Newest Chart: Necessary outbursts

May 10, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Oh, what a difference a day (or a month) makes.

In April I blogged about how my husband and I stuck by our guns and practically forced Ten into playing soccer for the park district. We did so because we knew she would enjoy it. The only reason we hadn’t signed her up sooner was because she had refused to play for anyone other than her school team, which stemmed from her anxiety around meeting new people.

We pushed her into it. She loves the team. Now we have a different problem, which has driven me nuts in equal proportion as when she didn’t want to play for the park district.

The problem is this: due to excessive rain this spring, several practices have been cancelled. On the days that practice gets cancelled, Ten gets into a Mood. You veteran parents know what I’m talking about. I thought I had a few years, at least, before she exhibited this kind of behavior, but what can I say, this child has proven over and over again that she’s well ahead of her time in many things.

Ten now loves soccer so much that on the days she can’t play, she becomes a first-class grump. Given the fact that we’ve had rain for several days at a stretch, this means grumpiness for several days at a stretch. I’m waiting for the end of the rainy season not because I care so much about all the rain but because I can’t wait for my child’s mood to turn around.

The grumpiness, of course, doesn’t just stay with her, however. She walks around with her frustration plastered all across her face, and that frustration spills over to the rest of the family. Because she’s already annoyed about soccer, when one of us says something she doesn’t like she snaps in response. She gets agitated. She replies with sarcasm dripping from her words like acid from a beaker.

Like I said, this is a Mood.

On Wednesday night her Mood began to influence mine. As I washed the dishes after dinner and listened to her gripe about one thing and the other, a few choice words came to mind. I could have let loose a torrent of lecturing then, but I didn’t. I didn’t think it would sound as good uncensored; mostly it would have been me ranting and doing the adult version of what she’s been doing for the last week or so.

Yesterday morning when Ten came down for breakfast before school, she showed up in a tank top and shorts. The temperatures earlier in the week had soared to the mid-70s, but yesterday they came back down again. When I told Ten she needed a light jacket, the Mood reappeared. I ignored it for the moment.

She asked me whether practice later that afternoon was cancelled.

“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s a decision that Coach makes almost at the last minute.”

“Is it going to rain today?” she said.

“It isn’t supposed to, but it also depends on the condition of the field,” I said. “With all this rain we’ve had—”

“But if it’s not raining today, they should let us practice!” she exclaimed.

“It’s for your own good,” I said. “If you go out on a really wet field and play, you could twist an ankle or something and really get hurt. Then you wouldn’t be able to play no matter what the weather was like.”

She argued that during a game a couple of weeks ago when the rain poured the coaches had let them play, that she didn’t understand why that was okay but this was not.

“Because adults are humans too, and sometimes they make mistakes,” I countered. “They made a judgment call that day, and it turned out not be a good one.”

She kept brooding, kept murmuring her discontent.

That was it. I had officially hit my tolerance limit. My patience reservoir for Ten’s bad attitude had run dry.

I told her in a loud voice that it was time she stopped behaving the way she was, that she was no longer two years old and that a temper tantrum was no longer a permissible way to express her irritation. If she continued to behave that way, I said, I would text her coach and let him know that she couldn’t attend practice yesterday evening. More than that, I said, I would also let him know that she wouldn’t play in the game tomorrow morning.

Her countenance rearranged itself right away—my children know I don’t make empty threats, that if I say I’m going to punish them in a specific way that it happens—but I wasn’t done.

“If you really want to be a team player, prove it to me,” I said, my tone still above normal. “Show me you can be a team player on the days you can’t play. That’s what a team player is.”

That seemed to catch her attention.

“No one can do anything about the weather, and if you can’t handle that then in the future you don’t need to sign up for soccer at all,” I went on.

My blood pressure had risen, and it took a considerable effort to stop talking. I don’t want to be one of those parents who just lectures needlessly for hours at a time. There is a considerable amount of power in silence, in stating the point and then just staying quiet after that to let it sink in.

