Fackin Truth Blog

Some mothers truly excel at multi-tasking

I recently boasted about my multi-tasking prowess as a natural outcome from years of training in single-motherhood. Imagine how quickly my puffed-chest deflated when I discovered this pro who clearly graduated at the top of her class:

An Ohio mother faces charges for breastfeeding her daughter while driving her other children to school.

"I'm following behind a lady in a van who is driving while breastfeeding her newborn baby and talking on the cell phone," said a 911 caller.

Officers then pulled over the mother and issued her a ticket for not having her child in a car seat.

Well, we can't all be Valedictorian.

One of the most dangerous goals of "good parenting"

Integrity: firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values: INCORRUPTIBILITY.

Incorruptibility: incapaable of corruption: b: incapable of being bribed or morally corrupted.

Hope can be dangerous. I'm talking about parents led by the hope that their children never have to struggle or "want for anything."


Why? Because achieving these goals means destroying a child's foundation of personal integrity: building character and delaying gratification.


One day several months ago, I breezed by my television as T.D. Jakes delivered a teaching sermon. He caught my attention with an almost wistful declaration to parents who grew up during the Civil Rights Movement. It went something like this:

'As a generation, the worst thing we did as parents was to shield our children from struggle. We don't want the hardships of life to touch our children, but we forgot that our own moral integrity came from our struggles. And now we're crippling our children by being a friend instead of a parent - all because we want life to be fun for them. But fun without discipline handicaps our children.'

My mind raced back through my own history. I thought about things that happened to me and saw how my own compassion, honesty, and empathy emerged from the rubble of some craptastic life events.


I thought about the times my parents either told me to "wait," "be still," or to deal with the consequence of my actions. I remember getting popped in the mouth, receiving a spanking, going to bed without dinner, and the times I lost privileges around the house.


Today, everybody from the government to your neighbor calls that "child abuse." Discipline designed to grow a child into a healthy and productive member of society is labeled "oppressive" or "emotional abuse." Letting children run wild and make-up the rules gets applauded as progressive or new age parenting. Headstrong children curse parents in public and dare the parents to respond. These children don't develop respect for authority... at least until the Authorities in Blue take over where parents leave off (or really, never got "on").

There's no doubt about it, the worst form of child abuse is to remove healthy limitations and rob a child of the opportunity to develop personal integrity early in life.

Famous American youth provide the perfect peek into this trend. Britney Spears. Paris Hilton. Lindsay Lohan. No boundaries. No limits. Out of control. Don't have enough integrity to claw themselves out of a wet paper bag. I'll leave the gossip reporting to TMZ.com, but you get my drift.


You don't have to search Hollywood for the best examples. You can spend 10 minutes in the local mall and spot the children who clearly enjoy boundless living at home. Rude. Self-serving. Disrespectful. Would just as soon spit at you than say "I'm sorry" for stepping on your foot.

If you listen closely, you can also detect the ones who are borderline suicidal because mom refused to buy the latest Razor phone. Seriously. That child is overdone. Flip him over, stick a fork in him, and remove him from the oven. And if you're lucky, he won't shoot-up his school when he needs a little attention.


I officially went "old school" with my parenting the moment I became a mother. I may be more liberal than my great-great-great grandmother, but I "don't take no mess." And my boys know it. I'm proud of the young men they're becoming. And this is why I'll forever rally against one of the most tragic forms of child abuse.


Hope can be dangerous. Stop hoping that your children will have an "easy" life and start hoping that their struggles will make them the best they can be.

Overheard in the Family Van - A Song of Race, in D-Minor

I had a moment this week that left me wondering if my 15-year old son was really mine. Seriously. If I hadn't been the star witness and Principal Groaner at his birth, somebody would be swabbing his mouth... as we speak... for a DNA test ala Maury Povich.


I took him to apply for a passport since he's leaving to get his first taste of the International life. As he watched me go through identifying myself for his application, he asked why he had to show-up for the event. I went into some monologue about potential fraud blah-blah-blah and figured the issue was closed.


Later that day, I happened to see the written clause requiring minors to be present during the application.


"Hmmm. Maybe I should show him this little nugget to solidify my original answer."


Yeah. Right. It sounded good. And then this happened:

"Minors?!?! I had to be present because I'm BLACK?"

"Honey, you had to show up because you're a kid."

"Oh. Because back in the day, blacks were called minors."

"Ummmm. No. My-nor-eh-TEES."

"Does that mean I'm a minority minor?"

Will the missing real mother of this child please stand up?

Blogging the Alphabet: E is for "Every Parent and Child"

I can almost write a book about the dilemmas that come with parenting. For most of the 14+ years that I had my sons, I was a single parent trying to navigate strange waters.

