Month: January 2019

Imagine with me for a moment.  

Imagine you’ve wanted a dog your whole life.  Imagine the time is finally right.  Imagine your excitement, your enthusiasm, your JOY when you finally get your pet. You go to the shelter or the breeder or the neighbor down the street and you choose your dog.  In doing so, you take on a responsibility, right?

You’ve declared that you are responsible for this life.  You promise to care for the dog to the best of your ability.  You’ll feed it and walk it and nurture it and provide medical care. You will love this pet.  Your whole family will love this pet.  

And then, imagine a tragedy. Maybe it’s a brain tumor.  Maybe paralysis.  Maybe your beloved pet can no longer eat, or walk, or breathe on its own. You love your pet, so of course, you seek medical advice.  You get a first opinion, and a second, and a third.  They all explain, to some degree, that your beloved pet’s quality of life will not improve.  

You grieve.  You make peace with this sad reality.  You prepare to say goodbye.  Your heart is broken and your burden is heavy.  But you make a choice.  You decide it is time to let go of your beloved pet.  

And then.  You share your decision with your veterinarian, who explains that it’s not really your choice.  

Because the law upholds the sanctity of the life that you’ve claimed responsibility for.  The law says that it’s not actually your decision. According to the law, you need to strap that dog to your chest and carry it around with you… physically carry it on your person… until or unless your own life is at risk.  

Would you simply accept that?  Would you fight back? What would your arguments be? 

You might say that your beloved pet is, of course, alive and valuable… but it doesn’t hold as much, or more, value than your own life. 

You might argue that you can’t work with a dog strapped to your body.  It will place an unbearable financial burden on you and your family. 

You might argue that your own health is at risk.  The physical burden of carrying another being will damage your back and your knees and render you incapable of going about your daily life. 

You might argue the emotional toll of carrying around a body incapable of supporting itself.  You might point out the heartbreak of a constant reminder of your dying pet. 

You might explain that you can’t care for your family in this condition.  Your children and your spouse will suffer the burden of your incapacity. 

You might argue that the government doesn’t have the right to infringe upon your autonomy.  You might say that politicians can’t tell you what to do with your own body. 

You would probably ask at what point the quality of your OWN life gets factored into the equation.  

And the politicians would answer, “Letting go only becomes a legal option if and when your own life is at risk.” 

How would you feel? 

Violated? Dismissed? Infantilized?

Frustrated? Angry? Hopeless? 

Heartbroken?  Simply broken? 

In this scenario, I imagine my husband adamantly declaring his rights.  I imagine him fighting this legislation and advocating for his autonomy and passionately arguing that the government can’t tell him how to live his life. I imagine his outrage at the legislative over-reach.  

Maybe the story is a stretch.  And you likely have your own opinions about the sanctity of life and the accuracy of medical predictions and the level to which you would sacrifice your own happiness and freedom for someone else.  

My compassionate, conservative, caring husband and I recently entered a debate about late-term abortions.  And I kept trying to think of an analogy that might help him understand the perspective of a woman faced with a heartbreaking choice.  

I would ask: How often does a woman carry a baby into the third trimester intending to abort? My husband would argue that some people are irresponsible or unscrupulous or just plain stupid.  But in the next breath, he would argue that those same irresponsible, unscrupulous, stupid people have the right to carry a gun.  

He will argue for smaller government and less legislation and yet support this supposedly ‘moral’ reason for legislating people’s bodies.  

I have to conclude that this type of thinking only persists because, as a society, we continue to regard women as emotional and irrational and in need of protection; protection from our own uninformed or weak or hysterical selves.  

If you believe that women are just as rational, intelligent, and capable as men, the whole thing becomes a moot point.  Women are capable of making choices.  For themselves, and for their families.  Women are strong and rational and compassionate and brave.  To legislate women’s health is to adamantly declare that you believe women incapable of informed consent.  

And so my husband and I re-enter the debate.  With love. And patience.  Because we are all products of our own environment and experience. Because, despite our different viewpoints, we believe in each other.   We believe in the power of listening to each others’ perspectives and stories and experiences.  

This ongoing push and pull in our relationship has caused discomfort and anger.  At times, we have questioned our compatibility.  These conflicts have pushed us both to evaluate our views and check our sources and remember to listen when we debate.  And they have helped us both to grow into better people.  We cannot afford to dismiss the ‘other’ point of view, because we cannot afford to dismiss each other.  

So we speak in analogies. We present hypotheticals.  We share stories.  And we listen.  Because there is strength in compassion and growth in the hard places.  Because we trust each other, we can enter into the difficult conversations and become better people.  We can lean on each other and take care of our family, our friends, and even our pets, knowing that we are supported and valued and heard.  

