Posted by Deborah Huso on Jun 9, 2014 in
Fathers and Daughters,
Relationships
Originally published as part of my “The View From Here” column in The Recorder in 2003.
My first time on the tractor with Dad
Everyone remembers learning how to drive–it’s one of those milestones of growing up. I remember it vividly, even though I was only about seven years old at the time. But I wasn’t learning to drive a car–no, it was a 1950s Allis Chalmers tractor, my Dad’s beloved and rusted antique. Since I was a toddler, I’d ridden that tractor with Dad, as he carefully plowed the red clay dirt in our two-acre garden along Blue Run.
Then one day, I was sitting in the smooth, worn metal seat; Dad was standing behind me as I steered through the soft earth, dragging a plow behind. I was tooling right along, thrilled that he had released the steering wheel to me. My mistake was looking back to discover Dad was no longer standing behind me but had hopped off the tractor, apparently in an effort to show me I really could drive the thing on my own.
Panic seized me, and I lost control of the tractor. Dad climbed back on in a flash, preventing me from driving the Allis Chalmers through the electric fence that separated the garden from the pasture. “You were doing fine,” he scolded. “What happened?” I don’t remember my response, but somehow not having the comfort of his hand close to the wheel made me lose faith in my ability. Most children know the feeling–it usually happens when their parents first release them on their bicycles without training wheels.
But as William Faulkner once said, “The basest of all things is to be afraid.” Thankfully, by the time I started reading Faulkner, I had learned that lesson and learned it most undoubtedly from my father.
Parents have a natural tendency to want to shield their children from harm, from the loss of innocence. My parents were no different, but I believe they recognized, in particular my father recognized, that adversity and fear are two things children need to learn to face and ultimately overcome. Often, overcoming those things means taking responsibility for one’s self.
When I was growing up, my Dad warned me about everyday dangers–not to touch hot stoves or machinery, not to play near the top of the stairs, not to touch the electric fence. And, like any child would, I touched things that were hot and got burned; I played by the stairs and tumbled down them; I grabbed the electric fence and got shocked.
But I didn’t repeat these mistakes. My Dad’s usual response to my little injuries and my tears of shock was “I told you not to do that.” I didn’t get hugs, kisses, and soothing words, maybe a Band-Aid and a frown. So I quickly learned there was no benefit to getting into trouble; after all, I had been warned. What resulted was a small child who took responsibility for her actions. And that child grew into an adult who did the same.
Today, too few parents teach that sense of self-reliance and responsibility to children. And too many children blame others for their failures. I saw this readily when I taught English to college freshman. When they received failing grades, those failures were somehow my fault, not their own. Failure, in their minds, was unrelated to lack of preparation, lack of research, lack of effort. These same children and young adults grow into older adults who sue others when they injure themselves or who blame society for their personal failures.
When I fail, I know it’s my own fault. Dad taught me that without ever saying anything other than “I told you so.”
But Dad also taught me, by example, that I was responsible for my own success and that I should be fearless in pursuing my dreams. As a child, I watched him pursue perfection as a craftsman, creating beautiful custom cabinets and desks and home additions. And I watched his clients call him back for more work year after year. Somehow I absorbed that perfectionist nature along with the willingness to take risks that is so necessary to success and personal fulfillment. And my father, who was my best friend and playmate throughout my childhood, encouraged me along the way because he knew that parents need to be fearless, too, and willing to let go of their children. My Dad’s hold on me has always been loose; thus, my devotion to him has always been tight.
When I finally learned how to drive–a car, that is–Dad would tease me when I’d take off for college after a weekend visit home, “Drive fast, and take chances.” I thought he said this to frazzle Mom. But as I matured, those words grew into something else. He didn’t need to tell me to drive carefully. He knew I would because he’d raised me to be responsible. “Drive fast and take chances” translated into “I trust you. I know you’ll do the right thing. I don’t need to tell you to.”
And somehow, I think, those words also meant, “Take risks.” Not on the highway, of course, but in life. And so I have, both in my professional and personal life. The results, as Dad must have known, have opened the world to me in ways I never expected. To this day, it is my father who inspires me to live, to look on the world with joy and wonder every day. He is the most fun person I know. He regards life with the curiosity of a child. It was he who told me when I was still a girl, “Never forget what it’s like to be a kid.”
And I haven’t. When a career opportunity threatened to take me 700 miles from the home I’d always known, it was Dad who said without hesitancy, “Go if you get the job. It will be a great adventure.”
He knew I’d come home again. After all, my grandmother told me when I was a girl, “You know, for your Dad, the sun rises and sets on you.”
Perhaps what Dad doesn’t know is that for me, the sun rises and sets on him also. He showed me the sunrise and had the courage to push me toward the horizon, even if it meant I would grow up, move away, and live my own life. What he didn’t realize was that by teaching me self-reliance, by offering me freedom to be myself, he was ensuring that I would always come home again and always look over my shoulder to see if he was there watching. Only now, thanks to him, I know better than to release the steering wheel.
Posted by Deborah Huso on May 28, 2014 in
Musings,
Relationships
“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.”
–Viktor Frankel
A perfect day with my late grandfather
Tonight I am sick with the flu, sitting near my sleeping daughter, who has been asking questions all evening about the MRI she will get tomorrow. “Will it hurt? Will I be scared? Can I take Shaky Bear with me? Will you sing to me, Mommy, while I’m in the machine?”
I am looking at my online calendar, rife with deadlines on complicated feature articles, thinking how this is the worst possible time to be sick, the worst possible time for me to successfully navigate the waters of motherhood when my little girl is frightened.
But a couple hundred miles away, the step-sister of my childhood best friend lies in a hospital bed, much of her body riddled with cancer. Tomorrow she will undergo a long and frightening surgery. She is younger than I—a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister.
And I wonder if she is scared, scared her happy young life will be cut short by life’s cruel unfairness?
Is she asking questions? Did I take enough risks? Did I live hard enough? Did I tell everyone who is important to me I love them in a thousand ways a thousand times and then some? What if this is all, and tomorrow I am no more?
These are questions we should all be asking every day. My father taught me to ask them, to live by them, and I have tried.
But who does not have regrets? Dreams not yet lived? Because life is not a Norman Rockwell painting, much though I often wish it was and wish I had a place in it. As my friend Sarah says, “Life is relentless.”
And short.
And there is no time for waffling on the big stuff. There is no time not to take a risk, not to bare your soul, not to embrace it all, pain and joy, and live it with wild abandon.
Sometimes we err in living too much for joy, forgetting that pain provides, as Viktor Frankel so eloquently noted in Man’s Search for Meaning, “no need to be ashamed of tears, for tears bore witness that a man had the greatest of courage, the courage to suffer.”
