When it comes to communicating with my older children, I sometimes feel like Pushmi-pullyu, that antelope-ish Dr. Doolittle character with two heads turned in opposite directions. The poor animal doesn’t always know which way to go.

When I first started writing for this blog a few months ago, for example, my 16-year-old daughter had not an iota of interest in boys, even though her friends had had boyfriends since eighth grade. Then suddenly she was going to homecoming with a date. Now she is hanging out with him, and I want to know everything. Only, she wants to tell me nothing. But don’t I have the right to know something?

“Uh, Emily,” I started very tentatively the other day. “I guess you had a good time with Dalton at homecoming the other night, and I guess maybe you’re kinda sorta hanging out with him a little bit now.”

“Yeah, Mom, but it’s not a big deal,” she said, “and I don’t want anybody to make a big deal out of it.”

“I understand,” I said,, slow and steady as she goes.

“I’m not going to ask you to post all your pictures on Webshots or something,” I continued. “But it’s really no different than when you get a new girlfriend and I want to know about her. And it is a boy, and as your mother, I kind of think I need to know at least a little something,”

“We’re really just friends, Mom,” she said. ”We’re not even boyfriend-girlfriend, and the reason I don’t want to talk to you about it is because most people in this family tend to blow things like this out of proportion.”

“I know, honey,” I said. “But I’d like to think I can respect you on this. I’d like for you to know that I’m here for you, however much of me you need, and that you can trust me.”

“Well, we really are just friends, Mom. We hang out together with a lot of other people, and we’re not serious, and that’s really all there is to tell. I’ll let you know if I need you. And I do trust you, Mom.”

She trusts me! Hey, Mikey! Not only that, but she let me know where her relationship stands! Not only that, but I kept my mouth shut and didn’t press for details like did he kiss her good night and are his parents Republicans or Democrats and what are they going to name their first child? Not only that, but I think I gave her the impression that I’m here, but not prying, that I’m paying attention, but not spying. Hip hip hooray! I’m the Queen Wise Mother of Teenager Communicator Extraordinaire!!

And then I turned around and got into an argument with her 20-year-old brother.

I don’t even know what it was about, something about me not always being available to him when I’m working in my home office on deadline.

Huh?

Communication with an increasingly independent teenager is tricky. Say too too much, and you’ll get shut out. Say too little and the same thing happens. The blog Decoder offers a range of excellent articles about this attempt at balance, which always has me falling off to the too-much side, a stance which I am happy to say is supported by the aforementioned older child: “I’d much rather you keep asking, Mom, than not,” he told me recently. “I can always tell you I don’t want to talk about it.”

The key to communication with a teenager, they say, is doing more listening than talking. The key is setting your own ego off to the side and being willing to trust, respect and affirm your teenager – attributes of the parent-child relationship that should start developing way long before he ever rounds the curve into the teenaged years.

I don’t always get it right the first time. But I always try. And when I succeed, it’s cause for celebration.

For more tips on talking to your teen, check out About.com’s Talk to Your Teen, and this article, Five Tips for Talking With Teens.

- Debra-Lynn

I hope I’m not the only parent asking questions this week about guns and children, in particular submachine guns and children, in particular Uzis and a certain 8-year-old boy.

The Uzi to which I refer is a weapon that can fire hundreds of rounds in one minute, described in Tuesday’s Boston Globe as: “a 50-year-old weapon once used by the Israeli infantry and later adapted for use by commandos and secret service agencies around the world because it can be used in close quarters to fire rapidly.”

Wikipedia, meanwhile, suggests “design drawbacks,” specifically “blowback firearms tend to have reduced accuracy, because as the trigger is pulled, the bolt slams forward and hits the breech, interfering with the shooter’s aim.”

This is the type of weapon used by Arnold Schwarzenegger and bad guys in video games looking to kill massive amounts of people very quickly.

This it the type of weapon that on Sunday killed an 8-year-old boy, who picked up the gun to fire it at a pumpkin target with his father’s permission, at a gun show in Westfield, Mass.