Note:  I asked my husband to read this before I post it.  The debate continues.  We discuss morality.  We debate the role of government.  We play out worst-case scenarios and pray that we won’t ever have to make these difficult choices.  We listen and argue, and in the end, we lean on each other.  In love.  

My kids have been asking to go sledding since the snow started two days ago.  Yesterday, the sleet and freezing rain never stopped falling, and sledding was a no-go.  Today, extreme temperatures have us cozying up indoors again.  With the wind chill, it’s 25 below.  So I suggested an old favorite- indoor sledding.  

The kids pile all the couch cushions at the base of the stairs.  They use cardboard and sleeping bag ‘sleds’ and try to get up as much speed as possible before they crash into the wall at the bottom of the steps. It’s just the kind of risky, insane behavior that will keep kids entertained for hours.  

There’s a complicated risk/benefit analysis that goes into the parenting end of this particular endeavor. 

Cons: 

They could get hurt. For sure.  (But they could get hurt if we really went sledding, too).

Pros:  

They’re not on screens.

They’re not arguing. 

They’re engineering. Seriously.  They’re modifying their sled design.  “Does it work better with the cardboard inside the sleeping bag?” “How about if we lift up our feet?” “I think we would go faster if our whole body was slick like the sleeping bag.  I know!  Let’s wear our snowpants and coats!”

They’re assessing risk. “Maybe we should wear helmets.”  

They’re collaborating. They’re cooperating.  They’re being creative and they’re learning about friction and energy and slope and force.  

They’re doing all of the things that us 80s kids used to do out of earshot of our parents.  We used to build go-carts and forts and make sleds out of cafeteria trays.  We assessed risk and took chances and learned from our mistakes.  Some of us did these things with our parents nearby, shouting half-hearted warnings as they flipped burgers on the grill.  Some of us met our friends down the street or at the playground or hiked into the woods behind our houses.  

Maybe we did things our parents wouldn’t approve of.  Maybe it was accidental, maybe it was on purpose, but either way, we didn’t have adults making warnings and assessing risk and suggesting safer alternatives. We had to figure it out.  But the ‘figuring it out’ part?  That’s where empowerment lies.  That’s how we teach ourselves that we’re capable.  

I’m not a psychologist, but I’ve been working with kids in classrooms for almost twenty years.  I’ve been parenting them at home for more than a decade.  And one thing I’ve learned is that competence builds resilience builds confidence.  

Kids know when we’re throwing out compliments just to soothe their egos.  They know who the best athletes are and who the best students are and who has the most friends.  They’re more perceptive than most adults, and their developing brains are wired to take in as much information as possible. 

They also pick up on our emotions.  They can smell our fear, so to speak.  Kids know when parents are anxious or frustrated or angry or scared.  Even when we try to hide it.  

So when we hover and ask a million questions and remind them to stay within earshot, when we plan all their activities and schedule and supervise playdates, they’re getting a message. They’re getting the message that they’re not capable of navigating the world around them.  

When we cook their meals and wash their clothes and make their beds, not only are they relying on us to take care of them, they’re getting the message that they’re not capable of taking care of themselves.  

Listen, I know I’m not perfect.  I mess up this parenting thing in a million different ways every day.  I yell.  I’m inconsistent.  I forget to sign the homework agenda and forget to remind them to wear deodorant and I make too much food from boxes and I drink and I swear and I let them play too many video games and watch too much YouTube.  

And I worry.  I worry about them getting hurt.  I worry about them getting bullied.  I worry about them making poor choices and being rude and discovering sex on the internet.  

But you know what I worry about the most?  If I’m really honest?  I worry about what other parents will think.  

I know that I’m more lenient than most parents.  Even when they were little, I’d let them wander a little further beyond my reach than the other moms.  I learned that they’d always turn back, about 5 seconds later than I was comfortable with. So I tried to give them those extra seconds.  As they got older, I let them wander further.  They played in the creek and hiked in the woods behind our house.  My worry was always just a few minutes ahead of theirs.  If I began to worry about how long they’d been gone, they inevitably showed up a few minutes later.  If I began to think they’d gone too far, they turned back after a few more yards.  I learned to bite my tongue and watch them. I wanted them to be able to trust their own judgement, and they haven’t disappointed me yet.  

My middle schooler just recently began riding his bike into town with friends.  They’ve got a pretty wide radius; a lot like I did when I was their age.  But they have something I didn’t.  They have cell phones.  If they run into a problem, they call.  It’s a blessing and a curse.  It provides a sense of security for me. And it provides a (sometimes overused) lifeline for them.  

