Money and Teens: Allowance or ATM?

As you may know, the Big E just started high school this September.  Since then, Jack and I have become an ATM.  When she asks for money, we've been handing it out.  (Mostly me.  Jack doesn't carry cash, much to my annoyance.)  One of the issues is the Big E's campus has open lunch, and is surrounded by cute fast food restaurants and is near a Whole Foods and a Starbucks.

On the one hand, I'd like her to be social and have friends during lunch.  I don't want her to be the only one staying in, eating her toasted peanut butter sandwiches and gala apples alone.  On the other hand, I don't want to fund her frappuccino habit?  A Grande Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino Blended Creme is 410 calories.  I have no idea what one costs ($3.85?  $4.25?), but seriously, 410 calories that can be sucked down in two minutes?  I know she runs cross country, but come on.

"A creamy blend of rich mocha-flavored sauce, chocolaty chips, milk and ice. Topped with sweetened whipped cream and mocha drizzle." -- Starbucks.com

Read:  This is dessert.  And the word "chocolaty" freaks me out.  Is it or is it not real chocolate?

I've started asking other parents of teens how they handle money with their kids.  Are they an ATM, or do they give their kids an allowance and expect them to budget?  I had an allowance growing up, which was lunch money plus $5 a week.  Was this enough?  I didn't really need to worry because I had a male chauvinist pig* boyfriend with a job who insisted on paying for everything.  Another boyfriend had affluent parents who were the ATM.  I saved my money and took a trip to France my junior year.  If my parents had the ATM approach, I never would have been able to save up for something big.

One set of parents I talked to about money and teens has two boys, both of whom have graduated from high school.  One son was shy, so the parents took the ATM approach.  Anytime he asked to go out, they were happy, so they forked over the cash.  Their other son was an athlete, and they wanted to make sure he had enough to eat, so they funded his Rain City Burger lunch.  Both boys were on the frugal side, so they never had to worry about the kids over asking.  The kids pretty much spent money on what they said they were going to spend it on, so no worries.

Another friend said she gives her kid money on the ATM basis so she can control her daughter's spending.  She does not want her daughter buying clothes that would be suitable for a stripper gig.  Makes sense.

There is another crowd that gives an allowance, many depositing money to an account and giving the kid a debit card to manage.  Some give money for clothes, others parents give an allowance and still fund the non-optional things, like safety gear for sports or athletic fees.

Jack and I had this conversation with the Big E and she completely balked at the idea of getting an allowance.  I was shocked.  She said she'd rather ask for money when she needs it.  Little does she know that she could be amassing a small (very small) fortune as there are more weeks she doesn't need money than when she does.

Part of me thinks I am getting the better deal keeping the money in my bank account.  I have saved money for the kids to go to college, but very little of it is in their names.  I want to reserve the right to cash it in in case we need a new roof or one of us were to become disabled.

But therein lies the lesson: The Big E--and everyone else--should learn the value of saving for a rainy day.  And when the rainy day fund is full, time to fund a trip to Paris or New Zealand or whatever floats your boat.  The Big E could ask for money when she needs it, but then she will depend on us.  Having money means she doesn't have to ask.  If we give her money and allow to her spend it within reason, she gets freedom.

* I debated whether or not to refer to one of my high school boyfriend as a male chauvinist pig.  He was, and not because he paid for everything.  He thought he was smarter than all women because of his y-chromosome.  I could have a whole blog post on this dude, but I won't.  Well, maybe but I'd rather avoid thinking about him altogether.

What Would Joan Do?

My friend H was once told by a spiritual advisor that this might be her vacation life.  In past lives, she might have had might struggles or challenges, and this life was a vacation life, where things are easy and troubles small.  Yet, she struggles to find purpose and meaning in her life.

While I have faced challenges (losing a baby, my brother's battle with schizophrenia, Jack's workaholism, etc.), in some ways my life is a vacation life.  I am raising my two kids, and all of my basic needs for food, clothing and shelter are met with limited effort on my part.

I wonder what would happen if Joan of Arc were reincarnated as an American housewife, and everything were easy for her.  Would the Maid of Lorraine have a hard time sitting still?  What would Joan do?  Would she be happy driving her kids to and from school every day?  Or, would she be out there running for Senate, or leading the Occupy movement?  Would she take on bigger challenges now that her needs were met, or was the fact that she was stuck in the middle of a war inspire her to act?

