Thursday, July 21, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
A Long Story about an Old Boyfriend
So y’all knew the time would come that I’d find the occasion to write about an old boyfriend…
And over the weekend, while at the Brew Fest in Indianapolis (with Eric), and while complaining that I NEVER SEE ANYONE I KNOW while visiting Indianapolis, some random guy yells at me, “It’s Dena Riggs!”
Initially, I had NO CLUE who the guy was—sunglasses, baseball hat, some extra pounds and twenty five odd years later. Who could blame me for bombing the recognition? But I’m an excellent conversationalist, I recovered quickly. And although, “catching up” with an old boyfriend and your current husband can be AWKWARD (!!!), I was happy to have FINALLY run into an old friend.
I’m not sure I would have even thought to share this story if Eric and I had walked away and the story ended there. But it didn’t….
It was 90+ degrees outside and Eric had been drinking samples of micro brews (i.e. IPA’s with higher alcohol content) for close to three hours. And although his speech wasn’t affected, he was walking fine, and not acting the least bit loopy by the beer, he got a little jealous—that kind of jealous that can only be alcohol-induced. And the next few hours, which included dinner with our kids and my parents, his behavior towards me (and everyone) was very stilted and weird—to the point where Andrew wondered “what’s up Daddy’s butt?” when Eric excused himself from the table for his third trip to the bathroom AND my mom asked about 30 times, “Is he okay?” (when she probably really meant, “Is he drunk?”).
My mom would have been surprised to know that Eric’s panties were twisted in a knot over running into a high school boyfriend—especially if I put Eric up next to this guy for a side by side physical comparison.
So, I mentioned the extra pounds on the old boyfriend, right? Well, it wasn’t excessive, but this guy hasn’t aged nearly as well as Eric and he certainly doesn’t hit the gym the way Eric does—i.e. nothing to worry about here. Add in our 15 years together and the state of marital bliss and you’d have thought Eric had been drinking for much longer.
But, a little beer and a little sun and all Eric focused on was this statement I made: “He was the senior class president when I was sophomore and he was so hot and quite literally the coolest guy in school.”
Now, in retrospect… Yes, that kind of description is not a good idea. Especially on a hideously hot day where lots of beer is involved.
By later in the evening, when we met up with our close friends Lisa and Adam, it was all water under the bridge, just another “Dena Story” as Eric likes to call these incidents when old boyfriends pop up out of the woodwork.
I know this post is getting long, but my whole point is to tell you the story of my history with this guy. I want to tell it mostly because I’m going deep into the archives on this one—1984!!! But I also want to tell it to prove the point (mostly to Robin!!) that even as a married chick, these old dating stories can still come out to play.
To begin, I should clarify that my use of “old boyfriend” is a term that I use very loosely AND liberally in this post because I’m not only going all the way back to 1984 when I sophomore in high school before I really could say I had a “BOYFRIEND”, but I’m also ONLY talking about a few rides home after school, one official date, and one other incident of a drunken visit to the Brown House that included a conversation with my dad and an empty beer can on my dad’s brand new purple 7-series pimp daddy BMW.
Brett Alan Thomas… it’s all about you, baby.
Can I do this? Mention his name directly without changing it?
I know in publishing I’d have to change his name. But here?
Well the name is significant because Brett’s initials obviously spell BAT and the black car that Brett drove to and from school was aptly and affectionately called “The Batmobile.”
Do I EVEN NEED TO TELL YOU that I was totally smitten?
As luck would have it, we had just received computers at our school (it was 1984, remember?) and so everyone—from seniors down to freshman—were in the same boat when it came to eligibility for computer class. I’m not quite sure how the lottery system worked, but I hit the jackpot because I had computer class with Brett Thomas in the LAST PERIOD of the day!!! Computer class would end, we went to our lockers, we went home. Well, Brett drove his friends in the Batmobile and I walked with mine.
However, just a few weeks into the semester I got invited to ride home in the Batmobile.
At the time, I remember, it felt like a carefully planned coup to position myself at the right place and right time to get Brett’s attention outside of computer class, but so many years later… I’m not sure all that matters. I got the ride.
I’m pretty sure I must have ditched my friends, but it’s hard for me to remember. But how could I not have ditched my friends when I ditched out on babysitting for our neighbors (my parents best friends at the time) to go on a date with Brett in his new car, a HONDA CRX (the first year these came out).
I remember that I walked over to the neighbor’s house and told them the truth: Senior class president with a new car asking ME (little sophomore girl) to go out on a date and how I just couldn’t miss this very important OPPORTUNITY in my career as social person in high school AND as a consolation (and a token of my good will) I’ve got a substitute babysitter for you that is almost as good as me--just a little punk rock, but very nice.
