DotMoms

MySpace isn't the Big Bad Wolf

By Betsy

Like millions of other American parents, I have a child with a MySpace page. Although my son Alex isn't old enough yet to have a page (kids are required to be at least 14; Alex will be 13 in a few weeks), he asked me first if he could age himself in order to join. After checking it out, I said yes.

And I'm still 100% comfortable with that decision, even though you can't turn around without reading yet another tabloid tale about what a dangerous underword MySpace is, chock full of predators looking for young children to seduce. Or articles bemoaning the way kids use MySpace, whether the concerns are language, rude behavior, or other vulgarities. 

Do I think that kids are naive about the dangers of revealing too much information about themselves online? Absolutely. Do I believe that some of the restrictions MySpace is now putting in are good ones? Of course. But the problems that exist on MySpace aren't new - and blaming or restricting the medium (or banning your own kids from MySpace) won't make them go away. Blaming MySpace is like blaming Ford Motor Company when your 13-year-old grabs your keys, jumps behind the wheel, and crashes the car.

When I read the articles about the 14-year-old girl and her mother suing MySpace for 30 million dollars, my skin crawls - but not for the reason you might think. While I know this young girl will bear scars from the sexual assault she went through as a result of meeting someone online, I don't blame MySpace. I blame her attacker, I shake my head at the girl's naivete - and then I cast a critical eye at her mother instead.  (Interestingly enough, her attacker is also suing MySpace, according to this Time Magazine article - the service should have prevented the under-14-year-old from initially registering, he claims.)

There are at least four ways that I've counted where the mother could have (or should have) put a stop to the sequence of events. First, the girl was emailing this guy for a month. Then, she voluntarily gave her cell phone number to the guy, and had numerous conversations with him. She then met this total stranger for a burger. And then she got into his car. 

And here's why something like this would never happen to my own child. First, my son knows that computer access is a privilege, not a right. He has zero expectations of privacy - he knows that I have the ability to access his email and MySpace page at any time, and he needs to keep that access open to me. And he also knows that I can restrict access at any time, for any reason. 

Secondly, my kid knows NEVER to give out personal information - cell phone, name, address information - to a stranger online (or in person, for that matter.) His friends on MySpace are all kids he knows already, from school or other activities.  If someone he doesn't know contacts him, he knows to check with me, or to just delete the email unanswered.

Finally, I know where my kid goes, who he's going with, and where he's going.  I know who he talks to on his cell phone.  That's my job to keep my kid safe - not MySpace, or Cingular, or the local mall, for that matter. 

See, we don't abdicate our responsibilities as parents when we choose to give our children access to technology. And if we're not going to proactively educate our children about their own responsibilities online, set rules and expectations about access & use, or reinforce (or adapt) the lessons we already teach our children about strangers, we can't hold anyone else accountable when something horrific happens. 

Here's hoping a judge and jury see it that way as well.

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school.

Let them eat... pizza?

By Betsy

I landed myself right in the middle of a debate the other day in a private online community I've frequented for years. While this community used to be made up of primarily urban locals, participants have moved and spread out over the U.S. in recent years, yet it still retains a strong NYC core. Our own parenting conference reflects that diaspora (I'm in Portland, Oregon now myself, for example), but since our results might be still be skewed regionally, and I'm curious to know how others feel, I'm opening up the debate here.

One mom reported that she and her husband had just returned from a very nice open house. The host and hostess were both childless themselves, but kids and families were welcomed, if not necessarily the target demographic for the event. The hostess had put together quite a spread of food -- spring rolls, goat cheese pizza and the like -- and gone to considerable effort to do so. 

At some point, a family attending took it upon themselves to order a pizza for delivery to the house, presumably because there wasn't anything available to eat for their three children (ages one and up, as I recall).

The mom reporting back thought it was incredibly rude and presumptuous, while her husband shrugged and thought it wasn't a big deal, really. 

Predictably enough, we lined up vociferously on one side or the other. Some parents chimed right in to agree with our reporter, it was rude, and an insult to the hostess.  Other parents (and some non-parents as well) thought we were being unnecessarily rigid, and that the hostess should have welcomed the solve-it-yourself effort. And still others thought the hostess had erred by not explicitly offering kid-friendly food at her gathering. (One friend of mine remarked in an aside that she couldn't remember a party she'd attended in recent years that hadn't had macaroni & cheese available, for example.)   

