Latest Chart: Marking the passage of time

January 10, 2020

By Ekta R. Garg

In the day-to-day efforts of parenting, we often forget that our kids are growing up too. We spend so much time working on schedules, talking to teachers, and coordinating play dates that it becomes easy to miss the little indicators that our kids aren’t little anymore. Of course, sometimes the indicators come by way of a phone call, of a claim of responsibility.

Because my husband had to work during Christmas, we decided to leave for our family vacation a few days before the new year. The start of the holiday break for us, then, was relaxed. The girls slept in, and I took my time to plan and pack for the trip.

On the first Monday of their vacation Thirteen, Eleven, and I drove to their dentist appointment, I suggested to the kids they take out their clothes the next day for our travels. I gave them an idea of how many outfits they needed as well as other essentials, and then the conversation went to a bevy of other topics. We laughed, we joked with one another, they groaned good-naturedly about having to get their teeth cleaned (over Christmas break, no less!), and we went on with our day.

The next day I left the kids at home so I could run errands by myself. These errands took me from one location in town to another. They involved final elements of a Christmas present, a small amount of grocery, a few regular supplies for the house, and some other minor things I’d added to my running list. It was the kind of day that sent my mind in about six different directions all at the same time. Preparing for a trip often does.

As I made my way to the checkout counter in the grocery store, my cell phone rang. I pulled it out of my purse and saw the word “Home” on the caller ID. As I swiped the screen to answer the call, I stopped pushing the cart and stood still. The girls had never called me before while I was on an errand run.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hi, Mamma,” Thirteen said.

Her voice sounded normal, and I know there’s nothing worse than causing alarm in someone over the phone. Especially when there’s nothing to be alarmed about, for either party. I kept my voice light.

“Hey, kiddo,” I said. “What’s up?”

She and Eleven had decided to pull out their clothes for the trip, she said. They wanted to know what kind of weather they should plan for. Did I have any idea what the temperatures in Myrtle Beach would be like?

“Why don’t you check on it?” I suggested.

“She’s saying to check the weather,” Thirteen said, her voice turning away from the phone. “Just pull it up on your iPad.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Nope, that’s it.”

“Okay,” I said, maintaining that nonchalant tone. “I’m almost done here at the grocery store. I just have one more stop after this, then I’ll be home and we can have lunch, okay?”

“Okay,” she said cheerfully.

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I swiped the screen to end the call, impressed with my teen’s thoughtfulness and, quite frankly, the fact that she remembered at all. In times past, I’ve had to ask the girls several times to perform these types of tasks for me. I’d remind them, nudge them, and, yes, even yell on occasion. In all these years, I truly ever thought about the day when the kids would come to me on their own and say they were ready to fulfill a request and just needed further information to do so.

We’re at the start of a new year and a new decade. In the next 10 years, provided we’re blessed with a life free from major challenges, I’ll go from being a mom of two middle schoolers to a mom of two teens and then of two college students. The girls will be considering careers and may discover love; they might even have their hearts broken a time or two. It’s a little mind boggling to consider when I think about how I was more than halfway through the last decade before even becoming a mother in the first place.

Parents often say it, but it’s true: where does the time go?

Latest Spurts: Fake food and wookies

December 27, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last two weeks, readers!

Last week, on Monday, we woke up to a couple of inches of snow. After breakfast, as I stood in the mudroom waiting for the girls to pull on jackets and shoes for school, I planted my feet into a pair of ankle-length boots. Eleven looked at the boots, glanced at the bathrobe I still wore, and looked down again.

“Nice shoes, Mamma,” she said.

“I like to be prepared,” I explained, “in case I ever have to get out of the car and trudge through the snow.”

Thirteen took a closer look at my shoes and smirked.

“Are you going to zip them up?”

“No, I figure if I get stuck somewhere, I can take half a second to zip them.”

“What if the police are chasing you?” Eleven asked.

“Then I’ll just bring them back here. You know. Offer them coffee.”

“All she said was, ‘nice shoes’,” Thirteen murmured, “and we get a whole story.”

“All right, let’s move it along.”

*****

Eleven likes a challenge. She also, these days, loves Star Wars and everything to do with the series. Somewhere online she found out about an artist named James Raiz who sketched an enormous mural, in ink, including almost single character important to the franchise.

Then she said she wanted to duplicate it.

When she first mentioned the mural, I did my parental duty: I nodded and smiled like it says to in my contract. One day last week, I asked her to show it to me. In between chopping vegetables and stirring pots on the stove, I took a look at she planned to draw.

My mouth dropped open, but I didn’t want her to mistake my shock for disapproval.

“That’s amazing,” I said. “Look at the level of detail.”

She pulled up a YouTube video of Raiz describing his love for Star Wars, his reasoning for wanting to create the mural, how he planned it, and (in a time lapse) the production and completion of it. I waved my husband over so he could see the final product. He was as impressed as I was, more so by the fact that our child wants to duplicate it.

