No Words

Two constants in life are death and taxes.  As any semi-regular reader of my blogs knows, death has struck many times over the years, everyone from my father to my priest's wife.  But when death strikes and you can't comfort the grieved, you're at a loss.

Wednesday at work, the flu infected me to a degree that even my co-workers could see the progression over a few short hours.  One scurried around the office with Clorox wipes disinfecting every surface I had touched during the day.  Another insisted that I go home.  NOW!

It was upon checking my cellphone for urgent office email on Thursday morning that my friend's email stunned me.  Her niece committed suicide on Wednesday night.  The girl shot herself.  Her father found her.

The time stamp on my friend's email was 2:34 a.m.  She had wanted to come over for a shoulder of support.  The problem is that she is also the primary caretaker of her elderly parents who suffer from dementia (her dad) and a gaging reflex that requires a feeding tube for nutrition (her dad) to pneumonia (her mom) because of a stroke (her mom).  The last thing she needed was to take my flu germs back to her parents just when both of them were out of the hospital.

So she wrote a lengthy email containing her pain and anguish and despair.  And I was at a loss for words.

Of the two teenage suicides from my circle of friends, they were both gunshots.  There are some sights that can't be unseen.  Death, especially a tragic, traumatic, bloody death, is one of them.  One that no father should ever have to see.

You'll Never Work Alone

"I'm not joining today."

"But why, my child? I've prepared the feast just for you."

"I have anger issues that I haven't finished dealing with."

"I know. I know everything about you. You even admitted your anger a few minutes ago. But I forgive you. All I ask is that you forgive."

"But she hurt Deirdre with that letter she sent. She blamed Deirdre for her bad decisions and didn't accept any responsibility for her actions."

"I know. I know Deirdre's pain. You're like the lioness protecting her cubs. I chose a good mother for Deirdre. Perhaps it's yourself you need to forgive. Now come to my table."

"I thought that if I partake when you and I aren't in communion that the bread and wine can do more harm than good."

"That's an intriguing thought."
.
.
.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you supposed to tell me what to do?"

"You already know."
.
.
.

"I'll come to the table but not partake."

"Go on."

"Today."

"And?"

"I'll come to your feast next week."

"Is that all?"

"Who are you? The Wizard of Oz and I'm Dorothy? And 'if I ever go looking for my heart's desire, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!'"

"Hahaha. But you didn't finish."

"I know. My work as a mother isn't finished. It will continue. Your task for me is to raise Deirdre with an inquiring and discerning heart, the courage to will and to persevere, a spirit to know and love you, and the gift of joy and wonder in all your works."

"Yes. I chose Deirdre's mother very well.  See you next week?"

"See you next week."
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.
.

"One other thing."

"Don't worry. I'll be beside you tomorrow too."

"Even if I don't remember to talk to you?"

"Even when you refuse to talk to me. You'll never work alone. Because I love you."

[Title taken from this.]

Finis

Cue the music.  In the saga of my 30-Day Non-Facebook Prose-instead-of-Pictures Challenge, it's been quite a while since my last entry.  A sage once told me, when blogging, never explain your absences and never apologize for not writing.  In that vein, this is my cheating entry.  Knocking out the last entries because, well, it's so confining having a meme to follow.  What was supposed to spark creativity has turned into a chore.  Read fast, I'm going for broke...

22.A picture of something you wish you were better at - Ballet
23.A picture of your favorite book - The Six Wives of Henry VIII
24.A picture of something you wish you could change - Christmas
25.A picture of your favorite day - Snow Day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you - Genealogy
27.A picture of yourself and a family member - Me and Mr. Gaelic (sort of - I just like this clip)
28.A picture of something you're afraid of - Snakes (sorry no pics - even pictures of snakes terrify me)
29.A picture that can always make you smile - Stories I read as a child
30.A picture of someone you miss - My parents

So, yeah, I cheated.  And now, let's go on with the blogs.

Little Girls

Getting down to business, in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge, here are the last three.

10.A picture of the person you do the most ****** up things with - Yes
11.A picture of something you hate - Yep
12.A picture of something you love - Now

Another short one tonight.  Mostly because of the highly stressed week in the office.  And it's only Thursday.  Something I love?  Finola, Deirdre, and Maeve!

