The Pitman Family Camp: A Timeless Memory

The Pitman Family camp.  It is engraved in the history of my childhood.

 

A small little 2-bedroom cottage that sits on the water of beautiful Lake Elmore, VT.  A place that time didn’t matter, where the water brushed softly against the shore, where my father’s side of the family enjoyed timeless, vibrant memories. 

On sunny days, my cousins and I would run in bear feet, up into the woods and down the dirt road with sand buckets to fill with round, plump raspberries from the bush in the field next door.  We would hop off the screened-in porch, leap across the grass, and jump off the dock into the fresh, chilly, and clear water of Lake Elmore.  We’d wade on the rocks, and look for empty crafishw shells, and throw our fishing lines in the water, to hope for the occasional sunfish. 

In the back of the cottage, close to the foundation, we'd dig in a high pile of sand to find worms to catch our fish.  We’d count until we found about 10, or sometimes even 12, and then bury them in an old pickle jar filled with fresh, dark soil.  We’d hop in the blue, 4-person motor boat, and drive it into the middle of the lake, just to cast a line.  

I’ll never forget the day that my cousin Shawn finally drove the boat all the way over across the lake, to the Elmore store.  It took us 10 stressful minutes to dock the old 1979 blue motorboat.  I’d balance one leg inside the boat, and one on the dock, shaking and worried that we couldn’t quite dock the thing.  I’d tie It down to the wooden dock, in a triple fisherman’s knot, just to be triple sure it didn’t float away while we were in the store.

 

We each had a dollar to spend.  On the days we didn’t buy an 89 cent ice cream, I’d buy a $1 bottle of cherry coke, with a pop-off top.  The store had a bottle opener attached to the cashier’s counter.  The cashier would always offer to pop the top for me, but I’d turn him down every time.  I purely enjoyed the success of doing it myself, at 10  years old. 

Across the street was a one-room schoolhouse, with a pure silver metal slide, that reflected the bright light of the sun so it blinded our view when we looked at it the right way.  We’d run across the street and jump onto the swings, pumping as high as we could one-handedly, with our soda bottles in the other hand.  We wouldn't dare try the slide, it was way too hot on the sultry, sun-filled days.  The swingset and play set overlooked the lake, and we’d try as hard as we could to swing high enough to see our family’s camp across the way. 

Elmore camp days, they were long.  When the sun set, we’d roast marshmallows over the campfire, and shine a flashlight all the way up the path from the cottage to Pit’s Pot.  Pit’s Pot was the outhouse, that always smelled sour, but was a great alternative from peeing in the lake. We’d duck under the power line with the small lightbulb hanging that lit the way, and run inside the small structure with the door cracked open, because there was no light otherwise.  I used to say to my sister, “Hold the door open a crack, but don’t you dare look!”

There were 3 double beds out on the screened in porch of the cottage, facing towards the lake.  I’d slowly fall asleep in whichever random one I fell into that night, and wake to the gentle sound of waves crashing upon the shore.  On countless days, we would wake up before the sun rose, and watch it as it climbed slowly across the sky. 

In the early mornings, my Grandma Claire would make fresh Oatmeal and Grits with berries that we had picked from the day before.  The smell always filled up the camp.  We’d sit sprawled across the brown checkered couch with our warm bowls of cereal, and watch the channel 3 news.  I remember watching the Clinton election on that TV, with all of the adults and their opinions in the background. 

My cousin Katelyn would run an extension chord to her boombox out the front door of the camp, and we’d listen to Mariah Carey , En Vogue and Tiffany.  We’d create dance routines, and line up the lawn chairs in front of the lake so our parents could watch our performances.  We’d sit at the picnic table and paint our toenails, we’d swim out to the raft and ask our uncle to drive us out our latest editions of 17 Magazine to read as we covered our skin in baby oil to tan us in the sun.

And the raft, oh, the infamous raft.  Never more than 20 feet from the shore, every year we swore my uncles placed it further out from the year before.  I’ll never forget the year I was able to swim out to it without a life jacket.  I must have been 9 or 10 years old. It took me a whole week of build up just to gain the courage to jump off the back of it, into the deep water.

 

I clearly remember my first plunge of the wooden structure, balanced by 4 plastic, blue hollow jugs.  I spread my arms out like an eagle, curved my toes over the edge of the wood, and heard my oldest cousin say, “C’mon Alice, if you can’t do it today, then you never will.” 

And with a wisp of air under my legs, I dove in.  I dropped under the water, my toes filling with seaweed, my nostrils burning.  I slowly floated back to the surface, and with a ray of light as I took my first breath out of the water, I had done it.  I had finally overcame my fear that existed over the past decade or so of summers.  Something about jumping off the back of the raft made it seem so much deeper than facing the shore, but it was nowhere nearly as frightening as I thought it might be. 

As I became a teenager, camp became different.  I’d join my family there less and less.  I became more conscious of my body, and because of it, I went in the water less and less.  The boat just wasn’t as exciting anymore, as I was learning to drive a car, and I could get to anywhere across the lake I needed to go.  I was busy at summer camp, at the community town pool with my girlfriends, and locked in my home bedroom talking on the phone.

And when I did go to camp, I’d walk the mile to the Elmore store, and meet up with a boy lived his summers down the road.  We’d walk down to the state beach, and he always bought me a slush puppy to drink while we waded in the water, to watch the tourists pass by on kayaks and party boats. I even tried a drag off of his cigarette a few times, and sips of his strawberry wine coolers.  I’d stay at his camp until the evenings, when my parents would send my little sister up the road to tell me to come home. 

There were even a few nights where I’d sneak out after midnight just to join him again, right up the neighbor’s path to the lake.  I clearly remember the tree on the side of the road that we’d meet.  I also remember the day I snuck out to the tree and waited for what seemed like hours- just to be disappointed that he never did show.  I still find myself wondering what he’s doing now, and when I drive by his family’s old camp, I can’t help but think of him. 

Those summer days at camp, they slowly faded, and became memories. I spent my late high school and college days busy with other things, busy in part-time jobs, busy in studying, busy in new relationships. 

For a number of years in time, I was busy being engaged, and getting married, and having babies, and maintaining my own home.  And in those years, I left camp.