“That’s really ambitious,” he said.

“Well, I’m a Slytherin,” she said. “I have lots of ambitiousness. Ambitious-ocity! I have ambitious-ocity.”

“That’s not a word,” I told her.

“Yes, it is,” she said, “because I’m a Slytherin and that’s what I have.”

I don’t know what J.K. Rowling and George Lucas would have to say about their universes crossing like that, but all righty then.

*****

I consider myself a pretty good cook, so it came as quite the amusing shock to me that last month the girls declared that all the food I make for them is fake food. The height of irony comes in the fact that they’re complaining about the fact that I don’t serve them processed meals with loads of preservatives, trans fat, or high fructose corn syrup. I take the meals we enjoy in restaurants or on vacations and try to replicate them or at least create something, from scratch, that tastes as good and is nutritious.

If anything, my food is more “real” than some of the stuff available on the market.

I explained this to them; they maintain their opinion.

The discussion of real versus fake food comes up in all sorts of places. Last week, before school got out, the drama teacher invited over the students who have stayed after school and come in on weekends to help out with costumes and sets. She cooked dinner for them, and they played games and got to socialize.

The next morning, I asked the girls what the teacher, Mrs. C., made for dinner.

“Chicken noodle soup,” Thirteen said with a sigh that comes from enjoying comfort food. “And she used real noodles, not the fake ones you do.”

Given that it’s been ages since I’ve made chicken soup, I wanted to protest. Of course, I figured that would just bring forth another complaint about why I hadn’t made the soup in so long. That would be followed by an objection from Eleven that she doesn’t even like soups very much to begin with, and why do we have to eat them during the winter months anyway. (Never mind that there’s nothing quite so warming, and, yes, nutritious, as a large bowl of soup from scratch.)

I’m officially the mother to two middle schoolers; I can’t win either way.

*****

For the past two years, Thirteen has complained good-naturedly about the science teacher, Ms. S. The assignments, Thirteen maintains, are boring, and why did they have to learn about tuberculosis and do experiments and research papers at home anyway? Not to mention that Ms. S. is the type of teacher who’s a stickler for grammar on her papers; misplace commas, and she’ll count it incomplete until all the requisite commas are in their right places.

Shortly after school started, Thirteen and Eleven came home with dread on their faces.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Science.”

“What do you mean?”

Turns out that Ms. S. was scheduled for knee replacement surgery and had assigned subs to carry the load for the two months she would be out. The subs had worked with Ms. S. extensively in the past and had a reputation for being as strict as her. The excitement the kids had at having substitute teachers for an extended period of time was dimmed by who the substitutes were.

At the end of the week last week, I went to say good night to Thirteen, and in the dark she sighed.

“I miss Ms. S.,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say for a minute. “You what?”

“I miss Ms. S.,” she said. “Ms. A.’s so strict.”

I was glad it was dark and she couldn’t see me smile. I offered the standard parental platitudes of how the subs would only be around for a little while longer, but they didn’t seem to comfort her much. Thirteen has said many times in the last two years how she wished Ms. S. would take it easy. I guess it’s true what they say: be careful what you wish for.

*****

One of our agendas for this Christmas break was to watch movies. Lots and lots of them. Eleven wanted to watch the Star Wars movies on the DVR to prep for the newest one in theaters. We started with the original trilogy, despite her mild complaint at watching the movies out of chronological order. I’ve seen the original ones several times before and knew they would be a good gateway into the Star Wars universe, so I overruled her vote to start with Episode 1.

Last night as we watched The Return of the Jedi, we couldn’t help giggling over the wookies. Given that Eleven considers herself a bear, she was tickled pink about the bear-like features of these cuddly creatures. As they waddled around and did their best to fight against the Storm Troopers to help Han Solo and Leia in the movie’s climax (often striking themselves or one another in the process,) we laughed so hard our eyes watered.

At one point, two wookies get knocked to the forest floor by a laser blast. They both lie on the ground for a moment; then one gets up and drags on the arm of his friend, still flat. The friend doesn’t get up, and the first wookie gets to his knees to check on the second one. He bends down and puts his face to his friend’s arm as if in an affectionate kiss.

The girls and I “aww”’ed immediately.

“I hope he’s okay,” I said about the unconscious wookie.

“He’s okay,” Eleven said in a bid of hope. “He’s gotta be okay. Nothing’s wrong with him.”

“I’m going to write a fanfic about those two,” Thirteen said, her eyes filled with compassion. “I’m going to write about how they’re friends.”

“And when you do, they’re both going to be okay,” Eleven said.

 

 

 

Latest Chart: Enough

December 13, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

We’re in that time of year when people talk about goodwill. Goodwill toward the less fortunate; goodwill toward those who hold opinions in direct opposition to one’s own. Dozens of holiday movies through the years have offered audiences a wide of range of emotions when estranged family members show one another goodwill and reunite.