[Title taken from this.]

How I Do Love Thee!

Rule #1: Never blog under the influence.  I only drink on special occasions.  Last night with the gals from the office was a special occasion.  But the beer tainted my words.  Perhaps what was said should have remained unsaid.  Before moving on here are the last three topics in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge.

7.A picture of your most treasured item - Oui.
8.A picture that makes you laugh - Ja.
9.A picture of the person who has gotten you through the most - You're reading it.

This one is E-Z.  This is the person who was with me during my mother's diagnosis of a brain tumor.  The one who wiped my tears when she died.  Who wrote her obituary.  The one who held my hair back during a total of six months of morning sickness.  (Two full months of "morning sickness" which was really "all-day sickness" times three pregnancies equals six months.)  The person who sat with me as I watched my father die.  Who wrote his obituary.  The one who keeps me grounded but inspires me to soar.

Mr. Gaelic, of course.

Title taken from this.

The Circle of Life

Three guesses what the most treasured item is for a genealogist and family historian.  Go ahead.  Before you read any further.  Make your guesses.  The most treasured item is today's entry in the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge. As usual, here are the last three.

5.A picture of your favorite memory - Done.
6.A picture of a person you'd love to trade places with for a day - Check.
7.A picture of your most treasured item - Here!

It took me a while to figure this one out.  Family heirlooms crossed my mind.  Photos from the present to almost the earliest photographs.  It was hard to narrow the list to one until I asked myself what one item I would save if the house was on fire.

So what are your guesses?  An old portrait of a Civil War soldier in his dress greys?  My grandfather's dog tags from World War I?  A pocket watch?  How about a Bible?

The answer is my great-grandparents' Bible.  There are six generations recorded on the pages between the Old and New Testaments.  Being my great-grandparents' Bible, they listed themselves on the main lines and both of their parents under, well, Bride's and Groom's Parents.  As the children came along, they filled in the names and birth dates.  And in some cases, death dates.  They listed marriages and the in-laws' names. 

After my great-grandparents' death's, the Bible became my grandfather's.  He recorded the birth of his daughter and passed it along to her.  My mother recorded my sister's and my births.  She recorded our marriages and the in-laws' names.  And she passed it along to me.  Mostly because my sister had no children.  I recorded the births of my children and am awaiting the times I will write the marriage dates and their husbands' names.  Sadly, the job of noting my parents' deaths fell to me as well.

But that's what life is.  It's cyclical.  We are born, give birth, and die.  And new generations replace us.  I am a generation to be noted, just like my parents, and my grandparents, and great-grandparents, and great-great-grandparents.  I have given life to the next generation who will bring forth the next. 

Just one big circle of life.

Go to Sleep You Little Baby*

I know a couple whose first, and so far only, child is nine months old.  There were crying jags when he wouldn't sleep for the world.  My heart went out to them but my mind quickly remembered my own sleepless nights with crying babies.  Been there, done that, no thank you.

There were countless readings of "Goodnight Moon", "The Velveteen Rabbit", "The Giving Tree", "Where the Wild Things Are".  And the singing!  Oy, vey!  The singing!  My repertoire consisted of "Hush, Little Baby", "Amazing Grace", "Down in the River", and any other gospel that my brain could remember at least a couple of lines.

And how many times would I start out of the door but the baby would realize I was leaving and start crying again?  They all have a knack for knowing when a parent is suffering from sleep deprivation and, in the back of their evil little minds, want to drive us over the sanity cliff.

So it was with much laughter that I stumbled upon a soon-to-be released children's book.  "Go the F**k to Sleep".  Those exact words crossed my mind more than once.  And anybody who claims that they love their baby every minute of every hour of every day and would never, never, never think something like that?  Well, as the author says in an interview I heard on the radio recently, "they're just full of sh*t."

*Title inspired by this.

Mama Loves Days Like This*

My girl card is about to be taken away.  To me, a date on the calendar to celebrate love (February 14) or mothers (the second Sunday in May) or birthdays (for me, August 6) is not necessarily an excuse to shower me with presents.  My family knows me so well.