They were pissed and never asked me to babysit again (rightfully so).
If I was that flaky with the neighbors, I’m sure I was equally flaky to my friends over this month or two of Brett Thomas infatuation. I was totally off the deep end! I kept rationalizing it with this:
It WAS Brett asking ME on a DATE and it WAS the CRX….
That’s how I was back then—all about the pretty boy in the nice car. I was just a sophomore—and a young one at that. At the time of this date, I was only 15. And by the time the date was over, I’d re-thought my “pretty boy, nice car” obsession, anyway.
In my diary I wrote this about the date: “If the rest of my life is going to be like my date with Brett where I feel like it’s going to awesome and it ends up just being mediocre, then just shoot me now and get it over with. I can’t stand the disappointment.”
I think we went to a football game, but maybe it was basketball season because I have a vague memory of wearing boots with my jeans. But whatever…
I remember being parked somewhere in that little CRX for about an hour before it was time for me to go home ( I had an 11pm curfew). Mostly we talked. And then there was kissing. I remember feeling awkward—like the car was too small and the gear shift was always in the way. I remember thinking about moving over to his side, but that would have put me on top of him which was not the message I was trying to send, despite his cool car and his senior class president status. So awkwardly, I stayed on my side of the car, left feeling like a new puppy licked to death by its overly excited mother. There just seemed to be a lot of saliva.
Maybe that was my fault. I was the one with braces. He had a perfect smile. I was also the one new to making out in cars. He was, afterall, the senior class president with the cool car. I might have been the first in the CRX but I wasn’t going to be the last.
So, maybe I’m to blame for the bad date. Maybe I was just inexperienced and… not sure…
When I got home, I remember feeling let down, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz when she saw behind the curtain and the Great Oz wasn’t so great… just a regular guy.
Brett liked our date, as evidenced by the attention I kept getting from him in school. OR—now that I’m grown up with a fuller view of the world, I wonder if he felt his lack of “bases” with me in the CRX constituted a higher level of interest and energy. Whatever it was, he kept offering to take me home in the Batmobile and just as I was wondering how I was going to get out from under my association with him (so I could of course pursue someone else) there was Hank the Tank’s party—one of the biggest and craziest parties to take place that year.
Brett asked me to go with him and I said yes, even though I wasn’t that into it. But then an important business dinner out with my parents derailed Brett’s initial plans to drive me, as his date, to the party in the CRX. Instead, I planned to meet him there. That meant that my dad would have to drop me off after dinner. And by the time we rolled down the street where Hank the Tank lived, the party was in full swing and there were already people passed out on the lawn.
My dad refused to let me out of the car.
At home, alone in my bedroom, I cried that my dad didn’t trust me enough to be a good girl at a really bad party.
A few hours later, just after 11pm, the doorbell rang.
It was Brett Thomas…
BOLDLY asking my dad if it would be okay, despite the time, to sit on the porch and talk to me.
My dad was furious but in some ways at a loss for words to this kid who showed up at such a late hour hoping to have a conversation with his daughter (“Did I hear right? You want to talk to my daughter in the middle of the night, after you’ve been drinking? And what could you possibly want that can’t wait for a decent hour?”).
In the morning, my dad found a crushed Budweiser can sitting on the bumper of his new BMW—the big 7-series with a deep blue paint job that made it look like millionaire-purple in the sunlight. This car was off the hook for 1984 (which is why I’m sure my dad had parked it on the street and not in the garage). He loved that car.
But a beer can on the bumper, combined with a late night request for me, and forget about it!
There was no way I’d be able to officially go out with Brett Thomas again. And so I was saved…and on to others…
Brett came up again in college and I think he may have even married one of my sorority sisters. From our conversation outside the Brew Fest, I learned that he has no children and for some reason I think he’s divorced.
Don’t get me wrong about outing him on the extra pounds. He still looked great and really, he couldn’t have been nicer. My dad thought it was ironic (because of the can) that I would run into Brett all these years later at a Brew Fest. Me? I was excited to finally see someone I know.
I told him that I tell stories about him to my kids. How he had the batmobile and the CRX and that he was one of the coolest guys in school. Brett smiled and that made me happy.
It’s not yet time to tell the kids the other parts of the Brett Thomas story—about making out in the CRX or the incident after Hank the Tank’s party. But someday….
And then someday after that , I’ll add on the part about their daddy getting jealous while feeling a little buzzed on a hot afternoon. And for them , that will probably be the best part. In a sense, it was for me. I knew it was a long road for me to find a “lifetime boyfriend” but this story makes me think I was looking for longer than I thought.
