Parenting Black Boys and the Persistent Achievement Gap

A recent New York Times article cited a recent report that showed African American boys lagging behind their white and Hispanic counterparts, even when socioeconomic status is taken into account. 

The most telling quotes from the article came from Dr. Ronald Ferguson, director of the Achievement Gap Initiative at Harvard, who spoke of early childhood parenting practices as key to understanding why these gaps persist. Dr. Ferguson said we “have to have conversations that people are unwilling to have” about black parenting, including “the activities that parents conduct with their 2-, 3- and 4-year-olds. How much we talk to them, the ways we talk to them, the ways we enforce discipline, the ways we encourage them to think and develop a sense of autonomy.”

Dr. Ferguson’s remarks about the way we discipline our children and encourage them to develop a sense of autonomy really resonated with me. 

For a lot of black parents, whether they live in the projects or are graduates of Ivy League schools, parenting means enforcing strict rules about propriety and good behavior and respect. No yelling, no backtalk, no questioning my judgment or my rules.  It’s my way or the highway.  Any hint of defiance –starting with baby’s first “No!”—is punished.

So we grow up to be adults who are really good at being obedient and following the rules, and less skilled at challenging authority.  Unfortunately, the ability to challenge and question authority and redefine the rules is one of the hallmarks of leadership.  I think there’s a direct correlation between the way we are raised and the difficulties we face later trying to break into senior leadership positions, in corporations, academia or elsewhere.

Although I often complain about my oppositional, defiant daughter, she broke me of a lot of the ingrained patterns I had unconsciously adopted from my own upbringing.  I tried to be the type of authoritarian, unyielding mother my own mother was, with nearly disastrous results.  My daughter simply wasn’t having it.  She refused to back down, refused to accept “Because I said so!” as a reasonable explanation for anything.  Escalating the punishment did nothing except make me feel like an abusive bully.  So I had to learn another way.

That “other way” involves talking to my children instead of at them, allowing them to ask “Why?” and expect an answer, and occasionally even giving in when they effectively argue in favor of something I’d originally rejected. 

My kids are not afraid to speak out and speak up.  They, especially my daughter, will risk a charge of insubordination if it means standing up for something they believe in or speaking out against a perceived injustice.  They are also independent thinkers.  I think this has helped them be more effective students and learners.

As a parent, having oppositional, defiant children can be extremely annoying.  But then I remember being a first year law student.  We black students would sit in class furiously scribbling notes and living in fear of the Socratic method.  Most of us didn’t want to be called on, even though we’d read and understood the cases.  We were afraid of saying something “wrong” and proving to the white kids that we were stupid.  That we really didn’t belong. 

We were blown away by how the white students readily engaged our professors in debate.  They “talked back,” sometimes in tones we found disrespectful. They argued positions that seemed flatly wrong.  “Why is this guy wasting our time?” was a common thought of mine during my first year classes.  “Can we get on with it?”

Except the professors loved this debate.  When they called on us, of course, we did just fine.  We never embarrassed ourselves.  And our professors inevitably said, “Ms./Mr. ______, you really should participate more in class.”  Some of us were emboldened and began to raise our hands in class.  We figured out that law school wasn’t about passive rote learning, but learning how to see, think about and understand both sides of an argument.  Others stayed quiet, and I often wonder how much they really got out of the law school experience.

There was one black man in our section who never stayed quiet.  From the first day of class, he would engage in animated debate with our professors, shaking his long, skinny fingers with each point.  We would roll our eyes and wish he’d shut up.  The professors loved him.  That man, Artur Davis, went on to become a U.S. Congressman in Alabama, a seat he held until he gave it up to unsuccessfully run for Governor of Alabama.  The seat Davis vacated is now held by Terri Sewell, another friend of mine from Harvard Law School who was equally unafraid to speak up and speak out.

We have to rethink how we discipline our children.  We need to teach them both how to play by the rules and to challenge authority – and it starts with allowing them, under appropriate circumstances, to challenge our authority as parents.  We need to allow our children to point out when we’re wrong, and we need to learn how to admit being wrong when we are.  It’s easier to raise obedient children, but our job as parents isn’t to raise obedient children.  It’s to raise the generations that will be in charge of things after we are gone.  If we want our children to have a place at the leadership table, we have to create a safe space at home where they can develop the skills they will need as they grow and develop.