Sometimes, though, in the moment it’s hard to remember that.

I turned back to the sink and kept putting away the dishes from dinner the previous night. Ten sat quietly eating her breakfast. Twelve came down, oblivious to my outburst, and chattered about the events of the day. I allowed myself to be drawn into her conversation and after a few minutes even roped in Ten.

We left for school then, and she got into the car with a chastened expression. Since then she’s been able to approach the possibility of canceled practices and even games with a little more pragmatism. I truly hope it sticks, because I really don’t like lecturing the kids. But sometimes, I guess, a little outburst is warranted.

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Newest Spurts: Recovering (or not) from grief and moving out (or not) for college

April 26, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last month, readers!

During a recent weekend, as I moved around in the kitchen to make lunch, I went between the stove and the kitchen counter several times. Ten meandered into the traffic pattern I’d established. Because this child of mine is just a touch accident-prone, I try to steer clear of her when there’s hot liquid or over-sized pans involved.

“Move,” I said as she crossed my path yet again. “Out.”

She moseyed to the end of the counter and watched with an impish grin as I came to put dishes down.

“But, Mamma,” she said, innocence personified, “I can’t do that until college.”

It took me a moment to understand what she meant, and when I did I realized I didn’t have a good enough response.

These kids, I tell you. They’re getting the better of me every single week.

***

On Monday Ten came downstairs humming snatches of the song Don’t Stop Believing by the 1980s group Journey.

“What made you think of that song?” I asked her as I made sandwiches for lunches.

“It’s my go-to song when I have no other song in my head,” she said.

Oh. I didn’t know we were supposed to have certain songs for those times. You know, when we don’t have other songs on a loop in our brains.

***

A few weeks ago as I drove Ten to a friend’s house, we talked about people living to old age.

“Bade Papa was 97 when he died,” I said about my maternal grandfather who just passed away in November; I almost managed to get through the sentence without a hitch.

My daughter sat in silence for a beat.

“How are you doing with all that?” she asked.

“With what?”

“You know, the fact that he…died. Are you better?”

I suppressed a sigh. “I don’t think it’s necessarily something you get better from. Grief is more like something you learn to live with over time. You just get used to it being a part of your life, and you learn to accept every day that that person isn’t there anymore.”

“I know how that feels,” she said evenly.

I knew she was thinking about her beloved third grade teacher who moved away at the end of that school year. The teacher left because of an incredible job opportunity for her husband, but Ten treated the entire situation almost as if it were a bigger finality. And though she’s adjusted to the idea that Mrs. B. no longer lives in town, she still misses her with a ferocity that she expresses at the most unexpected times. I’m glad she’s learning to manage her feelings better, but I still hate that she had to endure saying goodbye to someone she loves.

***

In recent weeks, Ten’s love-hate relationship with her cello has mellowed out to something between the two extremes. Maybe it’s because she spends all of her highest and lowest emotions on the soccer field and comes home more able to look at life even-keeled. Maybe she’s actually starting to admit that she likes the cello more than she ever let on. (I’m kind of hoping for the latter, although I realize the former is the likelier scenario.)

Earlier today when I picked up the kids from school, we pulled out of the parking lot and headed in the director of the cello teacher’s studio. The kids chatted about what they’d done in school. Ten had a mini field trip where she learned survival techniques (the “light-a-fire-from-scratch/use-a-compass-to-figure-out-where-you’re-going” kind.) Twelve spent part of the day walking the school grounds with her classmates as they picked up stray trash.

“I think I’m deaf in one ear, it was so windy today,” she said, tugging on her earlobe a bit.

I agreed. Temperatures here in Central Illinois have increased to a lovely spring-like mid-60s, but when the wind speeds hit 30 mph, even that 65-degree weather can feel chilly. Not to mention the difficulty in performing simple tasks, like keeping a hat on your head or even walking down the street.

