Husbands and Fathers in Pink Tutus

I can’t imagine my husband or three sons strutting about in pink tutus, but then again, I’m not sure anyone imagines that breast cancer will impact their family.

So far (knock wood), that particular cancer has not touched our clan.

Nevertheless, most years I choose to join thousands of runners in the Race for the Cure, which raises funds for the breast cancer awareness and research activities of the Susan G. Komen Foundation.

Yesterday was no exception.

RFTC pink moustacheAnd as I neared the site of the 1962 World’s Fair in Seattle, with the Jetson’s-like Space Needle in view, I couldn’t help noticing that each year the race seems to attract more men…in pink tutus.

As Martha would say, this is “a good thing.”

I can’t recall how many runners joined me in New York’s Central Park for my first Race for the Cure, back in 1991, but I don’t remember seeing many men or much pink. In fact, that race was where the Komen Foundation, which held its first race in Texas back in 1983, debuted its iconic pink ribbon.

Here in Seattle, for several years our local lacrosse team encouraged players and their families to sign up for the RTFC as a group. I distinctly remember when our group’s top finisher was a high schooler whose mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer. He didn’t don a tutu, but he certainly ran for a reason.

Yesterday, apparently about 6,000 of the 8,000 participants in Seattle’sRFTC tutus and carriage
RFTC events ran or walked for a reason, too. According to the Komen Foundation, three-fourths of those who participate in RFTC events – something like 1.6 million people in 150 cities around the world – have survived breast cancer or have a close friend or family member impacted by the disease.

At the Seattle Center, I saw very fit runners in short shorts and tiny singlets, competing for  medals and personal-best times. I also saw red-faced, sweat-drenched athletes who had not trained adequately for the event, and slow, but smiling, walkers of all ages and shapes.

I spotted elderly and ailing people in wheelchairs, kids in strollers and wagons, babies in backpacks and women from all “walks of life” wearing “survivor” shirts and scarves over their hairless heads.

Groups of runners and walkers gathered in coordinated outfits, such as tutus and feather boas and funny hats, with signs on their backs naming the women they were honoring.

Yesterday, instead of focusing on my 5K time, I took note of the diverse crowd, smiled at the survivors, chuckled at the costumes, cheered for the children and felt compassion for those who had lost loved ones.

I headed back home feeling happy that we humans value, and gather strength from, community.

-Linda Williams Rorem, Permission Slips, 2 June 2014
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#Hope and Spring

Hope is an essential characteristic of the human psyche. It’s a common feeling or emotion, but sometimes we need a reminder, or permission, to believe that hope can help affect outcomes.

While one dictionary states that hope is “a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen,” and “grounds for believing that something good may happen,” Wikipedia tells us that “hope is an optimistic attitude of mind based on an expectation of positive outcomes related to events and circumstances in one’s life or the world at large.”

I was riddled by hopeful sentiments as I tried to fall asleep last night:

–       Hope that my 18-year-old son would return from a party safe and sound;

–       Hope that my large Golden-doodles would let me sleep in;

–       Hope that my son in California would heal quickly (he had ACL reconstruction surgery last Saturday) and find direction for his next steps;

–       Hope that the weather reports would prove wrong (which is often the case here), and that the sun would shine on Memorial Day. The garden needs attention!

–       Hope that our country would renew its focus on gun control, so tragedies like the one in Santa Barbara won’t reoccur;

–       Hope that friends who suffer from cancer will find serenity, and perhaps miracles.

I am certain that the cup of coffee I ordered in the afternoon wasn’t really decaffeinated.

photo-5This morning, however, I still feel hopeful, and have found some wise, encouraging words on the internet.

I am reminded of the innocent hope that young children feel. Hope that they will feel special on their birthdays, that Santa will deliver on Christmas, that when a new school year begins, they will find good friends in their classes, and hope that they will perform well in sports.

I recall the song my friends and I used to repeat at the corner playground, while climbing the jungle-gym:

Just what makes that little old ant
Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant
Anyone knows an ant, can’t
Move a rubber tree plant

But he’s got high hopes
He’s got high hopes
He’s got high apple pie
In the sky hopes…

(To hear Frank Sinatra’s rendition, click here.)