Threesome (+1)

I was talking to a friend about Jack's workaholism the other day, and how he is better about connecting with the kids.  The Big E is running cross country, and Jack used to run.  He is taking an active interest her running, taking her shopping for clothes and shoes, and asking about her practices, the courses, and her times.  She is happy to talk about her progress, and notes if her times are getting better.  They have run a few 5Ks together in the summer.  She tells us the girls have named the hills around town.  In Ravenna Park, one is called Death, another Narnia.  Ironically, Narnia is the longer, steeper hill.

While I was telling this friend this story, she realized that her husband needs to take more of an active interest her two kids.

"Sometimes it feels like it is just the three of us," she said.  "We go about the day, and I take them places."

I knew what she meant by the threesome.  Sometimes it does feel like it is just the Big E, the Boy and I.  Our fourth at times is Fox, who snuggles up with me on the bed after Jack goes to work.

I spoke with a different friend this week, too.  Her son left for college this fall, and she is having a hard time adjusting.  She is of course happy for him, but she misses him, too.   She is also enjoying getting to know her younger son without the older one around.  Her threesome is now a duet.  I've known Leslie since the Big E was in first grade, and she is an awesome mother.  She was an uber-volunteer.  She was always supportive of what her kids were doing, but not helicopter parent.  She let her kids make their own mistakes.  She also worked part-time, keeping balance between her professional and personal lives.  While she was keeping home fires burning, her husband had built up his own company, which is now quite successful.  She looks at her part-time job, wondering why she didn't fully maximize her MBA and become a powerful executive.

"Lauren," she told me earlier this week, "You need to figure out what you want to do before E leaves for college.  You have four years.  You don't want to be stuck when she graduates from high school."

Passion and Lego

The Boy has been on a First Lego League team since first grade and he is now in sixth.  He is on a team with a handful of kids he has known since kindergarten.  There are two parts to Lego Club. The first part is the challenge where they have to create an innovative solution to a problem based on the theme of the year.  This year's theme is World Class: Learning Unleashed.  Teams have to create an innovative solution to help kids learn.  The second part is the robot game.  First Lego League creates a lego obstacle course and the team has to design a robot to accomplish tasks.

As part of the challenge, the Boy and I watched the TED Talk "How Schools Kill Creativity" by Sir Ken Robinson, Ph.D.*  This TED Talk is the most popular of all time.  He talks about how when Gillian Lynne was a little girl, she couldn't sit still.  Her mother brought her to a psychologist who told her that her daughter didn't have a problem:  "She is a dancer.  Send her to ballet school."  Years later, Gillian danced for the Royal Ballet and then became a choreographer.

I heard that Robinson (Sir Robinson?  Sir Ken?)  wrote The Element: How Finding Your Passion Changes Everything.  I went to the U District library and picked up a copy, hoping to find out what I direction I should take now that my volunteer job is over.  A friend of mine posted an article on Facebook about how to find your passion.  One question to ask yourself is "What makes you forget to eat and poop?"  (I suppose cooking could be a passion that would not create a proper response to this this question, but I digress.)  While I am in my forties and figuring this out, I am not worried.  I've accepted that my life takes a non-linear path, the unlike Jack, I didn't know what I wanted to do for the rest of my life when I was sixteen.

The next day, The Boy had Lego Club.  The Boy is really into Lego Club.  (He should have his own blog of stuff he has built out of Lego.)  As such, I am one of the co-coaches of his team, knowing that if I want to keep this going, I am going to have to step up.  Which is fine.  My co-coach though the Boy should have some solo time building the robot.  I was worried it would take to long for him to make progress if we only meet once a week.  We decided the Boy should work on the robot during the week.  The Boy brought the robot home along with a box of Legos to finish building.

Like the little girl who couldn't not dance, the Boy is a child who cannot not build.  When we came home, he went straight to his Lego room and got cracking on the robot.  I was not surprised.  I was not surprised when I had to call him three times to come to lunch.  Three hours of Lego Club wasn't enough.  Here I have a eleven year old boy who is so focused, and I can't figure out what to do next.

Jack and I decided to take a walk, and asked the kids to join us.  It was a beautiful day sunny and in the 80's; probably the last night day were going to have in a long time.  We went to Marsh Island and brought Fox along.  The Seahawks were playing the Broncos, reviving the Super Bowl of earlier this year when the Seahawks emerged victorious.  On our walk, Jack occasionally checked the score.  We got in the car to drive home, and Jack put the game on the radio.  The game was tied 20 to 20, and went into overtime.  When we walked into the house, Jack went immediately to the television to watch the end of the game.