I suppose it’s going to sound a little strange, then, that this week I encouraged one of my children to hold back her goodwill.

On Monday morning, I looked Eleven straight in the eye and said, “If [that classmate] tries to talk to you, just walk away.”

“Just walk away?” she repeated, eyes widening a little.

“Yes,” I said. “If you have a disagreement with someone once or twice, then it makes sense to try to stay and work it out. But sometimes, when you’ve tried everything you can and it’s not working, you have permission to leave the situation.”

“I don’t want to be rude.”

“I’m not telling you to be rude,” I said. “I’m not giving you permission to be mean or act out against [that classmate]. Just walk away. Don’t let anyone have the power to force you to stay and listen to things you don’t want to.”

She seemed fascinated and challenged—and a little relieved—that I gave her that advice.

*****

Here’s what led up to this.

The classmate in the conversation above has been with Eleven since kindergarten. In their first two years of school together, the kids were great pals. Eleven often cited this classmate as a “best friend.”

In second grade, this classmate’s personality began to change. Eleven started coming home with stories of how the classmate would say rude things or exclude Eleven from playing with others. S/he would ignore Eleven for a few days at a stretch and then suddenly want to be friends again.

I know my daughter isn’t perfect. She’s got a deep sense of compassion for her friends and is always trying to sort out problems for them. She also has a temper like quicksilver, and while we’ve worked actively with her to think before she reacts there are still days she barks first and asks questions later.

With this classmate, however, the teachers confirmed that almost every single time the child in question had no cause to treat Eleven the way s/he did. Eleven did all she could to extend goodwill to the classmate. The classmate accepted it on some days and rebuffed it with force on others.

The classmate’s behavior with other kids changed as well, but somehow s/he singled out Eleven. Eleven became frustrated, unable to process why her friend changed and wondered what she could do about it. We spent many hours through fourth and fifth grade coaching Eleven. At one point last year, we even told her to keep social interactions to a minimum. Cordial but not so involved.

The estrangement, the mixed messages, the passive aggressive actions continued. Eleven’s frustration mounted. She started to say she didn’t look forward to school anymore. My husband and I questioned Eleven repeatedly and in a variety of ways to make sure that altercations didn’t go beyond verbal ones, and they didn’t, but they upset Eleven anyway.

Thirteen and Eleven go to a small school, and the size has its perks. The camaraderie most of the students and teachers share reassures families, and it makes the school an attractive educational institution in town. Of course, the downside is that if you want to get away from someone it’s much harder.

At the end of summer, Eleven’s droopy demeanor toward the subject of school baffled us. When we asked her about it, she said she loved her school and couldn’t wait to see the teachers and start middle school. She just didn’t want to have to deal with this classmate anymore.

We reiterated the approach from last year: keep social interactions to a minimum. Don’t sit with the classmate at lunch. If s/he approaches Eleven at lunchtime or recess, find a reason to get out of the situation as fast as possible.

The classmate began to “lean on” Eleven at the start of the school year for “emotional support,” but the passive aggression continued. Some days the classmate was happy-go-lucky with Eleven, calling her by cute nicknames and trying to chit-chat. Other days s/he ordered Eleven to leave—as in, “I need to talk to N., go away.”

“What did you do?” I asked Eleven when this happened two weeks ago.

“What could I do?” Eleven said wearily. “I didn’t want to be rude, so I left.”

Then we discovered that the classmate and Eleven were exchanging emails. Eleven, it seemed, still held out hope that the classmate would go back to being his/her old self. The best friend she remembered from kindergarten and first grade. That’s why she began responding to the messages.

It didn’t work, of course. The emails left Eleven upset, confused, and emotionally drained. When we discovered them, we told Eleven to delete the classmate’s phone number, because the classmate was responding from a cell phone.

The function of technology in this case was a blessing. Because the classmate was using a phone instead of emailing in the traditional way, Eleven was required to download each message. After we told her to delete the emails and not to respond to the classmate ever again, she pointed out that in the event the classmate did send a message she wouldn’t have to read it. She could just delete it.

At the outset, Eleven was upset about our interference with the emailing. There were tears and loud words. Then, as we continued to talk and sort through why she was doing what she was, she started to see the sense of what we were telling her.

Enough is enough, I thought.

Eleven’s dad and I agreed that this time there wouldn’t be polite words. Eleven wouldn’t go to school and offer the classmate a congenial nod or listen semi-patiently to another story or outburst. This time there would be a marked difference.

*****

We live in a world where it’s becoming increasingly difficult to tell one another what we think. Thanks to social media, everyone’s sense of entitlement on the right to their own opinions has increased a thousand-fold. So instead of coming right to the point and saying that a person’s words are hurtful—or that a child is doing badly in school, or that an employee is underperforming, or that a patient’s medical condition is largely due to the bad choices that person is making—instead of saying any of these things, we duck our heads and tolerate each other’s opinions.