Because that suffering makes the perfect days more perfect. Like the afternoon I spent sipping wine in a vineyard with a dear friend, watching two small boys play catch with their father, a small white church with delicate steeple rising softly in the distance beyond green hills. Or the day I curled up on the floor under sunny windows with my daughter, snuggled under blankets reading books by Richard Scarry and Jan Brett.
I would not have experienced the full bliss of these moments had I not walked through fire for love and failed, had I not wept rivers over death, had I not known abandonment and fear.
As that sweet young mother drifts off to sleep tonight, may her mind be filled with the “soothing thoughts that spring out of human suffering, in the faith that looks through death,” as William Wordsworth noted in one of his most famous poems.
He also said, “Thanks to the human heart by which we live, / Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, / To me the meanest flower that blows can give / Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
For that is the only way to live—fully, openly, courageously, vulnerably.
Posted by Claire Vath on May 27, 2014 in
Motherhood,
Musings,
Relationships
“What’s your name?” the man asked me. We were in the Publix parking lot. I was hugely pregnant, waddling across the cold pavement toward my car, a basket full of groceries.
When I told him my name, he broke out in a huge, gap-toothed grin and reached for his back pocket. He pulled out a worn brown wallet, the creases of which matched the smile lines around his eyes. Rifling through the billfold, he pulled out a crinkled yellow Post-It note and showed it to me.“ This is my e-mail address,” he said. “And this,” he pointed, “is my password.” Written in all capital letters was the name “CLARABELL,” as though it were some poignant, divine intervention (or as though that were my name).
I smiled politely and nodded as though I understood the nature of this revelation.
“I just wanted to know your name to let you know that I’ll be praying for you, Claire. Prayin’ that you deliver a healthy baby.”
I looked at the green nametag on his shirt. He knew mine, after all. His name was Jimmy, and he had just bagged my groceries, asked me about my pregnancy, and walked me to my car. I don’t like accepting help from anyone, but now with a protruding stomach, people insisted upon it, and I’d given up arguing with them. As he walked me to my car, Jimmy told me about all the February birthdays in his family (I was due in February) and the dates of each family members’ birth.
And when he told me he’d be saying prayers for me, I thanked him profusely. If nothing else, that’s the kind of help I can get behind, particularly when I’m treading the uncharted waters of new motherhood.
“Everything will be great,” he promised. And looking at him—the sincerity in his eyes, the age lines of his face and his lop-sided grin—I believed him wholeheartedly.
“I hope so,” I agreed, getting into my car.
“Hope,” he nodding, pushing my empty basket back toward the store. “Ya gotta have hope.”
Nine mornings later, I awoke with faint contractions. Things moved swiftly thereafter. I was ushered into the hospital, then into a gown. I was given needles and catheters and ice chips. And then the baby’s heart rate began to drop. And things moved even more quickly. “We need to get him out now,” my OB informed me as a nurse slapped an oxygen mask on my face.
Tears swam in my eyes as I looked up at my husband, who squeezed my hand and nodded it was going to be okay.
Six minutes later in a roomful of people working at breakneck pace, my baby was pulled from my stomach. He was swollen and pale, and his head was a bit conical, but he was perfect.
Two days after I left the hospital, I went to the grocery store, wincing a bit from my tightening C-section stitches as I strolled the aisles for provisions. As I passed shoppers, I wanted to call out: “Do you know who I am? I’m someone’s mom!”
I had ceased to be just me anymore. The frenetic birth of this baby inexplicably changed who I was.
I looked for Jimmy while I was there, but I didn’t see him. And I didn’t see him again for many months after.
And then one day, there he was. He passed me by, looking straight at me, but there was no light of recognition on his face. Just a placid nod, an impersonal smile as we passed.
I felt a pit form in my stomach. He doesn’t remember me. I’m just one of the hundreds of customers passing him by.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, that Jimmy clearly had no recollection of our moment months back.
Non-memorable, maybe.
Maybe he’d changed. I certainly had.
So when he passed me, I didn’t say anything either. Just smiled back, remembered that one cold February day and the kindness and reassurance given by a man in a grocery store parking lot.
Posted by Deborah Huso on May 20, 2014 in
Men,
Relationships
Originally published January 22, 2012.
It started as these conversations often do—about half a dozen women (this time a gathering mostly of writers and editors) circled around a table, satiated from an over large dinner they never would have gulped down with such relish in front of their husbands and boyfriends, ever so perfectly relaxed after two glasses of wine each, some starting on the third. And while the topic of men can hardly be avoided at a table of women (men are one of our favorite subjects, you know), there is something especially dangerous about a table full of women writers accompanied by wine.
It began innocently enough. The oldest among us, a talkative brunette from Alabama, mid-50s, was addressing the subject of the life changing effects of serious illness. “When I had cancer, it was the first time in my life my husband really took care of me, really worried about me.” She paused, bit her lip. “He was scared. It was really nice.”
We were not shocked by this. We nodded. We understood exactly the phenomenon of the unappreciated wife, taken for granted like a La-Z-Boy recliner or Monday night football. One among us asked, “How long have you been married?”
“30 years,” the Alabama writer replied.
Some of us gasped.
“It hasn’t been easy,” she went on. “There were many times I thought of leaving him, just wanted to give up.”
“Then how did you stay married 30 years?” I asked, leaning in for her imminent wisdom.
“The way you avoid divorce for 30 years,” she said, “is to stay married. It will eventually get better.”
Yes, I thought to myself, all you have to do is acquire some frightening and potentially fatal disease. Then your husband will suddenly appreciate you.
“You know,” the middle-aged brunette continued a bit wistfully, “I always dreamed of having a man who would listen to my problems and be there for me.”
A couple of us shot her hard and disbelieving looks. Really? She’s over 50, and she still holds onto this pipe dream?
The outdoors editor from Mississippi with her deadpan, never crack a smile humor (if indeed it was humor) said suddenly and firmly, “The guy who will listen to your problems and be there for you—that’s your dad.”
We all nodded vigorously in agreement, and the ever hopeful cancer survivor looked a little bit disappointed, perhaps wondering if her husband’s newfound love and admiration would dissipate like her cancer cells after chemo.
One can’t be too critical of her, however. Even the most experienced, cynical, and worn out wife among us cannot help but admit that occasionally we do dream of the perfect man. Why do housewives read Harlequin romances? Why do the more worldly seek Jane Austen? Because on some level, we still want to believe in those ridiculous fairytale romances of our youth, nevermind that every time my daughter tells me she wants to be Cinderella or Snow White, I cringe.
What we have to realize, however, ladies, is that the perfect man does not exist, at least not in one person. But you have a couple of choices for addressing this problem. You can accept that he does not exist and settle for one of the five or so types of men available, or you can complicate your life extremely (or maybe make it better—who knows?) by finding different men to fulfill your five different needs.
