Chicago Moms Blog

Parenting Deadline

As a writer, I justify my procrastination habit by claiming that I thrive under deadline pressure. But there is a pressing deadline looming large on my horizon that has me hyperventilating: my daughter is going off to college for the first time at the end of the summer. 

That's right, I have fewer than 12 weeks to cram in all the parenting that I haven't managed to do in the last 18 years. First step, making appointments to get her wisdom teeth out, see the pediatrician one last time, and four or five other doctor visits so she can avoid the campus health clinic for as long as possible. (Done.)

Next, we definitely need to work on laundry. I taught her twin brother how to do laundry when he made noises about not going to college, but she has benefitted from my laundry largess for far too long. Then we have to work on making plane, train and shuttle arrangements for trips to and from Massachusetts. We also need to cover how to pack a ridiculously large bedroom that she has never had to share so that it fits into a dorm room with at least one roommate. (Not done.)

Sure, we've repeatedly discussed boys, drinking, smoking, drugs, partying, safe sex, and safe internet practices (you did not just see me patting myself on the back). We've even talked about the relative dangers of getting involved with older men and the pitfalls of falling for your professors. But what about the more subtle lessons of protecting yourself from users, being generous without giving away your soul, being open to new relationships while keeping your heart reasonably safe from unscrupulous manipulators. (Not done.)

Staying Connected

The older I get, the more people I know, the harder it is to stay connected — even to people I've known my entire life and love very much. It's hard to say exactly what happens: we get busy; our lives are crowded with people, activities, chores and events; we move far away; we have families of our own. Perhaps the biggest culprit is time, or lack of it. Recent scientific evidence proves that the older we get, the faster time passes (or so it seems so to our aging brains). With all that goes on in our day-to-day lives, it's easy to lose touch.

Then tragedy strikes — someone dies and we feel lost and guilty. When my aunt passed away last week, I drove to Michigan for the funeral. My parents came up from Florida. My brother flew in from California. The aunts, uncles and cousins gathered around to mourn our loss. Without exception, when I encountered someone I hadn't seen in a long time, we greeted each other with an awkward combination of joy at reconnecting and sadness that these were the circumstances that brought us back together.

My aunt died at an inconvenient time for most of us. I'm not being flip, simply honest. For my immediate family, it was not possible for anyone else to take time off from work or the final days of school to attend the funeral, so I went alone. In many ways, it was a blessing. I was able to spend time with my family of origin without the burdens of being a mom and attending to the immediate needs of children. I could focus completely on another part of my family that had not had my undivided attention in years. 

Holy Crap, They're Graduating

Dateline Evanston: Micro-preemie Twins Graduate from High School; Mom's Non-stop Weeping Earns World Record

Denial is the thumb in the dyke holding back the deluge of tears that I know is coming. So far, it's working pretty well.

The fact that it's May helps. May used to be a pleasant, benign month, the waiting room for summer. Now, it's a whirlwind of award ceremonies, school concerts, final projects, class picnics, paperwork and soccer games. If you could see my color-coded calendar, you'd weep right along with me.

This year, May bustle is my lifeboat down the River of Denial, and I'm grateful. Each morning, I focus on one square of the calendar, and take things one day, nay, one event at a time.

But the subconscious is an uncooperative entity, and I'm having a much harder time keeping things in perspective during my short, fitful hours of sleep. For example, last night my dream-state kept pelting me with the reality that the twins really are going to graduate in just a few weeks. And what did the devil on the shoulder of my subconscious whisper in my ear?

Celebrate National Pet Week

This week, May 2-8, is a big week for animals. It is both National Pet Week and Be Kind to Animals Week. 

In our family, every week is National Pet Week, not just because we love our Soft-coated Wheaton Terrier, Hazel, or our one remaining hermit crab, Maize (Blue passed away earlier this year). No, we wish every week was National Pet Week because we own a small independent pet shop.

People who have known me since I was a teenager mock chuckle when I remind them that we (and by we, I mean my husband) own a pet shop. My childhood pet experiences included hating our not-quite-cocker-spaniel for shedding blond fur all over my black-only wardrobe during my angsty teenage years, and being freaked out by discovering a brief series of dead animals stiff in their cages or belly-up in their bowls. But one day, just after my twins were born, I found myself the co-owner of a pet store, and I still scratch my head over how that happened.

Boys to Men

Not long ago, I wrote a kind of tongue-in-cheek post about how boys and girls are innately different and that there's not much we can do about it. While I stand by my premise (as far as it goes), I'm a little concerned that my meticulous research (conducted over 20 years as a stepmom and mom) could be used to justify more adult-oriented "boys will be boys" shenanigans.

Let me state for the record that just because I have documented that boys are likely to find great humor in bodily emissions and enjoy making car noises, it does not mean that they should grow up to be lying, cheating [email protected]!#s. 

I don't know Tiger Woods, Jesse James, John Edwards or Charlie Sheen (read Darryle Pollack's hysterical post called "Bad Taste Meets the Final Four" for a great wrap up). Nor do I know Sandra Bullock, Elin Woods, Elizabeth Edwards, or Brooke Mueller, though as a woman I feel their pain. While millions of other women experience similar betrayals every year, I can't even imagine having to struggle through it as it is played out in the media.

