Who’s Superior?

Did you read Amy Chua’s article, “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior” in the Wall Street Journal? In the two weeks since it was published, Chua has received hundreds of emails, and even death threats because of her parenting style.

Ms. Chua insists that her daughters receive all A’s in school, not attend sleepovers or play dates, never watch television or play video games and that she choose all their extracurricular activities.

Ms. Chua claims that she herself was raised by these very methods and is now a wife, mother of two, and a successful professor of law at Yale (and now a bestselling author). If this is the definition of success, then Ms. Chua has achieved the American dream.

Chua says that Chinese mothers would never accept it if their child came home with a “B” on a test. My eldest daughter, Alexa, who gets “A’s” in school, received a “B” on her recent honors Biology exam. I know my daughter is capable of a higher grade and I am unsure where she faltered. I know she studied late into the night for the test and that she really did attempt to master the material. And so, my response was to tell Alexa that her grade was ok and that I was certain she did her best.

When I was Alexa’s age, I received A’s and B’s in school. My parents never pushed me to get all “A’s” and so, I never really felt any external or internal pressure to do so. There have been many times that I have wondered whether a nudge from mom and dad would have helped me to achieve my fullest potential. It has been convenient all along the way to place parental blame for my lack of competitive edge.

I can’t help but feel torn with my own daughter over whether I should be more like Chua or more like my own parents with regard to her academics. I want Alexa to have balance in her life between school and extracurriculars of her choosing. The stress of academics could compromise her social development which, in my estimation, is also of high import. But, if I don’t help her to realize her potential, will she resent me later? Is it my responsibility as her parent to push her when I know she is capable and can handle it?

Like Chua, and most parents, I want my daughters to be successful. I’m just not as certain what defines success. Perhaps, straight A’s and piano performances at Carnegie Hall (Chua’s oldest daughter achieved this after hours of practice and drilling by her “tiger” mother) will lead to Harvard or Yale. But, then again, maybe a few “B’s” and some sleepover parties with the dance team will lead to a well-balanced and socially confident young woman who will have an equally or exceedingly happy and fulfilling future.

I know I don’t have the answers. I certainly could not proclaim in any article to be “superior” as did Chua. Maybe some day, it will be convenient for me to be the scapegoat for my own daughter’s perceived shortcomings in life. Then again, Chua’s daughters may feel the same about her. They can write about it in their best-selling books, or on their blog page.

2011
01/23
CATEGORY
parenting
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Sweet Fifteen

I have a confession: I cried at the Taylor Swift concert. No, not full-blown, silly drunken girl, snot running down my face sobbing. But, admittedly, a few tears flew away from me during Miss Swift’s crooning of “Fifteen.”

When I arrived at the concert with my eight-year old daughter, seven-year old niece, and my sister, the D.C. Verizon Center was already packed with (of course) mostly teenaged girls wearing shorts and cowboy boots. I had not received the memo.

My friend was seated nearby with two of her teen-aged daughters and their friends.
“This crowd makes me feel really old!” I whined.
“We are old.” She stated plainly.
“Are we?” I asked. I still have trouble grasping what to others is a plainly obvious fact. Past forty, one is most certainly not young. But, old?
“Yes.” She affirmed with a resigned shrug.

Taylor Swift marched onto the stage in a flashy version of a high school band costume. I knew right away the song was “You Belong With Me.” (I had seen the video a dozen times in my cycling class at the gym). Like all of her songs, Miss Swift tells a story through the lyrics. The story is usually of her love for a boy. This particular boy loves someone else (a cheerleader!) who is mean to him and not worthy of his affections. In the end, he comes around and falls into the long, thin arms of Taylor Swift.

A lot of Taylor Swift’s love songs do not have such happy endings. She laments in one about a boy who she loved, but who never saw her as more than a friend. This boy is one of many that broke her heart and rode off into the proverbial sunset with a hotter, more popular girl (I’m sure they’re all sorry now.)

The entire concert was like being in some kind of girl-group therapy or cult-club. At one point, Taylor Swift tells the audience that boys don’t like it when she writes lyrics about the horrible things that they do. Then she tells the audience that if the boys don’t want her to write those lyrics then, “They Shouldn’t Do Bad Things.” The entire audience erupted into ear banging cheers and applause.

What makes Taylor Swift so appealing to all these teenagers is that she is a teenager herself (or, at twenty, is close enough). She writes her own lyrics about the pains of not fitting in and not having her high school dreams come true. She is a real-life version of our 1980′s Molly Ringwald movie characters who struggled to find true happiness during the period of high school angst. We know Taylor Swift is beautiful and famous, and yet, she makes it clear that she was not always the most popular girl who got all the hot guys she wanted. Everyone can relate to her. Everyone.

