Entries Tagged 'parental fear' ↓

A bee flew into a craft store. No, this is not a dirty joke. This is what happened – this morning. So this bee, he flew right on in. Oh! Bright lights, lots of colors and – whats this? Aisle upon aisle of beautiful, blooming flowers! Can you imagine this bee’s glee? (I’m loving that rhyme.) He was probably flying swoops in the air and doing a little bee jig. And then, maybe after smacking his little bee lips, he dove right down into those flowers – perhaps eyeing one of those lovely, seasonally appropriate sunflowers.

Wait a minute. Upon landing, that bee realized something. The lovely sunflower didn’t smell right. In fact, it didn’t feel right. Horror of horrors, after further inspection, that bee found not one trace of pollen anywhere upon that flower. Miffed, he tried the next one. And the next. And then he realized, they were all fake! This was all a lie! A conspiracy - bees everywhere were being made fools of! Zooming around the store, his senses overwhelmed by fake flowers with no pollen, with no way to get out to the real flowers with real pollen… this bee was livid, seething, utterly enraged.

And then he spots us. He sees my son C. and I wheeling through the sliding doors. Clueless, innocently entering this store in our own right, we wheeled right by the flower section.

Just as we brushed past the glittery mums, he made his move. Attacking, taking out his rage upon a sweet, slightly plump, 2 year old who was actually behaving today for his mommy. He was going to bring “the man” (and that bee was betting ”the man’s” name was Michael) down for every lovin’ fake flower in that joint.

C. grabbed his neck. And then his thumb. And SCREAMED. I was at a loss. Did a plastic flower bramble just scratch him? Did some extra large glitter on those mums cut his neck a bit? I looked and found two bites on his neck, both a bit puffy. And then, the thumb, which he was waving madly for my kiss, had that same puffy punctured bite.

What the hell? Michael’s employees gathered around, recognizing that special pitch of a child’s scream in pain. And then one woman saw it. The bee, staggering around on the floor. Probably screaming up to his pollen gods, “Why… WHY?!?!!!”

Smooooosh. And his agonizing final day on this earth was over.

Meanwhile, you should know, I am a mother of a son with a peanut allergy. I am the daughter of a man who has fatal reactions to bees. I swell for days if I get one bite. And now my son has two? On his neck? So who SHOULD be the most prepared mommy ever – with benedryl and an epipen at the ready in case of emergency? On most days, me. Not today you ask? Nope, not today. My allergy kit was home, in the swimming pool bag. Today. Of ALL days.

And when I realized this, panic set in. His screams were ear shattering, but I barely heard them. I grabbed him and made a run for my car. “Wheres the closest walgreens, WHERES THE CLOSEST WALGREENS??!?!??!?” Um, down there. Screeeeeeech, my 97 Saturn (step aside General Lee) did a Dukes of Hazard peel out of the parking lot.

And can I just say? I am usually a fiiiine driver. Honestly. I have even been complimented on my skillz before. Oh ho, NOT today. ‘Scuse me, pardon me, get the frock over, I AM COMING THROUGH DAMMIT!!!!!!

And then I thought, hearing him howl and hiccup and surely gagging and almost dying, that I should go the other way to the Urgent Care right by here. Hiccup, gasp. Oh sweet cheese and crackers… HE’S DYING!!!!!

‘Scuse me, pardon… GET OUT OF MY GODDAMN WAY MY CHILD IS DYING!!!!!!!!

Oh shit, the urgent care isn’t over here. U-TURN!!!!! SCREEEECH!!! (“Just the good ol boys, never meaning no harm…”)

Back at the same pissing redlight. Should I run it? COULD I run it? Could I? Damn, fate hands me a cop car in the right hand lane.

Then, as I am pulling into the Walgreens parking lot, watching my screaming and drooling 2 yo in the rear view mirror, a faint little bulb managed to blink on in the haze of my panic. Call the pediatrician. Oh yeah…

Well, I handled that like a pro. “My baby… stung… will he die?” Sob sob sob. Calm down she said. He is fine if he is screaming. SOBSOBSOBSOB. She said bendryl, baking soda, make sure he keeps breathing, if he doesn’t, call 911.