 But the funny thing is, camp never, ever left me.

 It remained there, silent and somber, deep within my heart. 

And now, with my own children, I go back once or twice a year to visit.  As I watch my son run up and down the dirt road to the raspberry patch, as I watch my daughter jump off the raft, I can’t help but remember those good old days out at camp. The smell of boat fuel, the sound of the lake waves crashing upon the shore.  Those memories of camp, they’re engraved in the history of who I am. 

And today, as my 4-year-old little girl jumped off the raft for the very first time, I’m reminded that there are many, many more memories to come out at camp. It’s a part of me, a part of my family, a part of my children, and a part of my sole that will never leave me.  The kid part of me, the fun part of me, the part of me that I sometimes forget, will always exist at the Pitman Camp.

 

 

Breaking Waves and Appreciating Life

The sand scalds the soles of my feet and wanders through my toes like white, powdery flour in a churning sifter.  It cakes where my ankle meets my shin, and slowly floats off, wave after wave. The salt water takes over my skin, and leaves a dusty, grainy blanket over my creases and freckles.  The wind blows my hair across my face, it sticks to my cheeks as they brown in the sun, like the pale white, fluffy marshmallows that toast over embers in a campfire.  The water crashes on the shore and pulls itself back in, as if it’s not sure if it really is coming or going.  The aroma of the ocean comes slowly into my body, and trickles out with every breath, leaving a bitter but familiar taste in my mouth, like salt water, and shell fish, and fresh ocean air.

The earth curves at the end of the horizon, as far as I can see.  The waves move towards me in a constant rhythm, some large, and some small.  They push against my legs, and pull my knees behind me, moving my entire body in the same type of rhythmic beauty. They are like drums that beat louder and harder as they move closer down the way in a marching band, but instead of passing me by, they take me along and bumpy and swaying ride.  The sun is bright in the sky, like the yolk from an egg fresh out of the coop, a perfect round, so bright that it reflects off of my sunglasses and glimmers in the sand.  The clouds, white like cotton balls, move slowly across the blue canvas of an atmosphere, matching so closely to my son’s soft blue eyes.

My little boy jumps off of his feet and wraps his arms around my tender, meat-red, sunburned shoulders.  It stings like a scraped knee, like alcohol on an open wound, but I can’t let it bother me.  Nothing can bother me on this glorious day, joyful day. 

At 7 and 4, my children experience the ocean, and it has a gentle beauty like nothing I’ve ever seen.  They dance in the cold, salty water, bouncing and tumbling, care-free and full of allure.  They fill my spirit with bright laughter, and innocent curiosity.  They ride in the waves, as they lift them up, and wash them back into the shore like starfish; hopeful and brimming with wonder.  They allow the sea to take them wherever it will, the water seeping through their hair, dripping down their chests and rushing back up onto their faces. 

My son faces me, my back towards the vast ocean, and says, “Mom, don’t look towards the waves.  Just make a guess about then they will come.” 

I gently smile at him and say, “Okay, but I’d like a warning, you know, to know when they’re about to take us.”

He smiles back at me, his forehead pressed against mine.  His face is so close to me that I can count every freckle like a connect-the –dot picture. “Mom, I know when they’re coming, and I’ll protect you, just don’t let go.” 

I think to myself, he doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know that I’ll never let go.  I’ll always hold him close, even when the tides are high and the wind is blowing fierce.  When the crashing waves overtake us, I’ll still hold on.

His eyes grow large, his smile widens his face, his dimples appear and glimmer in the bright day, “Mom, it’s coming.”

I press my nose into his, “Ok, I’ll hold on tight.” I make a promise, that with all intentions I plan to keep.

In a quick glimpse, our heads fall under the frigid water and I  blow fast air out of my nose.  I wrap my arms around his waist as we twirl and tumble underneath the water.  He grabs onto the straps of my swimsuit.  He pulls me even closer to  him.  We slowly sit there, underneath the water, holding our breath, until the sand appears underneath our bottoms, and water clears across my face and the back of his head.  His his body on top of mine, wet hair covering my eyes and sand settling on the top of my cheeks, he lays with his head in my chest, and pulls it up to me.

My legs tangled in his, blinded by the sun, I say, “Wow, that was a big wave.”

He kneels over my chest, looks down at me with a toothless grin, and explains, “But mom, you held onto me.  I knew you wouldn’t let go.”

There’s lots of challenging moments as parents, and sometimes it’s hard to see the glimmer in the sand that occurs between them.  But days like these, they remind me that there is joy, and compassion, and hope.  There is pure and innocent pleasure that exists underneath the frustration, and disappointment, and stressful turmoil of day-to-day life. 

Dear Lord, or spirit, or whatever you may call it, thank you for this day. Thank you for the salt, and the ocean, and the strapping feeling of seaweed around my thighs.  Thank you for the soft breeze that blows the hair across my face, the rough current of the waves of the ocean, and the marvelous wonder that flourishes within the deep soles of my children.

With every passing moment that is hopeful, that is glorious, that is purely magnificent.  I look at the waves, at the coast, at the sky, at my children.  Thank you for this moment.  My pure gratitude for this life, with every passing day. Thank you for the ocean, and new experiences, and everything that is glory, that is greatness, that is love. 

 

Birthdays and Miracles

I feel like the past 2 months of my blog have been full of, well, complaints and commissary about being a mom or about my job.  And the funny things is, I'm typically not a complainer.  I love my life.  I love being a mom, and I love my job. 

So in honor of the passing of my 32nd birthday 2 days ago, I'm going to write a happy and hopeful entry. 

So let me just tell you, I've always found mysterious irony in the day that I was born.  July 20, since the year I turned 22, has been a day in which I've either been bed-ridden sick, or something kind of horrible has happened.  I used to think it was just me being negative, considering there are a lot of days that horrible things happen, and just some of them coincidentally happened on my birthday.  So for several years in a row I worked hard to re-frame my thinking around it.  I've told myself that perhaps it's just that these specific horrible things have stuck out in my memory because they occurred on my birthday.  Either way, I can't help by make note of my past 10 years of birthdays:

• Age: 22- July 20, 2006:  Lost my first job out of college.  Layed-off.  On that day.  It was the last day of the summer program for the job I was working in, and they realized they hired too many people for the school year.  Since I was the last to be hired, with the least amount of experience, I was done.

