It’s the first week of November. I walk into the department store to pay a bill, and…uh oh…oh no… is it…could it be…is that what I think it is wafting out of the sound system?

I refuse. I will not be so weak as to allow the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and ambient lighting seduce me into Christmas shopping without my consent. Quickly, I pay my bill. I hurry out of the store without spending another dime.

Let me suggest that leaving a store in November, empty-handed, while Here We Come A-Caroling  is playing, is no easy feat for a red-blooded American woman.

This is particularly not easy for a self-proclaimed former Christmas Queen. Actually, I am merely a descendant. My mother was the original reigning monarch: She started Christmas-shopping/baking/wrapping/crafting in September and didn’t stop until she shop-hopped the after-Christmas sales on Dec. 26. She did up the homemade thing big: icebox fruitcakes and bourbon balls, wreaths out of Styrofoam cups, tabletop trees out of green and red netting. She once locked herself in her bedroom for 16 hours while she made tiny Barbie outfits to put under the tree, each with matching muffs, purses and hats.

By the time I had my own family, I was her able protegee, but better. I finished my shopping by Oct. 1 and my decorating by the day after Thanksgiving. I bought gifts for 32 people on both sides of the family, made 150 Christmas cards stamped with engravings, etched in wood, and hosted craft parties for three different ages of children. Most nights in December, you could see me standing over the stove making hundreds of pralines, fudge squares and lemon bars for bosses, secretaries, neighbors, the mailman and my editor. One year, I did it with a child with chicken pox strapped to my back.

For years, I wore my Christmas acumen like a soldier wears a badge of courage. My husband says he fell in love with me because of the way I do Christmas.

Then one year, I didn’t do the cards.

The next year, I dragged up only four boxes of decorations instead of the usual 12.

The year after that, I didn’t give pralines to the mailman.

Bit by bit, I began controlling Christmas instead of vice versa.

And now it’s time to tackle presents.

This will be the worst, not because we are a particularly materialistic family, but because presents are TRADITION. Presents are exciting! Presents are fun! Presents are what you get when you don’t get anything else the rest of the year: My three sisters and I hardly got so much as a pair of underwear from January to November. But on Christmas, Mama wrapped the tiniest things to be presents and stacked them halfway up the Yule trunk. It took us hours to open them, one at a time.

The tradition has continued in my own family. While all the other neighborhood kids are roller blading on their new presents in the street, we’re still in our jammies at 4 p.m. oohing over the pair of socks Aunt Susan gave Dad.

And now, I am determined to stop it, or at least cut it in half — partly because money doesn’t grow on Christmas trees, partly because my knees are getting too old to walk around Target making sure each kid has the same number of presents, partly because it just doesn’t make sense. It simply isn’t necessary. There are better ways to celebrate.

Like the little engine that could, and Barack Obama, I think I can do this.

The worst part will be getting the kids on board, two of whom I think will be OK. As for my middle child, my 16-year-old daughter, she is no American Eagle/Old Navy/Aeropostale Material Girl. But she is at the age when she attaches deep anthropological meaning to everything. If we don’t do Christmas the way we always have, then God and Motherhood are not institutionally sound. The bells won’t toll on Christmas morning. Earth will tumble into blackest space.

I plan to talk to my family very soon about my plans; I will offer a progress report in an upcoming post. Until then, I vow to keep close at hand my dog-eared copy of Unplug the Christmas Machine, a book chock full of ideas about how to disentangle from the behemoth that is Christmas materialism. I vow to keep close to my heart what it is I really want for Christmas and my family. Finally, I vow to stay far away from all stores playing Jingle Bells.

-Debra-Lynn

There is one dirty little secret of motherhood that nobody tells you, and it has nothing to do with saggy breasts.

It has to do with orderliness. Once you have children, there will be none.

My children are 11, 16 and 20, which means my refrigerator has had a catsup/egg or milk spill in it for two decades. I have for 20 years not been able to find the scissors, the tape or the AAA batteries. The dust bunnies under the bed are dust hippos. And my basement looks like Kmart the day after Thanksgiving.

Ah, the basement.