“You know, I’m kind of looking forward to the cello recital tomorrow,” Ten said out of the blue.

I did a double-take and sneaked a glance to my right at Twelve; she looked just as startled.

“That’s good,” I said in a mild tone. “What’s making you look forward to it?”

She mentioned the name of a piece that some of the kids would be playing in a group, and I voiced some inconsequential agreement.

“I definitely think I’m going deaf in one ear now,” Twelve murmured.

Neither of us said anything more to Ten about it. We both know that to make a “big deal” about any of her thoughts will only incite a defensive response. But it’s nice, like I said, to know that she’s slowly coming around to the cello. A good life, I believe, includes a variety of experiences, and this could be part of Ten’s mix.

Latest Chart: Parents, dig in your heels!

April 12, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

In movies about struggles between tweens and their parents, the director usually includes a few showdowns. These can either be staring matches between the kids and the grownups or heated words exchanged. There’s almost always some sort of resolution (positive or negative) toward the end of the story.

The director never shows the agonizing days and hours in between showdowns. I guess it doesn’t make for as compelling viewing. Even if we watch a moving picture medium to be informed, ultimately we also want something that takes us away from reality.

In real life sometimes the showdowns end in a satisfying resolution for the parents, sometimes not. Case in point for the former: Ten’s soccer playing. She’s always harbored an interest in the sport, kicking the ball around in the back yard, watching the World Cup last year with fascination and eagerness, insisting that we sign her up to join the soccer team at school.

The school soccer season goes for around seven weeks in the fall. When Ten first asked to sign up for soccer, it was springtime more than two years ago. Soccer at school had ended, but our park district had just begun signups for their teams. What if I signed her up for the park district soccer program?

She came back with a resounding no. She didn’t want to play for anyone else. Only the school team. We discussed it, argued about it, butted heads on it. I’m not necessarily proud of this, but in the end she wore me down and I agreed. She wouldn’t sign up for the park district soccer team.

I could only argue with this child so many times. There are other things the kids need to do and so many other things I want to do. There aren’t enough hours in the day for me to drill down into every issue the kids and I disagree about. Some are essential to daily life and how they shape up as people; some are not.

Of course, this adamant stance against the park district soccer program didn’t curb Ten’s complaints that she didn’t get to play soccer. This child is old enough and mature enough to understand the progression of time. She got the fact that (by this time) with school out for the summer, there would be no school soccer. Like an irrational two-year-old, however, she continued to complain that she didn’t get any time on a field in a formal capacity.

At one point, my husband and I discussed the topic more than we discussed our retirement plans. Should we force Ten to play for the park district? Should we let her wait until school started? Should we encourage her to focus her energy somewhere else?

Eventually we decided to butt heads with our younger child yet again. This time, however, we would hold firm. She wanted to play soccer? She had to play for the park district when the school soccer season was off-cycle.

With plenty of exaggerated sighs and eye-rolls (and at one point literally dragging her feet as we got ready to leave,) Ten agreed. Well, she didn’t agree so much as just give in. This time we wore her down.

Do we sound like horrible parents for forcing our child to do something she expressed in no uncertain terms she absolutely does not want to do?

I don’t know yet. Even though I was one of those parents doing the forcing, I’m still trying to answer the question. Moreover, I’m trying to understand what that answer means for the future.

A few weeks ago, Ten got ready for her first soccer practice. Her dad took her, and I took Twelve to a school function. Halfway through the function I realized it had begun raining. Hard. As in, pouring. I immediately had two thoughts.

Ten’s going to be incredibly upset at getting all wet and probably muddy.

Ten’s going to be thrilled at practicing soccer in the downpour.

When she came home, her mile-wide grin told me which thought proved true.

All complaints about joining the park district’s soccer program washed into the city storm drains with the rain that night. Ten took a hairpin turn and couldn’t stop talking about the coach, about her excitement, about getting ready for her first match. The only semi-negative factor she could find was that she didn’t know any of the girls on the team. A few of them have played together before, and she felt a little left out.