And over the weekend, while at the Brew Fest in Indianapolis (with Eric), and while complaining that I NEVER SEE ANYONE I KNOW while visiting Indianapolis, some random guy yells at me, “It’s Dena Riggs!”
Initially, I had NO CLUE who the guy was—sunglasses, baseball hat, some extra pounds and twenty five odd years later. Who could blame me for bombing the recognition? But I’m an excellent conversationalist, I recovered quickly. And although, “catching up” with an old boyfriend and your current husband can be AWKWARD (!!!), I was happy to have FINALLY run into an old friend.
I’m not sure I would have even thought to share this story if Eric and I had walked away and the story ended there. But it didn’t….
It was 90+ degrees outside and Eric had been drinking samples of micro brews (i.e. IPA’s with higher alcohol content) for close to three hours. And although his speech wasn’t affected, he was walking fine, and not acting the least bit loopy by the beer, he got a little jealous—that kind of jealous that can only be alcohol-induced. And the next few hours, which included dinner with our kids and my parents, his behavior towards me (and everyone) was very stilted and weird—to the point where Andrew wondered “what’s up Daddy’s butt?” when Eric excused himself from the table for his third trip to the bathroom AND my mom asked about 30 times, “Is he okay?” (when she probably really meant, “Is he drunk?”).
My mom would have been surprised to know that Eric’s panties were twisted in a knot over running into a high school boyfriend—especially if I put Eric up next to this guy for a side by side physical comparison.
So, I mentioned the extra pounds on the old boyfriend, right? Well, it wasn’t excessive, but this guy hasn’t aged nearly as well as Eric and he certainly doesn’t hit the gym the way Eric does—i.e. nothing to worry about here. Add in our 15 years together and the state of marital bliss and you’d have thought Eric had been drinking for much longer.
But, a little beer and a little sun and all Eric focused on was this statement I made: “He was the senior class president when I was sophomore and he was so hot and quite literally the coolest guy in school.”
Now, in retrospect… Yes, that kind of description is not a good idea. Especially on a hideously hot day where lots of beer is involved.
By later in the evening, when we met up with our close friends Lisa and Adam, it was all water under the bridge, just another “Dena Story” as Eric likes to call these incidents when old boyfriends pop up out of the woodwork.
I know this post is getting long, but my whole point is to tell you the story of my history with this guy. I want to tell it mostly because I’m going deep into the archives on this one—1984!!! But I also want to tell it to prove the point (mostly to Robin!!) that even as a married chick, these old dating stories can still come out to play.
To begin, I should clarify that my use of “old boyfriend” is a term that I use very loosely AND liberally in this post because I’m not only going all the way back to 1984 when I sophomore in high school before I really could say I had a “BOYFRIEND”, but I’m also ONLY talking about a few rides home after school, one official date, and one other incident of a drunken visit to the Brown House that included a conversation with my dad and an empty beer can on my dad’s brand new purple 7-series pimp daddy BMW.
Brett Alan Thomas… it’s all about you, baby.
Can I do this? Mention his name directly without changing it?
I know in publishing I’d have to change his name. But here?
Well the name is significant because Brett’s initials obviously spell BAT and the black car that Brett drove to and from school was aptly and affectionately called “The Batmobile.”
Do I EVEN NEED TO TELL YOU that I was totally smitten?
As luck would have it, we had just received computers at our school (it was 1984, remember?) and so everyone—from seniors down to freshman—were in the same boat when it came to eligibility for computer class. I’m not quite sure how the lottery system worked, but I hit the jackpot because I had computer class with Brett Thomas in the LAST PERIOD of the day!!! Computer class would end, we went to our lockers, we went home. Well, Brett drove his friends in the Batmobile and I walked with mine.
However, just a few weeks into the semester I got invited to ride home in the Batmobile.
At the time, I remember, it felt like a carefully planned coup to position myself at the right place and right time to get Brett’s attention outside of computer class, but so many years later… I’m not sure all that matters. I got the ride.
I’m pretty sure I must have ditched my friends, but it’s hard for me to remember. But how could I not have ditched my friends when I ditched out on babysitting for our neighbors (my parents best friends at the time) to go on a date with Brett in his new car, a HONDA CRX (the first year these came out).
I remember that I walked over to the neighbor’s house and told them the truth: Senior class president with a new car asking ME (little sophomore girl) to go out on a date and how I just couldn’t miss this very important OPPORTUNITY in my career as social person in high school AND as a consolation (and a token of my good will) I’ve got a substitute babysitter for you that is almost as good as me--just a little punk rock, but very nice.
They were pissed and never asked me to babysit again (rightfully so).