Where'd I line up? I freely admit that I'm in the 'it was rude' camp. My kids used to have food sensitivities, and their tastes varied wildly over the years as they grew. And that's why we routinely brought our own supplies with us, fed the kids first, or left an event early if we found that they'd not even be able to graze on crackers or cheese or the like. Were we grateful when a hostess would recognize the occasional food dilemna and help us solve it? Absolutely, but we never expected assistance, and we never assumed that others should adjust their parties to accommodate our kids' food needs. 

I also worry about the messages kids get when parents expect the world to bend to accommodate kids' needs 24/7. Would we order chinese food into someone's dinner party if we didn't like what's being served? And if not, why should we set that standard of behavior for our kids?   

But I freely admit that that 'overly rigid' label might be applicable here for me -- I'm a stickler for upholding my own etiquette standards when a guest in someone's home, for example. What would you have done if you were in a similar situation and couldn't find food for your kids? How would you have reacted if you were the hostess? 

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school.

I'm the Christmukkah Scrooge

By Betsy

I may not yet be visited by ghosts of holidays past, present and future. I really don't have a heart that -- like the Grinch -- is three sizes too small. But we're back in the middle of our now-traditional un-holiday routine around here, and I must confess that I'm really liking the fact that I get to pick and choose which holiday observances we want to adopt. Or -- more accurately -- the traditions I'm more than happy to abandon.

In:

• Homemade gifts for each other
• A first-ever trip to see the Nutcracker Ballet with a little girl who's been anticipating the excursion for weeks
• Cookie baking
• Admiring other people's trees
• Hot chocolate in Santa Claus mugs (preferably with all of us gathered in a nest of blankets on the living room floor)
• The annual latke party we throw for our non-Jewish friends

Out:

• Running around the store like a crazy person looking for that 'must-have' toy
• Needing to buy wrapping paper, bows or batteries
• Christmas lists that come complete with catalog numbers, page numbers, or are ranked from most-expensive to least-expensive
• No tree = no dead needles on the floor
• Jingle-jangled nerves

Sure, I'm betting that I'll get choked up from time to time when I remember memories of Christmases past. And I know for a fact that my kids would appreciate a mother who was much more willing to indulge their materialistic sides (it's safe to say that they're not willingly on the 'minimal presents' bandwagon here.) Finally, I have to admit that the pine-yist of pine air fresheners don't hold a candle to the real thing -- and I do miss the smell of a fresh tree.

I know there are those who thrive on the holiday hustle and bustle, but I realized late in life that I'm not one of them. Instead, I'm glad that I've got two days off and there's nothing on the to-do list except hang out with the kids and make time for friends. And, well, perhaps carve out a little time to make a batch or two (or three) of cookies with my able assistant, Zoe.

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school.

Re-entering the work world

By Betsy

It's interesting to observe the debates that break out whenever the topic of whether or not a woman should work after having kids comes up. For me, the issue was always whether or not I was going to have children -- and not whether or not I'd be part of the workforce. I always assumed I'd have a Career --with a capital C -- and once we decided to have kids, I knew I'd continue working.

Part of it was financial reality; I'd always been the primary breadwinner in our family, and my husband very clearly wanted a job that fit his temperament, which didn't really mesh with the attitude required to have a capital C career. And part of the desire to keep working also came from the fact that I was good at what I did, and got a lot of personal satisfaction from a job well done. 

Because I was a valued employee, I was lucky. I got to structure my life in a way that worked for all concerned; I worked from home part-time during my son's first year, got to structure my day in ways that worked for my family, and made it to events like the preschool Thanksgiving lunch, for example. And in between career transitions? We had money enough to let me coast at home for extended rejuvenation sessions, only to jump back into yet another Career Move that would let me set our lives up nicely.

Sure, there were challenges along the way: tradeoffs made, compromises struck. But we had choices. And we were part of the lucky few who got to create a lifestyle that worked for us, for the most part.

Now, as a single parent by choice, working in a technology economy that cratered a few years back, there are no longer choices about whether or not to work. And the choices you have are much more unpalatable when you're not working: borrow money from friends or food stamps? (I've done both, much to my dismay.) The job that offers no flexibility, but does provide benefits -- or the one that offers plenty of flexibility, but no security or long-term guarantees? 

I've spent a lot of time lately with parents who scoff at the notion of being able to create a lifestyle based on desire, rather than the simple need for food and shelter.  (In fact, I'd bet that they'd scoff at the word 'lifestyle' itself.) And I was resigned to that attitude as well: Find a job. Any job. Suck it up. Support the kids, first and foremost. 

Amazingly, my luck still holds. I managed to find the one job still available that welcomed me as a single mom, offered flexibility, promises stability and tops it off by paying decent wages and benefits. It may not be a Career with that capital letter attached, but it's still a career, and I'm grateful for it. 

