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yes you have freedom of speech but that doesn’t mean you can call your brother an idiot

 

My kids get in trouble if they call each other names.  They lose precious screen time for saying “idiot,” or “stupid,” or (my personal favorite), “pig-head.”

Screen-denial happens for shoving as a response to frustration, or for bellowing “shut up,” or for clambering up on the counter and rifling through the cabinets in order to find the last two sugar cookies that mommy was hoarding for herself.  There will be no counter-clambering in my house, dammit.  (And yes, screen-denial happens if one of them happens to emulate mommy daddy and let fly a curse word. Hypothetically, I mean. If we were to curse and if they were to emulate us.)

Eleven-year-old Liam, flush with the power only a pre-adolescent can have, yammered on last week about freedom of speech and how he bloody well will express himself in the thought that his brother is THE WORST BROTHER EVER.

I said no, actually, that to express yourself for purely malicious or destructive purposes is an abuse of that freedom. And then I did some kind of blah blah blah about the golden rule, and then a little song-and-dance blahbitty blahbitty about the need for mutual respect, and that maybe if he stopped saying his brother is an idiot, his brother would stop trying to hit him.

Both boys burn with the conviction that I am far more lenient with the other, that THE OTHER ONE never gets in trouble, that THE OTHER ONE is loved more, and that my standards are wildly unfair, not to mention unattainable.

So I struggle to turn my children into civilized beings, and then I look at the tragedy in Libya, the riots in Egypt and now Yemen. It makes me wonder if we are living in the death throes of civil discourse. Maybe I should just let my kids whack each other on the head when they’re pissed off; maybe shoving and hurling insults really is the way to go.

Perhaps I’ve been too long in the world of the very young, but I can’t help but think about turning the tables. I mean, what would Terry Jones or Steve Klein have done if someone had made a video portraying Jesus as a whoremonger, a lover of young girls, a bastard, a drunk? Would they have done the Christian thing and turned the other cheek?  What about the mysterious “film-maker” (with apologies to film-makers everywhere) who made the video that insulted Islam? Or the dude who thought it would be a good idea to translate this video into Arabic, just to make sure that it got some airplay?

No, Mitt, I’m not apologizing, and no one should condone the violent responses to this video (although in Libya, it looks increasingly as if the attack had been long-planned and the video just a convenient excuse).

But underneath all this sadness and frustration (yet another nail in the coffin of can’t-we-all-just-get-along), I am having a disconcerting reaction. I find myself wanting to shut down the possibility that the Terry Jones, and the Steve Kleins, and the other purveyors of hate in the U.S. can cloak future bile in the drapery of “free speech.”  Yeah, yeah, free speech as cornerstone of liberty and all that, but you know? Really? In our house, when freedom of speech means calling your brother a pig-head, you get sent to your room and your beloved “Star Wars the Old Republic” game gets turned off.

If you’re using “freedom of speech” and “Christian values” to incite violence, mayhem, and fear, I’m pretty sure you’re not following Christ’s example. As for free speech? I’m pretty sure you’re doing that wrong, too.

 

 

 

 

*full disclosure: in the photo, the boys are actually playing a game, not trying to kill each other. although true, there is a fine line between the two.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Read full story · Comments { 7 } on September 13, 2012 in Abu Dhabi, Kids, Parenting, Politics, ranting, religion, UAE

unstructured time, or, don’t unplug that TV just yet: a cautionary tale

An entire weekend day with nothing to do.  Most of the schools have let out for the summer, families have packed up for month-long vacations elsewhere, and the temperature outside is in triple digits. We’re inside sucking down the AC (carbon footprint be damned), each of us in a separate corner of the house.

Caleb has announced he’s writing a “made-up fiction book” about dragons. Title of forthcoming epic? Dragon Malice.  I think it’s going to be huge.

Liam bought himself a science kit about circuits and is reading through the manual figuring out how to blow up the world create a circuit that would power a small lightbulb.

I think to myself “self, look at these independent creative kids you have. wow, you are a stellar mom. a rock-star mom to have these kids who can entertain themselves and be all in their heads,  alert the media because you have got this mommying bitch knocked, you should write a parenting blog or something.”

Ah, hubris.

Caleb: What cultures believed in dragons? China, Japan…what other ones? I need a list

er…Mexico? Aztecs?

Liam: I need a lemon. Two lemons. And some vinegar. Where’s the vinegar?

no lemons, a few limes, vinegar in the cabinet left of the stove

Liam: I can’t reach it.

Caleb: Do you have smaller paper? I want book-sized paper. Like The Borrowers book, that size.

tiny? like a book The Borrowers would read?

Caleb, curt: No. Just the size of that story. Duh.

Liam: What about apples? Do you have more vinegar? Where’s the salt? Hold this light-bulb for me, right here. No, here.

Caleb: Can we do it on the computer? Can I use your computer?

Liam: Do you have some pennies? What about zinc? Or what about juice, do you have some juice?

fresh out of zinc, I’m afraid. Tinfoil? Pennies, try in the drawer in the living room.

