Children's "social" life?

If you're old enough to read this blog, then, likely, your parents didn't post pictures and videos of you on the internet.  Not on Facebook.  Not on Instagram.  Not on Twitter.  And they certainly didn't "snap" your mug and let it play on Snapchat.


But we do. Most of us do.  I'm guilty. In fact, a May 2014 study shows 27 million women in the U.S. identify themselves as mothers on Facebook.  And we all post, post, post.


All my mom ever really did was occasionally embarrass me by demanding a hug and kiss at school drop-off.  (I didn't want anyone to see).  On special occasions, she wanted me to pose for a picture.  I obliged, but always got busy playing outside or riding my horse or dressing up my baby dolls, riding bikes and running free.  When those pictures were developed, I was always among the first to see.  


Now everything is seen by everyone.  Every kiss.  Every hug.  Every moment of play.  Every first-day-of-school photo.  Every last-day-of-school photo.  Every birthday, birthday cake, birthday party.  Every benign, mundane moment of life.  What we eat for lunch, when we workout, where we vacation, and who we befriend and even date. 


I can't even answer why we do this, so it certainly raises valid questions when it comes to our children.  What are rules are we teaching when it comes to what is sacred, what is secret, what is private and only known by our families?  Are we training them to think that if everything is special every single moment, then nothing is really special in the end? 


I recently read that children born after 2001 are considered "Generation Z," and they're called "Boomlets."  By age four or five, they would rather play with computers and smartphones than traditional toys, like Barbie dolls. 


I agree with that.  Just last night, one of my children grabbed my phone and before hopping on Minecraft, started looking through my Instagram feed (eek, phone grabbed back quickly, as my content is not edited for children!).  Then, a few moments later, the other posed with her neighbor friend and exclaimed "take our picture! put it on snapchat! then let us do a video!" 


WHAT?  At ages eight and six, they know social media.  And they know how to use it.  (disclaimer:  my kids DON'T have phones or social media accounts).


I didn't post what they asked me to post.

But it's a constant struggle. What photos of them do I post? What shouldn't I post?  How often should I post?  And then there's the fact that because of my work, I live a somewhat public life.  But should they?  How public should our children's lives be?   Because when they get older -because of my posts, our posts- they will have led a somewhat public life, too, one they did not choose.  That statement alone makes me never want to post again in protection their privacy.  But I know I will.  And so will most moms I know.


Social media comes down to a simple basic human desire: the need to connect with other humans, to be part of a group.  But does it really connect people?  Doesn't it do the exact opposite?  Do we lose emotional intelligence in the contrived sharing and telling of our stories on the internet and not person-to-person?  What's the mystery of anyone, since all is already known?


I don't know what the payoff will be for these Boomlets.  Or us.  Or what the harm will be for Generation Z having lived life online, in public.  But I can't help but think that with every post, there may very likely be some price to pay. 

"I Hate That Shirt"

Just when you get used to things being one way, they change all over again.


Like every night when we say bedtime prayers..  Our prayer goes like this:  "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray to the Lord my soul to keep.  Keep me safely through the night, wake me when it's morning light. Amen."  We've memorized and recited that prayer nightly for many years.  Until the other night... 


Little-Miss-Independent paused before saying the "Amen" part, and she asked this:  "why in the world do we say 'wake me when it's morning light,' because when I wake up it's always dark?!"


I was speechless.  Had no answer for the 6-year old.


It's just what we do. It's what we've always done.   (I'm not ready for these questions)


Then, the other night we were at my friend's new, amazing restaurant Heights Taco & Tamale Co., and I was wearing jeans, sandals, and a grey Grateful Dead t-shirt (because despite my day-job, anyone who knows me knows I'm an old dead-head hippie at heart).  Well, my son had something to say about it. 


"I hate that shirt."


Okay since when did he have an opinion or even care what I'm wearing.   He's 8. 


Um, why, I ask?


"It's just ugly.  And it's not something moms should be wearing."


The banter went on... something about him cutting it up with scissors later in the night when I take it off.  He told his dad that moms should not be wearing things with skulls on them. 

About this time, the Dead's "Touch of Grey" began playing in the restaurant.  No joke, and had my friend Lee Edwards not reminded me of this, I would've forgotten.  Oh, the irony.  Or just a coincidence?


Anyway, I'm asking myself at this point if I should I dress like a nun in habit?!


I guess the point is:  it had been such a nice run of a couple years, with them repeating what I tell them to repeat; loving everything about their momma; and implicitly trusting everything mom says and does and even wears.  Now, they're asking questions about what they're asked to repeat.  And their brains are working, as they decipher their own likes and dislikes. 


I don't want it any other way.  I love every step, every stage of this journey.  I feel so privileged to be their mom and to watch it all unfold.  This is just another change, and when I get used to it, it'll all change again.  I hope I can accept every shift with grace...  In the meantime, I'm hiding the scissors.

Me (left) wearing the shirt in question with Ben Brainard & Sarah Fortner

First-name basis.....

So this happened.


I politely asked "little-miss-six-year-old-going-on-thirteen" to please pick up her room and make her bed.  Not a huge request, right?


