Enough!

I have worked in the news for 25 years.  I am a journalist and a newsgatherer.  I find video from around the world and share the images with people who subscribe to our service: affiliates, international broadcasters, Internet resources, talk shows, whoever needs news video – I give it to them.  Sometimes the stories are fun – like a one-time-only sale of beer in the USA by Trappist Monks in Belgium trying to raise money to build a new monastery; or the piano from the movie “Casablanca” selling at a New York City auction.  That’s how my day started yesterday.  It was fun. 

We didn’t cover those stories because…the fun never lasts long where I work.

I have seen horrible raw footage for many, many years.  I have cleaned up wars so as not to offend audiences at dinner time.  I have grudgingly blurred nude art work so as not to “offend” the eyes of the innocent.  I have furiously not distributed images of hundreds of dead babies in Syria.  I have shown long distance shots of smoking plane crash debris.  I watched two enormous buildings burn down before my eyes, trying to avoid the fear and heartache as I searched for the best camera angle.  I have heard a man scream while being beheaded in Iraq and another while discovering his murdered daughter’s body in a college dorm room.  I have watched children dangle from windows as they flee mass murderers.  I’ve done my job.  I’ve never cried.  I’ve hidden behind the news by providing the images.  I have buried the pain so I can keep on working.  Instead of feeling, I tell jokes. I drink wine. I watch movies.  I hug the people I love as often as I can.  I squeeze my little boy until he tells me to “stop.” I tell him stories about good versus evil where evil always loses, and bad guys always become good.

I am tired.

Yesterday, for me, was the end of holding back.  I put my head down on my desk periodically as the news dwindled in - in all its confusing fluidity.  I took deep breaths and kept going.  The world needed the video.  I needed to be factual and distribute the image of the right killer.  The world needed to get their reporters on the air.

I needed to breathe air.

Ironically it was our office Christmas party on December 14^th.  We share gifts and have a baking contest.  I argued with a co-worker as to whether or not such festivities were appropriate on this day.  It’s the one thing in that newsroom that many people look forward to each year.  My gut wanted to carry on.  His wanted to shut it down.  We compromised and managed to keep it very low key.  Nothing would make the day any better so what did it matter anyway?

As I went on to Facebook periodically to find information on the killer, the victims, name spellings of survivors…I stumbled upon images of 3 babies born that day to friends and extended family.  Three beautiful faces wrapped in soft blankets, wearing those baby hospital hats, one with a Christmas ribbon on her head.  That’s when the tears started.  Those beautiful babies, those joyful parents, the havoc taking place just north of where I sat.  So much joy.  So much tragedy.  So much confusion spinning around my head.

Despite everything I’ve seen, I’ve never cried about the news until yesterday.

I cried when I squeezed my little boy when he ran to the door shouting his usual excited, “Mommy,” and tried to hide my sobs as he looked at my eyes and kissed my cheek.  I told him I had a bad day – just like he had had the day before when things in his gym class didn’t go so well. I thought about all the Mommies and Daddies who wouldn’t hear those happy shrieks as they walked in the door that day.  I put my boy to bed last night and cried about all the empty beds in Newtown, Connecticut.  I breathed in my son’s breath.  I kissed the back of his head.  I absorbed his tiny snores.  I thanked the universe for my blessing and cried even harder for those who longed for their own blessings as they sit in shock and wonder what the hell happened and why the most precious thing in their world was snatched away for no good stinking reason.

Many of you reading this may believe in the antiquated 2^nd amendment to the United States Constitution.  Please rethink that stance.  Please in the name of the hundreds of people who have died or been wounded in the last decade as a result of mass shootings.  In the name of the babies who died yesterday.  In the names of the parents who wish they had died instead.  In the name of the siblings, the grandparents, the aunts, uncles, cousins, and best friends whose lives have been changed forever.  Please rethink the law that no longer pertains to who we are as a people today.

Many of you reading this may not believe in universal healthcare.  You may not have given mental healthcare a passing thought.  Please, again, in the name of everything we are…think and rethink.  The mentally ill cannot take care of themselves, they should not own guns, they should be assisted by you and me even if it means paying more tax.  We live in a society of people where one action affects another and another…its never ending.  We don’t live in a bubble.  Lucky us – the ones who can still hold their babies in their arms.  Lucky us.  Now let’s reach out to those not so lucky.  It won’t kill any of us to pay more tax to support society. 

For those of you who want to tell me to shut up – say it – it’s your right under an amendment that has actual meaning.  As a journalist, I’m not supposed to express my opinions, let alone write about them.  As a human being and as a mom I will never be silent again.  I will fight the gun laws now with everything I am.  I will fight for my boy.  I will defend my family, your families, the earth, humanity with my freedom of speech but never with a weapon of mass destruction.

There is no argument anyone can give me about the right to bear arms that I will not tear down, rip up, destroy, and smash to smithereens with my ability to think, speak, and love.  Try me.  I’m up for it. 

I'm Not Ready!

I am a sucker for my son’s hair. Always have been. When he was little he didn’t have very much hair and when it started to grow it was soft and gold.
As far as I’m concerned a baby’s hair belongs to Mommy. It’s hands-off for anyone who thinks a pair of scissors should enter the scene. When Evan’s hair started to curl upward just past his neckline at about two years old, my husband thought it might be time for a trim. A quick tiger-mama glare in his direction was enough to cap that thought.  But, I did do a little trim here and there when no one was looking but each precious strand of spun-gold went into a zip-lock bag and was hidden away in my own private treasure chest.

I know I’m not the only mom to go through this. Maybe I’m a little more obsessive-compulsive about it and I know it has more to do with not wanting the baby years to end than anything else.

The baby years are so wonderful. The feel of my little boys’ soft cheek against my face when we cuddle under the blankets at night or the feeling of his little fingers encircling mind as we snuggle up and watch “How to Train Your Dragon” for the 50th time on Netflix. It’s magical and time is fleeting and I’m not willing to let it go. To hell with spreading his wings: None of that is welcome here inside my cocoon of baby-bliss.

I cried when I took Evan for his first official haircut at the mall. It was one of those warehouse type chop-shops full of buzzing buzzers; TV sets blaring; video games blasting – all the trappings to distract our already ADD generation of young boys. As my baby’s hair landed on his shoulders and slipped to the floor, I grabbed at it and held it in my sweaty palms as my husband looked on smiling and shaking his head. I had reluctantly agreed to this first official cut. For Daddy it was a necessary baby-step. A first. But for Mommy it was a thousand steps closer to moving into the dorm. No! Stop! I’m not ready. This is way too fast for me.

