Lessons from the Tiger Mom

My apologies to you sixteen loyal readers of this blog. Undoubtedly, I’ve been a bit remiss in writing. Between nursing headaches (weather fronts wreaking havoc in the cornbelt), not dusting the house, and resolving to be a diligent organizer of tax receipts in 2011; apparently, I’ve also been ruining my kids by coddling them. Anyone heard of Amy Chua, aka, The Tiger Mom? If you haven’t, you might want to join the discussion. It’s great fun. Check out these two disparate point of views if you're so inclined: Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior and In Defense of the Guilty, Ambivalent, Preoccupied Western Mom  These are GREAT articles, so if you don't have time, save for later... (BTW, remind me to take lessons on book publicity from Amy C.)

The Chinese Mother. Pushing her kids to relentless practice of math and music to achieve excellence clearly beyond the American couch potato. But is it too much? (Statistics say suicide rates among the Chinese teens run highest.) But who can't help but be a bit envious of the over-achievers? They’re like, so smart. And good at stuff. Ms. Chua argues that perhaps Westerners spend too much time working with their kids on things like “sports.” Hmmm. I don't even fit the typical Westerner mold. As I read her article, I, of course, was wondering how my kids would fare in a Chinese household. But now I know they'd barely make it in a typical Western household either! They'd be like "Practice shooting baskets? Why?" As a matter of fact, a request to unload the dishwasher seems to be grounds for calling 911. I could just see it. "We have a possible child abuse case on our hands. The mom just ordered the Pots and Pan cycle." Gheesh.

The bottom line is - it's tough, no matter if you're a Tiger Mom, or a domesticated tabby cat. You want your kids to be their best, so you tend to push. The question of the hour - how hard? I, myself, have looked at my daughter in askance* for receiving a minus on an "A." Maybe it's just because I see her doing things like posting comments on Facebook...while working on a tough math assignment. Those are the times my Tiger comes out. But I must admit, more often than not, it's the kitten that comes out...because gosh, that's how I was raised.

I love how my friend Amy, mother to FIVE, explains her mothering skills to her eldest child when she complains of a particular injustice that doesn't seem to come down to the younger siblings. "Don't you see, Lexi? I'm not gonna screw up the younger kids." That's good stuff.

Here's a revelation: Parents aren't perfect. Whether you push your kid to be the best soccer player in the world, study spelling words with them until midnight for six months out of year, or you let them achieve the highest levels in Assassin's Creed, who cares? I truly believe, that the very best we can do, at any time, for any reason, is love your kids with all your heart. Period. I think Amy Chua would agree with that.

Happy kids. Tired dog.

*See my son Cole for this definition.

How many times in a day?

We all remember the follies in the day - the things that went south. But how many times do we think about all of those little moments that we are delightfully amused? Having trouble thinking of some? Here are some examples:

• Succumbing to the persistence of the 9-year old who wants to watch Marmaduke.  Then giggling all the way through the movie...and a few days afterward. (Who can't laugh at a farting dog?)
• An aha! moment in which you decide to either demolish or paint your kitchen orange.
• A remark by your hubby. You're both reminiscing on those years of marriage when the babies were young - and how stressful they were! "What?" says hubby, with his sly smile. "I don't remember it being particularly stressful?" No, I don't suppose he does. But at least now, his remark sets me laughing...instead of crying.
• A study in the WSJ informing me that adding more cheeseburgers is good for one's cognitive health! (Something about a B12 deficiency....yada yada yada...) I'm quite certain I've lacked in cheeseburgers my entire life! I knew it....I just knew it.
• Recognition of a word like "supercilious." Don't know it? Think Mrs. Olsen in Little House in the Prairie. Wow, that dates me, doesn't it? Or Meryl Streep in Devil Wears Prada. Or Professor Snape in Harry Potter. Get the idea?
• A Fleetwood Mac song.
• Reading a poignant passage from a book or a newspaper that so clearly brings home a point, you are compelled to share with the world. Like this one from Roy Peter Clark in Writing Tools:  "The best work calls the reader's attention to the world being described, not to the writer's flourishes. When we peer out a window onto the horizon, we don't notice the pane, yet the pane frames our vision just as the writer frames our view of the story." Brilliant. He also precautions - beware of the writer who dwells in hyperbole...unless he's using it to be funny. I'm starting to drone, aren't I?
• Being told by your often sullen teenage daughter, "Mom, look! I'm happy!" (That's verbatim, and without her usual scathing sarcasm.)

Tonight on the way home from a stimulating tax appointment, we found ourselves amidst a snow shower. Besides the fact that it had not been predicted and it was getting a bit slick, I found myself mesmerized by the snowflakes and the tranquility of the snow-covered fields. Instead of being put-out by the weather, I felt strangely at peace, enjoying the sight before me.

