Checks and Taxes

 When my middle daughter was in high school, we were eating as a family at the pizza place where she worked part time. This daughter said that she and her friends were planning on going to a movie that weekend, and asked for movie and snack money. We said sure, and handed over some cash, probably a $20. While she was doing something else, her boss pulled us aside and said, "Do you have any idea how much she makes? She can pay for her own movie and snacks!" She was a delivery driver, getting significant tip money; he mentioned an average day's tips.

"I know," I said. "But she's still a kid, so we cover most stuff she wants to do. She only has to pay her own band fees, gas and insurance." He looked at us like we were crazy, and he was deeply unimpressed with our parenting.

"Oooookay," he said with raised eyebrows. "I just didn't know if you knew."

Yeah, we knew. We just figured that it's better for our kids to figure out how to handle money, and potentially make stupid choices, while they're kids and all their necessities are covered. Maybe that wasn't a great plan - I don't know. But even years later, it still seems like the best plan.

When the kids were little, and they got money for birthdays or Christmas, we helped them count out coins to pay tithing, encouraged them to put something in their college funds, and then pretty much let them decide what to do. By the time they were old enough to have their own jobs and paychecks, we were even more hands off. Don't want to save, or pay tithing? Want to spend it all on candy? Well, OK, but you may not like how that turns out, long term, but go for it. We have two who hate to spend any money, including for things that they really want, and two who would spend it before it was in their hands if they could. They all needed to figure out how to make money choices.

Having kept most of their choices in their own hands, I was really puzzled when my oldest, at roughly 11 or 12, said something about us "taking" money from the kids "to pay taxes." She said this with a considerable amount of anger, and narrowed eyes, but when I said, "What money?" she snapped, "Nothing. Never mind."

I wondered what kind of odd thing she was thinking of, but it was so far from reality that I just brushed it aside. In a few months, she brought it up again - "when you took our money to pay taxes." Again, when asked about what she meant, she responded, "Never mind."

As years went by, she'd bring it up not very often, but consistently once or twice a year. Sometimes, we'd be the only ones there, and sometimes other people would be with us, but we could not get her to explain what she meant.

We could not figure out what she was talking about. Did she mean a child credit on our income tax? We explained what that meant, and she looked blank. We tried very hard to explain all of our taxes - that income tax came out of paychecks before we got them, that our property taxes were paid with our mortgage payments, that sales tax was built into prices. We explained repeatedly over the years. She was probably 14 or 15 when I told her, again, "We have never, ever used money that belonged to you kids for taxes. Ever. We don't even use your money (meaning the savings accounts they'd had since birth, to which we contributed with every paycheck) for things like camp."

She rolled her eyes and said, "Whatever you used it for then."

"Used WHAT for?"

But the only response I ever got when asking her what money she meant was, "Nothing," or, "Never mind." It was maddening.

As she became an adult, we heard about it less often, but she'd still bring it up, and still refuse to explain what she meant.

When she was in her 30s, she made a passing reference again, and I said, "OK, you are going to have to explain to me what you are talking about, because we have never had any earthly idea."

She looked a little bit sheepish, but actually answered. "When you made us sign over our state fair checks."

Starting when they were literally in diapers, the kids usually entered something in the county or state fair - coloring, photography, and when they were older, scrapbooks and baking. We adults entered photos, crafts, baked goods. The kids wanted to be like us and get ribbons. The state fair also gave kids cash awards. It was $1 for a third place, $2 for a second place, and $3 for a first place. In reality, it usually just paid back the entry fees, which I think were $5 per child, but it was really exciting for the kids to feel that they'd won money.

Their first time entering the state fair was when the older kids were 7 and 8. They expected to be given cash, and were deeply disappointed when they were told it would be a check, and they had to wait for it to come in the mail.

When the checks came, they wanted to know how to spend them. We explained that checks were the same as Daddy's paychecks. They were used to watching us take their dad's paycheck and get it cashed every two weeks, but he cashed it at a casino. You can only do that after you're 21, we explained. "You have to take it to the credit union and sign it," we explained. "Then they'll hand you cash, or you could put it in your bank account."

"That'll take forever! When can we even go to the credit union?" Much complaining ensued. They wanted cash RIGHT NOW, because they'd already had to wait for the mail. This was despite the fact that they couldn't spend it at home, and couldn't go shopping without us.

"Well, as soon as you sign it, anyone can cash it," I said. "If you sign it, Dad can give you cash right now. Then when we get to the credit union, we can cash or deposit it." That sounded MUCH preferable to waiting, so they signed the checks and we handed them cash, probably $6 or $7 each.

The next year, they wanted to do the same thing - we asked, not assumed. Waiting is not a strong suit for children. They did it for years. Until they had their own paychecks coming in, and they handled checks themselves, they'd sign the fair checks, we'd hand them cash, and then we'd deposit the checks into their savings accounts. We told them we were depositing them into our account, but we weren't going to miss a few dollars.

I told her, "You signed the checks in order to cash them. We handed you cash for your checks, every single time. Then we deposited them in your bank accounts, so you actually got paid double for every one of those."

She looked stunned. "How much?"

"An average of $7 or $8 each. The year you won Grand Champion, I think it was $12."

"Oh." She looked sheepish again. "I thought it was a huge amount, like hundreds of dollars, and since I never had that much, I figured you guys took it."

"It was between $1 and $3 per ribbon, depending on placement."

"Oh."

I am just stunned, myself, by so much of this. My daughter has spent almost her entire life angry about something that she refused to discuss, even after bringing it up herself. That in and of itself is baffling. People, if something upsets you, talk to the people involved! This should have been an easy, quick fix, back when she was 12. Instead, we faced decades of, "Never mind." My daughter will avoid conflict whenever possible, so I'm sure that was her aim, but her actions actually created conflict. (If you bring something up, be prepared to discuss it! For everyone's sake!)

I'm also just baffled as to how a child who could read even when she got that first check, and who was always the one who opened the envelope with her check in it, did not know how much the checks were for. She understood decimals; we'd taught the kids that when writing things to do with money, things like prices, anything before "the period" was dollars, and behind it was cents. Plus, checks have the line with it written out - "six dollars and no/100 cents." Plus, she entered things in the fair up until she turned 18; in high school, her usual entry was her meticulously kept scrapbooks. She read the fair's entry packet, every year, and it spelled out the money involved. She also would have deposited those later checks herself, so she definitely ought to know what they said. How would she think that the checks were bigger when she was younger? Or that there was a separate check that she didn't see, but we cashed without a signature? Even if she misunderstood at 8, there were many more years when the process itself should have cleared up this confusion.

I just could not imagine how she wasn't clear on this. I'm an overexplainer, and the fair sent out a booklet, every year.

I think I've now figured it out, based on the first appearance of the "you took our money" complaint. That happened the year after her photo of a walrus took Grand Champion for the children's photo division. She got a huge purple rosette, and a ton of praise. Her uncle, a professional scenic and wildlife photographer, hung it in his living room (the only photo he displayed that wasn't his).

She was always worried about being out of step with her peers, or being wrong about anything, so she often took the opinions of other children as gospel. Kids have a tendency to take the word of their peers over their parents, anyway. I'll bet that when she mentioned earning Grand Champion to kids at school or at church, some kid said, "Wow, did you get a ton of money?" Instead of saying, "No way, the state fair doesn't hand out a ton of money," she started to worry that this kid knew something that she didn't. (She frequently worried that other people had access to information that was hidden from her.) Surely a Grand Champion got a ton of money! Where was it? She would not have accepted her own experience as making her the expert on this matter, even though she'd won the prize, and she'd entered for years, whereas the other kids may not even have known that the fair came with competitions for kids.

So, she decided that we took it. At least she decided that we had a good reason; fixating on "taxes" shows that she was starting to figure out how modern society works. At least she didn't figure that we partied with it.

I just cannot fathom this, though - that something that obviously made her so miserable was such an easy to explain misunderstanding. Why in the world did she not discuss this with us? Then again, would she have believed me when she was a kid? Obviously, she suspected us of something shady, when our entire motivation was to stop the complaining about waiting, by getting money into their hands as soon as the checks arrived. Note to self - just send complaining kids out of the room, and make them learn patience.

I'm just glad it's finally resolved. Good grief.

(I mean, it is resolved, right?)

Security

"Children need to feel that their parents are all powerful, especially in their early years," says a child development expert whose work I admire. I agree with him, really; I agree on most things he says. I just know that we did not achieve this with our first born.

We did all of the things that are supposed to make a child feel secure. We picked her up when she cried. Frankly, we picked her up when she didn't cry, because crying was rare. She rarely even cried to be fed; I had to watch the clock and say, "Feeding time!" or she'd only eat two or three times in 24 hours, even as a brand new newborn. We talked to her, sang to her, read books to her. I was a stay at home parent, so she was never without me. She was a quiet, easy child, so we took her out on our dates - to restaurants, to the movies. We wore her in a backpack when we couldn't carry her. As soon as she could do things like dress herself and speak, we let her make decisions - what to wear, what to order off the menu at a restaurant.

Everyone assumed she was happy, because she was quiet and self contained, and she probably was. She colored, she sang, she "danced" (she considered walking in a circle while music played to be dancing). 

