The Other Phone Calls



    I was just settling into the notion that phone calls have the potential to bring more bad news than good. That even people off the radar for bearing unwelcome tidings can do just that.




    When the phone rang.




    Michael had gone on a school trip, had had a great time (he said) and he had returned safely.

    
But the phone conversation began with –“I just wanted to talk to you about Michael’s behavior on the trip.”

    
Aaargh.




    I knew what was coming, had been here before.




    I took a breath.




    Steadied myself against a range of emotions -frustration, anger, disappointment.




    So I may have missed the first few words.

    
And then I heard “…exemplary….”




    Huh?




    It could’ve been an April Fool’s joke, but it was Mother’s Day. The interesting thing, though, was that the woman wasn’t intentionally giving me a gift. At least, I don’t think she was.




    For one thing, although she knows Michael, she has no sense of his less-than-stellar behavior at home. She actually likes him.




    But still her accolades went well beyond telling me he was a good kid, a help to her and the other chaperones and students. 

    
She was effusive.




    I tried not to act incredulous.

    
And this is where my sister-in-law would counsel me well. She’d tell me to enjoy it, revel in it even. But beware –it won’t last.

    
This isn’t about her being negative. To the contrary, Dawna’s both an optimist and a realist. It’s the latter trait that’s in play here.

    
Under the been-there-done-that chapter of parenting, Dawna gets to shine a bright light at what might be up ahead in the all too dark teen tunnel.




    But it works both ways.







    When she was in the deepest depths of her own underground cavity with regard to my nephew, I’d often call with the simple phrase: I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jonathon’s great with me.




    So when she called after hiring Michael to do yard work, it was easy to picture her, phone in hand, watching her happy nephew smiling as he raked twigs and piled brush into a wheelbarrow.




    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said to me. “He’s great.”




    But of course, she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

    
And faced with so many perfect parents and their perfect kids in tiny Toon Town, it’s kind of reassuring to know that at least among my own, I am not alone.




    The phone can ring and bring good news and they’ll be someone to benevolently remind me that it doesn’t change everything that came before it. I can still post to a blog titled: Kids Suck.




    And if it rings in answer to the fears we all silently share, they’ll be someone to help pick up the pieces of me after the news.







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An Internship in Life



    Musing upon the what-ifs that lottery jackpots often spawn, someone recently asked me what I would do if money wasn’t a factor. I can’t remember who. That’s an issue lately, but I digress. I do that too -again, another issue.

    
Back to the windfall that grants dreams, though.




    My answer was too quick, too honest, too sappy. But it explains a lot.




    Like why I work with kids (okay, technically they’re adults) and love it even though it was never part of the plan.




    And why I can sit for hours tweaking writing for which I don’t get paid and spend much less time on the kind of writing that pays (little, tiny) bills.

    
If I could do anything at all for work, I’d do exactly what I’m doing right now. 

    
In different proportions, perhaps. Squeezed in-between travels around the world. But –I’d still work. I’d still write. I’d still hang around college kids.

    
Which brings me to the ill-titled blog which generates an unexpected number of monthly hits.




    This week marks Kidssuck’s one year anniversary.




    I didn’t know what it was going to be when I started it. Most days, I still don’t. But I’m still having fun with it. And you’re still reading it.

    
Thanks for that.




    Thanks also for allowing me to be less of a hypocrite when I advise my kids and my students to choose a job to do because they love it.




    With the certainty one might observe that the tide will rise, Kelley once told me that this is what I’m supposed to be doing –this writing thing. It took me decades to put my work out there, longer still to call myself “writer” when someone asked what I do. Odd, really. Because it’s as much a part of who I am as is my heritage, the color of my eyes. I can’t change it.

    
I tell everyone of the next generation who will listen: Do what you love. Don’t worry about the money.

    
It wasn’t the advice I received as a kid.




    Doesn’t matter. 




    I pretend I’m not as old as I am and I’m finally following my own advice. 

    
It’s like I’m on internship now, trying on pieces of a profession or two for size, adjusting their fit as I go. Every new job, new client, new story seems to produce another; they’re self-propagating. 

    
Instead of following a traditional path for someone my age, I’m forging one of my own. 

    
Maybe that’s why I get along so well with the college kids. On many days, I still feel like I’m just starting out. I make mistakes, ignore reality a lot, think about what-ifs far removed from lottery winnings.

    
And write.




    So, thank you. For being with me on the site’s anniversary. For joining me in these stream-of-consciousness jottings. And for giving me someone for whom to write -besides just me.






Binge and Purge


    My 14-year-old nephew has a Twitter account. He also has 1146 friends on Facebook. And apparently, quite a following on both. 

    
When it comes to social media, I’ll admit I’m a few steps behind. Matty might say light years –particularly after he offered a rudimentary tutorial on IPad usage and was receptacle to some pretty 20th century questions regarding a 21st century device. Suffice it to say, he’s there. We’re not.




    Still, I have dipped my toes into the social networking pond, if not its ocean. I’m on Facebook, I have a Twitter account (Okay, so I don’t actually remember my account name or login, but I do have one. Seriously though, how much of a following are my treks to the produce section of Market Basket likely to produce?). 

    
But obviously, I blog.

    
See, I’m almost cool.




    My son would disagree.




    And perhaps he’s right.




    Because, try as I might, there are aspects of the genre to which I still feel an ill fit. Although many of my peers have embraced the connectedness that Facebook offers, I have trouble with one of its most basic premises: friending.




    Now that I think of it, I didn’t foresee the word friend becoming a verb. I am old. Befriend make senses to me. I get to make a conscious choice to be someone’s friend: befriend. 

    
Friending is a whole other animal.




    And quite an aggressive one, sometimes.




    There’s pressure on both the requester and the requested friend. And therein oft lays my dilemma.




    The (poor) marketer in me knows FB is an excellent tool for self-promotion. I get that’s where I’m supposed to go; it’s just hard to get there from where I came. We were taught NOT to speak too well of ourselves. The “me” kids came just after us and we didn’t think much of them.

    
I’m also uneasy with how Facebook has devalued a word I hold in pretty high regard: Friend.

    
Matty can’t possible have 1148 (the number’s risen since I started writing) friends. Not in any sense of the word to which I can relate.

    
One of the sites for which I write recently urged me to join its network. A principal of the company suggested I “friend everyone in the beginning in order to build a following. (You can always ‘unfriend’ later, if need be.).”




    Good advice, I’m sure. But I like neither concept –making friends with strangers. Or unfriending them when I realize they’re wacko.

    
See, in spite of the stream-of-consciousness with which I post here, I’m actually a private person. I choose the people with whom I share my life pretty carefully. Facebook is the antithesis of that philosophy.




    I’m also basically a nice person. Unfriending someone doesn’t sound very nice to me.

    
But as I watch Matty’s friends accumulate, (1151, now)I’ve learned of another trend. Posts to Facebook abound stating more-or-less: if you can read this, you’re still my friend; consider yourself lucky.




    Hmmm.




    Mixed feelings again. It’s a strong ego that feels his/her friends are the lucky ones and not the other way around.




    On the other hand, Facebook purging makes sense when the binging has gone on for too long. Some of my students have shared with me when they’re unfriending their friends. Their decisions usually follow a sound trajectory. And while I might have advocated them choosing wisely from the get-go, I’m all for their newfound selectivity. 

    
Could this be another example of the maturity I’ve witnessed with them through their years at my school?




    Probably.




    While my 20-something students are rethinking who they’re willing to call friend, even on Facebook, Matty’s friend list is at now 1152.




    And climbing.