According to news reports, Christopher Bizilj was fatally wounded in the head when the recoil forced the gun to rotate up and back. His father, preparing to take a picture, was 10 feet behind his son, while a shooting instructor stood beside the boy. The father told reporters he didn’t notice the instructor holding the weapon, which is customary practice to help children steady automatic weapons as they pull the trigger. The father also told reporters that his son had three years’ experience firing handguns and rifles. But this was the first time his son had fired an automatic weapon, and he’d been looking forward to the event for months,

“I gave permission for him to fire the Uzi,” said Dr. Charles Bizilj, medical director of a hospital emergency room. “I watched several other children and adults use it. It’s a small weapon, and Christopher was comfortable with guns. There were larger machine guns with much more recoil, and we avoided those.”

I have no interest in getting in the middle of the U.S. gun control debate, a heated argument between one faction of people who believe gun ownership is about Constitutional rights and the other, who believe guns are the reason our country has one of the highest murder rates in the world. I am certainly in no position to judge a parent for wanting to pass along knowledge of, say, handguns for self-defense or rifles for hunting.

But a machine gun? What are we even doing with LOADED machine guns at gun shows to begin with? Who in America needs a machine gun in their closet? And why oh why should a child EVER be allowed to pick up such a thing?

Gun control laws regarding automatic weapons and assault weapons, machine guns and semi-automatics are as confusing as the guns themselves and vary from state to state. Some states allow machine guns. Some don’t. Massachusetts gun control laws, among the strictest in the nation, allow machine guns, but deem it illegal to “furnish” a child with such a weapon.

As I write, investigators from the state’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, as well as Massachusetts legislators, as well as the local District Attorney’s Office, as well as the club that promoted the gun show are trying to figure out exactly what “furnish” means. Some among them are talking about strengthening the laws against such weapons, while others are calling for the boy’s grieving father to be charged with involuntary manslaughter. A former executive board member of the club that sponsored the gun show says he is appalled that the child was ever allowed to hold such a weapon. The Uzi is a particularly difficult gun to control. The club is lucky more people weren’t wounded or killed, he said.

Meanwhile, in an attempt to understand it all myself, I talked to Daniel Vice, senior attorney for the Brady Center to Prevent Gun Violence, a grassroots anti-gun violence organization in Washington , D.C. that will be pushing Massachusetts to pass a law ensuring no child will ever again touch a machine gun.

With all due respect for personal freedom, I asked him why there is any debate at all about a weapon that can kill hundreds of people in one minute.

“We see no possible reason to have military weapons in civilian hands,” Vice said.

Mr. Vice and poor little Christopher Bizilj — they say it for me.

What do you think?

- Debra-Lynn

Sometimes when I see my 12-year-old daughter, Emily, giggling with her friends I flash back to that exuberant, carefree, thrilling stage of life. The pure joy of being with my best friends, talking about girl stuff, and plotting our next bit of mischief.

In this particular instance, Emily and her pals were discussing Halloween. They planned costumes, their trick-or-treat route, and the delicious news that one very kind set of parents (suckers) offered to let the girls have a sleepover at their house since, and this is the best part, Halloween is on a Friday!!!

As I semi-eavesdropped, I couldn’t help but think how sweet it was that even as they talked about the childhood thrill of trick-or-treating, they were painting their toenails. They are so smack dab in the middle of two very different stages. That of being a child and that of being a teenager.

As a parent of a preteen, I’m a bit in the middle myself.

Sometimes I treat my daughter as a child and then she says or does something that yanks me back to reality. After all, she’s more than halfway to being an adult.

Other times, I treat her as emerging teen, only to be reminded of how young she still is in so many ways. Just yesterday there were two examples of this.

Emily hates shots. More than my other children and I think, most other kids. It’s a borderline phobia, since birth really. Even as an infant, she’d scream and scream after shots. My other two daughters would look at me with an “ouch” expression and then happily grab for their Care Bear or whatever other distraction I offered. Anyways, yesterday Emily was talking to a friend at our house about how doctors can come to your house and give you a shot while you’re sleeping if you don’t cooperate in the Dr.’s office.