• Age: 23- July 20, 2007: Speeding ticket.  Ok.  Not a big deal.  Just $140 that I didn't have.  I drove fast in my early 20's.  But really, on my birthday?

• Age: 24- July 20, 2008:  I ruined my engagement.  It was supposed to be that day.  But when the package from Zales was delivered at my home, I couldn't imagine what it was, so I opened it.  Oh man, a diamond ring.  I tried to close it back up and pretend that it was never opened!  My now husband was no fool though, and he was very angry at me.  It was a huge fight.  The make-up from it may have been when we conceived my son!? 

• Age 25-July 20, 2009: My son was an infant.  I remember walking him in a stroller on that day, down by the Waterfront in Newport, Vermont.  And then I remember getting him back in the car, and backing straight up into the car behind me.  $3,000 worth of fender-bender damage, and it was my fault.  Not covered by insurance.  Wonderful.

• Age 26- July 20, 2010:  It was 3 weeks before my wedding.  My son (15 months) was still breastfeeding and I was trying to wean him.  With this, came engorgement.  I remember the pain became unbearable.  On that day, I had gone to the Dr.'s and was diagnosed with mastitis.  My shower was that weekend.  My bachelorette part was the night after.  My breasts hurt more than life. I had a 103 degree temp and my chest felt like it was going to explode.

• Age 27- July 20, 2011: I was 6 months pregnant with my daughter, and I thought I had gone into early labor.  I remember my husband had left work early and brought me to the hospital.  I underwent a non-stress test to find out that I was actually not anywhere near in early labor, I just had about 3 pounds of human waste sitting inside of my colon.  The doctor asked, "When was your last bowel movement?"  I replied, "Umm, it was so long ago I can't remember, maybe 3 weeks?"  Hmmm...

• Age 28- July 20, 2012:  Celebration of my birthday at the lake with my best friend and her son.  My son and hers (3 at the time) were playing in the water.  I was nursing my 9-month-old daughter.  My son stepped in too far, and was struggling.  I went to hand my daughter to my best friend to run into the water fully clothed to rescue him, and in the hand-off, I dropped my daughter 2 feet onto the muddy, grassy, hard ground.  My son ended up fine, but I had to bring my daughter to the ER.  She was ok, too.  Just a small bruise. 

• Age 29- July 20, 2013:  My last day at my job that I had worked at for 6 years.  Said goodbye to so many children I was so close to.  It was my first job as a therapist.  It was the first of many heartbreaks I would experience over the years.  There were tears, and regrets, and feelings of guilt because I felt like I hadn't done enough. 

• Age 30- July 20, 2014:  Bed-ridden sick.  Sicker than I ever have been.  My husband days, "Alice, you have to get out of bed and come with us.  I planned you a surprise party at your parents' lake house." I took a Dayquil and made it through.  But I was miserable and sick.  Sick, sick, sick. 

• Age 31- July 20, 2015:  Sick.  Really freaking sick.  Called out of work sick.  Which meant I was really sick.

• Age 32- July 20, 2016:  My son has a sore throat.  My daughter has a goopy eyes.  I am shitting my brains out.  Sick.  Whole family.  Step throat, pink-eye, stomach bug.  Triple whammy.  Once again, Birthday sickness overcomes my life.

So now that you know a summary of my last 10 years of Birthdays, I've got to tell you, that I've re-framed my thinking around them for good.

This special day, it is a day of life change.  All of these silly little things, they are not big things.  They are little bumps in the road.  In the grand scheme of things, they are minor, very miniscule problems.  Nobody was truly injured.  Nobody had a life threatening illness.  Nobody died.  They are stupid, forgettable things, that happen commonly on many, many other days of the year as well. 

But they are also miracles. 

If I had never lost that first job, who knows what job I'd have today. 

If I had never gotten that speeding ticket (which was the last one out of many I was ever blessed with), or never gotten in that fender-bender, I  maybe would've never slowed down or learned to be more careful.

 If I had never mistakingly found my engagement ring, maybe I would have never gotten engaged.  That may have been a mistake, but wasn't it something to celebrate? (and a great story)

If I had never contracted mastitis, my son may have had to stop nursing before he was ready. And more than that, who knows what my bachelorette party would have brought?

The day I jumped into the water to save my son, was also the day he learned to swim. He never needed saving. 

If I had never left my job after 6 years, would I be where I am today, onto better and bigger things?

If I had never been sick and had to miss out on something exciting, especially on my 30th Birthday, I would never appreciate feeling healthy.

These moments were milestones for me, and they occurred on my Birthday each year.  These were actual, real-world, life-changing moments.  They meant something to me; they taught important life lessons.

Lessons like these: 

• It's important to be over-cautious and mindful of safety.  We, as human beings, and especially myself, are not immortal. 
•  It's important to have a beginning and an end to jobs and phases of my life that I've overgrown, no matter how difficult the good-bye is.  I can't live my life just fearing the good-bye, it leaves no room for growth.
• It's important to not feel well every once in awhile, especially if you're a generally healthy person.  These moments help you to appreciate the times that you do feel healthy and energetic. 

My past 10 Birthdays, they've played a large role in helping me to become more humble, and thankful, and gracious.  They have changed my life. 

I will no longer dread the coming and passing of July 20th each year.  Instead, I will look forward to them, and live in curiosity as the day approaches, of how it will make me better. 

I am so absolutely thankful to be alive, today and every day.  I am healthy, I am strong.  My life is a great life, one that many would only wish to have.

Dear God, if there is a true God, thank you for this day.  Thank you for creating me. Thank you for this his life, with all of it's challenges and its joys.

Every Birthday, from now on, will remind me that life is a pure miracle.  Even if I can't see it in the moment, these days are a small thread in the seam of my story.

