Music to My Ears

Posted on December 29, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

I’m still struggling to comprehend it, but my 16-year-old daughter asked for–and received–the same thing for Christmas that I wanted when I was her age: a new turntable. I honestly didn’t know they made them anymore.

She had been poking around in the attic and found crates full of our old LPs. Intrigued, she brought them downstairs and started sorting through them, pleased to find some of the artists she knew and loved: James Taylor, Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones. “Wow,” she said. “You could listen to a whole album by the same person at the same time!” Imagine that. Then she observed that it was easy to tell which albums had been mine and which her father’s: mine were more beat up and tossed in the crate in any old order, with an occasional “SG” scrawled in the corner (to distinguish them from those of my freshman roommate, who had an eerily similar collection, right down to an obscure Elton John album called “Friends”). My husband’s records, true to form, were neatly aligned and alphabetized, bearing tiny typed labels with his initials.

I teased her for being such a throwback, but of course I was secretly delighted. It affirmed for me, once again, that no generation has ever grown up with better music than the Baby Boomers. Just glance at my children’s playlists: the Beatles, the Stones, the Clash, the Boss, CSNY, Paul Simon, Billy Joel, Fleetwood Mac. They even know all the words to “American Pie,” just like I did. (By the same token, even my father, a serious classical music buff, harbors a soft spot for JT, Carly Simon, Elton John and the like, thanks to years of hearing them blasted from the bedroom next door.) And the newer artists my kids like–Sheryl Crow, Jack Johnson, Bret Dennen, Eric Hutchinson, the Avett Brothers, Adele–are clearly descended from their rock-and-roll forbears, and also heavily represented in my iTunes library. I’m not sure if this musical synchronicity is a cause or an effect of the Boomer penchant for oversharing with their children, but it certainly makes listening to the radio or sharing an iPod an extremely low-stress affair. When I was growing up, my choices for listening with my parents consisted of Beethoven or talk radio. No wonder I sought refuge in Neil Young.

In any case, I found it somewhat disconcerting on Christmas Day to hear emanating from my daughter’s room the same strains of the Jackson Browne album–“Late for the Sky”–I used to listen to every night during high school, stacked on my turntable with four or five other selections, including “Yessongs,” “Workingman’s Dead” and Joni Mitchell’s “Blue.” To make things even more unsettling, my 86-year-old mother-in-law was at that very moment downstairs listening to her new Tony Bennett CD via laptop. He was singing a duet with Lady Gaga.

Posted in Blogging, Family life, Kids, Teenagers | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments

The Magic is Gone. Or is It?

Posted on December 21, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Billy Bob Thornton as "Bad Santa" (2003)

It’s been a sobering week: we bid farewell to both the Tooth Fairy and Santa. First my 9-year-old daughter lost two teeth. When I suggested she put them under her pillow for you-know-who, she flopped around on her bed and, without looking at me, said abruptly, “I think parents are really the Tooth Fairy.”

I had been eagerly awaiting this day, when I could stop lying bald-faced to my youngest child, but still she caught me off guard. I sputtered idiotically for a few seconds. “What? Really? Why would we leave you money under your pillow just because your body does something it’s meant to do?” But then she looked directly at me. “It’s you,” she said. “Isn’t it?” I had to answer. Still, she refused the $5 bill I offered her and insisted on putting the teeth under her pillow.

I sat there expectantly, waiting for Santa to fall; once you give up the idea of a Tinkerbell-like creature flitting around the world collecting bloody stumps of baby teeth in exchange for crisp dollar bills, it’s a little hard to hold onto the fantasy of the red-suited fat man commandeering a reindeer-pulled sleigh bearing 59 billion pounds of presents. But Christmas was coming. She rolled over and went to sleep.