Since today is Mother's Day, as with most holidays, we have a family traditional breakfast.  Mr. Gaelic and the girls prepare eggs Benedict, hash browns, fruit salad, LeConte sunrise, and coffee.  No gifts, no cards, only verbal wishes for a Happy Mother's Day.  Except this year Deirdre, who has trouble saying things to me sometimes, gave me a card that expressed her appreciation for all I have done for her.

The rest of the day was picture perfect.  An hour or so of working in my vegetable garden was followed by an extended manicure.  Coffee, naptime, and a trip to the dog park with Baby, all with Mr. G, felt luxurious on a lovely spring day.  When I retired to my boudoir with my laptop for some alone time, what was delivered to my room outdid everything else. 

About to text message Mr. G to see what he was up to, his footsteps were heard on the stairs.  Looking up as he opened the door, I noticed that he didn't have a load of laundry under his arm or a look of consternation on his brow from dealing with the kids alone.  Instead he carried an antique martini glass by the stem.  One bleu cheese-stuffed olive sat at the bottom of the clear liquid.  His gift of making me a dirty martini was almost too much.  My face lit up into the biggest smile possible and my profuse thanks delighted him. 

A perfect way to end a perfect day.

*Mama said click here.

Bring It On

What I'm about to say will piss off any number of people.  But this is my rant.  If you don't like it, too bad.  'Cause it's the way I feel.

I am no longer a full-time mother.  And I hate hate hate that.  My new job demands over 50 hours a week.  Including the 2 1/2 that I put in today.  Today!  A Sunday!  The Sabbath!  So much for keeping all Ten of the Commandments.

My paid job is a full-time office position.  The entire family eats breakfast together before Mr. Gaelic and I carpool to our respective offices and Deirdre drives Maeve and herself to school.  We eat supper together every possible night.  Mostly five of seven, since Deirdre and Maeve both babysit and Deirdre has a boyfriend.

But there is no way that I can in good conscience call myself a full-time mother.  Other women, upon hearing me call myself that in the past, would say that they work as a whatever at such-and-such a place.  Then they'd tack on that they were full-time mothers as well.  Hell no you're not!

Can you be a full-time surgeon and a full-time high school principal at the same time?  No.  Then what makes you think you can be a full-time whatever and a full-time mother at the same time?  You can't.  Because you're not there for your kids full time.  When they need you.  When they come home from school upset and claim that nothing is bothering them, until three hours later when they've finally decided to tell you what's wrong.

I miss my kids terribly.  I was an awesome full-time mother.  It was my calling in life.  We chose for me to stay home with them and our finances suffered for the first few years after the transition.  Only in the last three years had we fully recovered financially from going down to one bread-winning salary. 

Mr. Gaelic has heard this rant before.  He understands that he's not a full-time father.  He understands that no parent who works at any job other than parenting can claim to be a full-time parent.  That goes for parents who work from home, too.  How does Junior feel when you say to him, "Mommy can't play with you right now because I've got to take this call and finish this report"?

I was fortunate to be able to be a full-time mother for 14 years.  I experienced my youngest's infancy and my eldest's graduation.  I also realize that taking a paying job is something I do for my children.  I am providing Finola with the opportunity to attend the best possible college for her.  I will continue in the paid workforce if Deirdre and Maeve want to attend prestigious private universities as well.  What I do I do for them.

I just wish there were some way to provide the best for them while providing the best for me and Mr. Gaelic.  We miss our former lifestyle of a home-cooked supper on the table at 6:30 every night, no lines at the grocery store or dry cleaner, and being able to do absolutely nothing on Saturdays and Sundays.

I want to be a full-time mom again.

Here We Go Again

Parents die before their kids.  That's the way it should be.  It's not always that way.

Christina-Taylor Green was too young to die.  Her parents should never have gone through what they've been through.  The only good thing that came out of her death was that her donated organs have already saved one child's life somewhere on the east coast.

Last summer, a friend was diagnosed with stomach cancer.  With a wife who couldn't take unpaid leave from work, I sat with him, tried to get him to walk, and helped with his meds and his feeding tube.  At his funeral, his eldery mother was completely distraught. 

Now death is lingering around our neighborhood again.  Just yesterday came an email from a husband telling me to tell the other neighbors about the wife's diagnosis.  A non-smoker, she was diagnosed with lung cancer which has spread to her liver, spine, hip, and shoulder blade.  Her children are 7 and 3.  Her parents still live in Massachusetts.