If I was that flaky with the neighbors, I’m sure I was equally flaky to my friends over this month or two of Brett Thomas infatuation. I was totally off the deep end! I kept rationalizing it with this:
It WAS Brett asking ME on a DATE and it WAS the CRX….
That’s how I was back then—all about the pretty boy in the nice car. I was just a sophomore—and a young one at that. At the time of this date, I was only 15. And by the time the date was over, I’d re-thought my “pretty boy, nice car” obsession, anyway.
In my diary I wrote this about the date: “If the rest of my life is going to be like my date with Brett where I feel like it’s going to awesome and it ends up just being mediocre, then just shoot me now and get it over with. I can’t stand the disappointment.”
I think we went to a football game, but maybe it was basketball season because I have a vague memory of wearing boots with my jeans. But whatever…
I remember being parked somewhere in that little CRX for about an hour before it was time for me to go home ( I had an 11pm curfew). Mostly we talked. And then there was kissing. I remember feeling awkward—like the car was too small and the gear shift was always in the way. I remember thinking about moving over to his side, but that would have put me on top of him which was not the message I was trying to send, despite his cool car and his senior class president status. So awkwardly, I stayed on my side of the car, left feeling like a new puppy licked to death by its overly excited mother. There just seemed to be a lot of saliva.
Maybe that was my fault. I was the one with braces. He had a perfect smile. I was also the one new to making out in cars. He was, afterall, the senior class president with the cool car. I might have been the first in the CRX but I wasn’t going to be the last.
So, maybe I’m to blame for the bad date. Maybe I was just inexperienced and… not sure…
When I got home, I remember feeling let down, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz when she saw behind the curtain and the Great Oz wasn’t so great… just a regular guy.
Brett liked our date, as evidenced by the attention I kept getting from him in school. OR—now that I’m grown up with a fuller view of the world, I wonder if he felt his lack of “bases” with me in the CRX constituted a higher level of interest and energy. Whatever it was, he kept offering to take me home in the Batmobile and just as I was wondering how I was going to get out from under my association with him (so I could of course pursue someone else) there was Hank the Tank’s party—one of the biggest and craziest parties to take place that year.
Brett asked me to go with him and I said yes, even though I wasn’t that into it. But then an important business dinner out with my parents derailed Brett’s initial plans to drive me, as his date, to the party in the CRX. Instead, I planned to meet him there. That meant that my dad would have to drop me off after dinner. And by the time we rolled down the street where Hank the Tank lived, the party was in full swing and there were already people passed out on the lawn.
My dad refused to let me out of the car.
At home, alone in my bedroom, I cried that my dad didn’t trust me enough to be a good girl at a really bad party.
A few hours later, just after 11pm, the doorbell rang.
It was Brett Thomas…
BOLDLY asking my dad if it would be okay, despite the time, to sit on the porch and talk to me.
My dad was furious but in some ways at a loss for words to this kid who showed up at such a late hour hoping to have a conversation with his daughter (“Did I hear right? You want to talk to my daughter in the middle of the night, after you’ve been drinking? And what could you possibly want that can’t wait for a decent hour?”).
In the morning, my dad found a crushed Budweiser can sitting on the bumper of his new BMW—the big 7-series with a deep blue paint job that made it look like millionaire-purple in the sunlight. This car was off the hook for 1984 (which is why I’m sure my dad had parked it on the street and not in the garage). He loved that car.
But a beer can on the bumper, combined with a late night request for me, and forget about it!
There was no way I’d be able to officially go out with Brett Thomas again. And so I was saved…and on to others…
Brett came up again in college and I think he may have even married one of my sorority sisters. From our conversation outside the Brew Fest, I learned that he has no children and for some reason I think he’s divorced.
Don’t get me wrong about outing him on the extra pounds. He still looked great and really, he couldn’t have been nicer. My dad thought it was ironic (because of the can) that I would run into Brett all these years later at a Brew Fest. Me? I was excited to finally see someone I know.
I told him that I tell stories about him to my kids. How he had the batmobile and the CRX and that he was one of the coolest guys in school. Brett smiled and that made me happy.
It’s not yet time to tell the kids the other parts of the Brett Thomas story—about making out in the CRX or the incident after Hank the Tank’s party. But someday….
And then someday after that , I’ll add on the part about their daddy getting jealous while feeling a little buzzed on a hot afternoon. And for them , that will probably be the best part. In a sense, it was for me. I knew it was a long road for me to find a “lifetime boyfriend” but this story makes me think I was looking for longer than I thought.
Friday, July 15, 2011
FOUND: Great Style
I have to digress from my normal parenting banter to hoot and holler about a fashion blogger I just found.