Half way through the concert, Taylor Swift sat on a stool, took out her guitar and the lights dimmed. The stadium filled to the top with young—very young, teenage girls, held up the lights of their cell phones and light-glow sticks and the room twinkled and sparkled around us. As Miss Swift started her song, no one moved, but when she hit the chorus, the girls all jumped from their seats and belted out along with her:

When you’re fifteen and
Somebody tells you they love you
You’re gonna believe them
And when you’re fifteen feeling like
There’s nothing to figure out
But count to ten, take it in
This is life before you know
Who you’re gonna be
Fifteen

Perhaps I had never focused on the actual words before. Maybe the second half of my light beer had gone to my head, or the earlier tribute to the war veterans who sat behind me stirred something. Or it could have been that I was overwhelmed by the incredibly bright faces surrounding me. They reminded me of myself and others I had known so intimately many years ago.—At times each seemed also to take the form of one of my own daughters standing and singing before me.

Whatever the reason, I was transported–no longer the middle-aged mother witnessing a concert meant for my daughter. A quarter of a century evaporated until at once I too was fifteen.

And then, I wept. I sat in the dark and let the tears roll down my face. At first, I cried for the boys who broke my heart. Then, I cried for the hearts I had broken. I cried for the magnificent young women all around me. I cried for their unimaginable joys and for all the heartache that none of us could shelter them from. Mostly, I cried for what is irretrievable.

“Mommy, I’m tired!” my eight-year old broke my trance. I wiped my eyes and lifted her.
“Do you think she’ll sing your favorite song next?” I asked.
“That was my favorite.” She said.
“Mine too.” I replied.

I wept at the Taylor Swift concert. I’m glad I still have it in me. Old? A little. But there is a fifteen year old girl somewhere inside who still loves to get sappy when listening to a really good love song– and sometimes even without one.

2010
06/05
CATEGORY
love and marriage
self improvement
Uncategorized
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You Can Dance If You Want To

I’ve been thinking a lot about the recent controversy concerning the seven-year old girls who performed a highly skilled dance to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies.” on You Tube (http://www.youtube.com/user/kyubiboy2522#p/a/u/0/tnTyvqYT3Y8). The posting from the World of Dance Competition received several hundred thousand views and comments.
Here’s what some of them said:

“Parental stupidity and hyper sexualization gone crazy”

“The outfits are revealing enough that grown ups could be arrested for indecent exposure or soliciting prostitution, depending on location.”

“This hyper-sexualization of young women is linked to three of their most common mental health complaints: eating disorders, depression, and low self-esteem. “

The discussion made it to the ladies on ABC’s, The View who debated whether the parent’s were irresponsible to allow their daughter’s to wear revealing clothing and to dance with “the open leg movements.” (Joy Behar).

The whole thing strikes very close to home with me as my own daughters perform all too similar dances in competitive forums as well. Recently, I sat in an audience as my own eleven year old daughter, half-clad in bright metallic red, crawled beneath the legs of several other young dancers. She emerged front and center, batted her thick black false lashes, paused, and then spun her body with precision, rhythm, and drama to Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.”

Later, my fourteen year-old daughter’s legs emerged out of fake snow on the stage floor to the music lyrics: “hot as ice, cold as fire.” Her costume? Silver “booty shorts,” silver-sequins halter top, fake eye-lashes.

There are much younger girls too. Nine-year olds in shiny black short skirts with high boots high-kicked to “It’s Raining Men.” Six and seven-year olds in hot-pink halter tops and “booty shorts” with fake lashes and red lipstick shook and leapt to Madonna.

Is it wrong? Risque? Too out there for young girls? Is it, like the You Tube commentators protest, “too overtly sexual for young girls?” I would argue that it is the critics that are wrong.

I watched the You Tube video and could not help but admire the skill of the young girls’ dance routine. At only seven or eight years of age, these girls are performing at a level that many adults can never achieve. Their costumes revealed their mid-sections, but how are they skimpier than a bathing suit? Dance is a sport for which body conscious clothing has always been acceptable. Ballet dancers (male and female) have been wearing next to nothing for several decades.

Certainly, there are many other sports for which body conscious clothing is considered uniform: men and women’s figure skating and gymnastics are two that come to mind. Men’s wrestling shows a young man’s form, as does men’s competitive swimming.