At the risk of over-generalizing (and I’m sure my male friends and colleagues will set me straight on this, as they always do), here’s what’s out there:
1) The Man’s Man
The benefits: He can change the oil in your car, catch dinner with a fishing pole or shoot it, too, if need be (just in case the apocalypse comes), and he can carry all your luggage on vacation (though, be advised, because he is a “man’s man,” he will complain about it loudly). Whatever is broken, he can fix it (except your heart, I’m afraid to report). And while he doesn’t do laundry, he’s a powerhouse at yard work, home repair, vehicle maintenance, and generally pretty good as well at holding his alcohol.
The drawbacks: Monday night football or some other equally annoying habit that leaves you wondering why he prefers pigskin to yours. Rough hands and a complete lack of foreplay awareness. Zero help around the house and substantial contributions to your workload—i.e., he drops double the number of stinky socks on the floor than the other four male types. He can boil water, but that’s about it when it comes to helping in the kitchen. He’ll do dishes if you promise him “you know what” afterwards.
Advice from the experts: Don’t marry a man just because he can fix your car; you can always hire someone to do this.
2) The Sugar Daddy
The benefits: If living in the lap of luxury is your highest priority, this is the man for you. He will give you everything your heart desires—a beautiful house, a luxury car, vacations to exotic and expensive destinations, all the clothes, jewelry, and shoes(!) you could desire. He will make you feel like a queen (albeit a lonely one).
The drawbacks: To finance all this luxury generally requires long hours, lots of traveling, and very little interaction with the life at home. He will be an absentee lover, husband, and father.
Advice from the experts: If you go this route, make sure you have a “rabbit” and/or a pool boy handy.
3) The Helpmate
The benefits: On first glance, this guy seems like a dream come true. He knows how to cook (in fact, he might even be a gourmet chef!), he does his own laundry and yours, too (and he even knows to wash your silk panties on the cold and delicate cycle). He’ll help you clean the house, professing to be a true 21st century kind of guy and a feminist to boot. He’ll change diapers. He’ll go to all the kids’ soccer games (and he won’t get in a fist fight with the opposing team’s head coach like the no. 1 variety might). In fact, he’s a major conflict avoider. He avoids conflict with you; he avoids conflict with your mother; and he avoids conflict with the guy who just pinched your behind in the grocery store checkout line.
The drawbacks: If you want a guy who will clean the house, he’s perfect. If you want a guy who knows how to clean the clock of a rude offender, he’s not it. And while you will love all the help around the house, you can only stand so much apron wearing before you start to feel like you just married your grandmother.
Advice from the experts: You’ll never have a dust bunny under the bed again, but who cares when you’re not doing anything in bed but sleeping?
4) The Big Kid
The benefits: No doubt about it. This is the most fun guy on the block. He has a wild sense of humor, he kayaks, he skis, he loves snowball and pillow fights. And once you have kids, he’ll keep them entertained through the preparation of a five-course dinner, leaving you undisturbed in the kitchen. He loves to please, loves to have fun, knows how to make you laugh when you’re completely sober, and has an uncanny understanding of what makes kids tick, which actually makes him a pretty great father.
The drawbacks: After awhile, you get tired of being the only adult in the house.
Advice from the experts: He’s loads of fun on vacation, but realize that when you have a late meeting, he thinks Cheeseburger in Paradise is a healthy option for dinner with the kids.
5) The Lover
The benefits: This is the rarest breed of man, the one who knows how to talk to women (though the jury is out on whether he comes by this skill naturally or has acquired it as a result of experience, having grown up with six sisters and a domineering mother). He knows exactly what to say to make you feel beautiful, sexy, loved, and admired, and he has equal skill in the physical manifestation of his admiration. He will stop at nothing to make you happy. (Be warned, however, many men put on a good show of being “the lover” in those early days of romance and pursuit; rare is the man who can sustain this personality type after the ring has been locked around your finger.)
The drawbacks: It’s very difficult to distinguish “the lover” from “the player” (which is one of several subcategories of “the jerk”—see below).
Advice from the experts: Proceed with caution. He can rock your world, but because he’s so darn good at it, you will live in a constant state of paranoia, wondering if, deep down, he’s actually “the player.”
Chances are, your S.O. is one of the above. At least I hope he is. Because there is a sixth type—“the jerk.” The jerk comes in many forms, from the guy who expects to be waited on hand and foot as if he is Henry VIII with the wealth and power to attract six wives even after one has been beheaded, to the delusional “I’m a good man, and you damn well better respect me” type that plays computer games all day, ignores the kids, and only likes you because you make his life delightfully comfortable. (Yum, please pass some more of that butter coconut pie before I go take a 12-hour nap.) If you happen to have “the jerk” in your midst, do a favor for womankind and dump him, please.
Your man, if you are lucky, might also be a combination of several of the above. If he contains the characteristics of all five, you may actually have a woman on your hands. Check his pants.
Because ultimately, if it’s a man you desire, you’re going to have to sacrifice something and stop envying your lesbian friends. (In reality, their lives aren’t so great either. Just stop and imagine for a moment what it would be like to live with a copy of yourself.)
Or, if you can figure out some way to do it that is legal, find five men who meet all of your needs. Good luck with that one, by the way. I think you’ll have better luck finding a pair of Manolo Blahniks on sale at the mall.
Posted by Deborah Huso on May 12, 2014 in
Musings,
Relationships,
Success Guide
Originally published May 20, 2013.
There are wonderful times when life catches me completely off guard. Like a week ago when I attended my five-year-old’s first piano recital. It was, initially, reminiscent of the recitals I’d played in as a child, where the first children to play were the youngest and least skilled, and the last were those who could show some mastery over their lessons. Needless to say, I never played last at a recital in any of my seven to eight years of piano lessons. I liked playing the piano, still do, but I was never passionate about it.
However, last Sunday, I saw passion. As I sat there in church watching one student succeed another, a few of them showing fine technical skill, I expected no great epiphanies at the keyboard. But then the last student to play, an 11-year-old boy who had been taking lessons only four years, sat down to regale the audience with five minutes or so of “Pirates of the Caribbean,” and I sat there dumbfounded. Not only did this boy demonstrate technical skill way beyond his years, but he played with the passion of a man who has found and lost love, watched a beloved die, walked through fire….
Where does feeling like that come from in an 11-year-old boy?
I have no idea.
But I do know that it was not passion alone that made that young man stroke the keys as if he was born to play. The piano teacher’s sister informed me after the recital that the boy’s parents could hardly keep him from the piano, that he played all the time.
That’s not just passion. That’s commitment.
And if you ever want to succeed at something, and I mean really succeed, you have to have both.
How often have I seen a person with passion for an art, skill, or subject fail to reach potential, not for lack of talent but for lack of commitment. And commitment, mind you, is more than hard work. It comes with cost and sacrifice.