Okay, reality check:  I didn’t have a baby just to fulfill my own needs. We send our kids off to school on a bus; we hire the babysitter to keep our marriages in tact; we untangle their arms from around our necks when we leave the house to go to work. Eventually, even a crazy mom like me, has to cut their child’s hair. Of course we have kids to expand our families, to continue a legacy, and to fulfill a dream, but we also have them to watch them grow. To beam with pride as they (with our help) become the people they are meant to be. Holding them back because we’re not ready to let go isn’t doing what we’re meant to do.

So, last week, I took my son for another haircut – one of many since the first – but this time, it was different. I took him to a real barbershop. The kind of place where greetings are on a first name basis; no-credit-cards; lots of sports-chat; a take a number and wait kind of place that I thought only existed in Leave-It-To-Beaver-Main-Street-America – not a mile down the road from my house. It was a long wait and my normally impatient child seemed to be just as intrigued by the atmosphere as I was. We waited because this is where I wanted Evan to be. His hair had grown long and thick – just the way Mommy likes it. The light-brown mop with its golden hues had grown knotty and dense, but still forming those little curls around the neckline – still my baby.

When Evan was called to the old-fashioned chair, he climbed up without hesitation despite the lack of taxi-shaped baby seats complete with steering wheels. No fire truck with push-button siren for this kid – just a barbershop chair with a booster seat. As the black cape was wrapped around him and a little piece of paper towel tucked inside the neckline, Evan said, “I’m ready.” He grinned from ear as his beautiful hair hit the ground. I snapped some photos to prevent myself from lunging for those locks. Was mommy growing up too? Not so fast, I’m not ready!

But this is one of many milestones ahead of us – and trust me – I’m clinging to every last shred of babyhood as I watch my boy grow. One day those pink cheeks will be covered in a bristly beard and he will do whatever he wants with the hair on his head. He is here to spread his wings and I am here to watch him fly as I rummage through my treasure trove of memories, photos and zip-locked bags of gold.

Video Collections

 

How to Train Your Dragon - LIVE August 2012

 

Evan and Maddy at Disney Animal Kingdom May 2012

 

Evan Sings "Old McDonald Had a Farm" in 2010

Kiddie Cruise: A Review

Kiddie Cruise: A Review

By Amy Wall Lerman

I have a lot on my plate between managing my work and home lives and have virtually no organizational skills.  I store information in imaginary folders that get tucked away inside layers of brain tissue - in other words - I forget – a lot.  My whole life exists in the belly of my Gmail Inbox so I’m required to carry around a mobile device to remember pretty much anything. This is one of the reasons I rolled my husband out of bed a little too early on a Saturday morning, dressed my son in his best pirate garb, and set off for a 38 minute drive to Manhattan’s Pier 40 for a Sunday afternoon Hudson Riverboat pirate and princess themed “Kiddie Cruise.” 

Pulling out of the driveway I reached for the email (which I someone managed to remember) that indicated the time, date and directions and felt my heart skip a few beats when I noticed the day of the week.  The word “Sunday” screamed out at me from the page as my son shouted “Arrrr” and jabbed me in the arm with the plastic pirate hook we bought for him at Disney World last June. In the midst of my panic, I wondered what would be worse, my husband’s annoyance at my flakiness (although, he’s quite used to that) or my son’s disappointment when I told him my mistake?

I prepared myself to walk the proverbial plank when I leaned over to my husband and said in a very low voice that I’d made “bad mistake.”  When Evan declared he had to go potty, we took the opportunity to drive back home and break the news to him. He took it surprisingly well – especially when we told him that we’d go visit his cousin after digging through the local library for pirate books and movies. 

Sunday morning was déjà vu, minus the flakiness. I let Evan’s daddy sleep a little later; I dressed up my pirate again; packed a bag of necessities; and we headed off to “the big city” where our boat was docked.

As we waited on a long line and were processed through a rather confusing boarding process, I took the time to survey the exterior of the boat.  It was like any Manhattan ferry boat – kind of dingy and rundown with Hudson River grime coating the hull.  For a moment I wondered if the boat would have that dank mildew smell and if the princesses hosting the activities would look more like Cinderella after the ball, but I was pleasantly surprised.  Although the interior needed some touch-ups and the bathrooms could have been a little cleaner, the boat itself was quite comfortable.  Nothing was stinky, and the princesses looked all pink and glittery in their gowns and tiaras as they rocked the house as both DJ’s and dance instructors.

We were supposed to set sail at 12 p.m. but it didn’t actually pull out until about 12:20 – and I gather much of that had to do with the dysfunctional line-up procedure still underway on the dock. 

We didn’t really mind that the boat was late on departure.  My husband and I surveyed the scene while Evan, although impatient, took in the view of Chelsea Piers out the window. Many of the kids were dressed up for the adventure and almost all of them immediately lined-up to get their faces painted – an activity Evan is happy to live without.  The woman doing face painting must have been stiff and sore by the end of her work day because I never once saw her take a break – there was always a child’s upturned face at the tip of her brush.

Once the boat set sail, the party really started.  Our tickets included limitless beverages and a packed lunch. The choice of sandwiches was limited but perfect for kids – either turkey and cheese, or a jelly sandwich (without the peanut butter I take it due to the danger of kids and allergies).  While my husband went to get the lunches on the upper deck, my son collected the little plastic pirate coins from our table and ate a bag of free baked chips – which seemed to be available in limitless quantities. 

The lower level was full of kids of all ages – from newborn babies to 8 and 9 year olds.  A handful of seasick parents lingered in chairs close to the walls while trying to eyeball their kids from afar.  My husband and I are lucky – we have good sea-legs but a mom turned to me and asked if she looked “green.” I couldn’t help but be impressed at the sacrifices parents are willing to make so their kids can have a good time.

The upper level, while fully protected from the elements, had a consistently cool breeze blowing across the deck as the boat sped across the river.  While views on the river were spectacular from all the decks, the upper level seemed to bring us even more up close and personal to the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and downtown Manhattan.  Over the past year, I’ve notice from afar, the progress being made on the construction of “the Freedom Tower,” the new building going up where the old World Trade Center buildings once stood,  but viewing it from the river was like seeing it for the first time.


While grownups gathered family together for photos, many of the kids crowded around a craft table, painting, drawing, coloring, and sticking stickers.  There was even a tattoo station on the other side of the room.  Evan didn’t participate in any of the upper deck activities, he was too busy dancing and singing with the princesses on the lower deck. But perhaps the highlight for my son, and the other kids, was the puppet show. 

