A Change is Gonna Come

The single most contentious thing in my relationship with my mother is that she has always predicted gloom and doom about just about everything. There is not a doomsday scenario, accident and downside that my mother has not already envisioned in some form and expressed her opinion about quite vocally and repeatedly. And I have always resented her for what I perceived to be nonstop negativity.

And so imagine my shock when I observed last week that I have turned into a walking, talking warning label on all things random—from Red 40 food dye to fluoridated water to pesticide-laden fruit to partially hydrogenated oils.

For some reason it came to a head for us last weekend. A well-meaning friend offered my 4-year-old a treat and my boy looked him in the eye and asked: “Does it have high fructose corn syrup in it? If it does, I can’t eat it because I will die.” (For the record I never said he would die.)

And later that night, my 6-year-old asked her father during bath time if the water he was bathing her in had fluoride in it and whether that fluoride was going to get absorbed into her body through her skin. “Because you know, dad,” she told him earnestly, “our skin is our body’s biggest organ.”

It is all my fault, of course, every last bit of it. I have been obsessed with healthy living and a good diet since my health crisis several years ago. But after watching my small children parroting my worries about degenerated foods, environmental toxins and contaminated water supplies, I am appalled at myself. How unfair to fill their lives with bogeymen to be feared, lurking at every meal, in every lunch box, cupboard and grocery store.

It is one thing to educate the kids and help them make better choices. It’s yet another to raise them full of angst and paranoia about unseen, unknown evils.

I’m afraid I have not used wisdom or good judgment, though in my defense I had good intentions. (And lest we forget: the road to hell is paved with good intentions.)

Clearly some kind of change is in order. There is a balance to be struck here. Somewhere, somehow, someone is doing it well. But for me, it’s all somewhat hazy.

on forgiveness.

Something strange happened this week. Not strange in the usual sense of the word, you know, the  eerie-odd-frightening-makes you wonder kind of happening. Noo, this was different. More of a Wayne Dyer/Iyanla/Marianne Williamson, transformative kind of strange.   For most of my childhood I SWORE on unborn babies and my very LIFE that I would NEVER EVER IN A MILLION BILLION years become like “them”. Who? You know, “them”, the ones entrusted with new life before time began. The ones who were given the responsibility to love and protect  unconditionally. Yeah, “them”, the human ones, who caught up in their own consciousMESS, forgot to do and say the things that might have made a sojourn here a wee bit easier. The “I love yous”, the “good job baby”, “I’m proud of you”. “Them”. They who maybe skipped over the fine print that read something like:  “You promise to love, hold, cuddle, tickle, and honor this life that you’ve been chosen to bring into the world of the seen…”

I was well aware of the job description when I signed up 16 years ago. I read every book, magazine, internet article, and pamphlet on child rearing and development I could get my hands on. Did everything within my power (and beyond) to create an idyllic and cornucopic love fest for my child. He would want for nothing. He would know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was loved beyond measure, unconditionally, relentlessly and eternally.  Leading by example was my mantra.  Being honest and open yet firm and consistent would be my way.  I vowed that when he grew up, he’d be self-confident, strong, and independent.  No  ma’am, he will NEVER be able to use ME as an excuse for ANY egregious behavior OR emotional dysfunction… To be SUPERMOM, unlike these folk I see cussing their kids out, neglecting them, abusing and abandoning them.  I would be different.

But I’ve made mistakes. I’ve had challenges. I’ve done and said things toward my child that I regret.  And each time, I collapse into a fit of despair and sorrow which invariably leads to self-immolation…  I tried. I didn’t want to be like “them”. I spent 16 years putting everything I could into being a good mom. I did everything I could, that I knew how to do… wait… wait…. I did the best I could with the resources I had. I did the best I KNEW HOW TO DO…

Damn.

Maybe I am like “them” after all.

I did the BEST I KNEW HOW TO DO…

How might my life be different if I acknowledged that we are ALL doing the best we know how to do? How might my relationship with my parents have turned out? My siblings?