There should be a law that no parent should bury a child.  It's far too inhumane.  You can see it on the faces of John Green, my friend's mother, and any other parent who has survived a child.

The New Year's Child

It's been said that simply having children doesn't make one a mother.  Sometimes the mothering is done in the presence of one's own children but not necessarily towards them.

When Mr. Gaelic and I decided to allow Deirdre to host a New Year's Eve party at our house while we were at another party, we had our reservations.  But we wanted to give her the opportunity to show us how much she's matured over the last year.  Or to fail miserably and learn from her mistakes. 

After the talent show at the other party, Mr. G and I headed back to our house.  Suspicion was high when we heard Maeve in the back seat speaking into her cupped hand holding her cell phone, telling whomever was on the other end that we were on the way home and were presently at the corner of Such-and-such Street and This-and-that Road.

Instead of changing into casual clothes and walking down the street to watch the fireworks, we camped out in our bedroom and watched to see if anyone was going outside for anything illicit.  Sure enough, there were four boys in the garage, smoking cigarettes and climbing on Mr. G's motorcycle.  At 6'5", when he moseyed outside and told the boy to get off the bike, the cigarettes went out faster than the boy got his leg over the seat.  The high school kids don't call Mr. G the Terminator for nothing.

While Mr. G was doing the tough dad thing, I was on my knees in front of another boy who had made the mistake of going to another teen party which had been busted up earlier.  He somehow made his way to Deirdre's party.  Already intoxicated.  Three-sheets-to-the-wind intoxicated.  Deirdre sat beside him while I asked him if he knew who I was.  "You're Didi's mom."  I asked if he knew where he was.  "At Didi's."

"Can you drink something?"

"Yes."

"Take these two Tylenol and drink this water."

When another boy's mother showed up to drive her son and the intoxicated boy home, it was imperative that she knew what had happened.  Although my thoughts were the same as hers, I didn't voice them.  "You really messed up," wasn't something that he needed to hear right then.  With a hangover, he'd know it.  And he can always be told later, when he might actually remember hearing it.

Dierdre did an okay job for hosting her first party.  She could have done better.  She also could have done much worse.  Mr. G and I debriefed her after everyone had left and told her as much.  She acknowledged that and apologized profusely for not being able to stop the intoxicated boy from showing up and for not being able to stop the boys in the garage from smoking.

The lesson she learned was that, even though we don't approve of certain activities by teenagers, we're not going to berate them or throw them out when they are in need of a caring adult.  Her thanks to us for helping with the intoxicated boy were sincere. 

My lesson came when she told me during the debriefing that the intoxicated boy was the same one who was in the hospital two weeks prior from attempted suicide.  His parents had abandoned him and both blamed him for their problems.  My lesson was that I must parent any child in need.  Not just the ones that I birthed.

The (Holiday) Time Machine

When Mr. Gaelic and I bought our Christmas tree today, there was still snow on the branches from earlier this week.  Yes, it's only seven days until Christmas.  No, we weren't too busy to get one before now.  It was on purpose.  Waiting until Advent is over before we begin celebrating Christmas.  Advent ends tomorrow.

Next year, we'll be buying our tree from a cut-it-yourself tree farm.  The church where we usually buy our tree sold out yesterday.  The garden center where we purchased this year's tree only had a handful left.  The salesman at the garden center told us that they don't get fresh shipments during December; they get one shipment of trees just before Thanksgiving since people want to decorate after the turkey and leftovers are in the fridge.

If I had it to do over again, I would institute some changes in our house.  Santa would visit on December 6th, the feast of Saint Nicholas, Bishop of Myra.  He's the saint that "evolved" into Santa Claus.  December 25th would be a religious celebration of the Nativity of Our Lord and not a celebration of commercialization.  Adults would exchange gifts on New Year's Day as they did in Medieval and Renaissance times. 

I already buck one trend.  There is no Easter Bunny. 

During Lent, which begins on Ash Wednesday, everyone in the family gives up something.  During those 40 days, we put whatever we have given up in our Easter baskets.  Whether it is Starbucks, chocolate, or scotch, when we are tempted to partake during Lent, we put it in the basket.  For things like scotch or Starbucks, we put in either a new bottle of single malt or a gift card for lattes. 