Wha? 911?…. SOB!!!!!!!! WAAAIIIL!!! MY BABY!!!! WAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

She shoulda been there. Really she shoulda. Because if I ever could have used a bitch slap, it would have been right about then.

So I hung up, grabbed my sweet bee punctured child, and ran for the pharmacy.

“BENEDRYL! ORAL SYRINGE! BAKING SODA! STAT!” Well, I didn’t say STAT but I should’ve, dontcha think?

I got what I needed, he got what he needed. The crying slowed. He was breathing. Oh lookee here, I was breathing. I even managed to fish a smooshed fruit bar out of my purse. Which he ate, smiling through boogers while caked bits of baking soda fell off his neck into his lap as he chewed.

We sang his favorite bumblebee song.

“I’m bringing home my baby bumblebee, won’t my mommy be so proud of me…”

He pointed to the scary monstews in the Halloween section and giggled.

All was well.

All was even better when he drowsily nodded off from the drugs in my car. I’ll be putting a mirror to his mouth to just make SURE I didn’t overdose the kid (I was a little shaky, maybe he got more than a teaspoon?) as soon as I press publish. (My priorities as a mom are right in check.)

But here’s my bottom line. It was a bee sting. OK, three bee stings. (And I am thinking maybe it was a wasp and not a bee, how can a bee sting three times?) But kids get stung. IT HAPPENS. And how did I deal with this fairly minor first aid incident? I flipped the FROCK out.

What am I going to do? When the stitches and the broken legs and the rest of it happens. (I have two boys, its not a matter of *if* , its a matter of when.) That epipen BETTER stay in my purse because judging from today’s complete and total over reaction, *I* will need a shot of epinephrine and a call to 911 more than my child with a broken limb will. I did a horrible job today. I screamed at stop lights, I panicked and drove all over the place, I cried as if *I* were the one stung when talking to the triage nurse. I looked like a craaazzeee woman tripping and running through Walgreens with my screaming kid, holding onto my shirt, now exposing most of one bra cup. What a fiasco. GET A GRIP WOMAN!!!

Maybe it takes practice. Maybe I need to read more stories of inspiring “keeping their shit together when scary stuff happens” moms likes this one and this one. Maybe if it were MORE than a bee sting but something really legit like a gaping wound, I would be cool, and totally together and summon the spirit of Miranda Bailey (my favorite Greys Anatomy character) and it would all be taken care of quickly, calmly and effiently. And I would even say “STAT”.

Who am I kidding. I am a fiasco in emergency situations, and thats that.

Thank God for triage nurses and 911. And vodka.

“Sit down in my thinking chair and think. Think. Thiiink.” – Blues Clues

Do you ever have one of those moments? Those moments that make you stop and think hard, and you keep thinking about that moment long long after it has past? I have had three of those moments this weekend. I thought I would share.

Moment #1

At Target, I ran into a couple moms I know. I know them through my children. We are not particularly close but it’s always good to see these moms, say hello, chat a bit. And so that’s what we were doing. We had not seen each other much over the summer, our kids were in school, starting playgroups, bladdy bladdy blah… there was lots to catch up on.

I am not sure what we were talking about but suddenly, one mother lowered her voice to a whisper and said something like “that’s what a black person would do.” Before I could even think at all, I said “Well, gotta get going, I’ll see you ladies later!” And turned and left. Just like that. It was a gut thing. I just reacted. I didn’t like what I heard, I was offended, and I bolted.

I will admit right here, that has not always been my reaction either. In the past, I have ignored statements like this but carried on the conversation like nothing happened. Or changed the subject. Or tried to find an out for my friend - surely they didn’t mean it the way it sounded - and have allowed them to use the famous disclaimer “not that I am racist or anything”. I have never been proud of myself in retrospect - where I try to smooth over and actually normalize the moment. I may as well have said it myself.