Caleb: Do we have any books about dragons? I need to look at some pictures to help with illustrations.

I think it’s back in New York. What about your mythic magical creatures book?

Liam: I can’t find the pennies. Where did you say they are?

Caleb: Where’s the formatting button on the computer?

Liam: What about soil? Can I use an ice tray and put soil in it, to make mud? Mud is a conductor, right?

Caleb: Did Norway have dragons? What about Sweden? Do we have a dragon book? I asked you already.

Liam: Come look! I made the light flicker! Come look NOW!

Caleb: Let me read you what I wrote so far, you have to LISTEN!

Does anyone want to watch TV? Would you like me to put on a movie? How about a nice video game. If you start now, you could probably hit about twenty levels before bedtime. Wouldn’t that be fun?

 the science station

 

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Read full story · Comments { 8 } on June 30, 2012 in Abu Dhabi, Education, family, Kids, Parenting

going on a bear hunt… (and it sucks)

When Liam and Caleb were little, they both loved Going on a Bear Hunt. Remember that?

Going on a bear hunt.

We’re going to catch a big one.

What a beautiful day!

We’re not scared!

And then there’s the long tall grass to get through, swishy-swashy; and the mud, squelch-squerch…and pretty much every other obstacle known to human kind, each with its own sound effect.

And the refrain, of course is “we can’t go over it, we can’t go under it… oh no! We’ve got to go through it!”

They do get through it, find a bear, are afraid of the bear, run back through all that crap, and climb into bed with the covers over their heads.  Very satisfying. Except for the poor bear, who is left alone to wander the seashore.

I’m thinking about bear hunts these days as older son tries to adjust to his new school.  It’s his second new school in six months–not easy to do, by a long shot, I know–and he’s pretty clear that we’ve ruined his life.  I don’t have the heart to tell him that he’s only eleven. The life-ruining hasn’t even begun. Wait till he’s sixteen and I show up at some party where he’s all cool with the hair gel and the soccer jersey and then I trill from the front hall that it’s time to come home and practice the euphonium. That will be life-ruining.

He has forgotten the lesson of the bear hunt. He can’t believe that he won’t be in the middle of a rocky transition forever. As far as he’s concerned, his new school is an abysmal failure, a prison, a nightmare from which he will never, ever awake. And we’ve ruined his life.

School is stupid and British spelling is stupid and English history is stupid and oh by the way, we ruined his life.

Here’s the thing about Liam: he hates not knowing. He’s a perfectionist in pretty much everything and as a result of that (says moi, armchair shrink), when he explodes because of all the pressure he puts on himself, he explodes BIG and DRAMATICAL and WITH BAD WORDS.  Let’s keep in mind that his mamma is a card carrying member of the Good Enough Club and Husband aims for perfection but then he can’t ever remember where he put it, so we’re both quite puzzled about Liam’s need to be perfect.  Fortunately–or unfortunately–he often comes quite close: perfect report cards; chosen for this honor or that selective program or that elite soccer squad.  He works hard; he pushes himself; he’ll kill himself trying to get something right.  And also manages to be goofy and silly and dance around in his underpants to Kesha songs.

“Passionate” is the word I always use for Liam and I am reminded again, in these past few weeks, that passion is a double-edged emotion.  The highs are really, really high, and the lows are cataclysmic.  He’s in a cataclysmic low right now as he tries to suss out the new system, tries to remember that gray is now grey, and color is now colour.  There have been sinkers–not quite as epic as when we first arrived in Abu Dhabi, but close–and as usual, I try to deal with them with some ad hoc mixture of empathy, firmness, listening, berating, whispers, shouts, hugs, threats, and bribes.

Yes. My parenting has lacked consistency lately.  Thanks for that insight.  And Husband and I aren’t always on the same parenting page at the same time, which adds a whole ‘nother level of wonderfulness to the situation: he wants to cajole when I want to be firm; he berates when I want to offer hugs. I don’t know if we’re complementing each other or just muddying the already swirling waters.

I am trying to remember my own bear hunt lessons, oh yes I am. I tell myself we’ve just got to get through all this swishy-swashy grass–and my sister (so wise and yet…younger. How can that be?) reminds me (and I then remind Liam) that it won’t be like this forever. But. When your adorable boy in his navy blue blazer is whisper-screaming at you that you’re an idiot and (say it with me) you’ve ruined his life–in the elevator of our building–with other people on the elevator- AT 6:50 IN THE MORNING…well, let’s just say it’s hard to hang on.

For a brief nano-second I thought, what if I just smacked him? Just flipped his cheek with my hand to jolt him out of his hysteria?

I didn’t flip his cheek. In a triumph of will over emotion, I hugged him close and told him it wouldn’t be like this forever.

I am not sure he believes me. I am, after all, the woman who has ruined his life.