And what about the “provocative gyrations?” Dance itself, an ageless art, is about the movement of the body. One simply cannot achieve the art and sport of dance without moving body parts. Ballet, jazz, lyrical, contemporary, tap, modern, and hip hop are all forms of dance– each with it’s own interpretation of movement, and each necessitating movement of various body parts. The young girls in the You Tube video moved their parts quite well and achieved beautiful dance results. Period.

The vociferous opponents of the young You Tube dancers and their parents are also missing the bigger picture: this is good for the kids! Our girls spend many hours taking dance classes after school and on weekends to perfect their skills. There are even more hours rehearsing and performing on weekends in shows and dance competitions with their mostly female peers.

The excessive exercise keeps them fit, regimented and happily, too busy to hang out at the malls or spend much time surfing the web. Translation: dance, like many sports, keeps young people out of trouble. Most of their time is spent hanging out with other young girls.

When the dance competition is over, the girls clean off the makeup, put away the shiny silvery shorts and pull on their denim and sweats. (Spoiler alert: costumes are just costumes; the princesses at Disney World are not real either).

After all, in the end, our daughters know that what they are doing is putting on a performance and accomplishing their sport. My recommendations to the critics: find something to keep yourselves occupied and happy too. Or, sit back, relax, and enjoy the show. And, please, shut up.

2010
06/03
CATEGORY
parenting
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Giving Thanks

I had hoped for a more civilized family gathering when I first planned the night. It was Passover and I had purchased a new table cloth, flowers, and games for the kids. I studied a specialty cook book to find different recipes to try out for the occasion. I shopped for twenty sushi plates to use as personal seder plates for each of my guests and even found magnetic seder plates with boiled egg and chicken magnets for the kids.

As the seder began, my two year old nephew screamed and wriggled in his father’s arms while his twin sister sang “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” with gusto across from him.

I watched Joe, the ninety-five year old husband of my grandmother, turn off his hearing aids. My seven-year old nephew pouted and pulled his kippah over his eyes. The other children threw finger puppet plagues (lice, boils, blood, etc.) across the table at one another. My brother-in-law’s non-Jewish grandmother drank her fourth cup of Manischewitz wine.

My father raced through the story of how the jews escaped Egypt and “why we eat bitter herbs on this night and no other,” in order to get on with the seder meal in peace. Alexa, my eldest, gave me disapproving looks from her perch beside my father.

When the meal began, my mother left the table for the living room to change my niece and nephew’s diapers and watch them play as their au pair left for the night. My youngest sister argued with her husband about a feeding mix up with her toddler and then also left the table.

My brother-in-law’s grandmother sat alone quietly sipping her wine. “I’m glad you could make it.” I commented. “Did you enjoy the seder?” She stared at me blankly. “Heidi, is their more matzo ball soup?” my father called from the other end of the table.

There is no getting away from the reality that as families grow, holidays and other times of togetherness become increasingly stressful. No sooner do we learn to cope with our own peculiar family dynamics than we have to add on the in-laws and even family of in-laws to the mix: sisters’ husband’s mother’s rantings; husband’s second cousin’s unending tales, “close-talking spittle” of a great-aunt. We have to tolerate one another’s kids, spouses, odors, eating habits, pets, dandruff, and dry brisket.

My desire to run away from it all and book a trip to Florida rather than subject myself to another holiday celebration is compelling. But, my daughters would not envision a holiday celebration without their aunties, grand-parents and cousins. They value the moments of togetherness despite and perhaps even because of the turmoil. I suppose that even with the inevitable “mishegoss,” that I know my daughters are right.

This week, I have invited my extended family for a traditional holiday Thanksgiving with three hundred other guests at our club. No, it is not a warm, home-cooked meal and environment. However, I have eliminated several precursors to strife: preparation and clean up will be nonexistent. The children will be able to leave the table for the play-room when they become antsy. My sisters can bring their in-laws as there will be plenty of room and food for all who care to come.

In my fantasy holiday dream, the wine will flow, the family will dine, the kids will play while their parents converse, laugh, and toast. In reality, to survive another holiday free of strife is a blessing for which I will be very thankful.

2009
11/24
CATEGORY
self improvement
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Sign,Sign,Everywhere A Sign

stick figureJillian points
at the window sticker on the blue Town and Country minivan in front of us. The sticker consists of a white stick figure family all with big smiling faces. “Look, Mommy! They have three kids and a dog!”
“Uh huh.” I say. I’ve begun to see this type of “family advertisement” everywhere and it irks me.

