How to Influence Your Kids When They Keep Getting Smarter and You Keep Getting Dumber

March 14, 2017March 15, 2017 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 10 Comments

My kids think I’m stupid.

I knew this day would come. I mean, I used to be that smartass kid myself.

I thought that I knew everything about everything because my age (almost) ended with -teen. I thought I had the answers to life’s hard questions despite hardly having lived at all. I thought my parents, who paid for everything and provided everything and fixed everything, were the least smart people on the entire planet. And I had evidence. I mean, I got straight A’s in middle school. What could they possibly know that I didn’t?

(And then when I moved out, they studied really hard and became GENIUSES almost overnight! I’m not sure why they waited so long . . . )

So now my kids are the ones rolling their eyes when I offer advice, sighing with distrust at everything I say. How could my knowledge of unclogging a toilet or writing a check compare to their knowledge of sports stats and texting slang? Seriously.

Yes, my kids think I’m stupid.

But here is something I have noticed.

They think Abraham Lincoln was smart.
They think Michael Jordan is smart.
They think the Beastie Boys are smart.
They think Dr. Seuss was smart.
They think Benjamin Franklin was smart.
They think John Cena is smart.
They think Yoda is smart.
They think Steven Spielberg is smart.
They think Albert Einstein was REALLY smart.
And they think Lebron James is a genius.

Basically, they think everyone is smart except me.

But here’s what they don’t understand: I AM smart. I’m so smart that I can make them think I’m dumb while I’m outsmarting them. I’m smart enough to realize that I can trick them into learning the values I want to teach them by teaching those values through someone else they trust. Like Doc Brown from Back to the Future or Beverly from The Goldbergs.

Dumb parents everywhere, listen up. Let me share with you my little secret – the Quote of the Day.

Every morning, before my kids head off to school, I scour the Internet for a quotation that feels right for the day. Sometimes it shares deep wisdom about life, friendship, hard work, perseverance, love, joy, faith, or success. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it is a line from a movie we just watched or from a favorite television show. Every once in a while it is a Bible verse, and sometimes it specifically applies to something that is happening that day, like if my kids need encouragement for a test or a track meet. The quotation for the day is quickly recorded on two post-it notes, three if I want to be reminded of it later myself, and stuffed into lunch boxes before the kids dash out the door. If one of my kiddos is buying lunch, then I stick the post-it somewhere in a folder or book for them to find later in the day.

I know what you’re thinking. Her kids don’t read those things. They probably toss them in the cafeteria trash can or hide them under an apple or granola bar so that no one else will see. How embarrassing.

WRONG.

How do I know this? Because whenever I forget to pack one, they ALWAYS tell me.

Sometimes we talk about them over dinner. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes their friends ask to see them at lunch. Sometimes my kids reflect on them on their own. Sometimes I stick them on the refrigerator as a reminder, and sometimes we discuss them when we unpack their lunchboxes after school. Sometimes I see one from several weeks ago tucked into a folder or marking a page in a book. Cha ching. If they read it more than once before tossing it, that’s even better.

I hope that sometimes those words of wisdom, not from their stupid mom but from someone brilliant, like Charles Barkley or Will Ferrell, change their day. I hope that enough of those carefully chosen words over all the days and all the weeks and all the months of school will help to shape their lives.

Remember the days when you could stuff a sweet note into your child’s lunchbox, and he would treasure that little scrap of paper love all afternoon? Once you hit the tweens, those days are over. But don’t be fooled, moms and dads. Your kids still appreciate your influence. They still want to know that they are loved, even as their growing independence pulls them farther and farther away.

They want your attention; they just don’t want a lipstick kiss from their mother on a heart-shaped napkin anymore.

Because, well, moms are dumb.

But it’s okay, mom. You’ve got backup. Because Homer Simpson is really, really smart.

**Maybe you want to pilot a Quote of the Day routine with your kids in the last quarter of the school year. Let me help! I included a few quotations above to get you started! Watch the Still Chasing Fireflies Facebook page for more each week! If doing this in the morning seems overwhelming to you, make them all on the weekend instead. Five minutes and you are finished!**

I’m Not Sure How to Mom Anymore

February 8, 2017February 8, 2017 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 26 Comments

sports

I have two sons. In just a month, they will be 11 and 13. And our home, well, it’s not the same as it used to be. There are basketballs and gym shoes, shin guards and dirty socks at every turn. There is a constant search for missing earbuds and phone chargers, and “pump up” music, the kind that plays before sporting events, has become the soundtrack of our lives. There is a funky smell here, a mingling of stinky shoe, sweaty uniform, and Axe body wash, that wafts through the air. And it is next to impossible to keep snacks stocked in the cabinets. Almost-teen boys are a lot less snips and snails and puppy dog tails and a lot more bottomless stomach.

I don’t mind wrangling the socks and washing the uniforms, and I’m learning to hide my favorite snacks from the scavengers who live here. I know to watch for loose balls at the bottom of the stairs, and I’m an expert at hunting for “lost” equipment as we are running late to practice, again. I don’t even mind the stinky smell. I mean, I don’t like the stinky smell, but I’m becoming desensitized. And my mother-in-law buys me candles, so that helps.

What I do mind is that these simple, insignificant changes signal something bigger, a shift in my responsibilities as a parent, a change in what motherhood means. The canary that represents childhood at our house is barely hanging onto its perch. I’ve been trying to resuscitate it, but it isn’t working, and the thought of a dead canary here nearly stops my heart from beating, too.

My little boys aren’t so little now, and I don’t really know what I’m doing. I’m not sure I know how to mom anymore.

I was skilled at rocking my sleeping babies.
I was quick at chasing my busy toddlers.
I was smart at exploring the woods with my curious preschoolers.
I was impressive at creating crafts and experiments for my kindergarteners.
I was even good at teaching my inquisitive elementary students to read.

But I don’t know how to parent 10 and 12.

II.

A few weeks before Christmas, my younger son begged me to chaperone his concert rehearsal for fifth- and sixth-graders who play strings. He pleaded with me several times, and I changed the subject several times, mostly because missing work usually creates more work for me in one way or another. But he persisted, and the teacher sent out a code red that said something like “We are in need of chaperones” but that sounded to me like “These kids will never amount to anything if none of their mothers even care, for goodness sakes.” And also I realized that my little boy is 10, and he was begging me to go, and in just a few short months he may be begging me NOT to.

So I signed up.

On the morning of the rehearsal, I was excited to spend a little extra time with my son. I waited in the office until the secretary released the students for the trip and boys and girls rushed into the hallway with music books and backpacks and violins. I hurried to the bus to welcome them and watched through the window as my son and his friends approached. Soon he boarded, giggling and chatting with his classmates, who quickly shuffled past my row to claim the seats in the back.

He may have said hi as he passed by.

I’m not exactly sure.

But I am sure that there was no hug, no I’m-so-glad-you’re-here-Mom, not even a pause for a chat or a fist bump. There was nothing, really, to indicate that the two of us were any more related than any other pair of people on that bus.

The rehearsal went off without a hitch, and soon we were boarding again to head back to the elementary school. On the return trip, I glanced behind me every once in a while to see what was happening in the seats in the rear. The kids talked and joked and laughed and enjoyed escaping the classroom for an hour or two. When the bus doors opened once again, the students hastily exited to return to class. And the kid who had begged me to chaperone this trip scurried down the hallway without ever looking back.

And that was that.

