Author Archives: shrinkrapped

Invasion of the Childhood Snatchers

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Kids in tent with laptopWhile perusing the newspaper and sipping a latte at my favorite coffeehouse the other day, I was aghast to come across a full-page Comcast ad. (Thanks to the miracle of iPhones and picmonkey.com, you can view the image above.) As you can see, it shows two kids in a tent, glued to a glowing laptop screen. The bold heading floating in the night sky reads:

WHAT’S POSSIBLE WHEN WI-FI IS IN MORE PLACES?

Hovering like some creepy cyber miasma just above the tent are the words:

FRONT ROW IN THE BACKYARD

What is wrong with this picture?

Let me be clear. First, I am not a fan of camping, and have been known to long for creature comforts (like beds, let alone wi-fi) when forced to spend time in a tent. Second, I am not above the judicious use of TV, DVDs, and other more modern forms of screen bribery when raising children, particularly before dinner during what a friend refers to as the Suicide Hour. Many a meal has appeared on the table, and many a death has been prevented, thanks to Mother’s Little Electronic Helpers.

But seriously, Comcast’s invasion of childhood strikes even me as going a bit too far. Kids should be out traipsing around the woods looking for ET, not streaming him or his Despicable cousins on a laptop while hermetically zipped inside of a tent.

So I have only this to say to despicable Comcast:

WHY? FIE!

First Friends

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Me and Nancy at Concord Bridge (MA), June 1961

Me and Nancy at Concord Bridge (MA), June 1961

I barely remember my first friend, Regan, who lived next door to us in Cincinnati. There’s a picture of us as at age four on a stone wall, in identical shorts and midriff blouses, belly buttons protruding. But that’s about it. Regan moved away to a neighboring state, which, in the 1950s geography of childhood, may as well have been the moon. Besides, less than a year later, my family moved to New England.

There I met Nancy. She had a pixie haircut and freckled face wide open with friendliness. She lived two corners and a short, steep hill away from me, back in the days when free-range children were the norm. Nancy’s house backed onto the woods, where we spent hours building forts, climbing rocks, and fashioning furniture out of twigs and moss. Her mother, strikingly beautiful and always welcoming, would serve up snacks and listen to our tales of adventure.

In fourth grade, I pushed the two of us to take up violin together. I scratched my way through a few torturous lessons before quitting, but Nancy really took to it.

Despite the disparities in our musical talent, Nancy and I were inseparable. Then, in fifth grade, her family relocated to the far corner of Massachusetts. We promised to stay best friends forever, even visited once or twice. But as often happens, we lost touch.

As I began to delve deeply a couple of years ago into my long-held obsession with ruptures in women’s friendships, I thought about Nancy a lot. Ours was a drift, not a rift—a relationship disrupted by circumstances, but not the complicated messiness I would later come to know with close female friends. I grew nostalgic for our wonderful times together. So, thanks to the modern-day miracles of Google, I found her.

Nancy has the same open, friendly face (we both have better haircuts now), a different last name, a husband and beautiful freckle-faced daughter, and a house in the country with lots of animals. Plus a long string of musical accomplishments under her name. A former symphony violinist, she is now an assistant professor of music, director of her college’s symphony and chamber orchestras, and coordinator for their Strings Program and auditions. I’m glad one of us made it past the scratching stage, and glad that I have such fond memories of my first best friend.

Now Nancy and I exchange emails and holiday news. She signed up for my blog, and even signed up her still beautiful and gracious mother!

Today is Nancy’s birthday.

Happy birthday, old friend!

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First friend stories? Are you still in touch? How have your earliest friendships shaped your adult ones?

The Vote for Independence

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UK and Scottish flags

I was alarmed when I learned that 16- and 17-year-olds were allowed to vote in Scotland’s bid for independence. What might happen if complicated economic and social issues were fanned with the flames of developmental yearnings? Extending the franchise to such young people seemed as dubious as introducing Ayn Rand to resentful teenage boys. After all, what adolescent chafing for freedom doesn’t want to be the self-determining hero who defies the influence of the state?

It might be unwise to superimpose youthful reading follies or one’s own household experience onto geopolitical affairs. The Scottish independence movement rests on an uneasy history and understandable grievances about economic and social policies that favor the rich and southern countries at the expense of the North.