It is an easy receptacle for what doesn’t fit in the rest of the house, n’est-ce pas? The baby clothes you can’t bring yourself to throw away. The broken dining room chair your late mother once sat in. A collection of Goodwill blankets the kids used to make forts with. Hundreds of photographs waiting to be sorted and put into PhotoWorks. Those “vintage” Christmas decorations that your mother-in-law didn’t want because they were so kitschy 1970s, that she couldn’t bear to throw away, and so she gave them to you.

Our basement happens also to double as the office, the ping-pong room and the TV room, which means that I actually have to go down there sometimes. I have wished it clean. I have certainly wanted it clean and organized, all the Christmas decorations in one place, all the kids’ first-grade drawings properly labeled and filed.

But I could never get to it because as the mother of young children, there was always something else to do, like making sure one child or the other wasn’t falling off the changing table.

Now suddenly, my youngest child is a pre-teen, 11 years old, which means I no longer feel compelled to follow after him with a bucket of Band-Aids, wash cloths and graham crackers. My husband and I feel like a couple of Rip Van Winkles, waking up after 20 years.

“You know we could actually clean the basement tonight,” my husband said last Saturday at 8 p.m.

I looked at him for a full minute, wondering who twisted his thinking and on date night to boot.

“Argh. Let’s just do it,” I said.

We worked until midnight, hardly breathing in our determination and freedom. We moved and reorganized about 42,000 boxes and swept up that many pounds in dirt and dust. He threw out his back. My allergies were worse than they’ve been since I was pregnant and producing enough mucous for an army of noses.

But we got it done. Four hours later, and the baby clothes were sorted and stacked in bins and waiting for an unwitting grandchild to wear. The photos at least got organized and stacked in their own personal corner in the basement, even if they aren’t actually in photo albums.

As for the Christmas decorations, they are boxed and ready in an accessible corner of the basement, waiting to be pulled out in just a couple of weeks. All but those decorations from Grandma Peg. They found a special new home, too: The landfill.

- Debra-Lynn

The leaves are almost off, the frost is on the ground, and turkey is on sale at the grocery store. It’s parent-teacher conference time!

I’ve sat on both sides of the desk for parent conferences. I taught for 10 years before I was promoted to “Mommy.” Trust me. It’s much more emotional sitting on the parent side. Here are a few things I’ve learned along the way.

1. Share relevant information. Remember, school will help your child to grow socially and emotionally, as well as academically. It’s appropriate to share any issues that may impact your child in any of those areas. My very energetic niece will be entering Kindergarten next year. My sister is debating on whether to discuss that with the K teacher before my niece attends school. She doesn’t want to negatively bias the teacher against her daughter, yet she wants the teacher to be proactive rather than reactive when dealing with behavior. My advice is to give the teacher a heads-up. It will help with things like seating and proximity control, and also will open the pathway of communication.

2. Be positive when discussing your child. There are usually at least two ways to describe behavior. We could say that a child is lazy or we could say that he needs positive reinforcement to motivate him. We could say that a child is messy and loses things or we could say that he needs some strategies to help with organization.

My oldest was concerned when we recently scheduled a conference for her. “What are you going to say?” I reassured her that her Dad and I are on her team. We have her back. While we certainly aren’t going to allow her to coast through 7th grade, our goal is not to talk despairingly about her but rather to brainstorm ways for her to reach her potential.

3. Schedule a conference whenever you feel the need. We didn’t wait until the official conferences for our daughter because we could see that she wasn’t pushing herself. I called her guidance counselor, requested 30 minutes with the core teachers and five days later we had our conference.

4. If you have a specific agenda or concern, bring along your spouse, or your sister, or neighbor or someone who knows your child and your situation. Even if your person sits there mute the entire time, it’s good support. Later, if something is unclear you’ll be able to confer. Jot down your concerns before the conference and take notes during. It helps to focus and clarify your thoughts.

5. Request any special accommodations that you feel would help your child to succeed. Maybe your child needs a morning snack to stay focused. Perhaps the math homework is overwhelming and your child should only do the odd numbered problems. Most teachers are flexible and sincerely appreciate your parental insight.