Her friend looked at her in confusion and said, “Huh?”

I interjected, “Em, that was a lie.”

Don’t judge me. I told her that when she was five-years-old and had to get like three million shots before she could attend Kindergarten. I didn’t realize that she was still carrying that around inside her head.

The other comment happened shortly after. Emily was bending over and her friend jokingly commented, “Don’t do crack” alluding to the droopy jeans revealing a bit too much backside. This time Emily was the one to say, “Huh?”

As her friend filled her in on the double meaning, it became apparent that Emily didn’t know that crack was a form of cocaine. Clearly, we need to do better about discussing drugs ( click here for tips on how to do this) now that Emily is getting older, but I have to admit I love that she is so naïve in so many ways.

But as I mentioned before, she’s edging toward adulthood and picking up momentum. Last week at the dentist’s when her name was called, I stood up, too. Emily looked at me and said, “It’s okay, Mom. You can wait out here.”

“Umm, well, okay.”

Back and forth. Back and forth.

There are other times in life that are in the middle of two stages of life. New jobs, engagements, pregnancies, and relocating are all about leaving one part of life and beginning another. Times to treasure but not ones I’d necessarily want to do again. So much excitement, nervousness, exhilaration and anxiety, all mixed together.

That pretty much sums up adolescence.

-Kay

You are in charge of your child’s health. Period. I’ve gotten much better at this over the years for the simple reason that I’ve learned to be much more outspoken and assertive with their pediatricians. A few hard lessons changed my attitude.

One happened after moving across the country several years ago. Prior to moving, I requested my children’s medical records to take with me. My pediatrician informed me that their procedure was for me to fill out a release form and when I reached my destination they would mail it to my new pediatrician. I really wanted those records in my hands before moving thousands of miles away, but I meekly agreed.

Upon reaching our new home, my new pediatrician requested the medical records and received it. For two of my three children, plus some unknown child. Well, mistakes happen. Kind of a big mistake, given privacy issues but we’re human, right? So, I called. And called. And called. Each time I was told, “we’re looking for your daughter’s records. We know it’s here and we’ll get it out to you quickly.”

Weeks went by. I kept calling. Finally, they told me, “we’re so sorry but we’ve lost your daughter’s records. The Doctor recommends that she get all of the immunizations again.”

My daughter was four-years-old at that time. Even during the initial round of immunizations I had that little voice in my head saying, “Are you sure?” There is so much concern about autism and the effects of immunizations that many parents approach shots as a necessary evil, at best.

I looked through the sketchy records I had shoved into her baby book. I had some, but not all. I did know absolutely that there was NO WAY I was exposing my child to unnecessary immunizations. So, I called my old pediatrician back (actually, the poor receptionist because the actual doctor was never “available”).

“I am unwilling to reimmunize my child. I need you to go back through your billing records and recreate her records. I need it within one week or I will call the Attorney General, the AMA, the AAP, and my lawyer.”

I received those records in overnight mail. I kick myself for not demanding them initially when my gut told me I should personally take them and for not being more assertive the moment I received the incorrect records. I hadn’t wanted to be rude or pushy.

Another lesson I learned the hard way is assuming the Doctor is thinking about my unique child when making medical decisions. When my daughter, Grace, was three-years-old she began to suffer from red, itchy eyes. Our pediatrician recommended allergy testing. I didn’t want anything too invasive or intense since it wasn’t a huge nuisance to Grace. I was willing to play with her diet for a while or wait it out to see if it was seasonal.

However, the doctor influenced me. The skin prick test could rule some things out and make the diagnosis process quicker.

So we went to the appointment, and it was tough. Grace sat on my lap facing me. She wrapped her legs around me and buried her face in my neck. The nurse marked her back with pen and then the doctor pricked her skin in different locations with various allergens. Grace was so stoic, trembling as I hugged her.

Well, the results were inconclusive because she reacted to each skin prick. There were two different explanations for this. Either she was developing allergies to most everything (please, no) or her coloring was so fair that her skin was irritated by the skin prick, rather than the allergens.