The trouble with this kind of tolerance, I believe, is that it leads to another type tolerance: the kind where we implicitly give people permission to say and do whatever they want and not suffer consequences.

*****

I don’t like confrontation any more than the next person. I want my children to grow up to be healthy, well-adjusted, kind people. But if they compromise on the first two traits, will they ever truly exhibit the third? If they’re willing to let people say whatever they want and tolerate it, when all the while their own hearts and minds are crumpling in pain, how do they develop true kindness? If people treat them horribly, how will Thirteen and Eleven maintain any hope and optimism for themselves or the people in their lives who love them and wish them well?

*****

“Just walk away?” Eleven asked. “Don’t say anything?”

“Don’t say anything,” I told her. “When you’ve reached that limit, it’s really okay to just leave.”

I saw something small in her eyes then: the spark of her self-confidence flickered a little brighter. She straightened her back. That relief, as I said before, appeared in her face and demeanor.

I hope that by encouraging her to be kind to herself, she’ll be able to dole it out to the people who will receive it and return it in spades.

 

Latest Chart: For those interested in a new parenting program!

November 15, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Are you tired of your current career? Do you feel like your friends are moving up the ladder faster than you are? Have you ever wondered what it’s like to spend time with contentious middle schoolers?

Introducing our brand new training program called “Parenting Tweens!”

In this program, you’ll learn how to spread yourself thin pursuing your own professional pursuits while also keeping track of laundry, groceries, and navigating after-school schedules that leave you driving all over town. Find out just how far you can stretch the contents of your fridge before needing to go to the store and when is the best time to cross that yellow light (or not.) Discover how many different ways you can explain the same point and how you ignore the eyeroll every single time.

But wait—there’s more!

This training program also confers upon you a degree in psychology! That’s right, after completing the program, you’ll be able to counsel any tweens, teens, or young adults on the tough situations of life. Advise your young person through unexpected challenges that they should have totally anticipated, and find out what it’s like to get responses like the classic, “I know, Mom.”

Not convinced yet? Let’s examine a sample case study:

*****

Mom (on Sunday night at bedtime): Sweetheart, I got an email from your teacher, Mr. A. He said he’s looking forward to your project being turned in tomorrow morning first thing.

Eleven-year-old (sits up in dark): What?!

Mom: Yeah, I guess he must have sent it this morning, but I just saw it. What project is this?

Eleven: Mamma, it’s the Lilies of the Field project. Where I’m drawing the church and the pews.

Mom: Oh, yeah, you showed it to me. I think it looks great.

Eleven: It’s not done yet.

Mom: What do you mean, it’s not done yet? Mr. A. is saying you’re supposed to turn it in tomorrow.

Eleven: That was my rough draft, what I showed you.

Mom: Your rough draft? But you’ve been working on it for a while.

Eleven: Well, it’s not my first one.

Mom: Well, why can’t you just turn in the latest draft that you have? It looks so good.

Eleven: Because it doesn’t work like that. Maybe…I can get up and do it now.

Mom (looks at clock): It’s almost 8:45. If you get up to work on it now, you’ll be up really late and it probably won’t turn out well. I don’t understand why you can’t turn in what you have.

Eleven: Because it’s on lined paper, and he said it had to be on unlined paper.

Mom (thinks for a minute): I know, but what you’ve done looks so good. And you’ve worked so hard on it for all these weeks now.

Eleven (dropping back onto her pillow): If you would just let me stay up, I can redo it.

Mom: If you stay up late now, there’s no way you’d be able to do a good job on it. Why don’t you go to Mr. A. tomorrow and explain what happened? Show him your rough drafts. It’s not like you were slacking off all this time. Just tell him that you got mixed up on the due date, and see what he has to say.

Eleven (in a sullen voice): Okay.

*****

On the surface, this seems like the end of the scenario, right? It might be, for the amateur parent. Those enrolled in the “Parenting Tweens” program will learn how to handle this situation with rock-solid, meme-worthy advice.

Want to know more? Here’s the next section of this case study. It’s called “Following Up After School the Next Day”:

*****

Mom pulls into the car pickup line and sees Eleven-year-old laughing and talking with friends. Maybe everything went well this morning when she talked to Mr. A., Mom thinks. Maybe Eleven will be able to bounce back from this without too much stress.

Mom (as Eleven-year-old sits in car): How was the day today?

Eleven: It was humiliating.

Mom (puzzled): Why, what happened? Did you talk to Mr. A.?

Eleven: Yeah, I told him what happened.

Mom: Was he mad?

Eleven (in agitated tone): Well, he wasn’t happy about it.

Mom: What did he say?

Eleven: He said I could turn it in on Thursday.

Mom: That’s good. At least he’s giving you a little extra time to work on it. Is he going to take points off for it being late?

Eleven (with disappointment): Yes.

Mom: Did you show him your rough drafts so that he knows you weren’t just goofing off all this time and remembered at the last minute?

Eleven: He said he didn’t want to see all that. He just wants me to turn in my final project.