Barry Keating, owner of “Starmites,” and no stranger to musical theatre for adults and children alike, performed joyfully and effortlessly for the kids. With an array of puppets ranging from a naughty monkey who tricks the puppet master by hiding on his head to a Las Vegas-style grand dame reminiscent of Wayland Flowers’ “Madame.” With his one-toothed dragons and his disobedient, flipping, dime store doggie, Keating had the kids giggling from start to finish. I watched Evan belly-laugh so hard that he could barely sit upright.

By the end of the 90-minute cruise, Evan, despite his obvious exhaustion, managed to sword fight for a good 20 minutes with his new (albeit short-term) friend, “James from Brooklyn” while other families lined up to disembark.

As Evan was falling asleep that night he was still giggling about the puppets and asking when we’d go on another “Kiddie Cruise”.  I told him, “Soon.”  And I meant it.

Bubbles Bubbles Everywhere!

THE GAZILLION BUBBLE SHOW

A Review

My husband and I took our son to see The Gazillion Bubble Show in New York City last week.  If you haven’t heard of the show, you should definitely check it out.  Created and performed all over the world by the Yang family, the show is pure delight for kids and adults alike.  While tickets are not exactly cheap, the grins on your children’s faces may well be worth the price ($45-$65 – keeping in mind that the best seats for direct bubble-interaction are right in the front row).

Not knowing what to expect when we walked in, we found that all the seats have a great view of the stage, and pleased that ours were just 4 rows away from the bubble-making action.  When we located our seats we noticed that to the right of the stage children were having their photos taken inside a giant bubble.  We dropped our stuff and immediately headed over to watch.

When Evan started to climb the stairs to be next in line, I noticed the sign: “Me in a Bubble – $20.”  It was too late to say no to Evan without a bubble-deprivation-inspired meltdown.  I asked if we could take our own picture but was told no – I suppose that’s understandable even though $20 seemed a bit steep. When they brought our photo to our seats before the show started, Evan squealed at the site of himself inside an enormous bubble and when he wasn’t chosen to go on the stage with other child volunteers in the middle of the show, I was very grateful to have this photo as a consolation prize. Not to mention it was the object he took to school for “show and tell” the other day.  Not too bad for $20, I’d say.

After what felt like and interminable amount of self-promotion and advertising before the show began, the stage lit up and the bubble-blowing commenced – a relief because my ADD child was beginning to squirm in his chair and ask, “Where are the bubbles?”  I have to admit that at this point I was beginning to wonder about whether or not this would be an enjoyable show.  I mean, why are they advertising to whom they’ve already sold?  You have us, we’re here.  The ones who need the ads are outside the theatre, not inside!

But when the show began, all these thoughts were lost in a world of magic.  Melody Yang was the “bubble artist” for this show and at just 21 years old, she was a charming performer.  The expressions on her face were initially her sole interaction with the audience and she proved herself a master of silent communication – evoking laughter and applause with a simple glance, smile, or wink.  I often enjoyed watching her more than the bubble art she was creating which ranged from complex floral shapes multiple tiny bubbles inside enormous bubbles.  She even danced between bubble “tubes” made by gigantic bubble wands.

Two television monitors on either side of the stage gave the audience different views of Ms. Yang’s artistry providing full visualization of her craft – an excellent idea on the part of the show’s creators/producers.

 While I enjoyed the rather out of place laser light manipulation show/dance performed by Ms. Yang near the end of 80 minutes of bubble-fun, I also found it to be out of place and a little jarring.  It felt again like it was more grandiose self-promotion with a cornered audience.  I’m quite sure this was a way to demonstrate what’s next for the Yang family of performers.  At least it was a fun interlude, but it’s not what I came to see.

I suppose in that sense I’m a theatre purist: Show me what I came to see and save the ads for Playbill.
Jaded New Yorker though I may be, I was mesmerized by the bubbles, engaged by the performance; enthralled by the lights; and thrilled at my son’s joyful ooh’s and ahh’s as he leapt out of his seat to grab at the glistening magic. Those bubbles bounced and bobbed by the thousands, amidst changing multi-colored lights, in all their bubblicious glory.  I loved all that – almost as much as my 4 year old.
Who knew there could be so much joy in a roomful of soap?

The Gazillion Bubble Show is playing now at New World Stages Theatre in New York City.  For tickets call Telecharge at: 212-239-6200 or visit www.telecharge.com.

Having it All

Having it All 

I have recently been told that Women Still Can’t Have it All.  In an article in the July/August issue of Atlantic Magazine, Anne-Marie Slaughter, a former Director at the US State Department, told the women of America that we’ve been sold a bill of goods by the women’s movement. The article says that we really can’t be moms and have careers - and be really good at both.  Yet we continue to strive for exactly that. 

The article has caused quite a stir among moms who work outside the home, with outcries of: “How can this working mom be so anti-feminist?” And, “What right does she have to speak for me?” To the opposite side of the spectrum: “Right on…you sing it Sista’.” 

I’m somewhere in the middle – floundering in the quagmire of my own reality. While I am currently attempting to “have it all,” I don’t really “want it all.” Basically, I never thought I could have it all which is one reason I’m a later mom.  I’m often torn between the challenge of having a career and the reward of being a mom.  I hate the tug-of-war that exists between the two and yet, and until I can be in two places at once, that’s my world.  But will it really take the paranormal to attain balance?

When I had my son at age 42, I had absolutely no idea how I would make it all work in family-averse corporate America.  We are the only advanced country in the world not to have universal healthcare and one of the only ones not to have a national vacation policy or decent time off for maternity leave. There is little interest on the part of large corporations to take care of their employees by assisting them to balance their personal and professional lives.  And why is that?  Wouldn’t it make for a happier workplace? Happy employees are more productive and loyal, aren’t they? Would it kill these multi-billion dollar powerhouses to spare some extra vacation time? Give assistance with childcare? Let a woman nurse her baby for a few extra weeks?  And if they’re worried about parity for childless employees, why not incorporate some family leave days?

  

Admittedly, I’ve internally raged at the women’s movement for dangling that carrot – forcing one door to open while another is slammed in my face.  Like an abandoned child, I feel like I’m flying blind without a friendly hand to guide me.  Where are those women now - the mothers of my so-called equality? They certainly aren’t running the corporations or the government.  In fact the loudest women out there just want to shut more doors in my face. The feminist movement died – even some of its leaders have died - leaving their daughters and grand-daughters balancing a laptop on one hip and a baby on the other.

But how can I blame the women’s movement for making me think I can be Sr. VP and Supermom?  My mom’s generation got the ball rolling and my generation not only dropped that ball, but continues to sit back and watch it roll into the gutter. The women’s movement gave me choice; they gave me the opportunity to lead a different kind of life than the generations of women before me – for that I am grateful.  The women of the 20th Century, suffered so that I could have choices.  They made it possible for me, not to just dream of having it all, but to actually strive to have it all – and so I am – whether I want it all or just a piece of it all.