This time I couldn’t ignore it. But I didn’t say anything either. I didn’t say ” I found that remark offensive.” I just bolted. I guess the message may have come across that I didn’t like what she said. Or it could have come across that I just had to go. I dunno. I am not sure how I feel about my reaction and I can’t stop thinking back about it.

Moment #2

We went to Busch Gardens this weekend. We have “fun passes” and go fairly often. Theme parks are to Florida what the Smithsonian is to Washington D.C. We take for granted what people travel for miles with families to see and do.

Anyway, my 5 yo son T. and I were in line for the Flume. You know which ride this is - the log ride – with the big drop at the end where we get all wet. T. is dying to be old enough for roller coasters and this was his first time on a ride with a big drop. So we were really excited – giggling and chatting, we were all wound up about it.

As we were only a few people away from jumping onto our own log, I heard a violent thump from behind me. I turned and saw a woman, slumped back in her husbands arms, eyes rolled up in her head, and an enormous gash – maybe 6 inches across – on her forehead. She had fainted and hit her head on the stairs. Blood was everywhere. We yelled for help, the Busch Gardens attendants were unsure - radioing managers, grabbing paper towels, running, whispering, clueless. I saw the hands of the girl with the paper towels, she was shaking.

Since we were ahead of the woman who fainted, they ushered us onto the flume and off we went. My heart in my stomach: for T. who had never done this before and for this woman, and all the blood, and the moment she was in.

After an exhilarating splashdown, squeals of delight and “let’s do it agains” from T., we pulled back around to get off our ride. I then heard the announcement that the Flume would be closed due to “technical difficulties”. I stepped off and carefully helped T. off too.

And thats when I saw the two boys. They were maybe four and seven. They were huddled together on the stairs, quite a few feet away from the woman lying on the ground. Obviously, they were her sons. They were crying quietly, the older boy had his arms around the younger boy; now and then he would pat his cheek or rock him gently. Like Hansel and Gretel, holding onto to one another, in utter shock, their world had just turned upside down.

I looked to see who was helping them. No one. Their father was too consumed with helping his wife and talking to the paramedics arriving on the scene.

And we were being pushed along and asked to exit on the right.

But those boys. There was a large fence separating where T. and I were and those boys. If only I could have stopped and stayed with those boys. If only I could have offered them some comfort. They were alone, they were too young to know it was going to be ok, they were utterly distraught, they had seen their mommy fall, they saw so much blood. All I can think now is how they will remember that horrible moment for the rest of their lives. Their mother was fine, all would be well, children have seen worse, but my heart broke for those boys in that moment.

Moment #3

I was in Wal-Mart this morning. (OK, ok, I know. I hear your booing. I’ve already said my piece on that place before. With our meager, pathetic, shoe-string budget, it is what it is.) I can’t believe it’s September already, and naturally, my mind is starting to gear up for the holidays. So we were wandering the aisles in the toy section. C. was starting to feel impatient for lunch and I knew my time was running out.

Suddenly C. said “Oooooh, Mama. Baby. Toe TOOT!” (Translation: Oh, mommy, that baby is so cute!) He saw a doll haphazardly left behind on the wrong shelf. C. adores babies. He can hardly keep his hands off any of my friend’s babies. They light up his world, I mean it.

Well, a lightbulb went off in my head. How can it be this child does not have a doll when he loves babies this much?

So off I wheeled in search of a cheap, small baby doll for C. Where could they be?

Oh. Right. The “pink” section.

I have two boys. I don’t get to the pink section often. And I gather all dolls are in the pink section, the girl section. So, into the pink I wheeled. And bingo. There, between the hideous Hannah Montana dress up crap and the Bratz dolls (What the HELL are they about! Ah!), there was a small section of dolls. He played with a few. We picked one out. It has a little hat and a pacifier as accessories. And as excited as he was, he shocked me by being so gentle with that doll. Carefully cradling it, jibber jabbering little comments to the doll, giving it the pacifier, hugging it, patting its head. He played with it all the way to the register, had the doll sitting next to him in his car seat home, on the floor next to him during lunch and, currently, the doll is tucked in T.’s bed across the room from C. as he takes his nap.