Rainbows, Roses and Ruffians

My daughter is six and she started first grade back in August. To me, she seems so little sometimes, like she’s barely out of her toddler years. She still fits into some of her old smocks which we now pair with tights and call shirts. She is even happy to watch Sesame Street once in a while.

My girl is so excited about school that she bounds out of bed and begins to sing every single morning. I, who am notoriously not a morning person, have to keep myself from telling her to stop. She is enthusiastic about learning. I catch her muttering newly learned words under her breath. She adores her teacher and is eager to please.

And my little girl is being bullied.

I hesitated for a long time to call it that. I mean, bullying does not start in first grade, right? At that age, they are still all hearts and rainbows. Right?

No, not right.

We are living in a whole new world where it can, and does, start that early. I found–and still find–myself ill-prepared to handle it. But at least I am no longer in denial that such a thing can exist in first grade, among sweet, beautiful little girls who look like colorful butterflies flitting about the playground.

The bullying directed at my girl is oddly sophisticated. It is, I’ve observed, reserved strictly for when the child knows adults are not watching. It is a growl with an angry face, and hands waving within inches of my child’s eyes, telling her: “You have to” do whatever the bully is demanding at that moment. It is telling my daughter: “You cannot play” and “You cannot sit with us.” It is threatening to tell the teacher “something bad” if my child complains about the bully’s behavior to an adult. At one point, it was creating a “club” from which my daughter and another little girl were specifically excluded, though the teachers put a quick end to the clubs after several parents complained.

I can tell that it is tough for my girl to process what’s happening. She protests: “But she’s nice to me in the classroom. When she needs my help!” as if the two behaviors could not possibly coexist. And at other times, my daughter says: “When she’s happy, she’s nice. When she’s sad, she’s really really mean.”

I can tell that my girl is developmentally out of her depth. I know this because when I’ve dropped by to surreptitiously watch the goings-on at the playground, I see this little girl spotting me and changing her behavior dramatically for my benefit. She showers me with smiles, even waves sometimes, suddenly angelic. I have even seen her go over to my daughter, who just a moment ago was exiled, and begin a happy, animated conversation, as if they are the best of friends. Which they were at one point and still are, I suppose, when the little girl wishes it.

After a big incident last week that left my child in tears and demanding to go home, the teachers have made the issue a priority. We are supporting our daughter at home by doing role play, and reading a book and watching a DVD we got at the library. We know and love the child’s mother and get the sense that she is no less devastated than us by the bullying behavior. We are all doing what we know to do and hoping for the best.

And, we happened to spot this article in the New York Times about how and why mean-girl bullying has trickled down to grade school: http://nyti.ms/9xkVx3.

The one paragraph in this piece that made my stomach hurt was this:

“The girls who are the victims tend to be raised by parents who encourage them to be more age appropriate,” … “The mean girls are 8 but want to be 14, and their parents play along. They all want to be top dog.” And so the nastiness begins.

After reading this, I seriously considered home-schooling for about an hour. Let’s just say that for us, it’s not an option.

“on the go” mom/”stay-at-home” dad

My husband is awesome! In a few hours I will board a flight for my first job talk. It’s just a quick trip; I’ll be back by Wednesday afternoon. However, as always, I could not have done this without my right-hand-man. Together, for the last year and a half, we have manufactured a completely non-traditional, “traditional” (read hetero-normative and nuclear) family. He left corporate America when I left for my “dream job” “in-between” job, a postdoc at my alma mater. He also took on the enormous task of caring for our two children under three during the day last year, though the older of those two is now in pre-school. He also supervises homework completion for our oldest son, which can sometimes feel like a full-time job by itself. I am home more than the typical working mom, as I only go into the office an average of about three times a week. However, he bears the heavy load. He is also the better cook, so he cooks, and he dared me to do laundry the other day, that’s how infrequently I do it.

We live in a larger traditional world and I know that our unconventional ways must be making a few silent waves out there in the universe. Though no one has explicitly told us yet that what we’re doing is too out-the-box, I know that the situation as is might leave one wondering about his macho and my . . . . ?domineering?

The other day he told me in the politest way possible that he can not wait until I’m settled (meaning in a tenure-track Assistant Professorship with firm roots planted in a particular location) so that he can pursue his own dreams. I was moved by this. There are ways in which my entire family, and my husband and oldest son in particular, have been left “hanging” by my own intellectual and career pursuits. This has affected my son especially, because he has been my “roll dawg” since Junior year of college. There are ways in which we have all benefited, myself the most, from me putting me first.

