Hot Air Balloons

No one has asked if I have ever been on a hot air balloon ride. 

I wonder why?

Maybe it’s a question that belongs in the middle atmosphere of relationship development—a place I tend to skip, traveling directly from the troposphere up to the heights of the ionosphere?

Maybe my swift ascent into too much self-disclosure turns people off?  Then, they forget the middle-atmospheric question about the hot air balloons.

As we know from Altman and Taylor’s social penetration theory, getting to know someone requires self-disclosure in steps, starting with a little and ending with a lot.  Altman and Taylor think intimate relationships can develop in no other way. 

The tough thing is, self-disclosure begets vulnerability.  Vulnerability brings discomfort. 

If I choose to dive into discomfort and tell, and it turns out well, or, it is reciprocated, then it’s a victory.

Contrarily, if I choose to sink into discomfort and it bites me on the ass . . . hopefully there are thick enough Band-Aids to absorb all the blood oozing from my bleeding cheek.

Contrarily to the contrary, if I choose to disclose nothing at all, I end up alone, isolated, and living in my own head, spinning in my imaginary world of wondering what others think of me:

Am I too fat?

Am I too dumb?

Do I seem too old?

Do they know I am broken and afraid?

And when it seems others are okay with my brokenness, it all comes pouring out, in one swift wave of self-disclosure.  Too much, too soon, off they run.  I float dangerously in the upper atmosphere, alone.

. . . sexual abuse is probably the most emotionally loaded inhibitor to communications and the surrounding atmosphere of trust and equality that must exist for intimacy to occur. Amid the psychological aberrations of the survivor's world are two key concepts whose mixture acts as a formidable barrier to successful interpersonal communication and, therefore, intimacy. These bywords for the unconscious dysfunction of the survivor of sexual abuse are trust and secrecy. (Engle, 1991)

I once lived in Clinton, New Jersey, in a nice condo with a husband and a baby.  Behind the sparkling, sprawling, new living community, off in the distance, I regularly saw hot air balloons being launched into the lower bit of the sky.

I have never been on a hot air balloon ride.  Have you?

photo credit: lunamom58 via photo pin cc

Parenting a Fashionista

My 13 year old daughter, Sophia, is infatuated with fashion.  It's my fault.  Last July, I was pining over a Burberry coat I found online, showed her the image, and that was it.  Ever since, she's been moving rapidly towards wanting to be editor-in-chief of Vogue Magazine.

Sophia is very serious about her desire to work for Vogue.  She has learned names of top designers and has lightly studied the history of style trends.  She has watched the documentary film, The September Issue, more than a dozen times.  Her fantasies of meeting the boys in the band Big Time Rush have been replaced with fantasies of meeting Anna Wintour, the current editor-in-chief of American Vogue.  

Her dad is also at fault for her obsession with fashion.  Last September, he took her on a trip to New York City.  Seeing designer clothing that can only be found hanging in stores such as Saks Fifth Avenue and The Polo Mansion coupled with the intensely spirited energy of Manhattan added fuel to the fire.  And because of his connections in the clothing industry, her dad was able to get her a tour of Kleinfeld Bridal where she met the entire staff and cast of Say Yes to the Dress.  Oh yes, she was definitely star struck. But today when talking about Kleinfeld's, she talks more about the $10,000 couture gowns than Randy.

Sophia with Randy and a $10,000 gown.

I don’t have issue with Sophia's dream to be a fashion editor and I'm supportive.  She can write.  She has a talented eye for recognizing and creating things that are aesthetically pleasing. She's ambitious, smart, and a hard-worker.  I believe she can do it.  However, I do have issues with the images of fashion models flooding her brain on a daily basis.

Dialogue is key.  Sophia and I talk about images depicted in her monthly deliveries of Teen Vogue. Our conversations usually consists of me asking, “Do you think this is trashy or artful?”  

She replies, “Trashy.  The girls look too made up and the short skirts serve no purpose.  I mean, it's like the purpose is to show their legs and not to show the trendy skirts”

I say, “I agree.  It’s oversexualized.  I don’t think it’s necessary for the image to be sexy.  It ruins the beauty of the skirts.”