The Boy went upstairs to finish building his robot.

* If I am not British, do I have to call him "Sir?"  Just wondering.

Truth Serum

I had a meltdown last week that last four days.  It started Wednesday morning and finished up Saturday night.  I was in crisis about my marriage, and it wasn't pretty.  It started with our marriage therapy session Wednesday morning.  I came in charging like a bull, without any idea of what I was doing.  I was having a hard time coping with uncertainty in my marriage and wanted to know how I could deal with things beyond my control.  It was pure emotion.  The therapist kept telling me to see if Jack's behavior was changing, was he trying to get his workaholism under control.  Yes, he is, but I was struggling with how to translate an intellectual solution to my broken heart.  My rational mind was either on vacation, or bullied into the corner.  One or the other.

After the therapy session, Jack had to go back to work and I went to Starbucks.  I was sobbing as I ordered my decaf mocha.  I was waiting at the end of the counter while the barista made my coffee.  She looked at me several times, so I decided to put on my sunglasses.  She handed me my mocha:  "I hope your day gets better, Lauren."

"Thanks," I whimpered as I slunk upstairs to drink my coffee and stare out the window.  Yes, this was a private, personal, pity party.  As I left Starbucks, the same woman who made my coffee came back up stairs, handed me a coupon for a free coffee, and gave me a hug.  I gripped her for about ten seconds.  I felt so much better.

I was hoping this wasn't a massive case of PMS, but two days later I got my period.  It was a full, Harvest, Super Moon, too, so anything and everything astrological was not in my favor.   Not that I believe any of that, but I like blaming irrationality on something beyond my control.

Saturday was the low point.  Jack was wondering about my lack of progress in healing after our marriage catastrophe in May.  He asked if I was considering divorce, but just lacked the will to do it.

In a moment of bizarre clarity, I said yes, I wanted a divorce.  I wasn't screaming or raging.  I was calm, which freaked Jack out.  A week later, I don't know if I want a divorce or not.  I wrote two other friends that I was struggling to find the lost love in my marriage, wondering how he could have hurt me so badly.  Do I still love Jack?  I don't hate him or think he is awful.  Rather, I feel blank or empty.

My friend Mary from Philadelphia called to chat.  I told her what had happened, and asked her advice.  Was I suffering  from a deranged case of PMS, or what?  I didn't feel irrational at the time, but the things I said were not in character.

"PMS is a truth serum," Mary said.  "It is a time when you can't tolerate bullshit.  Your barriers are down and what you are feeling comes out."

This is not to suggest that Mary thinks PMS is an oracle that must be heeded, or that I should pack it up and leave based on a few bad days.  I began to ponder my own behavior.  I don't want to imply that women are hysterical or should be discounted during that time of the month, but I wonder:  Why did I act so irrationally?

Maybe the problem is that irrationality isn't a problem.  Irrationality implies crazy.  I looked it up in the dictionary.  My New Oxford American Dictionary says this:

irrational |iˈraSHənl|adjective1 not logical or reasonable.• not endowed with the power of reason.
Not logical or reasonable.  What is the opposite of reason, the mind?  What is the yin to this yang?  Emotion and the heart.  My heart and emotion decided to start driving the car.  Yes, PMS might be truth serum, but this is for the truths in the heart, not the mind.

Is there a problem with this?  Perhaps, perhaps not.  My heart and brain have to work together to figure this out; neither can rule alone.  My rational brain tells me Stay married, try to work it out.  See the good in him.  See that he is truly sorry, and wants to make amends.  He is suffering, too.  Every now and then, the heart needs to stand up for itself, even if the truth it speaks hurts.  It reminds me that the events surrounding and prior to May 27 were intolerable, and the status quo cannot stand.

Which brings me back to the question of should I stay or go?  Jack's friend Chris said it's time to leave when you know he won't change.  My heart and my head will have to agree for this to work.  It is so hard when they don't.

Tantrums and Lunch, Part II

The Big E and I participated in a longitudinal emotional development study at Washington University in St. Louis.  The purpose was to study depression in children.  They had a sign up sheet at the pediatrician's office, so I put our name down.  They called, and voila -- we were enrolled as a control subject.  We started when she was three and she finished her last round of interviews and MRIs last November.