Mom: So then why was the day humiliating?

Eleven: Because during class, he was calling on all of us one by one to talk about our projects, and I was sitting between J. and M. After J. finished talking about his project, Mr. A. looked at me and said, “Uh…okay, M., why don’t you tell us about what you did?”

Mom (waits for the “humiliating” part): Is that all?

Eleven: Yeah, but it was so embarrassing!

Mom: He probably just needed a minute, because he might have remembered right then that you hadn’t turned yours in yet. Just think, it would have been even more embarrassing if he’d called on you and then said, “Oh, no, wait, you didn’t turn yours in.”

Eleven (miffed that she can’t ignore this logic): Yeah, well…

*****

Here’s where the beauty of the “Parenting Tweens” program comes in! You learn to turn ordinary moments in the car like this into inspirational speeches. You find out how to take situations primed for defeat and disheartenment and attempt to convince the young people in your life that there’s no need to feel that way! Best of all, as you work on your psychology degree, you’ll learn to develop a thick skin even when your advice and encouragement are rebuffed over and over.

“How is this possible?” you’re probably saying in amazement. Check out our case study one last time to find out:

*****

Mom: Here’s the thing. There are going to be times when you do incredible, amazing things. You’re a smart kid, and in the future you’ll say stuff and accomplish goals and feel great about yourself. There are going to be other times when you mess up, when you make a mistake or forget about deadlines or something else. It’s not the end of the world.  You should be grateful for the fact that Mr. A. is letting you turn your project in late and not giving you a bad grade automatically just because you didn’t get the deadline right. He didn’t have to give you the extra time, but he did. He’s giving you a chance. So you should be grateful for that chance, okay?

Eleven (begrudgingly): Okay.

Mom: The most important thing is that you do your best. You’re not always going to be perfect. You’re not going to remember everything all the time. That’s why you have your planner, right?

Eleven (begrudging tone still evident): Yeah.

Mom (in bright, encouraging voice): Well, there you go! Maybe you can break down projects like this on a monthly and then weekly basis.

Thirteen-year-old sister speaks up in a quiet tone: You can even set up alerts on you iPad to remind you that stuff is coming up. That’s what I do, and it really helps.

Mom (grateful for teen’s input and simultaneously groaning inside because tween will probably react badly to “advice” from big sister; encouraging voice continues): See, there’s an idea. Between alerts on your iPad and writing things down, you’ll be able to make sure you don’t miss another deadline. If you work hard, you will do well overall. One project isn’t going to break your grade. I know it bothers you, but you’ll bounce back from this.

Eleven (begrudging tone still evident): Okay.

*****

Don’t waste time! Act today to take advantage of this incredible program. And if you contact us within the next 30 minutes, we’ll throw in a free copy of our workbook, “Sarcastic Things I Can Think In Response to My Tween’s Snarkiness”! Learn to take the high road and counsel your tween while getting in the last word, even if the tween doesn’t hear it.

Be the expert parent on the block. Enroll in “Parenting Tweens” today!

*****

*Some restrictions apply. See Life for details. Program requires a 10-year lead time—that is, you cannot enroll until you are the parent of at least one tween, defined as a child between the ages of 10 and 12. 

**Program facilitators are not responsible for any stretch marks, parental crying, clothes dirtied from spit-up or poopy diapers as participants prepare to enroll in program 10 years from now. Thereafter, program facilitators are not responsible for fights with partners, sleepless nights, hurt feelings, extreme anxiety, or other negative effects from parenting tweens.

***The psychology degree is not recognized by any medical body but certainly honored by other program graduates. Sometimes, years after they’re no longer tweens, the degree is also honored by the children.

****Seriously, why can’t parents just walk into any university of their choice and just demand a psych degree?

 

 

Latest Spurts: Aspiring to chicken tortellini alfredo and enjoying bribes

November 1, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last few weeks, readers!

Since the start of the school year, the girls, along with a handful of their schoolmates, have helped their drama teacher prepare for this year’s performances. They’ve built sets for the elementary kids and talked through blocking for middle school shows.

Typically this happens after school on Tuesdays, but with the sheer amount of work the teacher has asked the kids to come in a few Saturdays. On one or two Saturdays, the teacher has waited for us or left the door propped open around the time she knew we’d arrive. Two weeks ago, however, when we arrived at school at the meeting time, we found the school doors locked.

I sat in the car and watched Thirteen and Eleven peer through the glass doors leading to the hallway outside the gym. They both turned to me with a “Now what?” look, so I motioned for them to go down the sidewalk to the main entrance. Those doors were locked too.

Of course, on a morning like this, I forgot my cell phone. I huffed and sighed and drove home to grab my phone so I could text the teacher. Within minutes, she texted back that she would be at the door to open it for the kids. We turned around and went back to school.

“Can you imagine doing this without cell phones?” Eleven asked.

“We did,” I said. “We didn’t have cell phones when I was a kid.”