Still, I couldn’t help but think of my own children’s strivings for independence over the years: The two-year-old who insisted on negotiating a steep flight of stairs by herself, chanting, “Self! Self!” with every step. Perpetual refrains of, “You’re not the boss of me!” Then the heavy artillery of adolescence: “Stop treating me like a kid!” “It’s so unfair!” “I can’t wait to get out of here!”

Is it really that far from my house to the blended Houses of Stuart and Hanover? Let’s drop in on a typical family meeting as it might have been unfolding recently at Balmoral Castle. We join parents David and Elizabeth (aka Queenie) as they sit down for a serious talk with their teenager, Scot:

David: Scotty, your mother and I want to talk with you about this petition for emancipation you’ve filed.

Scot: Stop calling me Scotty. I’ve told you a million times I prefer Scot. Besides, what’s there to talk about? I’ve had it with you, and I’m leaving.

Queenie: Is this about our taking all those pound notes from your billfold without asking?

Scot: It’s so unfair.  You treat me like a serf. I’m outta here.”

David: Don’t be ridiculous! You can’t possibly make it on your own!

Scot: Sure I can! In fact, I’ll be better off without you.

Queenie (crying a little): How could you do this to us after all we’ve done for you? I’m tired of you blaming us for everything!

David (shouting as Scot gets up from the table): We’ll cut off your allowance! If you walk through that door, there’s no coming back!

Scot slams out of the room.

David (turning to console his weeping wife): There, there, dear. It’s just a bluff. Scotty will calm down and be back in time for dinner.

In the ensuing weeks, Scot is more resolute than ever. He hangs out with friends, eliciting sympathy and offers of supper and a spare bed from their mothers, who have never much liked those imperious snobs, David and Elizabeth.

We rejoin Scot’s parents as they argue over whether to double down on tough love, or reach out to their wayward child. 

Queenie: Perhaps we’ve been too harsh . . .

David: Nonsense! We can’t give in to these antics!

Elizabeth: Maybe we could grant a little bit more independence . . . a later curfew, more control over his money . . . I don’t want to lose him.

David (sighing as he reaches for the phone): Scotty, er . . . Scot . . . It’s me, Dad. Listen, your mother and I want you to know we miss you. We love you very much and wish you’d come back. Can we talk?

A few hours later, Scot strolls through the front door.

Scot: Now that I’ve got your attention . . .

Or something like that . . .

Now the ballots have been counted. Scotland, despite the youth vote, has decided to stick with the parental unit. Perhaps the realities of going it alone registered; perhaps gaining concessions, more autonomy, and a later curfew were sufficient. With high-fives for democracy all around, the UK and Scotland are still one big, happy, dysfunctional family.

Which may be about as good as it gets for reasonable households and countries everywhere.

Muse on Strike

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On Strike signSince everything is copy, we writers appropriate everything—conversations with friends and colleagues, snippets from eavesdropping, news, movies, domestic and geopolitical dramas. Sometimes this habit of appropriation tempts us into being inappropriate.

Mothers who write, especially those who find their children to be a reliable Muse, face even greater challenges. Such as, “How do I mine all this rich material without leading to (a) lawsuits; (b) children needing to be in therapy all their lives; or (c) children writing another Mommie Dearest, assuming they’ve benefited from all that therapy and have inherited a knack for writing and retribution?

Caution is the watchword, at least once your child learns to read. Just as adorable nude shots of your toddler must be removed from photo albums before dating commences, so, too, must the experience you co-opt not be too embarrassing or revealing. Remember, just as some zealous Walgreen’s clerk might misconstrue your innocent pictures and report you to the child pornography hotline, so, too, may your writing land you in trouble.

Long ago I acquired a fig leaf of maternal decency by asking my daughters how they felt about my writing. Emma said, “I don’t care what you write as long as I don’t have to read it.” Ally, always the go-getter, said, “I don’t care what you write as long as I get a cut.”

I took that as full license. Exercised with great sensitivity and familiarity with libel laws, of course!

Recently, though, Emma remarked, “I read somewhere that you should never write about your children.”

A better mother might have responded, “Oh? Tell me more.” Or, “How are you feeling about my writing (which you never read) these days?” Or even, God forbid, “OK, I’ll stop.”