Often, I hear the encouragement my mother offered when I struggled to learn how to read and ride a two-wheeler, repeating the words from The Little Engine That Could: “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…”

And, of course, I recall the oft-quoted stanza from Alexander Pope’s An Essay on Man (ca. 1733):

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blessed:
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 

I am reminded that the swallow is a symbol of hope, as it’s one of the first birds to appear each spring, and I think about the promise that crocuses and chirping birds and budding trees bring each March.

And let’s not forget Obi-Wan Kenobi, who in Star Wars serves as Princess Leia’s “only hope.” We all know how that story turned out.

This morning, I am devouring information on hope in a Wikipedia essay. I learned that Dr. Barbara L. Fredrickson argues that hope comes into its own when crisis looms, opening us to new creative possibilities. Positive thinking like the “Little Engine’s,” she says, “bears fruit when based on a realistic sense of optimism, not on a naive ‘false hope.’ ”

The essay tells me that psychologist C.R. Snyder links hope to the existence of a goal, combined with a determined plan for reaching that goal.

I read that followers of Hinduism make a strong connection between karma and hope: “In Hindu belief, actions have consequences, and while one’s effort and work may or may not bear near term fruits, it will serve the good, that the journey of one’s diligent efforts (karma) and how one pursues the journey,[41] sooner or later leads to bliss and moksha.”

As I pull weeds today, I resolve to contemplate how hope can comfort and motivate so many of us to move forward, yet in so many different ways. I am mindful that hope is embodied in:

  • The man using the last $10 from his paycheck to purchase a lottery ticket;
  • The feeble widow carrying cups of quarters from one slot machine to another in Reno;
  • The child trying to fall asleep on Christmas eve, anxious about what he will find under the tree;
  • A woman who has discovered she is pregnant, hoping that the little being will grow and thrive and emerge as a healthy baby;
  • The new father imagining his newborn’s future – perhaps better than his own, perhaps following in his footsteps;
  • The proud parents, aunts and grandparents at commencement ceremonies over the coming weeks, hoping that the graduate will find happiness and success in life;
  • The recent graduate, preparing her resume, making connections on LinkedIn and perusing ads on Craig’sList.com;
  • The rainbow that appears at a low moment, convincing a sad, lonely, sick or depressed person that all will turn out well;
  • The crowd at a baseball game, when it’s the bottom of the ninth inning, the home team is losing by several runs, the bases are loaded and the beloved slugger is up to bat;a
  • The brain-trauma survivor, continuing painful therapy;
  • The destitute family in Mexico, watching a team of church-group youth build them a small home. (Thanks to Dylan Sullivan for this amazing video.)
  • The political prisoner or prisoner of war, continuing to believe he or she will be released. I think of Louis Zamperini – the 1930s track star-turned Navy pilot-turned lifeboat- and Japanese POW camp survivor, whose life was documented in Laura Hillenbrand’s amazing novel, Unbroken, and his own memoir, Devil at My Heels: A Heroic Olympian’s Astonishing Story of Survival as a Japanese POW in World War II: “Yet a part of you still believes you can fight and survive no matter what your mind knows. It’s not so strange. Where there’s still life, there’s still hope. What happens is up to God.”
  • David Sheff and his son Nic, whose years of drug addiction, sobriety and relapse were chronicled in David’s best-seller Beautiful Boy and his latest novel Clean: Overcoming Addiction and Ending America’s Greatest Tragedy, and who said in a recent interview: “I…realized how lucky we were. After multi-treatment programs when we were hopeful, and then multiple relapses, when we were once again terrorized and terrified, Nic was doing great – now he’s been sober for five years.” 
  • The local friend with Stage 4 lung cancer, who writes witty, heart-wrenching, grateful, honest and hopeful updates on her Caring Bridge website: “I want to meet other survivors in the 5% Club – those people who were diagnosed with STAGE 4 LUNG CANCER, and given very poor odds, yet beat the odds.  I want to speak to these people and get their advice on what to do as I wage this major battle.”

Today, I give myself permission to focus on wisdom from the esteemed writer Anne Lamott: “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: You don’t give up.”