I wonder how many men would be willing to sacrifice pursuing their goals for the goals of their partner and/or children?

Can You Handle It?

As I sit, contemplating what to share on the blog, I become more frustrated.

I realize that in this moment I am guilty of expecting myself to ignore the goings on in my head.  I realize I  expect myself to pretend that today was a regular day, like so many others.  I realize I expect myself to ignore the spastic heartbeat and shaking hands, both indications of the anxiety and neurosis threatening to subsume me… Yes. I  expect myself to breathe deep in opposition to the shallow chest heaves that are a portention of violent, tearful sobs that will burst out at any moment.

Ignore it.

Get over it.

Suck it up.

How often do we send our children off to school the morning after?

        a night filled with mom and dad arguing

       a night where we were too tired to check homework, hear about their day, play a game, read them a book, or tuck them in

How often do we send our children off to a school the morning of?

       a day where we hit snooze one time to many –

             and jump up, wrenching our babies from sleep yelling and screaming, fussing and fighting  for them to “hurry up”

             and so we  can’t decide if we have enough time to make breakfast but we do and a mess is made in the house, in the car…

             and we rush out of the house, steady remembering all of these reasons we have to be angry and disappointed with our

                        children, which is really with ourselves and they end up in tears…

Annnd, we send them off into class.

And when asked how are you: they answer “fine”.

And that’s what I’m doing now – for the umpteenth time:  I’m “fine”.

It’s what I learned as a child.

People don’t REALLY want to know how you are.

    They’re just being polite.

People don’t REALLY want to share that with you.

     They’re just being polite.

People don’t REALLY want you to call on them for help.

     Silly girl,they’re JUST BEING POLITE.

And so we teach our kids…   

         to be liars.

         to be actors.

           to be disingenuous.

You’re sick?

You’re sad?

You’re angry?

You’re frustrated?

You’re unsure?

      Keep it to yourself.

     Get over it.

      Suck it up.

    You’re fine.

Save the Drama for Your Mama

I’m starting to believe that I must have budding musicians/artists/actors on my hands. Because if I don’t, I’m a little…worried. See, my children have what some may call a flair for the dramatic. EVERYTHING in my home has a taste of drama.

“What’s drama?” asked my almost-five year old. “When you take something that’s a little deal, and make it into a great big deal,” I replied. And for my children, the time it takes to go from “little” to “big” is no time at all.

Take putting on their jackets. Both are adept at this seemingly mundane task. Particularly at holding the sleeve of their shirt in their hand, putting one arm in the jacket sleeve, reaching behind them, and repeating with the other arm. Little deal, right?

Not in my house. As soon as the idea of putting on the jacket has been planted in their heads, the drama begins. “But I don’t know where my jacket IS!” It’s in the same place it always is – either where you left it last, or hanging in the closet. Look for it. “Uhh, ohh, eww, ohh, ohhh, ummm…..I NEED HELP!” Doing what? We do this multiple times a day. Maybe if you weren’t leaned over the couch and actually standing up, the process of getting the jacket on would be easier. And all that moaning and groaning you are doing is wasting energy. *Now in almost perfect unison, but not quite so it’s really just noise* “Mommy, can you zip me up?” Sure. I start with one. Then the other asks the same exact question, standing right next to me. Do they need glasses? Can’t they see that I’m still zipping the other up? “But Mommy, I didn’t want you to zip it ALL THE WAY! Ohhh…..!”

***

The head teacher at the preschool has something new to tell me every week about my almost-five year old, something we need to work on. He sings to himself constantly; he always has a little ditty going. I tell him to be quiet, and he acknowledges he hears me, but the ditty is so unconscious, he’s right back at in in no time flat. He appears to be in his own world, but a world of drama in which other people exist, but as props for him. He wanders aimlessly, bumping into things and people. He touches everyone, leaning his whole body weight into them. “But Mommy…” is his favorite phrase as his head leads his body into my body. A sense of helplessness has overcome him lately.

***

My three year old yells. And yells. And when put in time out for yelling, she yells, “But I won’t do it anymore!” And when she’s not yelling, she’s expressing her undying love for you. Back and forth it goes with this child, who at one moment is crying because she didn’t get to say goodbye to Daddy before he left for work, but at the next moment is yelling about how I shouldn’t tell her to sit and eat her food because she doesn’t like when I say that to her. And after the time out that comes from that, she’s crawling all over me so she can kiss me and say, “Mommy, I love you.”