My dog wagged her tail and jumped excitedly when I got home, which soothed my fear that I had turned invisible after leaving the house in the morning. I checked the mirror and pinched myself just to be sure.

Yep. I’m still here.

Later that evening, to my surprise, my ten-year-old thanked me for going on the field trip “with” him. He was so happy that I had taken a few hours off work to ride that bus, even though it had seemed like my presence didn’t matter at all. The truth was that he never intended to spend time with me on the way to his rehearsal. He just wanted to know that, when given two choices, I would choose him.

Thank goodness I did. Because I came very close to failing that test.

I may have felt a bit neglected that morning, but I knew exactly where to sit at the concert that night for a perfect view of my son and his cello.

So there’s that, too.

This is what parenting 10 looks like.

III.

Last Friday, my older son’s middle school basketball team was recognized during half-time of the varsity game at the high school. It was a big deal to us. But as we finalized our plans for the evening, he seemed unexpectedly stressed.

“Mom,” he said, looking conflicted, “you can just drop me off at the high school. I mean, if you want to, that’s fine.”

Drop him off? Was this kid serious?

This was going to be a sweet moment. I mean, he was wearing a freaking bow tie, and they were announcing his name, you know, over the loud speaker. In front of a big crowd. At a varsity basketball game.

No, drop off is not an option.

“Okay, yeah, well, I really want you to be there, Mom.”

Yes . . . I know that. . . So what am I missing?

“But it’s okay if I hang out with my team, right? You won’t care, will you?”

Oooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh.

Of course. Your team. Right. Your friends. For sure. Absolutely. I mean, that will be perfect because I really just wanted to concentrate on the game anyway.

Yeah.

So my son played it cool with his teammates while I sat alone in a gym packed with people since the rest of the family had other things to do. It was different. But I enjoyed observing my son from a distance, seeing the whole picture of who he is without the distraction of the details. I enjoyed watching how he interacted with his friends and admiring the young man he has become. I know I’m his mom, but, really, that kid is pretty amazing.

I didn’t mind cheering for the home team while he socialized since I love watching basketball, too. But I was shocked that night, because something about high school has definitely changed, and very recently, I think, because I have been teaching high school for thirteen years and I have never noticed.

Get ready for this. Grab a chair because it’s crazy. Ready?

High school boys LOOK JUST LIKE GROWNUP MEN now!

Seriously, when did this start happening? And why aren’t we researching how to make this stop?

I looked at the players in disbelief, imagining what my grown sons will look like and wondering how ALL of those changes can possibly happen in the next few years. It seems impossible. Glimpses of the future flashed through my mind, tempered by glimpses of the past, when I was cheering from the student section and my husband was the high school basketball player and everyone loitered at Burger King or ran through the Taco Bell drive thru after the game.

Time is not a distance runner. He is a sprinter. He races past at an incredible speed. Kids grow up, and adults get old, and moments pass quickly and are lost forever. Our only hope of bottling yesterday is to preserve its memories. And that only works if we take time to make them.

While we were at the high school that night, my son touched base with me only once.

Yes, when he needed money.

But on our way home, he talked and talked and talked about the events of the evening and the conversation he had with a former coach and the funny things that happened with his friends. And the two of us decided to run through Taco Bell, just like my friends and I did in high school, even though we had already eaten dinner, even though it was after ten o’clock at night.

I wonder if, ten years from now, he will remember eating those tacos with his mom after a varsity basketball game in 2017.

I hope that he will.

This is what parenting 12 looks like.

IV.

When I started teaching, I worked at a rural high school in southeastern Ohio with a man named Jim Williams. Jim Williams was tall and serious and a respected veteran teacher. He had a dry sense of humor and a quick wit, and it seemed to me that he had read every piece of literature that had ever been written. He was also the chair of the English department, so he was, at least in my mind, my boss.

I was a novice, still learning the ropes and finding my confidence, and Jim Williams was never anything but kind to me when I worked with him. But, because of my own insecurities as a young teacher, I felt about fifteen years old whenever we spoke. My mind defaulted from being the high school teacher to being just another student, although he always treated me as a respected colleague.

So Jim Williams and I didn’t chat very often, mostly because I was more comfortable feeling my real age of twenty-something than defaulting to an anxious fifteen. When I needed professional advice, he was helpful, but I didn’t hang around long enough to discuss the news or the weather or my life outside of school. The English wing had no extra room for me, so I could easily escape to my classroom by the gym with any seeds of wisdom he had shared.

In hindsight, I should have devoted more time to learning from Jim Williams than to hiding from him because he shared some of the best advice that I have ever been given.

And it had nothing to do with teaching.

It was a gloomy winter day at the high school when I received a message that my baby boy was sick and I would need to be home for the next couple of days. Not only was I striving to excel as a teacher at that time, but I was also just learning to juggle the demands of teaching and motherhood. Before having a baby, I rarely used a sick day, and I often continued working after school until late into the evening. I took pride in my commitment and my creativity and all of the extra hours that I logged. I don’t remember exactly what I said to Jim Williams that day, but I imagine that it was some version of an apology for needing to be home.

What I do remember clearly is that he stopped me – so that he could say something profound instead of listening to my nonsense.

Jim Williams said, “There will always be another teacher, Mary Ann.”

Oooooooh. That burns. I mean, I’ve been trying really hard to be the best and to do the most and to keep all the plates spinning. You haven’t even noticed?

He wasn’t finished.

“There will always be another teacher, Mary Ann, but your son will never have another mother.”

See. I told you he was smart.

Yes, it stung, but I understood what Jim Williams was saying. He wasn’t telling me that I was easily replaceable or that my teaching wasn’t up to his expectations. He wasn’t saying that hiring a substitute for a day or two would be equal to my presence in the classroom. But he was telling me to take a deep breath and prioritize. And I needed that. Because sometimes I was so worried about being the best teacher for my students that I wasn’t being the best mother for my baby, even when I was at home with him at night.

Jim Williams was saying that my presence as a mother matters.

And I have never forgotten that.

Maybe raising 10 and 12 isn’t as complicated as I think it is. Maybe it’s mostly about presence, about “choosing” the people we love and connecting with them whenever and however we can. Maybe it’s as simple as being in the same place, even when we are all in separate rooms doing separate things. Maybe it’s just about being. Maybe just being is exactly what my sons need.

Don’t get me wrong. We eat dinner as a family and play games together. We plan fun events and talk and spend time with grandparents and friends. Those things are important.

But there are many more hours now when I am not chasing anyone or disciplining anyone or teaching anyone about fractions or saving anyone from harm.

There are many more hours now when I am just here.

And that’s okay.

Maybe parenting 10 and 12 is being close enough to come to the rescue but far enough away to let my children take a chance. Maybe it’s watching them climb the tall, scary ladder, and then holding the safety net under the tightrope they are walking to become men.

The minutes, they pass quickly, and there is no buying them back when the canary’s song fades. So maybe I just need to relax, enjoy the journey, and remember that just being matters.

And maybe it matters the most when it seems like it doesn’t matter at all.

Image Source: Steven Depolo under Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic

What It Feels Like to be the White Mother of Black Sons

July 15, 2016July 21, 2016 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 5 Comments

Rikki

My heart has been hurting, friends. The world has been spinning out of control recently, and I keep thinking, “Why won’t all of us just listen to one another? Why don’t we seek understanding instead of taking sides when we all want the same things – to be respected, to be safe, and to be treated fairly? Why can’t we acknowledge the pain in another person’s heart and help to heal it?”