–       Linda Williams Rorem, PermissionSlips, 26 May, 2014
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Summertime, Bummer-time

Facebook is flooded with photos of prom couples, college graduates and end-of-school-year celebrations. And that can mean only one thing: kids shall soon chant, “School’s out for summer!” For many of us older types, while summer vacation means increased family time, more sunshine and, hopefully, less stress, it does put pressure on the household “help.” Here’s how those employees are affected:

The Short-Order Cook: It seems that during summer, one meal bleeds into the next. Kids wake up at different times, so breakfast can stretch from 6:30-11:30 am. Lunch may follow an hour later, afternoon-snack requests fill much of the day and dinner comes all too soon, especially for kids rushing off to sports practices, swim meets and social events.
The Solution: Create a sign indicating the chef’s hours. Kids who wake up too late can pour themselves cereal. Those who miss dinner can enjoy cereal again. Those who want the chef’s daily specials will soon adjust.

The Scullery Maid: An obvious end-product of extra mouths and additional meals is dirty dishes. Countertops brim with dirty plates, glasses and silverware – and that’s if you’re lucky enough to have kids who “bus” their own tables.
The Solutions: For starters, buy a bunch of colored plastic cups or water bottles, and assign one color to each family member. Ask them to reuse those vessels throughout the day. As for the dishwashing situation, take a page from my wise friend Jennifer McClellan’s book. She recently noted on Facebook: I ran a little experiment yesterday. I left the dishwasher open and the racks pulled out. Obvious, right? Dishes were still put in the sink. Dear children, please note that the magic sink fairy has never, not once, found our home. Jen, keep trying; you rock!

The Housemaid (home-based men–no sexism intended here): With bodies underfoot all day, the house soon becomes cluttered with shirts, shoes, boxers, bikinis, towels, flip flops, magazines and dishes, which are strewn about haphazardly. The task of keeping the place picked up is nothing short of back-breaking.
The Solution: Confiscate items left in “public” places, and let the kids buy them back at thrift-store prices. As for bedrooms, close doors. You may also tie room-cleanliness to specific privileges, such as cell phones, TV time or car usage, depending on how much you care about what’s behind those doors. In our home, the threat that a pile of clothes makes a great home for spiders works well enough.

The Laundress: The volume of dirty clothes seems to triple for every family member (quadruple for those who usually wear school uniforms) during summer months. Count on several outfit changes per day, as well as loads of soggy beach towels. For many, throwing clothes into the laundry hamper is a valid response to “please fold and put away clothes you have barely worn” (see “The Housemaid”).
The Solution: Summer is the perfect time to teach kids how to wash, dry and fold their own clothes.

The Referee: With more bodies under foot for more hours of the day, conflict is inevitable. Fights over toys, X-box time, TV selections, teenage hours (complaining about noise in the early am; creating too much noise late at night) and car privileges keep the family referee blowing his or her whistle nonstop.
The Solution: One very wise friend wuold break up every tussle and argument by sending all who were involved into time out together, to work through the problems on their own. Wish I had thought of that.

The Lifeguard: Okay, sitting pool- or lake-side while kids cavort in the water and sand seems like a dream job, doesn’t it? No sympathy needed…unless you live in Seattle (as I do), where “summer” doesn’t officially start until July 5. In other words, the first few weeks of summer vacation are typically cloudy, rainy and cold. The kids don’t seem to care, and require the lifeguard’s attention anyway.
The Solution: Here in Seattle, it’s called Polar Fleece.

The Social Chairman: Those with young chlldren know that summer days require an endless stream of phone calls and emails to set up playdates and carpools, and the task of supervising young people’s activities is exhausting.
The Solution: Remember the good old days when you went outside as soon as the sun warmed the sidewalk, walked or rode your bike to the neighborhood park or pool, and played with whomever showed up? When you stayed outside until your mom called you in for dinner? Okay, I recognize that’s nostalgia, not a solution.

The Chauffeur: Of course, the Social Chairman’s job requires chauffeur services, as well. Kids need rides to wim lessons, sports-team practices, playdates and camps.
The Solution: If you live in a safe community, let capable kids walk, ride bikes and take city busses whenever possible. If not, make friends that can help with carpools. And don’t forget to enjoy the ride. Car time is conducive to great conversations and life lessons, and before you know it, they’ll be driving on their own.