Instead I cried indignantly, “You’re changing the terms!”

Looks like it might be time to renegotiate the contract with my disgruntled muse before she walks out on me altogether.

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How do you handle writing about your kids? And what’s it been like to read about yourself in someone else’s writing?

Dinosaur Extinction

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Dinosaur plateThe plate is at the top of the stairs, where we put stuff we’re ready to donate.

“That’s odd,” I think to myself. But things have ended up in stranger places when my husband unloads the dishwasher. Jonathan forgives my never remembering how to use the flash drive, and I forgive his never knowing where anything goes.

I put the plate back in the cupboard. Jonathan takes it out again.

“Do we really need this anymore?” he sighs.

“Yes! ”  I reply, a little too adamantly.

“See if you can move it somewhere else. It’s in the way.”

Smiling dinosaurs in bright colors chase each other around the plate’s rim. Three separate compartments enforce the First Commandment of Children’s Food: Thou Shalt Not Touch. Smooth melamine ridges segregate the applesauce from the mac and cheese. Suspicious interlopers like spinach are safely sequestered in their own tiny corral. The brave toddler who stomachs the two-bite portion is rewarded by uncovering twin baby triceratops frolicking with their delighted mom. She, no doubt, is also encouraging her offspring’s herbivorous adventures.

My wary toddlers are now 23 and 26. They favor fusion foods and can be trusted with dishes that shatter.

Still, I need this plate. The dinosaur era is one of the sweeter pleasures of parenting. What other passions appeal to both sexes, all ages, inspire awe, and transform a trip to the museum from torture into an adventure? Besides, I have packed so much away in packing my children off to adulthood; I’m not yet ready to say goodbye to the little green creature hatching out of its eggshell. Maybe our grandchildren will eat from this plate someday, discerning T-rexes from brontosauruses as they diddle with their vegetables.

My husband’s ready, though. He wants to clear out the cupboards to make room for what the children’s needs have obscured. What might we assemble together without all the clutter?

With one last fond sigh, I put the plate on the donate pile.

Two Left

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http://www.freeimages.com/photo/1022198I watched my mother’s three-pack-a-day habit rob her bit by bit over the years. Shortness of breath. Not being able to walk more than a block or two. Coughing fits that sounded like being strangled. Oxygen tubing snaking through the house. Gasping for air. Then, mercifully, considering the death by slow suffocation possibly in store for her, my mother succumbed suddenly at home when her heart gave out.

That was nineteen years ago. My mother was 71. Just this week, my brother Dave died in much the same way at age 65. He was a good man, generous, funny, with the proverbial heart of gold.

My eldest brother and I spoke the day after about a lot of things. At some point, I asked him if he was still smoking. Yes, came the answer. My brother said he had two cigarettes left before he had to buy another pack, and he wasn’t yet sure what he was going to do. I jotted down this little thing, somewhere between a poem and a plea, and sent it to him.

Two Left
 
Smoke one for Mom
Smoke one for Dave
Don’t follow them.
Don’t buy another pack.
Stay here, with me.
We are the two left.

 

Ready for Hillary?

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https://d1qodaktuuv1h7.cloudfront.net/sites/readyforhillary/files/ReadyPoster.jpegMy first thought was, “I guess she’s running,” when I heard about Hillary Clinton’s highly publicized criticism of President Obama’s foreign policy in The Atlantic.

My second thought was of Dick Cheney—not that Hillary’s comments are in the same league as Cheney’s relentless attacks. But there’s the same failure to take responsibility for a mess both helped create in launching war against Iraq. Plus a knee-jerk hawkishness and reliance on the illusion of American exceptionalism. This dismays me about Hillary even more than her dissing of the President.

My third thought was to wonder if Joe Biden is really too old, his candidacy truly unviable.  Or if a bid for the presidency by Elizabeth Warren would make Nixon’s 1972 rout of George McGovern look like a cliffhanger.

I want to be pragmatic, to bank on winnability. That’s why I was not an early supporter of Obama, believing that a black man whose name rhymed with Osama bin Laden could never be elected President. Gradually I saw how this view was less pragmatic than borderline racist and certainly self-defeating, enabling the very views I abhorred. I became a fervent admirer of Barack Obama, and worked hard for his 2008 and 2012 victories. I thought highly not only of his policies, but also of his intelligence, calm demeanor, decency, and capacity for nuanced thinking and self-reflection. Most of all, I loved that Obama appealed to the better angels of our natures.