The study sends us a semi-annual newsletter, which I received yesterday.  They shared several articles  written about the study.  Here are two:

How a Mother's Love Changes a Child's Brain:  http://www.livescience.com/18196-maternal-support-child-brain.html

and How Supportive Parenting Protects the Brain:  http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/06/how-supportive-parenting-protects-the-brain/373496/

Initially, I thought it would be my kid they were studying.  Now I realize we were a pair.  I was just as much as guinea pig as she was.  I should have figured it when they wanted me to sit in a six hour interview asking me how often my kid cried in the past six months, and recount every episode.

So I am reading these articles on the study we participated in, which is very cool, when I came across a quote from Andrew Garner at Case Western Reserve University:

"Tantrums are emotional overload, not how the child feels about you."

This is the most important sentence I have ever read.  Ever.  Seriously, this is the secret to the universe for parents.  Maybe even non-parents.  I wish someone would have told me that on my first day of parenting, and every day thereafter.  I will frame this quote and hand it out to pregnant women at baby showers.  This would have saved me months, maybe years, of cumulative agony.

Yes, my children were exquisitely sensitive.  I would say are, but they are starting to mellow. Today, the Boy forgot his lunch.  Jack and I debated whether or not to bring it to him to avoid his first middle school meltdown.  Both Jack and I had meetings, and neither of us could swing by the school.  I had told the Boy he had money on his school lunch account, so he could buy in a pinch.  I was debating between letting natural consequences take their course (i.e., you forgot your lunch, therefore, you must buy your lunch and eat mediocre cafeteria food) versus a meltdown.  In the grand scheme of the world, eating cafeteria food is not the worst thing in the world.  He could still eat.  I was more worried about myself and the aftermath:  Would I get a call from the principal or counselor?  "Hi, your son forgot his lunch and there was a nuclear meltdown in the cafeteria.  Please come and get him."

But no, he was fine.  He came home from school, walked into the kitchen and brightly said, "There it is!" as he saw his grey bag on the counter and proceeded to polish off his lunch.   I asked if he bought a school lunch.

"No," he said, "I just begged for food.  My friend gave me a granola bar.  I was fine."  This, the boy who has such specific and high maintenance requests for food.

He made it through the day.  He found his way out.  He solved his own problem.  It isn't about me.

Lunch

Which child is pickier:  The child who will eat peanut butter on anything, or the child who wants a turkey, gouda and fig paste sandwich on baguette for lunch?  I think it is a tie.  If there were a metaphor to describe the differences between my two kids, this would be it.

For background:

The Big E = peanut butter

The Boy = turkey, gouda and fig paste on baguette

The child who eats peanut butter always has something to eat.  She never tires of the same thing over and over and over again.  The peanut butter child is steadfast and predictable, but also a little stubborn.  Her favorite restaurant is the Ram in U Village, and is hesitant to try someplace new.  As Rick said to Isla in Casablanca, "We'll always have Paris."  For the Big E, she'll always have peanut butter.  She follows in Ishiro's mold, the former Mariners baseball player who eats the same food every single day to maximize predictability in his life.  If it works, why knock it?

Peanut Butter cookies made by the Big E.  She is bringing them to a potluck with a sign that reads:  Contains: peanuts, eggs, dairy and gluten.  She considered topping them with bacon to please the carnivores in the group.

The Boy gets points for being adventurous and trying fig paste in the first place.  While he gets points for being adventurous (this was the same child who tried a raw oyster in Tofino), he can be rather stubborn and gets in ruts where nothing can make him happy.  Some days, he has something in mind that he wants to eat for lunch, only it doesn't exist, we don't have it in the house or it would take more time to make than we have before the bus arrives.  For the Boy, variety is the spice of life, as long it isn't too spicy, the bread is the right texture, and it is gouda, not provolone, which smells bad.

The Big E would eat dinner at the Ram every night, if she could.  The Boy once asked how much we would save in a month if we didn't go out to eat.  We told him, and he paled.  Now he thinks we should try to eat dinner at home for the rest of September.  The Boy will some day be a millionaire, yet will never spend a penny, poor soul.  Given my reluctance to cook, this is will be hard.  Last month, they both revolted against eating penne with red sauce, my go-to-in-a-pinch dinner.  They made up songs about why I shouldn't make it again.  On that, they agree.