What’s next liberated women of the 21^st Century?  It seems to me that what needs to change, as Ms. Slaughter points out so well in her article, is the corporate and government attitude toward families with working parents, and women in particular. We need to stop waiting for things to change and start pushing for change.

Thank you, Ms. Slaughter, for opening another door – at least – for me.

Daddy Builds a Tree House
By Amy Wall Lerman

(Originally published in Motherhood Later Than Sooner ezine Baby Bloomer column)

My husband is putting the finishing touches on our son’s backyard tree house: A little boy’s dream come true. But which little boy? We all have dreams when we’re kids. I was going to be a “mad scientist” years before I failed my first chemistry test. Then I was going to win an Oscar until I realized I had to actually attend New York City cattle call auditions just to get started. Sometimes we fulfill our dreams and sometimes we don’t, but childhood is that magical time of believing all things are possible.

Evan’s daddy is a dreamer and not just a dreamer who dreams. He finds ways to make dreams come true. When my husband says he’s going to do something, he does it and he does it well. So when he purchased a book called, “How to Build a Tree House,” I knew our lonely, old, backyard oak, would soon be the proud support-system for a magnificent boy’s hideout.

I often wonder, and ask my husband, what life was like for him when he was growing up in the Soviet Union and am always pleasantly surprised to hear that his life was not all that different from mine. Choices were certainly limited but just like the rest of us west-of-the–iron-curtain dwellers, my husband watched cartoons, played tag, went to school, and wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. He doesn’t like to think his life was limited because there are no limits to dreams no matter where you are. However fulfilling those dreams, for him, had challenges I never knew.

Even without limitations though, most of us do not become the thing we dreamed we’d be because practicalities exist and goals change as we change. We create our own limitations. When we have children it’s an opportunity to recapture a time when anything is possible so we live vicariously through our kids. We strive to recreate the childhood we had, or build the childhood we longed for – and sometimes a combination of the two.

I still have dreams for myself and for my family. My husband does to, but what I appreciate most about him, is that he strives not to set limitations on dreams – not his, not mine, and not Evan’s. Maybe that is a product of growing up within a society of imposed limitations.
But unlike me, Evan’s daddy doesn’t dwell too much on the future. His dreams exist in the here and now and include building a magical world for his son. A world where you dream of a tree house and it appears as if from nowhere. When you’re a kid you don’t see much of the blood, sweat and tears that go into such an endeavor – you’re not supposed to. But, hopefully, one day, when he’s thinking back on the days of shooting pirates from 6 feet above the ground, he’ll always know the sky’s the limit.



Happy Father’s Day to the love of my life and my dream come true…and the best daddy a boy could ask for.


BIO Amy Wall Lerman, Editor of the Motherhood Later Than Sooner eZine, Baby Bloomer, is a television news producer and writer. She is the author of several books including The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Critical Reading and The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Family Games. Her poetry has been published in an online literary journal. Amy lives in New Jersey with her husband and 4-year old son.
Tags: Amy Wall Lerman, Seedlings

Autism Awareness

By Amy Wall Lerman, Baby Bloomer Editor
It’s Autism Awareness month – and boy – am I aware! I never really understood the significance of all these awareness days and months until I found myself in a position of having to be aware of at least one of them – April.

When my son was about a year old he started to flap his hands over his ears like he was trying to block something out. I knew it wasn’t because of noise but because something was upsetting him. For me, it was a trigger that something could be wrong. Sounds ridiculous right? I know…I’m a helicopter mom, a worry-wart, a hypochondriac, you name it… I thought it. But no matter how much other moms told me not to worry, what they didn’t know, and I couldn’t be completely sure of at that time, is that Autism is in my genes.

Whether or not a genetic link has been identified by researchers, from the day my son was born I had my eyes wide open for signs of things not being quite the way they should be – not just because I knew the latest statistics: 1 in every 110 children is diagnosed with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder) in the United States and no one knows why – but because my nephew, Matthew, now 21 years old, has Autism.

Around the time Evan, my son, started to walk, my brother and his wife drove their 21 month old son, Emmet, to see a doctor in Pennsylvania (recommended by my sister – the mother of Matthew) because they too had concerns. I got an email from my brother that night with 3 words: “High Functioning Autism,” otherwise know as Asperger’s Syndrome. My heart sank for them because I saw the long road ahead based on what I experienced as Matthew was growing up. But times had changed and there were now services and therapies available to Emmet that barely existed when my sister was raising her son in the 1990’s.

Then there was one: my little Evan – just 6 months younger than Emmet. If my antennae were up from birth, my radar was now honed in and flashing red. Suddenly the gesture of covering his ears when he was upset took on new meaning and real worry. What if Autism really is genetic?
When Evan was 18 months old my husband and I found ourselves on that same road to Pennsylvania. Evan was too young at this point to be diagnosed with anything concrete, but his lack of eye contact, scanty speech, tantrums, family history, and lack of sleep were enough to get him 4 hours of Early Intervention services per week. At 2 years old, we took Evan back to be reevaluated and were sent home with the same diagnosis as Emmet: Asperger’s.

We went back to the state and were given 11 more hours of Early Intervention services. A dark cloud fell over us at that time, but again, I looked at my boy and told myself the same thing I told my brother when Emmet was diagnosed – a label is just a label – Evan will always be Evan; Emmet will always be Emmet – our sweet, wonderful boys.

Out of 6 children born in my family in one generation, 3 have ASD and all are boys – only 1 boy, Matthew’s older brother, escaped. The statistics in the United States for boys diagnosed with ASD is 1 in every 70. What are the odds that 3 boys in one family alone would get the same diagnosis? We’ve heard everything from vaccines and predisposition, chromosomal abnormalities, having kids later in life, and even “there’s something in the water.” While it would be great to find the cause and “a cure,” until that time – all we have is awareness.

So now I know: Being “aware” as a parent means “trusting your gut.” Don’t go crazy with worry – just keep your eyes open and be aware of the signs and symptoms. So what if you’re wrong and people say you’re crazy – awareness is what matters because getting help EARLY is critical to your child’s prognosis.

Being “aware” as a member of society means to be mindful. A parent struggling with an unruly child in the grocery store may have more on her plate than you know. Offer to lend a hand versus casting a critical eye. Be aware that the kid on the playground wearing his hat and mittens in 70 degree weather (who other kids laugh at) may have ASD. So what if he’s a little quirky? He might also be smart, funny, and incredibly intelligent. Help your child to understand and to be kind.