Ever since people began to drive automobiles marketers have carefully designed campaigns to associate a certain type of automobile with a certain type of person. We all know that mini-vans are “mom-mobiles” and that bald-headed men over 35 like to trade in sedans for flashy sports cars. (Ok, I know, not all moms drive mini-vans and not all bald-headed men drive sports cars– but, you get the point.)

But, now that the type of car one drives is not enough of a statement. There is a trend toward affixing identity banners to one’s car. We’ve all seen the “My Child is an Honor Student at (fill in the blank) school.” Some car owners prefer the vanity plate approach. I’ve nearly had car accidents trying to decipher them (i.e. “1 GR8MOM” and “2FST4U”). There are license plate holders trimmed in the names of colleges or other institutions (“U of Michigan Alumnae-Go Blue!”). Still others love those white oval stickers with the simple black lettering informing a passerby of where the driver vacations or has as second home -(PB) or (TI)- you figure it out.

Bumper stickers with peace signs, Barack Obama’s name, and all types of political, social and religious commentary are common-place as are the ever present Jesus fish metal car accessories. All contain pieces of information the car owner wants to convey about herself.

In the grocery store parking lot, I notice two other family-sticker cars. One, an SUV, has a mommy and daddy toting brief cases (double-income couple, I presume) and three boys: one with soccer ball, one with baseball bat and one with a guitar. An old green mini-van has a sticker with two dogs, one cat, a daddy who works, a mommy who runs, two daughters (one a tennis player and the other a dancer) and a baby of unknown gender.

The anorectic white figures (do they come in other colors?) get me thinking about my own family. It’s true that when asked (and aren’t we all asked way too often) what my kids “do,” I have a very clear answer. Alexa is a dancer, Claire dances too, but is also an artist, and Jillian plays piano (she just started, really) and dances. I finish off with, “and all three swim.”

When I walk away from these conversations, I have a yucky sense that I’m too quickly giving into convention by classifying my kids in this way. Of course my girls are so much more than an activity (that they may or may not like to do, but that they are committed to for a nine month period since deposits are non-refundable.)

Coming up with clear answers when asked who we are is part of our social make-up. It starts early on and never really ends. “Where do you/did you go to school?” “Where do you live?” “Where did you grow up?” “What temple/mosque/church do you attend?” “Are you a democrat?” “What do you do?” What we really want to know is: “Are you making more/less money than I am?” “Are you smarter, deeper, more religious or philanthropic than I am?” “Are you happier with your children, spouse or life?” “Are you having more/less sex?”

What I would really like to see is an honest stick figure sticker representation of an American family. Maybe it looks like this: Stick figure Daddy stressing over bills, stick figure Mommy laying exhausted on a sofa with a martini, stick figure big brother smoking pot in his bedroom, stick figure little brother hitting stick figure big sister who has cell phone stuck to her ear, and stick figure puppy making a stick figure poop on the living room carpet. That, along with one of those bumper stickers that reads: “Daddy Farted and We Can ‘t Get Out” really makes my day.

2009
10/21
CATEGORY
parenting
1 comment

Mammogram

mammogramThe letter read that I needed to schedule a second mammogram for “further imaging.” There was no explanation beyond that, and I assumed the initial pictures were unclear. I have no family history. I’ve had three or four mammograms without incident.

But, when I entered the lab for further “images,” the technician had a different story to tell. “The doctors may have seen something.” She said plainly. “We need further images of your right breast. Put on this robe and I will come for you momentarily.”

I undressed and used the baby wipes to remove the deodorant from my underarms as instructed by the technician. I dutifully waited to be called. “Ms. Brodsky.” She said. “Follow me.”

We entered the same room where my original mammogram had taken place. She took my right breast out from the thin orange robe and placed it on on the cold metal apparatus that takes the pictures of the inside of my breast. “Turn your head to the left. Lean forward. Look this way.” She recited with breath that smelled like a rotting onion. I followed her directions. “Don’t breathe.” She demanded as the machine beeped and then paused. “You may breathe.” She stated, probably for the fortieth or fiftieth time today.

She waited for the image to appear on her screen, looked at it momentarily, and then approached me again. “We need to smooth out a wrinkle.” She said as she grabbed my breast and twisted it to the right. Then she lowered the heavy metal “smoosher” onto my breast until it lay like a pancake on the metal plate. “Now stay still.” She demanded. “Don’t breathe.” The machine beeped and then paused. “You may breathe.” She said. “We are done.” She said. I removed my lifeless breast from the machine and closed the flap of the robe over it. “Follow me. ” said stinky breath.

