What Women Want

Dad Magazine online

What Women Want

July 2008

I try to avoid conflict. I don’t speak up when I’m angry. Here’s my advice to myself and to you:

Don’t Ignore Problems
By Laura K. Barrett

         It’s been a while, but he made a good point. Rodney King called for everyone to get along and try to work it out. I’ve asked around, and it’s a recurring theme among my women friends. We like to keep the peace. If Hillary had been the nominee, then you’d have seen … well, maybe she’s not the best example. But the reality is that keeping peace in the family is not easy or even desirable. Conflict is part of life. In families, we disagree about politics, how to spend money, what to have for dinner, whose turn it is to do the dishes. A family is a microcosm of any social system. And it makes things harder, really, that we love each other.
         That brings me to conflict-avoidance. I was trying not to go there, but I can’t help it. It goes along with being a peacemaker. I (and I have lots of company) try to avoid conflict. I don’t speak up when I’m angry. I ignore the problem: I step over the dirty laundry; I give my kid ten more minutes to call and check in; I cross my fingers and hope they did their homework.
         Dr. Phil asks, “How’s that working for you?” It could be working better, I have to admit. But there is no Conflicts Anonymous group around, so I just have to go it alone.
         One great thing about middle age is that you become more willing to accept the stuff that you have to deal with. One great thing about divorce is that you discover emotional reserves you never thought you had. And, one great thing about self-help books is the abundance of helpful suggestions. I’ll save you the effort of reading lots of books and offer you some good advice: Let life be messy. Don’t avoid conflict. Speak up when something is bothering you.
         No, it won’t be easy but, yes, it will get easier with practice. Start small. When you see that your kid left his underwear, socks and shoes in the bathroom after the shower, call him over to clean up. Not in five minutes. Right now. Enforce the rules.
         However, don’t take it personally when the troops don’t follow their leader. In my past, I used to expect that when I pointed out the error of my (now ex-)husband’s ways, that he would pause, think about it and decide that I was right. In my vision, he’d put his finger up to his chin in a somewhat professorial stance, look up toward the sky and then announce that he was wrong. Or a corollary, that I was right. Never happened. Not once. Never will happen. It won’t happen with the kids, either. The best you can hope for is a lot of staring at the floor and grunting.
         Or, they’ll fight to the end. It’s hard to admit when you’re wrong, so don’t take it personally when they call you a name, roll their eyes, slam the door or [fill in the blank]. This too shall pass. Stick to your guns. Conflict is part of human nature, and so is resolution.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

May 2008

Fevers, fractured toes, chicken pox and broken arms. Of course,

A Mother Is Going to Worry
By Laura K. Barrett

         When my first child was a tiny baby, I used to watch him sleep. If I say watch, I mean stare. I worried that he might die in his sleep. I had the baby monitor turned up loud, loud enough to hear my neighbors arguing next door. When he was just a few months old, I lifted him out of a car seat that I had placed on the dining room table and, with great force, propelled him into the chandelier. We both started screaming. I called the pediatrician hysterically. I’m still grateful that the office staff treated my call with respect. Evidently, it was no big deal. He had a little bump and was crying, but that was it.   No damage.
         That was just the beginning.
         Later, he had a fever and was really sick. He threw up. He broke his toe. He sprained his wrist. He had the chicken pox and gave it my friend’s newborn baby. Once he told me he had a stomach ache. I said that he could stay home from school only if we went to the doctor. The early morning doctor-on-call sent us to Children’s Hospital to rule out appendicitis. Unfortunately, they couldn’t rule it out. He had an emergency appendectomy while I watched Oprah and sobbed.
         Then he had a brother. His brother has seen his share of visits to the doctor and emergency rooms.   He had stitches in his eyebrow and still carries the scar. He broke his arm and had to have surgery and physical therapy. He’s also sprained his wrist skateboarding.
         By the time the third son had arrived, you’d think I’d have this kid-thing under control. Well, you’d be wrong. Partly because he had two older brothers, partly because of his spunky, adventurous personality, he’s been intimately involved in the healthcare system, too. He’s had lots of narrow misses. He missed hitting the fireplace and cracking his skull open when he dove for and missed a ball on the hardwood floor. Once, as he was walking along a concrete ledge and practicing his balancing – one foot in front of the other, hands out in a T – one of his feet missed. He slipped and did crack his skull a bit. Evidently that’s not a big deal, except to parents. He’s also fallen off the coach and broken his collar bone. He’s only ten – so it’s not over yet.
         Then again, maybe it’s never really over. That first baby is now 20 years old. He is on his own, calls the doctor to make his own appointments, and brushes his teeth without being reminded. But maybe I should call and check on him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

April 2008

Just thinking about money brings up strong fears of not having enough of it. Money is not just what women want, it’s what everyone wants:

