Never Say Die

I’m totally watching Goonies as I write this. One of my favorite movies from my childhood. A bunch of great one-liners.

Remember these ones? “Goonies never say die.”

And.

“Up there it’s their time, but down here it’s our time.”

I think those two lines are relevant to Monday’s post. I had another blog all scheduled for today, but after some of Monday’s comments, I had to touch on this subject once more. (Well, I didn’t have to, per se, but I wanted to, so.)

The thing is, about the time we’ve spent a handful of years working hard, paid a small fortune towards education, and maybe even started families, we’ve unknowingly somehow lost that childlike confidence we had as teens. It’s not something any one person did to us, or even something I think we can avoid necessarily. Life happens. Sometimes things suck. We have to learn, and so learn we do. Up here, it’s our time.

But down there, in teen-ager-hood, life is all about who likes who and who said what on FB, and who attended what party and who got arrested for possession (yes, I said possession). But that’s not all. It’s also about discovering their strengths, their interests, and at some point, figuring out what they really truly want to do with their lives. A great many of them make a lot of these discoveries through books, music, arts, sports, and other mediums often explored in the halls of a high school. But those mediums can only take them so far.

That’s where we—the parents and grownups in their lives—come in. Regardless of what we have chosen for our life paths, we have the power to give them the tools they need to choose their own. By taking risks, by working hard, by doing all the hard things we never thought possible, we teach them by example to never stop pursuing that dream—however elusive it may seem. And rather than telling them, “That’s too hard,” or, “You’re not good enough,” maybe we should be telling them, “It’ll be a lot of work, but you can handle it,” and, “Keep going. I believe in you.”

It’s a win-win, don’t you think? Because we all need someone to believe in us, someone who will remind us to never say die.

Who is that someone for you?

Do They Know?

After last week’s discussion about encouraging—rather than discouraging—our children in their creative efforts, I started to wonder. Do my kids know how much faith I have in them? Do they truly understand what they can do if they really commit themselves?

My kids aren’t little anymore. In fact, they’re on the cusp of adulthood. As they make this transition, will they spread their wings and take off? Or will they burrow into a hole and be afraid of the desires of their hearts?

Granted, most of us end up somewhere in the middle and walk into adulthood on legs—and there’s nothing wrong with that. But I have to wonder. If we knew—really, truly knew—our own potential when we were teens, would we have chosen to walk? Or would we have run? Or maybe found wings?

I don’t know the answer to that particular what if, and I have no regrets. I love where I am in life. But I wonder about my kids. Do they know what they can do?

I don’t know for sure one way or another. But I can help them realize their potential. I can help them find the things they love most in life and excel at them.

I—their mother—have the power to give my children the ability to fly. I just have to remember to use it.

So there you have it. This week’s profound parenting thought.

*Don’t forget to stop by my book review blog and see my review of a fab new book, Perilous by Tamara Heart Heiner and enter to win one of several fantabulous prizes, including a Kindle!

More Socks Wisdom: Teamwork

When I was young, I thought that the primary job of a parent was to teach your children. What I didn’t realize was that the job is something of a fifty-fifty deal. For everything I try to teach my kids, they turn around and teach me something back. Not on purpose, but that’s pretty much how it works for us.

So, Happy and Sneezy are on this indoor soccer team, Who Stole the Socks. And the first thing the team taught me is how important it is to play for fun first, and competition last. (Confused? See this blog.) I think that’s a big lesson for some adults, including me. Adults sometimes forget that life is supposed to be fun.

Anyway, by the end of their first indoor soccer season, these girls had learned to play together. Not only that, they’d figured out how to play strategically. And their coach, now that he was getting to know each girl, had a pretty good idea of their strengths and weaknesses, and how to use them to the best advantage.

As life goes, no two girls have the same skills, so as they continued playing together, each girl's individual, raw talent became evident, and the coach started playing certain pairs together depending on the skills of the opposing team. Individually, each player was strong. But together, the team dominated the field.

They helped each other, they learned from each other, they cried when someone got hurt, and they cheered when one of them scored. And always, always, win or lose, they kept the solid rule of cartwheels on the field when the game was over. They’ve been the epitome of good sportswomen.

