UnchartedParent.com

“Jack” is six.  He’s also a boy.  In America, in springtime, that generally means one thing: t-ball.

As the snow began to melt a few months ago, I asked Jack if he wanted to give this venerated institution a try.  Having once hit a plastic, baseball-like sphere out of his aunt’s backyard, he immediately envisioned himself being recruited to join the Red Sox and answered with an enthusiastic “Yes!”

So I visited the website of my little town’s recreation league to obtain the relevant information and sign Jack up.  How hard could this be?

Well, apparently there’s a secret code, and I don’t have it.

To my surprise, there was no information available on the recreation league website.  So I called the office, and was told that the town little league had the information, but sorry, the recreation office didn’t have any contact information for the town little league.  Not to be deterred, I decided to use that most universal of currencies: the Connection.  I personally know a mom whose son played t-ball in my town last year.  I emailed her and received this response: “yes, this was a mystery I unraveled last year when J___ wanted to play.”  Excellent, I thought.  This mom is my ticket in!

Connected Mom, as I will now call her, steered me to my local town little league website.  I searched the front page of the site and located a link for T-ball.

Clicking on this link brought me to the following statement: “Welcome to the 2008 T-ball season.”  My eyes searched right and left, up and down on the page, but no other information was forthcoming.  So I shifted into sleuth mode and began hunting for clues on the website that would lead me to something useful.

The most promising link was the tiny “Contact Us” at the very bottom of the T-ball page.  (And yes, I know that link isn’t functional on this blog; I’m working on it!)  That link brought me to a list of FAQ’s, the first of which was, “I have a league related issue – who do I contact?”  Grammatical errors notwithstanding, I was pleased to find something so direct.  The answer: “Please use the Board Members link found at the bottom of each page.”  Okay; I can follow directions.  I clicked on “Board Members” and found my first real data, including a Coordinator for t-ball with an email link.  Finally!  I sent an email requesting basic information.

A few days went by.  Nothing.

Okay.  Maybe the coordinator was out-of-town.  It happens.  But the clock was ticking, and Connected Mom had informed me that I might have already missed the deadline, though she thought they might be a little flexible about that.  So I returned to the Board Members page and sent an email to the president of the league requesting, again, basic information.

The next day, I received an email from a third person at the league.  He claimed to know everything about t-ball and stated, “please let me know what specifically you would like answered and I’ll work with you . . .” 

At this point, I resisted the urge to write back, “Something resembling anything would be useful.”  Instead, I sent him a bulleted list of eight exceedingly basic questions, seven of which began with the words, “what,” “when” and “where.”  He dutifully answered each of my questions, though most of his answers boiled down to one or both of two phrases: “we don’t know yet,” and “it depends.”  But he told me where, at least, t-ball meets, and informed me that if I missed the following day’s registration deadline, that would be okay.  Gee, thanks.

I completed the registration form which I’d managed to procure and sent it to the league’s address (no phone number, by the way), along with $50.  Then we waited.

Several weeks later, I received an email from the first person who never responded to me, subject-line reading, “T-ball update.”  I eagerly opened it and found that the email had gone to a whole list of parents, including me.  I was in!  There was only some info in there about waiting for the snow to finish melting and a clean-up day for the fields, but that was okay; I was part of the club now.  So I waited some more.

Over the next few weeks, a couple of emails straggled into my inbox about needing coaches (which, beyond forwarding to my husband, I ignored because the total sum of what I know about t-ball could be written up in a paragraph shorter than this one), but there was still no information about playing.  Then I got what I’d been waiting for: an email that laid out teams, coaches and a first day and time to meet: Monday, a few weeks hence.  Jack’s name was listed on one of the teams.  Yes; we’d made it!

Feeling inexplicably like an interfering parent, I emailed back and ask, “So t-ball will only meet on Mondays this year?”  (I’d heard by now that sometimes it meets two days per week, and it’s easier to work these things into the family schedule if you know which days you need to be at the ball field.)  The response: No, it’s Mondays and Wednesdays. 

Glad I asked.

There were some more emails after this, but the bottom line was that by opening day, I knew where to be, when, with whom and what I needed to bring with me.  So on the appointed day, I packed sunscreen and bug spray into a bag as directed, picked up Jack from school and, with three-year-old “Emmie” in tow, headed out for our first t-ball experience.

Tune in next time for Part II, wherein I discover that showing up isn’t everything.  I may have broken the secret code, but I still don’t know the handshake.

Please click below to read my two latest articles, published today at InterfaithFamily.com.

