Children Learn What They Live

"Children learn what they live."

----Ron Finley

My mother was never one to quote experts, especially as it relates to parenting, but this was a quote she fully believed. Even if she did insist that she said it first. As for parenting, she knew it all; which is to say she knew everything she thought she needed to know. There's a difference; anyone who has spent time with children understands that no one knows it all, we are all just winging it.

Anne Taintor

This quote does ring true, however, because what children "live" is often entirely different than what we attempt to teach them. I'm in my 27th year of parenting (Happy Birthday, Andy, I love you, and I am a bit surprised you got this far, because honestly, I did want to put you up for sale now and then) and I still don't know what the heck I'm supposed to be doing. On the one hand, I've read everything there is to read about having kids. If there is a child-rearing book that's been published in the last 30 years, I've either read it, or I'm familiar with it. You'd think that would make me, like, the best mother ever. Not even close. I'm the mother you don't want to mess with, but somehow that isn't quite the same thing.

My mother couldn't decorate, never cared much about taming the clutter, and had the vocabulary of a well-educated sailor. Being Irish and spending three years in the United States Navy will do that. I am her daughter, entirely and without regret. While I got my red hair and green eyes in a lucky break of genetics from my father's side of the family, my attitude is all her. 

Because I lived through a childhood that, while safe, secure, and loving, was peppered with feistiness, true faith, and more than a few words that cannot be printed here, I am stronger today. At the same time my mother was teaching me not to slurp my soup and always to say "please" and "thank you" she was also cursing the driver in front of her in traffic and screeching out the window at us while we hunted for bugs, "For Cripes sake! Put that down and get in here, do you not have the sense God gave a feckin goose?" Good times.

Recently, some parents I know were talking about their concerted efforts to teach their children "life lessons." Things like writing a check, cleaning a bathroom, making a meal, basic car maintenance, and all that. I fully agree kids need to know these things. At the same time, one particular parent was crowing about how well the kids were picking up on these lessons, he also used a term which could best be described as "tone deaf" if we're nice, but was, without a doubt, a racial slur.  I was mortified. When I mentioned the term was #NOTOKAY (and seriously, it's an obvious term that is best not repeated here) the response was, "I am teaching my children not to give in to political correctness." Ummm….no. Not really. You might be teaching your children to do things like iron a shirt or a pay a bill, but they are also learning something else. I guarantee if this term had been used around my children, they would know exactly what was meant by it, and they would know it was wrong. Did I teach them this? Not that I remember, but they know it.

There are parents that do this child-rearing gig way better than I do. There are people I know who are raising beautiful, intelligent, caring, sweet, amazing children and they are my heroes. Not because they spend time teaching their kids how to make burgers or fix a flat. But because they showed them, in their actions, how to live. They demonstrate grace and dignity and class. The make sure that race is discussed rationally, that politics are viewed from more than one angle and that slurs are not tolerated, ever. When children live in an environment of acceptance versus an atmosphere of judgment, they learn to treat others with respect. It's quite something to see these parents in action, many of whom I am blessed to call friends and family. It's also sobering to look at the ones who are not aware that a lesson isn't just something from an instruction manual or cookbook, but rather from behavior. Forrest Gump said, "Stupid is as stupid does" and that is true. Our children are always listening, always watching. There's so much for them to see. Just remember that while you might be trying to show them a necessary skill, what they are actually noticing is who you are, what you do, and the words you choose. Keep an eye on that.   

Baby You Can Drive My Car....Yes, I'm Gonna Be A Star...

“The cars we drive say a lot about us”

--- Alexandra Paul

If this is true, then my car says I’m old, dented and have been around the block a few times. Which would be correct, so, mission accomplished. Once upon a time, we were both shiny and new, and we smelled different. The human equivalent of “new car smell” is probably wearing the nice lotion that smells like flowers and sunshine, whereas now I’m lucky if I take the time to slap on some Jergen’s once a week.

The first car I ever owned was also the first car I ever drove. My mother had a 1978 Toyota Corolla wagon and I learned how to drive in it, starting off in empty parking lots, moving on to the small roadways in the cemetery and finally to the open road. It was a fierce little car. It didn’t have air conditioning, power windows or front-wheel drive, but it had two studded snow tires that never failed to get me through bad roads and blizzards. 

Picture it in Wild Strawberry Red

Eight years later when I graduated from college, the car was still going strong, even if it did refuse to start every now and then for no reason.  My mother gave it to me as a graduation gift and said I could have it painted so it would seem a little newer. She said she would prefer that I not paint it red since she believed red cars were more dangerous.

I painted it red.

What I thought I looked like (so not even close)

Even then, the car said a lot about me; it looked dangerous but really wasn’t and it would occasionally refuse to do as it was asked.

Looking dangerous, Senior year at SMC 

I was smart enough to spell AUTOBAHN

 I drove it for another four years and in that time it earned a few dents and dings, but it carried me safely and securely through so much.

The cars I have had since then have mostly been serviceable and chosen for practical reasons. When I was commuting long distance I had a Camry because it got excellent mileage. I was never about luxury or status in a car, mostly because I couldn’t afford to send the message that I was a well-heeled suburban housewife that cruised around in German engineering but couldn’t spell Autobahn. I also never liked big cars. Being short is hard enough without needing a set of hydraulic steps to slide out so I can get into the front seat. Those are extra and with my balance issues, dangerous. It also seems like a waste of space to drive a car that can carry the first string of a major league hockey team and their equipment, when all I was hauling were some groceries and a couple of baby seats.

