When I was getting married some of my friends from college joked that it was a sign of the Apocalypse. That’s because all through college I vehemently proclaimed that I would never get married and I’d certainly never have kids.

Yes, I eventually learned that I should never say never.

But even after deciding there was a place for a child in my life, I didn’t immediately feel comfortable in the role of mom.  Her infant years were hard for me - I ran back to work as soon as maternity leave was over. I wanted to be where I knew how to do my job and people could tell me what they needed (as opposed to me trying to guess what all that crying was about).

To some of you I’m sure that sounds harsh, but I really think it’s a myth that all women naturally have some instinct for mothering.  Instead of being proud, I resented when my husband would say I was better at some element of parenting than he was.  It wasn’t because I had any more practice at it than he had (never did the whole babysitting thing and was the baby of the family). If I was better at something it was because I poured over books, magazines and websites to learn how.  Something he could have just as easily done.

Toddler years had their own challenges. Getting a mug with “World’s Greatest Mom” on it was still far from my idea of success; but, things at least got a little better once she was able to verbalize her needs and wants. This may still sound uncaring, but to the contrary, I began to realize during this time that I had a love for my daughter I couldn’t explain. It runs deeper and more differently than anything else I’ve experienced. Maybe I do have some sort of instinct after all - like the one that means you never want to get between a mother bear and her cub.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t often wish for the days when going out didn’t take the advance planning of lining up a babysitter. I still cringed a bit when someone would call me a mommy blogger even though I blog here about issues related to motherhood. But, I also found myself becoming more vocal about support for girls and representation by women - not for advancing myself, but in the hopes of better things for women of her generation.

Then, an interesting thing happened the other day. I was watching the news with my laptop in, well, my lap and I saw a couple of guys I follow on Twitter mention that they were heading to San Francisco where the weatherman had just said it was going to rain.  So, I tweeted to them about packing an umbrella and David Armano replied “you’re such a mom.”

And I didn’t flinch. There was no cringe. No resentment.

Instead, I replied with another “mom” retort: “And eat your vegetables young man!”

I think maybe, seven years into this mommy gig and entering my fifth generation of life, I might be finally becoming comfortable with the whole “mom” label.

Photo compliments of Leandro Queiroz via Creative Commons.

What does my new iPod stereo have to do with this book giveaway? Because when I moved things around to make room for the new stereo on my office shelves, I found a stack of books that I’ve been meaning to give away to readers since… well, whenever.

Less parenting books than books for parents, the books document the life adventure of raising kids with humor, wit, inspiration, love, heartache, and sometimes schmaltz — all the stuff, I guess, that rolls into parenting itself.

If you’d like to receive one of these, leave a comment below with the title you are interested in. I’ll pick winners randomly. (Please be sure to include a viable email address so I can contact you if you are a winner!)

Because I Said So by Dawn Meehan

Meehan, the author of a blog by the same name, has penned this read inspired by life with her husband and six children. From Amazon: “One of the most popular mommy-bloggers thanks to a humorous eBay listing about her child’s baseball which was circulated rapidly until she became a household name, Dawn Meehan offers readers a hilarious journey along with her six kids on madcap adventures, underscoring the notion that a sense of humor is an essential parenting skill. Because I Said So affirms that parents are not alone in the daily chaos, struggles and joys of child-rearing. With a huge dose of laugh-out-loud, real-life examples, Dawn shares hard-won wisdom gleaned from life with six children.”

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Like Mother, Like Daughter by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hanson, with Amy Newmark

Motivational speakers Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen have published more than 100 collections of these short, inspirational stories and essays since their original “Chicken Soup” title debuted in 1993. From Amazon: “This new collection from Chicken Soup represents the best 101 stories from Chicken Soup’s library on the special bond between mothers and daughters, and the magical, mysterious similarities between them. Mothers and daughters of all ages will laugh, cry, and find inspiration in these stories that remind them how much they appreciate each other.”

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Moms and Sons by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hanson, with Amy Newmark

More soup, this time with Moms and sons. From Amazon: “There is a special bond between mothers and their sons and it never goes away. These heartfelt and loving stories written by mothers, grandmothers, and sons, about each other, span generations and show how the mother-son bond transcends time.”