The Sports Team Manager: Kids who play team sports can have wicked summer schedules, with practices, games and out-of-town tournaments. For the four years our oldest played select baseball, our summers revolved around his schedule. All four kids competed on a summer swim and dive team, and that kept us all busy for most of the summer, too.
The Solution: Use carpools, give yourself permission to miss practices and even a game or two. But most of all, enjoy the time together. Some of our family’s best summer memories came from our baseball weekends.

The Watchdog: For parents of teens, and especially those who are home “visiting” from college, this is the most stressful summer job. Kids typically stay out later more days of the week when they have endless amounts of unstructured time. Often, but not always, bad choices ensue. And no matter how kids spend their time, most parents don’t rest easily until the kids are home safe.
The Solution: Set reasonable curfews, perfect the art of napping and pray.

The Born-Again Parent: This may be the toughest summer job of all. On the one hand, you’re thrilled that your child survived a year away from the nest. You missed him or her enormously. You spent hundreds of dollars on care packages and Starbucks or Subway gift cards.  You worried incessantly and breathed more easily after every text or phone call.  And then suddenly, they’re back. You can no longer keep the fridge, and especially the milk, sufficiently stocked. You struggle with all of the forementioned jobs. Your family’s gas consumption increases and your sleep quality decreases. And you really can’t blame college kids. They have grown accustomed to all-you-can-eat, take-what-you-want cafeterias that include  dishwashing services, dorm-cleanliness standards (or lack thereof), loud music, unchaperoned parties and curfew-free weekends. They have grown unaccustomed to parental voices and wisdom.

The Solution: Set reasonable rules, restrictions and curfews before major problems ensue.  Most of all, enjoy having your babies in your midst again. The clock is winding down. – Linda WIlliams Rorem, 19 May 2014 20140519-104533.jpg Photo courtesy of Lisa Nordale, whose college-age son just returned home

I Walk in My Mother’s Socks

Note: Permission Slips is grateful to present this guest post by Lisa Bell Pachnos, a Chicago-area native, Northwestern University graduate and mother of three in New Jersey. She wrote this in August 2012, nine months after her mother, Sue Bell, had died. (The photo is of Lisa and Sue.)

Towards the middle of her life, my mother became a fitness freak. Beforehand, when I was a child, she told me that she rarely gave a thought to exercise. “My legs were just there to hold up the rest of my body,” she told me on a day when I had complimented her on the muscles that were now bulging from her calves.

blog - lisa and momOnce she began an exercise regimen, my mother was remarkable in her dedication. She rose before dawn most days and drove herself to the fitness center. Or, on days when she elected to stay at home, she could be found in the basement lifting weights, rolling on an exercise ball, executing complicated lunges or using the elliptical trainer. Even on weekends at Lake Geneva, she worked out with an exercise ball in the living room or took brisk walks around the neighborhood. Amazingly, she could carry on a conversation while in the midst of these exertions.

All of us have a part of ourselves, physically, in which we are disappointed. For my father, it has always been his thighs (a story for another time). For my mother, it was her “tummy.” Try as she might, she could never achieve the six-pack abs that she desired. Years later, it was that awareness of her abdomen that alerted her to the cancer growing inside of her long before it would have been detected by someone less self-aware.

Now, nine months after my mother passed away, I treasure everything that I inherited from her, such as jewelry, clothing, trinkets, and strangely enough, some of her socks. Oddly, it is the socks that I use the most often and that evoke the strongest memories.

Unlike many people, I find summertime extremely challenging. While working from home during the school year has countless benefits, working from home during the summer months creates stress. It’s a constant tug-of-war between the needs of my children and the needs of my workplace. Person time is fleeting at best.

So lately, to carve out that time, I have been donning my mother’s socks and rising during the gray light of dawn. I stride outside in those socks, plus my own sneakers and other clothes, of course, and start walking along our quiet street. Occasionally, I am joined by other two-legged creatures on bikes or on foot. However, I am usually accompanied by critters with four legs or wings.

This quiet time allows me to plan my day, ponder my weaknesses, make notes to myself–which I email to my computer via my phone–and otherwise breathe.