A friend of mine had to give a meditation recently at a wedding, and she was anxious about how to do it because she had been asked not to be too religious. “How can I talk about passion,” she asked, “and not draw an anomaly to the passion of Christ?”
I don’t know what she ultimately came up with, but even though I’m not religious, I know there is much to learn from what we refer to as “Christ’s passion.” Jesus, whether mortal or God, was willing to take the cost, make the ultimate sacrifice, for what he believed. The result? His life and teachings form one of the world’s most influential religions. And that’s really just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the influence of Jesus’ passion and commitment.
I suspect, knowing my friend, that she perhaps touched on the necessity of passion and commitment to a successful marriage. It is one thing to love another person, even deeply love him. It is quite another to commit yourself to maintaining that love for life. That not only takes work, like the work of resolving minor disputes before they become big resentments, but the work of sacrifice–willingly and lovingly giving up to get more. And I don’t mean more in a greedy sense. I mean more fulfillment, more meaning, and, ultimately, more passion.
Because that’s the thing about commitment that is passion-inspired. It builds more passion.
I will not pretend to know about passion and commitment within the framework of a marriage. I know I tried commitment without passion for a very long time, and it didn’t seem to do much other than take up valuable space in the short span of what we know as life.
But I do know about passion in other things. I have had a passion for writing since I was a small child, yet for a brief period while in college and grad school, I let a couple of mentors convince me to pursue a career as professor instead of as a writer. To my good fortune, poverty eventually drove me out of academe, and I began to see, after working as an ex parte brief writer, speech writer, and copywriter, that one could indeed earn a living writing.
For five years, I spent every waking hour I wasn’t at my salaried job working to build my own business as a writer. And once I cut the cord to the world of the regular paycheck and began freelancing full-time, I worked 80-hour weeks for a couple of years to build a client base. There was never a time that any of it felt exhausting. Why? Because I was passionately committed to living my dream.
The same held true when I finally bought the farm I’d always dreamed of owning and built the house I’d always dreamed of building, working until the wee hours of the morning at times painting cathedral ceilings while lying on my back on a scaffold, hanging wallpaper, and sanding and varnishing cabinets, stair treads, and trim. Passion launched me. Commitment held me.
I have no doubt I will hear one day of that 11-year-old boy at my daughter’s piano recital rocking the world stage as a concert pianist. Because the boy is not just passionate; he is committed. He practices his passion daily.
That’s the key—daily commitment to passion.
As one of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda, remarks, you should live “as if you were on fire from within.” Doing anything less is not really living; it is not really committing. If you believe in your passion, whether it is the passion you hold for your work or the passion you hold for your lover, then commit to it, live as if “the moon lives in the lining of your skin.”
Posted by Deborah Huso on May 8, 2014 in
Men,
Relationships
Originally published January 5, 2012.
Here’s what woke me up in the middle of the night a few days ago. Call it a dream, or a maybe a vision. Heck, some men out there might go so far as to think it’s a message from above for all women.
Here’s how the tale unfolded: Dressed in way too much tulle, I was standing at the altar, beaming at my husband-to-be. Though the rest of the details were a bit fuzzy, the wrinkles, sagging, and cellulite which have encroached on my body over the past 13 years were all magically erased. As I stood there radiating with every promise of the perfect life to come, I naively repeated the traditional wedding vows. The strange thing was that this time, my wedding vows were a little different than I remembered from the first go-round. There was a line inserted which went something like this: “And I promise to love, cherish, and eat only Hershey’s original chocolate bars for as long as we both shall live.”
Seemed odd. Promising to devote myself to only one type of chocolate? A bit restrictive perhaps?
It quickly dawned on me that with such vows, the only chocolate I’d be eating for the rest of my married life would be rectangular bars stamped with “Hershey’s.” This strange vow dictated that no Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Snickers, or even a Hershey’s Kiss would pass my lips for the rest of my married days if I was to remain faithful to my husband. And it went without saying that I’d have to abstain from my quest for the perfect square of dark chocolate. No other brand or type of chocolate forever and ever, Amen.
That brief foray into an imaginary world was a bit disturbing to me. I like chocolate. I like different kinds of chocolate. I experience a physiological response when I see chocolate. My mouth waters when I smell warm chocolate chip cookies. My eyes lustfully graze over the offerings of chocolate at the check-out, particularly at the better grocery stores which source a diverse selection of quality bars. I even look forward to savoring a square of dark chocolate every morning. No offense to Hershey’s, but the thought that I would be restricted to only a mediocre chocolate bar for the rest of my life seemed like quite a sacrifice.
Maybe I have a problem. Then again, maybe at some level, it’s human nature to feel like that.
And now, I’ll take this opportunity to suggest that perhaps women’s connection to chocolate can provide a glimpse of what it’s like on the other side of the bed. Albeit a weak analogy, I think there’s a little bit in here for all of us women.
Essentially, what your husband said when he stood at that altar was that he was going to eat only Hershey’s Bars for the rest of his life. Perhaps you consider yourself more like a sassy Snickers bar or a sophisticated hand-painted artisan chocolate. Either way, you get the point. Eating only one type of candy for the rest of one’s life would get kind of monotonous. Especially when he really likes chocolate and there’s a lot of chocolate out there. Now whether or not he’d even have the chance to taste all that chocolate out there is another blog post altogether. But back to the chocolate analogy– in some cases, adding to the depressing situation would be a strict frequency limitation: begrudging tastes only once or twice a month.
I’m no expert on men, but I imagine it’s not always easy for them to remain faithful. It’s no secret that just like it’s more common for women to have eating disorders/body image distortion/weight gain, many men struggle with sexual issues at varying levels. Even if he doesn’t act on his desires, lust is there nagging in his mind. Just look at the wealthy and powerful. Those men can write their own ticket in this department. And look at what a mess they make. Men who have remained faithful are akin to a woman who hasn’t gained an extra 15 pounds over her last 10 years of wedded bliss (eating too much chocolate, no doubt). Therefore, I don’t think it’s too much of a stretch to say that a woman’s food issues could be akin to a man’s sex drive. From a survival of the species angle, this makes sense. In most species, males procreate, sometimes with multiple females, while females are responsible for care and feeding of the young. Sex for men. Food for women. Maybe we’re just not as evolved as we think we are.
Momentum, monogamy, and creativity are tough to keep up. I’ve failed miserably at all of these at different points in my marriage. There are days that I don’t feel creative. There are nights that I watch the elapsing clock in the wee small hours of the morning, wondering if we’ve got what it takes to keep going. (Of course, starting those mornings with a good piece of dark chocolate does make it all seem a little easier.)
Finally, here’s a tricky one to put out there.
We have to put out a little more. We’re all they’ve got.