Well, then, we told her, try to talk to some of the girls. Try to become friends with them. You have to get to know them, because a soccer team works best on the herd mentality, which works best when everyone knows everyone else.

Yesterday when Ten clamored into the car after practice, the first thing out of her mouth was, “I made a new friend on the team today.” She chattered the entire way home about her teammates, the one she got to know a little bit yesterday, and how that girl was friends with two of the other teammates Ten had gotten to know. Today on the way to her cello lesson, she said, “I’m so excited about the events of yesterday that they’ll get me through cello today.”

Her cello lessons are the other active area of a showdown with her. The thing is, she’s good at the cello. She jokes around with her cello teacher. She gives her classmates excellent suggestions during their critique time in their group lessons. She even offered to play the cello in the small band she’s formed with some of her friends and practices music for the band songs.

At one point, Ten admitted that the real problem she had with the cello was the lack of freedom. She’s still learning many of the essentials to playing the instrument, so she can’t experiment much. Her teacher, by the way, has given her considerable leeway in this area. When she tells him that she’s spent part of her week practicing her band music and less time on the music he’s assigned, he doesn’t bat an eye. He just requests in a gentle manner that she pay attention to her assignments too.

We convinced her with soccer to trust our judgment, and now she’s eager to pull on her cleats before every practice. My hope, truly, is that she’ll trust our judgment on the cello too. Maybe, years from now, we’ll be able to laugh over these showdowns, and I’ll get to gloat—just a little, mind you—that we won both of them.

Latest Spurts: Total bias and tricking the Starbucks baristas

March 22, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last couple of weeks, readers!

The funny instances of Starbucks baristas misspelling and mispronouncing names have been well documented on social media. When Twelve and her classmates went on a field trip recently, they had some free time after lunch and went into Starbucks. Twelve and her friends thought it would be fun to give the baristas fake names, and she gave the name “Sunny.”

“They spelled it with a Y instead of an I, but that’s okay,” she told us afterward in describing the encounter.

“It was a fake name!” I exclaimed. “What does it matter how they spell it?”

She looked at me in mock horror. “It matters!”

I just shook my head.

“I bet at Starbucks they ask people to spell stuff, and if they get it right, Starbucks is like, ‘Um, no,’” she replied. “I could work at Starbucks, but my spelling is too good.”

As a former spelling bee champ, I have to say that I don’t think spelling well is ever a bad thing.

***

Every summer the kids attend a variety of half-day camps. They’ve done everything from a Harry Potter-themed camp to one that allows them to use the public transportation in our town to explore our little city. The whole purpose of enrolling the kids in these activities is to expose them to different ideas and topics, help them meet new friends, and keep them out of one another’s hair.

The fact that they stay out of my hair for half a day is just a perk.

Of course, all this sounds great in theory. What it amounts to in reality is me negotiating what camps the kids should and can do every summer. They enjoy the activities their school offers and often insist they just want to stick with school stuff. We’re fortunate to live in a town that offers a myriad of options. With the university here, the choices for older kids get really interesting. Then there’s other schools, the YMCA, and even the park district.

This year, we wanted the kids to try something in addition to a school camp; of course, a discussion ensued on this issue.

My husband and I spent about 15 minutes talking to the girls about the value and virtue of trying new things. We reminded them that they were privileged to have all these options; neither of us had ever gotten to explore in this way. They could make new friends and stretch their current skills.

When we all came to an agreement about what camps they would do, Twelve leaned toward me.

“That was a looong talk,” she said.

“Oh, sweetie, guess what?” I said. “They only get longer as you get older.”

She inhaled long and deep; maybe the threat of long talks will be enough to keep her from doing stuff that would require them in the future.

***

Every year for Valentine’s Day, I get the girls a little gift. I started doing this several years ago in an active bid to make the day special for them. I also thought it would be nice for us to share the day; in a few years, they’ll be out of the house but I want them to have a non-birthday/non-Christmas holiday to anticipate with delight.