Then I read a Facebook post written by my friend and coworker, Rikki Johnson, and I was so moved that I asked her if she would adapt her post for our “What It Feels Like Series” here on Still Chasing Fireflies. I am incredibly thankful that she agreed to open her heart to us in this way. I know Rikki as an enthusiastic English teacher, but she and I have another thing in common: We are both moms of boys. Our boys don’t have the same racial heritage, but her essay reminds us that ALL mothers share the same heart, and this is a way that we can connect and understand one another, even when our life experiences may not be the same. As a mother of black children, Rikki worries about some things that I hadn’t even thought about before. Her essay challenged me.

PLEASE read Rikki’s story. Please read it with an open heart and mind and share it with your friends and family if you are moved, too. That is one small way that you can be a bright light in the darkness, just like a firefly, as we all seek to be understood.

I’ve remained pretty silent lately regarding the recent incidences of the two unarmed black men murdered at the hands of police officers, as well as the murders and shootings of the Dallas police officers. I’ll start with this: it is a difficult time in our country to be a police officer. The murders of those men protecting the crowd in Dallas is despicable and it only overshadows the message so many are trying to peacefully spread. Think of this though: the distrust, disrespect, and criticism of the police these days is very similar to the reality that black men have faced as a whole throughout our country’s history.

My recent silence on this issue mostly stems from fear. I’m afraid of being disappointed in the reactions to my feelings about this by those closest to me and my boys: my family and friends. I hold so many people to such high expectations that I usually set myself up to get my feelings hurt when they don’t live up to them. I’m begging you to see my perspective and try to understand where I’m coming from. I am a white woman married to a black man, and I’m raising black sons.

So many people hold my children and husband as a separate entity than my neighbors’ black husband and children because I am white. My family is an example that I know many of my friends and family members use to justify their perception that racism is no longer an issue. My husband is used as an example that “good” black men do exist. But if my husband were caught making the same mistakes as many of my white family and friends have done, would he still be one of the “good” ones? What if one of my boys were caught shoplifting a candy bar or some other youthful antic like toilet papering someone’s house or breaking curfew? Would you label him a thug behind our backs?

Why don’t you listen when my husband openly speaks about his personal experience being black in this country? Why don’t you listen to me when I try to explain that my husband and boys, yes, even the “good ones,” are statistically 2.5 times more likely to be murdered at the hands of police. And if they are, someone, somewhere, will try to find some past record, social media post, or picture to justify why they somehow deserved it. Heaven forbid, if my son were to ever make a mistake and be subjected to the legal system, he would be more likely to receive a stiffer penalty than a white man who made the same mistake. How many times do you get pulled over in a year? My husband was pulled over 6 times in the last 12 months while driving home through the predominantly white city where he works. Some of his driving infractions: failure to signal, failure to come to a complete stop at an empty intersection, and going 40 in a 35. Most of those times, he was sent on his way after they ran his license, insurance, and plates. Maybe it was his nursing scrubs that eased the officers’ minds that he was a “good one?” In cities across the country, black people are disproportionately pulled over for minor driving infractions compared to white people. They are also 2 times more likely to be subjected to being searched. These are facts, and my husband and boys are not any more immune to them than the next black man down the street.

If you love us, then listen please. Please stop trying to explain away our experience as a family or my fears for my husband or my boys because it makes you uncomfortable. This is our reality, and just because you don’t understand it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. These problems remain because people keep trying to explain them away or debate them or say that others are only trying to stir the pot. We all know that not talking about a problem doesn’t make it go away. Listen to what people are saying instead of just waiting for your turn to speak. Try to put yourself in the other person’s shoes and remember that just because something isn’t a part of your experience, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

I’m not sorry for being born white. I’m not ashamed of who I am at all. I’m comfortable being me around any person, and I always have been. But, as a white person, I recognize the privilege that comes with it. Growing up, I didn’t know fear in interacting with police. I never wondered if I were overlooked for a job because of my skin. I was never followed through stores by associates when I was out shopping with my friends. I’m mouthy and sarcastic, and I see how differently my demeanor could be perceived if I were a black woman exhibiting the same behavior. Recognizing this privilege doesn’t mean you are ashamed to be white. Acknowledging an issue is the first step in making changes.

It is scientifically proven that young black boys are perceived to be older than they actually are upon first glance than white boys. This means that higher expectations for their behavior are placed upon them at a younger age. When black boys play rough, their behavior is more likely to be deemed violent and malicious, whereas white boys are considered tough and masculine. Boys will be boys, you see. In a study testing even the subconscious perceptions of participants, adult black males were perceived as more of a threat than their white counterparts. My eldest is about to turn 12; day by day he is turning into a man and statistically is perceived as more threatening. Maybe his predicted short stature will protect him? These are the things that I think about that mothers of white children don’t.

As any good parent should, I’ve raised my children to address authority figures, such as police, with respect. But, as a mother of black boys, I have to go deeper than that. We have to practice what to say, how to say it, where to put your hands, never to move without explaining your actions, how to appear small and unthreatening. I have to remind my boys as they grow into men outside of my umbrella of protection that they shouldn’t run down the street, even if they’re in a hurry or running late. They shouldn’t wear a hoodie over their heads, or travel in large groups of other black boys. All of these actions could invoke suspicion or draw unwanted attention. Maybe I’m wrong, but I don’t think any of my friends and family members with white boys ever had to go through training as extensive as this just to leave the house! And, yet, it could not even matter because last week a man did everything right when stopped and was still murdered right in front of his 4 year old and wife.

I know many of you will not have even read this far. Or, if you have, you may have been coming up with rebuttals to each of my points along the way. I’m not asking to debate. I’m trying to let you in on my reality as a wife and mother. My hopes and dreams for my babies and their futures are no different than any mother of any color. I dream that my children will lead successful, productive lives. I want them to become great fathers, husbands, friends, employees just the same as any mother wishes for her sons. However, these ongoing incidences of violence and injustice serve as constant reminders that nothing, not even my children’s lives, are promised.

To my family and friends, I beg you not to claim you love my boys and my husband, and yet still try to justify all these other men being killed for being black. My perspective–my husband’s perspective–my beautiful children’s perspectives are very similar to those of the people who are marching in the streets to end this violence on ALL sides. We’re not against police and we’re not calling anyone racist. We’re asking that you at least acknowledge the problem and find some understanding and support to help make this country better and safer for my family and yours.

Thanks again to my friend Rikki Johnson for sharing her “What It Feels Like” story with us. Speaking out in the midst of controversy is not easy. It is courageous, and it is important. Starting conversations and then listening with love, respect, and patience is important, too. Thanks, Rikki, for being loving and patient with me as we discussed some really hard things.

Do you have a life experience that you can help other people understand? It could be ANYTHING that is stirring your heart! You can write it yourself, or I can help! Please reach out to me to add to our “What It Feels Like” series!

Why I Should Be in Jail and Other Things I Learned From the Tragedy at the Zoo

June 8, 2016June 8, 2016 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 6 Comments

snake

When I heard about the little boy who had fallen into the gorilla enclosure in Cincinnati, I was fascinated just like everyone else. Maybe it’s because I recall the hazards of raising two quick, mischievous preschoolers of my own just a few years ago. Maybe it’s because we love animals or because we live so close to an amazing zoo that we spent many carefree hours there almost weekly when my boys were small. Maybe it’s because we were at the zoo one day when a silverback rushed to the front of the enclosure and slammed his hand into the glass with such force that we all jumped in surprise. Or maybe it’s because we just can’t wrap our heads around how these majestic creatures that seem so warm and gentle lounging in their artificial habitats have both the intelligence and the physical strength to break us in half.

