Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

I've been hearing a lot about Amy Chua's book, interviews and articles on how and why Chinese mothers are different from Western mothers in their parenting style. In this excerpt from her book "Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother," she describes an epic battle with her 7-year-old daughter in which she insists the girl practice her piano piece until she's got it right on the night before her next lesson, at a huge cost to the peace and psyche of the family. Her argument is that this is a demonstration of true parental devotion--based on her unshakeable faith that the kid can and will be able to achieve the goal.

When, after a night of screaming and denial of such comforts as supper, water and bathroom breaks, the daughter finally manages to play the piece correctly, she is so thrilled and happy with her achievement that she comes to her mother's bed to cuddle.

According to Amy Chua, Chinese mothers don't allow activities like sleepovers or watching TV--ever. All the more time to focus on the goal of perfect A's in all subjects (gym and drama exempted) and mastery of either piano or violin (no other choices allowed).

Western mothers, on the other hand, are overly focused on their child's self-esteem and don't possess the same unshakeable belief in the resiliency and strength of their children. They want to help each child find her true passion but, for the sake of a kid's happiness or self esteem, are unwilling to push and shove their kids past the inevitable early difficulties when learning a new concept or skill.

In the end Chua does show some balance in her viewpoints on parenthood, concluding with the comment that all decent parents act out of love for their children despite their different parenting styles. She says:

"Western parents try to respect their children's individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment. By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they're capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away."

The above conclusion rings true for me in my own observations of the contrasts in the two cultures, but why can't these goals be combined by applying a balance of approaches to parenting, based on the kid and the situation on the ground? One size does not fit all; sometimes strict discipline is the right tool and at other times letting go and allowing a kid to stumble and learn from the consequences can be the better path. You've gotta play it as it lays, because parenting is much harder than blindly following one set of rules.

Parents, kids - what do you think?

Salad Days

An 11/25 NYT article by Judith Warner, "Junking Junk Food," describes Sara Palin's latest maneuver, bringing cookies to the kids at a middle school in Pennsylvania to fight the "school cookie ban" there.  Apparently Palin tweeted that she wants to "intro kids 2 beauty of laissez-faire."

This woman is really starting to bug me. When 17% of children and teens are obese, doing what we can to encourage better eating habits is not an example of the "nanny state" anymore than educational programs on the dangers of smoking.

I had a fine moment as a mother a couple of days ago when my 24-year-old son told me that he was glad we had so many salads when he was a kid, that he loves having them when he comes over for dinner, and that often his "mouth waters" craving a salad. It can be done and it's not nanny state, it's good parenting.

Skullcandy

Last Sunday I decided to venture out and buy a pair of headphones for our home PC so that when I wanted to listen to music or video clips while I’m on the PC in the family room, I can freely do that without having to worry about disturbing M while he’s reading or watching TV.

So we went to Best Buy and got some advice from a patient young man, very tall, very skinny, a huge mass of long, golden brown curls haloing his head. Since I’ve never owned headphones before (I know, hard to believe), I had amusing questions for the young man like, “do you think that little hole in the front of my computer speaker is for earphones? How can I be sure?”)—but he answered all my questions with a bemused look (you can also plug these headphones into the similar little hole you will find in the IPod you have). He warned me that the earphones were quite powerful so I should take care not to blast my ears to kingdom come on the first try.

I wanted something fairly inexpensive since I had no idea what I was doing, but of high quality that would shut out ambient sound pretty well so that I don’t have to hear the Nuggets game in the background when I’m listening to Joni Mitchell. I ended up walking out with the somewhat age-inappropriate earphone brand “Skullcandy”, thoroughly secured in snappy clear and black plastic packaging decorated with ominous looking skulls. The brand name has made me feel slightly more dangerous than I have any business feeling, I think. 

I went home and plugged these headphones into the little hole in the speaker without incident, and then (being careful to keep the volume low at first), tried listening to a song I had recently downloaded to iTunes, Bonnie Rait and John Prine’s version of John’s “Angel from Montgomery.”

Wow. It was wonderful.

Now I understand better why my kids make sure they have music wherever they go, in the current age a possibility when previously it was not.