That's when I started thinking about all these moments. In addition to the tranquility, a bit of gratitude transcended. Anyway, I highly recommend going outside, right now - becoming transfixed by the snow shower and making a list of all those moments that made you happy. Hope you don't melt!

Power of Prayer

A new year. A fresh palette. A chance to sharpen the pencil or drudge up an old dream or two.  The Kramer's rang in 2011 with great optimism  -- we had actually celebrated until midnight by attending a party with each of our children blissfully kidnapped overnight.

But 13 days in and fate seems to be messing with my resolution to be happy. My vivacious and jocular uncle was diagnosed with lung cancer and is fighting for his life. Doug's aunt passed away this week. I can't bear to think about some of things happening on the national scene. And winter didn't pass us over after all. Oh - did I mention that my new swimsuit came in this week? Yeah, well. Imagine my jubilation after a glance in the mirror, sporting my new bathing bottoms. I wasn't jubile.

Okay, perhaps I need to set aside my Johnny Raincloud umbrella. However, I can't deny the sadness I feel about my uncle. But the truth is my uncle isn't a sad kind of guy. So I've prayed and prayed. And thought about all of the times he made me laugh - and there were plenty of them.  Actually, just thinking about his laugh, makes me laugh.

He's the uncle that really didn't want to look at a photo album, unless he was in plenty of the pictures. He was the uncle who would come up with ridiculous comic routines with my dad...Once posing as a successful (or was it a not-so-successful?) high school football coach:

"Coach Jensen, do you think should allow your team to be smoking on the field?"

"Sure, Ron. We find it relaxes the players..."

My mother remembers these routines becoming tedious and somewhat of a bore. But I remember my cousins and I laughing hysterically at the comic genius' of our fathers. We must've been 8 or 9 at the time.

Apparently, Uncle Stew has started to feel a little better - surely everyone's reciprocating the positive vibes and energy he's had on everyone's life. And I'm going to keep remembering the fun memories and praying for the good to come.

Tomorrow Doug and I will attend his Aunt Mildred's funeral. Again, we need to remember the fun and pray for the good...maybe that should be my mantra in everything.

Hello 2011.

True Grit

Rooster Cogburn's got nothing on the men in my house. Okay, perhaps that's a bit of an overstatement. What the heck. Rooster's merely a figment of author Charles Portis's imagination - and characterized by the late, great John Wayne...now brilliantly brought to life by Jeff Bridges. Either way, the topic of "grit" is an intriguing one. Is it innate? Or learned? We can talk nature or nurture all day long, but I can tell you one thing. If my kids were raised by me, solely, they still might not know how to cut their own meat.

The other night I talked the family into getting off our lazy winter butts. So we took a trip to the Wellness Center instead of watching TV.  Once into a friendly game of basketball (girls against boys of course), Cole took a hard pass from his father - directly in the nose. It was a bleeder - a good one too. I was cupping my hands to keep it from going all over the gym floor. But do you think our little trooper cried? Not one tear. He's a little strange like that - a little proud of his wounds. (Last summer Cole couldn't wait to show me how he scraped the hell out of his leg after his first real "slide" in baseball.) When the kid cries, it usually doesn't involve physical pain. Now, this isn't something I would've taught him. Most certainly it comes from his full-blooded stoical German father. Remember the line, "There's no crying in baseball"? Well, in Doug's world, there's no crying. Period. (What a shock when he married the likes of someone like me - who cries almost as much as John Boehner. Almost.)

I think grit can be taught from different positions. My dad told me a story once about his own father taking him out to shoot a rabbit. My dad kept missing him. My grandfather was suspicious of his son's poor aim, so he kept at my dad to get the furry little animal. The point, of course, was "to make a man" out of him. But my young dad couldn't seem to find the rascally rabbit. When Doug takes Cole out to shoot their ever-growing collection of guns, they design all sorts of fancy targets  - (Sunny Delight bottles, milk jugs, green bean cans, etc.).  I'm happy to report that Cole is vehemently opposed to harming any living animal. No bird or cat has ever been injured.

If that isn't true grit, I don't know what is.

Dad

Christmas. Father’s Day. Dad’s Birthday. All perplexing dilemmas. What do you give to the man who refers to gifts as “prizes”?

A daughter’s need to please her parents never fades. But pleasing my mother is usually quite simple. (Of course, she'd never tell me if she hated a gift anyway. She’s much too gracious.) But my dad?  He’d let me know if the wrapping paper wasn't quite right. After all, forthrightness is character-building. Oh what the heck - it’s all in good fun.