Would meeting the friendly faces on the other side of the glass be more like a dream, or more like a nightmare?

After watching a few news stories and hearing the eyewitness accounts, I felt comfortable that I had the gist of the story figured out. A mom was at the zoo with her child. The mom looked away from her child for a brief moment, as parents sometimes do. The child broke the rules, as children sometimes do. The mom and I and all of America were horrified to discover that the child had fallen into the gorilla enclosure. The gorilla acted like a gorilla, creating a dangerous situation for the child. The zookeepers, unable to read the gorilla’s mind and having little time and a child’s life on the line, made a heartbreaking decision that will probably haunt them forever. The child survived. The loss of the gorilla was terribly tragic. Everyone learned a lesson. Life, as always, will move forward.

BUT THEN I started reading all of the commentaries. I read one and then another and then another. Each time that I finished reading one, a new one would pop up, and soon I realized just how naïve I had been to think that this incident was an isolated tragic accident, the devastating result of the perfect storm on what could have been an ordinary day at the zoo. This incident was not about one little boy, one flawed enclosure, and one tragic loss. There are so many lessons we can all learn.

Zoos are a death trap. Seriously. Yes, I have been to the zoo probably 275 times in the past ten years. My kids have gone to camp at the zoo and attended preschool right beside it. No, we were never injured, nor do I know anyone who has accidentally or even purposely entered an animal enclosure without permission. Yes, this child was the first and only child in 38 years to sneak into the gorilla pen at this particular zoo. But these places are DANGEROUS, with a capital D, and a capital A-N-G-E-R-O-U-S, too. Sure, they are marketed as safe places where kids are educated and entertained, but N to the O. I now regret everything my children learned there and all of the wonderful memories that we made. Totally not worth the risk.
Children must be watched EVERY. SINGLE. SECOND. Sure, we already knew that we need to watch our children carefully, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. We are talking about the NEW standards. Whooooaaaa, Mama! Right there! Did you just blink? The new rules say that there is no time for blinking if you are responsible for a child. There is no time to answer your phone, even if the school is calling to say that your other child just barfed on the playground. There is no time to dig through your purse to find your keys or an old, open pack of fruit snacks to calm said child who is throwing a fit. And don’t even think about going to the restroom unless your child can fit into the stall and stare into your eyes while you pee. A good parent never looks away. NEVER. But don’t be a helicopter parent. That is bad, too.
The only way that you can accomplish #2 is if you only bring one child to any public place. This means that zoos should have a one-child-per-adult policy. Sure, this means most families will rarely get to visit, but safety is the goal. This also means no more school field trips, but as a frequent field trip volunteer, I give this new rule two thumbs up. And this means no more zoo camps, unless the camp has a 1:1 ratio of kids and teachers, which means that camp will now cost $750 a day. Safety at all costs, right? If it is important to you, you can save up.
These higher costs will be more affordable and the new rules will be more tolerable if we just institute a law that families are allowed to have only one child each, unless, of course, the family can afford to hire multiple babysitters, in which case two kids might be okay. This law will make it easier for parents to keep their eyes on a child at all times so that even when they are still unable to prevent a tragedy from happening they will at least have the opportunity to watch the event as it unfolds.
Zoos definitely need to have barriers that are more difficult for children to penetrate, and it is essential that EVERYONE insists upon this because a zoo would never think to make changes after an accident like this unless every single person on the Internet pointed out that this should happen. Also, zookeepers do not love people and they do not love animals. It takes a special kind of person to be a zookeeper, someone who has no feelings. I had no idea.
In this case, the child was tempted to visit with the animals after watching them in the enclosure, so it would be best if the children who are visiting the zoo don’t actually see the animals in order to prevent such a temptation. The most logical update would be for zoos to build a very tall brick wall in each exhibit that would be located between the animals and the zoo visitors.
If someone commits a crime in our country, that person is innocent until proven guilty. However, if a parent does something that probably is NOT a crime but that infuriates the public, then that person is most definitely guilty until proven innocent. That makes perfect sense. If you don’t really think about it.
It is VERY important for every single person who did not actually witness a situation involving a family to judge the mother’s actions, even when the people who actually did witness the incident agree that the mother did nothing wrong. If we don’t comment, the mother probably will never learn anything at all from the situation. As we all know, a mother isn’t likely to torture herself enough by replaying a terrible incident involving her children over and over and over again in her mind for the rest of her life.
Any mother who does look away from her child for any reason ever should definitely go to trial with a jury of her peers. And since other mothers might be biased, the jury should primarily include people who have never raised, taught, or babysat young children before. To be fair, there should be at least one mother on the jury, but she should be well known for starting sentences with “My child would never . . .” The death penalty should always be considered an option, even if it is determined that no crime was committed.
I should definitely be in jail. For all the times that I called the Poison Control Center. For the time that my preschooler was (accidentally) locked out of the house while I took a shower. For the time that my toddler superglued his fingers together. But lucky for me, those stories did not go viral.

As you can see, we all learned some important lessons from what was a truly heartbreaking and tragic situation that happened recently at one of our Ohio zoos. If you will excuse me, I need to check on my children, who are playing soccer in the backyard without any supervision. It looks like I will be seeing you in court, or at least in the court of public opinion.

Finding Elizabeth

May 6, 2016August 7, 2023 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 8 Comments

The Elizabeth that I knew lived in a nursing home. She was elderly and frail. I don’t remember seeing her stand or even sit up. I remember her as a tiny, fragile lump beneath the covers. Her lips were dry, and her words were mumbled, and she was hard for me to understand.

I remember that it smelled in that place. It smelled like everything awful, and it smelled like the chemicals that tried to wash the awful away. I was five-years-old. What I remember most is that I did not like to go there.

We went there because my mother loved Elizabeth. She said that something tragic had happened to Elizabeth once. She said the people closest to Elizabeth claimed that she had never been the same after that. My mother had fond memories of her. She knew Elizabeth. She knew her heart. But for me, at five-years-old, the two of us had nothing in common. Elizabeth, to me, was lost.

Until I found her in a box of old letters.

Letters

In 1944, Elizabeth was living in Ohio with her husband, raising two children and devoting her time to her home and family, like most women of her generation. Her eldest daughter had already married and moved a few hours away. Elizabeth was probably still adjusting to this change, one of her chicks leaving the nest. But Betty was safe. She was happy. She was protected and she was loved. Elizabeth missed Betty, but she knew that Betty was okay.

Her eldest son, Charles Jr., however, was another story. The distance between Elizabeth and her son did not escape her. She could never, not even for one moment, take his safety for granted. Every joy was tempered by her worry that Charles might be cold or hungry, depressed or homesick, or, worse yet, injured or imprisoned.

Charles had enlisted to serve in the United States military. Somewhere far away, on the other side of the globe even, he was fighting in World War II. Her heart was so proud of his selfless courage, but it was equally crushed by the weight of her fears for the safety of her son.

Portrait Closeup

Elizabeth listened to radio broadcasts and read newspaper articles about the developments during the war, but what was happening on the frontlines still seemed distant. News was not instant, and the images were static. Life at home continued, as normally as possible. She had teenagers to care for, Lewis and Maxine, and her daily routines helped to keep her occupied.