***

The crazy thing is that a lot of this drama, other people don’t see. I ask their other caregivers if the dramatics are as deep as they are at home, and other people say not quite. It seems the drama is saved for home, for me, and I don’t know what to make of it. Is home where the social experiment of raising children happens, and the only way you know if you are doing right is how they act on the “outside”? Are children supposed to act crazy at home, getting it out of their systems, abusing the ones they know love them most, and putting their best sides forward when out in the street? I certainly hope so, for that’s the only way I will survive this. At least 15 more years? Talk about needing help…

My Son is Autistic

My daughter may be as well. I feel like when you have children you operate on a hope ethos that it stronger than the one we empowered in Election season 2008. I see my husband’s hope eclipsing any of his concerns about his daughter’s health. I feel like I have to be hopeful, again, for his sake.

My eldest son is not my husband’s biological child. Therefore, he was not around to watch my son miss the same “milestones” my daughter is now missing. For me, the resemblance is uncanny. I remember this all too well. The other day my son asked me something that I have already forgotten. I remember my answer to him was, “dude I have three children, I don’t remember facts like that.” Whatever it was it was something genuinely trivial. I DO remember however that when he was my daughters age, he wasn’t talking either and he had the same difficulty repeating sounds and had the same stranger anxiety, etc.

When my son was a little older than my daughter, I wanted to have him evaluated. I filled out the Parent evaluations, sent them in, and took the Teacher evaluation to his day care. Ms. Marie, who was positively enamored by my son, thought I was crazy! Thought there was no way anything was “wrong” with him and therefore she changed my mind. Or should I say, she prolonged my hope. As my little black boy child grew he always had one thing in his favor. He is NEVER a disciplinary problem in school. He has mastered the art of staying below the radar and in overcrowded, inner city public schools black boys who are not making waves, make the grade. Adding fuel to the hope you already have, teachers will tell you, “well you know boys . . . ,” and/or “give him time. . . ”

I hope that my children, despite whatever difficulties they may face along the way, grow to live healthy lives overall. I pray that they feel encouraged to surpass any obstacle and generally encourage them to meet and exceed the expectations of others, as well as themselves. I know that a parent’s life is not easy and as always, I HOPE I am doing the right thing.

No Country For Old Moms

When I was 13, my mom was old.  In fact, she was roughly the same age I am now, but to me, she was old.  She listened to none of the music I liked.  The only movies she liked were old movies, movies with people like John Wayne and Bette Davis.  She wore mom clothes — double-knit dresses during the week, housedresses on weekends — that were inherently unsexy.  When she dressed up, pressed her hair and put on makeup, she looked good, but old lady good. 

My mom didn’t read books very often, and certainly wasn’t interested in the romances or Harold Robbins’ novels I favored.  Her primary interests were cooking, sewing and gardening — old lady stuff.  And her ideas about sex (oral sex is gross) and romance (no such thing) struck me as positively ancient.  I felt like she would have put all of us girls in chastity belts until we were 30, if she could have found three of them.  I was convinced my mother couldn’t relate at all to anything I was going through when I was a teenager.  My friends all had old mothers, and we all felt the same way.

I am not like my mother.

My 13-year-old daughter and I not only listen to the same music, we have lively arguments about the merits, or lack thereof, of Nicki Minaj and Drake.  I don’t censor her music anymore, although I will comment on the most foul, misogynistic or just plain ridiculous lyrics. 

I read prolifically, and my bookshelves are fast becoming a library for her.  This year, she found three of the books on her required reading list on my bookshelves.  We get manicures, pedicures, and our eyebrows threaded together.  We did yoga classes together this summer.  If I didn’t think Child Protective Services would come take her away, I’d sign her up to take pole dancing classes with me.

I don’t enjoy cooking, and I don’t garden or sew.  My ex-husband fancies himself the chef (although he only does barbecue, collard greens and fried chicken), so she’ll have to learn that skill from him.  She doesn’t expect me to be a bread- and cookie-baking mom.  She seems to get more of a kick telling people the name of the cosmetics company I work for.

My mother had no clothes I would have wanted to be seen in.  My daughter stays in my closet, trying on my tops, shoes and boots.  She likes the fact that her mom wears, and looks good in, J Brand and 7 for All Mankind jeans. 

And she gets — or tries to — a bit too involved in the details of my post-divorce dating and sex life.