Interested in any of these three? Give a shout below…!

The Toyota Prius

I was so lucky to sit on the Saturday afternoon keynote panel at the Type-A Mom conference. The topic was ‘Breaking the Mommy Blogger Mold’ and I was chosen because I don’t fit within the mommy blogger mold in the ‘traditional’ sense. If there is one - which was what the panel was about.

If we look at the current Mommy Blogger ‘norm’, a Mommy Blogger is a mom that writes about being a mom, parenting, her kids and, oftentimes, products that her she and her kids use as they live their lives. And then we can easily deduce that I’m not a Mommy Blogger. Because I don’t do any of those things. (Except on this lovely blog on occasion - though I still don’t think I fall into that category because I’m not ooey or gooey about it.)

I really write about writing. But I am a mom and I work in a little shed/office in my backyard so I can see my kids all day (if I want to) and if they need to see me (and I grant them access).

So, this Mom-ness (and my blogging-ness) got me a speaker spot at the Type-A Mom Conference. And it got me something else - my very own product. The best product, if you ask me.

The good, good people at Toyota gave me a conference weekend ride in the form of a gorgeous, energy efficient Prius. It was waiting for me when I got off the plane - sort of like a white horse (I think I was my own knight in shining armor in this scenario).

First of all. I want one. Of my very own. As soon as possible. Please.

Second of all. The Prius looks small, right? It isn’t. It’s kind of huge inside. It reminded me of one of the magical tents in Harry Potter - where it looked like a normal tent (or car in this case), but when you stepped inside, it had 10 rooms and at least 2 floors. The Prius isn’t quite that big, but it sure was roomy. Four of us gals fit very comfortably inside, we easily could have taken on a fifth and we had loads of room in the trunk.

Third of all. Have you been in a Hybrid? This was actually my first one, so I can’t say this across the board, but, it’s really quiet. It took some getting used to. “Is the car on?” I kept asking everyone. It was. It’s just that, in addition to its silence, you press a button to start it, you don’t put the key in the ignition - something that I’ve now come to realize tells my brain that the motor is running. Of course, the gas mileage was out of the park. I drove from Charlotte to Asheville and back (two hours each way) - plus all over Asheville in search of fantastic food - and barely used more than a tank of gas.

Fourth of all. And I know this isn’t something specific just to the Prius, or the Toyota, but it was special to me and my Prius all the same. It’s called ‘built-in GPS’. You see, in my car, I have a dinky GPS box that I plug into my car lighter. It won’t sit on the dashboard, it never listens to me and my requests and, frankly, we just don’t get along. I don’t trust that woman. But the GPS in my Prius was built-in. It lived right in the dashboard with the stereo, CD player and temperature control. It was easy to program and not at all temperamental. It took and gave directions very well. It got me everywhere I needed to go with total confidence and serenity. I didn’t need to look at a map or worry - leaving me free to enjoy the fabulous ride…

I was traveling recently and found myself with some downtime in between layovers. I headed into one of those airport “all in one” stores to find some trash mags or something “light” to read. Instead, I found myself picking up a copy of Beautiful Boy.

Somehow I had missed the buzz about this book and the real life story behind it. I suppose we all pay the most attention to things that matter to us or are relevant to our own lives. This story wasn’t relevant to me in any way other than it was written by a parent, and I’m a parent. The jacket cover was compelling - it is the (half) image of what looks like a young boy leaping with joy. The name of the book piqued my interest as well… how can you not look at your own sons and think, “oh, my beautiful boy”?

So I picked up the book and I don’t think that I put it down until I was finished. This book is something that every parent of a teen or a teen-to-be should read. It was heartbreaking, compelling and honestly gut-wrenching.

The book is from journalist and author David Sheff. It chronicles his journey from raising his young son to watching his demise as he became addicted to marijuana, heroin and ultimately, crystal meth.

I knew nothing about crystal meth before reading this book. I didn’t want to, wouldn’t have thought about it and didn’t think I needed to.

But as I read this book, I became compelled with the years that are ahead of me. And I became damn scared of the challenges that I’m sure to face as a parent.

