Entitled

Sam has choir practice on Monday nights. This time of year he has grown somewhat tired of Monday night choir practice. This time of year I have grown tired of him complaining about Monday night choir practice. So last night when the complaining started I told him I would get him a peppermint mocha from Starbucks on the way. Time went by. He continued to play and text on his phone. We were walking out the door when he seemed to remember I'd promised him Starbucks. I told him it would make us late. He whined. I relented, and we started off in the opposite direction from choir practice to make good on my promise. (I swear ours is the only neighborhood that doesn't have a Starbucks every three blocks.)

I drove, we parked, I ran in. The cash register wasn't working. No Starbucks. When I got back to the car, cold and breathless from running, Sam said, "I think you're just telling me the cash register is broken to teach me a lesson." To which I replied:

"Yes, Sam, you're right. I drove five miles out of the way, against traffic, in rush hour to a busy grocery store and full parking lot to have someone steal a parking spot from me (which incidentally had never happened to me, I thought it was only parking lot lore, and it made me all kinds of mad) so I could RUN into the store, act like I was ordering you a coffee, then run back out and make up a lie just to teach you a lesson."

And that is when it hit me. I may not be a helicopter parent, but I enable. And if I ever want my kids to be able to put cream cheese on a bagel, put away a backpack or fold a shirt, I need to stop.

But all too often we (me) intervene. We think we are helping when we look over their shoulder at their homework. We think we are helping by talking to their teacher every time they make a mistake or get hurt feelings. We think it is good to carry crayons and snacks and playing cards and gum everywhere we go.

We think it's a good idea to promise a reward to go to choir practice.

Maybe we are compensating for some sort of guilt. Maybe we tell ourselves that any involvement is good involvement. Maybe, in our drive to make them the next bilingual-ballerina-flutist-knitter-philanthropist-soprano, we've stopped being parents and become lackeys.

Critics say we are creating entitled narcissists. Little inept texting whiners. A generation of kids who can't fend for themselves and need their parents to intervene well into adulthood.

To be fair, they can't help it that they were born into a culture where nearly everything is at their fingertips. You can download a song immediately. (Once in high school I waited six months for a cassette I'd ordered to be shipped to the closest Music Land.) You can watch a movie instantly. On your phone. You live in that kind of 'instant message' world long enough, and you start to expect things will come easily and quickly.

It's a complex issue. One I don't have the time to solve; I need to go pick up my pre-made holiday dinner, download a Christmas playlist, drive through Starbucks and pick out a movie to watch in my car while the kids have their music lessons.

No Stupid Questions

My kids were all born under very normal circumstances. Hospital births, no complications. Even though I don't have any crazy birth stories I have told each of them many times about the day they were born. The little things I remember.

I had a plate of spaghetti the night before Sam was born. The delivery nurse ate a tuna fish sandwich while I was in labor with him. I fainted after I delivered him, yet they insisted on wheeling me to recovery in a wheelchair, head bobbing, holding smelling salts.

I went into labor with Jake on September 30 but he held on until October 1, my grandmother's birthday. His nurse reminded me of my best friend from high school. She even had the same name. Jake was cranky when he was born. We took an early photo of him against my chest and sent it to several friends and family members before realizing you could see my nipple.

Abby was a complete surprise. We didn't know boy or girl, but I really didn't expect a girl. For some reason her delivery was the hardest.

I don't know if these tidbits are interesting to them, but I believe they remember them. At least in part. Every once in a while one of them will bring up a piece of the story and ask me to tell them again, which I'm happy to do.

Yesterday was one of those times. On the way to music lessons Abby asked me if I remembered the day she was born.

"Of course I do," I told her.

"Did you poop a lot when you had me?"

Excuses

I went into Home Depot the other day and was bombarded by Christmas music, Christmas trees, lights and decorations. And all I could think was I have to get my head on straight before the holidays or I will be miserable. I will make the kids miserable. I will ruin their Christmas.

I don't have a good reason for not posting for two months. Nearly every day I think of something I'd like to write down - goodness knows I won't remember it 24 hours from now - and then I don't. And next thing I know I'm in bed at night thinking, I forgot to write it down. Just another thing to add to my intimidating, unrealistic 3-page to-do list.

The only thing I can say is that for some reason I feel very overwhelmed right now. And when I feel that way, my modus operandi is to just shut down. Shut down everything. When I feel I have too much to do, I don't do any of it. The house is falling apart, I feel I'm clinging to my job, I'm ignoring volunteer responsibilities, I can't get organized. The only thing I've done in the past two months is perfect my online Solitaire.

But, as I said, with Christmas right around the corner, I need to get in the right frame of mind. I don't have to go holiday cheese balls-out, but I need to feel the spirit.

I really need to feel the spirit.