It's amazing how new challenges pop-up like ants at a picnic. Choosing the right baby formula turned into battles over eating vegetables. Picking the right cartoons for my toddler to watch turned into protecting my son on MySpace. Teaching ABC's turned into teeny-tiny wars over grades and study habits in junior high school.

But in addition to being a mother for 14+ years, I've been a daughter for 36+. Through both experiences - and countless conversations with other parents - one dilemma stands-out as the biggest:

How to adjust after releasing grown children into the world and into God's hands.

As my oldest son progresses through high school, I find myself almost daydreaming about the process of releasing him to college and beyond. I wonder if he can really commit to college. I wonder when he will marry. And my heart wonders how often he'll call home to say, "I love you."

In an amazing case of "perfect timing," I'm in a personal struggle with my relationship with my own mother. She's not satisfied when I don't take her advice. And I'm not satisfied that her advice comes with a hint of command - as if my own goals, wisdom, growth, and desires are flimsy and irrelevant.

But in her defense, when do parents really stop seeing  their child  as  A child? My mother pulls things from my failed marriage, my 20's and even my teenage years during a disagreement. I replace temporary hurt and anger with permanent waiting...

I'm waiting with a broken heart for her to see me as an almost-40 woman.

I'm waiting for what I want from life to have more relevance in her eyes.

I'm waiting for her to realize that I learned more from the inside of my mistakes than she could possibly perceive from the outside of my mistakes.

Most of all, I'm waiting for her to realize that God didn't consult her when he created the purpose for my life.

And before I close my eyes at night, I wonder if I'll be able to do the same as a mother to my sons. Will they ever have to wait for me?

Philadelphia Truancy: A Rant on Parenting in the 21st Century

In an attempt to curb truancy, Philadelphia Mayor John Street called an assembly with 6000 parents whose children have 8 or more unexcused absences from school. Apparently, 32,000 students are absent from Philadelphia schools on any given day.

As the mayor explained the parents' share in accountability for the problem (and the potential penalties), I was floored as parents rose and walked out on the mayor. Clearly, they're the example of why their children are walking out of school.

As I sat catching flies with my open mouth, I wanted to know: "What would make a parent turn against a mayor trying to ensure an education for their children?" My momentary pleasure at getting an answer disappeared after one mom opened her mouth with a loud, ghetto-fied response:

"If they would make school more interesting, then our kids would want to go!"

I don't know about you, but my mother never cited boredom as an acceptable reason to skip school. ...Which leads me to my main concern: Where has parenting gone???

 "There are parents now who are being irresponsible about their children, but they're going to get responsible," Street said. "Some of these parents don't understand the impact that their negligence is having on their child and the impact it is having on our city and our society."

And now to answer my own question:

Where has parenting gone?

According to this tiny cross section, courtesy of truancy in Philadelphia PA:

To hell in a hand-basket loaded with unused school supplies.

Overheard From a Small Voice in the Back of the Mini Van

As I drove my son to school, this request echoed from a tiny voice in the back of the van:

"Excuse Me."

"Please put the window down."

[pause]

"It's awful back here."

You know it's bad when a 7-year old can't live with his own flatulence.

And how was your commute this morning?

Lessons From the Pediatric Ward

My oldest son spent two days in the hospital last week while his appendix cried wolf and pretended it needed to come out. During that stay, I learned that Sysco makes the darned tastiest Fruit Punch in the little cups with the foil lid. Besides the fact that aluminum foil is linked to Alzheimer's and the juice contained ingredients that can cause the kidneys to implode, it was simply delicious.

Here are a few more things I learned during that stay:

1. You can get a child to eat green beans by serving the green beans with stuffed shells. I almost passed out and required medical attention as I watched my veggie-averse son practically swallow his veggies whole. Is that cheating when you also starve the kid for 24-hours to make sure his system is ready for a battery of medical tests?
   
2. You can produce a near-death experience without the risk of accidentally causing a real death. Follow these instructions carefully: Sit in a hospital room and watch a variety of cartoons from 7:30am until 5:30am. Seriously. At some point, my soul left my body and floated over the hospital. When Alvin and the Chipmunks came on, I think I saw Jesus.
   
3. The hospital staff doesn't really want parents to stay overnight. The invitation to stay was so warm and sweet that I packed an overnight bag. By the time I was jammed into the Japanese Torture Contraption that the nurses called my sleeping quarter, I knew they were all demons.