And keep in mind that “kids on the spectrum” will grow up to be “adults on the spectrum.” You might be asked for directions by someone on the street who seems a little odd at first, but she really just needs your help. Maybe you’ll even bump into Matthew, a fledgling Paleontologist at the Museum of Natural History in Philadelphia giving a tour of the dinosaur exhibits one day. You’ll notice that he’s a little different but he has plenty to say. You just need to listen.

Amy Lerman, Editor of the Motherhood Later e-Zines, is a television news producer and freelance writer. She is the author of several instruction books including The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Critical Reading and The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Family Games. Her poetry has been published in the online literary journal Patchwork. Amy lives in New Jersey with her husband and 3 year old son, Evan.

Plop!

KID’S SHOW REVIEW: PLOP! by Amy Wall Lerman, editor, Baby Bloomer eZine from MotherhoodLater.com

“We have to stop the terrible plop!” My son could not stop repeating this phrase as we drove back to New Jersey after a visit to the “big city” where we spent the early part of the afternoon watching about 40 kids squeal with delight as apples dropped from the sky. The child audience was participating in a performance brought straight to New York City’s New Victory Theater from the Windmill Theatre in Adelaide, Australia.
Plop! is a clever interpretation of a picture book for preschoolers, The Terrible Plop, by Ursula Dubosarsky with illustrations by Andrew Joyner and this show is absolutely mesmerizing. While parents are entranced by the sight of their children laughing, pointing, and dancing, the kids are equally engaged as they watch Nathan and Nadia stop apples from splashing (or “plopping” – as my son corrected me later) from the ceiling into a magical pond below.

Why stop the plop? Well, in this peaceful forest setting where bunny rabbits play and wave to children from inside picnic baskets, the “plop” of each apple is startling both from the sound it makes, the water it spills, and the mystery that surrounds its fall from the sky. Children screech excitedly as the third actor on stage (a “bear” and sound man) plays an escalating voice that cries “plop, plop, plop…” until it reaches a crescendo of plops and an apple drops from a tube above a deep container of water in the center of the stage.

The children are seated in a semi-circle around “the stage” (decorated with scenes from the book) where the action takes place. My son managed to maneuver himself to the front, making me wonder if he was going to get right up there with the actors or attempt a leap into the magic pool, but there were no shenanigans – just a lot of laughter, dancing, and fun.

Aside from the unique aspects of the play itself, I was also very impressed by the attention to detail when it came to entertaining the children and keeping the parents sane. Before the curtains open to the room where the stage is located, the children are gathered in a waiting area where images from the books line the walls and a little concession stand sells hardback copies of the book for $16. Here the kids are invited to color and create their own forest picnic scene complete with cut-out bunnies pasted onto oversized Popsicle sticks. The kids are also asked to spot bunnies hiding in handmade trees on the walls: if they find a bunny, their name is written on a paper apple and hung on the foliage (they don’t really even have to find a bunny to get their names on apples, but, “ssshh,” don’t tell).

Another impressive off-stage moment I noted was when a woman was trying to soothe her younger child who started to cry after the lights were dimmed. I saw the stage manager nod to the back of the room, and someone rushed to her side with a wooden apple and a soft plush bunny to engage the child and help the mom (and keep the room “quiet” for the opening scene too, I’m sure).

After the show, the children were given the opportunity to explore the set, touch the sound equipment, pet the puppet bunnies, stick their hands into the water and interact with Australian performers, Nadia Rossi, Nathan O’Keefe, and Tyson Hopprich (otherwise known as “the bear” or “DJ Trip”).


It’s amazing how many wonderful things you can find in New York City for kids. I didn’t know about The New Victory Theater which houses a series of stage performances for children of all ages. While Plop! is recommended for ages 2-5 (and I agree with this age range), the theater houses shows for older kids and families as well. Many have just as much adult appeal like the recent critically-acclaimed production of The Book of Everything.

Whether you live in, or near, New York, or if you are visiting from outside the area, Plop! is a must for families. But you better hurry; the show only runs through May 13^th. And at $20 per ticket, it’s certainly less expensive than a Broadway musica,l and you are steps away from Times Square where, nowadays, there are plenty of stores and restaurants and activities for the entire family to enjoy.

For more information on the show go to:
http://www.newvictory.org/show.m?showID=1034027
For more information on the book The Terrible Plop go to:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Terrible-Plop-Ursula-Dubosarsky/dp/0374374287/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1335671396&sr=8-1

A Love Poem to My Son

Happy Valentine's Day, Evan
Love, Mommy

Cheeks glow red with the heat of dreams

You stretch and smile
“Good morning, Sunshine” and “Cocka-doodle-doo”
A tight grip ‘round my head, you pull me close
“I love you,” is whispered from ear to ear.

Sweet boy – tell me a song

You are my lullaby
Baby breath and heaven-bright eyes
I curl-up inside your tender grip.
Soft tickle-fingers knead a weary soul.

My heart, my boy, my wonder

You walked me from a shadowy ledge
With tender notes plucked on withered strings –
I am lured to needs far greater than my own.

And now, dear one, we sit in lights down dim

Rock and hum the day gone by
Cocooned in angel-threads of soft moonlight
We count the stars and dream again.

The Perfect Mother

I have this fantasy about motherhood that makes my life difficult: Aprons, cookie- baking, ironed sheets, schedules posted on the fridge, clean house with made beds.  All this and I’d still have time for sock darning, starching collars, and “The Young and the Restless.” Yep, the whole “Leave it to Beaver” perfection complex.

Okay, I exaggerate slightly.  I know the difference between black and white TV and Technicolor reality. But seriously, I did have certain preconceptions about what motherhood would be like and so far I’ve only been right about one piece of it.  Maybe we all start out with the fantasy of being the “perfect mom” but what does that really mean anyway?

I started thinking about this as I pulled my arts and crafts supplies from the depths of my basement.  Yanking the cobwebs off the large Tupperware bins, I started plotting the construction of my son’s Halloween costume.  In looking for ideas online, I considered how easy it would be to just point and click and “abra cadabra” a costume would arrive complete in all its prefabricated glory neatly packed in an Amazon.com box on my doorstep without me lifting more than my index finger.  Fight the urge. Fight the urge.  What would Mrs. Cleaver say?

First let me say that I think I’m a decent enough mom.  I worry about his nutrition. I worry about the television shows I let him watch.  I give him Ibuprofen when he has a fever. I make sure his chicken isn’t too hot and his milk is organic.  I kiss his boo-boos and usually have tissues on hand for his runny nose. He’s always on my mind – even as I book satellites from my desk in a noisy newsroom.  So what if his clothes are a little wrinkled, his footed jammies have a hole in the heel, and his bed linen is a few days past clean.  I know that’s not really all that important.

