Overprotected

My parents always say that I complained a lot about how overprotective they were. I don't really remember this, but I suppose it's probably true. I remember one particular incident when I wanted to ride in car with a group of kids to visit my then-boyfriend at RIT—in a snowstorm. That discussion ended in a big argument and a big fat no. I also remember a particular evening, while home visiting from college, when I went out and drank way too much, arriving home after my curfew. I found my mother awake and hysterical. There had been an accident not far from our home and she thought it was me. I can't say I did a lot to cause them concern (that they knew about), but I did enough.


Irony is a funny thing, since I've gone from being the one who is overprotected to being the overprotector. I believe there are many reasons for this, including the wake-up call delivered by the events of 9/11 (it may sound naive, but that was the first time I ever really realized that people would hurt innocent others). Those events rocked me to my core and made me a little afraid of everything. Then there was the time we were visiting Lake Placid and Luke, age 3, went missing for close to 10 minutes. I will never forget that particular feeling. I could also blame my own overprotected childhood, my anxiety or how different the world really is.


I believe every generation feels this way to some extent, but for this generation of parents I really believe it to be true. The rapid proliferation and advancement of media and technology has taken old fears (predators, child sexual abuse, availability and ease of getting drugs, etc.) to new levels of concern. The world IS very different than if was even five or ten years ago—many previous generations didn’t have to worry about sexting, crystal meth, ecstasy, AIDS, online predators or what their child is tweeting about or posting on Facebook.


The development of personal safety items also plays into it. Car seats, bicycle helmets, e-mail monitoring systems, parental controls and the locked containers sold at pharmacies to protect your prescription medications remind us of just how dangerous the world can be. Over availability of information through social media and 24-hour news outlets also factor in heavily—a quick Google search warned me of the toxicity of chemicals in car seats, how pesticides may cause cancer, how the medications meant to treat depression may actually cause suicidal tendencies, how getting hit in the chest by a baseball can cause cardiac arrest, how the concussions caused by playing football can be deadly and how all of our bottles should be BPA-free.


The thought of trying to keep our children safe can become overwhelming—which brings me to what I think may be the biggest issue—we can’t keep them safe. In the book, Beautiful Boy, author and father of a former addict, David Sheff says “My children will live with or without me. It is a staggering realization as a parent, but one that ultimately frees us to let our children grow up. [We live in] a world of contradictions, wherein everything is gray and almost nothing is black and white. There is much good, but to enjoy the beauty, the love, one must bear the painful.” How hard that is to accept. I just hope that all along the way our children know how much we love them and that when we aim to protect them, it really comes from that place. God willing, some day they will be 42, with families of their own. At that point, I hope they will barely be able to remember how overprotective we were, and just remember the love.

My Short-Lived Career as a Stalker

An akward silence came from the other side of the shower curtain. Jim, the husband, had just asked what the kids and I had going that had me up and in the shower at 7:15. Don’t get me wrong—I bathe—but as a work at home mom, it’s usually not that early in the morning. I tend to sort of roll out of bed, plop down at the computer in my jammies for a few hours and then, shower before the kids and I head out for the day.


“Well, a few of us are meeting at Mary’s* house and then we’re…”

“Going stalking?” he questioned.

Damn—pegged again. “Yes.”

The stalking in question is really just heading down to the main street in our village to watch film actor Ryan Gosling “rob” our local bank—over and over and over again—and maybe catch a glimpse of Bradley Cooper.

In my defense, I have been a fan of Bradley Cooper’s ever since he played a lovelorn journalist opposite Jennifer Garner on my still-favorite, though no longer on, kick ass show Alias. And while I’m not a big Nicholas Sparks fan, as a female with a pulse, if you have ever seen The Notebook and witnessed *THE* kiss, it’s impossible not to be a fan of Ryan Gosling.

The fact that these two actors are in my town, filming scenes moments from my home—at the local bank, and the place where I get my soft serve and on the cross road between my house and the highway—has made me a little crazy.

Define crazy? Crazy is trolling Facebook even more frequently than I normally do to see if I can get some scoop on when and where shooting will happen …IM’ing back and forth with other moms like a 15-year-old passing notes in study hall…and taking detours past the current “hot set,” to see what I can see, nearly every time I leave my home. I even “liked” Gosling on Facebook so I could find out what he thinks of our little town.