A few nights later, in the middle of “Phineas and Ferb,” she popped her head into my office. “Aren’t parents really Santa, too?” she asked matter-of-factly. Clearly she’d been extrapolating. I hemmed and hawed; as a Jew, I have no particular allegiance to Santa, but I know my husband–a Christmas-crazy atheist–does. I fed her a bunch of nonsense: “Well, a lot of people believe…” “It’s a magical time of year…” but she wasn’t buying it. “Ask Daddy,” I finally punted; I didn’t want him to accuse me of prematurely bursting the Santa bubble. He responded even more cagily–“Well, no one really knows!” “If you truly believe…”–until she got completely fed up. “Just answer the question!” she insisted. “Is Santa real?” I guess that’s how you know it’s time.

She was quiet for a minute, and then ran upstairs to put on her pajamas. I could swear I saw tears fill her big brown eyes. I felt like I had betrayed her–not by breaking the news, but by propagating the myth for so long. After all, I had essentially been doing for 9 years two of the things I constantly counsel my kids not to do: lie, and go along with the crowd. I have foisted upon them much bigger, more shocking truths than that; I still remember taking a deep breath before responding to my eldest daughter, then 4, when she asked, “But how does the sperm get to the egg?” So why did I allow myself to get caught up in all that Santa nonsense?

Whatever the reason, I’m glad it’s over. But my holiday revelations were only beginning. Just as I was contemplating what to do with the “Santa” presents hidden in the closet, someone hacked into my husband’s computer. They seized his email and Linked In accounts and sent around a piece of spam, explaining–in broken English–that he had been robbed in London and needed money for a plane ticket home.

Within hours, both Mr. 70 Percent and myself had each gotten dozens of emails or phone calls from concerned friends and relatives–most alerting us to the fact that he’d been hacked, but a few asking if we really needed help. One friend was actually deep in negotiations with the crooks about where to wire the money, until she called my husband’s cell to confirm! I was so touched by the outpouring of support and concern that I didn’t even waste any time marveling at how gullible some people can be. There’s no telling what people will believe.

Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting, Reality check | Tagged , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

Procrastination with Friends

Posted on December 12, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Has anyone else noticed that “Words with Friends” has hit a critical tipping point? I was hunched over my iPhone at the grocery store yesterday, desperately trying to land my K on a triple letter space, when the teenager behind me in line looked over and said, “My mom is obsessed with that game!” (I should have asked for her user name.) I knew it had crossed some sort of threshold when my 13-year-old son invited me to play. I think he decided it was cool after Alec Baldwin got booted from that American Airlines flight for refusing to turn off a cutthroat match on his phone. Or, more likely, after Baldwin showed up on SNL’s Weekend Update to make fun of–or was it glorify?–himself in a cameo as the pilot of the flight he departed. When Seth Meyers asked “Captain Rogers” about a report that Baldwin slammed the bathroom door in anger, he replied, “Words with Friends can be frustrating! When you think you’re about to play JAILERS off someone’s QUICHE and then you realize you don’t have the I–let me tell you, that’ll make you slam the bathroom door!”

I know how he feels. A relatively early adopter of WWF, I have played hundreds of games against friends, acquaintances, colleagues, relatives, friends of relatives, relatives of friends, my children, my friends’ children, friends of my children, and pretty much anyone else who has ever challenged me. The upshot is that I have become completely unproductive in every other area of my life. Breakfast dishes overflow the kitchen sink, the laundry remains unfolded, and I am behind deadline on every single project I’m working on. But never mind; I just played QUA for 44 points! FADE for 48 (triple word, triple letter on the F)! And EMPLOYEE for 63! Too bad I won’t likely be one for much longer. I may have to take a page from Bill Gates, who allegedly had Minesweeper removed from his computer because he couldn’t get any work done. Even as I write this post, I keep checking my cell phone to see if it’s my turn, if maybe one of my opponents has opened up a place for me to play my Z.

Zynga, the maker of WWF, showed its support of Baldwin.

I suppose there are worse ways to entertain oneself–Minesweeper, for starters, or watching botched eHarmony videos on YouTube. Words with Friends is relatively easy to justify: it’s educational! I’m socializing (in a detached sort of way)!  I’m improving my vocabulary while I boost my self esteem!