I start next week, and I'll still get to walk my daughter to the bus stop in the morning. She's thrilled about joining an after-school program that promises more fun than she'd get at home with me; I'm thrilled that it won't cost an arm and a leg. My 12-year-old son Alex is equally excited about the prospect of resuming allowances and not-so-secretly relieved that Mom has a job again. 

So I chuckle wryly when I read stories like that The New York Times article Julie referred to a few weeks ago. I naively assumed that my world would be full of choices when I became a parent and for a while, I was lucky enough to have a plethora of options. But those 'choices' quickly go right out the window when you need to pay attention first and foremost to fundamentals: food, clothing, shelter, support. 

That window can yawn open in front of you, too at any time. Ivy League degree or not, 'comfortable lifestyle' or not. My advice? Never make assumptions about what you'll be doing down the road and please don't set those judgements about what's important and what isn't down in stone. With any luck? You'll get to live the life you dream of at 22.  And then again, maybe you won't. 

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school.

Teaching empathy in the face of tragedy

By Betsy

I'll never forget the time my son Alex came home with a failing grade on his report card. The subject matter? Empathy. It turns out he had little to none of that particular character trait. And I was crushed. His perfect academic scores paled in the face of the undeniable truth (or so it seemed at the time) that I was raising a monster.

Subsequent conversations with his teacher revealed that it was age-appropriate (Alex was only in first grade), the flip side of otherwise positive personality skills (strong self-esteem and confidence, for starters), and –- most importantly -– not at all an undeniable truth. We all colluded together to exercise his empathy muscle.

Over the years, that's been a more challenging job than I'd care to admit, one that constantly tasks me with the responsibility to keep on course. Veering too far into the weeds of complete honesty –- especially with world events of late -– can leave one with a child who believes, as Alex did, that we were also vulnerable to terrorist attacks after 9/11 "because we live in a city that also has Twin Towers, Mom." On the other hand, keeping them sheltered from certain harsh realities does them no favors, either.

I remember taking my two kids out for a "special" dinner to a restaurant one hot summer evening. We went to a seafood place that cost more money than I was comfortable spending at the time, and was probably just a little beyond what the kids could handle, environment-wise. And alas, it was not a pleasant experience. Alex whined about the fact that they didn't have crab on the menu and I should have thought about the fact that he'd want crab when I chose "this stupid place." Zoe didn't want to eat her chicken fingers kids' meal before getting the free ice cream sundae. Both kids were mad that I wouldn't spring for shrimp cocktails for them, fought over the crayon color choices, and wanted to rush me out the door immediately afterwards so they could get home to watch some television show.

I was steamed, to put it mildly. I got in our slightly too-plush minivan (with the built-in VCR/TV combo, no less), started the car, turned on the air conditioning, and proceeded to turn around to read both kids the riot act. Yet the kids didn't seem to get what I was saying. "Could I turn the radio on?" "Mom, the air conditioner's not hitting the back seat yet…!"

I'm not ashamed to admit that I lost it. Turned the air conditioner and radio off, rolled the windows down -– and gave the kids a guided tour of downtown Portland, complete with cutting and sarcastic commentary. "See that family walking back from the bus stop carrying their bags of groceries? They don't have a minivan like this one. They probably don't have enough to eat. And you're whining about not getting crab, Alex?"

We went by homeless shelters … the bus mall … and every other place I could think of that might show them how other people lived. And I continued the commentary, in ways that make me cringe when I remember the words I used. In fact, I can freely admit it now: I was a monster. Finally, I heard this very small, choked voice from the back seat: "Mom, can you please stop now? It hurts to see this…" And I turned to see huge tears running down Alex's cheeks, while his little sister gazed pitifully at me with a look of horror on her face.

Alex, now 12, is an amazingly empathetic kid (with notable and normal pre-teen exceptions and the expected sibling exemption). But 7-year-old Zoe (The Teflon child I've previously confessed to not liking very much lately)? Every sentence seems to start with "I want…" and she firmly believes the universe is just waiting and ready to pay her well-deserved homage some day. It's clearly time to get her empathy muscle exercise routine ramped up a bit more.

Enter Katrina. I think there'll be one last end-of-summer lemonade stand, with 100 percent of the profits donated to the Red Cross. Zoe will ride the bus with me (the minivan's history now, a victim of my chronic unemployed status the last couple of years -- an event that's handed out its own empathy lessons to us all) to hand the money over personally to a teller at a local bank that's taking donations. We'll look for other ways to help, and we'll start by reading through fellow DotMoms contributor Cooper's relief clearinghouse efforts to get toys and supplies directly to displaced families in their new temporary locations. And I'm going to relax my boycott on nightly news programs just a bit over the next week or so to explain just why we're doing what we're doing.