Even when she wasn't happy, she didn't demonstrate it by fussing. When her little sister was born, and she was 13 months old, I was in the hospital for almost a week. She didn't cry, and she loved the new baby, but she broke out in a head to toe rash.

As nearly as I can tell, she never thought that we were all powerful or all knowing, though. She didn't think that she was - that was our second born - but she didn't think that we, or any adult, was, either.

I mean, it's not as if either of us drank, or traveled for work, or that she ended up pouring herself bowls of cereal because I neglected to prepare dinner. We were there, we were attentive, our home and neighborhood were safe, we had extended family and friends and church members who were there for all of us.

And yet...

When she was 8 months old, we took a road trip to see my sister and her family. The route that is the most fun takes us down the California coast, with stops in San Francisco, Monterey, San Simeon, or other beach spots before heading to Orange County. That's the route we took for that trip. We have photos of her in the backpack on Daddy's back at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and on the beach in Ventura.

We didn't take a trip the next year, when we had a newborn and a toddler, but we did go the year after, when the kids were 2 and 3. Again, we went over the mountains from home, and took 2 or 3 days getting to Auntie's house, stopping at fun places along the way, and talking about how Ariel lived in the ocean.

We'd talked about how we'd see Auntie Lynne and her kids, and stay in their house, but knew that she'd have no memory of having visited before. Still, when we got there, both kids were having fun - who doesn't love the beach, aquariums, and cousins to play with? Plus, we went to Disneyland; it was a great trip.

The night before we left, I told the girls to start gathering their things, because we'd have to pack it all for the ride back home. I let them know that we had one more day at Auntie's, and then we'd drive home. It's about 7 hours in average traffic to get back home, so we wanted to do it in one day, which meant an early start.

"We're not going home," my three year old announced confidently.

"Not today, " I said. "But tomorrow, we are. That's why I want to start packing today."

"No! We're not going home!" she insisted. "You don't know how to find it!"

We reassurred her that, yes, we did know. "Just like we knew what roads to drive on to get to Aunt Lynne's, we know what roads to drive on to get home." We told her that we had done this many times, and that she had actually done it before, but she was a baby, so she wouldn't remember. She looked at us as if we were crazy.

The next day, she got more and more irritated every time we mentioned going home. Her attitude said that she could not believe that we were persisting with this foolishness, insisting that we could do something that was so obviously impossible.

We explained again that we had driven the roads before, and remembered. Then, we brought out our big California map book. (Remember the days of paper maps? I love paper maps.) We told her that these were drawings of where we were, and where we'd go. We showed her that the blue was the ocean, the green was land, and the lines were roads. "Even if we forget, these maps will show us which roads to drive on." 

Still, she insisted, "We can't go home! You can't find it!"

I started to wonder if she understood that we were deliberately visiting family. Did she think that we'd just gotten lost, knocked on a random door, and had strangers take us in?

Of course, we insisted that everything be packed, and we got in the car and drove away. Our second born fell asleep in the car, even on short rides, so she was fine, but our oldest made indistict elephant noises - "EEEEE-eeeee-EEEEEE-eeeeee" - for hours on end. HOURS at a time; I don't know how her throat didn't get sore.

About halfway home, I said to my husband, "The next town we go through, find a park so the kids can run and play, because we all need out of this car." We have cute photos that he took of a smiling me pushing smiling kids on the swings. It looks blissful. It was, in fact, a break necessary in order for all of us to avoid metaphorically exploding.

When we pulled up at home, she was absolutely astonished. "You FOUND it! You FOUND it! How did you find it?"

So we told her, again, about how we knew what roads to drive on because we'd done it before, just like we knew how to drive to her grandparents' houses, about 30 minutes away. We reminded her, again, that if we got confused or lost, we had the map book. She looked confused. "But, how did you find it?" It felt as if we would have had more credibility if we told her that we read it in our tea leaves.

A few days later, I was talking about her astonishment with my brother. "Aren't we supposed to have another ten years or so before she decides that we're brain dead? This just seems way too early for teenage dismissiveness."

He laughed. "Well, she knows that she can't do it, so she figures that you can't, either."

I'm certain that he was correct about this. That's exactly what she was thinking. I just could not - still cannot - figure out how she came to that conclusion after watching us, every day, do things that she could not. We could read, we could drive, we knew how to operate the TV remote and the phone (that hung on the wall, and only made phone calls) and the oven. She knew these things; she watched us, daily, do things that she could not.

So, despite my belief that the psychologist is right - children benefit from a "my dad could beat up Superman!" mentality - I am obviously unclear on how we could have instilled that kind of belief.

Not Banned Books

My parents read a lot. We had lots of magazines and books around the house, and from the time we could read, none of us were forbidden to touch any of them. There were no trashy romance novels, no stashes of porn; the closest thing to inappropriate was a pile of Cosmos that a cousin had handed down (and my mom had no interest in). Plus, a lot of the thrillers and such were in Condensed Book form, so they were the equivalent of movies cut for TV. Anything graphic was edited out.

There were books we had to treat carefully, and those were on high shelves - the encyclopedias, the old family Bibles. We were expected to have clean hands, be gentle, put them away.

We had lots of storybooks, too, but if we could read something the adults owned, that was OK. Mom sometimes told us that we probably wouldn't like a book that was really dry, from a kid's point of view, or warned us that there was something we might not like (for me, that meant animals dying. I still loved Old Yeller). But if we could read the words, we could read the book (or magazine).

I remember sitting in the living room and reading a magazine while my mom sat across the room reading something. I came across a word I didn't know. I was never the kid who just skipped those; I had to find out how to say it, and what it meant. So, I asked my mom, "What are genitals?"

She looked a bit surprised, and said, "Private parts - reproductive organs. What are you reading that has that word in it?"

"Reader's Digest." She raised her eyebrows, so I elaborated - "It's an article about a bear attack. It says the man covered his during the attack." Now I understood why.

Mom said, "I'll bet he did." Then she wanted to know, "Did he survive?"

"I haven't finished the article yet, but the title has the word 'survival' in it, so I'm guessing he did."

"That's good," Mom said, and went back to reading.

That kind of parenting was perfect for me. She didn't lecture me about reading something scary and tell me that I'd have nightmares. (Books rarely scared me.) She didn't rush to reassure me that bear attacks were rare, and that we were safe when we went into the woods. (I knew that anyway, and the article had already covered that ground if I didn't.) She certainly never refused to tell me what a word meant, or made me feel bad for asking. She gave clear, factual answers, without unnecessary detail.

I was eight years old when the book Jaws came out. I remember clearly lying in the hammock in the back yard, reading in the opening pages the description of the first victim reaching down, thinking she'd caught her foot on something, and discovering that her whole leg was gone. A fly landed on my book, and in irritation I slammed the book shut, squishing it between the pages, then regretted my  impulsiveness.

I loved Brody, Hooper and Quint. I loved the way that each needed the other's expertise to get the job done. I rolled my eyes at their bickering, and was captivated by their bonding. I understood parts of each of their personalities.

At eight, though, my only experience with losing a main character was Old Yeller. I naively assumed that all of our principles would live. After all, so far, everyone who'd died had been someone we'd met for mere moments.

Then Quint died. I took it very hard; I was devastated. Decades later, I still feel it.

I did not understand the reaction that a lot of people had: "I will never go in the ocean again!" A very literal person, I could not figure out if people had never known that sharks existed. That seemed unlikely. If you knew that sharks existed, why would a book about one be surprising? Turns out, most of them had just never considered that a shark might attack them, personally.

My reaction was, "You know what in the ocean is most likely to kill you? The water." Most animals will leave you alone, most of the time. Water is relentless, and doesn't care about you. Still, people felt sure that intellect and ability would keep them safe from the actual water - just don't breathe it, right? A shark sounded much more unpredictable and frightening.

Still, I fell back on the numbers, how many people die every year from drowning vs. shark attack. Plus, Benchley called his character a "rogue" shark, over and over. The whole point was that this was not a normal shark, and not a normal summer. Plus, it was fiction. He could have made the shark talk if he wanted to; fiction is not constrained by facts.

Decades later, I'm still afraid of drowning; sharks still don't bother me a bit.

The next year, when the movie came out, kids at school kept asking each other, "Have you seen Jaws?" I kept saying, "No, but I've read the book." (One kid earned a scowl by saying, "What book?")

When I was sleeping over at a friend's house, her dad asked my mom if it was OK if I went with them to the movie. "Sure. She's read the book; she'll be fine," Mom said. And she was right; the scenes of the camera gliding over the ocean bottom at the beginning of the show felt scarier than any of the scenes with the shark.

Except when we still lost Quint. I hoped that they'd let him live this time, but no. In a way, that made me happy, because I hate it when filmmakers change the plot, but I hated losing Quint, too.

I had the same rules for my kids concerning books as my mom had had for me - clean hands, treat it right, don't leave it out, put it away when you're done. But I didn't have any books that I hid from them. If there was something not appropriate for kids - I read a lot of mysteries and histories, and people in those have a tendency to die, often in colorful ways - I put it on a high shelf. By the time you could reach the shelf, you'd be old enough to read it.