We Want Money
By Laura K. Barrett

         I don’t want to talk about money. I’d rather talk about the dentist than talk about money. I’d rather go to the dentist than talk about money.
         There wasn’t much money in my family when I was growing up, and my parents didn’t talk to me about money. I grew up living in apartments. My parents couldn’t afford to buy a house until they were in their forties, and they only were able to pay for it with help from my grandparents. My parents fought a lot about money and spent it on strange things. My father bought books that he didn’t read, records that he didn’t listen to and clothes that he didn’t wear. But no one else was given much money to spend.
         One of my first memories is of my mother crying because I refused to eat the lunch she made for me. I think she was worried that I would be hungry and there wouldn’t be food to eat later. Another memory is of the family walking to the store on a holiday to buy milk. We had to walk because we couldn’t afford a car until I was about five years old. Back then, the grocery stores were usually closed on Sundays and holidays.
         Thinking about money brings up strong fears of not having enough of it. My mother went back to work when I was in the third grade so that she could have money of her own to spend. My mother kept the money she made in a separate checking account. My father paid the rent and, later, the mortgage. He liked to be in control of things, so he gave my mother a very small allowance for food and clothing. There were no extras like parties or vacations. I was about eleven when I won the grand prize from Swensen’s Ice Cream Parlor – an all-expense paid trip to Disneyland for our family of four. That was one vacation that I can remember.
         When I left home, there wasn’t much financial support from my family. I do remember that my father gave me a credit card for gasoline and paid my car insurance for years. In hindsight, that was quite a gift and helped me keep my head above water financially. I worked part-time when I was in college, just as many others did. I remember what a treat it was to go out for ice cream or when my parents occasionally took me out to dinner.
         My children have had a different experience with money. There has not been much stress over money in their lifetimes. There has always been enough to eat and nice places to live and lots of cash leftover for toys and vacations. They’ve never seen me cry over spilt milk or worry about paying the rent. Things can change. And for that I’m grateful.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

February 6, 2008

Sometimes it’s awkward, but at least my kids know

My Opinions about Sex
By Laura K. Barrett

    “I really don’t think I should be discussing sex with my mother,” my ten-year-old told me recently. And that was just the beginning. He went on to tell me that his older brother was having sex with his longtime girlfriend. He thought I should know that much.
    At our house, we talk about sex sometimes. Other times we talk about death, sports and taxes. In other words, it’s not a big deal. I have condoms in the kids’ bathroom, just in case. One of my good friends says that, in their house, Rule No. 1 is “Always wear a condom.” That certainly is a good rule.
    As my youngest reported, my oldest son is sleeping with his girlfriend. They are both over 18. I think it’s okay. They’ve been going out for more than a year. Still, there have been a few unexpected consequences, like the time he and his girlfriend slept in my bed when I was out of town. When I complained that they hadn’t changed the sheets, my son informed me that they didn’t have sex, so it was no big deal. Well, that’s just too much information for my tastes.
    I admit that sex-related issues can be awkward, like the time one of the kids asked me what a tampon was and what it was doing in my car. Or the time when I explained to my boys what you’re really talking about when you say that something sucks. They groaned and covered their ears.
    Sometimes I like to tease them, in a more-often-than-not misguided attempt at humor. When it’s one of their birthdays, I ask if they would like to have the graphic photos of their birth. So far they haven’t taken me up on it.
    So, when it comes to sex, the kids know my opinion. You shouldn’t sleep around, but you shouldn’t be a virgin when you get married either. It’s important to have good character and be kind.   Be honest with your partner. Have fun but be safe. Please wait until you’re more than ready to get married and have kids. And, if possible, it’s best to do it in that order.
    My kids are a product of divorce. They remember what it was like to live in a two-parent home. Their father and I were married and shared the same bed for many years. That’s the ideal situation in which to raise children. Sometimes, maybe most of the time, you don’t get to choose what happens to you. So we make the best of it.
    I haven’t dated much since the divorce, so the issue of my sex life hasn’t really been an issue. One of my sons specifically asked me not to parade a different guy every week like one of my divorced friends. That’s not my style, anyway. And, I hope my boys are like me in that way.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