But even I know that’s a bunch of hooey (is that a playable word?). Words with Friends is just my latest time waster–better than the refrigerator, not as constructive as exercise. All it does is allow me to demonstrate for my kids what procrastination looks like, and they clearly don’t need any help with that. My eldest daughter was so desperate for distraction while studying for finals last week that she begged me to model my new jeans for her! With several different pairs of shoes!

Even so, I have to admit I’m delighted to be interacting with my son, who would never sit down and play an actual game of Scrabble with me. He’s pretty good, too. I’d better go block the triple-word.

Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting, Teenagers | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

Making a List

Posted on December 7, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Of the many things I dislike about December, presents rank right near the top. Partly that’s because we, a mixed-faith family (half Jewish, half Christmas), celebrate everything, so the excesses are head-spinning. But I also remain vastly insecure about who I’m supposed to buy presents for. The big ones, I know–family, teachers, cleaning lady–but what about the basketball coach? The music teacher? And must I write a check to the newspaper deliverer just because he puts a self-addressed envelope in the New York Times bag? It’s the best reason yet to ditch the print version and read it online! Perhaps I should start attaching a SASE to every bit of work I do, just in case anyone feels like giving me a little holiday tip.

Plus, I never really know what I want. I’m usually so busy trying to get rid of stuff–particularly stuff belonging to other members of my family–that it panics me to think about acquiring more, although I am rather fond of jewelry, which doesn’t take up a lot of room. My kids have so much crap they can barely muster a holiday list. So I came up with a great plan this year, which I excitedly proposed to the two younger ones, 13 and 9: “Instead of exchanging presents, let’s all go away somewhere!” I suggested. “Maybe we could go skiing, or to Bermuda?”

They looked at me as if I had just slapped them. “NO,” said the usually agreeable one. “Bad idea.” Then she proceeded to add 46 items to the Amazon Wish List I stupidly showed her how to set up. Her big brother scoffed as well: “My friends all get presents and ski trips.” I stared off into space and wondered who these spoiled brats were and when their parents were coming to pick them up. I mean, it’s not like I was proposing they give all their presents to charity for God’s sake! Their sensible older sister would probably have bought into a family trip, but mostly she’d just prefer cash; she’s saving up for her own post-high school European adventure. Without us.

Then my niece sent a friendly email reminding my husband and me to submit our gift lists for his family’s Secret Santa drawing. I had to cobble something together fast. So I went on Amazon and started clicking away. After 10 minutes, I had two things in my gift basket: a light-up makeup mirror with 5x magnification, and a set of 13 pairs of 1.5 magnification reading glasses. I quickly added some earrings and winter running tights just to appear less pathetic. Then I started thinking: maybe I hate presents because they’re just another reminder of my rapidly encroaching mortality! I mean, I distinctly remember the first gift I requested after my husband and I got together: a pair of rollerblades. Eighteen years later, here I was wishing for reading glasses. Why not throw in some orthotics and a folding walker and call it a day?

Depressed, I decided to go bricks-and-mortar shopping instead. The independent outdoor adventure store near us, on the verge of closing, was conducting a massive pre-holiday sale. So Mr. 70 Percent and I took the two younger kids for a look-see. As my son and I were checking out the cross-country skis, I noticed my husband marching purposefully around the store with a trekking pole. “I like this,” he said. “I’m going to get it.” My son, my daughter and I competed for the loudest guffaw. “When was the last time you went hiking?” my son asked derisively. “Yes, I’m sure it will come in handy when you have to trek from the couch to the refrigerator,” I chimed in. He became indignant. “It would have been very handy on that hike we went on last summer, when the kids were at camp,” he said. I racked my brain. “You mean that dog walk we took around the reservoir?” Yes, that’s what he meant.

But I was in no mood to argue. “Fine,” I said. “Merry Christmas!” I plan to put the trekking pole under the tree, along with the cross-country skis my son and I are getting. Where we’re going, there’ll be no need for reading glasses.

Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting, Reality check | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Gossiping With My Girl

Posted on November 27, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

While I was getting dressed for Thanksgiving dinner, I overheard an alarming conversation between my husband and my 16-year-old daughter. It went something like this:

Daughter: “Dad, have you watched the latest Gossip Girl yet?”
Mr. 70 Percent: “Yes! I’m not putting it on hold just because you’re a few episodes behind!”
Daughter: “What’s up with Chuck and Blair?”
Mr. 70 Percent: “Well, it looks like it’s The Prince’s baby!”
Daughter: “What? How does she know?”
Mr. 70 Percent: “They got a paternity test and she told Chuck it’s the Prince’s. But we never actually saw the  results. She could be lying!”
 

I’d be lying if I said their exchange completely surprised me. My husband is a hardcore metrosexual who appreciates trashy TV; after all, our courtship was built in large part on Monday night viewings of Melrose Place. And naturally, he enjoys ogling attractive actresses like Leighton Meester and Blake Lively. But I did find it somewhat disturbing to discover that he spends part of his waking hours thinking about the paternity of a devious television character’s unborn child. Also, must he excitedly discuss out-of-wedlock pregnancy with our teenage daughter, even if it is by the Prince of Monaco?

One of the things I love about Mr. Seventy Percent is that he has always gone out of his way to connect with each of our children by taking an interest in his or her passion du jour. This means he has spent countless hours building model rockets, studying weaponry online and browsing paintball stores, as well as putting stuffed animals to bed and memorizing the names of all Thomas the Tank Engine’s friends. He and our first-born have always shared a special bond, perhaps born of their mutual affinity for hyper-organization; they pored over the Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket books together–not to mention the Levenger catalogue–and regularly attend concerts and sporting events. Gossip Girl is just one more cultural touchpoint they share–a mindless, entertaining way to spend time together.

But one of the benefits of having your kids grow older is that you get to reassert your own interests and stop pretending to enjoy theirs, whether it’s Candyland or Raffi. Though I’ve never been very good at hiding my disdain for Chuck E. Cheese, my kids have, over the years, figured out what activities I’ll likely say “yes” to–Scrabble, a jigsaw puzzle, a hike, baking cookies, Parks and Recreation–and which I’d rather avoid: Monopoly, Plaster Fun Time, Sponge Bob, playing “house,” any amusement and/or water park.

My husband, too, has moved beyond catering to the kids’ interests and succeeded in getting them to sign on to some of his own, including golf, poker and American Pickers. But if Mr. 70 Percent has given up pretending to like what the kids like, it can mean only one thing: he actually enjoys Gossip Girl. No doubt that only makes my daughter love him more.

Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting, Reality check, Teenagers | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Nothing Two Advil Won’t Cure

Posted on November 17, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

When my son first told me his head hurt after football practice, I offered my standard response: “I’m sure it’s nothing; take two Advil.” By now, I should know better. I have given this erroneous assessment at least a dozen times, preceding everything from pneumonia to bronchitis to a wicked stomach virus. I am the antithesis of those mothers who rush their children to the pediatrician at every sniffle; mine practically have to bleed out on the kitchen floor before I acknowledge they need medical attention.

Last year, my son kept insisting he had strep throat–just because his throat was sore. “You don’t even have a fever!” I scoffed. “You’re probably getting a cold.” Day after day, I sent him to school, waiting for the runny nose to kick in. It didn’t. Finally, I got so fed up hearing him complain that I brought him to the doctor, just to confirm my suspicions. She didn’t. Ten days of Amoxicillin later, I was still marveling that you could have strep without a fever. The same thing happened with my daughter and her nagging cough, which I attributed to “allergies” but the pediatrician found more consistent with “pneumonia.”