And she had letters.

Charles wrote regularly, and Elizabeth wrote to him often, as well, sending packages to remind him how much he was missed. He enjoyed her gifts, like the peanuts she sent that he shared with his friends and fellow soldiers. Occasionally, he asked her to send specific things that he needed, and she always obliged. He shared funny stories, like the time that a deer sneaked into the barracks and ate all of the snacks, and he told her about the Abbott and Costello movie that they had watched for entertainment. His letters were upbeat and positive. War didn’t sound so scary at all.

Letters from Charles never mentioned danger. They never described exactly what he was assigned to do or even where he was. He mentioned that he censored his letters so that they would be approved to leave the base, leaving Elizabeth to wonder what he was omitting. He often looked forward to the day he would come home, and he always signed off with the same encouraging closing: “Thumbs up!”

As the oldest boy in the family, Charles was full of advice, especially for his younger brother, Lewis. Even from across the globe, he advised Lewis about girlfriends and class schedules. He told Lewis to keep his options open with the ladies, even though Charles himself was clearly sweet on one young lady, Doris, whose name was mentioned frequently in his letters. He asked Lewis to send him pictures so that he could stay connected to what was happening at home. He told Lewis what classes he should take in high school and was clearly disgusted, even in the midst of war, when his little brother did not take his advice.

Charles was thoughtful, as well, remembering his mother on important dates throughout the year. He must have known how much she worried about him. His Mother’s Day message in 1944, so simple and plain, was the most beautiful Mother’s Day gift that Elizabeth could have received while he was gone. Her tears, as clear as glass, left no stains on the precious letters from her son overseas, letters that she opened oh-so-carefully.

Mother's Day

Elizabeth must have read her Mother’s Day note a thousand times before safely tucking it away in the box where she kept all of Charles’ letters. Gently touching that paper, running her fingers across his ink on the page, was the closest that she could come to embracing her son. To the world, these men in uniform were so strong and so brave. But to her, Charles was so very young, hardly a man himself, really. Just a few years before, he had still needed her advice, her reassuring touch, her loving care. She had gently washed and bandaged his skinned knees not all that long ago. Yet now he and so many young men like him had been entrusted to save the world.

Charles Closeup

Days and months passed, and Charles remained at war. Elizabeth was comforted by his letters, but sometimes there were long spans between them, and this made her nervous. If she waited long enough, another letter always came. It would include an apology for the long delay, explaining that he had been quite busy with his responsibilities, although exactly what his duties were was a bit of a mystery. Each letter provided some solace, but Elizabeth knew that by the time she received it, time had already passed, and the reassurance of his safety was actually old news. As soon as one note was received, she eagerly awaited the next.

In the meantime, Elizabeth loyally supported her son from afar. She hung a banner in the family’s front window for everyone to see and took Maxine’s picture in front of it.

And she clung to a poem (author unknown) that criticized the discontent of those who weren’t directly in the line of fire. How dare someone complain about rationing when her son’s life was on the line?

Poem

In January 1945, Elizabeth received a letter with a little more information than usual. Charles’ letters had been few and far between for a while now, but in this one he shared, “We are now allowed to say that we are someplace in the Philippine Islands.” What a relief it was to know where her son was actually located! She could point to it on a map. She could imagine the climate and the scenery where he was. “I have picked up a few more souvenirs,” he said, although he explained that he wouldn’t be able to send them for a while. Someday, she thought, they would look at those souvenirs together, and he would tell her interesting stories about the culture and the merchants there and how much he had paid for the beautifully crafted and exotic gifts.

In Phillipines

As always, Charles had asked for more letters. Over the previous months, their letters, flying back and forth across the sky and over the ocean, had created an invisible web that kept them connected, mother and son. Even when there was nothing to write about, Elizabeth kept writing. She would write and write and write, about nothing and about everything, until she could finally see Charles face to face once more.

And there, in the bottom of the box, I found them. The two letters, stamped March 19, 1945 and April 16, 1945.

In the first envelope, Elizabeth had neatly tucked a letter full of updates for her son. The news from home was nothing out of the ordinary. Lewis has a cold. Maxine recently visited Betty. The snow has melted, and Doris performed well in the show last night.

But the war still loomed like a dark cloud over the small town in Ohio. Charles, of course, was abroad. There was concern that John could be drafted after being reclassified to 1A. And Chet, another local boy, was being held captive in an enemy prison camp. “Thumbs up” was now “Keep praying.”

And then there was a second letter from Elizabeth, a letter mailed in March of 1945. Elizabeth wrote about the recent flooding in the area and how the mail had been delayed. There wasn’t much to share, really. The news at home was mostly uneventful. The letter was a bit mundane.

But then, the ending. A simple statement that was dripping with emotion.

“Have not heard from you for 5 weeks . . . Write. Love, Mother.”

And their standard closing, “Thumbs up.”

Five Weeks

And something in my stomach turned, and my throat tightened at the thought of Elizabeth’s anguish, her desperate wait for a response. The sadness rushing to my eyes threatened to interrupt the story when I realized that here, in this box full of letters from Charles, I was holding two letters from Elizabeth. Two love letters from a mother to her son. Two letters that she had mailed to the Philippines.

Two letters that should not be in this box of mail that she had received.

Two letters that confirmed that what she had always feared had come true.

My mother said that something tragic had happened to Elizabeth once. She said the people closest to Elizabeth claimed that she had never been the same again. But my mother loved Elizabeth; she had fond memories of her grandmother. For me, at five-years-old, my great-grandmother and I had nothing in common. Elizabeth, to me, was lost.

Until I met Elizabeth, a young mother of sons, just like me, a mother who loved courageously and prayed steadfastly and hoped fiercely for the well being of her greatest treasures, her children.

Until I found her in a box of old letters.

We often associate love stories with courtship and romance, but maybe, just maybe, there is no greater love story than the love between a mother and her son.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly Revisited

April 19, 2016 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 5 Comments

good bad ugly 2

Hey, Y’all! This week, Still Chasing Fireflies is celebrating its FIRST BIRTHDAY! That’s right . . . my baby is turning ONE! (And, yes, I am still working on losing the baby weight, but that’s okay because I have more realistic expectations than those celeb moms.) The year has been an emotional roller coaster that ranks right up there with other important personal milestones like the year that I said “I do” and the two most incredible years when our family grew first by one son and then another. It has been wonderful! Watch for a full recap of Still Chasing Fireflies’ first year in the next few days, but first I thought we should revisit the FIRST BLOG POST that I ever shared, which was never even posted here on Still Chasing Fireflies. It was originally shared on The Today Show Parenting Team blog, when that blog was just a newborn, too. Enjoy! Here goes . . .

My ugly parenting days were accidental at one point but have become more deliberate as my boys grow up. I have become more accepting, even proud, of the moments of parenting that aren’t so pretty. Why? Because when I reflect on my own experiences, I have learned a lot more from the ugly than from the beautiful. Because I see children every day enjoying seemingly idyllic childhoods while the toolboxes that they will need to be equipped for adulthood sit forgotten and empty. (Their scrapbooks, however, will be AMAZING, and that does make me a bit jealous.)