So I am glad we found that doll. It’s perfect. 

But I couldn’t help but mutter how crazy it is that the only dolls to be found were in the PINK section.

WHAT. BOYS can’t EVER have a doll?

WHAT. BOYS aren’t ever NURTURING?

WHAT shouldn’t I be encouraging my boy to nurture small babies, to be a good parent some day, for crying out loud!?

Cleary, dolls are for girls. Found only in the PINK section. UGH. GAG.

I should probably mention one thing, however. You know, that the baby we got? He’s dressed in blue. I assume he is a boy doll. And who picked that color out? I did. What was my point? Did I think that having him play with a boy doll, assuming he is a boy because he is in  blue, makes boys playing with dolls THAT much more ok? Like “It’s ok, its a DUDE doll.” The blue doll assures that C.’s masculinity is still intact?

Eh.

So whats that say about me?

Clearly, this Monday, I am lost in my own thoughts. And once again, obviously thinking way too hard about stuff going on around me. But I am guessing these kinds of moments will happen again. And what better home for them but here.

I hope you have a wonderful and less “over thought” start to your week.

Yesterday, my son T. had a small shard of metal removed from his eye. That’s right, I said metal. And, yup, I just about fainted to the floor when I found out what it was. But here’s the thing. He had this shard in his eye for a couple days and it didn’t bother him at all. In fact, I saw it there and couldn’t figure out what could be on his eye and not bother him. So he went into the pediatrician yesterday and we were immediately sent across town to a pediatric opthamologist. After some tests and finally a good old fashioned q-tip, out came this teeny tiny but oh so pointy shard of metal. METAL. And it never hurt him. The doctor said it was “smooth side down” and he was very lucky. Another shocking part of this story was that my wonderful boy never even cried, ever! But once I had my boys strapped into the car and was driving back across town, I finally did.

For those of you who are parents, don’t you feel our children are constantly dodging bullets? I know I talk about fear and parenting a lot. Obviously I have issues. But, for real, it seems children are so often on the verge of possible traumatic injury. Everyday. They seem one step away from walking into traffic. One monkey bar away from falling and cracking their skull. One wrestle away from stitches or missing teeth. And apart from the everyday habitual fussing and panicking we are all guilty of, there is honestly not much more we can do to protect them. When I decided to have kids, I really had NO idea what I was signing on for, you know?

We are 6 days shy of celebrating T’s 5th birthday. It is also the anniversary of his most impressive bullet dodging feat ever. After having been born by emergency c-section, T. was not breathing. They were able to resuscitate him but, after being transferred to Boston’s Children’s Hospital, he started having seizures. There was clear evidence of brain injury. There was a shadow on his MRI. There were discussions about possible cerebral palsy and other developmental issues. We were signed up for early intervention and attended an infant CPR class while he was watched over in the NICU, hooked up to every tube possible, and deeply sedated by the anti-seizure medication.

In a matrix style, slow-mo, impossible-even-in-the-movies type of bullet dodging, T. fought back. And 11 days after he was born, his MRI came back clean. The stern, bow-tied neurologist admittedly said “We don’t use the word ‘extraordinary’ around here very often…” and he was released from the NICU, unplugged from everything and all ours.

T. has grown into something unexplainable but absolutely extraordinary. He knew his ABCs entirely by 18 months. At 2 years he knew his phonics and he was reading by his third birthday. He reads maps for fun, watches the classical music cable station (when he isn’t begging me to put on a Star Wars movie), and is fascinated with human anatomy (“Was the metal stuck in my cornea, mom? Cool.”) He is far too wise for his years, cautious as if he knows better, and truly my right hand man.