In “But Mommy, Why Do I Have to Go to Religious School?,” I offer an answer to six-year-old “Jack’s” proverbial question, one that has been repeated by innumerable children for years and, no doubt, in many religions.

In “How Many Pieces Does It Take to Make a Person?,” I review A.M. Homes’s The Mistress’s Daughter, a memoir of the author’s journey of meeting her birthparents and coming to grips with the multiple layers of her identity.

Happy reading!

Welcome to my first-ever post co-written by six-year-old “Jack.”

As we devoured our chocolate ice cream at the just-opened local farm next to Jack’s school  (you can’t beat a school that’s a three-minute walk to top-notch ice cream), Jack asked me why we now had to don bug spray to engage in any outdoor activity. 

I referred him to the swarm that had greeted us the second we stepped out of the school.  “It’s black-fly season, buddy.” 

“Black-fly season?” he repeated.

“Yes.  Here in New Hampshire, black-fly season comes after mud season.”

Jack considered my explanation.  “So what comes after black-fly season?”

“Summer.”

“No, no, what bug comes after black flies?”

“Mosquitoes.  And they last until the first hard frost.”

“Okay,” said Jack.  “Let’s name all the seasons.”  So Jack came up with what he believes to be an accurate schedule of our southern New Hampshire seasons, with only a little help from me:

• Mud season
• Black-fly season
• Mosquito and road-construction season
• Apple-picking season (a.k.a., the “nice” season)
• Snowblowing and roof-shoveling season
• Snowblowing and roof-shoveling season
• Snowblowing and roof-shoveling season
• Back to mud season

It doesn’t sound like much fun, does it?  But we actually love it here in any season (well, almost any season).  And yes, the black flies are out now, but it’s also ice-cream season, and nature-walk season, and T-ball season, and school-is-almost-out season . . .

Maybe Jack will get to those in his next post!

Well, what did you do this weekend?

Me?  I learned to kick some ass.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten the irresistible urge to say that out of the way, here’s what I really did: I took a sixteen-hour class to learn how to defend myself.

I should have done this years ago; eighteen years ago, to be precise, after a friend of mine was brutally attacked.  She did not survive.  I’m ashamed to say that although I attended a few police-led, hour-long sessions on learning techniques to try to avoid becoming a victim, I never got around to parting with the cash or the time to take an intensive, physical course to learn at least a few ways to come out of an attack alive.

I finally did, and I’m advocating that every woman do the same.

The course itself was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.  I learned to do things that “ladies” are definitely not taught as we’re brought up, and I learned, perhaps more importantly, that in a crunch I just might possess the fortitude to actually do them. 

I cannot and will not reveal specific techniques on the internet, but I will provide basic information on the program I attended.  It’s called R.A.D. or Rape Aggression Defense, and you can learn more about it, including where to find a program near you, at its website: http://www.rad-systems.com/.  R.A.D. is a women-only program, with the exception of some of the R.A.D. instructors whose participation adds significant value to the application of what is being taught.  It is also extremely low-cost to the participant, the only financial contribution being a voluntary, minimal one to offset the cost of materials.  I forgot to pay my $25.00, and I made a point afterwards of contacting my instructor to find out where to send the check. 

You don’t have to do the R.A.D. program, of course.  There are many courses like this out there, although I have never seen any other available at no charge. 

But please, consider doing something.  If you’re reading this, you’re either male or female, right?  (Just making sure you’re still paying attention.)  If you’re female, you could be a victim.  No one is immune.  And if you’re male, your wife-daughter-mother-sister-aunt-cousin-friend-colleague-boss could be a victim, too.  Everyone has an interest in learning something about programs like these. 

Yes, it’s an investment of time.  My husband had the kids all weekend, but if it saves my life someday, I’m quite certain he won’t mind that time a bit.  And I’ll be going back for more training when I can, because there’s more to learn and I want to remember what I’ve already absorbed, and I know he’ll be supportive of that time, too.

And if none of that convinces you, then let me tell you this: it’s pretty fun to respond to someone’s inquiry about what you did over the weekend by declaring, “I kicked a little ass.”

Remember an incident like this before you had kids?

You walked into some public location—a store, a museum, a public bathroom at a rest stop—and you stopped in your tracks, a look of horror one might expect to see at a viewing of The Blair Witch Project frozen on your face.  You wrinkled your nose in disgust and silently thanked your God for not making you that poor woman who stood in front of you.  You forced a smile of sympathy or muttered a sheepish, “Gee, I hope he/she feels better,” as you turned heel and slunk away.