The reality is that we aren’t raising children here, friends. We are raising men at our house. Men who will be fathers and husbands. Men who will be your co-workers and your neighbors. And, although we don’t like to think about it, we know that our children will face heartbreaking challenges in life – because we all do at some point. The reality is that all of us parents are raising adults who will need to have the emotional and critical thinking tools to handle difficult situations with grace and, hopefully, come out stronger on the other side. But many of us are working double time to prevent our children from having the very experiences that will prepare them for adversity later. I, for one, am tired of working so hard to create a force field around my children while still feeling like my efforts never quite stack up to the efforts of my neighbors . . . or my Facebook friends . . . or the characters (because there really is no reality) on the television.

The truth is that good parenting isn’t always beautiful. Every day cannot be a parade with my child as the grand marshal. Children need to experience discomfort – loss, disappointment, pain, sadness, and frustration – to grow. We aren’t doing our children any favors when we don’t let life happen to them. We aren’t helping them succeed when we create an illusion (because it is always an illusion) of perfection. We aren’t doing right by them when we intervene every time they encounter a normal life challenge. And what kind of messed up kids are we raising if they never see that mistakes and weeds and failure and messy houses are just a part of REAL LIFE?

There’s a good chance that parenting that looks beautiful will create adults with ugly attitudes; I’m banking on the idea that the ugly side of parenting will pay off in beautiful outcomes, while also saving me some grief and, hopefully, taking me out of the competition. Enough with the myth that every day should be sunshine and rainbows, and that if, God forbid, it should rain on my child’s parade, I should sweep in to create an artificial happiness with sweet treats, unwarranted praise, and meaningless (and often expensive) activities. Enough with the idea that a child who has not tried EVERY sport and hobby has probably been robbed of all future joy. Enough of the fear that if we don’t entertain a child 24/7 then we have failed at parenting on an epic scale. It’s time to get real.

“No, I am not doing this assignment for you. Lucky for me, I graduated from third grade a few years ago.”

“Yes, I do find cleaning up dog poop to be disgusting. But if you love the dog, you scoop the poop.”

“No, I am not buying you the shirt that says that you are the best basketball player ever. If an adult wore a shirt that said “BEST THING EVER,” everyone would assume he is a jerk. And he probably is.”

“Yes, I do realize that your brother got a donut at school today, and you did not. No, we are not running to Tim Horton’s to make it right. I am feeling confident that you will survive. But if your vitals start to fade, we will make a trip to the ER.”

“No, you cannot quit because you are frustrated. You made a commitment, and quitting is not an option. Your dad and I are still married. Consider this an excellent example of perseverance.”

“Yes, I do have enough money to buy that, but I will never ever EVER spend that much money on a t-shirt. No, not even if we win the lottery.”

“No, I don’t enjoy grocery shopping either, but it is necessary for our survival, and if we had lived a hundred years ago, you would be hunting right now. Be grateful.”

“Yes, I know that some kids your age play video games rated Mature. Unfortunately, you came from this womb, and it’s not happening.”

Don’t get me wrong; we love our boys dearly, and we work hard to foster close relationships and to establish a home that provides a soft place to fall. But I am trying hard to escape the parenting rat race by reminding myself that we are not here to protect them from reality but to support them as they actually face it. Life is not perfect. Children are not perfect. Parents are not perfect. It’s okay if our family doesn’t look perfect, because it isn’t. But maybe, just maybe, allowing our kids to face the ugly realities of life will yield some beautiful results.

Don’t forget to watch for that birthday recap coming soon! While you wait, I want you to think about two things:

What was your favorite post of the first year?

Do YOU have a personal story that you want to share with the Still Chasing Fireflies community, too?

Hold that thought! We will have a fantastic conversation when the recap is posted! As always, thank you for reading and supporting this community!

The Year of New

January 29, 2016January 29, 2016 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 3 Comments

2016 the year of new

On the very last day of 2015, I squeezed in this new year’s post and shared this resolution worksheet with all of you. It was a small token of my appreciation for all of the kindness that you had shown to my little blog in 2015. Frankly, I am still surprised, humbled, and incredibly thankful that you have come along for the ride so far!

When I posted this worksheet for you, I hadn’t yet tried it myself. It was still a theory, as in, “I just know this is going to be fantastic! This is good, right? Maybe? Fingers crossed!” But I am also a pro at embracing theories that fail miserably. Like my theory that our boys needed a really cute, rather expensive playhouse in the backyard that turned out to be invisible to them except when it interfered with their soccer game. (Not really my problem. My kids don’t know something amazing when they see it.) Or my theory that getting each boy his own hamster would prevent headaches for me in the long run. (Did you know that a female hamster can get pregnant immediately after delivering the first unexpected litter of baby hamsters? No? Yeah. Me neither.) Or my theory that roller skating with my kiddos would allow me to feel young and free of responsibility for a while. (You know I’m still paying the medical bills for that one.)

Fortunately, this time my theory proved to be correct, but not right off the bat.

First, let me remind you that I live with three human beings who are all fighting for survival in one stage of manhood or another. At my house, this means that words like “feelings” or “reflection” or “mom has a great idea” are usually met with some combination of grunts and moans and groans. Generally, any suggestion that doesn’t involve sports or inappropriate jokes or video games has to marinate with them for a while. As one of my smaller men said while pretending to cry (to get a laugh from the other men, I’m sure), “Sometimes it really stinks to have a mom who’s a teacher!”

Plus, they always know that I’m outnumbered. It’s so unfair.

So when I first mentioned at the dinner table that we would be doing this little project, they scoffed and made a few jokes and grunted and acknowledged their masculinity. Once we got that out of the way, everything went just as I had planned. Lesson to be learned, ladies: If you have a tough audience, don’t give up too quickly. That tough stuff is all on the exterior, I promise. Unless you actually know my husband, in which case I swear that he really IS a tough guy, inside and out. Seriously. No, really, he is. Don’t get me into trouble.

I may have planted the seed during a family dinner, but my secret to learning the joys and the hurts and the longings of my boys’ hearts is to corner them when no one else is home. Those quiet times, times when we can talk without distractions, when the testosterone level in the house is not at a critically high level, are some of my favorite moments. And no matter how much they scoff at my crazy ideas together at the dinner table, they are surprisingly receptive to them when we get to spend some quality mom-and-son time with one another. Honestly, we had a lot of fun filling out these worksheets together, just the two of us, reflecting on the year that was and the year that is still to come.

Sometimes we take for granted that we know our kids, that we know what is important to them, what matters to them most. But sometimes we are wrong, and that’s a shame, because they will often tell us if we just take the time to ask some questions and then to listen to what they have to say. I wasn’t surprised that both of my sons remembered 2015 as a year of sadness. It was a tough one for all of us. Our fall was a fog of farewells and funerals.

remember

But the second part, the part about Lola, was something that I didn’t even remember at first. I expected my son to talk about a sports achievement or a report card for this one, but his proudest achievement from the entire year was the time he saved our puppy from harm. He had been carrying her on a snowy winter day when he slipped on the ice on the patio and crash landed; she was just a tiny pup, and he was responsible for her, so he cradled her in his arms even as his head hit the cold, hard concrete. I had forgotten about how worried I was that he might have had a concussion. I had forgotten about how proud he had been. I had forgotten what a warm, loving heart that boy has when he’s not telling fart jokes.

And then there were conversations like this one, with my sarcastic pre-teenager.

dates

Yes, that actually says that in 2015 he learned that “a date is also a fruit that makes you poop.” I guess this is a quotation from his favorite cartoon, Gumball. This kid loves an audience, but he is also happy just to crack himself up. And he really is funny. He is witty and smart, and it was nice to take a break from questioning his filtering mechanism just to laugh with him for a while. He can be serious when he wants to be, too.

year of less

I’m pretty sure that we haven’t cut back on screen time just yet, but he is doing well so far with the others. He also decided to spend more time on art this year because I think he had actually forgotten what a talented artist he is. He made this Star Wars card for his friend’s birthday recently, and I am pretty sure that if that kid weren’t one of his best buddies, he wouldn’t have given this away.