Not surprisingly, in my mind, he has a super hero quality. Able to stop speeding bullets with his bare hands. He has walked over a pgymy rattle snake that happened to cross his path. He only reacted with hives to a potentially deadly peanut allergy. And even yesterday, they tested his vision - its perfect. That seems an impossibility when he comes from generations of legal blindness, coke bottle lensed glasses and macular degeneration on both sides of his family.

Now of course, he is not a superhero. He is a boy and comes from a long line of insane boys. Did you know his father once dug a hole in his yard, set up a jump next to it, poured gasoline into the hole, threw a lit match in, and proceeded to jump his bike over that fiery pit until he was caught? Did you know his uncle (my brother) used to steal chemicals out of the school chem lab to make home-made pipe bombs to throw in ponds to catch fish? Complete and total insanity. And I’m not saying girls don’t do insane things too, but I expect regular trips to the emergency room in my future to claim either of my stitched up or freshly casted sons.

So, I really need a bottom line here. And, while seemingly in a perpetual state panic, I think I just keep coming back to the same conclusion. Danger happens. And -ok, parents, grasp this crazy possibility- maybe our children are better off for it.

Shit. I need a drink.

“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing.” – Helen Keller

When you decide you want to have children, there is a whole list of things no one tells you. Its like some underground parental code and, if it were leaked to those hopeful married couples on the verge of family life, we may never actually procreate. And I think there is a whole section in that code devoted to sleep, or lack there of. Of course, newbie parents would assume an infant won’t sleep through the night and you will be up at all hours feeding him or her. But no one actually tells us that once we have children, parents pretty much never sleep through the night again. Usually, my sons are to blame, even all these years since the newborn stage: T. wants to be in our bed, C. is up whining he wants his blanket over him again, someone wants water, someone is sick, T. saw something in his closet, the list goes on. And that stuff is 100% part of parenting, even if you weren’t completely clued in when you signed up for this gig. But, I think I missed the fine print of that code where it explains that even when your kids sleep through the night, you don’t.

Around 3:00 or 4:00am, my body wakes me up. Whats going on. Its too quiet. No one is awake. Is everyone breathing ok? My husband certainly is. Hmmmm. Oh wait, I have to pee. Now I’m thirsty. Now I hear rustling in their room. I better go check to be sure they’re fine so they (now don’t laugh) wake me up. And on my way back to my room, I turn off the fan and the power button on the stereo (I hate wasting electricity) and make sure windows are shut. I may as well fill up on water too.

Once I have finally determined that all is well, I settle into bed ready to really sleep. Well, of course, I don’t sleep. Instead, I must solve the worlds problems. This is a little running list of what thoughts went through my head in bed from about 3:30am until 4:15am last night.

• I’m a little hot. The air conditioning is on though. Is this the early onset of menopause? I am going to be 35 in a couple months. God, I’m old.
• Do I need to pee again? At this age I better take care of my bladder. Isn’t it inevitable that moms are incontinent eventually? I don’t want to smell like pee. Honestly, IS my bladder really totally empty? Its kind of hard to tell. Maybe they botched up my last c-section and put my bladder back in wrong.
• C. drank a lot before bed, his diaper is going to be MASSIVE.
• T. didn’t drink enough after soccer tonight, is he going to be dehydrated? I better check the potty after he goes in the morning.
• Soccer. UUGGGGHHH. WHY did I agree to host an ice cream party after our last game next week? My husband won’t even be in town! Maybe I can get my friend to take T. to the game and stay home to really get this place in order…. how many people are coming? I don’t have that space! Maybe I can put the ice cream table on the grass to the left of the door. Or to the right? Do I buy beer or expect people to bring that? Will just hot dogs and ice cream be enough? The grill is near the door, that seems dangerous. The grill needs cleaning. And so does my entire house…. ACK! (heartbeat is racing by this point.)
• Calm down. Relax body. Count backwards to fall asleep. No that never works. Play the name game. A… Aidan. B… Brady. C… Connor. D… David. E…. Ethan. I feel bad I didn’t go to Ethan’s mommy’s baby shower. Do you think she still likes me?
• I need a shower. At least its the weekend and my husband can keep them out of the bathroom.
• Tomorrow is a boat ride. Fun! Oh wait. Grooooaaan. I have to put myself in a bathing suit. Publicly. Maybe my “Bush refund check” can help me buy a new suit? Yes! First thing, I am going to get up and go buy something that makes me look spectacular. (Because the swim suit rack at Target is really that promising.)
• What time is it? My glasses are in the way of my clock. Does T. need glasses? Does C.? Both sides of our family have horrid vision. C. seems to squat down and get close to other kids. Is he having trouble seeing them? Oh no, will he need glasses as early as I did? I need to get them checked. Will they look dorky in glasses? Hmmm… I used to do hearing and vision testing for community service in high school. If I could just find a website to print off a vision chart and put it the correct length away, I could check T. at least. Oh but our printer is out of ink. I can get that at Target too. Yes, I am up early to get a printer cartridge and a CUTE bathing suit.
• Is the front door locked?