Why?  What was this frightening scene?  It was an anonymous mother, standing in front of her vomit-covered child, possibly covered in puke herself, trying to figure out what the heck she was supposed to do next.

Well, now I’ve been that mom.

A couple of days ago, six-year-old “Jack” followed me into the women’s room at Target.  There was no warning.  I turned around to talk to him and discovered I was addressing Mt. Vesuvius.  Without going into unnecessary detail, I’ll just say that the hue, volume and spread was impressive, although I’m pretty sure that that employee who came in just then to use the facilities had a different adjective in mind. 

There’s no witty ending to this story.  In bold defiance of my spring ban on bugs, Jack contracted a stomach virus and I mopped him and myself up, stripped him down to his few remaining clean clothes and whisked him home.  (I should state that the staff at Target was extremely helpful and understanding.)  Nothing unusual here; just a mom with a sick kid.

But next time I walk into that scene—hopefully when it’s not my kid—I’ll have a lot more sympathy than I did before I was a mom!

A friend and I have, until now, jointly held the position of Parenting Grinch for one reason: we have dreaded every school play or similar extravaganza we’ve been forced to attend.

Oh, I hear the gasps.  How cold, how callous, how awful.

But let’s get real: when your son or daughter is banging out the ninth round of chopsticks, it’s cute.  After all, your kid is a virtuoso.  But when the other kids begin scratching out unrecognizable notes on their violins, you reach for the aspirin.

Okay, so maybe that’s just me and my friend.  But I have bad news for her: she is now on her own.  In the past week-and-a-half, I’ve become a convert.

I was looking forward to my six-year-old son, “Jack’s,” kindergarten theater night with the same anticipation I might have felt if someone had told me I had to attend middle school again.  As for three-year-old “Emmie’s” dance recital: well, let’s just begin by stipulating that, as a (very) former ballet dancer, I am a dance snob.  I don’t believe kids should wear ballet slippers before six or pointe shoes before nine, and if you’re not on a par with the legendary Margot Fonteyn, the word “ballerina” should never be used in reference to you.   So three-year-olds in tutus have never been my thing.

But as most of us discover after becoming parents, bringing up kids has a funny way of turning your beliefs, snobbish or otherwise, so completely in the opposite direction that you can’t even recognize the person you were a mere two weeks before.

Jack’s rendition of a toad who grew too much, complete with yellow bug-eyes sewn to the baseball cap that topped his costume, was, of course, brilliant.  But what surprised me was how much I savored the other kids’ performances, too.  There was M_____, whom I’ve known since she was two, starring in the show as a hen in what may well turn out to be the first in a long line of acclaimed theatrical performances.  E____’s quack made me laugh, I applauded J____’s aplomb when her prop fell apart and she kept the show going anyhow, and I admired the teacher/casting director’s wisdom at her choice of super-energetic, superboy T____ to hop tirelessly about the stage, clad in pink bunny ears.  I laughed and exchanged knowing glances with other parents in the crowd, an inseparable part of a parental mutual admiration society. 

Jack’s big night was followed by the dreaded preschool dance recital this past Sunday, after which I fully expected to be raiding my refrigerator for whatever numbing alcoholic beverage I could find.  But a funny thing happened: Emmie in her little pink tutu was literally too cute for words.  (Really.  I just looked through the thesaurus and couldn’t find a single adequate descriptor.)  I placed her on the stage next to her best little friend K____, and I ran around snapping photos with an ear-to-ear grin as goofy as anyone else’s plastered on my face as children wandered into the wings, ran off the stage and generally caused chaos.  H_____ stole the show by hamming it up every possible second and both Emmie and K____ had to be persuaded and conned into returning to the stage for their second act.  But Emmie did her part like a pro (okay, the three-year-old equivalent of a pro), and I loved every minute she and her friends were on the stage.

Yes, I knew I would love watching my kids (even though, if I’m going to tell the whole truth, Jack’s face revealed that he was about as interested in his own performance as he is when his little sister asks him to play with her baby dolls).  But I was amazed at how much I enjoyed everyone else’s kids.

The reason for my transformation didn’t reveal itself to me until I was in the middle of writing this post, but now I get it.  The truth is, when our kids are in school, or daycare, or a committed activity, we don’t just follow them.  They are the ones who are the most important to us, but our interest in their lives leads us to know their friends, and the kids with whom they don’t get along, and the parents we’d like to get to know better if only we had the time, and the moms with whom we do occasionally manage to grab a proverbial cup of coffee.  We’re not just watching our kids grow up; we’re also taking part in a community.  Staring at a bunch of strangers butchering a musical number is just painful; laughing as the kids you’ve known for months or years do their best while scenery and forgotten lines tumble around them is pure, joyful entertainment.