It’s not that I don’t believe my kids when they complain of symptoms–though I do think at least two of them are prone to exaggeration bordering on hypochondria, while the third is skilled at conjuring phantom illnesses at key junctures, such as right before Hebrew school. It’s more that I want them to understand that not everything can be fixed by a quick visit to the doctor. Sometimes, you just have to suffer through it. Besides, going to the pediatrician is inconvenient, and expensive. I’m reluctant to waste 45 minutes and a $20 co-pay just to have the doctor tell me, “It’s a virus.” I can misdiagnose that on my own. I’m sure there’s also denial at play: as long as we don’t go to the doctor, there can’t possibly be anything wrong. I hate when anyone in my house is sick; though I might complain about all their noise and mess and chaos, I find it deeply upsetting when one of them is curled up on the couch in a feverish little ball.

Downplaying their ailments has gotten me in trouble before. When my eldest daughter was in preschool, I noticed a little rash on her belly a few days after she’d run a low-grade fever. “Oh well, you must have had hand, foot and mouth disease,” I told her on the way to school. “But it’s not contagious anymore.” Naturally, she went in and promptly informed the teacher she had hand, foot and mouth disease, which meant I promptly had to go pick her up.

Another time, I was away on a business trip when she complained to her father of a stomach ache. Trained in my school of stoicism, he told her to “have some cottage cheese” and head off to school. Thirty minutes later, when she was in the nurse’s office about to throw up, she told the nurse that she’d felt sick that morning but “my mom made me go to school!” I wasn’t even in town and I was busted.

© 1939 Ludwig Bemelmans

But I’m getting better. This time I only let my son complain about his headache for a day and a half before I grudgingly took him to the pediatrician, who quickly diagnosed a concussion. Though I know a concussion is nothing to fool  with, I couldn’t help but remain somewhat skeptical: the symptoms, all entirely self-reported, include such things as “irritability” “drowsiness,” and “difficulty concentrating,” which any parent of a teenager will recognize as pretty standard even on a good day. But what really got me was the prescribed treatment: total brain rest. No homework, no reading, no activity, no chores. Not even TV, though he had trouble following that part after the first 30 minutes. I would have felt guilty for waiting so long to bring him in if I weren’t experiencing my own “Madeline” moment: Boohoo, I wish I had a concussion, too!

Posted in Boys will be boys, Family life, Kids, Parenting, Reality check, Working motherhood | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Honey, I Lost the Kids

Posted on November 8, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

I was up around Franconia, New Hampshire, on what my family always refers to as “yet another” girls’ weekend (while I typically preface it with “sorely needed”) when I committed a grave error. I texted my husband with a simple question: “How’s everyone?”

This is how he responded (I am copying verbatim from my phone): “Fine. D and C are out. Don’t know where J is.”

Allow me to translate. “Great!” I read. “I’m all alone in the house and just poured myself a giant gin and tonic. The one who just got her driver’s license after a six-minute test was so excited by the prospect of using your car all weekend that she took her little sister, dressed in pajamas and flip-flops, out for a drive in the darkness. Meanwhile, I’ve lost track entirely of the impulsive one with mischievous friends and poor judgment!”

When I threatened to blog about his ineptitude, he suggested I check his Facebook status. It read, “Sue’s away on another girls’ weekend and I’m left with the usual task list. I wonder which 70 percent of it I’ll get to.” Well, I’m glad he can make fun of the generous moniker I’ve invented for him, Mr. 70 Percent. But usual task list? Please. My instruction sheet said things like “Take C to birthday party” and “Soccer at 10:30” (as well as “Feed dogs”–but they would have starved otherwise!) If I were really going to leave a task list, it would most certainly include “Finish the tree house” and “Replace tiles in bathroom”! (See Yard Work is No Picnic). But I know how futile that would be.

Commenting on his FB status, several of his “friends” helpfully suggested that he install  a man cave, throw a huge party or organize a poker tournament. One simply read: “Toga, toga!” Meanwhile, my cohorts and I, enjoying our third bottle of wine overlooking Mt. Washington, followed the exchange with mounting amusement and eye-rolling. “Maybe you could start by finding 70 percent of the kids,” my friend Annie chimed in on his wall. “Just a thought.”