I just want to know what it was that finally allowed me to fall asleep. And it seems to me that I often get a better nights sleep when they wake up. Because I go deal with them and then fall right back to sleep. But when its quiet, too quiet, my brain races.

And, often enough, husbands seem programmed NOT to wake up at night. Pretty much ever. There are nights where I run back and forth from their bedroom 3 or 4 times and he will have no idea. Oh, I can feel bitter and swear little sounds like “%$#@!” in the bubble over my head. But, let’s face it. Who is bright eyed and bushy tailed at 6:00am ready to deal when they wake up chanting “cheer-ree-ohs! cheer-ree-ohs!” over and over? Not I. I am exhausted. My husband takes over, usually with no idea of the previous night’s adventures. Or the major world issues I have concerned myself with and have probably brilliantly solved. What would my family do without me?

Nevertheless, in the light of the day, I am less worried about my son’s vision. I feel rational and much less inspired to go bathing suit shopping in Target, on a Saturday, just to hate my body more in the harsh florecent lights. Yeah, spectacular ain’t gonna happen there. The soccer thing? Ugh. I’ll worry about that later. Maybe tonight, around 3:00am.

Helicopter Moms vs. Free-Range Kids:
A New York columnist lets her grade-schooler ride the subway alone, provoking a wave of criticism. But do kids really need more supervision than in generations past?

This morning I am revisiting a recurring theme around these parts – fear and parenting. I read this article, listened to a clip of the author speaking on NPR and visited her new blog Free Range Kids. I was fascinated. What she did sounds exactly like something my mother would have done. And sort’ve DID do. And I turned out fine, right? (right?) But here’s my question. Would I let my kids have the same freedom?

While I wasn’t turned loose in NYC until well past the age of the author’s son (9) I had my own share of more than comparable experiences. During our years abroad, my parents allowed us to do some CRAZY stuff. And while they didn’t like me dating a senior, or “hanging out” at a 7-11 with some friends, or getting home after 11pm – they actually let my brother and I do the following:

• At 3 years old, I was allowed to run through the Tunisian Souks and stop in to chat with shopkeeper after shopkeeper and then find my way back to where ever it was I had left my mother.
• At ages 9 and 10, my brother and I wandered and played aimlessly in the streets in Mogadishu, Somalia, often stopping into various huts to share some tea with locals.
• By age 12 and 13, we were free to travel internationally which included multiple lay overs, passport and custom negotiations, currency exchange, taxi bartering and hotel seeking.
• Around 14 and 15, armed with a map, a little broken high school French and some cash, we had complete freedom to discover such cities as Rio De Janeiro, Amsterdam, Johannesburg, Paris, Rome, Lisbon and even New York City just to name a few.
• Once we were driving at about 17 and 18, my dad would give us a “road mine” map of Mozambique and allow us to drive to Swaziland (past previously blow up vehicles who either didn’t quite miss a mine or may have been carjacked) to meet up with some friends.
• My brother’s summer job was animal tracking at an African game park (yes, he toted a rifle for self defense) – I am proud to say that I didn’t think that was very safe and stayed home to sneak off to parties instead.