Now, after explanation #2, I was consumed with frustration. You see, Gracie is the poster child for fair skin. She has red hair and freckles, for crying out loud. So, why didn’t anyone, from her pediatrician, to the nurse who marked her, to the doctor who hurt her, to me think about that? Of course, it was going to be inconclusive. Just look at her.

Sometimes, I get this stupid thought that my child’s health is the Doctor’s responsibility. I mean, they’d tell me if her coloring would be a problem, right? But, he obviously wasn’t thinking about Grace, specifically. That was my job. I didn’t even really want the test in the first place. Again, trusting the doctor more than myself.

So here is my advice:

- Be assertive.
- Don’t worry about stepping on egos or being polite.
- Be your child’s advocate.
- Ask questions.
- Above all, trust your instincts.

-Kay

For almost two decades, I scrambled to get my kids in a church pew and looking presentable on Sunday mornings.

This didn’t always go so well: One Sunday, we got halfway to church before I noticed my two-year-old, safely strapped in his car seat, was still in his pajamas.

Another Sunday, my then pre-schooler headed down the aisle in front of the entire congregation, as his pants, abandoned by a forgotten belt, fell down around his ankles.

I was nonetheless determined to do the right thing by my own mother, who drove me and my three sisters to Catholic school and daily Mass when she and my father could barely afford the car to drive us.

Like a lot of young adults, I took a hiatus from regular church attendance during college and into my late 20s, returning full force only when I had children.

I returned to the religion of my youth, albeit the Episcopal denomination, because I’d been taught church is what good people do.

I returned because I wanted my children to be in community with tolerance, gratitude, and giving back.

I returned because I hungered for spiritual sustenance.

Apparently, this was not enough.

I stayed the course for 20 years, ultimately becoming a vestry member, the leader of adult education programming and a member of the theological education study group at my church. I read the great masters of the world religions and participated in intensive theological study groups. I occasioned different churches and different denominations and even worked at some point with a spiritual counselor.

But try as I might, I couldn’t resolve certain questions of faith.

When infighting broke out in the national Episcopal church over the consecration of a gay bishop ( see article here), the ugly name-calling and self-righteous accusations in the name of God were more than I could reconcile.

And so I quit.

As an adult, I know I’m not alone in my leave-taking: the modern American church is undergoing a historic decline in attendance. According to the American Church Research Project, regular attendance is down to an unprecedented 18 percent, partly because of disillusionment like mine. Other reasons for not attending include: not enough time, no interest, different belief system, lack of belief in organized religion, don’t believe church is important, church doesn’t speak to their modern understanding.

But I am not just an adult.

I am also a mother.

And any mother who makes a personal decision – no matter how well thought-out or how necessary for her own well being - if it affects the rest of her family, she worries.

I worry that my absence from church undermines the spiritual quest for my children, who only occasionally attend church now with their father.

I worry that my not going to church dilutes the importance of the values the church has helped me uphold.

I worry that it’s unequivocally true, that active church participation in and of itself reduces binge drinking in college, dramatically lowers the risk of young suicide and improves a child’s odds for a “very happy life.” (Read the full article here.)

Or maybe kids who go to church are already from good families that automatically lower those risk factors.

Maybe, by watching me live into one of the most wrenching decisions of my life, my children will have the courage of their convictions when a similarly difficult decision befalls them.

Maybe because of my actions, my children will learn the value of authentic spiritual discernment.

Maybe, even, they will become change agents for the institution and the religion, which every denomination, every theologian from the most evangelical to the most progressive, is calling for.

I can’t know the outcome of this conflict any more than I can know whether I will ever again find the appropriate home for my spiritual longing.

We still say prayers at night and before meals. We still talk about the values upheld in every major religion. I heartily support my 16-year-old daughter who goes to youth group on Sunday night on her own, where she is co-president. I talk to my children about their spiritual journey. I tell them about mine.

Meanwhile, the guilt, whether a remnant of my Catholic upbringing or inherent in the very concept of a mother making such a decision for herself, is at times wrenching.