I have always loved clothes. Getting dressed to go ANYWHERE is a fun, challenging thing for me. In the beginning, around 2nd grade, I didn't want my style to be boring or repetitive, so I wrote down what I wore to school each day. And when I had to ditch the crotched vest my grandmother gave me, that my mother made me wear... well, I had a record of everytime I did it and where I put it, so I wouldn't forget to pick it up on my way home.
By 8th grade, I monitored my designer jeans: Jordache, Calvin Klein, and Sassoon (purchased at Saks 5th Avenue in New York on the real 5th Avenue). These were jeans that couldn't be washed everyday, but I surely couldn't make the mistake of wearing my Calvins two days in a row.
I'm really tempted right now to tell my life story in clothes, but suffice it to say that although I'm now 43 years old, I still love fashion. I'm a style magazine junkie and a clothes horse. AND, for the past few years I have been looking for a cool blog that talks about fashion in a way that fits MY STYLE. I'm not a punker or one of those that get away with things that are too funky or too youthful. AND, there's my size to deal with. I am SERIOUSLY petite. At 4' 11" proportion can be challenging.
BUT I FINALLY FOUND THE PERFECT BLOG!!!
So this blog What I Wore is no big secret. Writer, Jessica Quirk has been profiled in magazines like Seventeen, marie claire, Glamour, Lucky and more. She's been on CNN and even on WTHR in Indianapolis last week when her book, "What I Wore: Four Seasons, One Closet, Endless Recipes for Personal Style" was released. This fashion blogger is everywhere!!! (See her list of press here)
It was the book that I found first--just yesterday while at Barnes and Noble on a mission for something else, I found the book and thought I'd buy now and look later. I bought it based on the title alone. I'm always looking for fashion-related gifts for my BFF Lisa Lev. We do the Nordstrom Anniversary sale together every year and we talk endlessly throughout the year about work clothes and appropriate dresses for fundraisers and weddings. It's a fun thing that has bonded us since she was in middle school and I was her MTV-era Mary Poppins babysitter.
Last night, after the kids were in bed, I picked up the book and flipped out at how cool it was. This morning, I spent some time with the blog and I'm hooked on Jessica Quirk!!
AND how cool is it that she's from Bloomington, Indiana? A fashionista, a style icon, right in my own back yard. I love it.
And not only do I love the idea of such a cool, fashion forward, writer so close to home, but I also really love the clothes. Jessica's daily outfits (which she has been recording on her blog with photo assistance from her husband, for the last FOUR YEARS!!) are the types of outfits that I would not only get inspiration from, but might also copy.
I know that most of you who read this could really care less about fashion, but I've got to plug this incredibly cute fellow IU grad.
Check it out
I have always loved clothes. Getting dressed to go ANYWHERE is a fun, challenging thing for me. In the beginning, around 2nd grade, I didn't want my style to be boring or repetitive, so I wrote down what I wore to school each day. And when I had to ditch the crotched vest my grandmother gave me, that my mother made me wear... well, I had a record of everytime I did it and where I put it, so I wouldn't forget to pick it up on my way home.
By 8th grade, I monitored my designer jeans: Jordache, Calvin Klein, and Sassoon (purchased at Saks 5th Avenue in New York on the real 5th Avenue). These were jeans that couldn't be washed everyday, but I surely couldn't make the mistake of wearing my Calvins two days in a row.
I'm really tempted right now to tell my life story in clothes, but suffice it to say that although I'm now 43 years old, I still love fashion. I'm a style magazine junkie and a clothes horse. AND, for the past few years I have been looking for a cool blog that talks about fashion in a way that fits MY STYLE. I'm not a punker or one of those that get away with things that are too funky or too youthful. AND, there's my size to deal with. I am SERIOUSLY petite. At 4' 11" proportion can be challenging.
BUT I FINALLY FOUND THE PERFECT BLOG!!!
So this blog What I Wore is no big secret. Writer, Jessica Quirk has been profiled in magazines like Seventeen, marie claire, Glamour, Lucky and more. She's been on CNN and even on WTHR in Indianapolis last week when her book, "What I Wore: Four Seasons, One Closet, Endless Recipes for Personal Style" was released. This fashion blogger is everywhere!!! (See her list of press here)
It was the book that I found first--just yesterday while at Barnes and Noble on a mission for something else, I found the book and thought I'd buy now and look later. I bought it based on the title alone. I'm always looking for fashion-related gifts for my BFF Lisa Lev. We do the Nordstrom Anniversary sale together every year and we talk endlessly throughout the year about work clothes and appropriate dresses for fundraisers and weddings. It's a fun thing that has bonded us since she was in middle school and I was her MTV-era Mary Poppins babysitter.