January 9, 2008

Helicopter parents need to stop whirling about and

Leave the Kids Alone
By Laura K. Barrett

         I’m the mother of three boys, three sports enthusiasts. All of them have played organized sports at one time or another. I’ve seen more than my share of youth soccer, kids’ baseball and high school football. So, I feel entitled to say: Just let the kids play, already.
         Helicopter parents, a national epidemic, are overly involved in their kids’ lives, and the sports arena is no exception. Some of these parents fight with each other, their kids and even the referees during sports matches. Even the most well-intentioned parents insist on constant banter with their kids as they play the game.
         Most youth sports activities are volunteer-driven. The coaches are often parents who spend their leisure time trying to teach these kids the rules of the game and, more important, how to get along with each other and learn to deal with losing. Believe it or not, the main point of youth sports is not winning. It’s learning how to play together as a team.
         I was once a soccer coach.
         When one of my boys was about six years old, he joined a team with a wonderful, kind man as its coach. No other parent volunteered to be assistant coach, so I stepped forward. Let me tell you, it’s scary out there. You try to corral 14 six-year-old boys. Herding cats is easier. One Saturday, I was entrusted with the entire team and had to coach a real game. Yikes. I was lucky enough to have a team full of parents who knew how to behave. It also helped that nobody keeps score at that age level.
         But I’ve also witnessed some appalling behavior. As a sideliner, I’ve seen friends who are usually mild-mannered become tyrannical. One father I know used to pace up and down the soccer field screaming commands at his kid. Go to the goal. Go to the left. You missed that shot. Most of the nonstop chatter was negative. If I had been his kid, I would have felt like quitting. I wonder what the father’s motivations were. Was he trying to be encouraging? Well, how about, “Good game, son!” And leave it at that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

December 12, 2007

Norman Rockwell is nowhere to be found in my

Christmas Memories
By Laura K. Barrett

    I was raised in a family that didn’t believe in Santa Claus (or Jesus for that matter) so Christmas is often a confusing and difficult time for me. Many of my memories about Christmas resemble scenes from a horror movie, filled with gray skies and fog and people who turn out to be different than they appear at the beginning. There are some positive experiences, but they are hard to come by. For instance, my favorite thing to do as a child was to watch television. I looked forward to annual showings of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Charlie Brown’s Christmas. My sister and I would put on our pajamas and stay up later than our usual bedtime to watch Rudolph fight the Abominable Snowman. To this day, I worry that Rudolph will lose the fight, and I am thrilled when he wins.
    Still, most of my Christmas memories are unpleasant. My first recollection of Christmas is sitting on my grandfather’s lap in the front room of my grandparents’ house and looking at the Christmas wrapping paper burning in the fireplae. My grandfather is smiling, but not a happy smile. It’s an I’ve-got-you-now smile. Across the room is my grandmother, sitting in her easy chair. My grandmother is yelling at my grandfather, not because she is angry, but because he is deaf and she is trying to be heard over the television set loudly blasting a football game. The noise is almost unbearable. My father is slouched on the couch – he long ago gave up on being happy, whether it was Christmas or not. Next to him is my mother with her gritted teeth, for the sake of appearances, plastered into a fake smile. Norman Rockwell is nowhere to be found.
    Families are like holidays: There are moments of genuine closeness and moments of unbearable sorrow. It goes with the territory. This year, as I was decorating the Christmas tree with my only willing volunteer helper, my youngest son, I pulled out an ornament purchased early in my marriage. It was a plain cobalt blue Christmas ball. I remember buying it at the local hardware store downtown. It was marked down before Christmas and therefore affordable to a self-supporting college student, probably because of its atypical color.   Much later I was able to buy the usual red-and-green Christmas ornaments, but this treasure was the only one that has remained of that half-dozen boxed set. All but one of them have been broken over the years, most likely because I’ve always encouraged the kids to help with decorating the tree. A broken ornament or two is part of the deal.
    My children are like most middle-class kids – they have an abundance of the material stuff. What is missing from my children’s Christmas is the sense of wonder and excitement that only comes when you have to wait for gratification. It’s much more meaningful to see Rudolph only once a year. Then all the kids can come to school the next day and talk about it. This modern-day alienation is caused in large part by the quick availability of whatever we want, right now. It creates an insatiable appetite, a demanding and whiny “but I want it now.” My kids are bored with Rudolph because they can watch the video 30 times a year, if they want.
    For me, there is nothing material that I want or need for Christmas. My grandparents are gone now, and so is my father. Now that you mention it, I don’t have a husband, either. But I do have a blue Christmas ornament. When that’s gone, too, I hope to have some positive memories to replace it. Hello, Santa, are you listening? That’s my wish for Christmas – better memories.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