Every time I circle around the filming location, I vow I won’t do it again—it takes up too much time, it’s usually out of my way and it just doesn’t make sense. What am I really going to see? And regardless of what I see, will it have any impact on the larger picture of my life?

I can’t keep doing this. Filming is going to go on for at least another month and I can’t keep being distracted this way. I have articles to write and photos to edit and kids to feed.  So I’ve given up my short-lived career as a stalker. Sometimes you just have to go cold turkey, and that's what I plan on doing.…at least until shooting starts again on Monday.

*Name has been changed to protect the somewhat innocent;-)

Running Outside of my Comfort Zone

Today ended as a total success. I crossed the finish line of the Boilermaker 15K Race, having run the whole way. But the real end of the race for me was finding my 5 comrades—the ladies I had been training with for the last four months. They had seen every drop of sweat, fielded every TMI question and looped back countless times to make sure I was safe AND supported.

One year earlier all of that would have seemed inconceivable to me. See I’m sort of a loner and had always considered running the perfect sport for me—alone with my thoughts, my goals, my successes and failures. In the summer of 2010 I finished my first couch to 5K program and continued running steadily, by myself, for close to 6 months. I finished my first 5K and then stopped—completely stopped. A long winter, with very little exercise had left me right back where I had started.

But then came the simple invitation, from a mom I knew through my son’s kindergarten class. “I'm inviting you because I know you run already, or I think/know you are planning to take up running & train for a 5K. If you're ambitious, train for the 15K with me! There are 165+ days until the race... PLENTY of time to get ready!” Again, my tendency was to under commit—I could do the 5K. But on some level I knew I needed something more—both on the road and in my life.


I knew most of the women on some level, though some I didn’t know at all, but I felt like I needed to go “all in”—something of a risk for this risk-aversive person. I was committing to be part of a team, per se—running 3 times per week, for at least the next 7 or 8 months. But more important than that, I was agreeing to show up, physically and mentally, to push others and accept them pushing me. To “show up” even when I didn’t feel like it.


And I got so much more—women to inspire and motivate me—women to make me laugh and support me in my goals—both running and otherwise. I began to relax into the relationships and realize these were women I could see dancing with at our kids’ weddings, and laughing with throughout all of the ins and outs of parenting that would get us there.


So here I honor the ladies—I would have never gotten here without each of you: Megan—the person who motivated us all to take this journey. Molly and Lauren—our own personal speed demons who give us something to work towards. Ashley and Mia who “aren’t runners” but kill it every time. And Jaime, to me the most fearless of all, less than six months out from baby G—still in the throes of nursing and sleepless nights—but always willing to head out for a run.


In the course of training, I realized that my unwillingness to commit in the past was more about me. I didn’t want to fail in front of other people. I didn’t want to make a commitment to give of myself. I didn’t feel like I could keep up. But I realized that I could. And that is a very sweet feeling.

How Does My Garden Grow? Not At All Really...

For Jim

This is not my garden...Two summers ago my husband Jim spent a very long day with a tiller, cutting through the earth in the back corner of our yard to create space for the garden I said I wanted—something beautiful for me to look at as I gazed out over the kiddie pool, the lawn toys and the climbing set. I had visions of gorgeous flowers, mirror balls, wind chimes and Adirondack chairs—where me and my neighbor Barb could sit and watch the kids in the pool, from the shade and chit-chat over tea, wine or the occasional frozen beverage.

Two years later, the “garden” has become a bit of an eyesore—difficult to plant because of its location in almost total shade, it is a brick-lined array of weeds, a few floundering Japanese maple bushes and a post with wind chimes and a birdhouse. I think it bothers Jim more than it bothers me, because I know some day it will be a garden.

What I’ve realized in the past two years is that gardening just isn’t enough of a priority for me. With two small children, a hopeful and burgeoning business, a new found love of running and a great new fancy camera to explore, the same draw just isn’t there.

One of my favorite quotes is “You cannot make everything a priority and enjoy a fulfilling life. Pick and choose carefully!” I’m not always good at following it, but I’m trying to make more of an effort.

I’d rather have weeds in my “garden,” than withering relations with my kids, my spouse or my friends. Right now it’s more important for me to work on my health than the health of my plants. And while the idea of gardening *seems* very relaxing when I think about it, the reality of the work involved just isn’t appealing to me anymore at this point in my life.