Last night, after the kids were in bed, I picked up the book and flipped out at how cool it was. This morning, I spent some time with the blog and I'm hooked on Jessica Quirk!!
AND how cool is it that she's from Bloomington, Indiana? A fashionista, a style icon, right in my own back yard. I love it.
And not only do I love the idea of such a cool, fashion forward, writer so close to home, but I also really love the clothes. Jessica's daily outfits (which she has been recording on her blog with photo assistance from her husband, for the last FOUR YEARS!!) are the types of outfits that I would not only get inspiration from, but might also copy.
I know that most of you who read this could really care less about fashion, but I've got to plug this incredibly cute fellow IU grad.
Check it out
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Just can't stop thinking about...
I spent the holiday weekend with my husband and kids at the country club pool and at several neighborhood parties. It was really fun to see friends that I don't spend much time with during the school year (for all the usual reasons: sports, homework, my own work, etc.). And as everyone's children have gotten older, our "catch-up" conversations were not the typical small talk of parties of the past.
I've already posted my woes and concerns about Andrew's up and coming entry into middle school here. It seems I'm not the only one with a bone to pick with today's adolescent culture. Facebook, texting, joing clubs, quitting clubs, joining sports, getting cut from sports, failing classes, becoming over-achievers, driving cars, crashing cars... there was so much to share.
One friend told a story about a friend of her neice (in Indianapolis)--straight A student, captain of the volleyball team, aged 17--caught in a 5-some at a drunken party. Another friend wasn't surprised and said even "around here" (meaning Valpo schools)it's rumored that 8th grade girls are giving blow jobs as a favor to be allowed into the high school parties. And apparently, drugs in the middle school and high school are a rising issue for families and school administrators. It's not only the usual suspects of alcohol and marijuana, but also over the counter concoctions, as well.
On Sunday, at a picnic, on what has been arguably the most beautiful day of the year so far, I sat in a folding chair with my mouth open. I felt dizzy thinking about my future with my kids.
I like to think I'm not easily shocked. I tend to be more open minded than most when it comes to talking to my kids about their bodies and sex and the culture around that. Back in the day, I worked at Planned Parenthood where I lugged a huge display case of birth control devices around to public speaking engagements. I passed out condoms at the Indiana State Fair in the early 1990's when the AIDS epidemic was still considered a gay man's cancer. I've put myself out there and have never been afraid to talk about sex.
And so maybe I should clarify: it's not that I'm shocked at the behaviors, per se...my issue is more with the kids that are making the choices. It's my idea of "good" versus "bad" behavior that is being challenged here.
In some ways, despite my experiences with the condoms at the Indiana State Fair, my morals and values are more conservative. I always believed in keeping my knees together, whether in a skirt or a tight pair of cut off jean shorts. I honored my body. My mother taught me that. My grandmother concurred. I never questioned it.
I wasn't a perfect kid nor did I probably deserve to wear a white dress on my wedding day (in the traditional sense if you know what I mean), but...
This is the thing that all of us moms were grappling with at the party-- the culture of being a girl has changed. Just look at the movies now. Female characters kick ass, take names, have sex on their own terms, love and leave just like the male characters have been doing for years.
We all agreed in our picnic conversation that seeing more options for girls is great, but as modern-day mothers, how do we handle the cultural shift? How do we support our daughters in being independent and strong, yet at the same time, set the boundry for what is acceptable (and NOT) in our families?
My mom weighs in on this beatifully... she says she felt confronted with the SAME issues when I was a teenager. She says it happens to every generation--that we think things are SO DIFFERENT, but since when does that change the core message of RESPECT YOURSELF?
According to her wisdom, the lessons you teach to your kids is the same from generation to generation, its the vocabulary (like texting and Facebook) that gets the update. And you repeat your expectations--on the big picture things and the little picture things--like a broken record. You say it and say it until they roll their eyes, until they mock you, and until they finally just sigh and walk off.
Ultimately, according to my mom, you (as the parent) should listen to what others claim is happening in the community. You should educate yourself on internet programs that monitor texting, emails and other cyber stuff. And then talk to your kids--both in a relaxed and fun way AND with the broken record stuff.
I wrote it all here because I want to clear the worry from my mind. Summer has been so fun and relaxing. I don't want to start sleepless nights before school starts. Writing records the emotion for me but clears it from my immediate attention.
And in some ways, I also want it in writing that I'm trying to do everything I can to raise good, respectful, and productive human beings.
I've already posted my woes and concerns about Andrew's up and coming entry into middle school here. It seems I'm not the only one with a bone to pick with today's adolescent culture. Facebook, texting, joing clubs, quitting clubs, joining sports, getting cut from sports, failing classes, becoming over-achievers, driving cars, crashing cars... there was so much to share.