November 21, 2007

I feel equipped to give advice. After all, I had

Three Babies
By Laura K. Barrett

         I had three babies. The first time around, the whole process was quite a shock – the pregnancy, the childbirth, the infant care. For one thing, he wasn’t planned. Although I prepared diligently for the childbirth part of the process, I was ill-prepared for the child-raising part of the deal. I wish someone had told me (or that I had listened) to the idea that childbirth only lasts a day, maybe a couple of days if you’re really unlucky. But the baby turns into a child and grows up into an adult. You’re a parent for the rest of your life. I wish I had read more books on child-rearing than childbirth.
         I remember after my first baby was born and I was discharged from the hospital. I couldn’t believe that the hospital would allow me to take a baby home. What irresponsible fool would give me an infant to take care of? I was 26 years old, but I did not feel capable of taking care of a baby. Even though I had been a babysitter and studied nursing in school, I felt ill-equipped to be in charge of another human being. I remember asking the nurses about the crying. How do you know what he’s asking for? The nurses were very kind. They assured me that I’d figure it out. I did figure it out, but it was arduous.
         My first baby was skinny and colicky. It’s just a bit of exaggeration to say that when he was awake, he was crying. It was absolutely exhausting. I have a videotape of his father and me: zombie-like twentysomethings, desperately smiling for the camera, holding a screaming baby.   It was nothing like the Hallmark card-vision of babies. Kind strangers would tell me that he’d grow out of it and I’d forget. Over time, I’ve forgotten how stressful it was, how incompetent I felt, and how the lack of sleep produced a fragile state of anxiety. But I clearly remember the exhaustion. He didn’t sleep through the night for nine months. Finally, we let him cry it out because someone else had to cry besides me. I was too tired to care and too desperate for sleep. It was horrible to let him cry, but it worked. He started sleeping through the night and we all settled down.
         The second baby was a dream – this time, a good dream. We waited more than three years for the second one. In my mind, I especially had to prepare myself for the lack of sleep. Well, the second one came home from the hospital sleeping through the night. He was the happiest baby. I was amazed that he wanted to sleep. In his baby pictures, he’s smiling. We’re all smiling. Even the first child didn’t seem to mind his presence either. Most of his babyhood was spent on the floor or in a baby seat watching what was going on, contently observing his surroundings.
         The third time around was like starting over. I had forgotten what to do. Ten years had passed since my first baby and it showed. I had given away all of the baby stuff – crib, stroller, toys, clothes. My recollection of that first year with Baby #3 was sending the older two boys off to school and then holding the baby on my lap. I cooed at him. I admired him. I played Mozart for him. We napped together. It was a wonderful, magical time, closer to the image of babyhood that I expected the first time around.
         As I look back on the last twenty years, one thing I have learned is how fast the baby phase goes. So, as a mother of three, I feel equipped to give advice. You probably won’t listen, just like I didn’t. Remember that it really does go fast. Even the colicky, crying stage is only a few months. Then the baby smiles. So, slow down. Don’t take the little problems so seriously. Surround yourself with support. Ask for help. Get a babysitter at least once a week, so you can play with adults. Enjoy taking care of the baby and envision him as a busy toddler, creative school-age child and a happy adult.
         I can’t wait for grandchildren. I hear it’s even better.

* * * * * * * * *

October 24, 2007

Some families keep it bottled up and internalized, wearing glued-on smiles through clenched teeth. They’re suffering from extreme

Anger Management
By Laura K. Barrett

        When you’re happy, you have permission to smile or laugh. You can share your joy. But happiness is just a feeling state, and so is anger. Theoretically, they should be equally important. But in some families, feelings are not expressed, especially the negative ones. In those families, anger comes out in rages, with broken tables and bruised hearts. Other families deny anger: "No, we never fight." Those families keep it bottled up and internalized, wearing glued-on smiles through clenched teeth.
        Growing up, my family often had a difficult time with emotions. Anger was often the main feeling we expressed. But frequently that anger was just a mask for the deeper, truer feelings of hurt, rejection or loneliness. I think my family was typical of the time. My parents couldn’t really communicate with each other, let alone their children. As I’ve matured, I’ve worked hard to uncover what’s going on inside me emotionally. It’s taken a lot of practice to monitor my internal states, but I’ve trained myself to notice the nuances: What am I feeling now?
        As far as my children are concerned, I would characterize them as normal, mostly well-adjusted boys. But that wasn’t always the case. When my middle son was very young, he got into fights at school. In preschool, he would hit another kid rather than asking for a toy he wanted. He was impulsive and disagreeable and refused to sit still in circle time. As a grade-schooler, he was sent to the office so many times that I was on a first-name basis with the principal. I vividly remember going to pick him up from school but seeing the principal coming toward me and hoping that she wasn’t coming to tell me what rule he had broken that day. I was terrified that he would become a teenage delinquent.
        Something had to be done to improve his social skills. With the help of a book called the Explosive Child by Ross Greene, I learned how to help him express his feelings more appropriately. It turns out that he wasn’t aware of the cues along the way toward his outbursts. I started by pointing out to him when I noticed a trigger. Then I asked him how he was feeling at that particular moment. After that, I reinforced positive behavior and tried to ignore smaller transgressions. I set up playdates that were short – maybe an hour – so that I could honestly tell him that he was getting along well with his peers. When he was kind to other children, I pointed out how favorably they responded.
        All that hard work paid off. Now, as a teenager, he is a wonderful boy with many good friends. Occasionally he has moments of frustration but, for the most part, he works hard at finding acceptable outlets to express those feelings. I’m proud of him. He is far from the teenager I dreaded he would become. Our family has moments of happiness, moments of frustration and moments we would prefer not to share with anyone else. And that’s just fine with me. Some things are better kept in the family.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