My favorite part of the one-on-one sessions was helping each boy choose a quotation to guide 2016. My younger son scoured the Internet for quotations from athletes he admires. We talked about several of the quotations that he found – some examples of good character and others, not so much – and he settled on this one from Lebron James:

“Don’t be afraid of failure. This is the way to succeed.”

Nice choice, right? My older son immediately ran to his room to find this quotation from NBA basketball player Muggsy Bogues:

“If you can play the game, size doesn’t matter.”

So many of the things that we worry about don’t really matter if we are willing to work hard and stop making excuses, right? This boy is passionate about basketball, but he is small, so this quotation motivates him to stay in the game just like Muggsy did at 5′ 3″. Another good choice!

I shared my quotation for 2016 with the boys, too. It doesn’t need an explanation:

“With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” Matthew 19:26

Next, we needed to work together to create a family motto, so it was back to the dinner table one evening. Our goal was to complete the statement, “2016 will be the year of ___.” I was thinking of something like “kindness” or “teamwork.” You know, something that would promote good character at home. But that was just me.

One of my men suggested, “2016, the year of the chicken.”

Don’t ask. I have no idea what that means.

Another suggested, “2016, the year of awesome.” Now this seemed, well, AWESOME, at first, but we quickly realized that it would be impossible to measure. I imagined a year of conversations like this:

“Wow! Those roasted Brussel sprouts were awesome.” (Me)

“No way! Yuck! That was awful! You know what was awesome? That football game
that we watched last night! Remember when that one guy did that one thing and they
replayed it twenty times? That was awesome!” (A son)

“Yeah, right, that was great . . . I loved every minute . . . *Sigh*” (Me)

Then my husband suggested, “2016, the year of NEW!” And on the outside I was smiling and nodding, but on the inside I was thinking, What are you doing??? Work with me here, dude! New? What does this even mean! I knew we should have talked about this . . . However, as the idea started to take shape, I realized that this was a fun and challenging resolution. New doesn’t mean that we have to BUY new things every week. It means that we have to TRY new things every week. And they don’t have to be BIG things; they just have to be NEW (to us) things. And NEW is easy to measure. You have either tried it before or you haven’t. No debate! So here is what it looks like so far:

Week 1: New Recipe
(It was okay . . . Not wonderful . . . But it was new!)

recipe

Week 2: New (Old) TV Show With the Kids
(Parental warning: This has been fun, but there is more innuendo than I remembered!)

image1 (1)

Week 3: Ice Cream Taste Testing
(Sorry, Jimmy. Colbert wins by a landslide.)

ice cream vote

Week 4: Lunchbox Quotes of the Day
(More about this to come in another post!)

quote of the day

January is almost over, but it’s not too late to start a new 2016 tradition with your family, too. So far, the “year of new” has prompted some interesting conversations about what we have learned or tried each week, and we already have some fun ideas in store! It is also relatively easy; you can always try a new food, read a new book, see a new movie, or play a new game without investing too much money in the experience. From our house to yours, we hope that your 2016 is off to a great start!

Be adventurous! Try something new!

~Mary Ann

A New Year’s Gift for You!

December 31, 2015December 31, 2015 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 4 Comments

hand 2016

There is nothing magical about a new year’s resolution, but I do love the freedom and promise of a fresh start. Don’t you? The transition from one year to another is a perfect time to think about the year that passed and to plan for the year ahead, if for no other reason than because you probably have a little bit of time off when you could squeeze some reflection into your busy schedule.

New year’s resolutions get a bad rap. I feel a little sorry for them, actually. They don’t fail because they are a bad idea; they fail because we call them “resolutions” when they are usually just fleeting thoughts rather than sincere commitments. We break up with our resolutions when we were never seriously dating them to begin with.

It’s not you, Resolutions. It’s us. We were just pretending.

Setting personal or family goals is a great way to model for your kids or grandkids how goal setting is really supposed to work. Put something in writing. Break big goals into smaller pieces. Post reminders where they are visible, and put checkpoints on the calendar. Encourage one another. Teach your kids the reward of accomplishing a goal, and teach them how to pick up the pieces (rather than quitting) when the train runs off the track. Because it will.

That is not called failure. That is called “real life.”

Sometimes we forget that reflecting and planning and goal setting are LEARNED SKILLS. I have taught countless high school students who have huge dreams but no goals; they are confident that they will play for the NBA or become President of the United States or earn a Ph.D., but they have no concept of the thousands of small steps that they could begin taking right now that might ultimately lead to those accomplishments. Trust me; you want your kids to have these life skills, and you want them to learn them early, you know, before they are making critical decisions about finances, marriage, parenting, careers, and dangerous temptations. You and I both know that life will test our children’s resilience over and over and over again. I want my own sons and all of my students to grow into people who are able to reflect, plan, and adapt. Isn’t that what you want for your own family, too?

As a teacher and mom, I love it when I find a fun tool to use so that I don’t have to create something myself, so here is my new year’s gift to you! Try out this printable pdf for yourself! It can be a fun starting point for both kids and adults to discuss the coming year. Talk about it over a family dinner this week, and don’t forget to contemplate the smaller steps that you and your kids can take TODAY to start reaching your goals in 2016!

Bring it on 2016

BRING IT ON 2016 PDF

HAPPY NEW YEAR! Thank you for sharing and reading!

What are your goals for 2016? Leave a comment and join the conversation!

A Broken Arm Christmas 2015

December 23, 2015January 1, 2016 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 4 Comments

This December has been nothing if not unusual at our house. First, there has not been snow on the ground here. Not. A. Flake. There are not even flurries in the air as I write this. We could be running our last-minute Christmas errands in swimsuits because it is a balmy 64 degrees in Ohio at this moment. We haven’t seen our breath since last winter, so I’m not even sure if we’re breathing. It’s scary. (But just to be clear, I’m not complaining. I’m okay with this part. This was our puppy in the snow in the middle of November last year!)

But that’s not the only difference this year. Instead of baking sugar cookies and mixing up Chex Muddy Buddies (my holiday addiction . . . it’s like Christmas crack for us law-abiding citizens), I am binge watching Christmas Through the Decades on the History Channel while delegating holiday duties to my poor kids and husband to avoid testing the limits of my broken arm. (And I swear that I totally could have written the episode about the 80’s!)

Yes, it’s my right arm. And, yes, that’s my dominant one. Merry Christmas to all of us at the Ware house.

You may be wondering how this could have happened when it has not been snowing and there is no ice on the ground. The answer is that I am clumsy, and, apparently, even clumsier on roller skates. In my defense, however, I fell only one time. There were kids flopping around all over the place on that skating rink floor, but their bones are more like saltwater taffy while mine are more like peanut brittle.

And this proves that aging is not as much a state of mind as I had hoped. It’s for real. I’m getting old. Bah humbug.

Anyway, after a long, stressful week, we took our kids to their school skating party to blow off some steam and share some quality family time. Did I mention the week had been long and stressful? That was a contributing factor, for sure. I desperately needed some joy, so with just a teeny bit of mom peer pressure, I rented those brown and orange skates and thought, why not? I mean, it only cost $6 (initially). And I really did feel like I was ten-years-old again for an hour or so. (Don’t believe my friends who will tell you that I even skate-danced a little to “Who Let the Dogs Out.” I will not confirm whether or not that is actually true.) All joking aside, it really was fun.