Now I am not so confident that the better angels of our natures can prevail. It is a futile endeavor, but one I undertake anyway, to wonder if President Hillary Clinton might have succeeded where President Barack Obama has been stymied. Mostly I think not—the economic and foreign policy disasters are too immense, the virulence toward Hillary almost as strong as the virulence toward a black man. Perhaps there would have been no difference.

But the one thing I reluctantly come back to again and again is that Hillary might have done better because she is more hard-nosed. She would not have wasted time and energy trying to make friends with a Republican Party hell-bent on destroying her. She might also have more room to maneuver as a white woman than as a black man in a country that is arguably more racist than sexist.

Pragmatism counts, and Hillary is nothing if not pragmatic. She’s smart, hard-working, dedicated, and, unlike faux feminist candidates like Sarah Palin, a true champion of women’s issues. Some of her personal qualities, however, give me pause as well as hope.

I’m not sure I’m ready for Hillary. But what are the alternatives?

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How do you feel about Hillary and the presidential prospects for 2016?

 

Retreat from the World

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Filoli Weary of grim news from Ferguson to Gaza, Iraq to Ukraine, Ebola to the sad death of Robin Williams, my friend Mary and I sought refuge at Filoli today. The summer gardens were in full bloom, and in addition to feeling refreshed (if I repress the gridlock on my way home), I am practicing the photo gallery feature of Word Press. Enjoy!

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What is your antidote to world weariness?

 

Buying Time

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Golden-Gate-Bridge-from-Chrissy-Field-March-1-2014.jpg

One day several years ago, a 14-year-old boy got off the bus and walked to the railing of the Golden Gate Bridge. Some things were troubling him, and he put his leg up over the railing, preparing to jump. Then he took his leg down, caught the bus home, and told his mother, who sought help immediately. He’s fine now.

Without that pause to reconsider, this boy’s life may have ended in a tragedy that has claimed the lives of more than 1,600 people known to have jumped to their deaths from the iconic but deadly landmark.

There’s long been talk of a suicide barrier on the Golden Gate Bridge. At last there is action: Earlier this summer, the bridge district directors committed the final $76 million needed for safety nets to deter jumpers. The barrier will be operational in three years.

It’s been a long time coming. The most potent opposition has rested on a widespread misconception: many wrongly believe that people stopped from jumping will just go on to find another way to kill themselves.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Although some who are intent on suicide will find a way to die no matter what, fewer than 10 percent of those pulled from the bridge later take their own lives.

Ninety percent go on living—that’s a phenomenal success rate.

The most lethal means of suicide—death by firearms and jumping—are often chosen not by those who have carefully planned their own demise, but by those acting impulsively in a moment of upset. Young people are particularly susceptible to impulsivity; teens account for more than 10 percent of those who make the fatal plunge.

It only takes a moment—to go over the edge of the alluringly low railing, or to pull back from it. A moment that means life or death.

Buying time is the essence of suicide prevention. Time allows impulses to pass, moods to shift, circumstances to improve. Would-be jumpers who are thwarted by a barrier gain precious time to change their mind.

That’s time those who go over the railing probably wish they had. Kevin Hines is one of the very few who made the leap and lived to tell about it. Here’s what he said in an interview with a New York Times reporter: “I’ll tell you what I can’t get out of my head. It’s watching my hands come off that railing and thinking to myself, My God, what have I just done? Because I know that almost everyone else who’s gone off that bridge, they had that exact same thought at that moment. All of a sudden, they didn’t want to die, but it was too late.”

As the saying goes, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. With the Golden Gate Bridge barrier in place, we will have a much better permanent solution to the temporary problem of suicidal impulses.

It’s about time.

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For further information:

“The Urge to End it All,” by Scott Anderson. New York Times Magazine, July 6, 2008.

The Final Leap, by John Bateson (publication date 2015).

Myths about Suicide, by Thomas Joiner (2011).

Bridge Rail Foundation: http://www.bridgerail.org/

24/7 National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255