“So what would you do?” she asked. “I mean, if you went there and found that the doors were locked.”

“You’d just…go home, I guess,” I said. “You’d wait by the landline for the other person to call you back and ask where they were. Then you just set up another time to meet.”

She considered this—a world without cell phones, in which we had to just wait on one another without instant confirmation about who was going where and when—and I thought for a moment about my own childhood. I remember life without the internet and smart devices, of course; anyone my age does. I guess, maybe, that’s why I’m still a little in awe of them.

*****

The girls go to art lessons straight after school on Wednesdays, but weeks after school started they started talking about quitting art. The level of homework Thirteen in particular is getting makes it hard for her to get it done on Wednesdays. After some back and forth, we finally agreed. At the end of this semester, they’ll get their Wednesday afternoons back.

Since my husband and I told the kids they could drop art in December, every Wednesday after school Thirteen has gotten into the car and said, “I just want to go home.”

I tried to make things better by counting down the Wednesdays left every week. Somehow that doesn’t seem to be helping. I just end up with two kids glaring at me.

This week, when I put their snacks together for the car ride to art class, I decided to make hot chocolate and put it in two travel mugs. The temperatures have dropped close to winter levels, and it’s cold outside. So I boiled milk, added cocoa mix, and poured steaming hot chocolate into the mugs. Then I packed up their snacks, the mugs, and their art supplies, and headed to school.

Thirteen got into the front seat and gasped with pleasure.

“It’s hot chocolate, isn’t it?” she asked with a grin of delight.

I smiled back and greeted Eleven as she got in the car too.

“Hot chocolate, [Eleven],” Thirteen said.

“Well, it’s cold out, so I thought you might like something warm to drink,” I said.

“And it’s Wednesday,” Eleven said in a resigned voice.

“Oh, don’t worry, the hot chocolate’s a bribe for going to art class,” Thirteen said.

“It’s not a bribe!” I said in an affronted manner.

(It was totally a bribe.)

“Sure,” Thirteen said with a gleam in her eye.

What can I say? These kids definitely have my number. I guess I’ll have to get better at, um, cold-weather treats. Yeah. ‘Cause that’s what I was doing.

*****

The girls had a half day today, so we made plans to go to Panera for lunch. As we sat and waited for their dad to join us, the girls dug into their meals. Thirteen scooped a spoonful of Panera’s turkey chili and devoured it.

“One day, I’m going to come to Panera and order the chicken tortellini alfredo,” she said.

“Well, it’s a huge portion,” I said, “but you can always share it.”

She paused over her bowl. “I can?”

“Sure.”

“But who would split it with me?”

“I’ll split it,” Eleven said.

“You will?”

“Yeah.”

Her entire lunch experience, I could see in her eyes, had just changed.

“The next time I come to Panera, I’m going to order the chicken tortellini alfredo.”

“One day I’ll come to Panera and order a whole bunch of sweets,” Eleven said.

“And get a stomachache,” I said.

“I’ll have a party and invite all my friends,” she said.

“You wouldn’t invite me?” I asked, feigning shock.

“No,” Thirteen said, “you’d probably tell us, ‘That’s way too much sugar.’”

Eleven broke into a laugh, and I couldn’t help laughing at Thirteen’s imitation of me. I probably would tell them it was too much sugar. Then I’d beg for a scone.

 

Latest Chart: Words that hurt

October 18, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Every phase of parenting, I’m discovering, has its deepest joys.

When they’re newborns, you just want to hold them all day (well, when they’re not spitting up on you or screaming at 3 a.m.), and they’re content to be held. In the midst of the Terrible Twos, there are the adorable pronunciations of words and the innocuous questions that make a parent shake her head. Kindergarten brings the wide-eyed wonder phase; every day allows for a new discovery, a new breakthrough, and those all-important steps toward independent thinking and behavior.

I’m currently the mom of two middle schoolers, and the biggest perk of this phase is the conversation. The girls are smart and funny. They’ve often made me break into laughter so hard, tears spill from my eyes and I can’t draw a steady breath. They’ve also challenged me with questions that leave me stuttering for a moment as my carefully-laid plans start to hydroplane and I need to gain traction again.

My husband and I encourage the girls to talk, about everything, and at times it’s truly a pleasure. Other times, it can turn into a little bit of a hurtful conversation. At times like that, I can’t help but wonder whether that’s a weakness in my child that I have to help turn into a strength or whether it’s a weakness in my parenting that I need to fix.

Last weekend we went to Chicago for a little getaway. My husband, the girls, and I shared a hotel room, which means one bathroom between the four of us. Eleven had already showered and dressed; Thirteen was in the bathroom, and I was on deck to go next.

To pass the time, my husband pulled up soccer videos. He and Eleven watched a video of world-class Brazilian player Ronaldinho (now retired). After watching for a little bit, my husband handed me his tablet and said, “You have to see this guy!”