Bring on the Boredom

The other day, I heard someone discussing the benefits that being bored can bring to children: time to think, room to imagine, space to exercise creativity, and reasons to practice patience and interpersonal skills with peers. In other words, some time in a child's day that isn't dictated, structured and supervised by grownups can be a good thing. The line that has really stuck with me was "Give your child the gift of boredom." Turns out there's quite a bit of support for this in the fields of psychology and education. 

When I was a kid (about 3 million years ago, according to my own children), not every single second of my day was booked with lessons, play dates, activities, school, and screens. And there were times when I was plenty bored, believe me. I learned not to express those feelings to my mother, however, because she would always solve my boredom by giving me chores to do. Have I mentioned that my mom is one smart chick? To avoid doing those chores, I quickly learned to entertain myself by doing crafts or making a puzzle or sometimes even playing with my brother. Usually, I would crack open a book and get lost in another, less boring world.

Kids today don't have that luxury. I've tried hard to avoid overbooking my children, but it's hard to turn down interesting opportunities. On the few occasions when my kids have told me that they were bored, I've tried my mother's line on them, but it doesn't seem to have the same impact that it had on me all those years ago. Maybe I'll call and ask her for a refresher course.

18 is Not a Magic Number

My twins turned 18 last November and are seniors in high school. Since last spring break, my daughter has been researching and visiting colleges, completing applications, filing for financial aid and pacing the floors with worry and excitement over where she'll be going to school in the fall.

My son has been going to high school. He gets up every morning, does his routine and goes to class. He hears and sees his sister whirling dervishly around the house, and spouting words like "deadlines", "recommendations" and "essays". It has had no affect on him. When asked what he plans to do after graduation, his eyes kind of glaze over and he launches into a brief nondenial denial that he has pieced together from things he's overheard.

"I'm not quite sure yet, but I'll probably take a few community college classes, do some volunteer work and get some kind of part time job. I'm just not ready to think beyond that right now."

It's Not Nurture, It's Nature

News flash — there are two kinds of people in the world: boys and girls. A long time ago, BC (before children), I used to believe that most of the differences we observed in female and male behavior was almost entirely the result of the way we raised them. Then I had twins — a boy and a girl — and I realized I was wrong. Boys and girls are different. 

For example, my daughter has not once in her 18 years felt a need to make a vehicular noise. My three boys, on the other hand, practically came out of the womb saying "vroom, vroom". They know every kind of car/train/truck/plane/boat, what it's called, what it does and the particular noise it makes. In fact, my boys are virtuoso Foley Artists. Every action, game and story is accompanied by myriad sound effects. Let's face it, boys are noisy.

You may not believe me (unless you are a mother of twins), but I did not treat my boy/girl twins differently in their formative years. Frankly, I didn't have time. I changed one diaper, then I changed the other diaper, then … well, you get the idea. They had toys. They played with them. I did not tell them which ones to choose, and they often played together. My daughter would play with her doll, rock it, feed it, scold it (can't imagine where she picked that up), and put it to sleep. My son would sing "Ahh, ahh, ba-by," then toss the thing over his shoulder. My son would crawl around the floor for hours with his toy cars and trains; my daughter would occasionally join him by bending at the waist and using two hands to push a vehicle across the room. Then she was done.

Take Care When Interacting with Animals

My deepest sympathies go out to the family and friends of Dawn Brancheau, the trainer who died tragically at Sea World on February 24. 

Our family takes this loss to heart, as my husband and stepdaughter both work with animals daily. My husband owns a pet shop with a wide variety of small animals, reptiles, fish and birds. 

My step daughter has devoted her life to animals. She had several internships with the Shedd Aquarium in Chicago and at the Dolphin Research Center in Florida. She earned her undergraduate degree in marine mammal biology from the University of Miami and a master's degree in primate conservation from Oxford Brookes University in England. She has worked as an animal trainer at Parrot Jungle in Florida, Great Adventure's Wild Safari in New Jersey, and currently works for the company that contracts the birds of prey show at Disney World's Animal Kingdom.

Pistachios Should Dump Pitchman Levi Johnston

My children love pistachios. I love them too, although not as much as I did before my kids started leaving Hansel-and-Gretel trails of shells in their wake every time I buy a bag, even though our rule is "no food upstairs." 

Last spring, we were sad to have to cross pistachios off our grocery list when the FDA issued a warning of salmonella contamination in certain pistachio products. It seems that the all clear has been sounded and that pistachios processed and packaged after June of last year are again safe to eat. Even though no cases of human illness have been directly connected to the salmonella contamination of pistachios, the industry took a big hit last year. 

As a small business owner myself, I can understand the need to do something dramatic to change the image of a product that has been cast in a negative light. I've been doing my part to support pistachio farmers (and keep my kids happy) by buying the tasty little nuts to snack on and pack in school lunches, but now I find I'm going to have to stop, at least for a while, and it's all because of Levi Johnston.