I’ve always known that there will come a point in my “parental life” that I will need to address the issues of drugs, alcohol and other other not-so-fun discussions with my children. But I think, like most parents, I’ve been assuming that those discussions would come at a much later time in life. Sheff’s son first got drunk at the age of eleven. That age is only four years away for my oldest son.

After reading this book (and yes, I highly, highly recommend it), I find myself torn. When do I talk to my children about drugs? When do I recognize that they’re becoming curious and to what degree do I discuss it? How do you have these discussions without making your teens run right to the very thing you’re trying to discourage them from?

If you’ve been through this I’d love to hear how you did it successfully. What age were your children when you first talked about drugs and alcohol? How did you handle discussions about drunk driving? Did you react with anger the first time your son or daughter was caught drinking? Any other insights to share? I’m sure our readers would also love to hear your advice or experiences in handling such a difficult part of raising children.

After reading David Sheff’s book, I picked up his son’s companion book – “Tweak - Growing Up on Methamphetamines” - the same story from Nic Sheff’s point of view. If I thought David’s was hard to read, Nic’s was one that I had to step away from a few times. The things that he did to himself with - and for - drugs were almost unbearable to read. But it’s also a story of love, learning, family and raising children. It’s a story of heartbreak, self-hatred and ultimately, the human spirit.

David and Nic Sheff talk about their story on Oprah

David and Nic bring to light some very difficult situations that will force us all to think twice about the decisions we make as parents. And, the fact that at some point, you have to let your children live their lives – although we want to, we can’t fix everything for them. Sometimes, learning that is the hardest lesson of all.

I recently wrote a post about contrast and how we need it to define things, i.e. we can’t name ‘cold’ if we don’t have ‘hot’ to compare it to. But, now I’m wondering what to do if the contrasting and defining object is a moving target.

Here’s the thing: I don’t know how big I am, or how small for that matter. Literally. I’m shocked by the mirror and the scale. I’m shocked when things are too big and when they’re too small. I’m shocked when I see pictures of myself and I come up to everyone’s chest. I’m shocked when I see my reflection and I seem larger than I expected.

As a result, I don’t trust any of it and I go about my days having no idea what I look like or how my body actually fits into space.

And, really, why should I? This is a case where the contrasting target is moving. AND, this is a case where the physical is heavily influenced by the emotional and intellectual self. For reasons feminine, cultural and uniquely circumstantial, my size and my perception keep changing.

• In high school, I was popular, successful and an athlete. I was larger than life, but my body felt small.
• In college, I was invisible, drowning with an eating disorder and unhappy. I was terribly insignificant, but my body felt huge.
• As I entered adulthood, I was told to be independent and strong, but society and its magazines were reminding me not to get too big. I was confused and yo-yoing, my body didn’t know which way was up.
• As I became a mother, I urged my body to grow in order to support my babies as they came to be and as they continue to need my protection, time and attention in this world. I am expanding rapidly, my body feels like it isn’t my own and its borders are too far away to see.
• As a wife, I need to pull those edges back in to ‘me’ so that I can feel my woman-ness. My body feels conflicted and exhausted and totally bent out of shape.
• As a writer, speaker and blogger in the context of this blog and a few others and in my immediate community, I receive insanely wonderful connections and feedback. My brain and heart feel big.
• As a writer, speaker and blogger in the context of the world and social media, I’m just tiny. Little fish, big sea.

When I look at all of this, I see that the common thread here is relativity. It’s similar to the fact that I still feel 17, but my birth certificate says I’m 36. I mean, really? Is that true? What’s true?

I’m not sure there’s a way to escape it. But, I’m certain I can’t let it color my forward motion. If we sat around all day and thought about the 300 million people on Facebook, we would never join or think it could be a successful social media tool - and we’d miss out on connecting and sharing with old and new friends. If we thought about the millions of other writers that are out there - either getting published or struggling with rejection letters - we would never type another word.

Why do we look to the outside to define our size or simply who we are? Why would we look outside when outside is constantly changing and insecure? Huh. Maybe that’s why we’re so insecure.