I’m sure I’ve heard this a million times before now. This idea resides dead heart center of forgiveness…of self and certainly others.

But in this moment, it feels brand. New.

strange.

Move Out

It’s amazing what we will do for our children.

In the summer of 2009 it took my husband and I (as well as my kids who came along for wayyyyyyyy tooooo many hot car rides) months to find the “perfect apartment.” We refused to pay over $1500, were determined to have at least a three-bedroom and there was another particular requirement we HAD to fulfill.

We moved into a mansion in Manayunk. It was huge and for as much fun as we had declaring a theatre room and computer lab, we were up to our arms in sweat, dust and sweat trying to make our mansion more than just big. We filled holes (o.k. so maybe my husband filled holes), laid tile, painted, spackled, and painted some more) and now, a mere 11 mos. later, we have moved out.

The “perfect” school that I refused to settle on was a perfect disappointment and we have moved solely to put Mekhi in the number one school in the city. I am subletting a colleagues place in what is arguably the most sought after “hot box” (around the school) this side of the mason dixon.

I have gotten my hopes up before though and until I see for myself, I refuse to believe the hype.

Dear Hot Box,

We meet again. I did not miss your roaches or other creepy crawlers 😦 I also did not miss your frat boys! However, my friend, I received a costly but dynamite education here. I pray you will be equally kind to my son (and I appreciate that it’s free this time).

I pray to you and whatever deity or merciful benefactors that have birthed you that this move is not for nothing.

Love,

All Moved Out

You Know I’m Bad

Wow. It’s been an intense couple of weeks over here at CocoaMamas. And, I’ve been laying it down at other sites too, commenting away.

But one thing that’s got me really drawn in recently is about judging. Judging parenting. When I was younger, before I had my children, I considered myself to be a moral absolutist. I had a line – some things, some people, were on the good side of the line, other things were on the bad side of the line. I had no patience for cultural relativism, no sense that something that was “bad” could be “good” in certain circumstances. I could agree that I knew a “bad” parent when I saw one, based on their actions, their kid, or a combination of the two. I would have probably agreed with a list like this one, that lays out pretty well what most folks consider a ‘bad’ parent:

They cuss around and at their kids in the middle of the cereal aisle.

They fight with their significant others in public, in front of their kids, and slap the little ones when they get out of pocket, especially if there’s an audience to witness their discipline.

They let their kids roam the streets until somebody else’s mother tells the kid to go home.

They ride around in their cars with the windows rolled up, chain smoking while their babies bounce around in the back seat, sans seatbelts and boosters.

When it comes to showing up for parent/teacher conferences, or sending in donations for a teacher gift, or chipping in at the PTA-sponsored events, they’re nowhere to be found.

But then two things happened to me, and made me forever change the way I saw morality, the way I saw right and wrong, the way I saw parenting.

***

First, I became a parent. Twice. Now I do not believe that you have to experience something to understand it. I don’t need to eat a chili pepper to know it’s hot. I don’t need to dive into the deep end of the pool to know I’m going to drown cause I don’t know how to swim. I don’t need to touch the hot burner to know my skin will burn if I do. But there are some things in life that nothing but experience will truly allow you to understand, and parenting is one of them. (I think sex, being drunk, and actually driving a car are others.)

Consider the cussing at the kids in the cereal aisle. I’ve NEVER cussed at my kids, and I never will. (I don’t think I’ve ever cussed AT anyone.) But I can understand why one might want to. Imagine you’re in the supermarket, not in the cereal aisle, but in the produce department. You are inspecting the the peaches, looking for the best ones, and suddenly you hear, “Ummm…” You whip your head around, and your child has just taken a big ole bite out of several peaches right on down the row! You want to say, “What the F@*K!” because you’ve been through this before and she was instructed not to touch anything and especially not to take bites of fruit in the produce section. You were sure that THIS time you’d gotten through to her. But you hold it in as you hurriedly throw all the bitten peaches into your bag, which at $2.99 a lb, just decimated your budget for peaches. Again, I’ve never cussed at my kids and try my hardest not to cuss around them either, but damn, I can understand.