I am grateful for the lessons my mother continues to give to me — even through something as inconsequential as the socks she wore during exercise.

– Lisa Bell Pachnos, for Permission Slips, 28 April 2014
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Who Wants Less Stress and More Happiness?

This Huffington Post article provided a great jumpstart to my day. I’m moving forward this morning, more mindful of reducing my stress and increasing my happiness. My guess is this info graphic will do the same for you:

http://huff.to/1jCx4WS

Enjoy your day!

– Linda Williams Rorem, Permission Slips, 23 April 2014

Heading Home

It started with the realization that my kids’ spring break aligned with my second son’s lacrosse game schedule. We could travel to Ohio for two Saturday games – and even a mid-week one, if we wanted – and spend the rest of the week visiting friends and family nearby.

Using the frequent flier miles and hotel points my husband has accrued through his travel-dependent job, we could enjoy a low-cost, multi-city trip away from home.

However, at some point I realized that “home” was at every stop along the way.

At my son’s college, it’s clear that after a somewhat bumpy year, he is finally acclimated and determined to stay for the duration. His younger brother, following a night in the dorm, seems surprised – and a bit awed: “Everyone knows him, and everyone respects him! His friends say he’s already a legend.”

I know that when my son stays in our house this summer, he will miss his new home.

food carts nycWhen we arrive in NYC, where I lived from ages 21 to 31, I take a deep breath and think, “I’m home.”

My New York home is full of yellow taxis, blaring car horns, crowded, stinky subways, thick accents, food carts, chewy bagels, brusque shopkeepers and honest, straightforward people. Strangers who strike up conversations on the #1 train. A deli owner who complains that his son is slacking on the job. Street performers who pull onlookers into the act.

Home in New York is friends who leave work early and take busses and trains to meet me for a drink. Friends from my first journalism job, my long-surviving book club, my summer rental in Connecticut. Friends who literally watched me grow up, stood beside me all the while and still offer love and support.

A few days later, as we drive to my hometown from O’Hare Airport, I think, “No, this is home.” The familiar yellow-brick bungalows. Super Dawg’s French fries. Dunkin’ Donuts.

My childhood house has belonged to other families for 30 years. My mother’s apartment still does not feel like home. My brother’s house – which once belonged to a high school friend – is a bit more comfortable, but still isn’t home.

Evanston has changed significantly over the years. The Central Street Baskin and Robbins shop, where I learned to scoop ice cream and count change, disappeared long ago. So did Herdrich’s, the Fotomat, Mr. Meyer’s shoe store and Uncle Ed’s grocery.

The Prudential bank, where I established my first account and procured my first set of dishes, is now a Starbucks.Field's clock

Marshall Field’s, where we purchased special clothes that weren’t available in the Sears Catalog, was converted to condos, a restaurant and small shops years ago. Betty’s of Winnetka, where we searched for Cotillion and Prom dresses, is gone.

I walk around as a stranger in a strange land. I don’t bump into people I know. I’m not familiar with most of the restaurants and stores.

And then, my niece leads me to Bennison’s bakery, where I used to buy chocolate donuts and smiley-face cookies on the way to the YMCA for swim team, gymnastics and Y-club meetings.

The donuts and cookies taste the same. The Y still stands.

Early one morning, my oldest and dearest friend – who I met when we were babies – joins me at the hotel for breakfast. Talking with Ann is like putting on a pair of well-worn slippers. They fit just right. They’re comfortable. They know where you’re headed and where you’ve been.

The waiter appears at our table, and smiles in recognition. He’s the same server that has brought my family orange juice during at least 15 annual visits. His warm smile feel like home.

The following day, another wonderful old friend drives in from Chicago for breakfast. As always, we speak openly and honestly about our joys and challenges, our dreams and disappointments. My daughter, fresh out of bed, stops by our table. “Did you know I met your mom when I was your age?” Chris asks Pea. Again, home.

rocks skylineThat afternoon, several family members – both Evanston- and Seattle-based – walk to the lakefront. After an excruciatingly long, cold, snowy winter, the sun has finally made an appearance. Northwestern students cavort in shorts and T-shirts. Birds chir and squirrels scramble for food.