The music came through beautifully, in all its nuances and glory, and I was left wondering why on earth I had waited so long to treat myself to this “skull candy.” I was so transfixed that an annoyed M had to stand right in front of me waving his arms to get my attention—he’d been trying to talk to me from behind, and I hadn’t heard a thing. In the classic teenage move I lifted up one of the earphones and said, “WHAT??”

Anyway—lesson learned. This was another reinforcement of the importance of treating my brain regularly to new experiences and sensations—great music, books, art, nature, conversation. What else have I been unwittingly starving for? And what are you starving for?

Remember what the dormouse said,
Feed your head. Feed your head. Feed your head.

                        "White Rabbit" - Grace Slick

The Other Mother

He was 34 years old when he told her, to her great delight, that he was finally ready to have children. He presented a clear and written plan: there were to be two children; not one who would be lonely, not three who would be overwhelming. She would earn the money (since she’d shown a knack for it) and he would quit his job and stay home with the children, because this was an important job best not delegated. And in his “spare time,” he would write.

He learned a lot, fast. Childbirths were not in clearly defined stages as outlined by the Lamaze coach but instead were messy, hair raising and unpredictable affairs with nevertheless satisfactory conclusions. Fear that he would be too disgusted to change diapers evaporated as he became accustomed to this and other quotidian activities. He was astounded at the titanium strength of the bond that formed almost immediately once each child was born—a bond both painful and joyous at once.

His sleep problems worsened during the era of 2-hour feedings and the spare time for writing never seemed to arise—but there were other rewards and he persevered.

He soon developed a routine that worked, and stuck with it. One thing he remembers is how much he loved to read to the kids and how much they loved it too. He worked hard to make the house a home, plan and shop for the weekly menus, cook the meals, keep the kids and their clothes reasonably clean.

When she came home from long days at work he sometimes left her to bathe the children and read the bedtime stories, while he disappeared for hours at a stretch seeking the alone time he had sacrificed. The times to write became few and far between.

At one point he taught the kids to call him “Captain,” since he couldn’t bear to hear “Dad!” even once more. He helped find a good pre-school, helped later with homework, taught both kids how to cook, volunteered for field trips and in the computer lab at the elementary school, danced to Jimi Hendrix with tiny dancers in the kitchen, allowed games to be played with pots and pans, and supported kitchen chemistry experiments. He went to baseball, softball and basketball games. He set up piano lessons and insisted on practice sessions.  He had the kids track their allowance money and make budgets to give them a better appreciation for the value of money.  He insisted that chores be done each week and tracked progress in charts on the refrigerator door.

He encouraged both kids to work hard in school, to think and ask questions, to notice nature and take a strong interest in the sciences. He took the kids on boogie boards out to the reef at Panama City Beach and dove for sand dollars. And he made sure they had sunscreen on beforehand. He played catch, threw the Frisbee, taught them how to ride their bikes. He watch the movie “Mr. Mom” with more critical analysis than amusement: “What bozo doesn’t know how to run a vacuum cleaner?”

He provided support and a listening ear when the working mom had a bad day at the salt mines. The “role reversal” was a matter of mild interest to friends and of concern mixed with amazement to grandfathers, but was never really well understood outside the immediate family.

He never really took adequate credit for all he contributed to make two beautiful, intelligent, good-hearted children who I am grateful for every single day.

This is a tribute to the “other mother.” Happy Mother’s Day!

Letter to Falcon

Dear Falcon (what a cool name),

For some reason I had the rare urge at work on Thursday morning to check the 9news.com website, and so I caught the breaking story about a 6-year-old boy on board an experimental aircraft drifting higher and higher into the air and away from his family’s Fort Collins home, with news and military helicopters in hot pursuit.

I kept an eye on the story throughout the next several hours, hoping desperately that you were okay and safe, and fearing the worst when I heard the news that the craft had landed, with no sign of you inside or nearby. Later in the day we all learned that you were alive and well and had been hiding in the garage attic of your house for the previous five hours, fearing your father’s anger about the escape of the untethered silver balloon.