What does worry me however are some of the things I’m somewhat ashamed to admit – like sometimes my mind wanders when I’m with him. When we “play trains” I find myself thinking about work or a short story I’m longing to write. As I move the little black engine around and around….and around…on the wooden track I wonder how many more rounds I’ll have to make until I start smashing my head against a wall.  Then there are the times I play Texas Hold ‘Em on my Blackberry when he wants me to watch “The Wonder Pets Save the Baby Honey Bee” for the thirty-third time. And I just don’t have the muscle to fly him through the house more than once – well maybe twice.

Do these things make me human or do they make me a bad mom?

I guess part of my problem is what it’s always been – I want everything.  I want to be the selfless Mrs. Cleaver but I also want to write the great American novel and have a successful career.  I want all the things I wanted when I was younger – all the things that pushed me to later mommy-hood in the first place.  While my life has changed - I haven’t really changed along with it. 

So what is really important? 

As I wrote this article (the closest I will come to writing the great American novel – at least in this decade) my little boy came to get me a total of eleven times.  He told me a space ship had landed on our house as he served me imaginary soup and a plastic cheese burger for lunch. He showed me how he’d painted a clown picture entirely black and with raised hands asked me, “Where did he go?” 

Suddenly it clicked. What’s important is that one piece I was right about all along in my ponderings of perfection.  It’s about the love.  I knew it would be powerful and perfect - and so it is.

“Thank you, honey, I’ll eat this off my imaginary ironing board,” I said as I sipped invisible tea and one-finger typed the rest of this article.

Once Upon a Music Class (Review from 2009)

When I first became pregnant at the age of 41, I worried about a lot of things but my silliest concern (given the scope of what new mom's worry about) was the fact that I was out of touch and had a crummy memory. I remembered just a few nursery rhymes and very few kids songs. How would I sing my little boy a lullaby if I didn't know any? (Hey...I was a kid a long time ago!)

Music was a very big deal when I was growing up - my family listened to everything from The Beatles to Opera (on 33 vinyl recordings and even a few 78's). I want my son to have music in his life as well. It's not that I want him to grow up to be the Mozart of the 21st Century or anything, but I do want him to associate music with memories throughout his life.

So I went online to find out what kind of music parents were playing for their kids these days which is how I found out about Music Together classes.

Now, I know many moms have known about Music Together for over 20 years...but I did mention I was out of touch! So for those of you who are just venturing into the land of motherhood knowing as little as I did: Music Together is an internationally recognized method of teaching music to children starting at birth through about five years old. The idea is for children, along with their parents (or caregivers), to actively experience music versus absorbing it passively through CD's and television. Along with an adult role model and an experienced teacher, children sing, dance, and play musical instruments. Music Together believes that all children are musical - and we've all seen babies innately bopping up and down to the music we play for them - so this idea did not seem outrageous to me at all.

The best thing about this music class for me, beyond spending an hour pounding on an oversized drum with my gleeful two-year-old, are the CD's! At the beginning of each season of classes, you are given a two-CD-set of original musical arrangements that you will learn along with your child. You will also be given an illustrated songbook with the music and lyrics written out and even some instruction about how to use the songs at home.

There are nine song collections in all. Each collection is represented by a specific instrument like bongos, bells, drums, and this season...for me...the fiddle. The songs, and the arrangements of the songs, are absolutely wonderful. The collections are culturally diverse from Native and African American folk songs to Latin dance tunes, and Irish ditties.

So now I don't mind that I don't remember who took whom in The Farmer in the Dell or how to do the Hokey Pokey because I can drum the macrobeat of Sweet Potato and Hine Ma Tov...and you thought these classes were for my son! That's ok...so did I until I found myself not only singing the tunes to myself all day at work, but I keep one of the CD's in the car that doesn't have the car seat!

To learn more about Music Together and to find a class in your area, go to their national website: www.musictogether.com.

One Good Egg

I knew as early as about thirty-two that I was not going to have an easy path to parenthood. I had polycystic ovaries and an underactive thyroid - which took about 5 years and 10 different doctors to diagnose and then another few years to regulate. I always figured that if I wanted a child - it would either be a battle to get pregnant or I would go the adoption route. One way or another I knew I had options and certainly time, right? I mean - look at all the Hollywood actresses who were having babies after forty!

When I met my husband, I was up front about my fertility situation and since he was as ambivalent about having kids as I was at that time, it didn't put a damper on our relationship. Instead we put a huge map of the world on our wall and stuck pins in the places we hoped to see together one day. Ah...to dream.

That's when reality struck. When my menstrual cycle went out of whack...yet again...just before I turned forty - despite all my medications - my new (and wonderful) doctor brought up the baby issue...yet again. How she treated my problem would partially depend on whether or not I planned to have kids. I told her I wanted to keep my options open. She told me about donor eggs and my heart sank.

Was it that dire? Would I really not be able to have my own biological child? For some silly reason I thought I still had time to sit on the fence. I'd read that women have a limited supply of eggs but I didn't know they had an expiration date. I'd heard about plenty of women over forty who suddenly became pregnant - the natural way. Maybe I'd be one of those lucky ones.

My doctor did assure me that the door was not closed for me but my chances of getting pregnant were diminishing rapidly with each passing year. In fact...after forty, studies say that my chances were dropping rapidly with each passing month and with my medical history - anything I tried could be a shot in the dark: "You just have to find that one good egg," she said. Boom! I was off the fence. Kicked off, in fact - landing flat on my rear-end and into the world of IVF.

I sent curses to those Hollywood actresses as I journeyed through the world of needle pokes and weekly pelvic ultrasounds. Very few of them talked about this part of the over-forty journey to motherhood. These women are rich; beautiful; thin; have doctors armed with Botox...and babies? Come on - why is it so easy for them?

The truth is - it isn't. Money might buy you a few more rounds of IVF or the ability to pay for a lawyer so you can adopt a child from Outer Mongolia, and pay for a top-notch nanny, but no amount of money is going to reverse the aging process that takes place within our ovaries. I guess I kind of wish that there was more transparency in Hollywood about how celebrities are getting pregnant, so dreamers like me wouldn't wind up traumatized by statistics. But I get it now and I did wind up among the lucky ones. Hollywood here I come?