But maybe it should have concerned me when they made me sign a waiver before they would take my $6. That’s for real, friends. The grown-ups have to sign a waiver at the skating rink. If that shouldn’t send any right-minded adult back to the observation area, I’m not sure what should. Oh, hindsight. How you torture me. I might have been better off signing up for the skating lessons advertised at the bottom of my receipt . . . And, no, I don’t anticipate being back soon, but thanks for the invitation.

Because it started all fun like this with my kids and my friends. . .

And it ended all sad like this at the Urgent Care with my very patient husband. . .

A broken wrist. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

We have tried to remain festive with cast #1 being red and green . . .

And cast #2 being green and red . . .

Look at my poor dog in that picture. She’s silently asking, “When will this end? Will you ever take me for a walk again, Mom?”

So Christmas at our house has been different, and I have had to be okay with that. Our Christmas celebration before the huge family gatherings was no gourmet meal . . .

Our gifts look like they were wrapped by a nine-year-old because, well, many of them were . . .

(He did a really good job, I must say.)

And we are planning to leave Santa a few stale brownie bites that a sweet friend left after a party at my house last week. No fresh sugar cookies here, Santa. Sorry! Better luck at your next stop!

But, on the bright side, we have been forced to prioritize, and the basic things that we look forward to every year have all been covered. The stockings were still hung by the chimney with care . . .

My loving husband pretended to be happy while pulling all of the trees and boxes and more trees and more boxes from the crawl space since I couldn’t do it . . .

My favorite things are all in place – because I just LOVE this holiday and everything it represents to my family and my faith!

And we have spent time and will spend more time with all of the people who mean the most to us during this special season. Some of the hustle and bustle has been removed, leaving time for conversations and board games and Christmas movies and quiet time together.

This Christmas season has not gone exactly as I imagined it would, but I am learning a few things in spite of my frustration. I am learning to love online shopping and appreciate gift bags. I am learning to accept help from friends without feeling guilty about needing it. I am learning to show more gratitude for my husband’s sacrifices and to let my kids do more for themselves. And I am learning that sometimes being forced to slow down is a blessing in and of itself.

Maybe you should consider the benefits, too, without waiting for a broken arm to adjust your perspective. 🙂

From our home to yours, we wish you peace, joy, and a very merry Christmas season! Thanks for reading my blog! And if your kid gets a skateboard for Christmas, please, I beg you, don’t even try . . .

Teaching Kids Kindness in the Face of Fear

November 24, 2015November 24, 2015 / Still Chasing Fireflies / 3 Comments

Paris (1)

For the first time in forever, I was able to savor a quiet, un-busy weekend at home, so I curled up with a blanket and a cup of tea on Saturday morning to catch up on my long-neglected newsfeed. Lucky for me, I stumbled upon this essay written by a talented mom who blogs at You Have Six Kids? In her post, she reflects on the question of how to teach kids kindness in a world where unkindness often feels like the norm. Her post caught my attention because she drives home the point that we, as parents, as people, cannot allow fear to seep into our hearts and erode our own values of love and generosity toward others. Recent events in Paris and Mali have fed into our darkest fears, fears that aim to manipulate and isolate us.

In her post, she explores the truth that when bad things happen in our lives, we are tempted to disconnect from others, to focus on self-preservation at the expense of what is inherently good about ourselves and our country. Helping people who need us can be scary. It can feel risky. It can even be painful. But that doesn’t mean that helping is any less right than it was the day before something terrible happened.

And these ideas really got me thinking about how my feelings do not give me a one-way ticket out of difficult situations. About how uncomfortable predicaments that test my convictions not only allow me to help others, but also promote my own personal growth. About how if I am able to help, and available to help, and especially if God has put me in the right place at the right time to help, then helping is not so much my choice as it is my responsibility. About how our children learn to do good by watching and participating when we ourselves do good, and about just how many opportunities to help others exist all around us every single day.

heart rock

Now, I don’t know the mom who wrote this article, but she has street cred, for sure. Her personal story is the epitome of faith in action. You can check it out on her blog. She is selfless. She is generous. She is inspiring. I am grateful to have read her words this morning.

But there was something else that stuck with me after reading her essay, something that I just couldn’t shake from my brain. Here it is, in the second part of this statement from her post: “Teaching kids to be kind to one another can be difficult, considering we live in a world fueled by hate and evil.”

Teaching kids to be kind can definitely be difficult. Preach it, Sister!

But a world fueled by hate and evil?

Whoa.

That. Is. Depressing.

And I just can’t believe that it is true.

Now let me just say, based on the rest of this writer’s essay, that I’m not so sure that she and I disagree on this point at all. In fact, I have a feeling that we would actually be on exactly the same page here if we had a heart-to-heart conversation over lunch, like mom friends do. But this IS a scary premise that many people embrace these days, and it feeds anxiety, and it has influenced some smart people to do and say some crazy, hateful things, exactly the kinds of things that this writer challenges in her post.

Don’t get me wrong. There is hate and there is evil. We saw it in Paris. We have seen it on American soil. We have witnessed it through vile acts of international terrorism and through deplorable examples of domestic crime. We watch it on the news locally, nationally, and globally every day. It runs as a constant stream across our newsfeeds. It interrupts normal broadcasting. It screams for attention through “Special Reports” and “Breaking News.” Photographs of perpetrators of evil flash across our television screens and glare at us from the front pages of newspapers. We watch footage of bombers hiding their secrets in crowds at marathons and planes crashing into buildings over and over and over again.

And we start to believe that this is all there is outside our front doors. The world is hate. The world is evil.

Except that it isn’t.

Remember that fear we were talking about? Well, he’s a liar.

As the writer at You Have Six Kids? explains, we teach our kids kindness by showing kindness ourselves, especially when being kind is a difficult, scary, or inconvenient thing for us to do. She is so right! Let’s also teach our kids kindness, even when frightening things are happening all around, by helping them to SEE THE GOOD in the world outside of the bubbles that we have created for them.

Because it is everywhere.

Because it is powerful.

Because it is contagious.

Because it can change people.

Because it can build a bridge where there is only a divide.

Because it can speak English. And Arabic. And Chinese. And Russian.

And because last week, we all learned to speak kindness in French.

Good is always present, even in the dark places where evil lurks, even in the face of terrible atrocities. There are always some people who are choosing to do what is good. Always.

I want to help my children see them.

I want them to know that there were many, many more people praying for Paris than attacking it, that there were many people from many places sending resources to help, that there were many countries offering assistance.

You see, my goal is not to shield my children from the harsh realities of the world around them, but I do want them to see a world that is fueled by faith and hope and love, a world where evil, while it may threaten, cannot maintain a strong grip if the people who are working for good are working together. I want them to focus on the heroes. I want them to see the servants. I want them to know that in the battle of good against evil, the good guys outnumber the bad.

It is my goal, just like it is the goal of the mom at You Have Six Kids? and the goal of the other moms who are part of my village, to raise children who become the men and women who someday lead our communities and our nation in pursuit of what is right.

We can teach our kids to DO the good even when the work is hard or scary.

We can teach our kids to SEE the good even when the bad demands our attention.

And we can teach our kids to BE the good wherever in the world life takes them.

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