Meanwhile, all I can really know is that by deciding not to go to church at this point in my life, I am being authentic to the deepest parts of myself.

And that can’t help but serve my children, too.

- Debra-Lynn

Police now believe last week’s abduction of a 6-year-old Las Vegas boy was not a random kidnapping ( see story here), but rather was a calculated message from drug dealers to the boy’s grandfather who owes them millions of dollars.

The boy was returned safely, and three people “are of interest” in the case. Meanwhile, the effects reverberate – and not just inside the psyche of a little boy who was taken from his home by people he trusted.

I, for one, saw the headline, “Child Abducted” and automatically recalled the most heavily publicized child-abduction cases in memory, that of 6-year-old Adam Walsh and 12-year-old Polly Klaas. Adam was abducted 27 years ago from a Hollywood, Fla., shopping mall while he played video games at Sears and his mother shopped for a lamp nearby. Polly was stolen from her bedroom 15 years ago during a slumber party at her house in Petaluma, Calif. Both stories engaged empathetic parents across the country, as we imagined how it must feel for one’s child to go missing for weeks, only to be found brutally murdered like Adam was, 16 days later, and Polly, an agonizing two months later. How does a parent ever quit asking: What if? What if I didn’t go shopping that day? What if I hadn’t stepped out of the room at that moment?

I saw the headlines, and I couldn’t help but think of my own 11-year-old son. Although he is the wrong gender, he is the age at which the greatest percentage of stranger abductions occur; 76 percent of stranger abductions are girls just over the age of 11 from middle class neighborhoods, according to the U.S. Department of Justice.

I saw the headlines, and I remembered Saturday morning a few weeks ago. On our way to a college football game in Michigan, our family of five stopped at a large, well-lit rest area on the Ohio Turnpike, one with a Panera Bread, a Starbucks and a Burger King inside. My husband and I went inside to get bagels for the kids.

When we got back to the car, my aforementioned younger son said he had to go to the bathroom. We’d already been inside. There were just a few people there at 10 a.m. on a Saturday. We were parked right in front. We could see inside the place, which was encased in glass walls. We told him to run on in and we’d wait.

Three minutes passed. Four. Five. Six. “I’m going to see where Benjie is,” my husband said, while I stayed in the car. Two minutes after he went inside, my cell phone rang.

“Benjie is not in the bathroom,” my husband said.

For five panicked minutes, we scoured the rest area looking for our son. During those minutes, the thought crossed my mind that I might not be able to live if something happened to Benjie.

And then we heard pounding on a door off to the side of the main restroom.

Benjie had gone to a smaller “family bathroom” and gotten locked in by a sticky door latch.

He was safe.

And I was reminded again. And then again.

Fine Line Between Too Much and Too Little

The line between keeping your child in a bubble and hand-feeding your child to the wolves is a fine one and a judgment call. The fact of the matter is, only a small number of kidnappings constitute the “stereotypical” stranger kidnapping: According to the Department of Justice, 797,500 children younger than 18 were reported missing in 2002. Of those:

- 203,900 children were the victims of family abductions.
- 58,200 children were the victims of non-family abductions.
- 115 children were the victims of the typical stranger kidnapping, involving, “someone the child does not know or someone of slight acquaintance, who holds the child overnight, transports the child 50 miles or more, kills the child, demands ransom, or intends to keep the child permanently.”

From some people’s perspective, the number of stranger kidnappings is not enough to keep a child from riding his bike alone around the neighborhood or going to the nearby elementary school to shoot hoops in the afternoon.

From my perspective, the world is a different place than when I was growing up.

By that, I don’t mean there are more bad people lurking. By that, I mean there are fewer good people watching.

And so I casually and sometimes sternly, depending on the circumstances, remind my son about “stranger danger” (see these helpful Safety Tips). One of my favorites comes from parentingourchildren.com: An adult should never need help from a child. If an adult approaches asking for help finding a dog or locating a house, the child should take heed.

I, for one, let my child go the nearby elementary school to play hoops in the afternoon – but only if he has a friend with him.

I let him ride his bike – but not beyond the cul-de-sac we live on.

