional and pathbreaking. He spoke of the need to address climate change. He talked about the strength that comes from supporting those in need. He was clear in his vision of an America that builds on and strengthens the freedoms of the past. (You can watch the address or read the transcript here.)

After President concluded his address, I released Jack from his spot on the couch. And I realized that the most remarkable aspect about the speech for an eleven-year-old was that for him, it wasn’t remarkable at all.

Both of my children know that it’s historically significant that the current president is our first African American president, but to them, there’s no reason any individual of any race, religion, gender or sexual orientation shouldn’t be president. (more…)

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The presents have been opened and put away, the decorations tucked into bins and boxes, far too many sweets have been consumed. Valentine’s Day candy already fills the shelves everywhere, and a certain big-box store yesterday featured shamrocks in an endcap display. (In mid-January? Really?)

I got back to work almost two weeks ago, when my kids went back to school. I found myself facing a long list of tasks, and I knew that the only way to get everything done was to work steadily and remain focused. Nothing innovative there, right?

But in an unplanned experiment, I tried something new. I’d stayed away from social media during the holidays, trading Twitter, Facebook and other perpetual virtual connections for real-life interaction. I used the internet to shop occasionally, and certainly to look up information or to answer questions. But I took a break from virtual life. And after the holidays, I simply didn’t go back for another week.

The results of my experiment? I had more time to spend with family and IRL friends. I took care of tasks that I’d long neglected. My dull-of-late focus on my longest-term writing project suddenly sharpened and I finally made progress in an area where I’d been stalled for what seems like forever.

There were more hours in the day and my thoughts were clearer. Seriously.

The downside is that I did miss quite a few of the people I’ve come to know in the virtual world, many of whom I respect, some of whom I consider friends. (more…)

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Hanukkah is over.  Christmas is almost here.  All the kids in the house were so excited to be together that I found myself standing over empty sleeping bags at 5:00 a.m. this morning, insisting that the kids return to them and postpone their playing until a time when the sun might be close to rising.  (I think at least a few of them listened.)

It’s always fun to watch the kids open their presents on Christmas morning.  Nothing surpasses a child’s joy, and watching their faces is the best present for a parent.  But this Christmas will be tinged with the silent heaviness of the children and adults lost just a few weeks ago in Newtown, and of the December 25ths those families will experience that they never could have anticipated. The Christmases no one should ever have to know.

This year, I’m already taking greater notice of how much my kids love playing with their cousins, how nothing feels better than my children’s hugs, how considerate my eleven-year-old son was when he finally confessed that he’s known for a while that Santa isn’t real but that he wouldn’t think of spoiling the secret for his little sister, and how often both of my kids make me laugh.  Everything about them seems just a little sharper, sweeter and more present than it did before.

Give your kids stronger hugs this year, before you release them to let them play with family or go out with friends and be the amazing individuals they’re meant to be.  Let them know what you love and respect about them.  Shed a tear for how fast they’re growing, tickle them if they’ll still let you, give them a gift you’ve been on the fence about or a compliment you’ve been holding inside.

Take a moment to remember the families whose children can’t come home.

Uncharted Parent will be taking a break until the new year.  Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and I’ll see you in 2013!

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Now, we cry.

What else can we do, those of us who are fortunate enough, once again, to watch the horrific, murderous events unfold from a distance?  On Friday, we stopped whatever ordinary things we were doing.  Our minds struggled to process the massacre of children–scarcely more than babies, really.  We watched the news, sought solace with family and friends, then hugged our children when they came home from school more tightly than we did when they left that morning.

We hugged our children tightly because they came home from school.  Then, and today, we cry for the parents whose children did not.

We also despair.  Why?  Because this, this massacre, has happened here in our United States so many times in our recent memory.  We want to stop it, but we don’t know how.  Or we think we might know how, but we don’t believe this time will be any different, because we’ve seen the moneyed political interests win over the policy arguments and the dead bodies before.  We despair because we fear this time, it will be more of the same.

But it doesn’t have to be.

At some point, we as a people have to decide that we have had enough.  Enough of our own people have been murdered on our own soil, by our own hands, and it is time to take measures to stop it.  It’s time to reduce the violence.

Is this about guns?  Of course it is.  Is it only about guns?  Of course it’s not.  If we are to make any progress in stemming the violence in this country, we need to meet this crisis honestly, with an appreciation of all of its components and of all of the legitimate interests that people bring to the table.  And the very first thing we need to do here is admit, all of us, that reasonable people on all sides of the debate can bring legitimate arguments to the table.

So let’s begin with the gun debate.

Early in my career, I worked as a junior U.S. Senate staffer covering, in part, Second Amendment issues.  I conversed with countless hunters and people who owned and treasured their guns for self-protection.  I saw every bit of communication that the National Rifle Association (NRA) put out to its membership for a while, and some communications that didn’t go out to the general membership.

After two-and-a-half years of that work, I feel comfortable stating that I’ve heard just about every argument against “gun control” there is, including each of the following: (more…)

(At least they’ve heard of Hanukkah. So that’s something, right? (Photo credit: The J Train via Flickr.com))

If you are Jewish and you don’t live in, say, New York City or Brookline, Massachusetts or a similarly constituted community, you may be familiar with the Hanukkah Stare.  I live in an area where Judaism is inevitably a source of bewilderment to someone, so I encounter the Hanukkah Stare at least once each year.  For the sake of the uninitiated, I’ll describe it before proceeding any further.

The Hanukkah Stare is received when a Jew walks into a store and asks an employee about the availability of either general or specific Hanukkah merchandise, and the employee has never heard of Hanukkah.  The Stare commences immediately following the question, when the employee appears to suffer from a sudden state of immobility–facial muscles included.

The Jewish shopper repeats her question.  This is when the Hanukkah Stare generally sets in for its longest stretch, as the employee, convinced the shopper is either speaking a foreign language (I suppose we are) or is just making stuff up, tries to figure out what the heck to do.  Generally, there is no blinking.

A number of years ago, I wrote an essay for JewishFamily.com called “Finding Jewish Meaning in the Holiday Season.”  My experience last week with a local flummoxed and slightly rude store clerk reminded me of why I wrote this essay back when my now ten-year-old son, “Jack,” was small.  I reprint it here in the hopes that it can offer some inspiration to all those of us who still find ourselves dealing with the Hanukkah Stare and the other, less desirable reactions that sometimes accompany it.

Finding Jewish Meaning in the Holiday Season*

Being an American Jew in December means two things.  First, it means celebrating Hanukkah, a minor holiday in our religion, but one that is eagerly anticipated by children who can’t wait to rip open their gifts as well as by adults who look forward to the holiday’s sanctioned consumption of latkes, sufganiyot and other foods fried in oil.  Second, being Jewish in America at this time of year means facing the reality that in many places, observing Hanukkah instead of Christmas still marks us as different.

Two years ago, just after my son turned four, he and I patiently waited at the deli counter in our local grocery store.  Christmas was only days away—as was Hanukkah—and the store was packed with happy celebrants stocking their carts.  A merry, middle-aged shopper next to us in line thought she would pass the time by engaging the blond-haired, blue-eyed boy in my cart in some childish banter about his presumed holiday excitement.

“Is your tree all ready for Santa?” she asked, her sugary voice emphasizing the key Christmas terms.

I held my breath.  I’d never minded responding to people’s assumptions about my holidays with a concise, “I’m Jewish; I celebrate Hanukkah.”  But now my son, just four years old, faced the glare of public interrogation as he was challenged to explain his identity.  How would he respond? (more…)