October 10, 2007

When you think about women thinking about men, there's no accounting for

Taste
By Laura K. Barrett

      The subject of love and dating came up with friends the other day. Someone posed the question, “Who is more attractive? Wallace Shawn or Tom Cruise?” I was in the minority because I preferred Wallace Shawn. In case you don’t know, he’s the gnome-like, intellectual writer/actor/artist most famous for having My Dinner with Andre.
      Tom holds no allure for me. He is physically attractive, handsome and youthful-looking, but that is just the outside. Otherwise, Tom seems unreal to me, slimy and phony, narcissistic and self-righteous.
      Of course, I don’t really know either of these people. I’ve only had one brief, personal encounter with Wally Shawn. He was the guest speaker at a small event I attended in New York. I admired him as he spoke about his thoughts, dreams and ambitions. He spoke from his heart about how he had accidentally found his way into acting and was able to parlay his acting career into supporting his other artistic pursuits.
      Wally was raised in a family in which the arts were valued and celebrated. His father was the editor of The New Yorker. As a child, he thought everyone was a writer because those were the only people he ever met. He said that it’s much easier to be a struggling artist in your twenties when you can tolerate being hungry and living in squalid conditions. It’s much harder in middle age to live without heat or to work as a sales clerk just to pay the rent. What I found most intriguing about him was his humanness. He was soul-searching and self-deprecating. His suggestion to twentysomethings was to work at a job or craft that you love, to become immersed in it and explore it. Avoid doing something just because you’ll make a lot of money. That kind of experience is a death to creativity and depletes the soul.
      Usually, I choose to hang around with people who are intelligent, humorous and full of mischief. I like a wide variety of people, but I’m drawn to people who like to read, enjoy music and are creative in some way. I’m attracted to the Wallace Shawns of this world. There’s no accounting for taste.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

September 26, 2007

What Kind of Fathers Will My Boys Be?
By Laura K. Barrett

        I just read a piece in The New York Times online about the trend of fathers spending more time caring for their children. The article quoted a study from 2002 by a research group called the Families and Work Institute, which stated that Generation X dads spend 3.4 hours weekdays caring for their offspring, compared to 2.2 hours by Baby Boomer dads. According to the study, Generation Y fathers will continue the trend.
        Who is Generation X or Y? Gen X members were born in the twenty years between 1961 and 1981. Its members grew up at a time when the draft ended, HIV limited free love, and Reaganomics was mainstream. This was a time in which the pace of life increased dramatically. As children, these Gen Xers likely watched Sesame Street and had parents who praised them a ton.   Often referred to as slackers, they don’t worry about lifetime employment and may harbor disdain for our work ethic.
        The upcoming group of fathers, Generation Y, will likely include my boys. Most of these kids had two parents who had to work to put food on the table, so these kids helped out around the house at quite a young age. They grew up with the TV on, the computer running, and the cell phone ringing. Now life is moving even faster. So what does that mean for Generation Y fathers? A backlash, I predict. My hope for Generation Y dads is a return to a slower pace of life – a stop-and-smell-the-roses attitude that may provide the extra time to care for children.
        In my own life I have tried to slow down. Recently a friend e-mailed me to make sure I viewed the space shuttle orbiting the earth. The orbit occurred at a specific time, and precision was important or we’d miss it. My boys and I gathered outside (I was already in my jammies). I had my nine-year-old on my lap. We looked up and then we saw it – a bright light in the sky moving very fast in an arc – that’s what an orbit is, I guess. The boys were mesmerized. My fifteen-year-old son exclaimed that it was just like in October Sky, a required book in his eighth grade. The book was originally named Rocket Boys, for which “October Sky” is an anagram. So he did learn something in school . . . but I digress.
        Such a moment can only happen if you actually spend time with your kids. My hope for my Generation Y boys is that they will follow the prediction of the New York Times and spend more time caring for their own children. And while I’m hoping, I hope I’ll be around to see it.

******************************

September 12, 2007

A Clean Sofa
By Laura K. Barrett

        American Beauty is one of my favorite movies. The scene that I’ve been replaying in my mind is the one in which unhappily-marrieds Annette Bening and Kevin Spacey are having a moment of passion. Annette interrupts them to complain that Kevin is going to spill beer on the very expensive, Italian couch. Then she defends herself when he complains that the couch is more important to her than he is.
        I’ve had similar moments in my life. I’ve even had a similar couch. I have to admit that I can understand how she felt. In my last house, I used to have the previously mentioned couch in my family room. But no one ever saw it because I always had it covered with matching blankets. In my former life, I spent too much time concerned about the condition of my furniture while I should have been looking closer at the people living with me.
        We are bombarded with images of what a happy family looks like. My vision used to include a house in suburbia with a white picket fence and the mother at home with an apron on. I no longer live in the house with the white picket fence. Okay, my friends all know that I still wear an apron. But I have taken the covers off the couch. The red-and-yellow-checkered fabric is clearly visible in my living room now.   This new reality brings up a lot of issues for me. How do I accept the fact that if you really live in a house, messes will happen? More important, how do I help my boys learn to be responsible, to take care of things, and to enjoy life at the same time?
      One step at a time – just like everything else in life.   A little change in my perspective has proven helpful. I’m reminded of an incident that occurred at my last house. After a year-long remodel, the carpet was installed finally and I wanted to get the bedroom set up quickly. To do so, I needed to iron the duvet cover. Because of the chaotic state of the house in the midst of a remodel, I couldn’t find the ironing board. So I decided to iron the duvet cover right there on the floor – on the brand new wall-to-wall carpet. Well, I created a permanent reminder of my impetuousness. I melted a large iron-sized spot on the carpet at the entrance to my bedroom. For the next five years, whenever I stepped on that spot I remembered that incident. In a way it was the gift of natural consequences. That’s what happens when you only see one solution to your problems.
      The result of my change in perspective is that my family seems to be happier. The image I had tried to live up to was just an illusion. The reality is that my kids are just as happy without the white picket fence and the clean sofa. Our needs are simple – love and attention, stability and flexibility. With that attitude, it’s easier to learn the lessons I’m trying to teach.