Chicago’s impressive skyline emerges in the south.

We stop at the large rocks that line the coast. The same rocks I had played on as a child, waiting for a turn on the sailboat. The rocks where my friends and I congregated as teens, where I sat with boyfriends and then, years later, watched my own children play.

Some of the rocks bear graffiti affirming couples, announcing feelings, marking occasions. They have been painted and repainted over the years, and yet, still tell the stories of many decades, of the passage of time.

It is then, and there, that I realize my home is not just located in one city; my home is where I feel strong memories and the love of forever friends and family.

– Linda Williams Rorem, 14 April 2014
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New Year: Fresh Start

Who doesn’t like a new year? It represents an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and the possibilities seem endless.

Social scientists say that our affinity for New Year’s resolutions actually has a name, “fresh start effect.”  In their paper, The Fresh Start Effect: Temporal Landmarks Motivate Aspirational Behavior, researchers Hengchen Dai  and Katherine Milkman from the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School and Jason Riis from Harvard Business School quantify the case for this phenomena.

The study abstract suggests that Google searches for terms such as  “diet,” and  “gym visits” all increase following temporal landmarks (e.g., the outset of a new week, month, year, or semester; a birthday; a holiday).”

The researchers proposed “that these landmarks demarcate the passage of time, creating many new mental accounting periods each year, which relegate past imperfections to a previous period, induce people to take a big-picture view of their lives, and thus motivate aspirational behaviors.”

At last, validation that “past imperfections” belong in the past. Catholics have longed used confession to regulate less than desirable behavior to the rear-view mirror,  Jews  use Yom Kippur as a day of atonement and school-yard kids call a new start in a game a “do-over.” They all work for me.

Inspired by the New  Year, I am reluctantly taking on “neatness” as a priority in 2014. In late December a 7-year-old relative visited our house. While peering into each room she uttered with disdain, “messy, messy, messy.” Although I have long maintained my household piles are indicative of my “creative-idea mind” at work, I must admit that there is quite a bit of upside to modifying this past imperfection.  The goal certainly qualifies as “aspirational.”

If my household tidying goes awry there is always my computer screen to fall back on. What a great device. It offers the very human options of sleep, hibernate, log off or shut down just in case the year starts rough. However, since  the “fresh start effect,” restart,  is always available, I am good to go for 2014.

If you are wondering what others aspire to this year, the University of Scranton’s Journal of Clinical Psychology sites the following as the top resolutions for 2014: jan calendar

  1. Lose Weight
  2. Getting Organized
  3. Spend Less, Save More
  4. Enjoy Life to the Fullest
  5. Staying Fit and Healthy
  6. Learn Something Exciting
  7. Quite Smoking
  8. Help Others in Their Dreams
  9. Fall in Love
  10. Spend More Time with Family

If you are among the 45% of the population who makes New Year’s resolutions, we wish you good luck in meeting your goals. For everyone else, may 2014 bring what you seek regardless of your “mental accounting period.”

Carol Lewis Gullstad January 6, 2014

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Thanks for Giving

Thanks for Giving

Hearty thanks to our Permission Slips readers for your support over this past year. We are happy that we have been able to touch your lives through our posts. Your feedback — through comments on our site, on Facebook, in emails and during “live” conversations — has impacted our lives, too. To those of you readers who are personal friends and family, I am very grateful for all that you have done for me and my loved ones during the past year’s ups and downs. Enjoy your time together today, and stay safe during the Black Friday sales tomorrow.

Daughters Teaching Mothers

Those who know me, know that I am never short on words or advice. If one does not want to hear my advice, I give them the out, prefacing my comments with: “You may not want to hear what I have to say…” I do not voice my opinion if it is not wanted. So, if you do not want to hear my advice on raising teenage daughters, read no further.

Many parents and kids today hate to hear the truth. Parents love to assume that their child is perfect and uber smart; that he or she never lies, steals or cheats. These parents love to blame other parents and their kids’ friends when something goes wrong, instead of looking in the mirror and taking full (or partial) blame themselves. And in our small yet over-protected community, some parents even threaten others with a lawsuit–really!!!!