Parental Improv

My son hit me the other night. Yep, he turned around from his Dinosaur Train computer game, said “Go away,” and walloped me upside the head. I didn’t even say anything except, “let’s get your jammies on.” Them’s hardly fightin’ words, right? Had there been a video camera present though, it would have been a great ad for Mastercard because I’m quite sure the look on my face was: priceless.
I know I was thinking: “oh-crap-what-do-I-do?” A thought and expression reserved strictly for a call to my boss’s office. My sweet little three-year-old Mohammed Ali must have read my confusion because he too seemed a little stunned in his own “oh-crap-what-DID-I-do?” moment. I could read it in his eyes. But he came to his conclusion way faster than I came to mine. His conclusion was to try it again, probably because it was something new and apparently wielded some fleeting sense of power over the Almighty Mom. My solution was to think a minute and see where this went – and it better not be to the other side of my head.

This is one of the many times I’ve had to stop and think “Oh, I’m the parent. This is one of those parent moments that I have to figure out,” but although I’m 42 years older than him, I think I probably felt just as lost as he did at that moment, if not more. Being a disciplinarian so far has meant saying “no” now and again and/or enacting diversionary tactics. I’ve spent a lot of time with other people’s kids and when they’ve misbehaved I’ve been able to laugh. But that’s someone else’s kids. I’m not responsible for who they become in this life. Wow. Is this what it feels like to be a parent?
I’ve read a lot about the different means of disciplining children, from a smack on the hand to “Supernanny”-style naughty stools. I don’t have the stomach for the naughty stool and I don’t believe in hitting children (or anyone else for that matter) and well, Supernanny, you are way-cool but unless you’re going to hang out at my place for two weeks, I have no intention of pretending to be you. So what do I do?

I didn’t have to kneel down to his level because I was already down there. No he didn’t flatten me with his left hook, I was just already down there. I held his arms to his side and told him to look at me. He threw his head back and demanded that I “let go” of him “N-O-W.” That kid has some lungs! I said, “I’ll let go when you look at me and say you’re sorry.” That made him thrash even harder and scream even louder. That was nothing compared to what I got when I leaned over and shut his computer off, picked up his jammies and started to walk away.

When he ran to Daddy who was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, and found no solace there (thank you Daddy!!) he came running at me again - to hit me again. Still as confused as I was 3 minutes ago, I just sat still and ignored him. He picked up everything he could find and threw it into the middle of the room and stomped off with his arms folded. Daddy and I exchanged smirks. That exchange of knowing looks between us made me feel reassured and even empowered. Daddy and Mommy were presenting a united front that no little Tasmanian Devil was going to gnaw his way through – and in that one smirk was a reminder that there really was humor here.

When I called Evan back over to me a minute later, he came over, head bowed, lip pouty, little gulping sobs, but still that defiant look (that look I love so much) out of the corner of his eye. I told him he could sit with me and watch TV if he picked up everything he threw around the room. He picked it up and threw it on the ground again. I said, “I guess you don’t want to watch TV.” He looked at me for a second. I looked straight back at him and he slowly placed everything piece by piece on the couch next to me – all the while pouting and babbling to himself. I said, “Great, what should we watch?” He curled up in a ball, tried not to smile, and said “Dinosaur Train.” I gave him a kiss, told him he did a wonderful job calming down and that I love him. He grabbed my ears, pulled me to him and gave me a hug around the same head slammed just moments before.

I never figured out what to do. I didn’t have a plan. I went into it clueless, got through it just as clueless and left it feeling like a parent. I never raised my voice or lifted a finger. I don’t know what happened in the end - but I think it worked.

Regrets of a Later Mom

I regret not having children when I was younger.  Not because I have a problem with being a later mom because I know who I was in my twenties and I know who I am now and this is definitely the right time for me. What I regret is that I can’t have more kids of my own. I’m a little sad that I didn’t meet the right man at about 27, have my first kid by 30 and then 2 more before 37 or so.  Had I known myself better when I was younger maybe things would have turned out differently for me. 
 

I regret not having children when I was younger.  Not because I have a problem with being a later mom because I know who I was in my twenties and I know who I am now and this is definitely the right time for me. What I regret is that I can’t have more kids of my own. I’m a little sad that I didn’t meet the right man at about 27, have my first kid by 30 and then 2 more before 37 or so.  Had I known myself better when I was younger maybe things would have turned out differently for me.  But that’s like saying “maybe if the sun was purple, the trees would be pink.”  No matter how hard I try to rationalize it, I can’t fully let go of that sense of regret.

Ever since my son was born, I’ve told myself that I can do it again.  Despite the fact that I had one month of feeling good and healthy during my pregnancy and doctors stamped my forehead with that “Advanced Maternal Age” label and filled my head with scary thoughts every single time I went for an ultrasound, I was convinced I could do it again.  Never mind the fact that it would have to be via IVF because I’ve been infertile most of my life due to PCOS, hypothyroidism, hyperplasia, aneuploidy, and who knows what else.  I’ve always heard those stories about women getting pregnant naturally after struggling for years.  I have friends who experienced that - so why not me? 

I’ve spent years resisting going on the pill to regulate my cycle despite suffering from three-week-long periods, hemorrhaging, and anemia.  My gynecologist never pushed me toward it. My endocrinologist questioned me on it but was respectful of my need to dream.  No one wants to come out and say “snap out of it, you’re too old to have another baby.”  And no one should say that – it’s the 21^st century and women have options.

I guess I could go for a donor egg and IVF again and I suppose my chances would be very good. And, I think adoption was an option until probably this year when I turned 46 – depending on the adoption agency, of course, and the country from which I wanted to adopt.  So if I’m willing to write off these other options, is my sense of regret really about not having more children or something deeper.

A couple of months ago I became so sick with anemia that I had to make a decision.  How much do I want to have another baby versus how badly do I want to be well and comfortable?   When I’m going through a rough menstrual “cycle,” I’m ready to put an end to the fantasy right then and there but when I’m regulated, the feeling that I can do it again, comes creeping back.

So why the flip-flopping feelings? What is really going on here?

I have a beautiful little boy, a wonderful husband, a job, and a house that may be worth nothing these days, but it’s home.  What more could I possibly want? The reality is I have everything I’ve ever wanted right now including the luxury of being able to focus on just one child.  So much love and energy goes into raising this wonderful little kid.  I treasure every moment, every smile, every funny thing he says, and every hair on his sweet little head.  I love being a mom.  Specifically I love being Evan’s mom. 

Maybe that’s the problem.  Now that I know who I am and I am the happiest I’ve ever been in my life, I finally know what was missing and I never want this feeling to go away.  But it’s time to stop fantasizing.  The reality is I’m 46 and my body is fighting me.  I need to take care of myself and enjoy the here and now because “right now” is exactly where I’m meant to be.

Just Breathe!

As a parent I learn a new thing everyday. In the last two months I learned that baby teeth can get cavities; that kids will stick pretty much anything up their noses; and I learned about something I hope no other parent reading this has to experience. But if you do, I don’t want you to be as in the dark as I was when it happened.