*******************

August 29, 2007

I Don’t Know How to Swim

By Laura K. Barrett

I’ve been talking a lot about dating lately – not doing any dating, just talking a lot about it. So, I’ve also being thinking a lot about dating and the whole process of pairing up with the opposite sex (or the same sex – I live in California, after all.) I feel a lot of pressure to start dating, from my 70-year-old neighbor to my married friends, I hear the repetition of “get out there.”

So what exactly is going on with me, I wonder. The surprising truth for me is I’m enjoying being alone. Part of that, I guess, is I’m not really alone, i.e., living alone. Two out of three of my boys are still home with me. Lots of kids, so far more boys than girls, visit my house. I have a cat, two cats up until recently. Occasionally I have a dog visit. I know a lot of people, and I have good friends. My mom is still living, and she lives five minutes away. Is it a cliché to say that I have a full life? It really is enough for me, especially for the foreseeable future.

Periodically, I check in with myself. Do I want a romantic relationship? So far the answer is no. What I want is male friends. I want to learn what it feels like to talk to men at a level that doesn’t involve the dance of dating. I feel pulled into a “pleasing mode.” It’s a role I feel comfortable with. In some ways, I missed the women’s movement. I dreamed of getting married and having children. I remember when my ex-husband was in law school and I was still in college and someone asked me what I wanted to do with my life. My answer was to have a family and stay home with my kids. That really was the path of my heart. I’ve loved staying home with the kids. My ex-husband provided well for us financially. He is a hard-working, responsible man who was good at providing a home for his family. In turn, I tried to make him happy. I cooked food that he liked. I took up golf because he liked it. In a lot of ways, I’m a throw-back to the Fifties. My fantasy life of the beautiful home with the nice cars and vacations was my reality for many years. But, as many woman of my mother’s generation have learned, what I lost was my inner self. What happens to a woman who often makes other people’s needs more important than her own? In my case, I forgot that my needs were important, too.

So, in Lauraspeak, I’m “getting out there.” I have spent many months reading about how to deal with change. I read books on Buddhism, aging, travel, divorce, among others. I thought about the massive amounts of advice each book suggested. For me, the bottom line was: Find out what you long to do, and do it. So, I went back to studying French after a twenty-year hiatus. I joined a writing group, which led to this Dad magazine gig. I called old friends and rekindled relationships. I took up yoga. It’s amazing to me how many interesting people I meet. Sometimes it feels that I’m jumping in the deep end and barely keeping my head above the water. Other times, I’m dipping my pinky toe in for fear of getting wet. However wet I get, I’m the one who is swimming. Did I mention that I don’t know how to swim? Yet.

******************************

August 15, 2007

The Cliché of Age
by Laura K. Barrett

I was at a party recently with a bunch of middle-aged people like me. We started talking, even some of the men were talking. Someone mentioned Satchel Page’s line about how old would you be if you didn’t know your age already. Well, that really is something to think about. I look in the mirror and am often surprised. Most of us look in the mirror and see a combination of our parents. Up until recently, I looked a lot like my dad and his side of the family. My hair is dark and, although I have light-colored skin, I tan fairly well. I definitely have my dad’s eyes and eyebrows. My mother says I have feet like my dad’s. I don’t remember what his feet looked like. But as I age, I see a resemblance to my mother. It’s an overall thing – body type and facial expressions. She’s an Irish lass (I am way past being a lass) with fair skin and freckles. We’re both short.

When I look in the mirror, I also see a 46-year-old woman. That’s my age. I feel like I’m supposed to keep it a secret, especially now that I’m single. Since I don’t like to keep secrets, I’m putting it out there to the world. But the truth is that I don’t look 46, whatever that means. I’ve always looked young for my age. When I was sixteen and got my passport, my smiling face looked about twelve. When I was pregnant with my first child, at the age of 26, people often thought I was a teenage mother. One of my favorite stories is opening up the door to a salesman, when I was very with child and having the guy ask if my mother was home.