The conundrum of the debate over a short skirt being sexy or fashionable is just that--a conundrum.  But I try.
 

When I disagree with her deduction of a photo, I not only tell her why, I point out my reasoning for having an opposing opinion.  This can be tricky.  For example, she found this photo of Dakota Fanning posing for a Marc Jacobs fragrance ad to be artful.

Dakota Fanning (photo credit)

Hopefully you can see my issues with this one.  It’s obviously oversexualized and inappropriate. The juxtaposition of Dakota Fanning's young innocent look and the phallic-looking perfume bottle is downright disturbing to me.  But I wasn't sure if she was aware of it's inappropriateness.  I mean, what kind of former knowledge does she need to have in order to view this photo as inappropriate?  I hopefully thought, “Maybe colors make this photo appealing to her.  Maybe it’s the vintage look.  She likes vintage clothing.”

I proceeded with caution when discussing the young woman with the phallic fragrance bottle between her legs because my opinions were strong and I did not want to squash her willingness to share her thoughts and opinions with me. Too much passion on my part could cut off all conversation.  I also didn't want to delve too deeply into a conversation about under age girls in pornography and the many things that could be considered phallic symbols.

These tricky conversations happen frequently.  Hopefully, they are helping her to become more skilled as a critical thinker when it comes to viewing images exhibited in her field of passion, fashion. But, I ask, are our conversations enough to combat the multifaceted, underlying negativity in these images?  I am only one person who has one conversation with her approximately three times a week.  I mean, really.  I have a lot to cover—homework, time management, chores, respect and manners--and feel like I stand no chance at competing with the multitude of images that come her way every day.

Last Monday night, as I was tucking her into bed, I asked her about how she spent her free time at her dad’s over the weekend.  She told me she watched three episodes of America’s Next Top Model and explained she liked the show because of its clips of photo shoots and not because of the clips of drama between the aspiring models.  That was good, I guess.  I understand the appeal (I’ve been known to spend the weekend on the couch viewing trashy reality TV).  She proceeded to ask me about the winner of Cycle 14, Krista White.

Krista White (photo credit)

She said, “Do you think she is too thin?  I mean I was comparing her collar bones to Tyra’s and hers stuck out like a whole lot more.”

Collar bones?  My girl is observant.

The conversation turned into a passionate lecture given by me which included my opinion of how wrong it was for Tyra to pick someone so thin as the winner.  "I mean Tyra Banks has to know these young women are role models to aspiring models at home watching on TV!"  Well, it was more of a rant.  And it was lengthy.   

I did calm down enough to ask her what she thought of Tyra’s body.

She replied, “Tyra is beautiful.  She’s normal looking.”

Tyra Banks is anything but normal looking.  She is gorgeous.  However, I was relieved that it sounded as if Sophia had a trace of a healthy perspective of body image.  But I was still worried.  Did my rant sound as if I was putting down an industry that has lit her fire of enthusiasm and has inspired her to dream?

Dreaming.  Fashion is fantasy.

This post, this topic, has no end in site.  It is one that continues on a daily basis as I navigate my way through mothering a fashionista daughter in our media saturated world.  It's interesting because I am finding my own opinions of the images I see of women have changed over time. For instance, I used to see Angelina Jolie as the epitome of beauty.  Today, I see her as an example of a person who needs to be treated for anorexia nervosa, and whose disease is ignored because our ideals of beauty have become sickly skewed.  And it makes me mad.  Nevertheless, I hope to not crush any of Sophia’s dreams of being a fashion editor.  Heaven forbid I become known to her as, “My mother the dream crusher.” 

 

There’s a balance.  I don't know if I will find it.  But I won’t give up. The information and connections to others available via the Web make giving up on any parenting issue an act of inexcusable fear.  

 To be continued. . .

This week is National Eating Disorders Awareness Week.  For more information visit NEDA.

photo credit: pyrocam via photopin cc


 

Exit Stage Left: No More Intolerance

I am  gratefully acknowledging Jen aka Fox in the City by picking one question out of many to answer posed to me during last week’s 11 Questions blogging amusement:

Q: What is your customary order at Starbucks?