Services such as special education testing, physical therapy, occupational therapy, math and reading assistance, speech therapy, and counseling are other options. The school will do an evaluation at teacher or parent request. If appropriate, they’ll provide services. When my oldest was in Kindergarten, I requested a speech evaluation. Her teacher thought it was unnecessary but I knew there were certain sounds she couldn’t articulate. She was embarrassed and hesitant to talk at school. Three months later, after speech class once a week, she was Miss Chatty.

6. Don’t be defensive. At another daughter’s 1st grade conference, her teacher recommended she receive some assistance in reading. We were stunned. My initial feeling was, “No way! She doesn’t need extra help. Maybe you’re not teaching her very much!” Luckily, I was able to stifle that. My daughter did receive extra help that year and now in 4th grade she reads above grade level.

7. Follow up with an e-mail thanking the teacher for her time and support. If some action was decided upon, mention that. It keeps things clear and even though our own children are paramount in our minds, teachers have lots of little people and details to attend to so it’s easy to let something slip. Feel free to contact the teacher a few weeks later to check on how things are going.

Wish me luck on my other two conferences next week!

-Kay

Last Thursday, my mom was rushed to the Emergency Room with severe pneumonia. She is 76 and an incredibly strong woman. She gives of herself every minute – to my Dad (diagnosed with Prostrate Cancer last year), to her six children, to their spouses, and to her 17 grandchildren. She is truly selfless. Not quite a saint, but close. That is exactly how the pneumonia got so bad. She just wasn’t paying attention to her own needs.

So, what does all this have to do with children? Well, it is simple. Like all my siblings and my Dad, we’re spending a lot of time at the hospital, which means I am spending less time with my kids. This is a hard and beautiful lesson for all families – caring for each other sometimes means sacrifice.

This creates guilt no matter how you slice it, but it is a requirement of being a family member, too. And so, I am doing my best to make sure everyone is cared for and everyone feels loved. I am explaining that I am helping Gram because I love her and she is my mom. I am reassuring them that this is for a short time and that I love them so much.

My kids have been absolutely loving during this exhausting moment in our lives:
• They drew pictures for Gram
• They pray for Gram
• They are pitching in more than they ever have before

In addition, my kids are remarkably curious:
• Why is Gram so sick?
• Can I go see Gram at the hospital?
• What is the hospital like?
• What does her doctor do?
• When is she coming home?

I have done my best to answer (in kid language) every question and concern they have presented. I have done my best to praise their giving and loving acts of service. I have done my best to be grateful to my husband for his support in all this.

I am so proud of their loving and curious nature. And my heart swells with love when I realize how wonderful family can be, especially during these trying times. It is my hope that this experience teaches my children more about the bigger purpose of love – to share your time, to sacrifice sometimes, to do more than you thought you could, to remain hopeful, and to draw strength from each other.

I wish you love and family.

-Lisa

I don’t know about anybody else, but our house is wired for sound and has been for weeks as one of us was always flying out the door to attend a local political rally or to work for the local presidential campaign office.

The five of us, on any one occasion, stuffed envelopes, signed up people for rides to the polls and talked up our side to strangers. At home, surrounded by the political signs and buttons of our candidate, we watched the debates together, then engaged in our own debates around the kitchen table. We e-mailed political commentary to each other, watched the news shows, guffawed at Saturday Night Live. Even the 11-year-old got into the act, making official phone calls with a sweet child’s voice that would make anybody melt, change their vote and/or sometimes hang up on him.

Maybe this is the way it is in a family where the father is a political scientist. My kids have been eating politics with their oatmeal since they were born.

Or maybe this is Election 2008.

For a political rally in Cleveland on Sunday night, our family drove 45 minutes, then took a train another 20, then stood in line three hours to watch a screen image of our candidate and a famous rock celebrity in the rain. With us were not just tens of thousands of voting-age adults, but their children, sporting and carrying signs, buttons, flags and T shirts along with their Strawberry Shortcake backpacks.

“We wanted our kids to be part of history,” said Jack Prause, carrying one of his two tired daughters on his shoulders after the event.

My friend’s 9th-grade son in Columbia , S.C. , had a backyard basketball game a few weeks ago. It was the McCains against the Obamas. The other day she found a piece of paper in his jeans with a bar graph comparing the Obama and McCain tax plans, so he could debate more accurately with his friends. “My kids are really into the election this year,” she said.