I’ve noticed the same thing with the moms of her friends.  They are women who work out and display still-tight figures in body-hugging tops and premium jeans, who color their hair, get their nails done and wear makeup.  It used to be, when I was a kid, that the working moms were the only moms who still seemed to care about their appearance.  Now, it’s the stay-at-home, bread- and cookie-baking moms who are all yoga-toned and super-fit, and the working moms struggle to stay on par with them. 

And our girls seem to revel in the youthfulness of their moms.  “My mom doesn’t look her age” is a bragging right.

I didn’t set out to be the young mom.  While I was going through my divorce, I most certainly wasn’t.  I was a mom stuck in cat hair-covered fleece.  But now, having found the freedom to be youthful and playful, I more readily display that side of myself.  And my daughter clearly enjoys relating to me as a woman and not just as her mom.

So it truly is no country for old moms.  At least not in New York City.

Dude, You’re a Fag*

This week, the fifth teenager committed suicide after being taunted, harassed, and bullied because he was gay. I watched the parents of the fourth child, only 13 years old, as they explained how their son was endlessly psychologically tortured because of his sexual orientation. The mother broke down in tears, and the father gripped her body to steel himself and hold in his emotions on national TV.

One of the teenagers that killed himself this week was a college student. His roommate recorded his sexual contact with another man on a webcam, of course without the young man’s permission. Twice he did this, sending it out to his friends, and inviting people to watch live. He tweets to his followers: “I saw him making out with a dude. Yay” and “Anyone with iChat, I dare you to video chat me between the hours of 9:30 and 12. Yes it’s happening again”. This teenager was not “out.” He was outed, by his freshman roommate, just as school was beginning, and he responded by jumping off the George Washington Bridge.

I’m angry.

I’m angry at the bullies themselves, of course. Certainly in this last case, these “children,” while still in their teens, are college students. The two students accused of the invasion of privacy are 18, and in our society, that’s the age of majority – no longer a minor. It’s arbitrary, of course, but the fawn must become a buck at some point. In some of the other cases, the bullies are 13, 14, 15. Certainly not adults. And so my anger also reaches the school who lacks a no tolerance policy when it comes to bullying, the teachers who didn’t pay attention, and of course the parents who don’t know that their kids are bullies.

But do you know who I really think is to blame?

YOU. US.

Why me, you say? Because you continue to allow people to say “faggot” around you without correcting them, or allowing them to think it’s okay ‘cuz they’re “just playin’.” Because you voted “yes” on Prop 8 denying folks the right to get married. Because you still look twice (or three or four times) when you see a same sex couple holding hands walking down the street, sometimes shaking your head. Because you say things like, “Well, if that’s what they want to do….”, making this big distinction between “them” and “us.” Because you don’t teach your kids that families come in all different types of packages and some kids have two mommies or two daddies and that’s okay. Because you are still trying to fit your kids into tight gender roles and won’t buy your son a Dora water bottle if he wants one or make a pink crown for his birthday if that’s what he wants because you are afraid of either “making” him gay or “encouraging” his gay “tendencies.” Because you still put your son in the Boy Scouts. Because YOU support candidates for governor who says things like:

I just think my children and your children would be much better off and much more successful getting married and raising a family, and I don’t want them brainwashed into thinking that homosexuality is an equally valid and successful option — it isn’t.

Because YOU, America, are still a highly anti-gay country that refuses to agitate to get Congress to repeal Don’t Ask Don’t Tell; because in most of YOUR states, America, gay people can’t marry the people they love; because in many places, America, people can’t be WHO THEY ARE because they fear persecution.

And even if YOU think you’re being progressive by saying, “well, there’s nothing wrong with being gay, so when my kid says it to another kid, it’s not really a slur…” YOU know that’s bullshit. YOU know when a kid is trying to hurt another kid. It’s like when a black child says to another dark-skinned black child, “Ohh, you BLACK” or “Ohh, you DARK.” Saying, “that’s so gay,” is a taunt. There’s nothing nice about it.

And don’t even get me STARTED about Black YOU. Because where would I begin? Prior to this rash of young white men taking their lives, last year 2 eleven year old black boys took their lives due to being taunted about being gay. This beautiful chocolate child hung himself with an extension cord…aren’t we losing enough of our black boys to prison? Are we so dimwitted as a community that we’d have our sons DIE or be imprisoned in the name of their masculinity rather than be the people they are? How dumb does that sound?