You’re his Hershey’s bar. And just like I eat chocolate on a pretty regular basis, he’d probably be glad for a bit more action. An occasional reluctant nod in his direction is not enough.
I know—he doesn’t deserve it. You’re annoyed that he made a snarky comment when you asked him to put his dirty socks in the basket, totally messed up your last anniversary and apologized only after you pitched a fit, worked late all week and then went to poker night, didn’t help put the kids to bed or bring the trash cans in. And then when he did unload the dishwasher that one time, he expected his reward should be you on your knees thanking him. There’s never a lack of legitimate reasons to say no. And there are lots of blogs about men behaving badly and needing denial discipline. Sometimes it’s the only behavior modification tool we have. And it goes without saying that a woman should never put herself in a compromising situation where she’s disrespected, abused, or used. But I’m not talking about dysfunctional, unhealthy relationships or about exhausted women who work full-time with three children under the age of four.
For the rest of us in stable, healthy relationships, I’m merely putting it out there that instead of examining sex as a pawn, a means of manipulation, or a punishment, realize we’re all in this together.
Maybe I’ve taken this whole analogy a bit too far, but it comes down to this: Men love sex. Women love chocolate (or food in general). Both are arguably biological drives. I’m not suggesting that we all need to have sex on a trampoline (that actually came up in the conversation at about 11:30 p.m. one girls’ night with a few too many French Martinis). And as it goes with chocolate, we don’t always need to be having peak culinary experiences. (Though I’d never be one to rule out edible body chocolate if the opportunity arose).
My point is merely that we may all have a bit more in common than we realize. Monotony and denial are our enemies.
Finally, if you made a terrible mistake and made your faithful promises to chocolate dipped sweet and sour gummy worms, Butterfingers, or those waxy white chocolate bunnies you can pick up for a dollar around Easter, my musings are null and void. I’m so sorry. It’ll take more than some high quality chocolate every day to solve your problems.
And to my single sisters—let this be a lesson to choose your candy wisely. Consider an upfront, solid version with few artificial colors or flavors. Look for honest packaging with clear labels so you know what you’re getting. Most importantly, make sure your candy is sourced in a way that aligns with your values and moral code and that it can adapt to a multitude of combinations, while remaining classic and steadfast for a lifetime.
Posted by Deborah Huso on May 7, 2014 in
Men,
Relationships
“A man is only as faithful as his options.” –Chris Rock
A few weeks ago, a friend of mine who has been serial dating or multi-dating or whatever you want to call the exhausting effort of going out with more than one person at a time and trying to keep it all straight in your head began talking to me about how to know “when it’s time.”
Yeah, you know, when it’s time to shed all the chaff and focus on that one person who is floating your boat a good bit more than all the others.
This is not an easy question, and everyone seems to have different answers.
I’ll never forget the boldness of one of my girlfriends, who, after a year of dating her now husband, said, “Look, if you’re not going to ask me to marry you in the next year, I’m not going to continue dating you.” An engagement ring arrived on her finger before the 12 months was up. He wasn’t letting that one get away.
I don’t know many people who are quite as brave as that, however. And forget marriage. My other friend was only talking about monogamous dating–that ether land between dating so many people at once you need a spreadsheet to keep them straight (um, yeah, I’ve done that) and the specter of deep commitment.
Is specter too strong a word? I think not. Not if you’re over 35…and have been married at least once.
I think it’s harder for women than for men. Men still operate under this fear that every woman they go out with wants a wedding ring on her finger and a new baby in the nursery. (This is especially true if you occupy that “under 40” space.) So anytime a woman brings up the idea of exclusive dating, the guy often gets that “oh shit” look, thinking that exclusivity immediately translates into some brutal chain of married existence where he has nothing more to look forward to than a recliner, football, and a beer. Nevermind that’s pretty much what he’s doing anyway when you’re not around….
But honestly, ladies, if you wait for the guy to bring it up, you could wait your whole life in most cases. That’s because men, by and large, like to play the field for as long as they can get away with it…and sometimes longer. As comedian Chris Rock once put it, “A man is only as faithful as his options.”
Don’t presume it’s because you’re not worthy of his full attention. In fact, the more worthy you are, the more likely he will play the field. Because on some level, he worries deeply that he is not worthy of you. Trust me on this, ladies. His brain, probably subconsciously because men don’t like to think consciously about complicated emotional stuff, is saying, “She is so beautiful, so smart, so funny, so charming, I don’t know what she’s doing with me. She doesn’t need me. And there are so many guys out there way better looking than I am. I need to keep one leg on the other side of the fence…just in case.”
Just in case what?
Just in case you ditch him because he’s bald and wears stupid looking ties.
Yes, it’s the back-up plan disease, I’m afraid, and most men suffer from it. The more they adore you, the more frightened they are you will turn tail and run one day. Better to keep someone a little less lovely and intriguing in the background, so he can still get a back massage and a dinner date when you finally decide he’s right about himself.
Which you likely won’t do…but he doesn’t know that.
So what’s a woman to do? I asked a friend of mine this question. She’s a good 10 years older, twice married, hopefully far wiser than I, and even she said, “About men, we’ll never know why they’re so weird.”
I’m not sure I agree. I think I have a modicum of understanding about their weirdness. I should given how many of them have been unknowing lab rats for this blog.
I dated a guy once for about three months. Things were going along fine until I innocently tagged him on Facebook…without any indication, mind you, that he was my “boyfriend.” The next thing I know I get a box in the mail with the high heels I’d left at his house accidentally and a sudden disruption of communication. I’m guessing I was one of the back-up plans, and he was concerned the no. 1 gal was going to get suspicious.
The other reason he’s not committing? He’s worried that looking attached might prevent him from that magic moment he frequently envisions in his head when he buys the voluptuous blond at some bar a drink and has her in his bed two hours later. It doesn’t matter that this magic moment is about as likely to occur as Sarah Palin becoming President.
Some women would be quick to call this the behavior of a “jerk.” And yeah, in a less lucid moment, I’d probably agree. But men aren’t like us. They operate under this notion that keeping everyone in the dark prevents pain. And yeah, it does, initially. But there’s nothing quite like learning that the man you’ve been madly in love with for four years has been fooling around on the side…just in case. Trust me, the kinder approach would have been honesty from the get-go.
Time is a precious and fleeting thing. Don’t waste it thinking that guy you adore with the roving eye (okay roving “Richard,” as we know they all have roving eyes) is going to stop his behavior just because you want him to.
Because a man really doesn’t put himself in your shoes as readily as you try to put yourself in his (it’s socialization, baby), though I’ll admit, trying to understand why men do the things they do is often, as Confucius might say, kind of like trying to find a black cat in a dark room.