I hear all the time that I don’t look my age. Part of it is that I don’t act my age; I’m often playful and silly. I like to try new things, which means I often make mistakes. Yesterday my nine-year-old son taught me a duet on the piano. I’d never played any sort of music. I was amazed that I could learn an admittedly very short piece. He doesn’t play piano, either. In fact, he is learning to play drums. His babysitter taught him the duet, so he was confident that even his ancient mother could learn it, too. It was an interesting switch to be the student instead of the teacher.
I believe what keeps me young-looking and young-thinking is a spirit of curiosity. Toddlers and teenagers are curious creatures. But they turn into know-it-all three-year-olds and thirty-year-olds. I have a habit of asking one friend of mine how old he is. The fact is, I keep forgetting. His age is somewhere in between 50 and 60. In reality, deep down I don’t care how old he is, or anyone else really. I’m curious to know approximately how old a person is because that gives me a clue to who he or she is. I have much more in common with someone over 40 than I do with someone younger. I feel younger at 46 than I did at 36. Another cliché. Well, there you go.

******************************

July 25, 2007

More Macaroni and Cheese, Please
by Laura K. Bennett

        I do almost all of the cooking in my household. Every week, I plan out a menu of meals for my family. My goal is to provide food that is nutritious but edible – I guess better than edible. Sometimes I present food in an attractive way, especially when we have company. What does that tell you? Well, last night I took lots of care to cut the pineapple according to the complicated instructions on the tag. I must say I could have presented it at a luau – it looked beautiful. The pineapple became a boat-shaped container for the sliced fruit. No one touched it but me. In fact, Nick, my middle son, covered up his face with his t-shirt and begged me not to bring it to the table. He hates pineapple and thought that merely looking at it would ruin his appetite.
        I’m not giving up, though. Like most mothers, I want my kids to try a variety of foods, and you never know if the presentation of the food will spur consumption. On the other hand, I only insist that they try one bite. That’s probably because I vividly recall the time when I sat at the table as a child for at least two hours for refusing to eat yams. Kids are kids, and mine are just as picky as other kids can be. On a positive note, I am lucky that all of my kids like broccoli, unlike some Presidents that I recall.
        Even though I try to include new foods once in a while, we do repeat a lot of the same meals. For instance, at our house we eat a lot of macaroni and cheese. We eat a certain brand: Annie’s Shells and White Cheddar Cheese. There’s a running joke at our house. I announce that we’re trying something new for dinner and I think they’ll like it. Then I produce the macaroni and cheese. The kids’ part is to feign surprise and make a big deal about how good the meal is. Wow, they tell me, we should have this more often. Even their friends know the routine.
        The bottom line is that meal time is so much more than just a time to eat. It’s a time when we can be together as a family and slow down for a bit. I’m not the first one to point out the deep message of love in the ritual of the preparation of food and eating it. Often, we need to be reminded that our lives together as a family are just a series of moments. I hope someday Nick will serve his son macaroni and cheese and smile at the memory. It’s more likely, though, that he’ll remember the pineapple.

**********************

July 4, 2007

I’m Done with Mean
by Laura K. Barrett

    Yes, you heard me. I’m done with Mean. I’m done with mean people, mean intentions, mean-spiritedness. I’m warning you: If you try to be mean to me, I’m not putting up with it. I don’t deserve being treated that way, and neither do you; you don’t have to take it, either.
    Of course, that doesn’t mean that I will be able to stop myself from being mean again. That’s an absolute that I can’t guarantee. If I had to be honest, I’d predict that I'll be mean again, maybe even today. But one thing I can assure you is that I’m trying not to be mean. In fact, I’m trying to be kind.
    Yes, I’m one of those Liberal Hippie Wannabes. I meditate and think positive thoughts about others.
    The reality is that you always have a choice, even when you think you don’t. For instance, when you start feeling that you’re going to blow, you can learn to catch yourself. It’s not going to be easy, that’s for sure. This morning I had the twelfth phone call to my cable company in the last two weeks. Really, if we’re counting the last month, I’ve spoken to my cable company upwards of 25 times. You can imagine my frustration. I had waited all day a week ago, but the cable guy did not show up. This morning, they couldn’t guarantee a service call today. I hung up the phone and stomped my foot. My youngest son was watching me. I felt like screaming and throwing the phone across the room. Instead I looked into his eyes. He looked afraid of me. I exhaled and calmed down.   I told him that I was very upset but that I was going to hope for the best. And guess what, an hour later the cable guy showed up.
    The moral is that I started with myself, as you should. It really is a worn-out expression that we can only control ourselves, but that’s the truth. So because I was able to catch myself, I was able to stop myself from creating a mean spirit. I can’t control when the cable guy is going to show up, but I can control my reaction.
    The first step is to be kinder to yourself. Whenever you’re trying to make any change, start with yourself. From there, you radiate out to those you love. I’m kinder to my children. It starts from there, because that’s the easiest place to start. Take the easiest road first because then you have the best chance at success. Once you succeed a time or two, it will get easier to catch yourself.
    In Buddhist terms it’s called practicing the Art of Loving Kindness. In Christian terms, I’d say it’s practicing the Golden Rule. Whatever terms you want to use, there is no downside. Kindness and compassion for others brings more back to you.