This year, since both girls needed new bathrobes, I bought them each one. I was quite proud of the fact that I found both of them on clearance and that Twelve’s came in a plushy lavender color (and purple is her favorite color, so double win there.) Ten’s was red, a leftover from the Christmas season, so it has white stars on it.

It also has a hood with bear ears.

Ever since receiving the bathrobe, she’s “transformed” into a bear. Or some human-animal hybrid version. So our bear doesn’t hibernate, but she does speak in some weird gibberish that’s supposed to be bear language.

It doesn’t help that Twelve has gotten into the act wholeheartedly. She’s begun addressing Ten exclusively as Bear. Many of the silly little impromptu games they create involve Bear doing something. Twelve will even climb up the stairs halfway and pat her legs, the same way you’d do for a pet.

“Come on, Bear!” she calls to Ten. “Come on!”

Ten then proceeds to climb up the stairs bear-style: on all fours.

Sometimes, though, Twelve’s tween self comes through; this happened last week when she accused me of being responsible for “creating” the bear.

“It’s all your fault,” she said. “You bought her the bear suit.”

“No, I bought her a bathrobe,” I said. “You encouraged her by all the stuff you do. You’ve practically turned into her bear trainer!”

Twelve shook her head. “Nope. You bought the bear suit. It’s your fault.”

But, really, can it be my fault after all?

***

Twelve’s theater group has been working hard on a Beatles medley that will soon go “on tour” around our town. In addition to the medley, though, they’re also going to play some theater games for the entertainment of the audience. Because of the need to think on their feet, the theater director suggested the kids come and take part in a family-friendly improv night in their little theater. They go on right before a small improv group that graciously gave up their earlier start time so the kids could get some more improv practice in. At the end of their improv sessions, the adult improv actors get on stage and do a few fun games with the kids.

By the time their semester ends, the kids will have had four opportunities to work with the adult improv actors. Because of her dance commitments, Twelve couldn’t attend the first two improv nights. Last week, however, she finally got her chance.

We were thoroughly entertained by Twelve and the other child actors. Improv is a tough skill to master; it requires coming up with a response and then enacting it convincingly in performance mode, all within a matter of seconds. While all the kids we watched that night have done excellent jobs in the various plays and other rehearsed performances, it became obvious as their hour-long show progressed that some of the kids were much better at improv than others.

When we came home that night, I leaned in toward Twelve in conspiratorial fashion.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I said.

“What?” she asked as she pulled off her boots in the mudroom.

“I thought you were the best one on stage.”

She grinned at me. “You have to say that.”

“Well, maybe, but I also really believe it.”

She shook her head good-naturedly at my bias, but, hey, what can I say? I am biased. I’ve got a budding improv star right under my own roof.

Latest Chart: To worry or…that’s it

March 8, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Last week just before Twelve and Ten got out of the car in the morning for school, I reminded them to be careful on the sidewalk. We’d had overnight subzero temperatures for several days followed by a little bit of melting during the daylight hours. That meant slick walkways.

“Be careful!” I called again as Twelve opened the door.

“Don’t worry, Mamma,” Ten said, scooting from her spot behind me to the door on her sister’s side.

“I’m your mom, it’s my job to worry,” I replied.

“I know,” she said, “but don’t worry so much.”

I smiled and waved, but I couldn’t help shaking my head on the way home. Not worry so much? That’s like asking a person not to breathe. I’m a parent, after all. Worrying comes as naturally as coordinating playdates.

Don’t worry. (Imagine me scoffing.) Sure. Easy enough for her to say.

From the moment we give birth to our children, mothers worry. No one warns us ahead of time, by the way, that we’ll feel this way. We hear all the adages about how quickly children grow up, we get advice on diaper rash creams or what pediatrician knows how to be warm and fuzzy. But no one tells us, “When you have that child, you’re signing up for a lifetime of worry.”