In the Eye of the Storm: Sibling Rivalry

So today there was a tremendous thunderstorm that bellowed amongst toe Northeast Kingdom of Vermont.  It was beautiful, and exciting, and ominous.  It shook my house- lighting crashing and cutting across the immediate sky. It drenched us in cold rain, drowning my beautifully planted marigolds, and quenching my tomatoes and cucumbers as they slowly grew towards the sky during this mid-summer, blissful, beautiful, nature created flurry.   It rumbled through the land, it excited our people, it ravished our soles. 

And it ruined my day. It literally destroyed every piece of my sanity that ever existed. 

Intense and persistent rain forced my children to remain in the same space from dawn until dusk.  And let me tell you, there is no greater despair and pure annoyance than spending the day with a sassy 7-year-old and an over-tired 4-year-old.  They hated every second of being together, stuck in this overbearing, uncontrollable weather.  And a part of me doesn’t blame them.

My son, 7-years-old, and full of sarcasm, quick wittedness and inappropriate humor, refused to give his sister a break all day long. He teased my dear daughter at every moment of her waking being.  She smelled like poop.  She talked like a baby.  She walked funny.  She was dressed unmatched.  She was dirty.  She was everything that life hates.

And oh boy, my 4-year-old daughter, with her strong will and harsh temper lashed right back.  She made comments like, “I hope you’re run over by a car” and  “I want you out of this family.”  And even, to my dismay, “I wish you were dead.”

Awesome, kids.  So glad you antagonize each other so much that you really just wish neither one of you even existed.

And the real question is:  How is this type of rivalry between siblings considered “normal”, or “typical”?  Because playing the role of the mediator is literally driving me to a slow, painful death. 

And really, it’s not like I’m clueless.  For god’s sake, I’m a children’s therapist! I’ve helped so many children and families work out their conflicts.  I’ve spent hours convincing parents that this type of arguing is normal and expected between siblings.

But this was all before I experienced it first-hand.

I came to this realization today:  My kids literally want each other suffer slowly as they die a slow death, while I wallow in self-pity in the background.  They truly, with their sincere heart and souls, hate each other.  They despise every inch of one another’s living, breathing, heart-pounding being. 

And the sad part it, they’ve convinced me that it’s my fault.

It’s my fault that Amelia got one more mandarin orange in her pre-packed cup than Avery.  It’s my fault that Amelia got purple play-doh and Avery got green.  It’s my fault that Henry Danger is airing on TV right now, instead of Shimmer and Shine.  It’s even my fault that it’s raining out, and that our plans were cancelled for the day.

My kids hate each other, and evidently it’s all my fault.

But really, I question, how is it that they’ve come to the point where they can’t even exist, side-by-side, and cooperate for just one day in a closed space without literally wanting to commit murder by the end of the day?

“Mom, Amelia is sitting in the comfy chair.”  Ok, maybe I should just slice a thick cut in her jugular, Avery.

“Mom, Avery wants to play Mario Kart and I hate that game.”  Ok, let me just go blow off his head with a machete.

It seems as though that’s seriously what they want in those moments.

Can’t we just learn to tolerate each other for one day?  Is it really going to cause us so much agony that we feel the need to wish that our other sibling was dead instead of alive? 

My GOD, kids!  Is this still considered in the realm of normalcy in looking at sibling rivalry?

My little beings, It’s pouring rain outside.  We can’t go out there.  If you want space, go to your rooms. 

I love you both, and I see that you hate each other most of the time.  I see that you value any opportunity you can to throw one another under the bus. 

And trust me, I kind of understand it. I grew up with siblings, too.

But for the love of god, cut me a break.  Try to get along and play with each other for at least 30 seconds.  I promise it won’t kill you. However, I can’t promise you won’t kill each other, and that’s what’s really terrifying.

I wish you two could just step back for a moment and see each other like I see you. 

What I want you guys to know, is that as much as you don’t love each other, I love you both. Even if it really, truly is my fault, Im trying by hardest!

And someday, believe it or don’t, you’ll be glad the other one exists.

 I promise. 

 

 

The 7 Stupid Wonders of an Unexperienced Children's Clinician

I don’t consider myself someone who’s ever been horribly judgmental or critical of others, both in my personal and professional life.  I usually am pretty open to other people’s perspectives and opinions, and assume they have their own reasons for doing things.  I think I’ve also developed a relatively good understanding that nothing in life is black and white, and that the answers to most of the unknown questions of this world lay somewhere within that grey area. 

I suppose I have probably learned to be that way, in part, because of my career as a clinician, especially in my intense work with the parents of the children who I see day in and day out.  It’s really hard to have the core belief that your perspective on parenting is the right or only perspective, and work with a variety of parents whose values are often different from yours.  I think it’s safe to say the majority of children’s clinicians would agree with that statement.

But oh, don’t get me wrong.  If I said that throughout my career I’ve never placed judgement on parents, or disagreed with their choices, or believed they were wrong, I’d be lying to myself and everyone else.  Any children’s clinician who makes that statement is probably deceiving you in some way- we all make judgements at times.  Even though a therapist is supposed to be the ultimate symbol of non-judgmental, unconditional acceptance, we just can’t be that perfect all of the time. 

But what I can say, is that since I’ve become a mother, I do far less judging and questioning, and much more understanding and validating.  There are so many situations that I hear about where I can honestly say I’ve been there, and contemplated making the same choice as well.

Please don’t misunderstand or generalize what I am saying.  This certainly does not mean that a clinician with no children cannot be a fantastic and skilled as a clinician.  In fact, some of the clinicians who I’ve respected the most, and who I’ve known to be the most influential in their work, are clinicians who are not, indeed, parents themselves. 

I’m just writing about myself, and my own experience. 

I remember my early days as a clinician, working in a school, surrounded by young kids, and having so many questions about why so many parents had made the choices that they did in parenting their children.  I mean, not really the big choices, but the little ones.  Like the every-day, little things that seem like such easy choices as a parent.  And it really wasn’t until my own children hit school-age, that my questions about these every day parenting choices slowly whittled away. 

 

So let me give you a list of some of the observations, curiosity and criticism I had of parents and children before I ever had my own, and my answers to them now that I’m a mother. 

1.        Question: This parent is always so nicely dressed and groomed.  I wonder why they send their kid to school in such wildly mismatching clothing?  How come they spend so much time on their appearance, and none on their child’s?