***

The second thing that happened to me was I was diagnosed with a serious mental illness and spent a week in the hospital when my children were 3 years and 18 months. From that day on, I could never find it in me to call another parent a bad parent. When you’ve wanted to do something as horrific as leave your children without a mother, and believed that was the best thing for them…

I don’t think I’ve turned into someone who doesn’t believe in right and wrong anymore, or good and bad. I’ve just come to believe that almost everything “depends.” I do believe that what other people do to and with their kids has an effect on the rest of us, as we are all interconnected and live in this society together. But when it comes to parenting, and knowing the hard choices that I made and continue to make every day, that right and wrong don’t have much meaning to me any more.

I hate to judge. And I hate being judged. Even if a parent does every single thing on that list, I’m not going to call him or her a bad parent. Why? Because I think it’s a waste of time and not very productive. Instead of sending positive vibes and energy about how to help that parent and especially that child, all I’d be doing in pointing out the flaws, gossiping about the defects. I’m sure many people could have did that while I had two babies at home, having a nervous breakdown in the hospital, saying that I was selfish and not taking care of my responsibilities. Or they could of helped me and my kids, which is what a lot of people did. If you see a kid out at all times of night, do send him home. You see a family without car seats, give them yours when your kids outgrow them. You see  mom about to go off on her kid in the cereal aisle, distract her so she doesn’t. You see adults fighting in front of the kids, in public? Take the kids and distract them, bring them to your house to play for a while. Befriend these so-called “bad” parents, bring them into your fold, your group, teach them some things. Don’t just label them and cast them aside.

I have friends now, who, when they see me discipline my children, will tell me a better way they think I could have handled the situation. I absolutely appreciate that. Would you?

You First, Me Second

Back when I lived in New York City and couldn’t figure out what to do with myself, I would sometimes go to the Barnes and Noble on Sixth Avenue and West 8th Street in the Village and read books I would never ever buy.

My favorite among these books was a tome which listed every single day of the year, along with characteristics of persons born on that day. Even as I snorted my contempt about the idea that someone’s date of birth could actually cast some legitimate light on their personality and habits, I would be astounded by how eerily accurate the book’s descriptions were. And each and every time I came back with the birthday of someone new, hoping to disprove the book’s accuracy, I was thwarted.

Along those same lines, I’ve been thinking about birth order lately. I have a girl who’s now six and a boy who is four. I myself was the younger of two siblings. As I watch my kids and the way they are and have been since pretty much they were born, I have to admit that there may be something to this birth order stuff.

A quick literature review tells me that birth order theories are quite controversial. But, those who subscribe to them assert that the oldest child is the most likely to be a high academic achiever and to have a slightly higher IQ, and that older children are far more likely to be demanding and perfectionists, and also depressed and anxious. It is also a known fact that the vast majority of CEOs from Fortune 500 companies happen to be first-borns.

Younger children, on the other hand, are said to be happier and more laid-back. They also can be more sensitive and have a harder time delaying gratification. It is said that they tend to be more idealistic and bigger risk-takers.

These generalities all appear to be true of the dynamics with and between my two kids, as well as my brother and me. But what does that mean for us all? How much of these outcomes is nature versus nurture?

I’m not sure. I’m still considering whether to give it some or any weight in my parenting.

My hunch, though, is that even when there are strong correlations between birth order theories and your children’s personalities and propensities, they should be given little weight in the bigger picture. Theories should remain just that—theories that may or may not apply today, this week, next month or ever. At the end of the day, each of our children is an individual, shaped, guided and taught by a million different experiences he or she has had since birth.