Of course I worry. Those of you readers who are also parents know what I’m talking about. We can turn worrying into an art form if we want.

When they were little, I worried about (seemingly) little things. When I dropped Twelve off at preschool for the first time, I worried about whether she’d spend the day crying. I also worried about what it meant if she didn’t miss me at all.

When, at the age of 3 months old, Ten got a terrible cold, I worried about her being able to breathe. I worried about the breathing thing even when she was well; admittedly, one of the main reasons I insisted her crib stay in our room for so long was because I’d heard somewhere that doing so could possibly prevent SIDS.

As they’ve gotten older, I’ve started worrying about other things. Early this morning, Twelve left with all the other middle schoolers to go to Chicago for a day-long field trip. While I didn’t, by any means, spend the day wringing my hands, a tiny part of me in the back of my brain worried about the safety of the bus, of the safety of the kids as they attended a play and then later went for lunch in groups.

After school today, Ten had her weekly cello lesson. My husband suggested I drop her off and he’d pick her up and bring her home. As I watched Ten get out of the car and walk into her teacher’s music studio, I worried about what might happen if a terrible person tried to snatch her. This, despite the fact that if I drop the kids off anywhere and will be leaving them (and not sitting and waiting for them to finish,) I always watch them walk inside and wait for the door to shut behind them before I drive away.

I’m a writer; I guess you could say I have an overactive imagination.

I worry about their futures. When Ten complains about taking cello lessons, I worry that she’ll grow up nurturing a bit of resentment against us for forcing her to stick with it. Then I worry that if we cave and let her quit, she’ll learn to manipulate a situation in her favor. I worry she won’t learn how to follow through, that she’ll bounce from one hobby to another, from one job to another, that she’ll never commit to anything.

Did I mention my brain kicks into overload sometimes?

I know some of these worries are silly. Some people say worrying is a way for a Type A personality to complain that s/he can’t control a situation. I think it’s about concern that the girls grow up happy, healthy, well-adjusted, confident young women.

Oh, yeah. They’re girls who will grow up to be women. Another thing to worry about. Being a woman. Do I really need to list all the worries I associate with that?

Like most parents, I’ve learned to wrestle my worry into manageable blocks of time. So on that morning, when Ten told me not to worry about her or her sister slipping and falling a head or breaking a bone on the ice, I took a moment on the way home to acknowledge my concern and then put it aside. The girls aren’t toddlers; they don’t rush headlong into a building without regard for the ground beneath them.

It helped that I drop them off about 15 feet from the front door of the school. And that the school is only a mile away from our house. And that I work from home, so if anything happens to either of the kids I can drop everything and run to them.

Worry? Who, me? Eh, not so much. Or too much. Or…something.

Latest Spurts: Making crumbs a fashion statement and being old (or not; we don’t know)

February 15, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

Enjoy these Spurts from the last few weeks, readers!

Last week as we drove to the kids’ art lesson, Ten started describing a book she’s reading at school in which a character experiences a strange phenomenon: the person hears something and sees colors.

“What is that called?” she says. “It starts with an ‘a’.”

“Synesthesia?” Twelve said after thinking about it a moment.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ten said. She laughed. “I almost said anesthesia.”

“Um, no, that’s not it,” Twelve said. “That ends with an ‘a’.”

The girls and I shared a giggle.

“Oh, wait,” I said in the middle of our laughter, “we’ve solved the mystery! Now we know what Sleeping Beauty was suffering from!”

“Breaking news!” Ten said. “Sleeping Beauty suffered from long-term anesthesia!”

***

We arrived at art a little early, so we sat in the car outside the art teacher’s studio chatting. Doing this also gives the kids a chance to finish their after-school snacks. Sometimes we read aloud. Occasionally the silliness continues.

When Twelve finished her snack, I glanced at the clock and turned back toward the kids.

“All right, time to head out,” I said. Then I saw Twelve’s face.