Happy Anniversary! Heart versus Brain and the Ficus

Happy Anniversary!

Today is the one year anniversary of my blog.  Yay!  I feel like I need some super cute pink, yellow and green celebratory clip art with confetti here.  Maybe I'll find something.  Better yet, I should ask my daughter to look something up for me or make something herself.  She is really good at things like that.

I suppose Sept. 12 was an interesting date to start something new, given it is after the anniversary of the most tragic dates in recent American history.  By itself, it is a September day.  The kids are back in school, and it is one of those last days where summer is hanging on before it turns to fall.

I have had 158 posts in this time.  My first post was a list of my favorite quotes from Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.  I am still in my long-term relationship with Jean Valjean and friends, plugging away.  I hope to reach the end of the story soon-- I am well over halfway done and still have a few hundred pages left.  The hard part is knowing that I'll be done.  The best thing of any book is knowing you can always go back and read your favorite sections.  In that way, a good book never ends.  Take Where'd You Go Bernadette by Maria Semple.  This book struck a chord and I read it three times, each with a different perspective.

This past year, I was working on a quilt for the Big E out of her old dresses.  Most of the clothes are taken apart.  The hard step is figuring out what pattern to make.  Fear is holding me back.  I want to make something beautiful, but don't want to destroy my raw materials if I make a mistake.  I watched Brene Brown's Ted talk on Vulnerability last night.  I need to accept that what I create might not be perfect or as wonderful as I imagined.  But it might be better.  And "done" is better than "not done."

This past year brought the happy distraction of a dog into our family.  Thank you, Fox!

This year also brought the near collapse of marriage, which is still on life support.  The subconscious pain and struggle was typed into the ether here.  (I was going to say written on the page, but no.)  All of the pain my heart felt for years was brought to the attention of my brain and intellect on May 27 when I thought the world was ending.

I have been trying to figure out the theme of my blog.  Instead of picking a theme and writing about it, I just wrote and hoped a theme emerged.  Looking back, I would say the theme would be Heart versus Brain, the intellect versus emotion.  What happens when you heart feels things that your brain doesn't have words for?  I suppose that is one of the reasons Rough Draft is a reasonable name for this blog.  Sometimes the hardest communication in the world is between the head and the heart.

In closing, here is a picture of the ficus tree on my front porch.  (I often call these trees figs, even though I know they are ficus.)  I didn't write a post about this on my blog when this happened, as my life in too much turmoil to figure out what was going on.  Jack ignored my birthday this year.  (My neighbors and friends came to the rescue.)  My birthday is a few days after the Boy's, so it is impossible to forget.  Nope, he ignored it.  So, after the world crashed on May 27, I moved in with a friend on May 29. On May 30, Jack brought me a fig tree.  He took the Boy to Swanson's and they picked a tree.

I have always loved ficus trees.  I had a ficus in dorm in freshman year of college.  Between my junior and senior years of college, I got an internship at a telecommunications company.  They had a silent auction on a bunch of office plants as they were getting new ones.  In my junior year at college, I studied Game Theory.  I decided I'd bet $2 on each plant, knowing my maximum outlay would be $34 if I were to win everything.  I took a wild guess that not all of the plants would have a bid.  I was right.  I took home seven lonely plants that no one wanted.  I got two ficus trees, one I left at home with my parents.  When I graduated, I collected a few ficus trees for my apartment.  Instead of buying a Christmas tree, I would decorate my trees.  Jack would always tease me that I thought all growth was good growth, as I never trimmed or shaped my plants.  When Jack and I moved to St. Louis, we rented a minivan and brought the ficuses.  When we moved to Seattle, the moving company brought our cars and we flew.  There was no way to bring the trees, so we gave them to David, our next door neighbor who loves houseplants.

After I moved out on May 29 and almost ten years after we moved here, Jack realized what he should have gotten me for my birthday: a ficus for our home in Seattle.

Fox and the Ficus

Thanks to everyone who reads my blog and who has been my friend during this time.  I'd like to thank the Big E, the Boy and Jack for letting write about our lives on my electronic page.  I am curious what the next year brings.

Spices

The Big E is coming up with names for pets and children she will have in the future.  One of her daughters will be Claire Adele and her son will be named after her brother.   I think that is exceptionally sweet, but the Boy doesn't think so.