A:  Venti soy latte with an extra shot of espresso

I like caffeine, which explains the extra shot.  I am lactose intolerant, which explains the soy.  I have something to say about intolerance, which is why I chose the question.

in·tol·er·ance   [in-tol-er-uhns] noun

incapacity or indisposition to bear or endure

When one is intolerant to certain types of food, one needs to avoid these things in order to feel comfortable.  This is easy to understand.  If dairy makes me have terrible abdominal pain and results in distressing expulsions of gas, then by all means, I am going to deny myself dairy products. 

But what about emotional intolerance? 

I deal with my own emotional intolerance all the time and I am sure you do, too.   I can’t tolerate whining and complaining. Of course, I am intolerant to whining and complaining from my girls.  But I listen.  In these emotionally amped up expressions, my girls are telling me that they have needs that require expression and attention.  My job as a mom is to identify that the whining is a symptom of an inability to communicate effectively.  Simply stating, “Don’t whine,” doesn’t work.  That strategy negates the need, ultimately negating the person.  A better way to go about it is to say, “I hear you are whining.  Can you express your need in a different voice?”

See, needs are OK.  Whining is not.  And I want my girls to have the tools to get their needs met throughout life.  I want them to value their desires and know that their voices are of importance.  It’s in the delivery—not in the need itself.  I do not want them to be silenced.  I know what it is like to be scared into living as a mute.  And I won’t tolerate it for my girls.

Ok. That was easy.  Here's the hard part.

Right now I’m mad at my mom.  Like a teenager, I can’t stand her, don’t want to talk to her, and can barely bring myself to speak or even write about her in a mature manner.  Why?  Her actions continue to convey a lifetime of intolerance of me.  And it happened again this weekend.

She read Two Writing Prompts, a Bridge, and the Truth, wherein I expressed that I was struggling to write because I was afraid to express what was on my mind.  I wrote about childhood memories and my mom did not enjoy reading about them.  She sent a plethora of texts that were reactionary, hurtful, and expressed her intolerance of my truth and my expression of it.  It stunned me.  I felt like I was back in the throes of her insanity and had no control.  In one text she said (paraphrased), “Am I permitted to come see Sophia (my daughter) in the musical?”  This was followed by a few more texts in which she basically put me down and attempted to manipulate me into responding, then, “I am coming to the musical.”

I never responded.

She showed up to the musical with my niece, the daughter of my sister—the sister I haven’t spoken to in over three years.  Wow.  Was bringing my niece along a ploy to manipulate me into communicating with her?  An attempt to get me to pretend that everything was OK?  She used my daughter's performance as device of control, to employ her power over me, well-disguised as the picture of the supportive grandmother. 

What did she expect me to do? Greet her with happiness and gratitude for showing up at my daughter’s performance?  Well, I didn’t.  Because I’ve done it that way in the past only to have my voice silenced and my reality denied.  I wasn't willing to tolerate it.  

I could not bring myself to ignore my niece. I briefly spoke to her and my mother during intermission, but decided I wouldn’t stay after to socialize. I caught my daughter in the lobby of the theater after the show, and said, "Great job!  I'll be back to get you after your lunch with the cast."  She went merrily along to greet her dad and his family who also came to the performance.

At the time, I was uncertain if I made the right decision in leaving immediately after the show.  My niece, not understanding why I did not stay after the show to socialize, cried and my daughter was left feeling uncomfortable.  I know this because my daughter called from the theater and asked if something had happened. 

I felt so awful during our phone conversation.  How could I leave her alone to deal with my mother?  Luckily, seeing that I wasn't there, my mother and niece didn’t stay long.  Also, my daughter was shielded from the drama because she was surrounded by my ex-husband and his family who showered her with flowers and well-deserved accolades.  My mother wouldn’t dare say nor do anything in front of an audience that could witness and identify her manipulative emotional abuse.  Moreover, the victim she was looking for was me and not my daughter.  No victim in sight, no reason to stay.  And possibly, she had a moment of enlightenment, and realized that my niece's feelings needed to be spared.