“You’ve got crumbs in the corner of your mouth,” I told her.

She paused for a moment to lick the crumbs off. Then she looked at me, tilted her head in mock condescension, and did her best Valley Girl voice.

“Um, it’s a look,” she said. She even added a prissy scoff. A minute later my tween grinned at me, and I had to laugh back.

Yeah, crumbs on the face; sure, that’s a look.

***

This week the middle school is holding its spring dance (I know, it’s a little early to be labeling an event “spring,” but maybe it’s in a bid to be optimistic.) In Twelve and Ten’s school, the eighth graders plan the event—they pick the theme and put together the playlist for the evening. They also decide on the snacks and facilitate the entire dance from start to finish.

At the beginning of last week, the theme of the dance hadn’t been revealed yet so Twelve and Ten came up with their own ideas. They bandied about a few themes. Then Ten piped up with her favorite.

“They should make the theme anti-gravity!” Ten said.

A long pause filled the car.

“How would you even do an anti-gravity theme?” I asked.

“Cannons,” Twelve replied, quick on the uptake.

“Wait…what?”

“You shoot people out of cannons and hope for the best,” she said. “Each of them gets one suction cup, so they just make the most of it when we shoot them against the wall.”

“That’s…technically, that’s not anti-gravity.”

“It’s as close as we can get on Earth,” the girls reassured me.

I’m still trying to figure that one out.

***

Our current read-aloud book is the fifth volume in the Land of Stories series by Chris Colfer. Yesterday as we drove home, Twelve read a scene in which twins Alex and Connor argue. The sister and brother find themselves tied up back to back on a pirate ship, and Alex blames Connor for their predicament. At the end of their bickering, according to the narrative, each twin tries to pretend that the other isn’t there by giving one another the silent treatment.

“What, really?” Twelve asked, interrupting herself. “They’re, like, 15.”

She started reading again, but this time I interrupted her.

“When you’re 15, and you’re not speaking to your sister over something silly, I’ll remind you of this moment,” she said.

“Well, by that time I would have released her back into the wild anyway,” Twelve quipped.

I guess that’s one way of solving a problem.

***

The school administrators and kindergarten through fifth grade students are getting ready for their big musical production a couple of months from now. Ten isn’t overly thrilled with the idea of a show in general. While she enjoys being part of a group, she doesn’t necessarily enjoy performing.

Also, the fact that there’s a new music teacher this year and that Ten misses her old music teacher has a lot to do with this.

Last night as we talked at dinner, she described the progress of the show.

“We’re doing these songs from a show by, um, Gilbert and…”

She paused for a moment to think of the other name, which I already knew.

“Sullivan,” I said. “Of course.”

“Gilbert and Sullivan?” she repeated. “That’s right. No one’s ever heard of them.”

“I’ve heard of them,” I said.

“You have? How?”

“Because they’re Gilbert and Sullivan,” I said, a little mystified as to how to explain myself further.

“Well, no one else besides you has heard of them,” she said.

“No, I’m sure the other parents have heard of them,” I replied with a smile.

“Oh, so we’re doing oldies music,” Ten said with a hint of resignation.

“It’s not oldies music!” I said, mildly indignant. “We just celebrated my birthday. I’m forty, not a hundred and forty.”

She shrugged and went back to her dinner plate, nonplussed about her indirect comment on my age.

This morning, of course, I had to check, so I Googled Gilbert and Sullivan and the time when their collaboration was at its peak. Wouldn’t you know it, had I been 140, I would have fallen smack in the middle of the years of their partnership. I wonder what that says about the fact that I’ve heard them. :>

 

 

Latest Chart: All about growing up

February 8, 2019

By Ekta R. Garg

I’ve entered a whole new decade: 40. I think maybe, just maybe, I might be growing up. I know for a fact my girls are. In the last week, they’ve reminded me that time marches on for everyone.

One night as I went up to say good night, Ten asked me in the dark for the umpteenth time when her aunt (my sister) was going to get married.