As much as I would like to blame Mr. 70 Percent for poor parenting, I’m just as guilty of  poor abdicating. I mean, what is the point of a girls’ weekend if I’m going to waste part of it asking how the kids are doing? For those few short days, they weren’t my problem; why did I insist on making them so? It’s not like I was going to get in the car, drive home and help look for them, even if they actually were missing.

Thankfully, everyone made it through the weekend alive, including the dogs. What exactly went on? I don’t want to know. From now on, I’m adopting a strict “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy whenever I go on yet another sorely needed girls’ weekend.

Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting, Travel | Tagged , , , , | 9 Comments

The Scariest Halloween

Posted on October 31, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

There’s no trick-or-treating in Snowville tonight. In my house, we couldn’t even enjoy our rare uncontroversial family tradition of pumpkin carving, which Mr. 70 Percent and I started long before we ever heard the splitter-splat of baby spit-up on the floor. This year, our pumpkins are too frozen to get a knife through. The risk of a major laceration is high enough already given that we’d be carving them by candlelight, thanks to the great October Nor’easter of 2011 which took out our power, along with all the joy of Halloween.

New Englanders, never ones to let a little autumn storm stand in the way of a good time, are proud of their unflappability. We love to complain about the weather, but it’s a bit disingenuous; no matter how miserable it gets, we’d never leave our sugar maples or stone fences or historic town greens. But 10 inches of snow and 60 mph winds two days before Halloween? The weight of the wet snow sheared giant branches off healthy trees; one local meteorologist called it “the worst October snowstorm in New England history.” And I haven’t even hauled the mittens and boots up from the basement yet.

I’m not going to go all “global warming” on you. After all, I’m the one who once admitted in the pages of Newsweek that I sometimes throw peanut butter jars away instead of recycle them. But what the hell? Is this payback for those peanut butter jars? For the glorious crisp late September days we sometimes take for granted? It’s hard not to feel like the planet is completely out of whack. Meanwhile, my iPhone mocks me: Cupertino, the weather app says, above a column of suns: 75, 72, 75, oops there’s a 61. Poor, poor souls.

The snow would be tolerable, perhaps, if it weren’t for the loss of Halloween. In the middle of the afternoon I started getting emails from every school and sports league in town: “Trick-or-treating has been postponed until Saturday, Nov. 5.” I acknowledge it’s impractical for small children who can’t see out of their eye-holes to go door-to-door between dark houses on unlit streets. But trick-or-treating in November? We might as well postpone New Year’s Eve until mid-January. At least we still get Halloween; my father told me that in his Connecticut town, the selectman just canceled trick-or-treating outright. It’s like the Grinch stole down the hill and snatched up all the little pumpkins and Kit Kats in Ghoulville and shoved them into his sack and took Halloween away.

P.S. The power just came back on, but there’s still no Halloween. The worst part is now I can see the empty wrappers of all the Milky Ways I’ve eaten.


Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

The Go-Between

Posted on October 26, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

Playmobil makes a whole series of Apple Store kits, including the Genius Bar

My 16-year-old and I recently enjoyed a very 21st century mother-daughter outing: we made a pilgrimage to the Apple store to purchase the new iPhone 4S. (Each of us was using a phone with a screen so shattered it routinely imparted glass splinters.) Naturally, I was irritated even before we got to the mall. We’d had to go online the night before–at exactly 9 pm–to reserve the phones for in-store pick-up the following day, which I found a little cloying. Why not just deliver the phones to the store and then sell them on a first come, first served basis? Plus we only had a little over an hour before my daughter had to get back to school.

The short line snaking between barricades outside the Apple store did nothing to ease my agitation. An assortment of unhurried looking customers of all ages calmly texted or played “Angry Birds” while they waited for a blue-shirted savior to call them. “Go see if we have to wait in this line!” I instructed my daughter in a stage whisper. She approached one of the blue shirts, who checked his iPad and talked into his pretentious little earpiece before sending her back with an affirmative nod. Everyone in line had “reserved” a new iPhone the night before.