When Easter rolls around, we can break our fast of what was given up.  But it's a more meaningful symbol of sacrifice if we can see it every day on the dining room table.  After all, that's part of the meaning of Easter -- sacrifice (Good Friday) and resurrection (Easter).

How did I get on Easter?  Oh, yeah, before we forsake Him on Good Friday we have to birth the Baby.  Now, if only I could just turn back the clock a few years and have the kids' stockings filled two weeks after Thanksgiving by that almost-forgotten bishop . . . 

Saint Gaelic

I just realized that when something is bugging me I don't/can't wait until the next day to blog about it (if I've already posted one today).

Take today for instance.  For the past three nights Mr. Gaelic and I have been called saints by several parents.  The latest ordeal began last Saturday night when Dierdre and her two friends Alice and Lori were planning on spending the night at Lori's house.  They were all downtown with their boyfriends before they were to head back to Lori's when they ran into another friend, Jordan.

Jordan is a very petite blonde who was adopted from Russia by a single mother.  There has always been some sort of drama surrounding Jordan and her mom.  The biggest was last summer when Jordan ran away and moved in with a boyfriend several years her senior.  Two other mothers became involved before Jordan was returned to her own mother.

Last Saturday, Jordan told the three girls that her mother had said it was alright for her to sleep over at Lori's too.  Lori's mom asked Jordan if it was okay when all the girls showed up.

On Sunday while Mr. Gaelic and I were sitting in church, my cellphone rang.  We had left Maeve at home because she was tired from babysitting the night before.  I didn't answer my phone but shoved it deeper into my purse to muffle it.  Turns out that the police were at my house and wanted Maeve to call us.

Jordan's mom had called in a missing person's report on her.  The police had gone to all the places that she had been known to go.  Apparently they hit our house before hitting Lori's house.  That's where they found her.

Deirdre and Alice, who returned from the sleepover just after I arrived home, were telling me the whole story (which, believe it or not, I've shortened here) when the police pulled up in front of my house again.  This time Jordan got out of the cruiser and walked to our door and the police drove away.  No how-do-you-do, no nothin' from the police.

Jordan and her mom needed a cooling off period.  It was agreed that Jordan would stay with Alice for two nights and with us for three nights.  Mr. Gaelic talked to her about what her plan was.  She had none.

Mr. Gaelic is the only male in her life.  Her mother is a never-married woman; Lori's father died 11 months ago; Alice found out about her father's affair before her mom did and he moved in with his much-younger girlfriend.  But Jordan needs more help than any of our skill sets allows.

In talking to her mom today for almost an hour, she and I decided that we would drive Jordan to her mom's house this evening.  I don't know whether Jordan will stay or leave again.  As much as I would like to help, she just can't stay here another night.  And I'm not about to turn her out on the street. 

This is what I was actually writing about the other day with the tractor-beam parents and the lighthouse parents.  I really have come to appreciate lighthouses.  They can be the saviors of many.  But still some ships are lost at sea.  I'm ready to hand back my sainthood.

There's a Light, Over at the Gaelic's Place

A couple of years ago, the adult ed hour at our parish was led by a phenomenal woman who works as a chaplain at a local private school.  Her talk was about children and parents and relationships.

She said there are two types of parents -- tractor beam parents and lighthouse parents.  Remember the scene in Star Wars when the Millennium Falcon gets caught in the Death Star's tractor beam and pulled into the landing bay?  That's like a tractor beam parent. 

They are intent on making the child into what they think the child should be and do and learn and say and befriend.  They latch onto the child and draw that child into their ways, their beliefs.  The children aren't allowed to fully become their own person.

Now imagine a lighthouse.  What does a lighthouse do?  It stands on a craggy outcropping shining its light out into the darkness.  If a ship were to go toward the lighthouse, what would happen to the ship?  It would be destroyed on the rocks.  Ships see the light from the lighthouse and know that the light is leading them to safer waters, not drawing the ships toward danger.

Finola, who sat in on the discussion, claimed that she was the lighthouse to many of her friends.  She thought that being a lighthouse is a very tough position to be in as a teen among peers.  Perhaps she was born old, more mature.