No questions asked, no discussion necessary, no need to scare my child. Most of the time I am simply, quietly one of those parents who errs on the side of caution — not always, as was evidenced by the day at the rest area.

Sometimes, I’m afraid, I need reminding.

- Debra-Lynn

We didn’t have a computer until about five years ago. My husband had one at work but that was it. Occasionally, I’d call him there and ask him to look something up for me but basically I was computer-free. And fine with it.

About that time, a friend was upgrading his computers for the company he owned and planned to trash his old, outdated models. He was pretty appalled (horrified, really) at my lack of computer knowledge so he dropped one off at our house. It’s hard to say no to free.

The rest is history. We upgraded about a year after receiving our freebie and never looked back. Now, I actually feel like a computer is a necessity in order for our family to function smoothly.

Well, last week this beloved member of my family, our computer, drew it’s last breath. Of electricity, really. The repair technician guessed it was a power surge that did it in. He further explained that it would cost almost as much to fix it as to get a new one, plus it would take longer. Well, if the money part didn’t convince us, then the waiting part definitely did.

It did annoy me that the technician expressed that since it was four-years-old, it was probably time to replace it anyways. As if four years is a long time. I grew up in a house where I’m pretty sure that some of the appliances didn’t change the entire time I lived there.

We ordered a new computer on a Monday and were told we’d have it in a few days. By Friday, I was looking longingly at FedEx trucks as they drove past my house. I may have chased a few. My husband tracked it online at work and would call and tell me things like, “It was in Kansas at 8:59.” It was if we were waiting for a long lost friend to arrive.

The weird thing is that before this happened I had no idea how dependent we had become on our computer. Here’s a sample of things that I needed my computer for this week.

• I couldn’t write this post or send it.
• I couldn’t monitor my 7th grade daughter’s homework online and I actually had to take her to the library twice to do research.
• I couldn’t pay bills or check my accounts online.
• I had to find the movie theater’s phone number in the phone book and manually call to figure out show times rather than quickly checking the theater website.
• I couldn’t rely on Mapquest to give me directions to a new doctor.
• My five-year-old daughter couldn’t log onto Strawberry Shortcake and play games.
• I couldn’t use Photoworks to send my sister pictures of my kids.
• I needed to send a child’s birthday gift to California and couldn’t shop on Amazon and have them ship it directly.
• I couldn’t send my girlfriend a birthday eCard.

These are all tasks that I somehow used to manage perfectly fine.

Well, our beautiful new computer finally did arrive. It has a few features that our old one lacked such as a CD burner and a web cam. Both things seem totally unnecessary to me, but give me a year or two and I won’t be able to live without them!

-Kay

One of the most important lessons I can teach my teenaged daughter has to do with self reliance. By this, I don’t mean stark independence. “No man is an island,” wrote the English poet John Donne in the 17th century. Humans need other humans.

By this, I mean striving to be true to oneself. By this I mean dedication to authenticity. By this, I mean living into the reality that the great American philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson embraced in his famed essay on self reliance: “Nothing at last is sacred but the integrity of your own mind.”

This is not an easy concept for a teenaged girl whose very socialization involves empathy and acquiescence. The essence of femininity in our culture still means putting others before oneself, not upsetting the status quo — even and especially if it’s to one’s own gain. Nor is this an easy concept for her mother: Even though I’ve lived three times as long as my daughter, I am still and always female, too.

But recently, I lived into my desire for my daughter. I lived it for myself. I lived it for her.

My gynecologist, during my annual exam, had discovered polyps in my cervix and an enlarged uterus.

I needed a biopsy of my uterus and the polyps removed. And I was afraid.

I was afraid of cancer; my mother had uterine cancer when she was my age, my father died of colon cancer. I was afraid of the procedure, which would involve surgery and general anesthesia. I’d never had surgery before. I’d also never had general anesthesia; I’d borne my three children naturally — not because I’m Superwoman, but because I don’t like taking medication unless I find it absolutely necessary.

I was afraid, as much as anything, of going against standard medical practice.

