Mother's Day

I noticed a lot of Facebook profile photos going to mother-daughter shots today. Looking back through a long catalog of photographs, I was unable to find any of just my Mom and me. I have to say, I’m not too surprised. I didn’t have that kind of mom. My Mom was a worker bee. She wasn’t about telling me she loved me, throwing an arm around my shoulder and grabbing a quick snapshot. She loved me, but not like that, as the saying goes.

My Mom was about the business of childrearing and running a household: Three meals a day, laundry, ensuring her kids didn’t swear or deteriorate into civil disobedient deviates or otherwise embarrass our family or the larger family of man. She felt an obligation to ensure her kids knew the difference between “knew” and “new,” “seen” and “saw,” the use of “I” and “me,” on which side of the plate the fork was placed, the proper use of a soup spoon, the definition of appropriate dress, and the importance of a clean face, combed hair, and well brushed teeth. If you had an interested in learning to bake or cook, she could accommodate that as well.

Unconditional love was not in vogue in her era. Children were to be seen and not heard. Children were born to assist, not to be assisted, entertained, coddled, or excessively adored. There was work to be done, a future to be lived; in short, there was both a timetable and an agenda.

Within that construct there was approval and disapproval, and the child’s task was to win and maintain approval. And that didn’t transpire on a soccer field or baseball diamond; it didn’t transpire in karate class or by excelling at any other form of game or recreational activity—and if it didn’t have a concrete measurable productive value and useful application for the immediate needs of the family or applicable to one's future life in the eyes of my Mother, it was just that: recreation. Fine for playtime but only after all other tasks of home, family and education were first complete.

There were plenty of upsides to this upbringing of mine although it did lend itself to a child developing a sense of performance-based esteem as opposed to well-centered and grounded self-esteem. Not that she would have given a wink of concern about such matters. Being born in 1910, my Mother’s perspective was of citizenship and productivity. Her children needed to do well. And to her credit, we have to a large extent. And maybe that is the greatest expression of a mother's love: her legacy in a child who thrives, respects, and embraces life.

All that said, I wish I could post a photo today of my Mom and me. All in all, I think she "done me good."

To the rest of you: Happy Mother’s Day to all those moms out there who work hard, sacrifice, and do everything they believe is right to ensure their little ones survive and thrive. It seems like impossible work but, somehow, and thankfully, more moms get it right than wrong. And for that, we can all be grateful.

Graduation Day

My daughter graduated from the University of Michigan yesterday. It must be a really powerful in institution of higher education and held in the "highest" esteem: It rained in the morning and skies were heavy with a solid overcast of threatening rainclouds throughout the ceremonies, yet not a drop fell.

A lot of people had or will have children graduate from colleges this year. Fortunately, most of those graduates will leave their college experience a little older and a whole lot wiser about who they are, where they're headed, and what constitutes a responsible adult. Most, but not all.

As for me, I've been incredibly fortunate in that my daughter has managed to keep her paddles in the water. Even through a squall or two she has managed to maintain her forward momentum and has now reached the other side of that big pond. She did all the work and, somehow, I feel pretty satisfied with that-- as if it were I that was just now graduating.

In a way, it is we as parents, role models, financers of education large and small, we parents who rightfully feel a deep sense of satisfaction at this milestone. And it's a well deserved sense of satisfaction: I look around every day and I see potential that has been untapped, unappreciated, misappropriated and I feel sad for those who cannot or will not take advantage of their personal intellectual resources.

Like my daughter, I had good fortune on my side: My parents never told me I had to go to college. My parents never told me what career I had to pursue. My parents told me only this: You have an obligation to do your best. You have the great good fortune to be in possession of a healthy body and a capable mind. You have a duty to put them to good use. My daughter has certainly taken that advice to heart. In her short life she has successfully crossed puddles, streams, and now a big pond.

Note to daughter: There is still a large river that lies ahead. If you can successfully navigate its rapids, eddies, and falls you will find yourself sailing confidently and contentedly on the ocean of life.

Congratulations and full speed ahead!