My daughter was home from college for a visit, and I said something about a crime; I forget which one. "Oh, yeah, I read about that in your book," she said.

"Which book?" I wanted to know.

She told me, then said, "Whoops. I probably shouldn't have told you that." It was a book about famous unsolved crimes - Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia, JonBenet Ramsey.

"Why not?"

"Because I read your book."

"Did you ruin it?"

"No."

"Did you put it back?"

"Yeah."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I figured you'd be mad if I read it."

"Let me get this straight. It's a book that I bought - not just borrowed, but spent money on. It's something that I'm interested in. And you thought that would be a problem?"

"Well, yeah. People were, like, murdered."

"So, you thought that a book that sat in plain sight, on a shelf literally right outside your bedroom, would be forbidden."

"Well, yeah." She actually looked a bit disappointed that I wasn't angry, but I thought that this was very funny. Kid, if I didn't want you to know that the book existed, I would not put it at eye level, 6 inches away from your bedroom door.

Also, if I would have said, "This is really fascinating, you should read this," I probably would have gotten, "Ew! That's gross! What is wrong with you? Why would I want to read that?"

I have only one book with pages that I don't want left where people can see them, and that's because I would have a problem. I own a big, glossy, fascinating book about the Titanic. But, the pages with photos of the wreck are paper clipped together. The kids all know that they're welcome to look, but as soon as they're done, those paper clips go back on!

Because the scariest thing in my books is still the water.

Supervising Adult

When I was in high school, I competed in speech and debate. So, when the chance came up to coach high school speech and debate for the homeschool team, I was all over it.

The first year we went to the state competition, I had one competitor, and the tournament was held locally. The next year, it was in Las Vegas; the state competition alternates years - Reno, Vegas, Reno, Vegas - so that everybody has to do the same amount of travel, and the burden of hosting and finding judges, lodging discounts, etc. isn't always on the same teams.

When you grow up in Nevada, going to Las Vegas isn't as exotic and exciting sounding as it is if you grow up elsewhere. Plus, I don't drink, or gamble, or go to strip clubs, so a lot of the "traditional" Vegas stuff isn't even on my radar. It's not like I had to make an effort to be on my best behavior, or to shield the kids, by avoiding that stuff - avoiding it is my normal behavior.

Which, in hindsight, meant that I might not have been as vigilant as I might have been.

I coached with a close friend, one I've known since we were both teens. Later, we brought in a university student to help coach. Homeschool classes - we taught speech and theater at a co-op - and clubs can be more casual than they are in public or private schools. The students on our debate team called us by our first names. One of our students chose the "call to order" term we used (which was the word "potato"). We didn't make them approve their performance scripts or speeches with us before competition. We didn't give grades, just kept track of the points they earned with the national organization.

During that second state tournament, all of our kids were eliminated from competition by Saturday evening. We gave them a choice - stay and watch the rest of the competition, go back to the hotel and hang out at the pool, or go do something Vegas-y. The majority of the kids chose a trip to the Las Vegas Strip. The rest voted for the hotel pool. My co-coach LaRena would stay at the hotel. The 20 year old coach, Rachel, and I would take the other kids to the Strip.

It didn't seem like an inappropriate or risky choice. To me, the Strip is the Bellagio fountains, the M&M store, the habitat for Sigfried and Roy's tigers, the roller coaster at New York, New York. All of the things that we usually do are totally kid appropriate. I tend to forget how much there is that's not "family friendly." That was my first mistake. My second was in not thinking about how different a Saturday night might be, as opposed to, say, a Tuesday afternoon.

My third was in not taking the date into consideration. It was St. Patrick's Day. I have sincerely never equated St. Patrick's Day with alcohol. I don't drink, remember? At all. We spend our St. Patrick's Day eating corned beef and watching "Darby O'Gill and the Little People."

So, off I went, on a Saturday night, with my minivan full of kids, to the Las Vegas Strip, on St.Patrick's Day.

Yes, I am that naive.

We drove through town; I don't see well enough in the dark to drive on the freeway after dark. I put my Veggie Tales "Veggies Sing the 80s" CD on; Rachel still hasn't forgiven me. The plan was to park at the Miracle Mile shopping center, then head to the fountains and the M&M store. We were just hitting Las Vegas Boulevard when an outraged voice from the back seat said, "Is that someone's butt on that billboard?" The girl speaking is an only child, homeschooled all her life, from a very conservative, Evangelical Christian family - in short, a very sheltered girl.

I looked out the window. Yes, indeed, 40 feet tall or more, there was a close up of a woman's butt, wearing a thong that provided zero coverage. "Yes, that's someone's butt. It's probably best to avoid looking at the billboards." Oh, dear, I thought, I've forgotten to factor in billboards. That includes the rolling billboards advertising brothels that cruise up and down the Strip. (For businesses that are an hour or more outside of town, they advertise rather aggressively.) I tried to remember if the clear plexiglass trailers with strippers in them were still allowed to cruise the Strip. Those were banned as being traffic hazards, weren't they?

Oh, dear. But we can avoid billboards, right?

I couldn't quite figure out why it was so crowded. It was March! Who travels in March? We finally made it to the parking garage, and I started to get a real sense of how very crowded it was. There were almost as many people milling about as there were cars. They all seemed to be intoxicated, despite it being only about 7:00 PM. So many of them were carrying plastic cups that were two or three feet tall. And the hats and the feather boas - "Is it a bachelor or bachelorette party?" I wondered out loud.

"It's St. Patrick's Day. Didn't you notice that everything's green?" Oh; no. I hadn't. But it'll be fine, right?  I mean, we just ignore the drunks.

And the street performers; oh, my. There are always people in costume posing for photos for tip money. There might be superheroes, Disney characters, or "showgirls" - not the actual showgirls from splashy casino shows, but people in spangled bikinis and tall, feathered hats. That night, it seemed to be mostly showgirls in thongs. Great; now we had to avoid actual butts, not just butts on billboards. Which shouldn't be too hard, normally, but there were so many people. We were jostling, constantly bumping into someone.

As we made our way through the crowd, one of my students, Kyle, said, "Sharon, I'm sorry. I just littered."

"Littered?"

"Yeah. This guy handed me a card, and said, 'You want a coupon?', so I just took it. But I looked at it and went like this." Kyle mimed bringing the card up in front of his face, his eyes widening, then tossing the card aggressively to the ground. Now, I feel sincere ire for litterers. They're inconsiderate and impatient and I have no patience for them. But I knew exactly the cards he was talking about. If you've been to Vegas, you probably do, too. They're soft - or even hard - porn, advertising strip clubs or sex shops. They're only supposed to hand them to those 21 and older, but Kyle's tall - or, they didn't care. Many people do exactly what Kyle did, so the sidewalks on the Strip are papered in them. During daylight, it's less aggressive, but after dark, someone might shove one of them at you two or three times on a block. I was totally OK with Kyle littering.

"Yeah, lots of people will try to hand you things. Don't take anything from anybody."

My husband and LaRena's husband started walking one in the front of our group, and one in the back, to fend off anyone aggressive. Mark's a cop, and Dan's big, so they tried to look appropriately threatening. Still, I was the coach, the one responsible for the kids - I experienced stress.

At this point, I started repeating over and over, both out loud and in my head, "Just get to the fountains. We just need to get to the fountains." Then, I was sure, we could spend half an hour watching the free fountain show, unmolested.

Of course, I was wrong. As we hit the sidewalk in front of the fountains, a limousine pulled up, actually onto the sidewalk, so close to my kids that they could touch it. Just as I was feeling outraged because whoever it was might have hit my kids, who drives on the sidewalk, who lets them park there, the driver got out and started shouting through a megaphone. Directly into the faces of my teenage students, he yelled, "Free rides to the Hustler Club! Best show in town!"

No one, I thought, is ever going to let me supervise their kids again. They'll tell their parents, and I probably won't be allowed to teach at co-op. Most of my kids came from religious families, families who really live their religion, families who opted out of public education because they wanted to protect their kids. And what did I do? Bring them to the Las Vegas Strip, where they got an education in intoxication and strip clubs.

After the fountains, I abandoned plans for the M&M store. We went to McDonald's, where I bought everyone a soda or an ice cream. Then I hustled everyone back to the car, like a mother hen with her chicks. I could feel my blood pressure go down as we headed back across the valley.

I coached for four more years, so I guess that nobody complained.

Look at those kids. They're pretty great. They don't look scarred, do they?

Except for the Veggie Tales thing. I don't think Rachel will ever forgive me for that.

Bookish

More than once, I've served as one of the leaders in the nursery at church, spending just over two hours every Sunday with children ages 18 months to 3 years. We're supposed to have play time, story time, snack time, singing time, activity (coloring, etc.) time, clean up time, and a "waiting for parents" activity like blowing bubbles for the kids to chase.

It's busy. It can be loud. It's definitely high maintenance - someone usually wants held, there's frequent crying and/or hitting, dirty diapers and/or trips to go potty down the hall in the restroom. The kids are adorable, but it's a lot of work.

Consequently, I like anything that makes the job easier. For instance, the children are more likely to listen to their scripture story and answer questions like, "Who created animals?" if they're also eating a snack, so I deliver the lesson during snack time.