I’d heard the pain of cramping during the surgery could vary from mild to severe. The potential for “severe” made almost all biopsy patients, and their doctors, choose general anesthesia. The potential for “mild” made me want to attempt the procedure with a shot of Novacaine for my cervix and nothing else.

But if I was going to stay awake, I was going to have to ask for special treatment. I was going to need a second pre-surgery appointment so I could get a play-by-play of the procedure from my doctor, which would help me mentally prepare for the event. I was going to need to ask for everybody to be on board with me in the operating room, especially my doctor. There was a chance I would need emotional reassurance during the procedure. There was a chance, if the procedure ended up being uncomfortable, that I would need to ask her to take a break here and there, so I could catch my breath and resume focus on deep breathing.

All this, I knew, would upturn practice as usual.

And yet who did I think I was, going against the medical system?

Surely they wish uppity patients like me would just go away.

But then something a friend said jarred me: “Your doctor might respect you for taking your own care into your hands.”

I ended up taking my concerns to my doctor, who not only listened, she commended me for listening to my body. She not only was willing to try the procedure without drugs, she told me if she ever had to have the procedure herself, that’s what she would do.

In the end, the surgery was no more uncomfortable than a Pap test. There was a little pinching, a mild cramp and some pressure. The anesthesiologist, who had been standing by just in case, held my hand and deep-breathed with me during the rare uncomfortable moment. The whole thing, from prep to the end, when Dr. Morris smiled from behind her mask and said, “Everything looks benign,” took about 20 minutes.

In the end, I not only did not have cancer — an educated guess that later would be confirmed by tissue analysis – I was free to get up and walk out of the surgery center.

I not only had a whole day stretched out in front of me without the lingering effects of anesthesia. I had a doctor who was telling me, “This was the highlight of my day. You can challenge my standards of practice any time.”

I also had a story to hold inside my understanding, and just as importantly, to share.

My daughter called me from school a couple of hours after the procedure.

“Well?” she said.

“The short story is there is no cancer. The longer, even better story, I will save to tell you later.”

- Debra-Lynn

I gotta say that I LOVE Halloween… and not just because it is my birthday! Halloween is a great time to be a kid and to be a parent. Everything I loved about it as a kid is just as fun as an adult, and a little bit more special.

What I loved as a kid was spending weeks thinking about my costume and looking high and low for things I could use to turn myself into a clown or Smurfette. Even if I didn’t end up looking just like the characters I chose - my Smurfette was confused for an alien more than once - it was part of the experience, making the costume.

Things are different now with so many Halloween stores and costume websites popping up all over. I read somewhere that last year that we spent over $5.7 billion on Halloween in the US. That’s a LOT of fire-retardant, itchy, stiff, one-size-fits-all pouches filled with costumes!

Don’t get me wrong, it sure is convenient, and I’ve made many of my kids super happy by finding the preferred princess or fairy costume when I didn’t have time to make one. But I guess I am just a big fan of the old school ways of Halloween. And sometimes that works out for me when the kids come up with their ideas for what they want to be for Halloween.

First, our seven-year-old wanted to pay homage to her favorite thing in the world by dressing like it for Halloween – Corn. Yes, that starchy vegetable that you eat smothered in butter and salt. Ear or kernel costume you may ask? Either. That is how much she loves corn… no judgments, all kinds of corn are awesome to her. I thought that was the funniest and coolest idea I’d ever heard, and the design challenge was spectacular.

I had it all figured out, a trip to Joann’s for some large pieces of yellow felt, some smaller pieces of green and some leaves for the trim on the hat. It would be both fun and easy to stitch up the large yellow panels, stuff them full of newspaper and top her off with a jolly green giant-like hat. I was pretty stoked by the idea until she was wooed away by the thought of being an elephant. And who was I to talk yellow felt panels up against something cool like wearing a long trunk nose all day in school.

Similarly, our eight-year-old wanted a unique costume, but this time the lure of the big box Halloween stores rescued me from unwanted expense. It started out simply enough - as a chipmunk costume. Okay, pretty good, I could deck her out in a brown sweat suit and spend all my time and creativity on the bushy tail. I was thinking through the design when she got to go horseback riding one weekend.