Here’s an example.  My kid and his best friend rode their bikes to the 7-Eleven.  They resourcefully downloaded the app to earn free slurpees, because they didn’t have money but  were craving a treat.  When they returned to their bikes, parked by the dumpster, there was a swarm of bees. Let me start by saying that neither of them has a bee allergy, so we’re not talking about a life threatening situation here.  When they tried to get to their bikes, one of them got stung.  And what did they do?  They called me.  My son left a hysterical message.  For whatever reason, I missed the call, listened to my son’s frantic voice, panicked myself, and called them back about a minute later.  By then, the situation was over.  A customer at the store rescued their bikes from the bees.  The clerk gave them some ice for my son’s bee sting.  When I talked to them, they were heading home with their bikes and their slurpees, my son with a little swollen spot on his forearm.  

But you know what my son learned?  He learned that sometimes, calling mom isn’t the solution.  Sometimes, you have all the resources you need to solve a problem. He learned that there are good and helpful people in the world and bad things happen and that he doesn’t always need his mom to fix things.  

And because my middle schooler earned this privilege, of course my ten year old started pushing for more freedom, too.  At first, I let him ride his bike in a specified radius, but only with his brother. And then one day, he wanted to ride and his brother didn’t.  He convinced me that he was capable; that he knew the limits of where he could ride and that he had a watch and that he’d be back in half an hour and that he’d watch for cars and wear his helmet.  

And I began that parental risk/benefit analysis.

Pros:

He’s getting exercise.

He’s getting fresh air. 

He’s becoming independent.

He feels capable. 

He’s not in front of a screen.  

Cons:

He could get kidnapped (highly unlikely, but terrifying).

He could get hurt (more likely, and manageable).

He could need help (most likely).  

If he does need help and he asks somebody, I will be judged harshly.  

Ugh.  I’m disappointed in myself for this analysis.  My unfounded fears, my anxiety, and what the neighbors might think? None of these actually have anything to do with my son’s ability to ride his bike to a friend’s house.  Statistically, kids are safer now than they have been in decades. In my quiet little suburb, we’re safer than most.  

When I was younger, I was riding bikes with my stepsister.  We were about 4 blocks from home when she fell.  It was bad.  She was pretty hurt.  I think we were about 11 or 12, and I was scared.  She was crying and I couldn’t decide whether to stay with her or run for help.  Ultimately, I ran for help.  I don’t know why I didn’t ride my bike; it certainly would’ve been quicker.  When I got my stepmom, she ran with me back to her daughter.  I don’t know why she didn’t drive her car; it certainly would’ve been quicker.  But we don’t always think clearly in an emergency situation.  My stepsister wound up with a broken leg.  It was pretty scary for everyone involved.  

But we all survived. We learned a few things and we lived through something scary and we learned that we were capable of navigating a crisis.  That’s pretty powerful, if you ask me.   Sometimes the best lessons are the hardest to learn. 

So when my boys ride their bikes around town, of course I worry.  But ultimately, I believe that my worry shouldn’t trump their competence. I want them to learn that they are capable of making a purchase and solving a problem and asking for help.  I want them to learn that most people are good and that the world isn’t as scary as it may seem.  

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Staircase sledding didn’t last as long as I’d hoped.  They’re back in front of their video games, and I’m wondering if all of these theories about parenting are serving me at all.  For all my fears about being judged, I know that I’m my own worst critic. This whole parenting gig… it’s hard. It’s really hard.  And I know that my thoughtful conclusion on how it should be done isn’t going to be the same thoughtful conclusion that my friends and neighbors come to.  

But when it comes down to it, we all want the same thing.  We want to raise competent, kind, functional adults.  We want them to stop needing us, at some point.  Right?  

And sometimes I’m still too quick to save them.  When my son called crying because his bike chain broke, I imagined a snapped chain and hopped in the minivan to rescue him. Later, in our driveway, I realized that nothing was really broken.  I could’ve talked him through how to pop the chain back on the gears.  Or maybe I could have let him figure it out on his own, the way I had to when I was a kid.  Baby steps, I suppose.  So I showed him how to fix it.  So next time, he’ll need me just a little bit less. 

As I make all of the tough parenting decisions, maybe I should take to heart some of the lessons I’m trying to teach my children.  Maybe we all need to remember:

We are capable of meeting challenges. 

We will all make mistakes.

It’s okay to ask for help. 

Parents, you’re doing just fine.  Even in the moments when you’re failing, you’re learning and growing and getting better. You’re messing up some things and you’re absolutely nailing others. Hang in there.  This is tough, but you can do it.  Learn from your mistakes. Don’t be afraid.  You got this.  And when all else fails, call for backup.  Chances are, your parents will answer.