I guess I have a tough time believing in what my mind interprets–perhaps unfairly–as “hocus pocus,” even when I see it with my own eyes or confirm it with my own experiences. In general, the idea of pre-destiny irks me, makes me feel as if I’m somehow unable to change something fate is catapulting me towards. And I just don’t like that.

Only The Lonely?

Time magazine recently ran and interesting article on “Onlies” or “Only Children” also known as children without siblings. The point of the article was to debunk the long-standing myths of “single children [being] perceived as spoiled, selfish, solitary misfits”. The article caught my attention because I was raised an only child and my son is being raised in an interesting situation where he can be the “only” child 80% of the time.

Here is an interesting trend of note:

“The recession has dramatically reshaped women’s childbearing desires,” says Larry Finer, the director of domestic policy at the Guttmacher Institute, a leading ­reproductive-health-research organization. The institute found that 64% of women polled said that with the economy the way it is, they couldn’t afford to have a baby now. Forty-four percent said they plan to reduce or delay their childbearing — again, because of the economy. This happens during financial meltdowns: the Great Depression saw single-child families spike at 23%. Since the early ’60s, according to the National Center for Health Statistics, single-child families have almost doubled in number, to about 1 in 5 — and that’s from before the markets crashed.

I admit that finances are a major part of why I have no interest in having another child. I can’t imagine taking on the added responsibility of having another being to feed, clothe, entertain, educate, etc. right now. And I’m not poor! I can’t imagine being working class or living in poverty and having multiple children. I know many rely on government assistance, but even that does not make for a comfortable life. Some feel the benefits of having more children outweigh the downside of financial struggle. I’m not one of them.

The interesting thing is that the information about only children that so many people have sighted come from the flawed work of Granville Stanley Hall in the late 1800s. His studies have since been proven to be based on flawed data collection and other issues. His work has also been debunked several times over throughout the years by newer, more accurate research, but for whatever reason, people still hold onto this idea that being an only child is a fate worse than death.

“Generally, those studies showed that singletons aren’t measurably different from other kids — except that they, along with firstborns and people who have only one sibling, score higher in measures of intelligence and achievement. Of course, part of the reason we assume only children are spoiled is that whatever parents have to give, the only child gets it all. The argument Judith Blake makes in Family Size and Achievement as to why onlies are higher achievers across socioeconomic lines can be stated simply: there’s no “dilution of resources,” as she terms it, between siblings. No matter their income or occupation, parents of only children have more time, energy and money to invest in their kid.”

I was often called “spoiled”, though I disgareed then AND now. I was always smarter than those around me and I often was involved in more activities, given more opportunities, and received more parental attention than others. My parents had no other focus, so it was all on me. Sure there were various times of struggle, but as life progressed, everything, the good and the bad, came to me. I’m not sure I would have been able to attend the private schools, summer camps, have the latest toys and clothes, etc. had I a sibling. My parents were by no means rich or close to it, but as the article says, socioeconomic status is irrelevant; undivided resources benefit only children.

The only time I felt like I needed siblings was when my mother died and I was left with the responsibility of tending to her affairs. I would have loved to have a sibling to help assist financially, emotionally, etc. (For full disclosure, my father had a son when I was 13, but we never had any real relationship with him, so that’s why he is referred to as my father’s son. By age 13, the characteristics of being an only child are more than likely set in anyway, so it didn’t really matter one way or the other.)