**********************

June 13, 2007

Gray Hair
by Laura K. Barrett

        “I don’t want a wife with gray hair.” That’s what my friend said to his wife. Mind you, he has salt-and-pepper (gray) hair and the beginnings of a beer belly. Whenever I see him, he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of jeans, which is perfectly acceptable, don’t get me wrong.
        The problem is that he expects more from her. It’s important that she be in good shape, physically attractive. She should dye her hair and try to look younger. Plus, shouldn’t she wear a clingy t-shirt that shows off her curves?
        My suggestion to my friend is that he should look in the mirror. He’s aging, too. Is it okay for him to have graying hair? What about his middle? Is he working out and watching what he eats? Does he look his age, or more than his age? Who made the rule that women aren’t supposed to age? Men.
        I want to emulate women who are maturing gracefully, the ones who are letting their hair gray naturally and who don’t get plastic surgery that tucks in their tummies. I find myself noticing and complimenting women who look their age and are proud of themselves. My mother never dyed her hair (and neither did my father). They looked their age, and they looked just fine.

**********************

June 6, 2007

I Want a Man Like Her
by Laura K. Barrett

        The other night, I went out with several women, some of whom I knew a little bit and others I had just met. We were chatting in the car, as women do. At some point, we started discussing creativity. One woman said her husband of many years had just taken up painting again after a long absence. She was very excited about his new passion. His paintings were bringing up a lot of personal issues for him. “Let’s peel away the onion and see all of the layers underneath,” she quipped, referring to the layers of his personality.
        I want a man like her – not like her husband, like her, and that’s what I said. I want a man who paints or writes or sings -- someone creative who wants to “peel away the onion” and to look at what’s underneath, and then tell me about it, of course. Why did you paint that? What does it remind you of? Did you see it in a dream? What does it mean for you? What are you going to paint next?
        The consensus of the group was that there are no men like her.   These wonderful, intelligent women essentially told me not to bother looking. I won’t find one that wants to talk about the inner workings of his mind, of inspiration and motivation and meaning. Maybe that’s true. I’m not sure. But the world is a very big place. I think men and women are more similar than different. We all want to figure out how we fit into the universe.

**********************

May 30, 2007

Model Behavior
by Laura K. Barrett

    Ask the question: What one thing could I do differently?
      That’s the thought that came to me as I sat with a friend and his teenage son at dinner the other night. What if he asked his son that question? Of course, he might get the usual response, “I don’t know.” But what if the dad insisted that he was serious, that he wanted to improve their relationship, that he was willing to try a new way?
      Just asking the question could change their relationship. It would show the son that the dad cared about his view of the world. It would provide a role model of give and take. It would show the teenager that all loving people, even their fathers, especially their fathers, can shift their point of view.
      Let’s say, hypothetically, that the son suggests that the father be less stubborn. The father could agonize over that and worry obsessively that he’s too stubborn. Then he could become the opposite – too flexible or wishy-washy. But, better yet, he could start to notice when he is indeed stubborn, once or twice a day, maybe. Then he could label the behavior – that’s when I’m stubborn. Gradually, he could start to notice before he became ingrained in the stubbornness.
      A shift could occur. Instead of being a nine on a Stubbornness scale of one to ten, he might become a seven-and-a-half. What an improvement. What an example for his son.

**********************************

I Am Laura K. Barrett

by Laura K. Barrett

    The “K” stands for Kathryn. I was named for my paternal and maternal grandmothers, respectively. My household consists of a teenage boy, a nine-year-old, and me. My oldest child has already left home.
    As the mother of three sons, I’ve worked hard to raise them to believe in the equality of the sexes -- although I do feel it’s their job to take out the garbage. Deep down, I worry about how men and women treat each other and hope the next generation will understand the opposite sex better.
    I grew up in the Bay Area and graduated from the University of California at Davis with a major in Economics. For more than ten years, I’ve worked as a copyeditor for a nonprofit dedicated to advocating for children. I’ve worn many other hats including those of accountant and legal secretary. One of my favorite jobs was working in a fabric store.
    For fun, I love to read. My house is filled with books. I’m on a first-name basis with the local librarian. At the moment, I don’t have a TV in my bedroom. I very much enjoy music but I can’t carry a tune. Every day, I take a walk, sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Occasionally, I even go for a jog. Like many other Californians, I practice yoga and meditation. Every summer, I take my family camping. I love to travel, especially to warm-weather locales. If I could live anywhere in the world, I’d choose France. I think French men know what women want.

**********************************