The second thing the Socks taught me is why it’s important to be part of a team.

However solitary a work writing can be, I would never be where I am without my team. My writing friends help me when I have a question, teach me when I need to learn, cry with me when I get rejected, and get excited when I have good news. And always, always, win or lose, someone always reminds me to do a cartwheel on the field at the end of the day.

I’m playing the game because I love it, and learning as I go. And one of these days, when I score a winning goal, my team will be there to cheer me on. Just as I will be there for them.

Thanks for being part of my team.

More Lessons from Happy

We’ve talked about this before. I think it’s entirely possible that my kids teach me far, far more than I’ll ever teach them. But this is a good thing, because I’ve discovered that kids are inherently wise, even before they become privy to worldwide flaws.

Take, for instance, my daughter, Happy. It seems like there is always an excess of drama going on in her life. I’m not necessarily sure why, except that she tends to think and talk more like an adult than a pre-teen and other kids often take offense to that. Anyway, last month she had a birthday. And being the bad mother I am, I somehow allowed the month to fly by without making plans to host a birthday party with all her friends. The truth is, there just wasn’t a good day for one that week. So, we decided on a day a few weeks later, and Happy started talking to her friends about it.

This could be a long story, so I’ll shorten it. Another little girl decided to have a party that same weekend, and invited all the same kids. She didn’t, however, invite Happy. In fact, she made a point to discuss her party with other kids in front of Happy, and to let her know that she wasn’t invited.

Happy didn’t cry at first, because like I said, she has a tendency to think like a grownup, and because of that, internalized the hurt, then worked it out physically by going running. She did, however, ultimately decide to cancel her own party because she became convinced that none of her important friends would come due to the other party. That is how valuable she felt. And she took it better than I might have.

Until later. The evening of the other girl’s party, I went to Happy’s room to tell her goodnight and discovered her sobbing into her pillow—hoping I wouldn’t hear. She had her cell phone clutched in her hand, and after I pried it away, I scrolled through the incoming messages to discover that the other girls—the ones at the party—had been taunting her all evening by saying things like, “We’re having so much fun. Don’t you wish you were here?”

There were lots of those texts. From different girls. No wonder Happy was sobbing. I felt like sobbing too.

My first instinct was to intervene. To call parents and teachers and everyone else and fix the situation for her. I spent the rest of the night coming up with all the ways in which I had failed her, and how I could possibly make this right. But the truth is I couldn’t take away her hurt. No one could.

The next school day, I picked Happy up, waiting for an explosion of emotion. But Happy held it in. She put on a brave face, claimed her day was fine, then closed herself in her room. I let her have some time, then decided to offer something I would never before have considered. I went into her room where she’d been crying again and said, “Let’s reschedule your party. You can invite everyone except the girl who didn’t invite you.”

Yes, I realize I was being a tad vindictive. But I was angry that my baby was so hurt. However, she surprised me. She said, “Mom, I could never do something that mean. Even if I hate that girl, I would never, ever make someone else feel the way they made me feel.”

Um. Yeah. She could’ve knocked me over with a feather. Though, I don’t know why I was shocked. That’s the way Happy has always been.

She then proceeded to calmly explain her new birthday celebration plans, which included only two close friends and an amusement center. When I asked her if she was sure she didn’t want a party, or if she wanted me to call parents (you know, as a fall-back) she said, “No. I can handle this. I’m not a baby. Just because they made me cry doesn’t mean I won’t survive. Besides, I don’t want to hang out with people who don’t want to hang out with me.”

Again, shock. I know these things about her already. But Happy just turned twelve. Did I mention she has a tendency to act more like a grownup than some adults?

See, here’s the thing. Somehow, Happy and I tend to end up in similar places at similar times. I’m starting to think that these things happen to her in order to teach me how to deal with my own issues. Because her thinking and her reactions are more logical and more—well, sane—than mine. In recent months, she has taught me how to rise above adversity, how to make the best of an unhappy situation, and how to react to hurtful comments and situations with love and understanding.

Happy is a twelve-year-old grownup. And she taught me something else this time. Happy has convinced me that when something hurts, it’s okay to cry.