Being a lighthouse parent is also a hard row to hoe.  We've tried to be lighthouses for our children.  Recently we've been shoved into the lighthouse role for Deirdre's friends.  I see the tractor beam of the other parents.  They want their children to be what they want the children to be.  And the children rebel in various and sundry ways, often reaching out to us "the cool parents".

We are no less strict than other parents.  We just know when to pick our battles and which battles are more important than others.  Parenting is a difficult and sometimes thankless job.  I am encouraged by the knowledge that my children's friends feel comfortable enough to seek refuge in the calmer water to which we can lead them. 

With time, perhaps the tractor beam parents and their rebellious children will learn to live with each other's differences.

Does This Make My Baby Look Fat?

My eldest baby is off at college. For several weeks before moving into her college housing she went through her room creating three piles: take to college with her, store in the attic, and trash. For anyone who’s seen Toy Story 3, you’ll understand why I cried through the whole movie. Except that I didn’t cry when Ken was modeling his vintage clothing.

The teens were given two options: have a yard sale and split the proceeds or load up everything for a donation run to Salvation Army. They wanted to have a yard sale.

The last yard sale at our house was probably a good ten or 12 years ago. I detest yard sales. Having them, at least. So if the girls were going to put one together, I was going to get rid of as much as I could so that I don’t have to even consider the possibility of a yard sale for another ten or 12 years.

My closet looked like it was suffering from projectile vomiting. Piles all over the bedroom. Things that I hadn’t seen in years. I found my stash of cards from all the flowers that Mr. Gaelic sent me when we were first dating and he was leading up to the proposal. I also found baby girl clothes. So tiny! With the delicate lace that my mother insisted on buying when I was making their layette. And the ethereal cotton dresses that I wore as a baby before my father had air conditioning installed in the house.

When I held up one tiny gown I could only picture how big the girls are now. All grown up and off at college. When I was in the thick of it, I thought they’d never grow up. Now when I look back on it, their childhood was gone in a flash.

Shirting with Disaster

My second daughter is taking summer P.E. at her high school so that she can take an academic class in its place during the school year. Class goes from 7:25 a. fricking m. to 2:35 p.m. The first session of the day is spent in the classroom. Currently that’s the Drivers’ Ed part of the course. During the second session of the day, she dresses out in her school P.E. uniform.

The other day she left the house before I was up. After running errands was the first time I saw her that day. The first thing out of my mouth was, “Where’re your shorts?”

She smiled and tugged her dress down at the hem.

“What do you have on under there?”

More tugging and, “Underwear.”

“You’ve got to be kidding?” as I lifted the side of her dress to see her black undies. “That’s a shirt, not a dress.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“I bought that as a shirt to wear over jeans.”

“Nuh-uh.”

I looked at it again and remarked to my husband, “When I was a kid, we wore dresses that short.”

He shook his head.

“Don’t let me catch you wearing a shirt as a dress again.”

More tugging at the dress and her face turned the cutest color of red.

Generation Why

One of the problems with being born on the cusp of anything is not quite fitting in to either group completely. While I’m definitely a Leo, I’m sort of Gen X. Technically speaking, I was born within the year span for Generation X. But my upbringing was done by the Greatest Generation parents and an older Baby Boomer sister.

My husband is a Baby Boomer. Since I had my children while I was relatively young (by today’s standards), most of my close friends are Boomers as well. I fit in very well with them in certain aspects, even though I still love me some Police, Prince, and Michael Jackson (rest in peace).

One thing where I fit in better with my parents’ generation is my child-rearing philosophy. The problem began with the Boomer generation who decided to allow their children to call adults by their first names. They dropped all honorifics, including Aunt and Uncle so that Uncle John became just John. Amongst my set of friends, we have a rule that we all instituted without confirming with each other first – children address all adults as Mr. or Mrs. So-and-So. Does the fact that my close friends are all friends from my parish have anything to do with it?

One of my biggest pet peeves is placing children on par with adults, such as inviting children to adult parties and adults to children parties. I may be friendly to children but I’m not friends with them. They should have their own friends just as I have mine. When we were invited to a neighbor’s birthday party, I knew that the momentous occasion would include children. Looking at the invitation alone was enough to make the hives welt up on my neck.