Being an only child made me more creative, more independent. I started writing stories at a young age, I had imaginary friends, and I wanted to do everything by myself. The article (extended version in the magazine) made a point about how only children are more used to engaging in conversations with adults, so their vocabulary is more expansive and their thought process and conversation skills mature earlier. I would agree with this, at least it was my experience, and one I’m witnessing in my son. That is a good and bad thing. He doesn’t understand that when adults are having a conversation, it isn’t for him to jump in. He does anyway, though, because he doesn’t make any distinction; he thinks we’re ALL just talking. He also has a more expansive vocabulary than other children his age, from what I’ve witnessed. He is often complimented for “speaking well” and he uses words other kids generally do not. I love this (I’m a nerdmom) but I can see how it might lead to playground issues lol

I was able to put my son in gymnastics classes at 2 and not have to worry about enrolling another child. My step-daughter did not factor into the equation because she spends the majority of her time with her own mother. As I said, my son is in a unique situation. He has a sister who is the youngest of 4, so she has the experience of sharing resources and attention every day. He only sees her maybe 2-3 weekends a month and while he enjoys that time with her, she is not really much of a threat to the attention and resources focused on him. He can still take expensive classes, get new clothes and shoes regularly, eat out at his favorite restaurants, get new toys, go to the bookstore for new books weekly, etc. We would not be doing these things if I had another child after him.

Is this the best choice for him? I don’t know, maybe. It’s certainly the best choice for me… and others.

“Most people are saying, I can’t divide myself anymore,” says social psychologist Susan Newman. Before technology made the office a 24-hour presence, we actually spent less time actively parenting, she explains. “We no longer send a child out to play for three hours and have those three hours to ourselves,” she says. “Now you take them to the next practice, the next class. We’ve been consumed by our children. But we’re moving back slowly to parents wanting to have a life too. And people are realizing that’s simply easier with one.”

So, if you’ve read any of my previous blog entries, you know that it is really important to me that being a mother doesn’t consume every single inch of my life. I enjoy it, wouldn’t trade it for anything, but being ME is important too. Other people are feeling similarly it seems. I’m not alone.

People need to get past this idea that children MUST have siblings to turn out “OK”. Some of the most famous successful people in history were only children. These negative ideas need to stop so that parents don’t feel pressured into having more children that 1) they can’t afford and 2) they really don’t want. Only children are not being doomed to some social purgatory by not having siblings.  Family planning is a private choice, from every perspective.

What are your thoughts? Have you had to weigh this in your own mind or discuss with your family? How does your partner feel? Do finances impact your thoughts on this?

The Architecture of Violence

Sharine, just like my father, was our great-grandmother’s child, one of the select few that was raised in the care of the family’s matriarch. My mother would explain, “Sharine has lost anyone who ever really cared about her,” my great-grandmother, my cousin Nancy (a beautiful person who we literally watched disappear as Diabetes ripped one extremity after another from her), and my Aunt Cat, one of the sisters. This is not exactly true however, because I have explicit memories of my cousin Varee, Sharine’s sister, adulterized by the sudden role of surrogate mother while still in her teens. There have been others, family friends, as well who have “taken her in.” Sharine’s biological mother, my cousin Annette, has sufferred from drug addiction for decades.

Yesterday, I met Sharine’s only daughter. Her eyes were closed, her lips were formed in a smile, her hair was “all over her head,” and she was lying on a stretcher in Anderson’s Funeral Sevice in New Brunswick, where she was brought, mysteriously, from an Essex County morgue. Although we know that Sharine’s daughter Dalaysia Marie Rhymer was raped and murdered in her home, and we know that her injuries included broken ribs, a fractured skull and a lacerated liver, and we know that she was taken too soon, we have no idea how she ended up at Anderson’s, like my grandmother and my great-grandmother, who are buried just a few minutes away.

On Seamen Street last night I told my Uncle Benny that my grandmother willed Dalaysia home and he corrected that, “while that was all well and good” we needed to find out who aided in that move on this side of the sky. Sharine, Annette and Sharine’s boyfriend are all currently under investigation by New Jersey Division of Youth and Family Services for child abuse. With a family as fractured as her’s/our’s we just do not know the “whole story.” Newark police have arrested Oquan Blake, the boyfriend, and charged him with felony murder, aggravated assault and several counts of aggravated sexual assualt. The last thing Sharine remembers about that day is arriving home to find Oquan dousing seven-month-old Dalaysia in the shower and then swabbing her vagina and anus with Q-Tips, trying to figure out where the blood was coming from.