 

Answer:  Newsflash, you dumb clinician:  young kids don’t care about their appearance.  Of all of the battles to fight, why would you choose this one?  If they’re happy in what they chose, or even what you chose for clothes, then why would you make any issue at all out of it?  And furthermore, if your kid comes out of their bedroom in something you think is totally mismatched, and they like what they’re wearing, why would you ever shoot it down?

Kids are so limited on the choices they have in life.  Let them make this choice.  It saves you energy, and helps the kid to feel just a little bit more independent.  And trust me, they won’t graduate high school wearing flower print pants, checkered shirts, and mismatched socks.  Or maybe they will.  And if they do, good for them.  Not a big problem either way, and the way your kid is dressed at any age says nothing about your parenting skills.
 

 

2.       Question:  I wonder why so many parents make separate meals for their kids.  Why don’t they just expect them to eat what they’re eating?  Isn’t it beneficial to the child to try new things, and if they have the choice, they will never try anything new.

Answer:  Nope.  My kid would rather starve then eat the wonderful, home cooked meals that I know how to make.  And believe me, we know how to eat good stuff in this household.  My husband is a restaurant manager and culinary master.  On the nights he makes things such as spinach tortellini, or mushroom beef stroganoff, or seafood lasagna, I will not expect my kids to eat it.  They will eat frozen pizza, or chicken nuggets instead.  And we will not stop making these delicious meals for ourselves- why should we have to change what we eat just because we have kids? 

 Trust me, on the nights we have spaghetti, or shake and bake chicken, or Shepard’s Pie, I expect them to at least take a few bites before they pour themselves a bowl of cereal, or whip up a PB & J.  But my goodness, I am not crazy.  I am aware that 4 and 7 year olds are not fond of elegant, decadent cuisine.  Who was I ever kidding?

3.        Question:  How come parents don’t empty their kids’ backpacks every night, or forget to send back their homework folders?

 

Answer:  Because, believe it or not, parents actually are busy during the evening and in the mornings.  Busier than anyone without kids could ever, ever imagine.  Especially working mothers, such as myself. 

Are you joking?  We’re lucky if we get out the door in the mornings with both kids dressed, with backpacks and lunches, with brushed teeth and snow clothes.  Never mind the darn homework folder.  I try my best to remember, but darn, it’s pretty low on my priority list.  Did I send my kid to school naked?  No.  Did I put them to bed without dinner? Absolutely not.  Trust me people, I’m doing my job.  Sorry if I miss the homework folder every once and awhile.

 

4.        Question:  I wonder how come parents don’t involve their kids in more extra-curricular, enrichment activities.  It builds so much confidence for children, and it’s such a healthy way to be involved in the community.

Answer: You know what else is healthy?  Spending evenings and Saturday mornings at home, relaxed, without commitments or time restraints.  I don’t know as if it’s beneficial to yell at my kids to find their cleats, or change into their uniform, or remember their dance duffle bag almost every day during those excruciating, stressful transitional times at the end and beginning of each school day when things are already stressful enough.

And even more than that, I’ve worked all freaking day.  My kids have been at school all freaking day.  Maybe we’d like to relax.  Maybe we’d like to eat dinner together as a family, or read a book, or watch TV.  Maybe we need that time to decompress and gather our energy back. 

And just maybe my kid doesn’t like activities such as these ones that are offered. And if they aren’t sure if they like it, then why would I insist that they be involved in it?  I mean sure, if my kid likes baseball, I will let them play baseball.  If my kid likes girl scouts, I will let her participate.  But I won’t force them to.  That’s like a lose-lose situation, with the only reasoning behind it being that I think they might benefit from their exposure to such activities?

Benefit, you say? They might benefit from spending time with their parents, as well.  They might benefit from having the time to be read to, and complete their homework from beginning to end without being rushed.  But benefit from being forced to pretend to enjoy an activity they half-like?  Probably not.

 

5.       Question:  How come so many parents let their kids come into their rooms and sleep in their beds?  Don’t they want time alone with their spouse?

Answer:  Believe it or not, parents need to sleep as well, just as much, if not more than they need “alone time’ with their spouses.  We have worked hard, hard, hard for our kids to go to bed and sleep by themselves.  But if they creep in a 4 AM to snuggle in between us in the morning, I’m not going to stop them.  I’d rather cherish that 2 hours of sleep.  And quite frankly, there might be a part of this that I actually enjoy.  Again, at 18 years old, I’m pretty sure that this won’t be happening.  And if it is, then we have bigger problems.  But really folks, let’s let them love our comfort while they actually still find comfort in us. 

And the fact that it might affect the parents’ intimate life?  Oh please. The mere idea of a child existing in your household affects your sexual opportunities.  We’re not kidding anyone, here.  Kind of a bit embarrassing to admit, but if we want to have sex, we will make it happen.  And I can guarantee that those wee hours of the morning when the kids are coming into our rooms, is not the time we were hoping for this type of intimacy to happen, anyhow.

 

6.        Question: How come parents allow their kids so much time to watch TV and play video games?  Don’t they realize that such time could be used for creative play, self-discovery, and imagination?

Answer:  Well, because parents need times to get stuff done, without constant interruptions.  I know, that if my daughter puts on her Princess Anna dress, and watches Frozen for an hour and a half, I can fold and put away two loads of laundry, do a sink full of dishes, and clean both of my bathrooms.  I know that if I let my son plays 2 hours of Minecraft on his tablet, that I can vacuum the floors, sweep and mop my dining room and kitchen, and prepare dinner without a sound. 

Why wouldn’t any parent do this?  It will not kill my kids.  They will not be traumatized.  They will still know how to play by themselves, and grow into creative, functional human beings with innovative and extraordinary ideas.  2 hours of media time on the weekend is not the route of all that kills in childhood.  Sorry for the folks who believe it is!
 

 

7.       Question: How come kids struggle so much with behavior and relationships if their parents are such good examples in their lives?  How come they haven’t learned from these role models?  How can all of these high functioning adults create such wildly dysregulated, un-social children?