Hard to pin your edges on something that moves, expands, shrinks and bends, isn’t it? Maybe it’s the inside - that still thinks it’s 17 and perfectly sizable that needs to be the touchpoint. That way, at least, it’s always up to us, the magnitude of the space we take up in the world.

Originally posted on Writing Roads

Image credit: Steph & Adam

“I think the big brown guy is going to win,” my girl said the other night as we watched Shaquille O’Neil take on Oscar de la Hoya in the boxing ring on his “Shaq Vs.” show.

She’s just turned seven and still refers to people’s skin color in the same way she might describe a crayon; and while I think that is rather adorable, I do sometimes wonder how long others will think it is cute. At what age do we need to teach our children to use descriptions like African-American and Asian-American? And how do we teach them when to use Latino vs. Hispanic? Or the difference in Native-American and Indian (as in our across the street neighbors from India)?

I know that my own insecurities and fears of saying the wrong thing make me unsure of how to proceed in this area, and it turns out I’m not alone.  Here in my own town, The University of Texas has been studying Caucasian (white?) children’s racial attitudes, and it appears that I’m not the only one who has problems discussing race with their kids.

According to Newsweek, the researcher was “taken aback—these families volunteered knowing full well it was a study of children’s racial attitudes. Yet once they were aware that the study required talking openly about race, they started dropping out.”

According to one blogger on the National Post Comment section, that “confirms what many people probably already thought: white children in Austin, Texas are racist.”

Wow!

That’s exactly the sort of thing I fear that keeps me from being comfortable discussing race with my daughter - doing it wrong and risking being pegged racist. But, the study indicates that not calling attention to racial differences does not mean our children will grow up to be colorblind, no matter how much we wish it.

Those families that did follow through with the study and talked openly about interracial friendship showed a dramatic improvement in their children’s racial attitudes. So, how do those of us not getting scripts from a university handle it?

I’ve asked the question among some of my white girlfriends before, and none of them seemed to know how to do it either. Often it seems something easier left to the school system to try to broach, but I’m not sure that’s really what I want to do.

My girl’s Daisy Girl Scout troop had a session on diversity last year, in which one of our African-American moms talked about race - but, even that was again in the context of crayons and how a picture looks so much better when it has more than one color.

This UT study indicates that sort of wishy-washy description doesn’t really cut it for what I ultimately want to accomplish. Turns out my pride in the diversity of that same Daisy troop doesn’t mean it is going to teach those girls to be colorblind either. Another UT researcher in that same Newsweek story says of desegregation in schools:

“It’s an enormous step backward to increase social segregation,” she says. However, she also admitted that “in the end, I was disappointed with the amount of evidence social psychology could muster [to support it]. Going to integrated schools gives you just as many chances to learn stereotypes as to unlearn them.”

So what is a parent to do? It would appear, much like preparing for “the talk” about sex, we also need to plan for more talk about race. I’m going to try to be honest with my girl and admit that I don’t really know when it is appropriate to use the terms Hispanic, Latino or Mexican-American. I won’t plan a big sit-down conversation, but rather will look for ways to weave it in when opportunity presents itself (much the same way I’m approaching discussions of sex at this point). But, I better prepare myself.

Better me talking to her about race than these guys.

Have you discussed race with your child? What tips can you share to help me and others prepare? Do I need to correct my daughter when she equally uses “brown” as a descriptor for African-Americans, Indian-Americans and Mexican-Americans?

I’ve been looking over my shoulder, frequently. I’m waiting for the parenting police to show up and take away my license. I know that they’re sitting around shaking their heads at this very minute wondering how I was ever allowed mom privileges in the first place.

They’re right, you know. I’m extraordinarily guilty. Guilty of crimes, guilty for crimes.

What have I done? Well, I’ve been selfish, I entertain the most selfish thoughts on a minutely basis (this being 60 times more frequent then an hourly basis), and I crave more selfishness. I want it to be all about me.

• I want to hide away in my bed and read whenever I can.
• I want to work 20 hours a day on my writing, weekends included.
• I want to eat what I want to eat, when I want to eat it.
• I don’t want to clean.
• I don’t want to make 20 construction helmets or motorcycles or excavators out of molding beeswax.
• I want to listen to my music.
• I want to yell, ‘FUCKING HELL!’ when my Blackberry implodes and not get ‘in trouble’ for it.
• …should I go on?