On Seamen Street you are suppossed to swing back and forth between two houses, one right across the street from the other. The first was my great-grandmother’s and is now one of the sisters. It is a four-story converted multi-family house that in its “heydey” was filled with kin and food and song. The second originally belonged to another one of the sisters and is currently owned by her daughter, a way to keep an eye on “Mother,” I suppose. Sharine and I spent the hour before arriving at Anderson’s in both of these family landmarks.

My one Aunt never pulls any punches. As she put it yesterday, “I know this is not what you want to hear, But! . . . The “But” included every related thing from “you need Jesus” to “you are a Queen.” I learned later that evening that this sister was the fighter growing up, and that she had everybody’s back and that’s why you got to walk on over there across the street. There are so many secrets, the most well guarded one is that my great-grandmother’s house has become so empty and I fear that my Aunt there is so alone. She told Sharine that she has been hanging with all the wrong people and rhetorically asked, “why don’t you ever come visit me?”

Dalaysia, frighteningly, has never met any of this family. She didn’t make it to her first family picnic, and no one, at the last picnic, even knew Sharine was pregnant. We will all see her, for the first time, in a communion dress, in her casket, at the viewing Friday morning.

Two days ago I found Sharine in Newark. When she answered the phone I asked her where she was and if she felt safe there. Once she assured me that she did I told her to stay there because I was coming to see her. When I got to her that night, followed soon thereafter by my cousin, we asked her if there was anything she “wasn’t telling us,” told her that because of the news media, criminal justice and DYFS “attention,” “all this stuff was going to come out anyway.” In hindsight, I doubt that this statement is even true. There is plenty of shit that gets “swept under the rug” in these cases. Sharine, like anyone else, may have been entitled to her secrets.

I asked if her boyfriend was abusive to her, told her that I would not judge her, even told her that I had been involved in an abusive relationship before. What I did not tell her was that my son’s father raped me. That I knew exactly what it was like to be 21, a single parent, in an abusive relationship with a man who drank, and used drugs and “didn’t have a pot to piss in.” I just showed up, pretending to be “family” alone.


Just-Us

Something about Sunday nights…I keep hearing the Karen Carpenter and her “rainy days…always get me dowwwwn.”

This has been a week, and as ever, Sunday nights I become more reflective, introspective, and yes, melancholic. I initially planned a Part 2 of my earlier blog, but the word: JUSTICE got in the way…

Oscar Grant and the Mehserle verdict have dominated my thoughts and conversations these past couple of days. So many conflicting stories from the community. So many perspectives, questions, and motivations.  The ubiquitous cries of “JUSTICE” sounding like an akoben, yet I wonder…as I often do, what do we tell our children.

“I believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way…”

What do we teach them?

Maybe something like this:

“hey baby, we need to have a talk. It’s time I let you know that by and large, you’re going to find yourself in the company of humans. VERY VERY strange beings they are.  Most of them probably mean well. They really do. So you’ll hear  them talk about freedom, justice, and equality for all. BUT, be cautioned, they don’t REALLY mean for ALL, they mean for some. What do I mean? Oh, let mama explain.   There are those who talk about ending racism and oppression, you remember we talked about that? Ok, good. Well, people will say that they want all people of different “colors” to be treated fair and equal. They stand up and fight for the rights of people who are victims of racism. Yes, yes, baby, that IS the right thing to do. Equality is VERY important. The tricky thing about equality and justice though, is that it has to be for EVERYBODY or it’s NOT really equality and justice.  That means that even people who AREN’T Black and Brown have to be treated fairly too.  It also means that boys and girls have to be treated equally as well.  Do you think one person’s life is more important than another? Me neither!