Katsman youngThe other day at the gym, with pure joy, I was able to exercise with my dear friend Linda (co-author of PermissionSlips). Linda and I enjoy each other’s advice and company, and share deep-rooted Midwest values when raising our children. We give our kids just enough rope to slip and just enough rope to reel them back in. Since Linda has four children, she is far more experienced in child rearing than I. But I have more girls than she does.

Linda and I commonly discuss the latest issues surrounding her Number Two and Three sons, who are friends with my two daughters. Linda loves to hear the stories of our community from the “girls” point of view, and I like to hear the “boys” point of view. On this particular day at the gym, she asked if I would be willing to share my advice with PermissionSlips readers. So, here goes:

Keep Kids Busy
When my daughters were babies, a very wise neighbor said to me, “The best advice I can give you when raising a daughter is to keep her very busy, very, very busy. The busier your daughter is, the less likely she is to get into trouble.”  I have lived by those words.

My girls have been over-programmed since they could start Kindermusik and infant swimming. They have played on every sport team and taken every type of sport lessons, including, but not limited to, horseback riding and water skiing.

What has stuck for more than 16 years with my oldest is dance. At 18 years of age she is still dancing. My 16 year old has been dancing for 14 years. I like to think they are too busy and exhausted to get into trouble.

Make Children Accountable
In our household, we have always made the guilty party accountable for their wrong.  No taking the cell phone or car away. Why would we do that? It only punishes the parents.  Take away something that is embarrassing or puts the child on edge – maybe no Varsity baseball team or cheer squad. How about doing the punishment that the principal states is required for forging a parent’s signature, instead of arguing that your child would never do such a thing?

Honesty is the Only Policy
In our home, I raised my girls to be honest. We stress that no matter how terrible the crime is, be honest about it. We parents can help our children out of a bind if they tell the truth. The truth never changes, but lies always change. In our home, if the truth is told there is no additional punishment. If there was, then why tell the truth in the first place? Some kids would relish a night, week and month with out being wired into something.  Just tell the truth.

Never Judge Others
My girls know that I will never judge their friends. Everyone’s personal life is different.  Everyone’s family situation is different. And truthfully, some family situations are terrible.  Does that give us permission to judge someone else’s child?  No, it brings us to empathize with them.

Save Secrets
I know that there are several “secrets” my girls have kept from my husband and I in the past. Little do they know, I have found out most of the secrets. Instead of confronting them on these little secrets, I save them in the back of my mind for those “just in case” moments when I need to pull something out of my own bag of tricks. Why let your child know you are angry with them in the heat of your anger? That only promotes more anger. Most teenage girls generally assume that their mothers are always upset with them for something. We are not always angry or upset with our daughters; their perceptions stem from their fragile, hormonal egos.

Don’t Be Afraid to Make Mistakes
Katsman recentMy oldest child just set off for the University.  She is opening her eyes and world to something so foreign to her and away from our loved and protected Island. I have told her to learn from her errors and mistakes. I said, “Now is the time to really figure out who you are. It is okay to make mistakes.” We all did; we were just never told it was okay. It is okay to figure out who you are. For example, I said, “You may change your major a dozen times. Just make sure that whatever you choose to graduate in is: 1. Employable; 2. Can support your lifestyle.”

Remember Where You Come From
I was always told to stand tall with my head high. And lastly, to remember what my last name was. I was also told, “Never embarrass your mother and father.” I hope that I have instilled these lessons in my daughters. Though my lessons may not indicate the popular choice or the perfect choice, they have been the steadfast choices in our home.

Lisa Katsman, 14 Oct. 2013
Mother of 2 daughters

“Being a male i…

“Being a male in the blogging world is sometimes like being the lone Rooster in a barn full of Hens! Seems the lady bloggers far outnumber the guy bloggers. That’s okay, us bro’s know that the ladies are much better with words any day of the week! But I decided we needed to do a little promotion of some of the Men of the WordPress Writing World.”

We discovered a hilarious daddy-blogger site today, The Brown Road Chronicles (http://brownroadchronicles.com/). Take a look and get ready for some laughs. Be sure to scroll down for his “Men of WordPress” calendar. No beefcake shots, just real bloggers.

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