So I may be a latecomer to this religion, but I’m definitely a convert.  With apologies to my friend who must now Grinch alone, I’ll be looking forward to the next play or recital.

But stay tuned, because next I take on archery tournaments and T-ball . . .

Earlier this week, I wrote about the ultimate Carrot to be used in raising a three-year-old: candy.

But as anyone who is familiar with basic clichés knows, the Carrot has a corollary: the Stick.  (And yes, I am speaking metaphorically.)

We have long passed the time for carrots—metaphorical or otherwise—in our efforts to potty-train three-year-old “Emmie.”  She doesn’t care about candy, she doesn’t care about toys, she doesn’t care about special underwear, special privileges or special anything.  She just doesn’t want to use the potty.

But now I’ve been given a Stick.

It turns out that all of the kids who have turned three by June at her daycare will move up then together to the Multiage Room.  Emmie has formed some strong bonds of friendship in her class, and being left behind is something Emmie despises in any circumstance.

“Do they have to be potty-trained to move up to the Multiage Room?” I asked one of Emmie’s teachers.

“We prefer it.”

I thought for a moment.  “Can I tell her that you require it?”

“Absolutely.”

A smile spread slowly across my face.  I finally had a Stick.

Since my discovery, Emmie and I have had multiple conversations about what will happen in a month-and-a-half.  Bright child that she is, I am confident that she understands the stakes and what is required for her to participate in the big move with her friends. 

I am confident, too, that she can do this; if I weren’t, I wouldn’t push this hard.  I know: lots of kids potty-train later than barely three years old; my son was one of those kids.  But Emmie has better command over her bodily functions than some adults I know, and there is no question in my mind that this is, like so many things, a matter of will for her.  So I’m not going to scold, to plead or to bribe anymore.  I simply painted the picture of actions and consequences, and now we will have to let the chips—or the poops—fall where they may.

Yesterday, one of Emmie’s little school friends wore underwear for the first time, and everyone was talking about how proud they were of M______.  “So when are you going to use the potty and wear underwear like M______?” I asked Emmie.  (Yes, yes, I know: I’m going to regret this sanction of peer pressure big time when Emmie is fifteen.)

Emmie smiled at me.  “In June, when it’s time to move to the Multiage Room.” 

That kid doesn’t miss a trick.  But we’ll see who’s laughing in June.

“’Emmie,’” I said in my most authoritative, Moses-handing-down-the-Ten-Commandments voice, “IF you cooperate, I will give you candy.”

Three-year-old Emmie’s wriggling ceased, her complaining subsided and her eyes brightened.  “Okay,” she acquiesced, suddenly quite willing to play the role of mannequin, at least for a few minutes.  And when you’re trying to get little kids to try on dozens of articles of clothing, every couple of extra seconds you can purchase is gold.

In general, I love the melting of winter into the blossoming of spring.  But since becoming a parent, one aspect of this seasonal change I dread is The Trying on of the Clothes.  (A corresponding exercise when the chill of autumn moves in is no less appealing.) 

Kids grow.  This is a fact of life; you know this even if you’re not a parent.  We actually want them to grow: this is generally considered to be a good thing.  But at least twice a year, their increase in height and weight means we parents have got to figure out which clothes still fit, which don’t, and what needs to be purchased to fulfill their needs. 

If you’ve never forced a child under the age of seven to get dressed dozens of times in rapid succession, let me paint this picture for you: you carefully establish your piles in front of the television, and put in a favorite video.  You make sure that you have appropriate beverages for you and the child (i.e., if it’s anything but water, it can be nowhere near the child or the clothes), you paste an abnormally false smile on your face and, in your very best this-will-be-more-fun-than-a-water-park voice, proclaim, “NOW we’re going to try on clothes!”  This should buy you about five minutes.  Then you need to come up with something else.

In Emmie’s case, I skipped intermediate measures and went straight for capitalist bribery, three-year-old style.  In general, I don’t object to the occasional bribes for my children, but I try not to make a habit of convincing them to do good things solely for the material reward.  But the clothes pile was too daunting, Emmie too uncooperative and the weather growing too warm too quickly (remember, spring lasts little longer than a sneeze around here; we get about two weeks between snow and eighty degrees) to mess around.  So I dangled a carrot I knew would appeal to my sweet-tooth afflicted daughter: sugar-coated, edible treats. 