“Hopefully soon,” I told her, kissing her on the head.

“I hope I marry a good man,” she said, her voice growing a little sleepy in the dark.

“I think you will,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’ve got a good heart, and you’re sweet and kind to people.”

She paused.

“I don’t think I want to have an arranged marriage.”

Hmm. This was new. Ten has mentioned marriage before—most notably in declaring to the family that she married her best friend’s dog—but never before has she announced a preference for how she might meet her future husband.

Of course, it was bedtime.

“Well, I don’t think you need to worry about it right now,” I told her. “You’ve got a long time before you have to think about it.”

She acquiesced pretty easily and burrowed deeper under her blanket.

In all honesty I don’t know what’s making her think of the topic of marriage these days. No doubt, though, that it’s on her mind. Two nights ago, after dinner, she stood up from her chair with a pronouncement.

“I’m going to marry a chef, and he’s going to make good food for me.”

I’m pretty sure she wasn’t commenting on the meal that night. The remark landed right in the middle of the countertop without any introduction or explanation. That’s Ten, though. I imagine the thoughts in her brain to be like those clouds streaming across the sky on a bright summer day. Blink, and they slip past before you realize it.

It’s their direction that intrigues me now. As I said, more and more it’s starting to sound like she’s doing some growing up. But she’s not the only one.

Twelve spent about a week-and-a-half in special sessions with the rest of the middle schoolers on topics related to relationships, the body, and (go ahead, cringe a little) reproductive health. Teachers conducted some sessions with the kids divided by genders and some with all the kids together. We received regular communication from the school about the nature of the assemblies and the gentle reminder to encourage our kids to talk to us.

Before either my husband or I could broach any subjects with Twelve, though, she came to us. The science teacher gave the students a list of questions and allowed the kids to pick a handful. Then they had to come home and interview parents using those questions.

“Mamma, I need to do my parent interview,” Twelve said more than once.

Before she could ask us her questions, though, we had to read a short packet of information. It offered suggestions on how to become “askable” parents—in other words, parents who kids would feel comfortable approaching about all sorts of amazingly embarrassing topics. The suggestions ranged from practicing saying body parts until we could say them without batting an eye to choosing the battles we really wanted to fight with our tweens.

(I wanted to ask whether doing the parent interview fell under the category of “choose your battles,” like choosing whether we even had to do it, but I didn’t think that applied.)

After we both read the information sheets, my husband and I followed Twelve to her bedroom earlier this week and sat down to listen to her questions. Thankfully, they weren’t too bad. They ran along the lines of things like, “When you were growing up, was the topic of reproductive health something you talked about with your parents or was it taboo?” and even as generic as, “What did you worry about when you were my age?”

My husband kept the tone of the talk light by joking around, teasing Twelve when she allegedly gave me more time to talk than him and “accusing” me of answering for him. In between his jibes, though, we answered Twelve’s questions. We talked about how parents in India took a much more conservative approach to the topics of the body and relationships and how talking about them in great detail amounted to a taboo. We also answered truthfully about how neither of us experimented with anything, both of us being good kids who followed the rules even into college when our parents couldn’t monitor our every move.

I took the opportunity to let Twelve know that she could come to me any time about anything.

“And if you don’t feel like talking face to face, you can always write me a note and leave it on my desk or my nightstand,” I said. “I can write back to you or come talk to you, whatever you want.”

“You can come to me too,” my husband added, “but don’t leave any notes on my nightstand. I don’t like clutter.”

Twelve rolled her eyes, but I could see a faint smile in her face too. We’d gotten through the interview, and no one had died of embarrassment or even been overly uncomfortable. In fact, Twelve’s ease with the questions and how she asked them amazed me.

I’m a 40-year-old woman, and I don’t know if I possess that kind of poise yet. But I guess that’s why I say I think I’m growing up. When I get there, I’ll be sure to let everyone—especially the kids—know.