Another friend’s 7-year-old in Atlanta waxed concern the other day that Obama’s health plan “doesn’t give as much money as McCain’s,” while her 5-year-old said “Obama is the Lord.”

“We had to correct her on that one,” my friend said.

Of course the political news coming out of Neverland isn’t all Popsicles and Care Bears.

A friend in Kent, Oh., helping her 10-year-old dress out for hockey, overheard one kid tell another in the locker room: “Obama is a baby killer.” “Well, McCain’s just going to raise your taxes,” the other kid said, “Hey, guys, let’s focus on hockey,” the woman had to interject.

In another unnamed city, trick-or-treaters had to deal with the agony of political intolerance even as they were only trying to load up with Milky Ways. “Your parents voting for so-and-so?” apparently the woman doling out candy would say as she opened her door on Halloween. If they said no to her candidate of choice? “No candy for you,” she would say, and close the door.

For weeks, we adults have been riveted, hypnotized, captured – crazed, I might say - by what arguably is the most exciting presidential campaign in U.S. history.

What rivets adults, of course, rivets children.

I know our family will be no less focused tonight, as we host an Election Night party with as many friends – young and old – as we can cram in our tiny house.

But first, my 20-year-old will vote in his first presidential election, after which he and his sister will be assigned to a neighborhood where they will ask who needs a ride to the polls.

My husband will work at headquarters, on the phones, asking a similar question.

As for me, I will drive college students to the polls, my 11-year-old riding shotgun.

I know he’ll end up reading Harry Potter when he gets bored.

But like Jack Prause said: It’s history in the making.

And we are helping make it.

- Debra-Lynn

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

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

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

If you are like me, you have been pulled into the drama of the upcoming ’08 presidential election. I love it! In addition to the daily soap opera quality of it, I have found that it’s the perfect catalyst for family discussions on our beliefs and values as well as an introduction to government and politics.

It’s no surprise that when 8th graders are polled throughout the United States, the results are almost identical to that of the real election. Parents have a mighty influence on their children and although kids may deny it, they are reflections of their parents in many ways.

This works against parents at times. When I was a teacher, I encountered a parent who was genuinely shocked that his 6-year-old son was using salty language in school. The Dad told me, “I sometimes use those words at home but I thought he knew better.”

Duh.

Until kids morph into teens (and probably even then) they are paying close attention to their parents’ ideas and views. The two presidential candidates have very different opinions about issues that many adults feel strongly about. My husband and I are no exception.

Our 7th grade daughter, Emily, has taken an interest in the debates. Basically, so she can stay up late but it’s also an opportunity for her to absorb a bit of who we are as a family. In addition, we try to demonstrate tolerance and respect for those who are wrong, um, I mean who feel differently.

Some of the obvious issues that may be appropriate for your middle schooler are:
• Big government vs. small government
• Abortion
• Health care (is it a right or a responsibility)
• Gay marriage
• Economy, i.e. how much should “rich” people be taxed to support “poor” people? Relate this to their allowance.
• War

This particular election brings up issues of race and gender, as well. Both Time and Kid’s News Room have good kid websites that discuss current events, including the presidential election.

The debates are also a lesson that even trustworthy adults (except for me, of course) stretch the truth and misrepresent the facts. We are all responsible for verifying information and thinking for ourselves when making big decisions.

As I was discussing this with Emily, I related it hypothetically to two friends trying to convince her to see two different movies. They both really believe in their choice so would probably exaggerate the positive and omit the negative in order to influence her decision. Plus, they may misrepresent their “opponent’s” movie. Ultimately, Emily would have to decide on her own what would be the best choice. Plus, there may be factors such as location, time, and cost, which could further influence her decision.

Emily told me that she’d probably pick the friend she liked, rather than the movie. Sadly, don’t a lot of adults do this when voting? I told Emily it would pretty much stink to sit through a boring movie so it shouldn’t be a personality contest. Not sure she agrees with me but I think she got the point.

Soon enough, Emily will be stepping away from our influence. It is our job as her parents to try to give her a good foundation on which she can make her own future decisions. That means getting her to think for herself, not just accepting the opinions of friends (or her parents, for that matter).

We all know adults who seem to flounder around seemingly without a compass. Not my kid!

-Kay