I do not know what my mother did to console my niece.  The only thing I can come up with is that she probably chalked my absence up to rudeness and mental illness. You know, I don’t care what she said to my niece.  I just want my her to be OK.  I have no control over that and I struggle with it.  My niece should not have been permitted to accompany my mother to the performance.  Would I let my mother take my daughter anywhere near my sister in the guise of supporting my niece?  No.  You know why?  It’s not fair to put a child in the middle of an adult situation without protection and guidance.

Well, I digress.  And I am sure you are confused.  Wait.  What?  Daughter, niece, sister, mother.  Who did what?

Intolerance is the subject at hand.  You know why humans have trouble with intolerance?  They become most uncomfortable with things that remind them of their own pain.  And they will fight with all their might to avoid it, becoming intolerant of it.  Whatever "it" is.  Intolerance is fear-based.  And fear breeds harm.

I am experiencing my own fear at the moment.  I fear that this post will be misconstrued by some as an attempt to hurt my mother.  It is not.  This post is my declaration, that I am stopping the insanity, that I have become intolerant of intolerance of truth.

Truthfully, what can I conclude?  What can I tolerate?  I can tolerate this:

I have resolved to parent differently than I was parented.  I have resolved to keep my stuff separate from my daughters’ issues.  I have resolved to be tolerant of my girls' voices.  I have resolved to live in acceptance of my past and move on courageously without my mother.  

That was exhausting.

I really could use a venti soy latte with an extra shot of espresso.

 

photo credit: betsyjean79 via photopin cc
photo credit: kevin dooley via photopin cc
photo credit: Leo Reynolds via photopin cc

Smartphones and Build-A-Bears

My girls spend their weekends at their dads during which time I receive updates regarding activities and the emotions evoked during happenings   via phone calls, text messages, emails, or direct messages on Facebook.  I never know exactly how the information is going to be delivered.  I have learned to employ my intelligent phone to be certain I do not miss an update.  Missing updates result in phone conversations that resemble this:

Daughter: “Mom, I am calling because you have not responded to my email.  Did you see my Facebook status?  I sent you the link in a text message.  And why haven’t you checked your voice mail? I explained the email which tells you about my Facebook update in it.”

Me: “What?”

The aforementioned comes from my older daughter, Sophia, who is 13.  My 11 year old, Antonia, sometimes sends me text messages but typically calls at night right before she goes to bed to say goodnight.  Details about her day are brief, but I listen carefully for subtle changes in her voice that indicate how she is feeling.  I often wish she would text, call, or email more, but she is a different type of communicator than her sister.  It is interesting to compare Sophia’s multimedia narratives to the minimal reflections provided by Antonia.  When put together, I can get a pretty good idea of what has been going on during their time with their dad, step-mom and step-sister.

Antonia and her step-sister spend a significant amount of time playing school with their Build-A-Bears.  They transform their dad’s living room into a very detailed classroom.  They hang posters, set up work spaces, and line up their bears with name tags.  One of these school sessions can last an entire day.  It’s serious business and serious fun.

The Build-A-Bears are also serious business.  Antonia and her step-sister each have one special bear that is treated like a child of their own.  They go shopping for their child-bears’ wardrobes and change their clothes according to the day’s plans.  During the week, when Antonia and her step-sister are apart, they update each other on their bears’ activities.

Two weekends ago, while the girls were at their dad's house, communication from Sophia was normal.  On Saturday, I knew they went out to dinner and had a treat at home—cookie cake.  I knew that, as usual, Antonia and her step-sister spent time playing school with their bears.  Antonia sounded great during our brief nightly talk on the phone so I didn’t press for details surrounding her day.  But Sophia sounded annoyed.  I chalked up her irritation to stress and tiredness (the girl will not stop, even during the weekends).