The bottom line: it worked.  One piece of candy bought me ten minutes of cooperation, which, at my breakneck pace, equaled about thirty articles of clothing.  So I consider my bribe well-employed.

The only problem is, if I keep offering her candy to try on her clothes, by the time we get through the whole stack, she’ll be so big we’ll have to try everything on all over again.

It’s that time of the year again: spring!

Yes, even here in northern New England, most of the snow has melted, though my kids still need boots on the playgrounds because of all the mud.  But I folded up my heavy winter jacket the other day and tucked it into its plastic bin for summer storage.  (My husband warned me that it was too early, that I would be tempting fate, but I like to live my life on the edge.)

It’s also time for Passover again.  This is one of my favorite holidays, and that’s not just because I love gefilte fish (really, I do) and matzah balls.  Passover’s arrival signifies the end of the cold, dark winter months and the corresponding beginning of family dinners served while it’s still light out, windows that have been sealed shut now thrown open to permit fresh air to replace the stale, germ-filled stuff we’ve been breathing all winter, and children running and playing until they have no more energy remaining and they sink into a happy sleep, ready to repeat all of their craziness the next day.

Passover is a herald of spring for me, and Passover is also about children.  After all, the whole reason we tell the story of Passover year after year is so that our children can absorb it, can understand the roots of the Hebrew people in slavery and can begin to appreciate how very precious is the gift of freedom.  It’s a lesson that transcends time and place, and as our children grow older, we can adjust the seder that is the at-home Passover meal and observance to encourage our kids to think about the meaning of these concepts in their own time.

Of course, right now I have little kids.  I can transmit these lofty lessons at the seder, but I’ve got about twenty seconds and then I’ve lost them.  So my goal at this age is to make the annual Passover seder something they look forward to, something they enjoy and appreciate and becomes a part of their identity along with dousing themselves with spring mud.  In short, I want to make it fun.

Last year, an article I wrote on kids and the Passover seder ran on JewishFamily.com.  The article is still up, so here’s the link: Beyond the Afikoman.  Take a look and see if it gives you any ideas.  But don’t let these limit you; if you’re putting together your own seder, there are few limits beyond your own creativity and imagination.

Happy Pesach!

There’s only one sitcom currently being broadcast in first-run episodes on network or cable television that my husband and I still watch: Scrubs.  (Oh, to return to the days of Seinfeld and Friends.)  A few nights ago, we tucked the children into bed—for an hour or so, anyway, until the harassment began—and we sat down in the living room to watch the episode we’d Tivo’d.

It opened with a dialogue between Carla and her husband, Turk.  Carla burst into the room to make a confession about their baby daughter, Izzy.

“Turk, I totally ruined Izzy’s life.”

“Already?  It’s only 8:30.”

“I totally forgot there was a parents’ meeting for her playgroup this morning.  Now she’s gonna get kicked out.  She won’t have any friends.  She’s gonna drop out of high school.  She’s gonna start dating some gangbanger, who you’re gonna harass over and over and over again to get his life together, until he snaps and shoots you in the face OH MY GOD!”  Carla flung herself into her husband’s bewildered arms, devastated over his imminent demise.

“Hey!”  My husband turned and pointed his finger at me.  “That’s you!”

Very funny.

I don’t know what he’s talking about.  I didn’t worry too much about my son’s recent surgery and about his recovery; any mom would have spent hundreds of dollars on toys, videos and games in that situation.  I don’t stress more than any other adoptive mom when my daughter has a temper-tantrum, wondering if she will be forced to analyze my inadequate and insensitive reaction to her needs in years of expensive therapy that will bankrupt her before she’s even had a chance to pay off her crushing student loans.  It’s not abnormal to replay every socially painful interaction I ever experienced on a school bus and stay up nights wondering if I really should let “Jack” ride the bus to first grade next year or if I should drive him through high school so that his self-esteem isn’t mortally wounded, is it?

Come on, Scrubs is just a sitcom, and a wacky one at that.  I’m not like Carla.  There’s no truth to that comparison whatsoever.

Uh-oh.  What’s going to happen when my kids grow up and read this post and start to wonder if I am an out-of-control, worrying freak?  Then they’re going to begin analyzing their own childhoods, and they’ll realize everything I did wrong, and then they’ll hate me and never speak to me again, and I’ll end up in some putrid excuse for a retirement home with a woman who talks to her crocheted toilet-paper covers for a roommate . . .