This could backfire. We could have nightmares, resistance, or crying fits. But the alternative –- a kid with a failing grade in empathy –- just isn't acceptable to me.

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school.

Looking over the horizon

By Betsy

Unlike many mothers, I don't have the baby reflex. Sure, I'll gush over your baby -- but it doesn't make me want one of my own again. And seeing a cute kid -- no matter how adorable -- won't pull me wistfully back in time to when my own kids were babies.

Do I have fond memories of those days? Absolutely. But I'm just not wired to look over my shoulder. And while I thoroughly enjoy living in the moment, I can't help but look ahead, to anticipate what's next. 

Sometimes, that stance might makes life a bit unfair for the younger kid, of course. We used to joke that we wanted to fast-forward Zoe (now seven) when she was in the preverbal yet totally insistent toddler phase -- just far enough ahead where she could talk, was all. And that 4-year-old stubborness? Been there, done that -- can we just jump ahead, please?

But it's also been comforting to know that I can ease up when confronted with a bump in the road that I've seen before  -- that this too shall pass. And it's an attitude that meshes well with my kids' own personalities, whether they're focused on when my daughter can get pierced earrings or where my middle-school son Alex wants to go to high school (although I have to admit that my stomach just did a roll when I typed out 'high school', ack!)

Finally, I think it gives me an advantage at times. I was able to look ahead and gently counsel the kid approaching middle school that the social dynamics will be radically different, for example, rather than having us both being shocked! shocked! that middle schoolers haven't yet learned to be kind (they haven't, alas.) And I'm more willing to roll with behaviors or attitudes that might seem precocious at first, until I can look more closely and reassess my position.

So, sure, I'll hold your baby with joy. I'll inhale that delicious baby fragrance. And then I'll hand her back without a twinge. I need my hands free to type in more weblog entries for my own daughter's future prom date to Google, for starters!

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school.

Lazy, hazy days of summer

By Betsy

We're doing something different this summer vacation, my two kids and me. 

We're doing nothing. No camps, no summer programs, no classes. Nothing that needs to be scheduled, arranged, carpooled to and from, or coordinated.

And at first, I felt insanely, incredibly guilty about not providing an enriching summer experience for them. In years past, I've been working full time, whether in a two-parent relationship or, more recently, as a single parent. And therefore, my kids have attended zoo camp, soccer camp, YMCA camp, baseball camp, science camp, or sports fitness camp. 

We've taken trips to the coast, trips back to grandma's house, or just day trips.

Silly me. I thought they were having a ball. 

This year, though, I'm not working this summer, and expenses have been pared way back accordingly. But when I first started lining up some meager activities for them, I was met with resistance.

Alex, now 12, loves his unscheduled, unstructured summer and declares it the "best summer ever!" He's sleeping in, and having friends over for long unstructured afternoons. And 7-year-old Zoe? "I just want to spend time with you, Mama."

Sure, we're getting on each other's nerves something fierce. And yes, we're getting out of the house for activities like free Wednesday afternoon swimming at the local pool or trips to the library, for example. But when I went to sign my avid swimmer daughter up for another session of lessons after the first two-week block, she rebelled. "Can I take a break for a while and start back later?" she asked.

So we're taking a break. The schedule's gotten so elastic, with late bedtimes and sleepyhead kids who straggle out of bed mid-morning, that I fear we'll have a hard time when school starts up again. And we've indulged ourselves -- with popsicles, lemonade stands, water fights and too much television, for starters.

From what the kids tell me, they wouldn't have it any other way.

Betsy is a 40-something single parent in Oregon with a daughter in elementary school and a son in middle school. 

Going analog

By Betsy

I'm definitely a creature of the digital age -- I work, play and live online, for starters, and have eagerly adopted technologies that makes our lives much easier, from TiVo to a cell phone for my 11-year-old son Alex to a programmable coffee maker. 

And my kids? They're digital kids, to be sure. We've gaming systems and e-mail addresses galore. My son is an IM maniac, knows every feature on our wireless house phone (including the speaker option, sigh) and regular commenter on my own personal blog. And my 6-year old Zoe? She's already a master of the universal remote, especially when she wants to program TiVo shows to record later (from a pre-approved list, of course). 

Which made last weekend's preferred Sunday activity so intriguing, not to mention atypical.