On Sunday morning, Sophia called and illuminated the cause of her annoyance.  I asked her how dinner was, and she replied, “Mom.  We went out to dinner to celebrate the BEARS’ BIRTHDAYS and the cookie cake was for their party at home.  Dad even bought them each a $10 gift card to get a new outfit, AND they picked out a G-rated movie for them to watch.  MOM.  Can you believe it?”

Upon my girls' arrival to my house later that afternoon, I welcomed them enthusiastically and said, “Hey.  How was the birthday celebration?  It sounds like it was a good time!”

Their dad confirmed that it was indeed a fabulous celebration whereupon Antonia looked down at the floor from embarrassment and Sophia plopped her entire body down to the couch accompanied with a giant sigh of disdain.

I ignored the drama on the couch, took Antonia’s chin in my hand, lifted her face to mine and said, “You know, I had a doll I played with until I left home for college.  I kept her and her little suitcase of clothes under my bed so that my older sister wouldn’t make fun of me.  I changed her clothes and combed her hair every day.”

She smiled.  

I asked Sophia if she thought her behavior was appropriate.  She rose from the couch and apologized to her sister.  Their dad went home, we unpacked bags, and the week went on without the bears' birthdays being mentioned.

On Saturday of last weekend my phone was buzzing, alerting me to incoming text messages.  I assumed it was Sophia with updates.  To my surprise, the messages were from Antonia.  But there were no words.  Only photos:

I was thrilled to hear from her.  Although her messages contained no words, I understood.  To me, the photos of her "school" said, “Thank you for accepting me for who I am.”  

Then the phone rang.  It was Sophia. . .

photo credit: William Hook via photopin cc

A Two Household Christmas

“Communicating your love for your child is the single most important thing you can do.” 

 ~the editorial staff at familydoctor.org

Our Christmas is tomorrow, December 23. My coupons are not printed and I still have bite size cheesecakes to make.  If I had until the 25^th, I doubt I would have more accomplished—maybe more stocking stuffers purchased, but not more cookies baked.

Tree, by Antonia, age 11

We are celebrating tomorrow because we are a family of two households.  This year my daughters will be with their dad, step-mom, and step-sister on Christmas Eve and day.  This is problematic for some families and I understand why.  I can feel envious when it’s their father's turn to have them at his home on the calendar day of the holiday.  But this family is a baseball diamond with two home plates where the kids always come first.

This requires communication.  Technology has helped.  My ex-husband and I primarily text and email.  We call when necessary and it's pleasant.  When the girls are with him and his family on the weekends, he keeps me updated on their happenings.  When they are here with me during the week, I regularly update him on their school performance, personal issues, and activity schedules.  We both are aware of what’s going on with grades, crushes, friends, sleepless nights, tummy aches, and accomplishments—the big and the small.  We may no longer be husband and wife but we are still Dad and Mom.   

The girls know that their dad and I communicate regularly.  Our communication is apparent because the girls hear from their dad before dinner about a D- on a science quiz.  They know we have been talking when I ask, "How was going out for pizza on Saturday?'

Having two households is not ideal.  Divorce is messy and emotionally damaging.  But I remember my therapist of a few years ago telling me, "The most important thing you can do to help the girls is to give them respect and love."  I respect them as human beings.  I love them as my daughters.  Therefore, I never let my fear or anger stand in the way of communicating with their dad.  I do not always get it perfect.  And when I don’t, I forgive myself, move on, and try it another way the next time.

The other night, while tucking my 13 year old into bed, I asked, "Are you looking forward to Christmas?"

I thought she may express some uneasiness over the irregular schedule caused by her school break.  I anticipated hearing her express sadness caused from her parents being divorced.  I expected her to be upset that she was having two celebrations and only one of us on Christmas day. 

She said, “Christmas is magical, Mom.  Everyone is so happy.  I am really looking forward to it.”

I said, “Even driving to Wisconsin to see your step-mom’s family?”

She said, “Yes, I like going to Wisconsin.  I have fun there.”

Well, if the kid likes Wisconsin in December, we are doing something right.

There may be two home plates on this baseball field.  There may be two managers.  But there is only one team and the players are all-stars.