Thankfully, the visit revealed a healthy boy who probably had a mild acute case of colitis - whatever that is. It's probably a fancy name for "intenstinal gripe" or "I-ate-pizza-and-ice-cream-for-lunch," (which he did the day after the hospital stay). ::sigh::

Single Parenting: The Joy of Working Towards "The Favorite Parent"

In a candid chat last night, my 7-year old shared his dislike of spending regular visits at his dad's house. I was interested in how this topic fell out of the blue, meaning the issue was weighing on his little heart.

Somewhere near the end of the conversation, he made a simple request. "Mom. Don't yell at me anymore. Daddy and Jeffrey [stepbrother] yell at me all the time. I want somebody to not yell at me."

The good parent in me agreed to this experiment. I'd like to believe the agreement was 100% desire to raise a well-balanced, confident, and productive adult. Yet the tiny devious compartment of my brain secretly wanted the "Favorite Parent" award.

My past philosophy regarding voice volume essentially went like this: I ask you nicely the first time. If a second request is required, I'll give enough grace to believe you didn't hear me correctly. The third time around... you're playing me... and now I'm fiddling with the volume and bass knobs. "I. Said. NOW."

This morning, the trial was a success. I told him once to go brush his teeth. I told him again to go brush his teeth. On the third request, I talked softer, stroked his little chin and said, "Honey, I'd hate for you to get in trouble. You're not listening. Please go brush your teeth."

After a veeeeery pregnant and skeptical pause, he declared,

"You just yelled at me."

[even softer] "No I didn't."

His little face fell as he realized that I was right. I hadn't yelled. I was almost whispering. He appeared to be going into shock. "Are you breathing????"

The sheer miracle of my sweet third request compelled him to respond. He walked slowly, almost like his feet barely touched the ground. That's the first time in all of his life that my 3rd request wasn't a military command barked through an invisible megaphone.

I wonder if "Favorite Parent" comes with a trophy or an Island Getaway?

On the Road to Anal Retentive

My 7-year old son can be a horror about making his bed. He has a "slow consideration for a unique design" personality that would probably be fitting on Project Runway.

You see, I'm not allowed to help him make the bed. According to him, I need to step away because I don't know what I'm doing. I tried to present my lengthy resume of bed-making experience, including the hospital corners I used to put on his crib sheets. Alas, he still declared me a pitiful amateur.

The problem is, Lil Z implements a unique sheet/comforter/blanket configuration on each pass, and matches this with a unique display of his stuffed animals, like this (click images for larger version):

Now if you've ever entered Lil Z's room, you'd wonder why he wasn't so anal about the rest of his personal space. He has no concept of the need for an area to actually walk. If OSHA saw his room, they'd declare the need for safety gear - including hardhats.

In closing, I present the following photo evidence - an open and shut case - that even the stuffed animals understand the dangers of navigating Lil Z's room and lean on prayer for hope:

Almost Stabbed in the Neck by a Fork in the Road

What happens when the exhaustion of single parenting collides with the personal frustration of goals not met? It's like some kind of algebra problem from hell:

"The train of excessive laundry is traveling south at 60mph. The train of a fading career goal is traveling north at 100mph. At what decibel does a woman scream when the two collide on a dreary fall day?"

My day started with an argument in the car. At the risk of sounding like a fruitcake, I admit that I argued with God. I know that sounds strange, especially to me, since my intent was to pray and give my morning a shot of be-happy. Prayer didn't last long before I started spitting frustrations, countering my own arguments with reasons to be thankful, and then returning to the Articles of my Declaration of Frustration. I had to force the "V" out of my forehead as I walked into work. My face muscles were frozen in a grimace. What a strange morning indeed.

I am actually pleased that I've reached this point. Discomfort - or outright pain - are the best known triggers for positive change. Last weekend, I came to the conclusion that I've been stagnant for several months now. I didn't realize until today that I'm stagnating at a fork in the road - mostly because I haven't chosen a direction. I'm literally standing in a potentially dangerous intersection. What a crappy place to stall and stare at a map.

In the past few years, I have watched some doors close and many more open. Shame on me for not twisting a single doorknob.

My morning was a call to play Sliding Doors. The movie-version provides an interesting look at how a single door can redirect an entire life.  My version will include the best game of hide-and-seek that I have ever played.

The movie of me over the next few months:

I'm leaving the intersection. I'm opening doors. I'm exploring options. I'm enjoying the curiosity of a child as I peek for goodies. I'm squealing with delight as I uncover things I enjoy again, like writing and socializing. I'm returning phone calls that I've put off for weeks. Mr. Washington is first. I'm entering a non-fiction writing contest. I'm accepting the help and kindness of others without feeling guilty. I'm on a roll like a boulder down a mountain. I'm learning to say "no," because only those things rolling with me won't be crushed.

Rock on.