Since Fox already came with a name, we didn't change it.  When she is grown-up, she wants to have a dog named Cinnamon or Ginger.  She has decided spices would be good names for pets, and she went through the spice rack:

• Cayenne
• Dill
• Rosemary
• Cardamom
• Pepper

She ruled out Cream of Tartar.

Just a Parent and Stress at Home

My husband Jack was at a social event with our daughter last night when he ran into a friend of ours. She asked how my life was with one kid starting middle school and the other starting high school.

"I hope she isn't too involved.  I hope she is just a parent," she said.

Just a parent: nope.  I am the PTSA President at my son's middle school.  At times, I wish I were just a parent, but I was drafted last spring and I accepted.  I know the word "no."  When asked the first six times, I said no.  I gave in the seventh time they asked.  (I guess they knew my limit.  I'll have to up it to eight next time.)  One thing I love about being the PTSA President is that I meet so many new and interesting people.  The problems we get to solve are relatively fixable, or within range of being fixed.

And yet,  I find being President of a school based PTA is harder than when I was President of the city wide PTA where I was representing thousands of parents.  Why?

Let me digress.

A friend of mine recently sent me an article from NPR about how for some moms, work is a respite from home.  There was a study in 2012 that showed working moms reported "significantly better physical and mental health."

As a stay-home-mom who has at time been a full-time volunteer, I can see the truth in this.  Being a parent is hard.  Being married is hard.  Having a mom who lives in another state who has Alzheimer's is hard.  Working has its challenges, not doubt, as I can remember from the days when I was gainfully employed.  I can see how the hard part about working is coming home, making dinner, driving the kids places, and riding herd on homework.  I have a good friend from high school who works full-time and struggles to find time for herself and family.  She feels like she spends the weekends either at the grocery, Target, or cooking dinners for the week.  She is constantly tired.  She scares me into not wanting to go back to work.  The work part scares me less than the "how will I manage home?" part.

The article came out in July, which was when my marriage was in an extremely fragile state as Jack was learning how to manage is workaholism.  With Jack's workaholism, anything outside his job was a distant second.  He did almost nothing voluntarily around the house, and I felt like a nag asking him multiple times to help.  I felt like if I were to get a job, I'd be a single mom.  I'd be working and still managing 100% of the kids and home.  I was terrified about returning to the workplace.

So I was pondering why did the city wide PTA President seem easier?  It wasn't.  It was a ton of work.  It was challenging and I had to learn new skills, most of which I asked my friends about and/or made up as I went along.

Then I realized:  Even though I didn't get paid, it was a job, a real job.  No wonder I was happier.

Man Up

I was at coffee the other day with some friends.  One friend said her son heard something from his father that changed his life.

"Man up."

My friend was livid.  Perhaps more than livid, if such a thing is possible.  (Actually, it is possible to be more than livid.  I was living it for a month at the at end of May, most of June.)  She was purple with rage.

Let's discuss.  Her perspective was that her husband was telling the boy not to show his emotions, to stuff them down into a sack where he would ignore them until they festered.  (When I don't know the precise definition of a word, I look it up in the dictionary.  I looked up festered.  Oy.  I will spare you.)  I have had some first hand experience in recent months when a man ignores those little voices in his head saying, "This isn't right" or the pinch in the gut that says, "I am not happy with the status quo."  My friend wanted her son to grow up with a healthy relationship with his emotions, which is a completely reasonable hope and expectation for a mom.

And yet...

I like the expression "Man up" in some cases.  In some situations, kids will be uncomfortable.  They need a role model to say, "Move it along here.  We don't have time to cry.  The lion is about to eat your sister.  Get in there and bonk the lion on the head while I carry your pregnant mom and baby brother out of here."  Kids need to learn to act under pressure; hence, the youth sports industry.

And we still need the touchy-feely role model to come back and reduce the PTSD of the situation and say, "Wow, you were really brave to save us from that lion.  That must have been scary," and so on.  I don't think this would be the time to say "Man up" as the kid is recounting and recovering from some traumatic experience.

We don't live in a society where lions chase us down.  What really is trauma versus was are little things where we just need to go with the flow?  What are those emergencies where it is necessary to stay cool under pressure?  I remember the time I helped a new mom and her new baby in a car fire.  I was so calm I surprised myself.