A little self-respect on your part, ladies, might go a long way–i.e. don’t be afraid to stand up and say, “no deal” if the field playing time is over for you but apparently not for him. If he really likes you as much as his fear that you will dump him belies (hence, why he keeps all comers in the wings), he might actually take what is to him a wild risk and focus on you…but you just might have to ask instead of expect. Expecting things of people rarely accomplishes anything but resentment. Instead let him know he doesn’t really need that back-up plan or affirmation from the attractive lady at the bar. All he really needs is you.
Originally published March 2, 2012
Coral, gold, and gemstone on Ponte Vecchio
Last Saturday I promised my four-year-old daughter movie and pizza night if she behaved herself all day while I caught up on work in the office. I don’t know as I would go so far as to call my daughter “girly.” She hates baby dolls, loves cars, trucks, trains and LEGOs and is especially fond of getting as dirty as possible when outdoors, but she also has a fondness for all things Barbie and princess. I’m okay with Barbie, and I’m actually okay with princesses, too, as long as we’re just talking about dressing up in a fabulous gown and looking beautiful for the day.
But there is a point at which my tolerance runs a little thin. Heidi persistently asks for Disney princess or Barbie princess movies–you know the ones where the girl finds her “one true love” and lives “happily ever after.” And much though I’d like to pretend my efforts to make her strong, independent, and choosy are overriding all this falderal, I know they’re not.
I still try though and resisted Heidi’s begging for yet another Barbie princess movie last weekend and chose instead the movie Enchanted. You may have seen it. It’s a little bit of an anti-fairytale with the otherworldly princess rejecting Prince Charming in favor of an imperfect marriage to a New York divorce lawyer. It still has the flavor of happily ever after, but it’s a slightly better twisting of reality.
Heidi loved it, and she even got it when the princess fought the dragon instead of the divorce lawyer. But still, it wasn’t perfect. Because the princess fails, and both she and her lover are saved by a chipmunk. Women are still not allowed to save themselves in fairytales.
A friend of mind calls Disney princess “mind-fuck for girls.” I think that’s an apt description.
Rare is the woman, no matter how intelligent, who does not suffer to some degree from a childhood of fairytale mind-fucking. I always thought it had bypassed me. Instead of browsing through catalogs at pictures of stunning wedding gowns as a pre-adolescent girl, I was cutting out pictures of my dream house…which I did eventually build, by the way. It seemed to me, even when I was quite young, that I had a much better chance of building the perfect house than of finding the perfect man.
You can control the construction of a house. Love is something else entirely. It runs where it wants to without asking anyone’s permission in advance. And most men are not prepared to be Prince Charming. They didn’t grow up watching princess movies. So there’s an emotional disconnect between boys and girls right from the get-go. My preschooler recognizes it already. She told me in the car one day, “Boys are stupid, Mommy.” I nodded, for there was much truth in this statement. And then she continued, “Daddy is a boy, so Daddy must be stupid.”
I laughed aloud, as I often do when profundity on a grand scale comes out of Heidi’s mouth. One of my girlfriends told me Heidi is far more advanced than we ever were as girls if she already gets the idea that guys don’t get us.
Even though my parents raised me not too put too much credence in fairytales and to make my own way in the world without relying on anyone else to make it for me, they apparently did not protect me enough. Because I still grew up believing that maybe, just maybe, I would fall in love with my best friend and live happily ever after.
A better view than the jewelry: on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence
It didn’t happen. Not for lack of trying. I think, like so many women (especially young ones), I did my best to cram romantic partners into my personal visions of Prince Charming. And the poor men could not help but fail. My former husband had no idea I actually wanted to be proposed to at the lovely overlook where we first watched the sunset on Skyline Drive. I honestly don’t remember exactly anymore how he asked, it was so unmemorable. Others were worse. Like the boyfriend who foolishly told me he’d bought me a diamond just out of the blue with no indication beforehand that marriage was even on the table. I told him he better pay off his college loans and credit card debt before he dared show me the thing. Thank heaven for that caveat. We broke up long before he had his finances in order, and I was saved from what probably would have been a disastrous marriage.
So I don’t have a romantic proposal story about being carried off on a white horse into the sunset to pass onto my daughter. But then my mother didn’t have one to pass onto me either. She got her engagement ring in the mail. (My dad was in the Air Force in Texas at the time.)
And maybe these anti-fairytales are better anyway. For what pain women suffer in believing that a man will sweep them off their feet one day and love and cherish them forever after. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, mind you. But it’s rare. In my 36 years, I’ve encountered only one such couple. They were in their 50s when I met them, working at a museum where I had a part-time job during grad school. They’d been married 30 years. Every day at the end of work, that man would come into the gift shop where his wife worked, scoop her up off her feet, and kiss her. And she would giggle like a young bride. It was amazing to watch. Everyone in that museum shop would turn to look, no matter how many times we had seen it. And we all longed to be so lucky.
Because a lot of it is luck in the end, isn’t it? Chances are Mr. Right is out there for you. But chances are he lives on the other side of the country or maybe halfway across the world. He may not even speak the same language as you. How do you find him? That man whose personality is so magnetic that you’ll forgive him a thousand times for failing to put his socks in the hamper or for failing to pick the kids up on time? (Because you know the reason you’re really mad at your husband about his sloppiness and forgetfulness is because you’re mad at him for not being Prince Charming, right?) He’s not your match, and both of you know it, so you spar over the kids’ grades, whose turn it is to do the grocery shopping, why his mother is coming over again, and what to do on the weekend that everyone will enjoy.
Most of us settle for Mr. Half-Right. Or maybe even Mr. One-Quarter-Right because we know that our chances of finding the true Mr. Right are very slim. And someone told us somewhere, likely in a fairytale, that we have to get married, have kids, and pretend to live happily ever after with our “one true love.”
I’d like to think I’m over it. Sometimes I think I am. I’m a realist at least 85 percent of the time. I know men and women often don’t speak the same language, that they have wholly different expectations, that neither gender can be expected to read the other’s mind. I know that 90 percent of the time when a man hurts me, frustrates me, makes me crazy, he really has no idea he’s doing it.
But then something will inspire me to start believing in fairytales again…or at least make me want to believe. It happened most recently last November when Dorothy and I were in Florence, Italy, walking the famous Ponte Vecchio. In case you don’t know, it’s a famous bridge spanning the Fiume Arno that is lined with shops selling gold and silver jewelry. I’ve never been much into jewelry. Once when my former spouse suggested he should update my engagement ring, get me something with a bigger diamond, I told him if he had that much money, I would be far happier with a fantastic vacation or a piece of land. (I never got the diamond, by the way, or a vacation, or a new piece of real estate.) But something about this romantic 1345 bridge in Florence, overlooking the river, with its shops of jewelry and the couples hand-in-hand walking across it gave me a little regretful thrill.
“Wouldn’t it be grand to get proposed to on this bridge?” I suddenly said to Dorothy. “And then go into one of these shops and pick out your ring?”