It started when Zoe asked me to play Old Maid with her after a leisurely Sunday breakfast. And after negotiations that included scheduled laundry breaks and a promised end time, she proceeded to beat me soundly at least three times.

Her resulting shrieks of glee drew her brother away from his GameCube in the other room. After watching for a few minutes, he then threw out a challenge of his own.  "Hey, does anyone want to play Yahtzee?" 

Out came the Yahtzee game. And Alex and I teamed up to help walk first-time Yahtzee player Zoe through the game's intricacies, whooping it up when she finally got her first five-of-a-kind. 

From there? It was on to Scrabble.

By the end of the day, we'd had an amazingly relaxing time together. And while I redeemed my poor Old Maid showing by winning both the Yahtzee and Scrabble games, I'd argue that we all won here in the end.

See, the eventual outcome -- who won, who didn't -- was overshadowed by the fact that I got to watch two normally-contentious kids huddle together over a row of letters while Alex patiently walked Zoe through her word options. And my son, Mr. "it's the letter of the law that matters most, Mooooom"? He benevolently waived some Yahtzee rules in order to let his smaller sister feel better about the game in the end. And we all laughed uproariously at some of Zoe's Scrabble word choices -- she'd triumphantly spell out a word on her own that we'd not realized she had in her vocabulary.   

Hmmmm... maybe we need to 'go analog' more often.

Being off-duty

By Betsy

One of the not-so-secret perks of being a single mother is the phenomenon known as the kid-free weekend. And if you have a standard visitation schedule, you get -– I get -– two of them a month.

I am the envy of my coupled friends with children, those who dream of mornings where you can sleep as late as you want, meals at restaurants without a kid's menu, and nights out on a moment's notice.

And I guard that time jealously -– even though it might be filled with nothing more exciting than a trip to the grocery store unencumbered by a 6-year-old daughter who wants everything she sees. When kid events occur that require my attendance, I show up, but grudgingly. I don't call them every day while they're gone, nor do I do anything to intrude on their own time with their father. We've learned that it creates more problems than it solves, and my kids are typically having too much fun with their dad to want to hear from mom. I want that for them and I need that for myself as well.

"But you miss your kids," my friends say. "That must be just horrible." The truth? Not so much. Even on holidays, as I've talked about before.

In an earlier post, Amy wrote about her fears of being perceived as a "bad" parent (my paraphrase, not hers) because she enjoyed her brief trips away from her kids. And while I've experienced that judgment before ("What do you mean you’re not going to stand out in the pouring rain with the rest of us to watch your son play soccer tomorrow?"), well, I've gotten over the guilt about it just fine, thankyouverymuch.

You see, their father's learned more about being a capable, confident parent in my absence, without me hovering over his shoulder. No matter how we feel about each other now, we'll always be tied together as parents, so we'd best figure out how to work as a team. And we've done just that.

My kids have learned that dad can handle Band-Aids and heartache just as competently as mom can, although with his own style. And they come back from their dad weekends to a mom who's rested, rejuvenated, and ready to take on the challenge of being the go-to parent always on the front line for another 12 days or so.

What's not to love about that schedule?

Stop. Look. Listen.

By Betsy

When my children were little, we approached certain new milestones with care and caution. Yes, even for the second child. Crossing the street together for the first time was one such adventure. I remember gripping a sweaty toddler palm tightly in my own, senses heightened and muscles ready to scoop said toddler up in a heartbeat if needed. And I taught them the carefully exaggerated Rule Number One of the road: Stop. Look. Listen.

Over time, the nerves calmed. Death grips loosen… then relax… then disappear altogether. Your child walks alongside you, but farther and farther away over time. And -- especially when your child becomes more responsible, more capable -- you stop paying attention to the basics.

And -- if you’re me, and you think you've got this parenting thing down already as your kids get older -- you get complacent. Especially when you've got a son sailing into middle school with what seems to be grace and style. He's making friends, he's getting decent grades, and teachers rave about "what a great kid" you have. 

Meanwhile, you have a younger child who desperately needs some of the apparent mojo you used on the first kid, so you drop your guard and turn to her. He's fine. It's under control. You can relax.

Until the collision happens. And the kid who had it all together threatens to shatter on impact from the pressure he'd been holding inside, fears he'd been afraid to share, important clues you'd overlooked.

I know I can no longer hold his hand when we cross the street. I have to let him walk three steps in front of me. But I will always resolve, from this point forward, to never forget that first lesson I taught him way back when.

Nothing in the world -- nothing -- is more important than making time to live these three little words daily: Stop. Look. Listen.