What about when it isn't a car fire?  I remember seeing an interview with Robert F. Kennedy, Jr.  The interviewer had asked him about the phrase "Kennedy's don't cry."  Robert replied, and said "It really means Kennedy's don't whine."  Yes, we sometimes lump a true expression of emotion with garden variety whining because the world isn't falling at your feet.  When it is just the morning and a nameless eleven year old didn't get enough sleep and is stomping around, biting off his mother's and father's heads when asked "What would you like for lunch?"  I wanted to tell him "Quit being a grouch and man up.  Morning doesn't mean you get to be a dick.  Deal with it."

But I didn't.  I kept my cool, and asked him again in a nice voice.   When he didn't respond, I asked his father to ask him again.   And the Boy apologized for being a jerk.   Perhaps his jerk like behavior came from deep fear of the first week of school.  I'd rather talk directly about than deal with rudeness.

Maybe the expression itself isn't so bad, but rather what is means.  Perhaps "manning up" really means taking accountability for your actions and feelings--good, bad and otherwise.

Maybe we should call it "Woman up."

Bowling Injury

Note:  I've tagged this post "Middle Age."  Or "The M Word," as my friend Jane calls it.  I suppose I could tag all of my posts Middle Age, as that is where I am.  But this post is special as it is about the physical discomfort of being middle-aged.  The rest of my blog is about the emotional discomfort of being middle aged.

I sprained my back bowling on Saturday afternoon.  Yes, bowling.  The weather was crummy and the Boy wanted to get out, so the Boy, Jack and I went bowling.  The Big E didn't want to go, so she stayed home and sat on the couch, "reading a book" (i.e., checking her phone every three seconds.)

It really pisses me off that I have a bowling injury.  I feel insanely stupid about the whole thing.  In our first game, Jack joked "Bowling isn't a sport.  It is an activity."  I laughed and was punished by the bowling gods.

It is not as if I am the queen of no physical activity and got a bowling injury because I've sat on the couch 24/7 for the past ten years.  I walk the dog everyday.  Here is a list of things I did in the past year or so where I did not get injured:

• Climbed the Grouse Grind
• Skied at Whistler
• Rode a zipline
• Went white-water rafting
• Rode my bike close to forty miles in one day
• Rode my bike 100 km over three days
• Kayaked (got a small blister on hand from holding paddle too tight)
• Hiked
• Canoed
• Went stand up paddle boarding
• Painted the dining room, bathroom and baseboards in the kitchen
• Cross country skiing

Cross country skiing was probably the most exertion I've had ever.  It uses almost every muscle in your body at the same time, except those used to lift your eyebrows or wiggle your ears.  I'll admit I was sore, but nothing beyond what a soak in the hot tub at the lodge couldn't fix.

The bowling problem started with my attire.  I was dressed as I was earlier in the day.  The Boy and I had Lego Club that morning and then I got my haircut.  I wore one of my three summer skirts because that is what I always wear.  I didn't think I would need special bowling clothes.  There isn't a section at REI for bowling clothes, like there is for ski or biking clothes.  Sure, there are special shoes, but I thought whatever else I had on was fine.  Except this skirt had no flexibility so I couldn't bend down.  Instead, I leaned over at my waist instead of bending my knees and chucked the ball.

This strategy was fine for the first two games.  A few frames into the third game, I bent down to pick up the ball and tweak, my back was not happy.  I finished the frame, but I quit after that.  Sunday I was barely mobile.

Today, I am still sore.  I am taking ibuprofen, which isn't really helping.  What really sucks is that I had to move the vicodin out of the way on the medicine shelf so I could get to the ibuprofen.  The Big E has a fresh and almost full bottle after having her wisdom teeth removed almost two weeks ago.  Argh.  Aside from the fact that vicodin is a controlled substance, I not going to take it as fear I might hurt my back worse if I mask the pain instead of avoiding movements that might cause greater injury.  I am arabesque-ing around the house, loading the dishwasher by tilting up and down on one leg and not bending my back.  I can't empty the lower rack of the dishwasher, feed the dog, move the laundry from the washer to the dryer, put stuff away under the sink, put on my socks, etc.  If I sit too long, I ache.  If I stand too long, I ache.  Good lord, I am going to be a miserable old person.

I feel bad for the kids, as I hurt my back on the last few days of summer.  Summer is supposed to go out with a bang.  I thought perhaps we could go for a bike ride or canoe over to Marsh Island from UW.  Or better yet, bike to the UW Boating Center and then go canoeing.  Oh well.  Maybe next summer.