You know what this feels like? PMS, though it’s lasted way too long to be PMS. It reminds me of that special flavor of PMS where you can’t stand to have anyone touch you, talk to you or look at you. And everything just feels wrong. It’s like I need to be in a little room all by myself…(hmmm…one with padded walls?).

Of course, I’m being entirely melodramatic…I’m not to the point of needing a straight jacket. But, I need something. I’m going away next week for a few days to work with a client on a writing project, and I’ll have some time to work on my own writing…but will it be enough?

Though that isn’t the real question. The real question is, should I get to have everything that I want? When I signed up for this mom/wife thing, did I sign my life away? Do I get it back when they go to college? Or can I have it now. Or never?

Which reminds me. My mom, 66, is here for the summer with us. She retired in January…and she’s having a hard time reconciling her new retired life. She’s part of what’s been driving me crazy, by the way. I thought she was just annoying me, but as I write this post, I’m realizing it’s something else. Here she is with nothing but time to pursue her passions - nothing is holding her, she can be as selfish as she wants. And she’s just piddling the days away. She’s not doing anything, or more accurately, she’s not doing what I would do.

What the hell is she waiting for? What am I waiting for? Do I really need permission, am I really hogtied? Could I spend less timing being pissed and more timing doing what I want? And if so, why I am so hellbent on getting in my own way?

Anyone? Anyone?

Image credit: Txspiked

The other day my 17-year-old came home from the Rhode Island School of Design, where he is spending six weeks this summer immersed in Art. (I didn’t realize quite how much I missed him until suddenly there he was, grinning at me in the kitchen, and as I wrapped my arms around him I thought of that line in the poem by Walter Dean Myers, “Love that boy, like a rabbit loves to run.”)

When I tell people that he’s loving the long hours he’s spending in the school’s clay studio, how he goes back after dinner, and how he wants to major in Ceramics in college, people often nod about how wonderful that is before they ask something along the lines of, “So how’s he going to make a living at that?”

I can’t blame them, really. It’s crossed my mind a few times, as well, even though I’m not truly worried. And about 25 years ago, it crossed the minds of my own parents, too, which is why my mother said to me, when I announced then that I wanted to be writer, that I might want to have a backup plan.

She wasn’t trying to be cruel; in fact, she just wanted me to have what she lacked: independence, and self-reliance, and the ability, when the guy you marry turns out to be a shit in a lot of ways, to not have to take it. It’s true that money can’t buy happiness. Yet ironically, I’ve noticed — and my mother certainly knew — that the lack of it can bring plenty of misery.

A few weeks ago my friend Paul Williams created something he called the Killer Phrase BINGO. We’re all familiar with the game BINGO: Fill out the game card, trying for five in a row to win and shout, “BINGO!” “One key reason new and potentially innovative ideas don’t get implemented at companies is because skeptics and scaredy cats kill ideas when they’re first proposed,” Paul wrote. “They use killer phrases like: ‘We’ve tried that before’ and ‘Yeah, but….’”

And so it goes in parenting, too. How many of the phrases do we use, as parents, because our own parents said them to us (here’s where I’ll admit to “Don’t make me turn this car around!”) or because we can’t bear to see our kids in pain (”Don’t make the same mistakes I did…”)? How much of our own parents do we bring to our own roles in the job, all over again?

Once, when my mother and I were having an uncharacteristically frank discussion about sex, she said to me, “Your generation didn’t invent sex, you know.” But didn’t we? Isn’t it up to every teenager to figure it out mostly on his or her own?

In that way, too, every generation thinks it invents parenting. Or, maybe, it’s every person who is reinvented as a parent: Sometimes, we are inspired by our own upbringing, and sometimes we exorcise it. And sometimes, as is the case with me, it’s a little of both.

In any case, Paul created this BINGO card for parents strictly for fun. But then again, you could use it for awareness, too—a reminder, of sorts, that we didn’t invent parenting, but we certainly can guide its evolution.