Now we have what we call a media frenzy and you’re getting your “fifteen minutes of fame.” Some people are very angry with you and your family.

And Falcon, let me tell you right now that despite whatever crazy complications may end up being revealed about you and your family (and all families are complicated, by the way), my main response on hearing the truth continues to be great happiness and relief that you are safe and sound.

Questions are being raised—was this whole thing a hoax? Did your Mom and Dad talk you into it? I heard your father’s voice when he said, “he scared the heck out of us,” and I don’t think so. I think you were scared and you hid.

The whole thing made me remember a story from my own childhood when I was about your age. My Dad was well known in our small Indiana town for his eccentric hobbies, one of which was kite making. He handmade beautiful multi-colored box kites from tissue paper and balsa wood, and entered them in contests. Sometimes he also made gigantic kites, taller than he was. When he flew these very large kites they had quite a strong pull, and even a grown man had trouble hanging onto them sometimes. Dad would fly the kites for many days at a time and sometimes he even attached a small light before sending one up, and the kite would emit a mysterious, UFO-like glow after dark.

One windy day some neighborhood kids and I were curious, playing around the way kids do, testing the cord strength of the latest large kite which had been up in the air a record number of days. We were pulling on the line just a little and then letting it go to hear a certain very satisfactory twanging sound. But then, right before my horrified eyes, the nylon tether broke, and the kite fluttered loosely to the earth.

I knew my Dad would be very angry when he found out—so I climbed a ladder in the garage and hid up in the attic for a few hours. Unlike your own experience, no one really noticed my absence at all (back then kids were a lot less supervised than they are nowadays). Later, when my Dad came home and I got hungry for dinner I had to climb back down the ladder, get yelled at and face the music. And it’s hard to get yelled at by your Dad—anger and disappointment can be scary. Even when he was yelling, though, I pretty much knew my Dad loved me very much, and I’m hoping that’s true in your case too. Somehow, like the son of a guy from mythology called Icarus, you flew a little too close to the hot sun, the waxed wings your Dad made for you melted, and you fell to the earth—all from your dark little hiding place in the attic.

But this too shall pass, Falcon. Hang in there.

B

Mark and I were talking yesterday about the tattered condition of Shannon’s passport, his only form of id since he lost his driver’s license years ago. Mark said the passport is “like B,” which made me laugh uproariously. B was Shannon’s baby blanket, a gift to him as a newborn. It started out snowy white, with pale green satin edging. But it became baby Shannon’s most reliable solace, accompanying him everywhere, held next to his cheek as he fell asleep each night. Leaving B behind was not done, ever. Triple checks were made to ensure B was securely on board when we took road trips or flew to Indiana to visit Granny and Grandpa. Over time, B became gray and tattered, losing its satin edging. And B dwindled in size, shrinking to the size of a handkerchief, then smaller still to the size of a passport (hah!) and finally to the size of a postage stamp, at which point we convinced Shannon to part with B so we could put it away in a treasure box for safekeeping since it could so easily end up lost. Letting go of B was like Shannon’s passport to eventual independence.

Mother's Day 2009

I was well and truly pampered on Mother's Day with homemade quiche, biscuits with "Bonne Maman" French strawberry preserves, coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Not to mention two homemade Mother's Day cards and a pedicure after brunch. So tonight I write about what it's meant to me to have the privilege to be a mom.

From the minute they're born, children are a revelation, opening your eyes to the real magnitude of what your own parents did for you, as well as what you yourself are capable of accomplishing. Parenting is exhausting, exhilarating, glorious, frustrating, terrifying and joyous. It demands constant judgment calls large and small, with no way to fully prepare for it ahead of time--it's the ultimate in on-the-job training. Here are the top 10 things I've learned as a mom, and I'm still learning:

10. If you really want children--if the bio clock is ticking and you're in a reasonably good place--try and find a way to have them. So many times I've been so very glad I did.
9. Expect the unexpected. No matter how many books you read, this universal experience ends up being highly unique, and is full of surprises.
8. Read to your young children every day, and make sure you find time to simply be with them and play.
7. Especially when they're teens, keep the lines of communication open. Don't sweat the small stuff--save your energy for the big battles that truly affect their health and well being.
6. Listen carefully--have real, two-way conversations with your kids. You'll learn a lot.
5. Set limits and stand by those limits; it is a terrible lie to lead your children to believe that the world will give them everything they demand.
4. Give them much more time and love than things and money.
3. Showing them how to live works better than telling them how to live. They can see a phony a mile away.
2. Believe in them, so that they can believe in themselves and fly on their own.
1. And the number one thing I've learned: Let go. From the moment they are born, you're loving them fiercely and yet letting them go a little at a time--leaving them with the babysitter who is hardly beyond childhood herself, sending them to kindergarten, handing them the car keys, moving them into the college dorm and crying on the way home. Let them go; let them live their own lives and make their own mistakes. As young adults they don't need your unsolicited advice--mind your own business and one day you might find they consider you their friends.

There is no more important decision or life's work than to bring children into the world--and no decision in my life I've been more positive was right. I'm grateful every single day for my kids. Happy Mother's Day.

Lost Lake Hike

Caitlin suggested a hike up to see the aspens, and Saturday morning she, Shannon and I headed up to Eldora. We took Hessie Townsite Trail to Devil’s Thumb and on up to Lost Lake. The aspens were gloriously gold against the deep green pine and it smelled wonderful.

I told the kids about the last time I had headed up this trail with the two of them; Shannon was riding in a backpack on my back, and Caitlin was still cozy inside me, waiting to be born about a month later. I was hiking with my brother and my husband and people would pass by and look at us curiously, seeing a small very pregnant woman with a kid on her back and two big men hiking beside her, kid free. But Shannon wasn’t comfortable on any back but mine, and so it goes. The picture is from a slightly earlier time, but you get the idea.

It was a glorious blue sky September day in Colorado, and we laughed and talked a lot all the way up, past a rushing stream, big rocks, and many dogs enjoying the trail and especially Lost Lake itself as they sloshed around the banks and fetched sticks thrown out into the lake.

I was glad my kids enjoy my company on a hike like this, and grateful to Caitlin for coming up with the idea. Also I was filled with joy to see again how well Caitlin and Shannon get along with each other and how much they enjoy each other's company.

They are friends, and that is not always the case with brothers and sisters. It is a wonderful memory.

Broken Record

Have you ever found yourself repeating the same story over and over again? If you say no, think again, because I think this tendency is part of the human condition. I’ve caught myself doing this with my closest family members and best friends—people who patiently listen to my stories and vents and are too courteous to tell me that I am repeating myself, again.

So I have a theory on why I (and other people) do this. I believe that in telling and retelling and retelling the story again and again, I am seeking resolution—some way to explain the sorrow or injustice or fear or pain at the center of the story, so that I can move on. But it’s like a broken record—it skips at the very same place and will keep repeating over and over again until I am able to take action by lifting up the needle and setting it down in another groove. (for those of you from generation whatever, see this link for the mechanics of phonograph records and needles.)

How, oh how, do you get to the next groove? That is the question.

You (and others if they get too tired of your repetition) can scream, “Stifle yourself!” at the first sign of broken record syndrome. But this does little or nothing to fix the problem...just as yelling at a skipping record album will not reset it to a new groove.

You have to finish the story. Explain it to yourself in a positive “I can move on now,” sort of way. Cognitive therapy is about this to some degree—hear the distorted thinking in your story (the catastrophic fear, the all-encompassing assumption, the unfounded guilt) and then offer yourself an counter-argument to keep it in perspective.

Suppose one of the repeating stories is about being a mother and making a mistake. Great mothers do make mistakes, because we are talking about on-the-job training here for one of the hardest jobs in the world, and nobody is perfect. Instead of going over and over the mistake you made, think of the ten things you did well as a mother recently—and write them down. Oh yes, you will come up with them once you get started. Because in all likelihood you are a good person, a good mother. Not perfect, but doing the best you can. This is what you would tell yourself if you could step outside and look back in.

And when someone else is being a broken record, help divert that person too—help him or her remember all the good things and finish the story in a positive way. As my Dad would have said, “I’d do it for a dog.”