When Luke and Olivia, my two beautiful blossoms, grow up and away from the roots we are tending in them I may try my hand at it again—and I bet my garden will be beautiful. I have a feeling I’ll be doing the tilling myself though.

Today is the Day

I have to say that I always wondered what this day would be like--the day when I would first hold a published book in my hands that included my words, my stories, my name. I wondered when it would happen--how old would I be? What sort of book would it be? What would it be about? Would it be read with much fanfare or would it slip quietly onto the book shelves? And now I know.

Today I received my paperback copy of Beyond the Diaper Bag--an anthology of essays written about life as a mom, with contributions from amazing women who are changing the future as we know it by committing to their role as mom. Six of my essays are inside.

Another featured local author and I are working on putting together a few book signings, and it's all a bit surreal. My life today isn't really any different than it was yesterday, except for the fact that I can now say I am a published author. You can find my book online at Amazon and Barnes and Noble, as well as on Lulu.com. It's all pretty heady for someone who has had this dream ever since I was a little, little girl.

There were a few times I was told that you can't make a living as a writer, and I almost believed it--though I guess it depends on what "living" means to you. I am not rich (yet!), but I am satisfied with this simple mom's life. There will always be things I would like to change, but for right now, this writer mother is pretty darned happy.

If you are interested in buying the book, click on the Buy Now button in the upper right hand corner of this blog and support independent publishing. 100% of the author's proceeds will be donated to the Mommies Network.

What I Love About Baseball

Nothing. And if you had asked me 10 years ago that would have been the end of the discussion, but these days it’s not that simple. You see, twelve years ago I married not just a fan of the game, but a fanatic. And it has caused some difficult moments--playoffs on our wedding day, the World Series during our honeymoon.

But I knew what I was getting myself into. On our first date my husband told me the best day of his life was one that hadn’t happened yet. It would be the day when he could play catch with his son.

So it seemed only fitting that I took my first pregnancy test while he was at a ball game on Father’s Day weekend, presenting him with the results when he returned. The man who had played catch with his future offspring a million times before in his head could start looking forward to a very real moment in time.

As childhood does, the years of our son Luke’s life passed quickly and it seemed like almost no time before father and son were sharing that moment. What blossomed from there was a genuine love of the game. Luke’s grasp of the sport and his commitment to improving his knowledge and skill amazed both of us. We would wake in the morning to find him watching dated, obscure games on Yankee Classics or playing catch with himself in the living room. When we moved into a new home, the grass in our backyard was quickly worn down into the shape of a diamond where neighborhood kids ran the bases in almost nightly pick-up games. We even painted a baseball diamond on the floor of the kids’ play room.

When Luke was old enough to start playing Little League I was surprised by the flickers of passion stirred up in me as I watched him do something he loved so dearly. I easily got choked up when people would yell, “Good job catcher!” or “What a hit!”

Around that same time, my husband, my son and his grandfather started making annual trips to Yankee Stadium. Three generations of Brandow men would travel there to worship their favorite pastime. And though I was home alone, with total control over the remote, I found myself watching the game—trying to catch a glimpse of them, wanting to see what they were seeing, so when they described it to me I would “get it.”   

  

Just last night I was regaled with tales of how they secured a coveted commemorative, wooden bat that Luke says is his dream come true and how they saw Mark Teixeira (IT’S MARK TEIXIERA, DAD!!! MARK TEIXIERA!!!) leaving the stadium. The animated way that Luke and his father tell these stories puts me right there with them, and my heart swells with love, appreciation, awe and gratitude for this gift the men in my life share—the one that binds them, despite the 73 year age span from son to father to grandfather.

So what do I love about baseball? Still nothing. But I love what they love about baseball, and I love them. So I guess that makes me a fan.

Letting Go--One Snip at a Time

All that remained of my baby—my little boy—was being snipped off by scissors, landing on the salon floor. This had been a long time coming. For two, maybe even three years, he had been saying he wanted his hair shorter.

His father and I often laughed about how we had the opposite battle that many of our peers had with their parents when we were younger—kids wanted their hair long and their parents wanted it short.

But as the parents this time around, we were somewhat resistant to cutting off our baby boy’s locks. He had beautiful blond hair—the color of flax, naturally highlighted, over a warm golden blond. Perfectly straight and easy to manage, he had gotten compliments on his hair for as long as I could remember. Not-so-secretly my husband was jealous of his “awesome” hair, and told him so frequently.