About thirty minutes passed, and I heard happy girl screams outside on the trampoline.  I nicely asked girl-child to please come inside for a moment, which she did.  I figured she had possibly not completed the task I asked of her.


"Did you pick up your room like I asked, sweetie?"


"Yes, DAWN SCOTT, I did!" she replied, with a half-smile and slightly wicked look in her eyes.


Wait, what?  (I can't imagine what my face looked like at this point).  Dawn Scott? dawn scott?  DAWN SCOTT??  What the whaaaaaaa? 


What elementary school-aged child calls their parent by their first name?


"Excuse me?" I asked. (trying not to laugh, trying not to show the seething upset within, trying to understand this new disrespect - or understand if it even was disrespect).


"I even made my bed like you asked, DAWN!"


At that point, boy-child chuckled, and then that chuckle made her laugh-out-loud, and then it turned into full-on roaring with each chiming in, "dawn scott, haha," "dawn scott!"


How does this happen?  Since when is it acceptable to call a parent by their first name?  And are they really serious, or was this just a joke to take my temperature and see how I might react?


I really didn't react at all.  I simply said, "Funny.  Aren't you two just full of it?"  Figuring that not making it a big deal may be the best route to take. 


Then I read an article in the Wall Street Journal, which basically says calling mom or dad by their first name basically means parents are ceding authority to their children.  In other words, it's an attempt by a child to gain the upper-hand. 


I certainly hope that's not the case with my two littles, and I'll just chalk this up as one tiny hiccup as they test the waters of independence from momma.  For now, I'm demanding "yes, ma'am," "yes, sir," "no, ma'am," "no, sir."  And "MOM."

The Why

Confession: I wanted to crawl right back into bed after school drop-off. Just for 30 minutes.

Confession: I crawled back into bed after drop-off.  For an hour.  Maybe two.

It's Monday after all. Had the best weekend, and I was tired. Our team lost the Super Bowl. The house was so quiet, with precious puppy in the bed at my feet. And anyone who knows me knows how much I love my sleep.

But then I hear my late cowboy -grandfather's voice creep in to my slumber - "Life is for the living, you can sleep when you're dead!" He said that so many times, I lost count. He would have his boots on, our horses saddled and ready to go, and I would still be in bed.

I do think sleep is one of the great miracle cures. Behind love and laughter of course. Cure-alls for most anything.

But lately I've been wanting and needing more sleep. Maybe because it's winter, cold, dreary. Doesn't really matter.  It's just that I'm having to talk myself away from the pillow, answering the questions I so effortlessly ask for a living. Especially the why. Why get up? Why put one foot in front of the other each day?  Why do this?  What is the meaning anyway?

Despite life's messes and it's sometimes-inexplicable encounters and experiences, all the times it didn't turn out like I hoped (it usually turned out better), my why is always my children.

I could not imagine a day without them. Could not imagine a day without love, really. It truly is what makes it all worthwhile. Loving each other along the way.  I include a handful more souls, not pictured here (and you know who you are) who, without their presence, I don't know where or who I would be. In any time of confusion, life always circles me back to love.   All the rest is just noise and laughter.  Reasons to justify the why.

So just before I got my lazy bones up, that quiet voice within that speaks so loudly, told me to close my eyes, go back to bed, and stop thinking so much! 

So just before I got my lazy bones up, that quiet voice within that speaks so loudly, reminded me yet again of all the answers I know in my heart to the question of why.   "Life is for the living."  Get up!  Love above all else.  Laugh every chance you get.   And sleep so sweetly when the day is done. 

It is always enough.  

What is your why?

"Our" children

Just the other day, a young foster child who is up for adoption said to me, "I try to be soooo good, Miss Dawn, so I'll get adopted."


Few sweet words, but a painstaking reminder of how incredibly fractured our precious children are at their very core.


Yes, I say "our children" because they are ours.  They are in the care of the state, so we do pay for their basic necessities: food, shelter, and clothing.  We search for safe foster homes and work to get them adopted, if that is what they want.  We are all they have.  Their hope, if they even still have it, is placed in our hands.


Yet so few of us grasp what a responsibility that is.  And while our government and our dollars are earmarked to help the children in our care, who is making sure they become decent citizens?  Because, honestly, after what a lot of them have told me, if I were in their shoes and lived the horror they have, I'm not sure I'd be too invested in caring too much how life turns out for me. 


I've heard a 6-year old, alongside his sister, say he's just "sitting here waiting for somebody to come get us."


A 12-year old told me, "I think about it so much I can barely sleep.  I hope I find the right family for me."


A 13-year old girl shared with me that she felt "fate has ruined my life.  I don't really have a family, yet I do."


And then a child said once "I wake up every morning like 'is it today something's gonna happen?'"


If you haven't seen my series highlighting state foster children up for adoption, please watch.  Every single one of the 111 children I've met and interviewed shares something in common:  they don't feel wanted or loved. 


Imagine for a moment feeling that way.  Imagine for a moment hoping for something that- by our birth right- every one of us deserves.  Yet they don't have it, and their prayers at night include a desperate hope that someone shows up for them.  Shouldn't a family be something that's just there no matter what?   But family isn't there for these blessed children.  