Easygoing kids also make my life so much easier. I love all the nursery kids, but I appreciate the sunny, cooperative ones a wee bit more.

One day, we had a visitor, a two year old who was visiting her grandparents, members of our congregation. During play time, she got a stack of board books, and sat by herself, quietly paging through a book, then setting it down to choose another one.

I watched her, thinking two things: 1. It's so nice to have a happy, self contained child in class. No crying, screaming, shoving, hitting, taking toys, needing all the adults' attention - a child like that is very nice to have in class. 2. She reminded me of myself and my own children, who spent hours with books, from the time that they sat up by themselves.

Just as I was thinking how happy it made me to see such a happy, self contained child, the other leader looked at her, frowned and sighed, and said, "It always makes me so sad to see children like that."

Sad? Children "like that"? Was there something that I didn't know about? Was she sick? Was there something going on with her family, something I didn't know about - illness, job loss, some other kind of loss?

I asked, "Like what?"

"Children who don't mix with the other children, children who sit by themselves instead of joining in. It's so sad."

Wow.

OK, if this was an older child, one who wanted desperately to join in but was too frightened, or who'd been deliberately rejected, yes, that would be sad. I don't think that two year olds are capable of that kind of thinking, though. They do what they want to do, regardless of how the other toddlers feel about it. She was doing what made her happy, and what made her happy was to be by herself with a stack of books.

The idea of someone deliberately choosing to separate from noise and rowdiness to read is so ordinary, so expected, to me, that I forget that it might not look that way to everyone.

The nursery incident reminded me of a time when my husband and I stopped by my mother's house. We were still dating; it was a time when he didn't know my mother that well yet, apparently.

We came by Mom's house (going in the back door without knocking, because in my parents' day, family and good friends went to the back door; only strangers and salespeople went to the front door). I don't remember why we went by, just that it only took about 15 minutes. Mom was sitting in her favorite chair reading when we came in. She rested the book on her lap while we talked to her, then began reading again as we left. This was a completely ordinary interaction with my mother, and, frankly, with me.

It unnerved my husband. "What's wrong with your mom?"

"Nothing."

"Something has to be."

"You just saw Mom! She's fine!" I mean, she wasn't weeping, or sneezing, or coughing, or in a cast, or bruised, or giving any other indication that there was cause for concern. She hadn't been gruff or angry; she was cheerful and pleasant. I could not imagine where he'd gotten the very odd idea that something was wrong.

He was sure that something was wrong. As time went on, and the encounter was now days in the past, he seemed to be getting more and more upset, as I continued to assure him that nothing was wrong. I was completely at a loss to figure out what had him tied in knots.

Finally, he verbalized it (his communication skills are not fantastic). "If my mother was sitting alone in a silent house, something would be really wrong!" She'd either be very angry, or very sad, he said. Plus, she'd expect her loved ones to know, or find out, why, and take steps to fix it. Plus, he was sure that breezing in and out in a few minutes was more offensive than never stopping by, and the fact that Mom hadn't jumped out of her chair to offer to make us something to eat had to be a bad sign.

Whoa, there; cool your jets. "None of that is true of my mother."

"Of course it is. That's how people are."

Au contraire. I assured him that alone in a silent house was my mother's normal state of being, that she was happy as a clam, and she hated to play hostess; short visits were good. Plus, given the fact that we'd come by unannounced, expecting her to drop her book and entertain and feed us, especially for an extended period of time, would have been very rude, and made her miserable.

He was convinced, for quite a while, that I was just too self absorbed to know what my mother wanted; when he finally conceded that I was right about this, he still found it to be "very abnormal." (Which is funny, because that's exactly what I thought of his interpretation.)

Of course, having had children together, we're also occasionally baffling to, and baffled by, our children.

Our teenage daughter once took a book to a church dance, and sat over in the corner or out in the foyer reading during the dance. She thought that, if people really liked her, they'd notice that she was missing, come hunt her down, make her put away the book, and insist that she dance with them. The fact that everyone had left her alone to read her book had her in tears, convinced that nobody liked her.

Oh, dear.

"Honey, reading a book at a social occasion is the clearest possible way of saying, 'Go away and leave me alone. I don't want to be here.' If you want to spend time with people, you have to put the book away and join in, on your own!"

She was convinced, as children are, that I had to be wrong. "No! That's not what it says!"

"Yes, it does. Any time I step away from a party or event to read, it's because I want to be alone. I'd be furious if someone came along and insisted that I go back."

"That's because you're an alien!"

I repeated that yes, pulling out a book in a social situation was the equivalent of holding a sign that said, "Go away." We talked about the fact that it's a really bad idea to set up tests to try to determine if people like you ("If they like me, they will do this..."). It's a bad idea to expect that people who like you (or people who don't) can read your mind. A person who will try to tell you what to do and how to behave, making you stop what you're doing to do what they want you to do, is a controlling, unsympathetic person, and you should never wish for one or more of those in your life.

"If you want to dance, dance! By yourself, with your friends, ask a guy to dance. Don't put it all on other people. Talk to them, and more importantly, listen to them. Do not hide out and hope that they'll hunt you down. And if you don't want to dance, don't go to a dance! Stay home."

She was sure that I was wrong about this. After hearing the same basic thing from at least 4 other people, she conceded that I might be right, but still thought it was "weird."

Oh, dear. Human interaction: what's "sad" is that what one person hates is exactly what another person craves.

I will not feel loved if you get between me and my book.

Birthday Invitations

We tend to go through life assuming that other people - at least reasonable, informed people - are thinking and feeling the same things that we are, and that they perceive facts, situations and personalities the same way that we do. We're wrong, of course, but at least we're reasonably well intentioned.

I've discovered that anything that we consider to be An Important Occasion magnifies ordinary miscommunication and misunderstandings. Don't even talk to me about how crazy people get about weddings.

Birthdays ought to be pretty relatable and understandable, right? Wrong. I know people who stress out about having a birthday, who feel sad because another year is past. I don't get it. Some people want to ignore them and pretend that they don't exist. I don't comprehend that level of denial - we were all born, and time continues to move forward.

On the other hand, I know people who don't just celebrate the day itself - they have Birthday Week. Celebrations for days! They and the "it's not a big deal" people tend to think that the other is crazy.

 I understand a bit, at least intellectually, the conflict between the "just ice cream and cake" crowd and the "blowout super extravaganza bash" crowd. I just simply will not do over the top parties for my family, even if I wake up tomorrow with obscene wealth. I know that there are people who fear that their kids will be outcasts with no friends if they have a "lame" birthday party. I'm just not particularly capable of holding or accommodating that mindset. "You're willing to like my kid if I give you expensive things and experiences? Aw, great! My kids will have such caring friends!" Yeah, I know that I've alienated people. I know that there are the "if you can't have a 'nice' party, don't bother" folks. My kids have certainly attended parties where the favors they brought home were more expensive than the gift they gave. To me, a "nice" party is spending time with people that you like, having something good (even if it's only cake) to eat, and a fun activity or two - games, swimming, etc. So, if that doesn't work for you, don't attend any party that I throw. Seriously; we'll both be happier.

I've always erred on the side of inviting too many people. I was the kid who was frequently left out, and I never wanted another kid to feel deliberately excluded. Even when I was invited, it didn't always go well - like the time in 6th grade when everyone else was invited to go roller skating, but my best friend and I were invited over only after the skaters had come back to the birthday girl's house for cake and presents. (The mom was mortified, and promised to take us skating another day, but neither of us took her up on it.)

I was therefore quite surprised when I met other moms who felt that birthday parties should be best friends only, the kids who were always over anyway, and that extending that invitation list was a blatant grab for gifts. I'm used to relatives and friends who give very modest gifts, and expect very modest gifts. Knowing that there were gift grumps made me even more grateful for the kids who came, gift or no gift, to celebrate with my kids.

One of my daughters has a birthday two days after Halloween - she loved it when she got gifts of leftover Halloween candy. (What kid doesn't love candy?) One girl made it into an adorable wreath. The birthday girl reveled in having more candy than her siblings.

I've had people RSVP to say that they can't bring a gift, and I always tell them, "A gift is not necessary. Or, something from the dollar store is fine. Or, since gift opening is the last thing we do, you can pick your child up before gifts are opened. Just say that you have to leave early, and no one will mind." Once, a mom told me that her daughter would not be coming to my daughter's party because she could not afford a gift. I gave her the spiel above, and she finally agreed to bring her daughter. That year, the party was at Build a Bear Workshop, where you get to stuff your own stuffed animal. It was pretty outrageously expensive for us, but that's the perk of being the youngest child - parents have more money and less patience for party planning/throwing. So, the girl showed up, built her bear, and was picked up from our party and taken straight to another party, where the bear she'd just built was the gift. I was happy that our invitation allowed her to attend two parties.

My vision of "parties" was always just cake, ice cream and drinks, as far as refreshments went. For the first few parties we threw for our kids, that's what we did. We usually put candy in the goodie bags to take home.

Then, one very vocal complaint changed the way we threw parties. It shouldn't have - maybe we should have stood our ground - but we also wanted guests to be happy.