One friend told a story about a friend of her neice (in Indianapolis)--straight A student, captain of the volleyball team, aged 17--caught in a 5-some at a drunken party. Another friend wasn't surprised and said even "around here" (meaning Valpo schools)it's rumored that 8th grade girls are giving blow jobs as a favor to be allowed into the high school parties. And apparently, drugs in the middle school and high school are a rising issue for families and school administrators. It's not only the usual suspects of alcohol and marijuana, but also over the counter concoctions, as well.
On Sunday, at a picnic, on what has been arguably the most beautiful day of the year so far, I sat in a folding chair with my mouth open. I felt dizzy thinking about my future with my kids.
I like to think I'm not easily shocked. I tend to be more open minded than most when it comes to talking to my kids about their bodies and sex and the culture around that. Back in the day, I worked at Planned Parenthood where I lugged a huge display case of birth control devices around to public speaking engagements. I passed out condoms at the Indiana State Fair in the early 1990's when the AIDS epidemic was still considered a gay man's cancer. I've put myself out there and have never been afraid to talk about sex.
And so maybe I should clarify: it's not that I'm shocked at the behaviors, per se...my issue is more with the kids that are making the choices. It's my idea of "good" versus "bad" behavior that is being challenged here.
In some ways, despite my experiences with the condoms at the Indiana State Fair, my morals and values are more conservative. I always believed in keeping my knees together, whether in a skirt or a tight pair of cut off jean shorts. I honored my body. My mother taught me that. My grandmother concurred. I never questioned it.
I wasn't a perfect kid nor did I probably deserve to wear a white dress on my wedding day (in the traditional sense if you know what I mean), but...
This is the thing that all of us moms were grappling with at the party-- the culture of being a girl has changed. Just look at the movies now. Female characters kick ass, take names, have sex on their own terms, love and leave just like the male characters have been doing for years.
We all agreed in our picnic conversation that seeing more options for girls is great, but as modern-day mothers, how do we handle the cultural shift? How do we support our daughters in being independent and strong, yet at the same time, set the boundry for what is acceptable (and NOT) in our families?
My mom weighs in on this beatifully... she says she felt confronted with the SAME issues when I was a teenager. She says it happens to every generation--that we think things are SO DIFFERENT, but since when does that change the core message of RESPECT YOURSELF?
According to her wisdom, the lessons you teach to your kids is the same from generation to generation, its the vocabulary (like texting and Facebook) that gets the update. And you repeat your expectations--on the big picture things and the little picture things--like a broken record. You say it and say it until they roll their eyes, until they mock you, and until they finally just sigh and walk off.
Ultimately, according to my mom, you (as the parent) should listen to what others claim is happening in the community. You should educate yourself on internet programs that monitor texting, emails and other cyber stuff. And then talk to your kids--both in a relaxed and fun way AND with the broken record stuff.
I wrote it all here because I want to clear the worry from my mind. Summer has been so fun and relaxing. I don't want to start sleepless nights before school starts. Writing records the emotion for me but clears it from my immediate attention.
And in some ways, I also want it in writing that I'm trying to do everything I can to raise good, respectful, and productive human beings.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Middle School, Part II
I thought each day Andrew showed up at the gym that the "outsider" feeling would diminish and that by the end of the week, he'd know at least one new person.
But that didn't happen.
This basketball workout is a tight ship---no small talk allowed. You go to play ball. You go because you love the game. You go for the sole purpose of improving your jump shot or your left lay-up--not to make friends and not to take the edge off being the NEW kid in just 60 days.
The coaches take notes and occassionally shout out, but mostly it's a hustling, sweating, fouling, street ball kind of experience, all the way down to the boys PICKING teams.
Andrew was one of the last ones to get picked each day because in middle school loyalty to your friends trumps everything in the entire world. 6th graders get picked last just because... but then if you are a NEW 6th grader... well, it's painful to watch.
I know this because I hung around for about 20 minutes each day. I hated watching what I know to be true about the culture of boys, and worse, I hated watching my own son, my awesome, sensitive, intelligent, son get the wind knocked out of his sails but take it on the chin.
But as much as I hated watching my son suck it up each day, I didn't pull him from it and I won't pull him from it until it's over. Here's why:
Being the NEW KID in 6th grade is one of those life lessons that has to be fully experienced in order to get what you need out of it. You can't tell the story about that time in 1978 when it happened to you. It's not the same.