Dorothy, like me, is something of a cynic about love, but even she had to agree. Yes, that would indeed be fantastic. And so we stood there a moment in between all the glistening shops, looking out over the water and the city, daydreaming about something that was long gone for both of us. And I think we felt a little foolish that we even had such a girlish daydream—two business-owning women who had paid for their own trips to Italy and gone unaccompanied by husbands or lovers.
The “mind-fuck for girls,” as my friend called it, apparently outlasts education, prosperity, experience, even divorce. Which really leads me to wonder what it’s all about, why we can’t let go. Is it something like the “Hope” of Pandora’s Box? Does the idea that the “one true love” is out there somewhere keep us trudging onward in the most hopeless of circumstances, enduring the string of dates with men who are not “the one,” sifting through them all, wondering, and wondering if Prince Charming is ever going to show up? Do we really go through all of this thinking we’re going to be the rare and lucky woman who truly lands Mr. Right??
Maybe.
I know there have been times in my life when I have wanted to shout like Charlotte in Sex and the City, “I’m 35! Where is he?!”
I remember watching a friend of mine walk down the aisle a few years ago. And if anyone had been through the relationship ringer, she was it. I remembered her lamenting during her days as a single, dating woman, “I’m exhausted by it. I am exhausted by dating men, none of whom are right. I just want to give up.” But one day, years later, she walked down the aisle arm-in-arm with the man she believed to be “the one,” and the beaming smile on her face gave me hope for a moment.
Maybe this will be it, I thought. Maybe she really found him, and they’re going to be in love forever. She’ll prove it’s possible. I even told her so. “Make me believe,” I urged her.
But that’s not how it happened. Her husband is not picking her up into his arms at the end of every workday and planting an “oh, my god, I am so in love with you” kiss on her lips. The question is though: does he need to be?
And I’m afraid the answer might actually be “yes.”
But do I say that because I’ve been mind-fucked, too?
Probably.
But I do know two women who found love in their 60s…finally. And at least one of them is quite madly in love. I think of her sometimes when I start feeling hopeless. I remind myself there is always that five percent or less chance that something magical might indeed cross my path one day.
Crazier things have happened.
It never crossed my mind, for example, when I was the child of hard-working parents just barely getting by at times that I would one day enjoy the luxury of standing on the Ponte Vecchio looking at diamonds and coral pendants and perhaps, more importantly, looking across the centuries-old architecture of the city where Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci once lived.
I bought a ring for myself that day. It was not a diamond. It was not even expensive. I bought it from the jeweler on the bridge with only a few dozen pieces in his window. He told me he was able to sell the same pieces as his neighbors so much cheaper because of his low overhead. I slipped it on my finger, pulled my leather gloves back over my hands, and proceeded on my way to the Galleria degli Ufizzi to look at the original paintings of Botticelli, Raphael, and El Greco, something I also would never have imagined being able to do on a typical writer’s salary.
It did not occur to me until later that I had done my best to live out my fairytale thus far. And perhaps that simple gold filigree band was something of a self-engagement ring for me, not on the scale of the famous right-hand diamond. My fairytale is not quite that big, not yet. And I suspect if it ever gets that big, I’ll be buying more land with mountain vistas or maybe checking out Antarctica, not frittering money away on diamonds. Who knows? That is the beauty of it, too. The not knowing what’s around the next bend.
In the tale of Pandora’s box, humanity is saved by hope. But hope is not sitting on a windowsill wishing for Prince Charming to come dashing around the corner. Hope is active. It is work. It is believing…and doing…and being…even when the evidence suggests that the game will not end as you would like. It’s still worth a bold attempt. Don’t leave it to princes and chipmunks to save you. That’s great if one comes along and gives you a lift. But try lifting yourself first.
Posted by Deborah Huso on Mar 28, 2014 in
Musings,
Relationships,
Success Guide
Originally published November 6, 2011.
My husband said to me recently, after a disagreement about how I operate my professional and personal life, “You know I really admire the way you fling yourself blindly into life. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you. But it’s just not smart.”
You’ve probably heard statements like this dozens of times: “I love you, but….” We all hear them. They are the bane of happy relationships. If you love somebody, but this or that, maybe you shouldn’t be with him or her…unless, of course, you have to be. You have to look after your kids, your parents, that dog you adopted from the SPCA.
This post isn’t about loving some but not all of a person, however. It’s about living, not blindly, but, as I prefer to argue, openly.
And I’m not talking about hopping out of the proverbial closet if you’re gay or letting your grown children know you’ve divorced…six months after it has happened. I’m talking about being open to life, to the opportunities it offers at every turn, the opportunities we often miss because we’re afraid, afraid of trying something new, striking up a conversation with a stranger, saying “yes” when our self-protective instinct wants to say “no.”
Everything extraordinary that has ever happened in my life has happened because I took a massive leap of faith, defied the naysayers, hoped, believed, and closed my eyes and jumped. When I told an acquaintance of mine once that much as I enjoyed sea kayaking, I didn’t know if I was up for whitewater, he said, “Whitewater kayaking is all about fear management.”
So is life. Conquer your fear, and the thing you thought you couldn’t do becomes possible, manageable, maybe even smart.
For those of you who have been reading my columns in newspapers and magazines for the past decade, you have heard all of this, to some degree or another, many times before. But I think it bears repeating. It is probably why my dad, from the time I was a teenager until deep into my adult life, would tell me every time I left home to go on a date, return to college, go back to my apartment in the city, “Drive fast, and take chances.” He wasn’t talking about how to drive my car (though I’ve been lead-footed, I’ll admit, since age 16); he was talking about how to live my life.
Overcome fear. No matter what. Overcome it.
As many a philosopher has pointed out over the centuries, it is beyond fear that we find the true meaning of our lives.
When I was a child, I was incredibly afraid. Everything from piano recitals to going away for a weeklong church summer camp terrified me. They pushed me outside my comfort zone. It was one thing to play the piano in my parents’ living room, quite another to play it in front of an auditorium full of people. And it was one thing to have a sleepover at a best friend’s house, but to bunk in a cabin in the woods with girls I hardly knew? Now that was scary.
But as I grew older, I slowly began testing my own limits, learned to say “yes” to crazy, nerve-wracking things like singing the “Star Spangled Banner” at the opening of every high school basketball game and leading discussions on comparative religion in the college Humanities classes I started teaching at age 23, finding myself, on many occasions, younger than my students.
These small dares led to ever bigger ones because I had begun to discover that saying “yes” to things that terrified me taught me, little by little, to push through fear. And the amazing thing about fear is that once you push through it, it disappears. You’re not only never afraid of that particular thing again, you find yourself a little less afraid of the next scary thing because you’ve proved, after all, you can handle fear.