“What now?” I asked.
“Sit in this room with the other women.” She said. “Someone will be with you soon.” There were six other women in the room. All were bra-less beneath the light fabric of the various colored robes they wore. One had large breasts that sagged to her waist. Two others were small with tiny pert breasts. I wondered how the technician placed those small lemon breasts onto the metal platform of the mammogram machine.

Two women were covered in religious tunics from head to toe. All six read magazines or fiddled with their cell phones texting loved ones or business associates while they waited. I took a pamphlet from the pile on the table beside me. I read about breast cancer and mammograms, biopsies and statistics. After forty minutes, my technician returned. “The doctor wants another image of your right breast.” She stated. “Follow me.”

I returned to the original room and placed my right breast on the apparatus. “I will place it.” The technician snapped as she twisted my C-cup and smooshed it beneath the heavy weight of the mammography machine. “Don’t breathe.” She said. “I know, I know.” I thought as we went through the ritual again.

I returned to the waiting room. One of the women had left. The other five remained. I looked at them wondering if they were mothers like me. Were they married, single, professionals or students? Did they fear the worst or had they been here before? Did any of them have family histories? Did they read the brochure? Did they know that one in eight of us would have a malignancy?

“Ms. Brodsky,” the technician interrupted my thoughts. “The doctor ordered a sonogram. We’ll be back with you soon.” Then, she left. A sonogram? Did the doctor see something bad? Was my life about to change? I reflected on my age. Could this be a real threat? I thought about the women I knew with breast cancer: those who had won the battle, those who had lost and those who were still fighting. Would I be joining their ranks?

The technician returned and took me to yet another room. “Sit here.” She said. The doctor will be with you. I saw the image of my right breast on the computer screen before me. It looked like a smoky orb or an image of a faraway planet like Jupiter. I squinted. Did I see a small speck? Was there a “calcification” like I had read about in the brochure.

Dr. C entered the room. “Hello.” she offered without meeting my eyes. “I don’t think we have anything to be concerned about.” She started. “The mass only appeared on one image. That is promising.” Is it? I wondered.

She spread a cold jelly over my breast and placed another metal object on my breast. I remembered the sonograms of each of my babies: a small pea with a heartbeat in the center. This was different–empty and still.

“I have an incidental finding.” Said Dr. C. “It looks benign. Let me check it out.” She moved the metal probe along my breast. “See that?” She said while pointing on the screen to an empty dark pea in the milky mass that was my breast. It is a benign cyst– 7 millimeters. Nothing to worry about.” Ok. I thought. A benign cyst. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Yes.” she said, you see, it is fluid-filled.” No, I don’t see. I thought. But, ok.

“You can get dressed.” Said Dr. C. “You’re good. We’ll see you again next year.” I took off the robe, wiped the sticky jelly off my breast and put on my bra and sweater.

As I left the building and headed to my car, I thought of the other six women in the waiting room. One in eight, the pamphlet had said. I prayed that like me, they were spared.

2009
10/11
CATEGORY
Uncategorized
1 comment

Today Sucked

pissed

Ten things I hate about today (in no particular order):
1) Mollie (puppy) takes a very large, very smelly dump on the living room rug.
2) Mollie (puppy) pees on my sisal carpet. (BTW: distilled white vinegar works wonders.)
3) Nurse from Claire’s school calls me to pick her up because she “feels weird.” Turns out Claire has a low grade fever that is hopefully not, but could potentially be the swine flu.
4) Scale is clearly broken. Says I gained three pounds.
5) Decide to run and take two dogs with me to multi-task. Have to stop THREE times along the way to pick up crap. Have to continue running with poop bags hanging on my shorts.
6) Dogs get tangled up with each other eight times.
7) Running through neighborhood, picking up momentum, feeling better, car pulls over to me (to say “way to go?” No.) to say “get out of the f-ing road!”
“Huh?” I say.
“Get out of the f-ing road!”
Shoulders tense up.
8) Keep running. Heading up hill to home. Dogs pulling to check out old woman walking little dog. “Keep your dogs away from my puppy. She hates dogs!” She calls. Hmmm. Walk your f-ing dog in your back yard, I think to myself (but don’t say) as I huff and puff up the hill. Scale still broken.
9) Eat two cookies.
10) Try to get kids to stop fighting. Try to get kids to do homework. Try to get kids to finish dinner. Try to get husband to pick up kid from dance class.
Think about people with attitudes today. Think they must have been acting out due to crappy lives. Hope they have crappy lives. Feel a little bad. Get over it and drink a glass of wine.

2009
09/16
CATEGORY
self improvement
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