Spring Break Police

I was out watching Ev the other morning while he was climbing all over a playscape. There were about a million and 6 kids climbing all over the thing, running around, chasing each other, playing cops and robbers and such. At one point Evan runs up to me with a stick in his hand-- a smallish stick rather perfectly shaped and proportioned for a pistol. "Dad, can you hold this for me for a second?" while he tried to wrestle off his sweatshirt. Then off he goes running after bad guys, pistol in hand. "Don't run with a stick in your hand!"

Seriously? Did I really just say that as my kid took off running?? Like when he stood up to surf down the kiddie slide: "Careful!" WTF??

Of course I wasn't the only parent out there yelling lame, unwanted, and unnecessary exclamations at their otherwise perfectly healthy and safe kids, guilty of no offense greater than active play. Somehow, in this contemporary era of parenting it has become necessary to watch over our kids like the trauma police: no scrapes, no cuts, no bruises, no dirty clothes.  In my own defense, I do see a fairly steady stream of kids who are injured during the course of unsupervised play or worse-- like the 3 year old who gets a broken arm when her 22 year old drunk uncle lands on her while they're both on a trampoline. But this was different and far removed from that brand of negligence.

When I was a kid (here we go-- you had to see this coming) my parents and those of my friends really didn't seem to care if, at 6 years old, we climbed high in an apple tree to throw dirt clods at the "bad guys." They didn't get measurably concerned if we climbed aboard a city bus and rode it to the end of the line and back. And later on, they thought it was pretty cool that a couple of us could ride our bikes through the city streets of L.A. to the airport and back, 30 miles-- stopping long enough to explore the terminals and flight decks of airliners as they were being serviced.

Obviously those days are over for a lot of reasons. 40 some years later it makes me nervous when I see my guy taking risks. I know it's good for his physical, emotional, and intellectual development but I still worry…..  although I have to admit: he does look pretty cool surfing down that slide.

Off To A Good Start

                                   

A friend of mine, the world renowned Short Jewish Gal, posted this photo of herself the other day. It was taken in the 70’s, early in a high school career. The photo struck me because, although it is just a snapshot, it suggests so much of what it is to be a successful teen: competent, confident, happy, purposeful. Stepping off the doorstep of your home, stepping onto the sidewalk of life.

This is certainly not a reality for a great many teens, teens that struggle with social and economic conditions that no one, of any age, should have to endure, certainly not developing youths. For far too many teens it is so much more than pimples and bad hair days. For many, the barriers are substantial, the hardships are real, expectations almost nonexistent, progress elusive. For many, by the time they are 14 or 15 they will have become convinced, have had beaten into their brains, that the future holds absolutely, positively nothing to look forward to.

The photo above, however, gives a welcome look in the other direction. Well dressed and well groomed, a smile on her face and books in hand, (a budding Westside Jewish democrat at that!), she certainly appears to be among the most fortunate of teens. But the thing that grabs me most is her wave. An open mouthed smile and her right hand in motion she greets the photographer, the day, the world, in a manner that acknowledges, welcomes, and places her firmly in command. This photo is the picture of parental success: A nearly grown child confidently stepping into adulthood. Not privilege or entitlement, just well prepared, able, and happy about the whole damn thing—and, willing to show it!  

A Note On A Mother's Passing

A dear childhood friend of mine's mother passed away the other day. I hadn't seen her in over 40 years but, having grown up as the kid across the street, she has never been absent from my memory.

Thinking about this woman, a homemaker with three boys and a working husband, I was struck by how much sociological change has occurred in the American home in the course of those 4 decades. She was of an era when the mother's task was to raise the children and maintain the home. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids did well at school. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids practiced good citizenship. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids grew up to be productive adults. It fell to the mother to ensure the kids grew to adulthood reflecting well on the home from which they had come.

My friend's mom, like my own, was really dealt a rotten card when it came to timing. The 60's and 70's turned out to be a time when a social epidemic swept the nation, when conformity, heritage, and tradition fell off the mantles of homes throughout the country. The passing on of religion, social mores, and politics, all the hallmarks of successful and productive childrearing disappeared in less than a generation. For many women, what they had hoped for and expected never became part of the generation they had raised. For many women, my mother and my friend's mother included, it was a grave disappointment, a second wave of postpartum depression. Some never adapted, never recovered a sense of place, of personal esteem.