At the party, I watched in both amusement and horror as a mother explained to her preschooler that the two drinks in the pretty dispensers were alcoholic – one with gin, the other with rum – and that the child didn’t like either of those, “remember?” To the side was a pitcher of a red colored drink for the kids. Why should a child serving him or herself settle for red if he or she likes green or blue better? Thankfully, only one child tried to help himself to the blue adult drink (at least that I saw).

The last 50th birthday party that I attended was an adult-only affair. The adults could be adults and mingle with other adults without having to worry about whether their children were heading off into the street or helping themselves to the blue rum-based drink. Call me old-fashioned, but if you’re going to invite the whole family, save the hard liquor for after all the kiddies have gone home. At which time I’ll have my Old Fashioned made with bourbon and on the rocks.

Let's Go Fly a Light

Saturday mornings are meant for sleeping late, not being awoken with the phone ringing at 5:15 a.m. Our phone announced the incoming party’s name, the parents of our second daughter’s best friend. The friend wasn’t at home and the parents didn’t know where she was. The father called to find out if she was with our daughter. Which she wasn’t. First thought in my mind, “Oh, no, not another runaway!”

In the past month, my eldest daughter’s friend ran away from home. The police came to our house to interview both of the teenagers about if they knew of the girl’s whereabouts. Which they didn’t. The girl finally surfaced five days later at a friend’s house.

Just for the record, I’m a terrible mother, according to some of the comments I hear third-hand from parents of my daughters’ friends. Some of the terrible things I do:

*Allowing the kids to choose, once they’ve been confirmed, whether to go to church with us (unless they’re on the schedule to acolyte, in which case it’s non-negotiable)
*Allowing my middle daughter to wear shorts and skirts to school which the other parents think are too short
*Allowing my children to get their learner’s permits without tying the privilege to a certain level of grades
*Allowing my teenagers to take public transportation and/or walk all over the city to shop, eat, and watch movies
*Teaching my children at a young age about human reproduction
*Telling my young teenagers about oral sex
*Offering my children wine with meals at home and tastes of other alcoholic drinks when their father or I order them in a restaurant

But in my defense, my children

*Won’t have a resentful attitude about church as adults
*Will have a respect for alcohol and know their limits before getting to university and the “real world”
*Understand that sex is a normal part of life and, as girls, won’t allow a boy to insist on certain activities without a reciprocation on his part
*Call adults Mr. and Mrs. rather than by their first names as a sign of respect and the boundary between childhood and adulthood
*Know that our home is a haven, a safe-place, not only for them but for their friends as well

Once I insisted that my eldest daughter sit in on an adult education lecture at church. The lecturer was a young female chaplain from the local church-run school. She described the differences in parents by comparing us to tractor beams (à la Star Trek) or lighthouses.

Parents who insist that their children do and say and think and act the way the parent wants the child to are like tractor beams, pulling the child into them. This action is enough in drive the children away or to make the child rebel in ways harmful to the child. Not what we should be striving for.

But lighthouses weren’t designed to draw anyone TO them. If a ship goes TO the lighthouse, it crashes on the rocks. Lighthouses are designed to show ships the way to safety by keeping them away from danger. Parents should strive to show their children the dangers that exist and let the children go. My eldest daughter now refers to herself as the lighthouse to her friends. She’s proud of that fact, but understands that it’s a huge responsibility for someone her age.

Even though some parents may think I’m too lax with my rules, I know to pick my battles. I do have street cred with my children, as when I kept our eldest from going on an exchange program because she didn’t keep up her end of the bargain which was an improvement in her grades. (She’s now taking four AP classes and going on a different exchange trip.) And the middle daughter (who infamously was thrown out of the church children’s choir and was asked to leave the church youth group) knows what it’s like to live under house arrest. (The jury’s still out on whether she’s a lighthouse to her friends, but I suspect she might be heading that direction.) I’m just saving the big guns for the big infractions.

As for the friend whose parents woke us at an ungodly hour on Saturday, she is safe at home. I bet she’s grounded for life. And while I don’t want to cast allegations on the parents involved since they are friends of my husband’s and mine, rather than having a helicopter parent the girl needs a lighthouse parent.