 

Answer:  Well because, kids are kids, because they are kids.  If that makes sense.  Kids are not just a pure representation of the way they’ve been parented.  There can be a child who has the nicest parents in the world, and the best home life you could ever imagine, and that child could still have social behavioral issues that top the most of the top.  And really, there are times when kids are really just their own people, despite how they’ve been parented, despite what their adult models have showed them.  Once again, I will repeat, our children are their own people, not extensions of their parents, and not little mini-adults.  Most of the time, they make their own choices, and they are certainly still learning despite their influences. 

In my career, I’ve seen kids who have experienced the most pristine, close to perfect home lives that struggle day in and day out with behavioral issues and social challenges, and visa versa.  I’ve seen kids from horrible, traumatic and shattered home circumstances be the kindest, most socially adaptable human beings.   

I’m not saying that adult role models and functional home lives don’t make a difference on kids, because they certainly do.  But really, it just isn’t as black and white as I used to think it was. 

 

We are each individuals.  Children, parents, families.  We make different choices.  Choices that we believe in that moment, or even in the long-term, are the best choices for us.  And how can we judge one another for it?  We live different lives, we’ve have different pasts, we’ve experienced different things. Let’s learn from each other.  Let’s choose to relate to each other, and identify with our commonalities, rather than focusing on our differences. 

 

Together we shall support, celebrate, and unite.

 

A letter to my needy, attention-hungry 4-year-old daugther

The fiery red-haired, energetic, full of spirit little girl otherwise known as my daughter Amelia, turned 4 this past October.  Since the day she turned 4, in her perspective, she’s actually “almost 5”.  Almost 5, and capable of everything that life throws at her, without any offered help whatsoever.  She’s also in pure want of my attention at every second, every minute, every hour of her waking being.  I don’t know if it’s the typical age of 4 “almost 5”, if it’s a learned dependency, or is it’s just her personality.  Whatever it is, I have a love-hate relationship with it. 

This girl, she wants to be me.  She wants to walk like I do, talk like I do, and be the mere person who I am.  And the inner voice inside of me knows that I should cherish these days, because pretty soon, this attitude of her undying, idealistic love for me will completely crumble with the early onset of adolescence. 

I need to communicate a message to her.  It’s a message that she can’t understand now, but one that hopefully she will understand someday.

Dear Amelia, my beautiful girl,

My daughter, my idol, my confidant, I love you.  But can’t you just give me a few minutes to just be myself? 

I love spending time with you.  I love playing with your stuffed animals, and making little voices and characters out of each of them.   I love the situations we act out in your Barbie playhouse, and even your bright pink Cadillac power-wheels car.  I love doing 20 piece puzzles, and playing endless games of Bingo and Go Fish.  I admire the pictures you paint for me, and your beaded pipe-cleaner necklaces with all of the glitter. 

And little girl, I love the beautiful sole you are.  Not a worry in the world, just care free.  Your smile brightens my day, and at times, convinces me that everything in life is alright.  Your imagination fills me up with pride, and paints a beautiful picture of what it means to be a child.  You really are nothing less than the light of my life.

I’ve got explain to you, though, that there’s something else that I hope you grow to understand.  It’s something that I feel happy to admit, and also kind of guilty about. 

And that idea is this: 

In the act of being your mother, I am also my own person.

I have my own needs, and my own interests, and my own friends that are separate from you.  I existed as a strong woman, every day of my life, before you were born.  I also exist as an individual today, despite your constant need for attention.  Believe it or not, I was certainly put on this planet to be your mother, and I also play many other roles in my life than just that.

You want me all of the time.  You want me to come and play with you, to sit with you and watch  a movie, to listen to you sing, to draw a picture with you, to make a meal with you, to go for a walk with you, to read a story to you.  You want me by your side, at every waking moment of my being.  And let me tell you, I love the fact that you need me.  I need the fact that you need me. 

I need you, too.  I need you so much to feel a like a whole person.  And I need  other things and other people as well, because I’m a complicated, self-established, actual grown-up. 

I feel so much shame and doubt in telling you this:  my life includes more than just you and your needs.  I have the need to be independent, for love and attention from other people, and for my own autonomy.

 I hate to admit it, but at this 4-year-old phase, I complete you.  Unfortunately, in my reciprocal return in our relationship, you don’t complete me like I complete you.  And this is hard.  It’s very, very hard for me. 

Right now, you are a daughter, and I am your mother.  The difference is, you might think you are only a daughter, and I know for sure that I am not only a mom.  I am a wife, an employee, a therapist, a friend, a daughter, and a sister.  I am a volunteer, a helper, a customer, a writer, a community member, and an important part of a team of adults who are raising you.  It’s really too bad, and a little harsh, but someday, pretty soon, you will realize that I am indeed, not your one and only. 

Please don’t forever blame me for being an adult with adult needs and responsibilities.  I give you the best part of me who is your mom, and that part of me is a large part of me, but it is not all of me. 

There are some days, where I’d rather watch a television show than play with you and your toys.  There are moments of my life when I have to, not out of want but out of need, focus on my career.  There are plenty of blocks of times when I need to cook dinner, and fold laundry, and wipe the bathroom sinks.   There are times on a daily basis when I need to talk on the phone, or use the bathroom, or take shower by myself.  There are even times when at the beach, I’d rather sit in my lawn chair and visit with other moms than build castles with you in the sand.

I’m really sorry for those times, and I know that during those moments, you feel let down, and ignored, and maybe even rejected or pushed away.  My true apologies for those feelings, and times like those. 

But there’s something that you must know.  You must come to understand that I need those times for myself.  I need time to spend with your dad without you.  I need my space to sleep, and to dress myself, and to listen to my music and read a book with no interruptions.  I need time where I can make sure I haven’t lost myself, in the long days of being your mother.

Please know that I have a full understanding  that me, and my independent self, are so important for you.  A mother at her best, or her “somewhat capable” is better than a mother who is exhausted and burnt out.  You need a mom who can pay her full attention to you, who can show you the best of her, who can set a good example.  You need patience, and understanding, and unconditional love.  It is my job to provide those things for you, and unfortunately, I can’t provide them for you if I can’t even provide them for myself. 