By the time I was in my mid-twenties, my fear management had grown to a whole new level. I was willing to drop a full-time, good-paying job at an ad agency, give up my penthouse apartment, and take a wild risk becoming a freelance writer in the isolated mountain reaches of western Virginia. Everyone, except my dad, told me I had lost my mind, and even my dad admitted, years later, that he thought I had lost my mind, too, but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
A lot of people will chastise themselves, when they are young anyway, for taking a risk and falling flat on their faces. After all, it’s pretty darn embarrassing when a girl turns down your request for a dance, so why on earth would you ever risk yourself by asking a woman to marry you? You see how this reasoning against risk-taking can get out of hand. Pretty soon, you’ll be avoiding everything that makes life worth living.
Consider instead, if you’re feeling a little fearful, of twisting your thinking. Learn to regret the risk not taken, and pretty soon it will become habit to put yourself out there. So strong a habit, in fact, that you’ll kick yourself until you’re black and blue every time you fail to take an opportunity and see where it leads.
I’m still beating up on myself for failing to get the business card of a Belgian businessman I met on an airplane a couple of weeks ago who sought me out because he wanted to talk to an American who could speak French. I was afraid he might think I was hitting on him. When I told my husband about this failure on my part later, he said, ironically enough, after I had described the gentleman, “I bet he’s in the diamond trade. You could have had a new client. You’re an idiot.”
Hmmm. I thought so, too.
I should have just flung myself blindly into the possible opportunity. But then, I don’t really see staying open to possibilities as a blind leap of faith. Rather, it is a calculated sense of foresight. Life is too short for giving into fear. Sure, you might embarrass yourself, offend someone, maybe even lose your shirt (metaphorically speaking). But that’s the beauty of risk…and of life. You really, truly never know what’s around that next corner. And if you operate from a place of opportunity instead of a place of fear, chances are whatever is around the bend is pretty darn grand.
Posted by Mollie Bryan on Mar 25, 2014 in
Mothers and Daughters,
Relationships
My daughter’s Zombie Apocalypse Survival Guide
We are a family of full obsessions. We get involved in them deeply and then one day wake up and find a new one. Just like that. My husband and I have managed to make our biggest ones into careers—his as a historian and mine as a writer.
These days, my younger daughter is obsessed with zombies, and I for one can’t wait until this particular interest of hers disappears. Some may argue that at almost 13, she should NOT be watching The Walking Dead. I would agree. I would prefer that she not watch it, period. But she became hooked at a friend’s house, and there’s no turning back. Now she watches it every Sunday night—and has even been inspired to write her own zombie apocalypse novel. It’s very good—and I don’t like zombies–but I’d read her book. Of course.
I know I probably should not let Tess watch The Walking Dead. But I also know that if I make an issue of it, this will become a bigger issue than I want. So I’m waiting it out. I’m waiting for the next obsession.
I took the same tack with my older daughter’s middle school donning of the “emo” or “goth” clothing. Emma wore dark eye make-up and as much black as humanly possible for several years. Then somewhere between middle school and high school, she started embracing color again. Just the other day she said neon pink is her favorite color. Not that I care for the color, but hey, it’s progress.
Sometimes letting our kids explore who they are is uncomfortable for parents. They may embrace things we’ve long given up respect for—like guns, which I’ve outlawed in my house—much to my daughter’s dismay—because, after all, the folks on The Walking Dead use them all the time for their survival (in fighting against the zombies‑-not something we will ever have to worry about). So this prompted some very important discussions in our house, conversations we may not have had if she had not become such a Walking Dead fan.
Ultimately, this is why I’ve let her watch the show—as uncomfortable as I am. Keeping open lines of communication is a number one goal in my parenting. I want to know if my daughter is thinking about guns, drugs, or sex. Or any other sticky life situation. Sorry, but I do. Then I find we can reasonably discuss these issues, rather than being shocked into them by a real situation where it’s much too late to handle it objectively.
The same daughter—Tess—is also fixated with all things Disney. I think it’s a good and healthy obsession. She practices drawing the characters, likes to research little-known facts about Disney, and has asked for a trip to Disney for her 13th birthday—coming right up. We celebrated her sister’s 13th birthday in New York City and told Tess then we’d take her where she wanted to go—within reason. So Disney it is. I’m hoping our trip will ignite that passion a little more—with The Walking Dead fading into the background. Where it belongs.
Sometimes it takes a shift in location to jar your perspective a bit and find something else to think about.
I’ve taken a lot of grief from some members of my family for my “lenient” attitude when it comes to things like goth attire on Emma or watching the Walking Dead in Tess’ case as well as the fact that I allow my kids to be on Facebook. But you know what? I am on Facebook and see what they are doing. I know their passwords. I know what they are up to—because I myself am on it—probably way too much, promoting my books.
One of my husband’s relatives was very upset about Emma’s possible exposure to foul language and sexy content on Facebook. This is someone who is not even close to our family. And I had to sort of laugh. It’s been years since her kids were in school—and even longer ago since she herself was in the pubic school system. And while our first inclinations as parents is to protect our kids from growing up too soon, there’s not much we can do when we send them off to school. I blush to think of the language my daughters hear on a daily basis—words that I never knew until I was in college. (I am not happy about it, but there it is.) So I’ve switched gears a bit from what I thought my efforts would be at this age. I have to trust my daughters will communicate with me— so far, so good—and we can discuss things. We can disagree. We can argue. And we do. I think that’s okay.
I’m adamant in my struggle to let my children find themselves and be who they are. For example, I’m a vegetarian—yet I don’t impose it on them. Nor do I impose my religious (or lack of) feelings on my children. I firmly believe that these things only have meaning in your life if you come to your own realizations, and I also believe in not giving them much to rebel against. Even so, however, Emma went through a rebellious meat-eating stage that still makes me cringe and laugh at the same time. “Look at me, Mom, I’m eating meat,” she would often say. Sometimes I’d scowl—but then I’d turn from her, hiding my grin. That’s the spirit, I wanted to say but wisely kept to myself.
I think becoming parents later in life has given both my husband and me a much longer view. As the cliché puts it, we’ve learned not to sweat the small things. Some may argue that we shouldn’t let Tess see The Walking Dead or let Emma dress like a goth girl, or let either be on Facebook. But we like to think we’re giving them what they need to discover who they are, within limits, of course. (We are carefully watching them, commenting on what they do, guiding them, as well).
I’d bet whatever money I have in the bank and then some that my sweet, thoughtful, smart Tess will never wield a gun to fight off zombies—or any other kind of creature. Tess, on the other hand, has a written a book of instructions on how to survive the zombie apocalypse. “You just never know, Mommy,” she says. Indeed, you don’t. But I’m hoping our mother-daughter discussions will help us be better prepared when that “unknown” happens.
Tags: Disney, Mollie Cox Bryan, Walking Dead