After the horseback riding excursion, every incarnation of her costume now involved a horse… “…a real one I can ride” no less. Um, a real horse for trick or treat? I don’t think so. But she had it all figured out, she didn’t really expect a REAL horse, just a FURREAL Friends Butterscotch Pony that retails for over $250! Yeah, that wasn’t much more palatable, but she was really into the idea.

Here is how the Halloween store and the simplicity of Dads saved me from myself. She went off to find a chipmunk costume with her Dad to see if there was anything that matched her expectations. I am figuring that they will get some ideas that I can use to design my masterpiece. What happens instead? She comes home excited as ever and says, “Mom, guess what I am going to be for Halloween?” Silly me guesses cute, furry, little chipmunk who doesn’t like horses. She happily exclaims, “No! The Grim Reaper!”

But of course…

Crazy or not, you gotta love Halloween because you can be whatever you want, regardless of how often that changes.

This week I attended a Parent-Teacher Association meeting. I was absolutely stunned at the childish behavior. Here’s what happened:

The whole thing appeared to be well-organized. There was an agenda printed off, the officers were sitting at the head of the table (one with a laptop, armed to take notes), and the principal, teachers and parents were ready to have discussions about the school. Looks good so far.

The officers read through the minutes of the last meeting. The principal presented academic scores of the school, which were wonderful. Terrific.

Then, a parent (clearly annoyed) raised her hand. She calmly stated parents are not being kept in the loop about what is going on. She added that she had brought this up to the committee years ago and still nothing has been done to improve the situation. The problem was simple: Communicate more effectively with parents.

Oh boy. The air was still and quiet. Then the bickering started. The parents who had been at the school for years (aka: cronies) ferociously defended the system. Childish phrases flew across the room (no name calling, thank goodness!).

• Call another parent. Call the school. Call the teacher (translation: the system is fine)
• You just have to get used to it (translation: tough)
• The teachers are doing their best (translation: back off)
• The children are told what is going on, just ask them (translation: the system is fine)
• We can’t solve every single problem (translation: we’re not going to change)

The underlying, collective response was, “it isn’t our fault, this is your problem” – sounds a lot like how my kindergartener would respond – “it’s not my fault!” If the system is so “fine” why are parents upset?

Ironically, the committee and principal had just finished telling us that (and I quote) “problem-solving has become a critical component in our curriculum.” Really? Hmm

This ugly banter didn’t even have a hint of problem-solving. It was just bickering. Clearly, the committee and principal were not practicing what they said they were preaching.

It was astonishing that the officers and/or principal did not intervene when the defensive bickering started. It was even more astonishing that they participated in it!

Not exactly Problem-Solving 101, which involves six incredibly simple steps:
• Step 1. Initiate mediation: begin problem-solving
• Step 2. Gather data: get information
• Step 3. Define the problem: find out what each person wants
• Step 4. Brainstorm ideas: generate alternative solutions
• Step 5. Agree on a solution
• Step 6. Follow-through: bring closure and monitor

And so, I took a deep breath and tried to get us to Step 2 in Problem-Solving. “It appears there is a genuine concern here from the parents. This is not a personal attack on anyone. This is a problem that needs to be addressed.”

Dead silence…..followed by more bickering and defensiveness.

The result: More disappointment.

I broke into the bickering to try to create positive movement. “Could I just say one more thing?” The room got quiet. “This has been a beautiful process.” People literally laughed out loud. I continued, “We have a room full of parents who care about what is happening with their children. This isn’t true for all schools. This is a beautiful situation because all the parents want is to be informed and involved. I’m certain we can come up with solutions that will help all of us help our children.”

My plan: To forgive the childish behaviors, including the laughter. To investigate deeper into why the PTA wouldn’t want to keep parents more informed. To cross “party lines” (as they say in the Senate) in order to develop a constructive solution.

I feel like a Presidential candidate! Vote for me! I’ll fix the world’s problems. Wish me luck!

- Lisa