When I was 25 and interviewed for a job in which I had limited experience, but a ton of enthusiasm and motivation to learn. I was terrified when I walked into the GROUP interview. And although there were aspects of that experience that were new to me, walking in cold (not knowing anyone and not really knowing what to expect) was not one of them. Had I not had those countless times when I felt awkward or when I was the NEW kid, it would have been a lot worse. And maybe I'd have been so nervous I wouldn't have gotten the job. But I did-- and I loved my years at the National Kidney Foundation.
When I told Andrew this story tonight, he looked bored. My whole point about having experience in my pocket--something I could draw upon when it really mattered--fell flat. And that's why this NEW KID thing is the kind of thing you have to feel down in your gut. It's transformative only when it happens that way.
So, this basketball camp (that btw goes on for three more weeks--to the end of July), just happens to be the first time that Andrew will have to walk into something new, something uncomfortable, somthing like fighting his way out of a wet paper bag. But it's not something that I can help him with--beyond pumping him up with a rap song chock full of inappropriate language set to a sick, thumping beat.
Tonight, when Andrew tried one last time to manipulate and beg his way out of returning to the gym next week, I told him that I feel for him, but that I wouldn't be doing my job as a parent if I didn't lock him out of his comfort zone a few times a year. I told him he'd thank me for it later because each time he has to do this thing where he's NEW or he's not sure of himself, he's got one more survival tale to remind himself that even if it(whatever "IT" is) makes him feel like a loser, he'll get through it in one piece.
It didn't make him feel better. As a matter of fact, with more sarcasm than I knew he had in him, he said, "Maybe when I'm 25."
I laughed a good belly laugh at that one. I told him he was funny, and since he's not yet 25, he needs to be on the down lo about the music I let him listen to in the car. I told him if I EVER hear him talking to his friends, before he's 25, in the language of Snoop Dog or Dr. Dre, I'd wash his mouth out with soap.
But that didn't happen.
This basketball workout is a tight ship---no small talk allowed. You go to play ball. You go because you love the game. You go for the sole purpose of improving your jump shot or your left lay-up--not to make friends and not to take the edge off being the NEW kid in just 60 days.
The coaches take notes and occassionally shout out, but mostly it's a hustling, sweating, fouling, street ball kind of experience, all the way down to the boys PICKING teams.
Andrew was one of the last ones to get picked each day because in middle school loyalty to your friends trumps everything in the entire world. 6th graders get picked last just because... but then if you are a NEW 6th grader... well, it's painful to watch.
I know this because I hung around for about 20 minutes each day. I hated watching what I know to be true about the culture of boys, and worse, I hated watching my own son, my awesome, sensitive, intelligent, son get the wind knocked out of his sails but take it on the chin.
But as much as I hated watching my son suck it up each day, I didn't pull him from it and I won't pull him from it until it's over. Here's why:
Being the NEW KID in 6th grade is one of those life lessons that has to be fully experienced in order to get what you need out of it. You can't tell the story about that time in 1978 when it happened to you. It's not the same.
When I was 25 and interviewed for a job in which I had limited experience, but a ton of enthusiasm and motivation to learn. I was terrified when I walked into the GROUP interview. And although there were aspects of that experience that were new to me, walking in cold (not knowing anyone and not really knowing what to expect) was not one of them. Had I not had those countless times when I felt awkward or when I was the NEW kid, it would have been a lot worse. And maybe I'd have been so nervous I wouldn't have gotten the job. But I did-- and I loved my years at the National Kidney Foundation.
When I told Andrew this story tonight, he looked bored. My whole point about having experience in my pocket--something I could draw upon when it really mattered--fell flat. And that's why this NEW KID thing is the kind of thing you have to feel down in your gut. It's transformative only when it happens that way.
So, this basketball camp (that btw goes on for three more weeks--to the end of July), just happens to be the first time that Andrew will have to walk into something new, something uncomfortable, somthing like fighting his way out of a wet paper bag. But it's not something that I can help him with--beyond pumping him up with a rap song chock full of inappropriate language set to a sick, thumping beat.
Tonight, when Andrew tried one last time to manipulate and beg his way out of returning to the gym next week, I told him that I feel for him, but that I wouldn't be doing my job as a parent if I didn't lock him out of his comfort zone a few times a year. I told him he'd thank me for it later because each time he has to do this thing where he's NEW or he's not sure of himself, he's got one more survival tale to remind himself that even if it(whatever "IT" is) makes him feel like a loser, he'll get through it in one piece.
It didn't make him feel better. As a matter of fact, with more sarcasm than I knew he had in him, he said, "Maybe when I'm 25."
I laughed a good belly laugh at that one. I told him he was funny, and since he's not yet 25, he needs to be on the down lo about the music I let him listen to in the car. I told him if I EVER hear him talking to his friends, before he's 25, in the language of Snoop Dog or Dr. Dre, I'd wash his mouth out with soap.
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