And trust me, I know you’ve seen me at my absolute worst.  During those raw moments, where I’ve lost my temper, where I’ve fought with your dad, where I’ve drinken an entire bottle of wine in your presence, my apologies for those moments.  I’m so sorry for putting my own needs before yours. 

If there is one thing I can give you, as your mother, is the gift of knowing that I am my true, autonomous self.  I am not perfect, and I have faults and struggles just as every person does.  But maybe, if you can grow up on most days, knowing that I gave you my all, then it’s good enough.  Just maybe, the frustrated, burnt out, over worked example of an adult that I truly am, can give you a better example of what life really is. 

I am a real, independent person.  I’ve worked my whole life to be the best I can be.  I need time to myself, and lots of time with you, and my own sense of nurturing and acceptance that you can’t solely provide as my only person, because you are 4.    

My dear girl, I’m not always able to show it, but I love you with everything inside of me, all of the time.  You should also know that there is a little girl who has a small voice inside of me, too.  That little voice is just as louds as yours is, and she needs me, too.

Neither voice will ever be ignored, but at times, their attention will be unbalanced.  And my true, sincere, and authentic self apologies for that. 

I consistently give you the absolute most I can give.  In my days full of doubt, in my moments full of uncertainty, I truly hope that it’s enough for you to be able to grow into the strong and independent woman that I know you can be. 

Kind of like your mom.   

With Love Always,

Your tired, stressed-out Mother

Oppostional Defiant Disorder- The Story of a "Bad" Kid

I’d like to devote an essay to the subject of Oppositional Defiant Disorder.  I am a clinician who works in schools, and I must share that this disorder is the most up and coming diagnosis amongst behaviorally challenged students in public school.  It has taken the place of Attention Deficit Disorder in popularity amongst school psychologists, and it’s prominence in our society should be noted and written about.  If no other clinician has the drive to write about it (which I’m sure they do), I will.

So let me explain Oppositional Defiant Disorder, coded as 313.81 in the bible of psychology that all of us Clinicians and therapists live by (more commonly known as the DSM-IV-TR).  The diagnosis of “ODD” is a cluster of symptoms that describes a child or student as being generally noncompliant, uncooperative and at times antisocial in their response to most of the demands that society places upon them.  It is common amongst children who have been abandoned by one or both parents, children in the foster care system, or children who have lived through significant, on-going abuse and trauma in their lives. 

 

A snapshot of a child who is often diagnosed with this can easily be identified and described.  It is a child who defies most of, and sometimes all of,the culturally established and societal rules and expectations.  It is a child who shows up to school every day with an attitude of something like, “I’ll do what I want to, but never what you tell me to.” 

ODD sounds like s a child who says, "Nope, not doing that.“  Or something like, "You can't make me."  Or even this question and response: "You want me to do what?  Well you can go ahead and F off."

ODD looks like a big, sore, outlandish, outright refusal.  Refusal to crawl out from underneath the desk.  Refusal to write with a pencil.  Refusal to write anything at all.  Refusal to read out loud, or work on an assignment.  Refusal to sit in an assigned seat.  Refusal to follow the directions in P.E. class. Refusal to line up when it's time to come in from recess.  Refusal to sit down on the bus.  Refusal to do most of the things the adults ask, most of the time. 

Attention to all of the adults:  Let me make it known that I refuse to adhere to you and your rules about how you think I should be.
 

 

It is a strong will, and adamant, inarguable stubbornness.  It is continuous and perpetual disagreement with anyone, or anything.  It is disrespect and overall disregard for most other people, and inability to recognize or care about how one's behavior affects others.  It is a general attitude that has worked in it's best way to help a child feel more safe, but unfortunately, it holds many social consequences. 

The diagnosis of ODD or similar behaviors in a child causes a large amount of frustration in the adults surrounding that child. I bet there is no single teacher in the history of teachers who can say they haven't had at least one, if not many, many students that have very familiar behaviors as described above.

But let me, for a moment, tell you a story of a child with “ODD”.  And I want you to really think about why they’ve developed this “attitude” towards all human beings.

I am a 10-year-old boy, or an 8-year-old-girl, or a 14-year-old adolescent. I could be any child, of any gender, and any age, because this whole ODD thing does not discriminate.  

I am deeply misunderstood by my peers, my teachers, and anyone, really for that matter. 

If they haven't abandoned me, my parents are probably struggling to provide me with the type of attention I need.  They are caught up in most of the adult responsibilities of life- making money, feeding me, meeting their own needs in any way they can.  Maybe my parents are addicted to something- like alcohol, or prescription drugs.  Maybe they are working 3 jobs.  Maybe they are parenting me with no support, as a single parent.  I really just don’t understand what occupies their time, but I do know that their time is certainly occupied. 

The adults I am surrounded by at home are caught up in adult problems, every single day.  And the problems never seem to end for them.  Maybe they can’t pay rent this month, and we might be evicted.  Maybe they got arrested for driving without a license. Maybe they are unemployed, or mentally ill, or abused by their spouse.

Often times, my parents are caught up in their own relationships.  They are desperately trying to make things work with their partners, to kill the loneliness and emptiness that lives inside of them.  They are spending their days filling their soles and their hearts with something meaningful to them in this game of life. 

On most days, I am alone.  But I've learned to manage my loneliness.  I play by myself, or with other siblings or neighborhood kids.  I have no direction, or explanation from right or wrong.  There is no guidance from the adults, they are too busy with the overwhelming stress of life.

I want so badly to have adult attention.  I need adult attention.  Sometimes, the only way I can receive adult attention, is by doing something bad.  I don’t like doing bad things, but if doing things that are bad will catch my parents’ attention, then it’s very much better from doing nothing at all. 

The adults in my life don’t have many opportunities to show me how to behave in an acceptable and social way.  The adults that I am around often don't know how to communicate well and solve their problems for themselves, so they, too, have found other ways to get their needs met.  And those are the examples I have learned from.  The other children around me are so lucky that they've had someone there to teach them such pro-social skills. 

I am not those kids.  Please don't compare me to them.  We are not two of the equal or similar.  Our lives that we've lived have been so vastly different that one another, that we aren't the same type of being.  Myself, and those kids, are two separate animals.  And let me make it clear- I hate those animals.