There was one car, however, that was not entirely practical, but that I had to have. My shiny, jet black, 1998 Volkswagen Beetle. At the time, I had two kids and the back seat held exactly two people. That’s where the practicality of it ended. The trunk wasn’t really big enough for a stroller so poor George had to walk a lot, but hey, he was a hardy three-year-old, it was good for him. It didn’t get great gas mileage, which surprised me, but it had a bud vase. Literally, the car came with something to hold flowers. If that’s not a slice of happy, I don’t know what is. I’d wanted a Bug since I was little and my favorite aunt had one. There were adventures in the V-Dub, for sure. One Halloween I put a witch hat on the roof, secured a broomstick to the back, and had a few yards of black cloth streaming out of the windows. I cruised around Salem hollering, “Surrender Dorothy” and it was the most fun ever. Even the cop who pulled me over was laughing.

I will never sink, never surrender. 

Then, without warning, came my defeat. A lovely surprise, now known as Devin. Three kids meant my beloved Beetle had to find a new home. My new ride was safe, secure and boring. I caved and went for the family van. Oh, and for the record, I have seen a minivan around town with the license plate “ICAVED.” To whoever owns it? I’ve been there, but it gets better. Once the kids were older, I found the car I have now, a lovely gold Toyota RAV 4, circa 2008. The color is actually called “Beach Sand” and it’s perfect. It holds kids and dogs and furniture and while it might not be sporty it’s not a minivan or a land yacht and there have been some good times in that car. A few shall remain untold tales, but trust me, it’s been a sweet ride.

Cars will come and go, and for me, it’s not about muscle or mechanics, but rather choosing a car that suits who I am. Think about all the driving most of us do; anything you’re spending that much time in should make you happy. I added one of those family stickers on the back window, only mine has the little cartoon kids being gobbled up by a T-Rex and says, “Your stick family was delicious.” Someday I will have my dream car, a red 1964 ½ Ford Mustang convertible, but for now, my dented and rattling RAV will keep me rolling down the road to the next adventure.

My Dream Car

There's No Place Like Home

“If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!”

--Dorothy Gale

 (She's got legs...she knows how to use them)

I recently had the pleasure of a houseguest. My home is open to my friends and family, all day, every day, but not many of them ever take me up on it. I’m sure it’s because having a snorty pug sharing the guest bed, a sink full of dishes at all times, and no room service isn’t exactly an enticing offer, but still, my door is always open. Mostly because the doorknob sticks and I have to use a deadbolt, but it’s open, metaphorically at least.

LeeAnne, or LAC as she is known, lives in California but had two days in Boston and luckily it was over the 4th of July. Is there any better place to be for Independence Day than here? The Festival of Arts, fireworks, harbor illumination, lobsters and all the rest make this ground zero for celebrating the best weekend of the summer. Even if it did fall on a Wednesday. The second I picked her up at the airport, I was in tour guide mode. She’s visited before, but it was years ago. My kids were younger, there’s a different dog in the house, but those were not the only changes. She didn’t get to see much of Marblehead the last time, so of course, this trip was going to hit all the high points.

We started at Abbot Hall, because the art exhibits were there, along with the Artisan’s Market and, most notably, the Spirit of ’76. LAC knew of it, but seeing the original? It really is quite something, even for me. You tend to forget how big it is and how it really makes the room seem like a place where important matters are handled. Later on, we met one of Marblehead’s Fearless Five who said much the same thing, that sitting beneath the painting while making decisions about what the town needs was a much more thoughtful process when you had such an amazing piece of history staring back at you.

We hit up La Sirena for a quick lunch, and the owner, Theresa, was there. Being able to walk into a local business where they know my name is something I never paid much attention to. I shop local whenever I can; this is my home and I’ve been lucky to get to know a few people in just about every corner of it. Having LeeAnne say, “Wow, do you know everyone by their first name?” was a nice ego boost. It’s not that I know everyone, it’s that the people I do know are awesome and friendly. From the café we moved on to more artwork at the Old Town House, shopping at Hip Baby Gear, Mud Puddle, and Bobbles and Lace and finally making a Neck Run. To the restaurant and the actual neighborhood, because who doesn’t love to point out gorgeous homes, an actual castle, a lighthouse and a view of the entire harbor? I showed LAC where the USS Constitution had moored in 1997 when it came to the harbor, where the Hannah Glover sailed on it’s way to Children’s Island, and yes, even the big inflatable unicorn at SUP East Coast Style, since my daughter was spending a good part of her 4th of July working there.

Seeing one’s own hometown through the eyes of a tourist is, pun intended, a real trip. While I know that the corner of the house down by the BYC was not cut off to make room for Lafayette’s carriage, it’s still fun to tell people that (sorry LAC!) It’s also interesting to hear someone else point out something they think is exciting, but that I’ve stopped noticing. For the record, to a tourist, the turkeys are cute and their babies are adorable and watching them peck at cars in traffic is the theater of life. Also, those golden cods on everyone's house? To someone not from here, they’re goldfish. As in “Why does everyone have a goldfish over the door?  Is that code for something?”

Finally, after snagging a rare parking space near the Barnacle and heading in for some “hydration” we wound up at Little Harbor Lobster Company, to pick up our dinner guests. Larry, Darryl, Darryl, Pedro, Dave D. and Dave L.  Yes, there were two Daves and two Darryls, you had to be there. They came back with us, hit up the hot tub and made for a lovely, butter-soaked, New England summer dinner. The next day it was more arts festival, a walk on my beach and fireworks. LAC had to get on with the rest of her trip, but two days playing tour guide was super fun for me. Like that other red shoe girl, Dorothy, there really is no place like home. Want to come see an amazing little seaside town? Call me; I know where all the good stuff is.