On the day of my daughter's party, my husband worked 7 A.M. to 3 P.M., and was home by 3:30. I had rehearsal for a play that evening. I had to drive 45 miles, across three county lines, to get to rehearsal. I had to leave by 6:15 if I wanted to be on time; I could push to 6:30 if I knew I'd have great traffic, and felt like speeding a bit (which I do not). So, we planned the party for 4 to 6, at our house.

Since it was right before dinner - for my kids, anyway - we had cake, drinks, goldfish crackers and pretzels. That way, there was "party food," but everyone would still feel like eating dinner. We had chicken thighs in the oven for our family, so they could come out as soon as the guests were gone.

Everybody showed up on time, played, ate, opened gifts, got goodie bags, and went home on time, except for two family members (and their kids) who lingered. Not wanting to eat in front of them, I left my husband to feed our kids when the guests were gone, and stopped for a sandwich on the way to rehearsal. Eating in the car when I had a show was not uncommon.

Later that evening, my husband got a call from an irate family member who'd brought kids to the party. Like all of our family (and many of our friends) in the area, they lived in the next town, the same town my rehearsal was in. Driving to our house meant a 30 to 60 minute drive. She called to tell him that she was "so offended" that we hadn't fed them dinner. "I drove all that way with hungry kids, and I had to stop for fast food in order to feed them! There was no way I could make it home and cook something with them starving like that."

The worst part was that she apparently felt singled out. My husband pointed out, "We didn't feed anyone dinner."

"You didn't? You had a party and didn't provide food?"

"There was food, but not dinner. Even my wife didn't eat dinner at home." As he was telling me this story, I was thinking, I ate fast food that night. Welcome to my world. It also could not have escaped her attention, as the last one there, that all the other guests left without having dinner; how could she feel singled out?

And, she had not RSVP'd; we were surprised to see her when she came. (I think it was the only time that she ever came to that house, and we lived there for over 5 years.) Even if we'd planned dinner, we wouldn't have planned on them having any.

There was a fairly protracted conversation between her and my husband about what people "expect" from an invitation. My husband and I both thought that it was fairly obvious that a child's afternoon party would not provide dinner. If it was from 6 to 8, OK, expect dinner, but right after school? Who eats dinner at 4 or 5? The time was clearly printed on the invitation. It also said, "Join us for..." and cake was the only food listed. I couldn't imagine that this had been a surprise.

But, it had been, and she was madder than a wet hen. We never again threw any birthday party without including a meal, but I don't think she noticed. She attended a grand total of two more birthday parties for any of our kids - two total, not two per child. She was at a total of three parties - and we have 4 children, who had birthday parties every year.

Sometimes, we'd have an afternoon party, and serve things like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and goldfish crackers. Many times, we served pizza. A couple of times, we had McDonald's, like when my 4 year old had her heart set on a party at their Play Place. The only other time anyone said anything derogatory about the food was the year a friend said, "What brand cake mix was this? Because it was awful; I want to make sure that I never buy it."

(Well, and when one of my daughters, as an adult, complained, "We went to a pizza place for my 16th birthday party." Sorry, Kid - no over the top "Sweet 16s" with a live band and dancing. No boozy 21sts, either.)

We were also informed that our invitation process was lacking.

I've always tried to do written invitations. One, it just seems more official and less offhand - if we send you an invitation, you know that we want you there. Plus, all the details are written down - no, "Was that Friday or Saturday?" or, "Was that 4 or 5?" You don't have to rely on your memory. Or on notes - I've watched people write down incorrect information as someone is speaking right to them. All the info you need is there and correct in a written invitation.

Two, I tried to mail them. Getting mail is fun. But, more importantly, if you aren't inviting every single child in a class at school, at church, at dance or gym, on your Little League team or your Scout troop, it's a little less obvious if you aren't handing invitations out to some kids and skipping others. Doing it through the mail feels less exclusionary to me. I always collected mailing addresses of kids that we wanted to invite.

With family, of course, we had their addresses, and we always made sure that we mailed invitations to our family and those that we considered family before we sent them to anyone else. Family invitations might go out on Monday, and the rest go out on Friday.

Three, they establish the theme; you know if the birthday child is into princesses or airplanes.

Even though we carefully mailed the invitations to family first, we had a relative who didn't come, and kept making comments about "if I'd been invited." When that happened, we'd either reiterate the plans, assuming they didn't get the invitation, or assure them that we'd love to see them next time if the party had passed. After this happened for at least two years, I finally asked, "Is your mail delivery a problem? Do you not get home delivery?"

"No, we get home delivery, and my mail lady is great. We're on a first name basis."

"I have your house number right, don't I?" I recited the number.

"That's right."

"Then how do you not get the invitations? We mail them in plenty of time."

Then she said, "Oh, I get the little cards," in a voice that indicated that "the little cards" were somehow icky.

"Then you've been invited. That's the invitation." How was this not clear?

"But you never called me!"

What?

"I never called anybody."

"You never called anybody?"

"No. We sent out invitations." She looked horrified. "I didn't even call my mother."

"You didn't talk to anybody?"

"No." She looked so shocked, and this was apparently a difficult concept to grasp. "Sometimes, people RSVP, but not very often. Or, they'll call to ask what kind of gifts to get. But other than that, no."

She really was horrified. "And people came?"

"Yes, people came." I wanted to add, "Because we invited them," but I didn't.

"You'd better be glad they love those babies enough to overlook your rudeness!"

Rudeness? I invited them to a party!

Apparently - and I was unaware of this - she considered only a phone call to be a "real" invitation. Even if you mailed something, you called to say that you'd mailed it, then again to see when it arrived. She also thought that this was how "everyone" felt; I was baffled.

I'm not much of a phone person. My husband never got over the fact that my mom and I, who adore each other, could have phone calls that lasted less than a minute. Of course, I've also talked for over an hour, numerous times; it's not a phobia or anything. I just don't make many phone calls. Plus, as I listed above, I believe in actual, paper invitations. And my husband just does not make phone calls unless it's practically life and death.

Her attitude seemed wrapped up in a trait shared by a number of my friends and relatives - the idea that people only love you if they phone you, and frequently. The person who receives, not makes, phone calls is the one who is loved most. Plus, other communication, including face to face, is "not making an effort." I find that to be very weird.

Also, some people tend to feel that if they have to specifically tell you about something in their lives (whether good or bad), it's because you don't really care. If you "cared," you'd talk to them so frequently that you'd already know. If I didn't know something that was going on in their life, it was because I "never" called, and therefore "obviously" didn't care. The ball always seems to be in my court, though - if they didn't know something about my life, it was also my fault for not phoning them enough.

This never made sense to me. It made even less sense when I'd say, "You never call me, either!" and the answer was, "Well, I would, if you called me." What? "I think this is the only correct way to behave, but I'll only do what I think is right if you do it first"? That's ridiculous.

The thing is, if she'd said, up front and in a timely fashion, "I'd really appreciate a phone call," I would have done my best to call. I would have found it needy, but I would have made an effort. But to have someone ignore written invitations, make passive-aggressive comments about "not being invited" and then tell me that it was my fault for not being attentive enough produced the opposite reaction. If other people could figure out that receiving a mailed invitation meant that they were invited, by golly, every recipient could. Show up or don't, but don't gripe about it, either way.

And yeah, even with 4 kids, even after being told that I entertained badly and made gross cake and had bad manners, we had parties for our kids every single birthday while they were growing up - because we are parents, and the kids come first.

(I will readily admit, though, that as they got older and we had a bit more money to spare, I no longer cleaned, decorated and cooked - we went to restaurants, movie theaters, bowling alleys or elsewhere, including a corn maze. Less stress for me.)

I wonder, sometimes, if things have changed in the digital age. Probably now, people get upset about getting or not getting texts, not phone calls. I rarely text. I still send paper invitations, I still mail them to relatives first. But, everybody else might get an e-vite or Facebook Event invitation. My daughter just graduated from high school, and I don't have physical addresses, or phone numbers, for many people that we know, and are in electronic contact with regularly. I'm pretty sure that an electronic invitation is socially acceptable.

But, if you think it's not, we pretty much have two choices - let's just avoid each other's events, or attend them without griping. As "the kids say these days," you do you. I'll do me.

Tired

I'm the youngest child in my family. When it came time for me to drive, my mother took me driving once, and that was it. My dad once let me sit on his lap and steer when I was too young to drive. The rest of my driving training came from a friend of my mother's, a 25 year old ex-police officer. "We've already done this three times. I'm old. I'm tired," my mother said. I laughed, and I understood.

I now understand on an entirely new level. I am old. I am tired.

When I got married young, had children immediately, and decided to be a stay at home parent, so many of the people I knew were distressed, to one degree or another. Quite a few tried to talk me out of it. One of the reasons they gave made no sense to me (OK, quite a few made no sense to me). "You'll be so miserable when your kids are grown and gone if you've spent your whole like defining yourself by being their mother!"

"What? I AM their mother. I will always BE their mother."

"Yes, but you need to have an identity outside of that."

"I do."

This is the point at which they'd usually start to sigh, and think that I was a little thick headed. "But you won't, if all you do is stay home and tend children!"