Our children reflect US. Not just us, as in US as parents, but US as a community, US as a society, U.S. as a country. It is not shocking at all that children are being bullied because they are gay; being gay is not something that we, as a country, embrace as “normal.” And when you are not normal, in school, you will be bullied. What is shocking is the extreme response to the bullying – instead of fighting back, these children are taking their own lives, letting the bullies win.

So what then do we do? A relative of a teen who committed suicide after being bullied said this in a recent People story: “You can’t make someone be nice…You have to help the person who’s being bullied get stronger.” I tell my children now: If someone hits you once, you tell the teacher. But if they hit you again – you hit them back as hard as you possibly can and KNOCK THEM DOWN. Bullies prey on the weak.

Fortify your child. Let him or her know that you love them unconditionally, and make sure you explain what that word means. Allow them to be who they are, pink Dora cups and all. As they get older, let them know why “faggot” is a word you never want to hear them say and why they should not allow it to be said in their presence. Ask them about who they are attracted to, and be positive as they question how they feel. When you ask your child what happened at school, and they say, “nothing,” don’t let that be the end of the conversation.  Talk about bullies and bullying and what they should do if someone does something to them that they don’t like. Role play and act it out if you need to. If a bully needs to be knocked the eff out, tell the teacher Mama said to do it.

Those suicides happened on all of our watches. They belong to all of U.S.

*Dude You’re A Fag is the title of a book by C.J. Pascoe about Masculinity and Sexuality in American High Schools. I highly recommend it.

Another Year… Another Reason To Smile

Yesterday was my son’s 4th birthday.

It was also the first birthday I was not there to say “Happy Birthday” when he woke up. It was the first birthday I didn’t dress him in a special birthday outfit. It was the first birthday I didn’t get to sing a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday” to him.

It was also the first birthday he was full aware of. It was the first birthday he looked forward to and counted down the days to. It was the first birthday he spent in school, celebrating with school friends. 

I was sad the night before, moved to tears. I thought of my difficult pregnancy, how I didn’t want him at first, of all the turmoil I went through with his father during pregnancy, during our marriage… I was saddened by the turn of events that led to his not being with me. I woke up, called him and wished him a good birth day. I wanted him to know Mommy loved him, even though I wasn’t there. He knew. He always knows. I picked him up after work and went out to dinner. After, he didn’t want to get in the car just yet… he wanted to walk around with me, so we did. When it was time to get into the car, he resisted, but eventually he went in.

He asked, “Mommy am I going to my old home with you?”

I almost lost it right there. I explained he was going back to daddy and that I would pick him up on Friday. When I dropped him home, I gave him a big hug, he gave me a big smile, and we exchanged “I love you”s.

I drove home, not tearful, but happy. This is a new beginning for us, a new path, a new way of being. My baby has given me four years of the greatest gift a child could give a parent: the opportunity to truly Love.

Happy Birthday, again, Pooda. Mommy loves you always.

(class singing Happy Birthday to him) http://yfrog.com/ngpz4z

A Family Affair

For all the talk about husbands and children, and the occasional grandparent or two on CocoaMamas, we don’t very often communicate about our extended family networks. I often brag that in my house growing up there was always an aunt, play cousin or godmom around to chew the fat with. Lately, my network is getting somewhat smaller. I still agree by the general spirit however that, “it takes a village, to raise a child.” Tonight, I was reminded of the constant role that my siblings (two brothers and one sister) play in the shaping and development of my new family’s future. Are CocoaMamas (at large) still resourced and supported by their “old” families?

In my paternal side’s “heyday,” we use to gather for family sing-a-longs; mainly we would sing spirituals, peppered with a Stevie Wonder or Bill Withers balad here and there. My children, regrettably, will never share in those memories. However, my family has continued its artistic impulses, working collaboratively on film and digital music projects. My daughter (1.5 years) proudly joined us tonight for a “business” pow-wow. She moderated the meeting, all loud and boisterous on the other end of my brother’s speaker phone.

I am grateful to have a ton of friends, female friends in particular, that have nutured their relationship with me over the years to the point where I have no doubt that we will always be cool. It is trickier for family sometimes though. You have to come up with common interests and be equally invested in maintaining traditions to keep relationships going. Isn’t it funny how with friends you embrace new experiences; a “girl’s trip” to this exotic location or a new movie? However, with family you tend to only sign yourself up for the “same old, same old.”

What are you doing to keep your relationship with your siblings going, and most importantly, how are you modeling the role of family for your children?