I’m not an athlete, but Eleven plays soccer for the park district so I do take an avid interest in the game. This also stems from my own days as captain of the cheerleaders in high school. The first sport of the season for our school used to be boys’ soccer, and our team was strong. Add that to the fact that I was buddies with many of the guys on the team, and all that creates an equation where I really do enjoy watching the sport when I can.

I’d never seen Ronaldinho play, and his handling of the ball blew me away. The no-look passes combined with the way he kept faking out his opponents made him a legend in the sport. As I watched, my husband explained how, because the Brazilians are so good at samba dancing, Ronaldinho used many of the same moves in the way he played. He was so quick—as all Latin dancing requires a person to be—that other players had trouble tracking the ball.

I may no longer cheer with a squad, but I still get excited about amazing sports. Every time Ronaldinho did something I thought really cool, I would let out a, “Oh, wow!” or a “Beautiful! That was incredible!”

“Okay, Mamma, that’s enough,” Eleven said, sarcasm tinging her voice.

I ignored her. She’s a soccer player and can appreciate, with first-hand experience, the difficulty of what Ronaldinho was doing, but, as I said, I’ve spent some time with the sport myself. In high school, I took time out to understand how it was played so that I could lead the other girls to cheer for the guys at the right times. Plus, what Ronaldinho did just looked so freaky cool (seriously, Google this guy.)

I kept cheering him on over cyberspace during matches that were years old, and she kept exclaiming about my exclamations.

“Jeez, get excited much?” Eleven said a few times, this time in a snarky manner. “We get it, Mamma. You think he’s cool.”

My cheeks got warm, and I stopped talking. For a moment, I considered shutting the tablet off together, but I didn’t want to look like I was throwing a tantrum. And I really did like the highlights.

Thirteen came out of the bathroom, and I put the tablet on the bed, gathered my clothes, and went in for my own shower. As I stood there, I considered several responses to Eleven. They ranged from the mundane—It’s not nice to make fun of your parents—to the profound—a philosophical treatise on what it means to be able to participate in a sport without actually being on a team.

More than anything, I tried to soothe away my hurt with a good shampoo and rinse. Because it did hurt. Yes, I’m Thirteen and Eleven’s mother, but I’m also a person. I have likes and dislikes as much as anyone else. I have thoughts and opinions, hobbies and interests.

I have feelings.

When I came out of the bathroom, I still hadn’t decided on what to say. Fortunately, I didn’t have to say anything at all. My husband had done the talking for me.

“Go talk to her,” he told Eleven in a stern voice.

She came to my shoulder as I put my items back in the suitcase.

“Sorry for being all sarcastic and snarky,” she said in a flat tone.

I drew a quiet breath.

“I know I’m not an athlete,” I said, “but I still do enjoy soccer. When I was in school, I knew I wasn’t good enough to play so I became a cheerleader. That was my way to support the team and the school. It was my way to enjoy the game.”

She just stared at me with a neutral expression.

I didn’t go into lecture mode. My husband had already played “bad cop” and done that for me, so I took a different tack. While in the shower, I’d spent a little time thinking of my cheerleading days and remembered something.

“You know,” I told Eleven, evening out my tone to let her know the conversation would ease away from her getting into trouble, “when I was a cheerleader, I kept little journals about my experiences. Our team went to state, but we lost. It might be interesting for you to read those journals so you can get a sense for how it felt for me to cheer on the boys.”

I turned to Thirteen who had, no doubt, witnessed the whole lecture Eleven received. “You might get a kick out of reading them too. Next time we go to [South Carolina], I’ll show them to you.”

Eleven didn’t say yea or nay to reading my cheerleading journals, and I didn’t push the issue. Instead, I started talking about something else, giving Eleven the out she needed at the moment to nurse her wounded ego. I know it probably hurt to get lectured, to get into trouble for being impulsive with her words.

It’s a habit of hers, and I’m trying to teach her to think about what comes out of her mouth before it actually does so. She has improved, but at times like these, it reminds me we still have work to do. She definitely has a ways to go. Does that mean I have a ways to go as a parent?

I don’t know, but maybe being aware of all this is a good start.

Brand new Spurts: The boomerang effect and driving fast

October 4, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last two weeks, readers!

A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I had to switch cars for the day. I drive a Honda Odyssey, which I absolutely adore. He drives a BMW. Which I love and hate all at the same time.

The BMW needed to go to the dealership for service, and I’ve had bad experiences with the dealership here in town. So any time it needs any oil change or anything else, I take the car to another dealership about 45 minutes away. With the drive there and back and the actual service time, that means the car has to stay with me for the whole day.

On this particular Friday, the kids loaded into the BMW before school and I fumbled for a minute with some of the controls.

“I don’t like driving this car,” I muttered.

“Why?” Thirteen asked.

“It just makes me a little nervous,” I said. “It’s an expensive car, and I’m always a little worried about doing something to it. And…”

“And?” Eleven prompted.