It's almost as if they could so easily become invisible, forgotten. Yet there are literally thousands of state foster children living among us.  They need us.  Not just if they're "good."  Just because they exist.  They are ours.

Post-Christmas Magic

Oh, the holidays.  Happy, happy!  Joy, joy!  Merry, merry!  It's the most wonderful time of the year!  Children especially just have that special little way of making you believe in the magic all over again.  Because with every cell in their tiny little bodies, they believe...  So much bliss, so many traditions, so many presents.

And then, in the middle of it all at our home, that one little word came------>

hate (hāt) verb:   feel intense or passionate dislike for (someone)

It threatened to ruin the holidays.  

"I HATE you!" she screamed.

Yep.  It was uttered at the beginning of what I envisioned would be the start of a brilliant holiday break.  My fantasy went something like this:  visions of sugar-plum fairies dancing all around me and my itty-bittys with constant smiles and happy, easy children.  Children dressed in their cute Christmas outfits, in the best of moods every moment.  Because after-all, SANTA is coming!

Life is just messy, though, isn't it?  Fantasyland is no reality when there are two little lives running around trying to learn how to be.  Perfection is a lark when there's a 6-year old girl and 8-year old boy figuring out what it all means.

It had been a lovely night.  Cozied in by the fire.  And then the venom came...

It always happens like that with children.  The highs and lows are so vast, so quick to change.  Happy and carefree one minute, the depths of despair and hatred the next. 

This was NOT supposed to be part of the holiday break.  I'm not supposed to hear words like "hate" this time of year.  Reality was, exhaustion had set in, and there was just nothing more she could take.  (I'd be exhausted, too, if I were a child in this day and age.  Screen time, elves-on-shelves, school parties, and way too much sugar.)

Calm existed for all of two seconds.

Then, his turn.

"I want a new family." 

What?  Words that cut deep.  No excuse for such talk, but if I'm being real and not living in fantasyland, I do recall running away from home myself a few times, annoyed with my family and all their 'stuff'.  That moment hearing it from your own child, though...  you think you've failed as a mother.  

I wanted to lay down and cry.  And I think I did for a few minutes.  But while I was lamenting their meltdowns by having my own, they managed to quickly turn it all around.

They were whispering how excited they were for momma to open the gifts they made, couldn't wait to see my face.

How can it just flip -so quickly-?

be·lieve/bəˈlēv/ 

verb

accept (something) as true; feel sure of the truth of.

I'm convinced it's because they believe.  They believe in the magic, in the goodness and innocence of life.  They don't get stuck, and they believe at the end of the day that all is well in their little worlds.  They haven't yet seen the horror life can and will bring.  

It's beautiful to watch.  And it's a gift and privilege I'm grateful for each day.  Maybe, just maybe, by watching them, I, too, will believe again.  

Until then, this----->

“I am your mother, the first mile of your road. Me and all my obvious and hidden limitations. That means that in addition to possibly wrecking you, I have the chance to give to you what was given to me: a decent childhood, more good memories than bad, some values, a sense of tribe, a run at happiness. You can't imagine how seriously I take that - even as I fail you. Mothering you is the first thing of consequence that I have ever done.” 

~Kelly Corrigan 

"..a different kind of happy family"

Oh, life's imperfections can be so messy, can't they?!  And just oh-so-perfect all at the same time.

Stay with me, here...

A friend saw a photograph of me, my ex-husband and our children in Florida this summer and asked,  in a bewildered tone, "do y'all vacation together?"  I mean, as if. 

I can tell what the next question is going to be, and I stop it at the pass by explaining how, yes, we have separate sleeping quarters.  Yes, it can get tricky.   Yes, I still love him and always will (he's my babies' daddy afterall).  And no, we're not back together.

Is it perfect?  No.

Is it the dream I dreamt up when I was a little girl? Absolutely not.

Life never is.

And yet, it's all so beautiful, this different kind of happy family.  Who knew this is what we would create?  Who knew it would be so perfect-imperfect?

Merriam-Webster defines imperfect as "defective."  I don't think that's the most accurate definition.  Maybe that's our problem.  Maybe when things aren't going our way or how we think they should be going, we quit looking at it like it's "defective."  Maybe, instead, we need to give ourselves -and each other- a little grace.  That definition is much more appropriate and compassionate:  "a way of moving that is smooth and attractive and that is not stiff or awkward."

Imperfection is so much easier anyway.  So much less pressure.  Plus, children like it.  In fact, we were at the circus a few weeks ago.  When the ringmaster brought the camels out, one of them stopped entirely inside the ring.  It took a moment for the crowd to notice that, well,  the camel had to go!  As in #2.  Dropped it all right there in front of everyone.  My kids couldn't stop laughing.  Later, when they told their grandmother what their favorite part of the circus was - you guessed it.  Camel + #2.

Slowly, I'm learning to love the imperfect parts of life, those spaces and occurrences I used to see as flawed or incomplete.  They are, instead, just as they should be.  My sweet and different little family.  We are happy.  Imperfect.  Growing.  And I am grateful.