I usually cut them - and I'm using the plural noun because I had these conversations on more than one occasion, with different people - slack for being well intentioned, which I think they were. They wanted me to be happy. Many of them were also about my age, early 20s, and on fire with desire to conquer and change the world, and be recognized as important, and it made no sense to them that I stepped off of the merry-go-round. They thought I should be "making a difference," and I thought that I already was.

To my mind, the line of thought that my kids would be my "only identity" made no sense because I was already a good many things before I became a wife and mother. I was a photographer, writer, actor, theater technician, crafter, reader, traveler, member of a religion and of an extended family. I would continue to be those things while my kids were young, and after they had grown. I could not understand the worry that adding a new title would erase the old ones.

It also made no sense when someone explained this mindset by saying, "Well, most people define themselves by their employment." Why in the world would anyone do that? My dad retired when I was 6 months old. For my entire life, he was not employed, and certainly didn't define himself by employment status. My mother was brilliant, excellent at her job, and indispensable to her employer, and she didn't define herself by her employment. "I don't understand people who think that they are their jobs," she said. And besides, why in the world would I make my life choices based on how other people felt about their lives?

So, the worries of others notwithstanding, I chose to be a full time parent.

When our children were a bit older, we had children, family members, who needed a temporary place to stay without their parents, live with us on three long term occasions, and many weekends and school holidays. The social worker in charge of overseeing one of those placements said to us, when the kids moved out, "We need to get you licensed and get some other foster kids in here!" (The process was less involved for us, since the kids were relatives.) We have a 6 bedroom house; even with all of our kids in their own rooms, we had room.

We felt strongly about helping kids in need - at one time, we took classes to prepare us to adopt from foster care - but we turned her down. We just weren't sure we could handle going through the process with kids we hadn't known all their lives, and might never see again. I felt guilty about that - I know how big the need for foster families is - but I chose my own mental health. "Maybe when our youngest is grown, we'll take on some foster kids," we said. Sometimes we added, "But maybe by then we'll be old and tired."

I have now spent over 30 years, 3 decades, being primarily a stay at home mom. Sure, I still did things that mattered to me - hello, live theater - and I worked, on occasion - mostly for myself - but day in, day out, my primary job was Mom. Here's some of what I learned.

I would do it again. I do not regret it. I never felt that my effort was "wasted" or wished that I'd chosen the Impressive Career route.

I now understand, a little bit, why my friends panicked back in the day - why some panic now. I've watched parents who were full time caregivers be lost when there's no one to care for. Some jump into being caregivers for other people's children. Some founder. Some get depressed and say, "No one needs me any more."

Of course, some do what one lifelong friend does. She now spends almost as much time on vacation, usually cruise ships, as she spends at home. She points out that if I'd stopped at 2 kids, I could have been "free" years ago. She spends no time pining for the days of classroom parties and Easter egg hunts.

People are starting to ask me, "What will you do when (your youngest) is out of school?" They offer things - "Do you want to teach a couple of co-op classes?"

Um, respectfully, no - I am looking forward to not being at co-op. Mind you, I LOVE our homeschool co-op. It's been delightful for me and my kids. I've taught academics, art, speech and more, to older kids, to younger kids. My children loved it. But I want to sleep until noon on co-op day, if I feel like it, then spend the rest of the day in my silent family room with a book. I do not want to plan, explain, organize, grade, set up, clean up.

When I had children, I had a really easy time adjusting to the idea that all the time, money and attention went to my children, and not me. It did not make sense when people lamented what a HUGE shift that would be, and wondered if I was ready, or told me that they weren't ready. I think it would be much harder if I had spent years focused on myself, and then had to change gears. I became a parent so young that it's "always" been this way. For an entire year once, I owned only one dress, a $20, 100% polyester dress. I wore it to church every week, to weddings, to funerals, to a family christening, to parties. My daughters, on the other hand, had a closet full of dresses. That's the way things should be, I think.

And now, I am looking forward to keeping my own schedule, choosing my own activities, impulse buying a cute new top. I'm looking forward to having nowhere to go, and no obligations. I want to head out the door with a pb&j sandwich and my camera, and see what needs photographed. I want to sleep in, to nap, to stay up late or to rehearse for a show without worrying that I'll be miserable or neglecting somebody. I want to sit and read, undisturbed in silence. I want to look up nostalgic TV or documentaries on Netflix, without waiting until someone else's bedtime.

I not only did not lose who I was before kids, I've added some labels, like Rotarian and travel agent.

And if people define me as a waste of their conversational efforts, because I'm "just a mom" when "everybody else managed to be a good parent and have a career"? I will ignore them. I will not waste their time or mine trying to change minds.

And unfortunately, yes, I feel too old and tired to take on foster kids. Yes, I feel guilty about that. But having the exact same conversations for literally years is exhausting. I can't take it on again.

I never, ever imagined, for instance, that I would be dealing with children who got out of bed in the middle of the night or early hours of the morning to sneak downstairs and watch TV. Not forbidden shows, often Disney channel, just at 4 am. I not only never imagined that I'd have a child who expressed their displeasure at us by dropping their pants and peeing on the floor, I certainly never imagined that it would continue for years, until said child's age was measured in double digits. (I never imagined, either, spending those years explaining that urine was NOT "water," nor did it "disappear.")

I mean, I expected to have to explain things - I just did not expect to explain them every day for literally years, only to be ignored.

Sometimes, the English language itself made this difficult, like when we spent two years, years, fighting the battle of heating and cooling; trust me, it's not what you're thinking.

We didn't have air conditioning in our cars until the older kids were hitting puberty. One day, when my child was about 6, we were making a familiar 45 minute drive, and a voice from the back seat said, "Can you turn on the heater? It's hot back here."

I explained, "The heater blows hot air. It will make it hotter."

My annoyed offspring announced, "NO, the heater blows warm air, and I want to be warm, not hot!"

"The heater will make it hotter," I repeated. "To make it cooler, we'd need air conditioning, and we don't have it."

Outrage: "I don't want to be cool! I want to be warm! Can you please turn on the heater? It will make it warm."

We spent at least 30 of the 45 minute drive engaged in this discussion. I thought I had explained it to death, and that would be the end of it. No. the next day, and the next, and the next, the SAME conversation took place. "I want to be warm! The heater will make it warm!" I had the children - the other child had now picked up this line of thinking, and parrotted it - hold their hands in front of the heater vents, to feel what came out, at various settings. I explained heaters, furnaces, all manner of non-open flame heating, but to no avail.

Then, one day, a new request. "Can I at least have a blanket, to keep the heat off?"

I clarified this request - it was not a request for window covering, or otherwise building a shade. My hot child wanted to bundle up. "Wrapping up in a blanket is what you do when you're cold. Right now, it will make you hotter."

"It will not! It will keep the sun and the heat off me."

I reminded my children of all the times they'd bundled up when cold, but to no avail.

For days, this continued. Finally, I thought, I am not giving the kids the chance to learn from their choices. I'm a big believer in natural consequences and learning by doing. OK, I thought, let's give them their way, so they can see how it turns out.

I did worry, especially when I looked in the rear view mirror and saw their flushed, sweaty faces above the blankets they had pulled up to their necks and tucked in around them, that I was being an accessory to heatstroke.

After a drive that had us all miserable, I asked, "Do you see now why blankets are a bad idea when you're hot?"

The answer? "You gave us a blanket that was too thin. It lets the heat through. If you'd give us a thicker blanket, it would work."

"No! If I gave you a thicker blanket, your brain would start to cook! No more blankets! Unless it's COLD!"

We continued to have these ridiculous conversations on an almost daily basis. One day, I sat in astonishment in the front seat, and wondered what planet I was on, as my child yelled in outrage from the back of the car, "I can't believe it's this hot back here and you won't even give us a blanket!"

Then, finally, the weather cooled, and the arguing stopped. Ah, I thought, we've moved on. Nope.

We had an evaporative cooler instead of an air conditioner. It was a bit too big for our house, which made it fantastic during the summer. One day that winter, my child said, "It's cold in here. Can we turn on the cooler?" And it all started again.

"No. We run the cooler in the summer, when it's hot. Now it would make us colder."

"No. It would make us cool, and cool is better than cold."

And thus went the winter.

The next summer, when "it's hot, turn on the heater" started again, I said, "We have discussed this over and over. I never want to have this conversation again." But guess what conversation I had all summer that year, too, and what conversation I had all that winter?

I demonstrated mixing hot and cold water for their baths. I pointed out that the furnace was on all winter, and the cooler was on all summer. We discussed and discussed - and my children could not believe that I was so dim that I didn't "get it."

I am just too tired to spend two years having these kinds of conversations again. I. Am. Tired.

Of course, it's not just when the kids are small that you have conversations that you never thought you'd have. Sometimes my kids seemed incapable of simply saying, "OK;" like when I said to a teen with their driving permit, "You went through that corner pretty fast. Slow down through the corners."

The response was, "I don't think I need to."

"I think that you do. Slow down."

"I don't think so. I think I'm fine."

"I didn't ask what you thought. I asked you to slow down. Who's been driving since before you were born, and has a perfect driving record, and who's been driving for a grand total of about 5 hours?"

"I just don't think I need to slow down. I think I'm doing fine."