Right, right, yes, that’s part of why people are protesting on tv…yes, they’re angry about the verdict in the Mehserle trial.  People are sick and tired of the police brutality in Black communities… what’s that you say? Did people protest in the streets after Aiyanna Jones was murdered in her sleep in Detroit? I don’t know baby, I haven’t heard of anything happening.  What, what’s that you say? How come people don’t protest the police harrassing people everyday on the block? Hmm…I’m not sure love.  Yeah, mommy doesn’t know how come there were only a few people at the meeting to recruit Big Brothers and Big Sisters for  boys and girls… That’s a good question. Why aren’t some of those people on tv and the radio who are angry about the verdict angry about all the Black and Brown boys who go to jail  everyday? Or the fact that so many kids can’t read? I’m not sure…”

Justice or Just-Us?  In my convoluted mind, justice for SOME isn’t justice. It’s HARD for me to take someone who still subscribes to patriarchial notions and hierarchies SERIOUSLY when they talk about racial equality. It’s IMPOSSIBLE for me to have a serious conversation with someone about “saving and protecting our children” when they have a cache of  musical artists who’s theme is “sex, drugs, and alcohol” …

“…teach them WELL and let them lead the way…”

I HAVE to ask:  WHAT and HOW are we teaching our children?

S.O.S.

How exactly did women used to take care of three, four or more children, clean the house, wash the clothes and make several meals a day? I can tell you that I’ve been in the house with only my two children for less than a week now and by the time my husband gets home around 7 pm, I am on the verge of hysterics, the house looks like a disaster area and as far as I’m concerned, it’s each man for himself for dinner.

I had all these visions of lazy, sunny days spent building castles from recycled milk bottles and toilet paper rolls, and the three of us frolicking on green lawns in the park or trekking on adventures through the neighborhood. So far we haven’t made it past our driveway and the kids are lucky to get out of their pajamas by noon. I only signed them up for one week of camp all summer and now I fear that I may have made a strategic error.

I don’t understand. What am I doing wrong? I mean, I never expected to be Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart but surely I can do better than this. I have several post-graduate degrees, for goodness sakes. I can figure this out, right?

How’s everyone else’s summer so far? Chillin’? Or are you ready to throw in the towel?

Five for Fighting

I was talking to a co-worker recently and the topic of kids fighting came up. The conversation started with my concerns about my middle daughter going to middle school next year. My co-worker mentioned that her niece had begun taking a switchblade to school because she HAD TO for protection. I mentioned that I had never been in a fight as a child, which struck her as odd. She then relayed the story of how she had once come home crying and her father said to her that she had to go back out and kick the ass of whoever had made her cry or that he would kick her ass. And so she fought.

I’ve never had that conversation and I don’t plan to. I can almost understand the logic (show & prove, do it this one time and then people won’t mess with you) but I don’t like the message that it sends – that there must be fighting, whether at home or away. With so much violence in the world, and so much of it directed at us, I just don’t feel comfortable encouraging more of it. I’ve always thought of home as a place away from the stress of the world, and encouraged my kids to feel the same way. My parents were there to protect & support me, not beat me for feeling hurt or angry or confused.

My sister and I were not allowed to fight each other at home. My mom’s mantra – a house divided against itself cannot stand. And so there was no fighting. My kids are not allowed to hit each other. They are not close in age (15, 10 and 3) so it doesn’t come up too often but they know that it is not cool.

What are your thoughts? Did you get the “kick their ass or I’ll kick yours speech”? Would you allow your child to carry a weapon to school?

If your child is being bullied at school, please check out http://stopbullyingnow.com/

Andrea is a mom of 3 (son is 15, daughters are 10 and 3), and a serial entrepreneur. She is currently working as a clinical informatics consultant, and couldn’t do it without the help of her mom who is her nanny while she’s out of town Mon – Thurs. She is a great believer in personal responsibility, good grammar and the power of ice cream. She is an omnivore who loves to cook, is trying to eat healthier and give her kids fewer chemicals. She needs to exercise consistently and drink more water. She’s in the process of getting divorced from a nice guy.
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