You know the old tale about kids holding their breath until they turn blue?  Well, I always thought that was just a metaphor to describe how far a kid will go to get what he or she wants – it’s not a metaphor and it’s not on purpose. 

I had never heard of “breath holding spells” (or BHS) until my son had one on Thanksgiving Day. First of all, let me just say that Thanksgiving was great.  I had some family and friends over.  The kids ran around the house and had a great time.  Since it was 3 days after my nieces’ 7th birthday and 1 day before my son turned 4, we had a little birthday celebration in addition to turkey and the trimmings.

The kids were running circles around the house and like every parent of 3 and 4 year olds we hoped all the excitement would tire them out…early.  We were watching them the whole time except for when one child slammed a door hitting my son in the face as he was running. I heard him cry and knew it was that “I’m hurt cry” so I jumped up and starting walking to where he was.  He was coming toward me at the same time – still crying.

I knelt down and was checking for injuries when all of a sudden his head dropped back and his eyes rolled into his head. I shook him slightly calling his name because…well…it seemed the thing to do at that moment.  Then he turned blue and his eyes were staring blankly.  Later, my friend told me that I was shouting for my husband and telling Evan to breathe, but all I really remember doing was throwing him over my arm and smacking him on the back because to me turning blue meant he was choking. Suddenly he started to cry again and I just held him and rocked him while he complained about the injustice of the door slam.  At that moment, I knew he was okay, but what the hell just happened? It just took seconds.  I had absolutely no idea what I had just seen. I looked over at my sister-in-law and kept saying, “he turned blue.”  My sister-in-law said her friend’s child had had these episodes and she called it a “fainting spell.” But if he turned blue he must have stopped breathing, right?

 

When everyone went home – and I think that incident cleared my house pretty quickly, I called the pediatrician.  She said she wasn’t sure what it was and I should take him to the ER to make sure it wasn’t a seizure – so that’s where we wound up on Thanksgiving night.

After my description of the incident to the ER doctor, and before anyone had even looked at Evan, they told me it sounded like a “breath holding spell.”  All I could say is, “a what?”  They said it is quite common in young children and they grow out of it by about the age of 7. Then they did an EKG to rule out any heart-related issues.

I had a moment where I felt like I was dreaming.  If this was so common, why hadn’t I ever heard of it?  Why hadn’t any other mom I knew ever talked about it?  What is it heck is a “breath holding spell?”  And, if I didn’t know about this, what other horrible surprises await my motherhood?

After polling moms in the Northern New Jersey Chapter of Motherhood Later Than Sooner, I discovered that the doctors were right – while it may not be an everyday occurrence for most – it’s not a rare one either.  Out of the responses I received: one person knew someone whose child had had one of these spells, another one had a child who had had one at the age of two and yet another told me that she used to have them herself as a child.  If it happens as often as this, why don’t most of us know about it?  Is it because it’s harmless to the child so no need to fuss?  Well, thank heaven it is harmless to my son, but I’ll tell ya’ right now…it’s not harmless to the parent.  I died a hundred times over from the time it happened to the reliving of it over the next several days.

I am writing this mainly to spread the word.  If it happens to your child, you should definitely call your pediatrician if not an ambulance depending on the situation. You should get your child thoroughly checked out to rule out any kind of seizure or heart disorder. If everything turns out okay, you just have to hope it was a one-off but brace yourself for a recurrence.  If it does become a recurring problem, the one thing BHS-veteran moms seem to agree upon is this: before your child passes out, blow in his/her face. For some reasons this action kick-starts their breathing. They say it works like a charm. 

Now it’s my turn to hold my breath as I hope to fall into the “one-off” category because, honestly, while he might be fine, I’m not sure I will be.

If the Shoe Fits?

It’s funny, now, to think about how I was in my youth and what I expect of my son.  Aside from the usual stuff like teaching him to be polite; to share with his friends; to be respectful of others; to clean up after himself, I also want him to be nicely, and appropriately, dressed.  Nicely dressed…what’s that about? 

I’ve always been one to sneer in the face of convention and have a solid appreciation for the rebel spirit.  As a teenager I thought I was one tough cookie in my Doc Martin’s, long underwear, knee-length cardigan and the ever-so-hip single, dangling, spider web earring. Every so often, when my son does something reminiscent of my own rebelliousness, I get that little youthful flare in my belly that says, “Yes! You go, Ev.”

Given my affinity for youthful rebellion, my reaction to my son’s attire as he greeted me at the airport last week upon my return from a two week business trip, doesn’t surprise me.  Just before he gave me an enormous hug I noticed he was wearing two different shoes.  I thought perhaps my husband was in a rush to get him out of the house and laughed as I pointed out the error. 

“Nope,” said my husband, “He wanted to wear two different shoes.” 

As he ran happily away with his silly looking feet I thought, big deal – what’s wrong with a trip to the airport in mismatched shoes?  I even had that little belly-flare thought, “You go, Ev!” 

But when I took Evan to school the next day, the teacher smiled and asked if I had been away.  I told her I had and that I meant to email her in advance just in case Evan had any issues at school due to changes at home - but she said he’d been very good.  She said it again, “But we had a feeling you were away.” 

I was puzzled by this.  Why would she think that?  Aside from a note she had sent while I was away saying Evan wasn’t wearing a heavy enough coat to school, it seemed like everything had pretty much been status quo.  Then it hit me…the shoes!  Had Evan been wearing mis-matched shoes to school as well?  Oh the horror!  Upon returning home I asked my husband if that was the case.  He said it was, adding, “What’s the big deal?” 

“What’s the big deal?  What’s the big deal?!”

Hmmmm, I thought…what IS the big deal? 

Why was it okay to be a little rebellious for an airport visit, but not a little rebellious everyday?  Why is it “you go, Ev,” one minute and “that’s not cool,” the next?  As I questioned myself, I realized that motherhood has definitely changed me.  I don’t want the school to think we’re neglectful parents.  I don’t want them to think I’m an inattentive or undisciplined mommy.  Holy cow - it was all about what they would think of me!  I’d never really cared outside of work, or outside of relationships, what anyone thought of me; of what I wore; or of what I believed or didn’t believe.  So why do I care when it comes to my boy?    

Maybe I don’t care what people think of Amy, but I do care what people think of me as a parent.  I really do.  So I can stomp around as loud as can be in my old Doc Martin’s but what matters most is that I’m seen as a good mom from the top of my little boy’s head to the tip of his matching shoes. It matters.  I’m the grown-up now and I understand why the conventions are…sigh…important.  Important, at least, to me.