"Well, I am the driving instructor, the parent, and the owner of the car. You will slow down going through the corners."

"But I don't think I need to!"

I. Am. Tired.

Then there are the conversations that I knew I'd have, but I thought that there was an expiration date. Telling a teenager who's old enough to be holding a job to use toilet paper and to brush their teeth seems ridiculous, but I've spent far too much time doing so. How tough is personal hygiene, really? I mean, toilet paper? Seriously?

When I felt compelled to point out to a teen who worked in a food serving capacity, "Customers will not want you to serve them if you have body odor or bad breath. You don't want them to complain to you or your boss," I was unprepared for the response to be, "You are ruining my self esteem!" Really, Child? You know what will really do a number on your self esteem? Complaints from customers or reprimands from your boss! I sugar coated this message as much as I could - they will not.

When a high school senior repeatedly complained that they "don't have time" to hang up their wet towels instead of leaving them in a heap on the floor (directly under the towel bar!), I demonstrated, by counting "one one thousand, two one thousand," that it took literally two seconds for them to pick it up, fold it, and drop it over the towel bar. And yet, the insistence of, "I don't have time! Why can't you do it?" continued. Finally, after realizing that I'd been fighting this battle since the children were old enough to bathe alone, I said, "Fine. Next year, when you're off at college, and your roommate says, 'Didn't your mother teach you how to pick up after yourself?' you'll have to look them straight in the eye and say, 'Yes, she did, but I ignored her.'"

My child looked stunned. "Because they will say it, I guarantee it," I said. "You think your roommates are going to want to pick up after you? They'll be far less patient about it than I am!" This possibility had not occurred to my honor student.

I. Am. Tired.

Of course, it's not just the conversations with the kids; it's the conversations with the other parents. "Connect with other parents," the experts say. "You'll feel less alone." Nice try, experts. In actual fact, talking to other parents can be extremely alienating.

Take the hygiene issues: When my kids were young and I'd have these conversations, people would say, "Oh, just wait until s/he hits puberty. S/he'll become obsessed with cleanliness." HA! I mean, no offense, Advice Givers, but HA! And it's not just one child. I have a teen who spent an entire week at camp in the same swimsuit, never changing or bathing. (Child's take: "I was so clean! I went in the lake every day!") I've had to almost forcibly remove favorite but dirty clothes, not from my little kids but from adolescents who were sure that wearing dirty "cool" clothes was better than wearing clean "uncool" clothes. I had one child with, unfortunately, very naturally stinky feet who rebelled at the thought of washing their smelly sneakers. ("You want me to wash my shoes?")

And I've gotten (too much) advice on the subject, too. Some people tell me that, once they hit the teens, the child(ren) should to be left to their own devices, to be as smelly and dirty as they want, because the reaction from their peers will squash any ideas of doing it again. Some people tell me that I should do whatever it takes, including forcibly bathing and/or restraining the child, and preventing them from leaving the house unless they're sparkling clean and great smelling, because otherwise I'm an uncaring parent who will cause their child(ren) to be ostracized. Some people tell me that children would only behave this way if no one has taught them proper hygiene. And I want to scream.

You name the subject, and the advice pretty much mirrors this. I've spent too much time hearing, "All you have to do is..." when I have, and, "Have you explained...?" Until I'm blue in the face, thanks - and I'm articulate.

I. Am. Tired.

Even when discussions with other parents go well, it can be hard. I was once speaking to the mother of one of my then-17 year old's best friends. She said something about chores, and I said, "Yes, well, (my child) is convinced that all of the jobs in our house and yard belong to me, and the only reason I have anyone else do any of them is because I'm lazy and mean."

She looked shocked. "No, she doesn't."

"Yes, she really does."

"No! She's 17! She knows how a family works!"

"No. She really doesn't." Not for lack of our explaining it to her - she was just convinced that we were wrong.

The other mom was starting to give me a look that said she was wondering why I would say such outrageous things. So, I said, "Do me a favor - ask her. Ask her when I'm not around, so you know she's not directing the answer at me. And ask her when she's in a good mood, because when she's in a bad mood, she'll agree that I'm responsible for WWII."

Then we changed the subject, and I didn't think much more about it. I know that I have no control over the behaviors or opinions of others, so I don't tend to dwell on them.

A couple of weeks later, this mom pulled me aside. "Remember that conversation about chores? She actually does think that. I had no idea." Yeah - I know.

The kids are bright, capable, talented, articulate. I would give my life for any of them. And yet, all children are irrational.

I. Am. Tired.

So, here I am, not regretting having kids, or staying home with them, or taking on extras now and then. I do not feel lost or diminished or like I have "no identity" or purpose. I'm excited to be able to have "me time." And, I'm so tired that I just can't imagine taking it all on again. Not physically tired, but a deep, philosophical fatigue. I just can't handle the thought of having the same discussions again, over and over and over. Or having new, ridiculous, repetitive discussions. And this makes me, with my empty bedrooms, feel guilty.

One of my religion's books of scripture cautions that, "It is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength." I think that taking on more children might be running faster than I have strength. But I still feel guilty.

"I am old. I am tired."

When Strangers Pick Fights

I try not to engage in any kind of confrontation with strangers. (Frankly, I try not to be contentious even with non-strangers!) It usually serves no purpose other than to make tempers flare.

All of us see and hear things that we find distasteful (or offensive, or harmful) while we're out in public. In general, our best bet is NOT to engage people in arguments. My husband and I both cringe every time we remember hearing a father inform his toddler, "You are no son of mine!" Even three decades later, I am still annoyed by the memory of total strangers who walked up to me and told me that I should not be having children.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule.

Over two decades ago, I had two daughters in elementary school and an infant son. One day, my son was feeling ill, and it seemed to be getting steadily worse. We phoned his doctor, who, in the absence of an emergency, couldn't see him until almost closing time. After juggling a sick baby with our daughters' after school gymnastics lessons, I made it to the 4:30 appointment. By that time, the baby was feverish, listless and miserable.

We left the office at 5:00 with a prescription, and urging to get it filled as soon as possible, or we'd undoubtedly end up at the emergency room. I don't remember what was wrong - probably bronchitis - but I remember vividly watching him get, very quickly, worse and worse.

My husband, the baby and I picked up our daughters from class at 5:30, and headed straight to Walmart, one of the only pharmacies open after 5:00 p.m. There was no such thing as a 24 hour or drive through pharmacy, at least not in our town, back then. The line at the pharmacy was huge; the pharmacist said, "Yeah, lots of crud going around," when I remarked on it. Due to the volume of customers, she estimated that we had an hour wait to pick up the medication.

We took the children, two of them having simply pulled pants on over their leotards, to McDonald's for dinner, hoping to both fill the time and feed everyone. My son only picked at his food; he was flushed and beginning to wheeze. A trip to the pharmacy window was unproductive - they hadn't gotten to his prescription yet.

We bought and administered some infant Tylenol for the fever, then pushed a cart fairly aimlessly around the store, killing time. Another trip to the pharmacy, and another long line, frayed my nerves. My son's temperature was over 100, and the Tylenol didn't seem to be helping.

Then things got worse - the pharmacy was out of the prescribed medication AND the generic equivalent. "We should be getting a shipment tomorrow." My husband had just taken the baby's temperature - 104. I started getting frantic.

"No, we need it tonight! He's getting worse and worse! Would another Walmart have it?"

"No, we already called around. You'll have to wait until tomorrow, or find another pharmacy."

"But you just said that no other Walmart has it, and all the other pharmacies are closed!" I was picturing a trip to the ER.

"Costco's open. Do you have a membership?"

"Yes! How late are they open?"

"They're open for another 20 minutes."

Of course, Costco was miles away. Luckily, most of them were freeway miles. With luck, we'd get there in time.

We hustled the kids out of the store and into the car. We still had 15 minutes. The baby looked like a wilting flower. In my panic to get to Costco on time, I did something that I never do - I left the shopping cart we'd been pushing him in sitting next to the car.

As the girls were buckling, someone knocked on my window. I expected a panhandler, and prepared to brush them off. I rolled down my window to an irate woman.

"I just watched you get in your car and leave the shopping cart sitting right there!" she said, pointing to the cart.

"I apologize," I said. "I'm in a hurry." I knew that was feeble sounding, but didn't much care.

She was not mollified. "Show some respect! Show some consideration for others!"

"I'm sorry," I repeated.

You know how some people just need to have their say, and once they've said their piece, they calm down? I assumed this woman was one of those people. She was not. She's the kind of person who gets angrier and angrier, the longer she talks. She ramped it up, expressing extreme displeasure at length, and with increasing volume. She informed me, repeatedly, that I was setting a bad example for my children. That wasn't what really bothered her, though. "People like you are the reason we can't even take our car out of our garage!" She proceeded to tell me the brand of her car, and quote its price, which was more than we paid for our first home. "Not everybody drives a piece of s*** like you do! And we can't even enjoy driving it, because of people like you! If I were to take it out, it would get covered in dents and scratches!"

The next thing out of her mouth was, "I have been nothing but nice to you..."

Hold it right there.

I did something I normally don't do. I interrupted, loudly.