Anyway, this year an idea struck me in the realm of gift-giving. But first - a bit o' history about dear old Dad. Besides the fact that he’s difficult to buy for (what father isn’t?), he also happens to be a motorcycle enthusiast. And I'm not talking about your proverbial motorcycle guy. Show up with a brand new Harley Fatboy and you’ll get a polite smile. (He is genuinely a nice guy.) But show up with a '46 Indian Chief…now you’re talking turkey. You'll become inducted into the small fraternity my dad considers friends.  As a matter of fact, here’s the kind of stuff my Dad gets excited about – 

Rusty gas tank

Rust. Not chrome.

So last summer when he bought this fancy “new” 1984 Harley FX, equipped with a radio (c'mon Dad!), I couldn’t help but give my old man some guff. (Seriously -this is the guy who drove across South Dakota on a '45 Indian Bobber only a few years ago...I probably don't have the year correct on that Indian or the model on that Harley - will certainly receive a call on that.) So, kicking the tires on his shiny new motorcycle just didn't fit the bill. I asked him several times, “Why didn’t you just buy a Honda, Dad?” 

A Honda.  An idea struck me….One day, a few weeks before Christmas:

"Hey Dad! I got your Christmas present. And it involves motorcycles.”

I could see the gleam in his eyes....then the day came. On eve of Christmas. As he unwrapped the gift...and noticed the label on the box.

“It IS from a motorcycle superstore. You weren’t kidding!” He almost smiled, his almost-smile.

Then as logo-recognition set in, the excitement waned. Noticeably. Time stood still. 

“Oh, no. No. No.”  Slowly, he took the t-shirt out of the box. The t-shirt  -- that so audaciously displayed Honda's proud emblem.

Alex spoke up, “Oh Grandpa – that looks cool. I’ll wear it.”

“I’d never let my granddaughter wear that,” he spoke swiftly and sharply.

I sat back in my corner quietly and watched the scene play out. My prank had worked - and it had worked well, without suspicion. And with great laughter by all – except perhaps by the victim.

What will become of the Honda t-shirt? Only time will tell. It may come back haunt me. But most likely, I imagine, the t-shirt will be become shredded garage rags… 

My Apple

You know the old saying, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree?"  Not so much in the case of my daughter. Quite frankly, as I've attempted to coax her back to my branch, she has cleverly hopscotched her way to the next orchard.

Ah- but it's been an intriguing observation...this hybrid apple we call Alex. She certainly isn't a girly-girl. When I entered her into the county baby contest (12 years ago), I had to choose a particular category for her to compete. For some reason, only known to God, I placed her into "Most Feminine." Undoubtedly, Alex was the cutest baby. But when they lined all the babies up, it was obvious that my girl would've kicked the shit out of the others. Delicate? Perhaps not. As a toddler, she could easily knock over heavy furniture and drag things that I could barely move. "Alex, could you help Mommy move the TV?"  (I still call her my little Bam-Bam. Although, now her enthusiasm to lift things for me upon request has waned slightly.)

Anyway, the point of this blog isn't to brag about my daughter's brute strength. What I love about Alex is her ability to stew her creativity and act upon it. She can sit for HOURS and watch the Food Network or  any mundane network...but then a few days later, voila.  She's composed a song on her guitar, or she's written a fantastical story (with great dialogue). One day this month, she sat down and created Christmas decorations for the tree. For three hours, the girl  sat at the dining room table cutting, gluing and assembling these pretty ornaments - with cornucopias, ribbons and nostalgic animated characters.

I read somewhere that unless we have the ability to create, our souls are not truly satisfied. And undoubtedly, the process of creation doesn't happen automatically - it takes time to brew. This is something I have to keep reminding myself, but my daughter is already the wiser. So next time I feel myself a bit annoyed by her practice of wasting time, perhaps I'll take a trip to her orchard. Maybe it'll be fun.

Alex and her Independent Soul

Blessed are We

Isaiah 58:10 “Feed the hungry, and help those in trouble. Then your light will shine out from the darkness, and the darkness around you will be as bright as noon.”


I've been saving up a few of our "requests for donations" this holiday season, so we could decide as a family which charities we should place our funds. Of course, it was impossible to select just one... But ultimately, we gave a few dollars to the following organizations:  


Meals from the Heartland - Amazingly enough, this organization exists practically in our backyard.
The Open Door Mission - Just the name evokes emotion, doesn't it?
Women for Women - Not sure how I came across this entity, but it promotes the economic stability of women  in countries who need it most.


I hope you spend some time looking at their websites - it's nearly impossible not to be moved their stories. Certainly these entities appreciate the donations, but in the back of my mind, I'm wondering what can I do? Perhaps this will be a Stef Kramer Resolution for 2011? Money is good - actions are better.


Anyway, I do hope you take a peek after you've opened all your gifts - or watched your loved ones open all their gifts.

God Bless.