“Well,” I said sheepishly, “it goes from zero to sixty in, like, three seconds. And that’s really fun to do. So…”

We turned onto the main road outside our neighborhood, and I revved the engine just enough to pick up speed.

“You want to drive faster right now, don’t you?” Thirteen asked.

I grinned. “Little bit.”

“Yeah, here’s Mommy getting pulled over for speeding on the way to school,” Eleven joked, which would be quite the accomplishment considering we live a total of 1.1 miles away.

“That’s why I don’t like driving this car,” I said.

The girls continued to rib me all the way to the main entrance of the school. As they got out, Eleven called out a reprimand to drive properly. I pulled the car onto the main road again, revved the engine just a little more, and smiled.

*****

For anyone who hasn’t listened to the radio lately, collaborations seem to be the new thing. Ed Sheeran’s doing it with everyone under the sun. Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber—they’re all singing in all sorts of combinations with different artists.

One day as we were driving home, we were listening to the song called Eastside that features the talents of Benny Blanco, Khalid, and Halsey. (And the fact that I had to Google the song to get all three singers’ names right tells you how up to date I am with the singers of today.) Thirteen and Eleven didn’t seem to mind it all too much, although Thirteen kept talking about how creepy Halsey’s voice sounded.

“Who wants to go to the east side with her anyway?” Eleven said in a huff.

“Yeah, and why the east side?” Thirteen murmured. “What’s wrong with the west side?”

“Well, they’ve got their own story,” I quipped.

Thirteen groaned loud and long.

“That’s a terrible joke,” she said.

“Hey, I think it was pretty clever,” I replied.

She just shook her head at me. I thought she’d appreciate it more, being a theater kid and all. I’m still pretty proud of it myself, actually.

*****

Last week the entire middle school went on an overnight camping trip together. In the weeks leading up to the trip, the grades spent time preparing skits to perform for everyone. Eleven came home more than once expressing her frustration with the lack of seriousness on the part of the other sixth graders. They didn’t seem to spend too much time worrying about their lines, it seemed, and it didn’t help that it felt like they never had enough time to practice.

“If they’re not taking responsibility for it, then do something,” Thirteen suggested one morning before school. “You can rehearse before school, at recess, in advisory. Do something about not getting enough time to practice.”

Eleven rolled her eyes at her sister’s advice. Part of her, I know, appreciated it. Part of her wished that her big sister didn’t seem to have the answer to everything.

The refrain I’ve drummed into the kids’ heads is, “Smart girls find a way to fix the problem.” It’s nice to know that Thirteen has taken that to heart. Now if only Eleven wouldn’t scoff every time her big sister reminded her of it.

*****

They say that a person only fully understands the difficulties of parenting when s/he becomes a parent. The longer I’m a parent myself, the more I appreciate my own mom and dad. I often think about the kinds of challenges they navigated with my sister and me. There’s the issue of parenting in general, and then they had the added challenge of steering us in a culture and country that they adopted as home but that wasn’t their birthplace.

My husband and I talk occasionally about how people without kids can’t fully grasp the speed bumps that trip us up. And certainly the kids can’t grasp them either. How can they, when they’re the cause of those speed bumps?

Occasionally, though, the boomerang comes back around sooner than anyone expects.

Eleven is the notorious early riser of the two girls, taking after her father and grandfather. Thirteen doesn’t get out of bed with ease; it generally takes her a little longer in the morning. I can commiserate, because I know exactly how she feels. While adulting requires early mornings sometimes, they’re not my most favorite.

In an interesting twist, though, once Thirteen is awake she moves fast. Eleven will wake up early, shower, get dressed, and come downstairs by 7:30. We aim to leave every morning by 8 a.m. for school. She can still find a way to be late.

Eleven’s freshest first thing in the morning, and she loves to chat. Her train of thought skips along from one subject to the next at lightning speed, and because she has a lot to say she’ll often just stand in the kitchen and talk. And talk. And talk. I have to remind her to keep moving on her way to get her breakfast or to keep eating it.

Yesterday morning, Thirteen came down after Eleven, as she often does, ate her breakfast, went back upstairs to brush her teeth, and came back down to see her sister still eating. At that point, Eleven decided she had to go pee. She left her breakfast and went to the bathroom.

“She gets down here before me,” Thirteen said, “and yet we’re still late for school.”

I suppressed a knowing grin. “This is exactly what it was like when you were in sixth grade. That’s why I yelled so much. And then I stopped yelling.”

“Yeah,” she said in that half-teasing voice of hers, “because now your favorite child’s in sixth grade.”

“No, I stopped yelling when you were halfway through sixth grade, because I realized it didn’t accomplish anything,” I said honestly.

She pondered this for a bit, and I smiled into my mug of tea. I don’t know if she remembers the yelling; she didn’t say one way or the other. But I know she understands now why I did it.

Gotta love that boomerang. Looking for it to swing back around again soon. Maybe this time on just how much we spend on the kids.