Now, I love Apple products, but the Apple store itself makes me queasy: the “Genius Bar,” the squishy little ball seats pulled up invitingly to the sample products displayed on uncluttered blonde-wood tables, the geeky-chic employees sporting all manner of tattoos, piercings and horned-rim glasses–it’s all a bit too precious and artificially nonchalant. Maybe I’d feel differently if they provided free drop-off babysitting service.

Or maybe I’m simply the modern-day equivalent of an immigrant arriving at Ellis Island: an anxious and exhausted stranger navigating an alien but promising new land. As soon as the blue-shirt called us–and it was soon–it became clear that I am not the hip multimedia-savvy, techhie mom I imagine myself to be, but a visitor from the Old World dependent on my bi-cultural young daughter for translation. “Mom, give him your old iPhone,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a deaf and batty old aunt. Then they  exchanged a lot of words and numbers I didn’t understand:  “32 gig… OS 5… the cloud… 8 megapixels… Apple ID… GMS…” I felt a little like the dog in the old Gary Larson cartoon, who comprehends only her name–“blah blah blah Ginger”–when her owner speaks to her: “blah blah Mom blah blah iPhone.” I tuned out and watched someone’s impossibly happy photos dissolve into one another on the iPad display.

“Mom!” I heard my name again. “Your credit card?” Now that I understood. My daughter clutched two elegant little boxes–far more alluring than the proverbial blue ones from Tiffany. Not surprisingly, the digital native had her phone loaded, running and sending voice-activated text messages by the time we got home. Mine? Well, it’s a process.

Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting, Teenagers | Tagged , , , | 10 Comments

The Things I Shouldn’t Have Said

Posted on October 17, 2011 by Susan H. Greenberg

It was on 6 x 9 that I snapped. We had been over it dozens, maybe hundreds, of times. “52?” she’d say. “No, 56!” I could swear she’d had her math facts down cold by the end of 3rd grade, but here we were, six weeks into fourth grade, and she was still guessing. That’s when I uttered one of those lines that I began to regret even as I heard it leave my lips: “You’ll never get to the fifth grade if you can’t learn these multiplication tables!” I shouted. Her little freckled face crumpled. “You’re going to have to get a tutor!” I added for good measure. Now in some houses, a tutor would be considered a birthday present–or at least a routine event, like gymnastics–but in mine it ranks well below a flu shot. (It takes longer.) “Not a tutor!” she wailed.

She stomped off in a hail of tears, leaving me to ponder once again: what is wrong with me? Why do I regularly say to my children the exact opposite of what I know I should say? I am perfectly kind and encouraging to my students, and to the children of friends. But somehow when I’m talking to my own kids, a filter comes off that would no doubt be better left in place.

To be sure, I am especially leery of mathematical ineptitude; my own skills peaked with long division in fourth grade, and have been on a precipitous decline ever since. The multiplication tables are, in fact, among the very few things I still remember. How could she not know that 6 x 9 is 54?

But the truth is, I have said many ugly, inappropriate and/or irrational things to my children over the years that are not related to math, including “Get your own goddamned milk!” (to a whiny toddler) and “You’re acting like kind of an asshole!” (to a moody teen). At various times, I have looked one or more of them in the eye and accused them of being spoiled, selfish, bratty, obnoxious or annoying. “And you’ve called me a bitch!” my 16-year-old daughter reminded me cheerfully when I sought help remembering all my terms of endearment. At least once I said, “I could just kill you!” though now I can’t remember why. I’m sure it involved AirSoft pellets or possibly a tie-dye kit.

If I overheard a stranger say any of these things, I’d condemn her as a cruel, unfit mother bent on creating miserable children with flagging self-esteem. But of course, that’s not me! Indeed, I have managed to convince myself that my harsh tongue serves an important evolutionary function: it makes my children tougher and more resilient, teaches them that they are not the precious, infallible center of any universe, and allows them to see their mother as a flawed human being who loves them but sometimes shoots off her mouth unnecessarily. Not least, I hope it also helps them understand that sometimes they really do act like jerks. But not because they can’t multiply.

Posted in Family life, Kids, Parenting, Reality check | Tagged , , | 7 Comments