Going through it. That’s the thing that sucks, about life and bear hunts, both.

squelch-squerch-squelch-squerch…

image source

 

this post is linked up with the new improved (probably lemon-scented) blog formerly known as lovelinks: yeah, write. so yeah, right, click on over, read some fabulous writing, then come back later in the week and vote vote vote.

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Read full story · Comments { 26 } on January 25, 2012 in Abu Dhabi, Children, Education, family, growing up, Kids, Parenting

Learning To Live With Six

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My crunchy spine and creaky neck forced me to confront the fact that I hadn’t been to a yoga class in months.  So today, on a rainy wet Monday, with Husband on the third day of a five-day trip to Abu Dhabi, I dragged myself to Prana Power Yoga in Union Square. I’d never been there but their class schedule listed an “hour of power” class at noon, and hey, who doesn’t need an hour of power?

Let me get one thing straight: I like bikram yoga for its sheer sweaty insanity and because there’s very little of the “breathe out of the left side of your nostril and imagine lightness traveling down your spine” sort of talk.  That kind of talk makes me want to giggle, wildly and inappropriately.

So when I went off to my power-hour, all I wanted was a stretched out spine and a fast sweat in between preparing for tomorrow’s teaching and picking up the apartment. What I got was—well, okay, to say it was an epiphany would be a tad strong—but what I got was a moment of clarity about the ongoing struggles I’ve been having with Caleb.

At the beginning of our hour, as we sat in the hot windowless studio, the teacher asked us to close our eyes and breathe down our spine (I felt giggles welling up), and then she asked us to visualize someone who might teach us something—could be someone we love, but maybe not, and to concentrate on that person.

Unbidden into my head came Caleb’s face when he’s angry, but this time I saw sadness in his eyes, as if he didn’t really want to be angry but couldn’t help himself.  As his face floated around in my head, the yoga teacher said “think about what you might learn from this person…what you might commit to during your practice today” and bing, two words pop up: patience…compassion.

I’ve been short on both of these things lately, particularly (alas) with Caleb. On an almost daily basis, Caleb HATES me. And wants me to find the socks that he likes. He thinks I’m STUPID. But he can’t fall asleep unless I read him a bed-time story. He says BE QUIET when I ask him about his first-grade teacher. And climbs into bed every morning for a morning snuggle. He’s going to RUN AWAY because we are all so MEAN. He says I’m the best mommy in the whole world.

Living with a six-year-old exhausts me. I think it exhausts him, too.

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Read full story · Comments { 3 } on October 4, 2010 in Children, growing up, Parenting

Be Careful…You’re Boring Me


crossing_guard.gif“Be careful your scooter wheel doesn’t catch in the bump…”
“Don’t jump on the couch, you might fall and hit your head on the coffee table…”
“Walk if you have a lollipop in your mouth…”
“Slow down…”

There are days when it seems like all that comes out of my mouth is an endless loop of be careful watch out be careful watch out be careful…

When did I turn into that person?

My constant cautionary recital seems particularly peculiar to me because I’m not really a fearful person. I know that bad things happen but whether through sheer ignorance, blind faith (in what I’m not sure), or simple optimism, I rarely that those bad things could happen here. (And yes, I do recognize that I am totally tempting fate with that comment, which, in turn, demonstrates at least some fear on my part. I mean, I’m not crazy–remember when your kids were young and you’d say proudly that your infant had learned to sleep through the night and then you’d be up all night with a screaming banshee from hell?)

So why then my constant admonishments? I mean, despite wanting to wring their scrawny necks on a fairly regular basis, I do in fact recognize that I have basically good kids who won’t dash into the street or run away or use their scooters to play candlepins with the old people waiting for the bus. 

Are my cautions a sop to the fates, a kind of twisted-around prayer that none of the things that I’m describing in my cautions will actually come to pass?

I know that my words alone will not prevent the scooter wheel from catching in a rut and sending the scootee sprawling.  And it’s pretty clear that the phrase “glass coffee table” does not connote the same splintering bloody mess in their minds as it does in mine. But saying these things, reminding myself that these things could happen…maybe it is reminding myself of how thin the line is between “everything’s fine” and “oh shit.”

Of course, I think it’s safe to say that the boys don’t even really hear me, actually, other than as a kind of Charlie-Brown-esque wonkh-wonkh-wonkh-wohnkwohnkwohnk floating through the air.  Hell, sometimes, I don’t even hear myself, that’s how automatic my comments have become. And if I’m boring myself, god knows I have to  be boring them.

I wonder. If we’re all bored by my warnings, what would happen if I tried an entire warning-free day? Seriously.  An entire day without telling anyone to be careful, or watch out, or slow down…what could happen? Would the sky fall? Would they? Would we make it to bedtime unscathed and unscratched?

I’m going to try it.  I’m tempting fate. Tomorrow, caution gets thrown to the proverbial winds.  

And then when one of them falls off the scooter/bike/junglegym/couch/bed–THEN they’ll realize that they should have been listening all along.

Knock wood.

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Read full story · Comments { 2 } on November 29, 2009 in Parenting