Living as we do in a era of dual incomes, rapidly receding gender-specific roles, and a social landscape with limited boundaries, it's hard to understand what these women stood for. It's hard to understand the valor and validity of a life dedicated to ensuring your children not only did well but did the family proud as well. It's hard to understand how a woman could be satisfied living to see her hopes and dreams fulfilled in the lives of others. Selflessness receives so little play these days.

With the passing of my friend's mother I am reminded of just how lucky some of us are to have been raised by mother's who-- while they may have seemed at times overbearing and intrusive-- never wanted anything more than for their children to grow into substantial adults. It wasn't about happiness. It wasn't about wealth. It was about success in the truest sense-- success as productive members of society-- theirs and ours.

The Chili Weather Continues

Okay. I think it is pretty safe to say that, as of today, March 27th, nobody in the state of Michigan is feeling good about seeing snowfall. No one but me.

Over the years people have always spoken of the "old days," with snow up to the window sills and rooftops. This year we've had that. The "old days," where if you walked more than 50 yards your face would freeze solid. This year we've had that. The "old days," where you weren't through with snow until well into April. This year we're making a serious effort in that direction. And all this snow and cold does have it's serious disadvantages. The roads are so fractured and potholed I don't know if they'll ever be right. Furnaces can be heard wheezing and grimacing as they fire up once again on a cycle that has been repeated every 20 minutes of every day for the last 4 months. And cabin fever is so severe and epidemic that kids aren't even antsy anymore-- they're just sitting, catatonic, staring at their hands and the floor.

Me? So far I'm actually okay with all this snow and cold, even as I look out at my just-washed truck, returned from the dealer after an oil change, all red and shiny with snowflakes drifting by, kissing its windows and sills. And the reason I'm okay with all this is tortilla soup-- or in this case, tortilla chili. Chili, whether tortilla or otherwise, is a cold whether menu item. Sitting and having a bowl of chili on an 80 degree day just doesn't sound good or make sense. (A nice thin tortilla soup, sitting poolside at a certain pink hotel on Sunset Boulevard, sure. But not a hearty chili.) So, for now I'm good. I have my hearty vegetarian tortilla chili/soup and I'm happy to watch the snowflakes fall.

Note to weather gods: I've only made enough for a couple days.

White People

Tam and I debated for some time whether it made sense to have Ev enroll in our local Chicago public school. It would mean splitting the family at least 4 days a week. It would mean Ev would not be maintaining anything to speak of in the way of early childhood friendships. Nevertheless, we took the plunge and enrolled Evan at Ogden School, a public International Baccalaureate school about a block from the condo.

There were two reasons really, for our decision. First, the academic standard was very, very high at Ogden. Ev is a smart kid and, if he isn't challenged, he zooms off to another planet. The other reason was diversity. Here in our mid-Michigan hometown there is very, very, very little social or racial diversity. We both felt really strongly that we wanted Evan to grow up around people of all different races, colors, social backgrounds and nationalities. And we certainly have that to offer both at the school and the city around us living in Chicago.

So how's it going? Well, Ev's grades are good and he has about 1 hour of math and reading homework every night, Monday through Thursday. He is learning that school is about becoming educated, actively learning. As a kid, education is what you do. So while he's busy with after school activities 3 days of the week, he knows that going to school, learning, is not something that occurs only between 8:40 and 3:20.

And the cultural experience? Well, true story: Saturday we went to lunch at a local Chinese place here in town. There were about 7 or 8 tables seated at the time and, as we started in to our meals, Evan started to look around with a frown and quizzical expression. "Do you guys notice anything?" he asked, all Mr. Concerned-about-something. I looked around not able to imagine what he was seeing. "What?" Pointing to the skin of his forearm he said to his Mom and me, "Everyone in here is white."

Okay. Pretty strong performance in the diversity piece.