We are different, mainly because of this: Some of the adults in my life who are supposed to love me and keep me safe have hurt me.  There really aren't any adults who have been successful in protecting me from the harsh world.  They've either neglected me, emotionally abused me, or physically harmed me in some way.  The adults who have helped me to feel safe, those who have comforted me, those who have been there for me, they've left me behind.

I have slowly learned that adults, and really any other people, aren't things in life that I can trust. 
They are the enemies at war with me, forcing me to someone who I am not, forcing me to do things that I haven't made my mind up about you.  You want to see force?  I'll show you force.

Force is how I behave if something in life is scary and overwhelming.  I can protect myself through force and defiance. I don't need any adult to help to me at all.

I will dig in my heels as hard as I can dig.  I will win the battle.  I will win the war.  There will be no adult who can force me to do a damn thing.  I can, and I will, control everything within my control, because so much of my life circumstance is absolutely beyond my control. 

I need to have force in order to survive.  I have other needs , too.  I have the need for positive attention.  I have the need for adults to talk to me, and explain things to me, and model how functional adults behave in our society.  I have the need to be protected, and to feel safe.  Protected from difficult situations, protected from violence, protected from complicated, stressful, adult problems.  Safe from abuse, from violence, from turmoil.  Most importantly, I have the need to be loved, unconditionally, by adults who know how much I can screw up, and still love me at the end of the day.  The need to know that I am theirs, and they are mine, forever. 

But what's forever for?  I have a hard time even seeing tomorrow.  Even seeing the end of the day.  Even seeing that maybe my mood might improve within the next 20 minutes.  I am living in the moment.  And this moment is scary and unpredictable. 

I am confused about what I want in comparison to what I need.  I sometimes don't even realize that what I want to the most is attention, and I want it right now.  I also want this pack of crackers, and I should have it.  I've lived this shitty, horrible life, and all I want is a pack of crackers, and you can't give it to me right now? Then you can give me nothing.  You are nothing.  And if you don't know you're nothing, I can show you.

Do you think I can't get what I want?  Oh, you are so wrong.  I can, and I will get what I want.  I will demand what I want.  And I will receive.  Just you watch. 

Underneath my harsh demands for things I want, there’s some deeper, underlying needs that are not consistently met.

I just need to be loved and cared about.  I need someone to know my needs before I know them.  Someone to stay on top of them, and be one step ahead of me.  I need a provider, caretaker, a helper, a supporter. 

I need to be able to good at something, and for someone to recognize it.  I deserve for someone to invest in me as person; someone who can see the good in me no matter my faults or insecurities.  I could really use at least one person in this world to know that I am indeed a good person, who is worthy of being loved and cherished, despite my bad behavior and general disrespect for mankind.

And honestlty, I disrespect people really only because the vast majority of the people in my life have disrespected me. 

Especially adults. 

Adults are the enemy, because they walk around pointing out just about everything that is wrong with me.  And you know what?  F them.  They're wrong.  They're wrong about me, and they're wrong about everything.

All they’ve ever done is ignore my needs, and my ideas, and my self-worth.  They do not value my purpose in this world.  I am a responsibility to most of the people in my life, a sore on their back, a burden that on most days, is nothing but a pure pain in the ass.

I feel worthless, and unwanted, and unloved.  I make life harder for everyone, not easier.  Nobody enjoys me, or invests in me, or sees my potential.  And the truth as I see it, is that I’m not worth investing any time into.

I am nothing to the world, and the world, in its harsh return, is nothing to me. 

All I am is un un-wanted piece of crap.   A nuisance, an un-needed distraction in desperation for better things.  Why is my life worth living, anyway?  And what the hell, how come all of the other people feel so happy all of the time?  How did they get so lucky?  Don't they ever feel miserable, too?

On some days, I’m so full of shame that I wonder why I even exist.  Today in class we read a story about someone who died.  Would you care if I died?  Probably not.  Maybe you’d even be happy.  Good for you, and right back at you, dear untrustworthy enemy of mine.  I hope you feel just as freaking worthless as I do. 

And you know what?  If I have to feel this way all of the time, maybe you should, too.  Why is it so specific to me?  Why shouldn’t everyone have to feel this type of pain? 

Maybe I’ll go out of my way to make other people around me feel the level of shame that I do.  Because then, at least I won’t feel so lonely.  My misery, in its greatest form, cherishes its company. 

And oh, believe me, I can really make you feel like a piece of shit who deserves nothing but dirt on the ground.  And a good trick I've learned is, if I can make you feel like a piece of shit first, you certainly aren't gonna stomp on me and make me feel worse than I already feel.  Because honestly, if you made me feel any worse, it just might break me.

I will never be vulnerable.  I will never let you see the nice parts of me.  And you know why?  Because if I show you the good person who I really can be inside, I run the risk of rejection.  I run the risk of you saying, "I know who you really are, and I still don't like you."  And that would just be too painful.  So instead, I act in a way that forces you to hate me, but it doesn't really bother me, because you don't hate me for the real me.  You'll never know the real me.  And somewhere along the way, I've lost touch with the real me as well.

Underneath my insecurities and self-doubt, if you really cut through my solid skin and brick wall, I’d like to give you just one message, you untrustworthy adults, you: 

Please help me to feel  loved and worth it.  My life is just as important as yours, and I mean something in this world.  I am not worthless.  I am not a pain.  I am a human being, just like you.  But I will never know it unless you teach me and show me.  

Show me the world is a safe place.  Show me there are some people who I actually can trust, who will not leave me behind in the ditch.  Shine a light on the very small fragments of my heart that are beautiful and courageous.  Help me to see the things that I am unable to see within myself, for I am only a child. 

When I’m screaming, and kicking, and throwing names in your face, instead of taking offense, please know that it isn’t about you at all.  Please don't give up on me.  Please hope for me. Please believe that I deserve to be loved, no matter my faults.  My life may not be like the kid beside me, but it is my life.  If you do nothing else for me at all, silently stand beside me in my pain and dig deeply to understand the depths of my despair.