            While sitting and waiting for his haircut, I wondered just what I was holding on to. In all fairness, it was his hair and he wasn’t asking to do anything crazy with it. So, when the stylist pulled out the razor and started to zip up the back of his head, I held my tongue and watched as big chunks of my baby fell to the floor.  I figured this would be just the first of many “battles” over fads, styles, friends, choices and behaviors—and there was no reason he couldn’t be the winner of this one.

Letting go for me usually only happens when someone pries my fingers from whatever it is I’m clinging to so desperately, but I know that too will have to change. Today I started practicing, one snip at a time.

Enjoy the Silence

I remember so clearly and so vividly the first time I realized how much I love solitude. It was 1990 and I was finishing up the summer as a nanny on the Cape. Some girlfriends had bailed on our plans to go to a movie and I decided to go any way. Walking to my car after the movie, feeling the warm ocean air on my face and enjoying the stillness of the night, I thought, “This is amazing.” At that point I realized just how restorative and necessary solitude is to my well-being.

Flash forward 16 years, one marriage and one child later, and solitude was a lot harder to come by. On a rare morning when I had a late start, Jim took our son to drop him off at day care. Still in my robe after my shower, I laid back and enjoyed the absolute absence of noise. It rushed in, and though I only had 15 minutes before I had to get ready, it was enough time for me to realize just how much I had been missing my solitude.

That has been the most challenging part of motherhood for me, as a writer and a woman. I love my kids—I just don’t always love the endless noise, at all hours and all decibels that come with them.

Silence and solitude nourish my creative soul. It’s as vital to me as air and food and water. Thankfully I have a husband who understands this, and frequently affords me mini-getaways and alone time to restore what the noise chips away at. But after a seemingly endless winter and the endless sick days, snow days and half days that have come with it, I’m feeling overdue.

So, Honey, if you’re reading this, it’s not too late. Valentine’s Day isn’t quite over yet. You know what to get me, and it won’t cost you a cent.

Truth in Advertising? Not So Much.

Yesterday was a typical winter Sunday at our house, spent in our pajamas, with football on the TV and something yummy cooking in the kitchen. We took our Christmas decorations down and did some general house cleaning, before sharing a picnic lunch in the living room watching the first of two playoff games.

            As is also typical, I ended up completely annoyed at the commercials my kids were exposed to as a result of watching professional sports on network television. I believe that sports, both watching and participating in them are healthy outlets for children, and offer lots of valuable lessons. Unfortunately, I am not quite as fond of the lessons they are learning during the commercial breaks.

When a Bud Light commercial came on for quite literally the 4^th or 5^th time, I groaned, which prompted my 6-year-old to ask what was wrong. I shared that while I liked the fact he enjoys watching sports, I don’t enjoy the messages the advertising companies are trying to convince him of during the commercials. He said, “Like that Bud Light is really good?”

I was floored. For those of you who think your kids aren’t paying attention or that advertising companies aren’t reaching children, think again. He knew exactly the sort of message he was supposed to be receiving. I’m sure it won’t be too long (if it hasn’t happened already) that he picks up on the way women are portrayed in those same ads.

With substance abuse issues firmly planted historically on both sides of his family, they are messages that I plan on counteracting.

Here are some tips that can help you do the same:

·         Make your stance and feelings very clear from a young age. We always make it a point to reiterate that the legal drinking age is 21 and that we will not condone underage drinking. More importantly, we let him know that just because he turns the magic age it doesn’t mean he has to drink. Drinking is an option, not a requirement, regardless of what advertising portrays.

·         Initiate direct conversation about the images that are being broadcast on your television. We ask him what he thinks about what he sees, what he thinks it means and how it makes him feel.

·         Monitor television viewing. The issues that come up on Hannah Montana may be different, but they still can have a negative impact. In our house, we had several candid conversations about a newly acquired, but not appreciated fresh attitude after Luke started watching The Suite Life and Wizards of Waverly Place.

·         Discuss the purpose of advertising, and how it isn’t always truthful. You can easily do this by comparing ads for competing companies (e.g.; every car company can’t really have the lowest price). You can also discuss the distorted reality in commercials (e.g.; only beautiful people in bathing suits on beaches drink beer).

·         Use honesty. When the right time comes, our children will know that there have been problems with alcohol on both sides of our family, which means they have to be more cautious than most young people about experimenting. We will also be honest with them about our own experiences and mistakes.