These are only a few examples of the craziness my parents encouraged. And I am betting when they read this, they will chuckle proudly and exclaim what bright, well-rounded, experienced world travelers we were. I am telling you, they are patting themselves on the back and rehashing these tales to co-workers and friends (who nod politely, I am sure unable to discern if they are horrified or impressed). Bottom-line, my parents think they did a bang up job with us.

And DID my brother and I learn to be well-rounded world travelers? For sure. Did we learn important self-reliance skills ? Heck yes. Did we have fun? Oh, you bet. Now as a parent in retrospect, do I think my parents were completely and utterly insane. ABSOLUTELY.

And that’s my dilemma.

Is this world more dangerous than the one I grew up in? Would I let my sons do what I was allowed to do? I just don’t know.

After all those years seeing a grand scope of our world and trying to find my place in it, I think I have figured out where danger lies in the context of most things. I think. But then I had children. And I am telling you, my common sense and “worldliness” has flown out the window. If my child is within 3 yards of our road, my heart begins to flutter with panic. If my younger son stands at the top of the highest slide on the playground, I want to faint for fear he could fall. If a bee flies by, I immediately tense thinking my sons could have the same deadly anaphylactic reaction to bees that my father has. I live in parental fear and it needs to stop!

So, after years of flying by the seat of my pants, where has this come from? What feeds this fear?

First of all, it’s love. I love my children so much, too much really. But love should not be paralyzing. As a parent, I think of the worst. It’s like a reflex. There is a coin on the floor and immediately I can imagine my youngest son choking for air. No doubt about it, these schizoid visions are hardly constructive and the kibosh needs to be put on them. Now. 

I also only have two children. My mother in law might argue that this is the problem. When a parent has more children, they don’t have the time or energy to worry as much. Parents naturally find the right balance that way - keeping them safe while giving them their freedom. Its a good point but, then again, my parents only had two kids and they seemed to let us figure it out. Yet, my parents were utterly insane so the point still stands as valid.

But, really, I blame the media and the general external pressure to be more careful with our children. Everything around us is so regulated and wrought with the possibility of danger. Parental panic has reached a fever pitch. Did you hear about the recent carcinogenic dangers of plastic bottles? Did you see the latest Amber Alert? Did you get the release about the newest sexual predator that has moved within a 5 mile radius of my house? Did you hear about the alligator that wandered into someone’s kitchen not so far from here?

It’s constant and I need to figure out how to filter all of this information – and quickly. Because if I don’t, my sons will really miss out. And while they may not be playing in the streets of Mogadishu anytime soon (honestly mom and dad, you are as mad as hatters, both of you), I really want them to understand context, to find their place in the world, to apply gritty common sense with everything they do and to respect themselves and the environments they find themselves in.

So buck up, Caroline. Remember your African roots, dig deep for your passport, find common sense, and unfold that “road mine” map again. The mines are out there but it doesn’t mean we’re going to hit them. We’ll just have a lot of fun avoiding them.

Fear is really at the core of parenting, don’t you think?  We parents are huddled in our own brains peering out at the world, scared of everything. Everyday. The possibility of sudden illness, haphazard injury or worse seems on our minds, just under the surface, hidden behind our relaxed laughter and comments like “kids will be kids” when they pile drive each other on the couch. My post about soccer moms being natural history’s worst enemy certainly lines up with this theory. And can you blame us? Snakes are really out there! (Even if it was a harmless Rat Snake.)