"HEY! Criticizing someone's belongings is not being 'nothing but nice'! Swearing at me, especially in front of my kids, is not being 'nothing but nice'!" I had been quiet and deferential, but now I was loud and angry.

"When I walked out here, I had 15 minutes to get across town to the only pharmacy still open at this hour so that I can get medicine for my baby with the 104 degree fever! And you've kept me here talking to you!" I exaggeratedly started the car. In a voice dripping with sarcasm, I said, "Can I go now?" Yes, I know the correct usage is "may I." It didn't matter; I was going to pull out no matter what she said next.

She looked stunned, as if I'd slapped her. I don't think it had occurred to her 1. that someone who shopped at Walmart and drove "a piece of s***" could actually string together a sentence, 2. that I might have something on my mind and agenda more important than scratches on anybody's car, and 3. that yes, indeed, it is rude to swear at people and criticize their belongings. For the first time during the encounter, she lowered her volume and took a step backwards. "Well - I still think you're being a bad example for your children."

"So you said. Can I go now?" I said, putting the car in gear, in a voice that indicated that I was leaving.

"Yeah. Sure."

More sarcasm - "Thank you."

I dislike speed. I dislike speeding. But I practically zoomed out of the parking lot, muttering out loud, "If the pharmacy has closed by the time we get there, I swear... If they are out and we end up at the hospital..." I was incapable of finishing a sentence. My rosy child wheezed in his car seat.

My daughters chimed in. "I don't think you're a bad example, Mom! I think she's a bad example!" "I think her swearing was wrong!"

"Yes, well, all I care about is getting the baby's medicine."

I drove, uncharacteristically, 10 miles over the speed limit. In front of Costco, I practically shoved my husband out the door in front of the store, then parked the car. He dropped off the prescription with 2 minutes to go before closing. In 5 minutes, we had the medicine.

I did not start to truly calm down until an hour later, when the wheezing had stopped, and the baby's temperature dropped below 100.

I hoped that this woman would, the next time she felt like shrieking at someone, ask herself if maybe there were extenuating circumstances, of which she was unaware. We never know what's truly going on with others, folks. Refrain from deciding that you know everything.

And in case anyone wonders, if you tell me that you own a car more expensive than some people's homes, I will not be impressed. I will not think, "Wow, that's so cool," or, "They're so classy. I'm just not as good as they are." I will think, quite frankly, that you're not very good with money. I may also think that you're self absorbed. Possessions are not the way to impress or influence me.

If you ever see a parent hustle their kids out to their car, in such a hurry that they're distracted and leaving their shopping cart behind, just grab it and take it into the store. Then you can rightly feel very proud of yourself.

Also, 24 hour drive through pharmacies (which we now have) are a Godsend.

Majority Rules

I posted this on my Facebook page about a year ago. I was annoyed, and I not only quite often communicate better in writing, I can't stand having the same conversations over and over. "Maybe," I think, "if I say this in a public forum, I won't have to engage in repetitious conversations." Yeah, it's never worked that way, but I feel better after I write something. It's like thoughts just need me to give birth to them and set them free.

And some things shouldn't surprise me, but they do - I'm surprised every time someone says, "You know that most people disagree with you, right?" Sometimes they're very gentle and concerned, patting my hand. Sometimes, they're angry, and insisting that I have no right to speak an unpopular opinion aloud.

Here's why the query surprises me - I'm a Mormon. I homeschool my kids. I classify myself as a housewife. I mean, what about my life says, "popular choices"? How does anyone suppose that it's escaped my attention that I'm a minority, in multiple, fundamental ways? I cannot imagine how deluded someone would have to be to, say, belong to an unpopular religion, but still think that most people think and act like they do.

So, I find myself making pronouncements on social media.

Consider with me, People of Facebook -

Photos like the one of the man standing in the middle of a crowd in Nazi Germany, folding his arms while everyone else gives the Nazi salute, go viral. We share them all over our social media, saying, "Be this guy!" We like to pride ourselves on being individualists, on standing out; especially Americans, who coin terms like "sheeple" to deride those who conform. We like to think that we're all about being our own person.

Yet, one of the first things that anybody says when they're trying to sway my opinion, or to explain their own, is how many people agree with them. If I had even a penny for every time I heard the phrase "most people," I'd be wealthy.

The truth is, that guy with folded arms probably faced outrage and indignation from his loved ones. "What are you thinking? How could you be so disrespectful? The man is the leader of our nation! The Fuhrer lifted us out of poverty and chaos and restored us to our rightful place as a great nation! How is it that you can't even lift your arm to show your respect?" Even if they disliked Hitler and his policies, the guy would catch flak. "You're drawing attention to yourself! How can you put yourself in danger like that? What you say or do in the privacy of your own home is one thing, but you're drawing targets on all of us, on everyone you know, on your family, everyone you work with! Think of us! Think of (list of his loved ones and co-workers)."

And that's the people who LIKE him; what about the general public? The truth is, that guy may not have lived to the end of that day. Any number of people would have been happy to point him out to the authorities, in order to curry favor for themselves, because they thought he was dangerous, or both.

It's not just the big stuff, either, but all the small stuff. We're critical of the way people dress, the way they wear their hair, the cars they drive, the entertainment they watch. We decide what restaurants to eat at by checking Yelp reviews. We decide what movies to see by checking Rotten Tomatoes. I cannot tell you how many times I've bought a book or a movie ticket and had people say, "Why would you do that? It had terrible reviews." The idea that I want to decide for myself is often roundly criticized. I've actually been asked, "What makes you think that you know better than everyone else?" That's the wrong question. The more relevant one is, what makes everyone else think that they can, or should, override my own decision making process for my own life? I don't make choices for you; you don't get to make mine for me. Things become both absurd and dangerous if we all decide that we agree with the majority just because they are a majority, or that we need to let others decide for us because they are more qualified than we are.

Being contrary just because we think that it makes us superior or more intelligent is just as ludicrous and dangerous. It should not matter what others think, or whether it's a majority opinion or a minority one, when we're forming opinions. We should take in information and decide on our own, regardless.

Please know that if you say to me, "But most people think/do this," all I hear is a statement like, "This shirt is blue." It may be true, but I can't imagine why it would be relevant.

We pay a great deal of lip service to admiring people who stand alone, but in practice, we think they're odd, and view them with suspicion or discomfort.

So, People of Facebook, cut the oddballs some slack. They may be onto something. And even if they're not, at least they're thinking independently.

And people still say weird stuff to me.

Two of my (four) children have left the religion in which we raised them. We treat them exactly the same way we always have, but I was informed that, "Your child will never be able to be happy if you think that they're doing things wrong." What? What parent thinks that their child has never, ever done, said, or thought anything wrong? That's just silly. I was thus informed that if I think my kid (or, presumably, anyone else) is doing or thinking anything wrong, that I don't "truly accept them for who they are."

I'm sorry, but that's just poppycock.

Still, I'm willing to accede to that world view and say, those people are 100% right. My poor children - they will never be happy, and I don't truly accept them. BUT HERE'S THE THING: If that is true, it means that I can never be happy, because my children think that I am wrong. And those children do not truly accept me for who I am. I mean, after all, if it applies one way, it applies the other.

Plus, my religion is not something like my nationality or hair color, something I was born with, or had handed down to me by my parents - I chose it, on my own. In fact, that's one of the reasons I find this thinking to be so ridiculous; I joined my church, alone, when I was 12. My parents were never members. Yet I did not feel unloved, and they were not unhappy because of me.

Sometimes, too, people will feel judged by the simple fact that I homeschool. We'll be having an ordinary conversation, and then they'll find out, or be reminded, that my kids do not attend school. Suddenly, someone will get defensive, insist that I think they're a bad, unloving, selfish parent who's ruining their child's life by sending them to public school. No, I will say, I think no such thing. I'm in favor of many choices, and I made the choice that works best for my family. And often, I will still be treated to an extensive recital of why they chose public school, as if they need to convince me, or need my approval.

Or, they'll tell me why they don't agree with homeschooling, but will qualify it with, "I'm not talking about you and your family," as though I am somehow an exception to every rule.

And just when I've pretty much forgotten that Mommy Wars exist, someone will tell me that my choice to be home full time has ruined my children's lives, and mine as well. Or, they'll be sure that I'm condemning them for wanting and enjoying a career.

Folks, I am NOT judging you and thinking that you're a bad person if you do things I do not do. I have no illusions that people always will, or should, agree. Sometimes we will be wrong, but that does not nullify our right to occupy space on the planet, our right to live as we choose, our right to express ourselves, or our right to be treated with civility. It does not mean that we do not love others who are different. And if you keep insisting that the simple fact that I do things differently than you do, or think that you're wrong in any way, means that I'm judging you, disliking or distrusting you, or thinking you are a lesser person than I am, I will be forced to conclude that YOU feel this way about ME. Because, I GUARANTEE, even if you're a member of my family, a member of my church, a member of my political party, occupation, or any other classification, there is something I do that you think is WRONG.

You're, of course, free to think that I'm six kinds of dreadful, but realize that fact alone doesn't mean that I think that about you.

Yes, I am thinking of all the election year rhetoric. You are not a terrible person if you vote for a candidate that I can't stand. I am not a bad person if I vote a way that you find to be wrong.