So I have a fear issue today. I am debating whether I should go up to the community pool with my boys. Seems awfully silly, doesn’t it? And a total no-brainer. It’s a lovely pool and it’s going to be hot this afternoon. I am still stubbornly holding on to my practical New England ways and have yet to turn the A/C on. So the pool seems like an obvious choice during the worst part of the heat in the afternoon. But here’s the thing. Neither boy can swim, both are wildly insane and I would be the only adult in charge. YEEEEKS!!!! My hair stands on end at the mere thought! But how the hell is my (almost) 5 year old ever going to trust himself in the water if I don’t just suck it up and get in there? If I am to assume they will drown as soon as their toes touch that pool, how will they possibly want to get in there too, feel confident and actually someday swim? And that confidence is really at the core of swimming. And my own confidence is at the core of effective, relaxed parenting, right?

And let’s not forget the words of Yoda:

“Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.”

Ok, so that’s a little dramatic. But what I will take from my man, Yoda, is that don’t let fear get to you. Or else all kinds of over the top ridiculous will ensue. Get it together. I am their example. There is plenty to be scared of in this world but I need to keep my wits about me, be rational and just jump in head first. (WOW. This pool thing is becoming quite a “state the obvious” kind of metaphor, isn’t it?)

“Do or do not, there is not try.” Go Yoda.

Biologist EO Wilson says Soccer Moms are Natural History’s Enemy

I read this article about soccer moms protecting their kids from their natural environment, and it struck a cord. I live in Florida and have two young children, both under 5. I am frequently surprised to see that moms do in fact guard their kids from the outside world. I know I do it too. And I just don’t feel ok about it. 

If you are not from here, you are probably thinking that balmy, lush, never ever cold Florida is the perfect place for children to enjoy the wide wonderful outdoors! This is the argument that my fellow soccer moms have down here, and I do follow this logic also. We have endless creatures roaming around that we happen upon regularly. Primary concerns being alligators, snakes, bobcats and even numerous piles of dirt which are home to very painful fire ants. Even the grass in most people’s yards can give many children a fairly irritating rash, mine included. The other argument is that it’s just plain too hot to do much outdoors for as much as 6 months of the year.  

But this fear of the outdoors down here seems to go well beyond that argument. Many Florida homes have lanais which are protective “bird cage-like” screened in porches. Pools are often built inside the lanai, as are the children’s play areas. Indigenous trees and plant life are bulldozed to make way for neatly planted palm trees and grass that needs regular visits from the True Green truck. Playgrounds are fenced in and awnings hung over them to keep off the blazing sun. Home owner associations send monthly newsletters reminding parents not to let their children play in the protected conservation lands that border most gated communities. Sprinklers spray reclaimed water, so you meddling kids better stay out of those too. And let’s not forget about the high number of sexual predators that make Florida their home state. Bolt those doors, we aren’t going anywhere. 

It goes further. So few moms host simple birthday parties at the local park anymore. Remember what we grew up with? A playground, a picnic table, about 6 or 7 of the neighborhood kids, a cake, a couple balloons and maybe a piñata if you were extra fancy. Today, birthday parties are held at large carpeted indoor air conditioned facilities with endless playscapes and various kinds of government regulated climbing apparatus (although we often sign waivers upon arrival). Countless games and activities are hosted by energetic pony tailed camp counselor types and the birthday child is made to feel like royalty for the day.  As for daily life around here, routines for children absolutely reflect the over-scheduling this article critiques us moms for: dance classes, swim classes, karate, music, gymnastics, soccer (of course)… on it goes. 

So I have to reconcile this issue for myself. While I can’t just let my kids into my backyard unsupervised at this point (I have indeed witnessed an alligator, 3 bobcats and water moccasin in my yard over the past year alone), I can go with them – expect some grass rashes and possible bee stings – and just let them get dirty. And if we see one of the above listed animals, I will continue to teach them safe behavior and respect – not fear – around these creatures. Both of my sons have birthdays coming up. Sure it could rain, sure it could be too hot, sure a pile of fire ants could attack everyone and destroy all the fun, but I honestly need to consider hosting a party at the park. Consider it my political protest, as a soccer mom. Way to go out on a limb, huh? As if my kids actually climbed trees…