When I introduce myself from here on out, I am supposed to say, “Hi, my name is ______________, and I’m an alcoholic.” That’s the first step, according to the brochure some nice woman handed me as I entered my first AA meeting day before yesterday.

As I have left that space in my introduction blank, it’s fairly obvious I’m not all the way there yet. That step, and all the subsequent ones I’m going to have to tread, are not entirely clear to me yet.

It’s not that I have any doubt that I’m an alcoholic. I know what alcoholics look like, and they look a heck of a lot like me. And my mom, and my aunt, and my grandfather, and my cousin, and my great-grandmother. I am well-acquainted with alcoholics, and the specter of all those slurry words and empty, glassy stares loom large in my childhood memories.

I hated it. Hated them sometimes, and I swore that no matter what, I’d never end up like them. I’d never allow my children and grandchildren and nieces and great-grandchildren to equate me with “alcoholic.”

For a long time, I simply avoided alcohol, figuring that would be the best way to circumnavigate my inheritance. In high school and college, I was everyone’s designated driver, the responsible one who, as a bonus, could lord all that moral superiority over my drunken classmates, mother, and grandfather, knowing I was above all that. I would never be like them.

When I had my own children, and it came time to deliver an ultimatum to my mother – she’d have to choose, alcohol or her grandchildren – I had already begun to slide down the same slope she’d traveled. I knew I was slipping, and I knew where that slope led, but to reveal that reality to anyone else would be to admit I might just be like my mother, and I was too angry at her to allow any such comparison.

When my children were young, avoiding that comparison was easy. My children were too little and too oblivious to comprehend how many glasses of wine I’d had. I figured I’d get the drinking back under control by the time they were old enough to be observant. Because, of course, I could stop any time I wanted to.

I just didn’t want to.

This year, we started to talk to our oldest, very observant child about alcohol. We were matter-of-fact and blunt. Alcohol has had a tight and devastating hold on both sides of his family for generations. We told him that it’s going to be very important for him to pay attention to his drinking. To know the difference between social drinking and problem drinking.

Yes, very important, I repeated, as I sociably sipped my wine.

Three days ago, sociability slipped into problematic which slipped into unconsciousness, and I was careless enough to let that happen in front of my entire extended family. I’d like to say my observant eldest child did not notice, but I have no idea. I don’t remember. That’s a blank, too.

The next morning, my father informed me that I’d have to choose – alcohol or them – and I chose them. I cried, threw up, showered, and drove to my first AA meeting. My husband offered to go with me, but I knew these were steps I’d have to take alone.

When I walked into that church basement, packed with one hundred other alcoholics, I wasn’t fooling anyone. No introduction was needed; I was simply one of them.

This weekend, over a dinner without that problematic glass of wine, I will have to look my son in the eye and say the words that fit into that blank up there at the top of this page for the very first time. While I am scared to death, it will be a relief. It will be the end of ten years of sliding and the beginning of my journey back uphill.

My son introduces me to his friends as many a lot of things – mother, wife, writer – and I I’m incredibly proud of those labels. Proud enough that I refuse to allow this newest label to obliterate everything else I’ve worked so hard to become. I’ve finally done the math and figured out that the only way I get to keep those other identities is to admit the word “alcoholic” to my list of identities.

Because when my son is my age, I want him to be proud of me, particularly if our mutual inheritance grabs hold and threatens to drag him down. As his mother – particularly his alcoholic mother – the most important gift I can give him is the power of my example to guide him if he ever stumbles upon the treacherous terrain of our family’s well-worn slippery slope.

We thank Alpha Mom for giving us permission to run this piece and the photograph after it originally appeared there.

The post Filling in the Blanks: Confronting Alcoholism appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

What if it tasted amazing and had incomparable health benefits?  What if it was fat-free, portion-controlled, all real and came in flavors like Pomegranate and Passion Fruit?

At Grown and Flown, you are not used to hearing us talk about products, but there is one product that Mary Dell and I are so obsessed with that we had to explore further. Their stylish website was a perfect place to begin.

When we discovered a shared craving for the little cups of yogurt and fruit we set out to meet the Chobani people who make our day, every morning.  You might call us Yogurt Groupies.

But still you might ask…why Chobani?  And why are the two of you writing about this and giving away free product??? Recently, Mary Dell and I met Elizabeth Poisson, Chobani Community Coordinator, for breakfast at the Chobani Cafe in SoHo (a must) and after spilling to her all of the reasons we are passionate about the product, we thought we would share them here as well. After breakfast Elizabeth was kind enough to send us some of our own Chobani favorites after I told her that my local grocery store has trouble keeping Chobani on the shelves!

It is about good, truly excellent taste

The reality is we wouldn’t eat Chobani and our kids and husbands wouldn’t eat it, if it didn’t taste divine.  When I discovered Fig with Orange Zest, I also discovered it sold out quickly in my grocery store.  Chobani has an amazing six-week shelf life so, my solution:

I had seen Greek yogurt in the store before and I associated it with overly tart almost slightly bitter plain yogurt, and as a result I was reluctant to try it.  I learned that the label “Greek” in this case primarily means strained. By straining yogurt, Chobani removed the watery whey, creating a thicker yogurt that has almost one-third of the RDA of protein in a small six-ounce cup, twice that of traditional yogurt.  For me it the difference between being hungry again at 10:15 and making it to lunch.

Building strong bones and bodies never gets old

Mary Dell and I started out eating Chobani because it is a high protein breakfast but the health benefits did not stop there. Calcium is a big problem for me.  I don’t like milk and drink my coffee black.  I try not to eat much cheese because of the calorie content and ditto ice cream.  I love green vegetables, but how much can one eat?

While the message of consuming calcium is relevant for all, it is a critical issue for midlife women. Women in midlife need calcium and, until lately, we have filled this need with supplements as suggested by physicians.   Jane Brody of the The New York Times recently reported that this may no longer be the best course of action, “In February, the United States Preventive Services Task Force recommended that postmenopausal women refrain from taking supplemental calcium and vitamin D. After reviewing more than 135 studies, the task force said there was little evidence that these supplements prevent fractures in healthy women.”

And then Brody said the words we longed to hear, “Yogurt, which ounce for ounce is an even better source of calcium than fluid milk, has achieved unprecedented popularity in recent years, but few consume it more than once a day, which doesn’t come close to meeting dietary needs.”  One six-ounce cup of strained yogurt has 20% of RDA of calcium.  So even if you only eat two a day, you have made a sizable dent in your daily requirement.

Calcium another whey

Calcium can be a problem for not only women but for the estimated 75% of the adult population that is lactose intolerant.  While lactose intolerance is not an allergy and does not mean that the person cannot consume milk products, it does mean that eating milk products and many cheeses can result in uncomfortable digestive problems.

Yogurt, and particularly strained greek yogurt, is less than 5% lactose and is well tolerated by people who have trouble consuming other milk products.

Say no to food fads

As a baby boomer, I feel as though life has been one long food fad.  I grew up on Tang and space food bars. I thought Velveeta was cheese and Kool Aid was juice.  We thought food that could last on the shelf for years was good for us and that if it was fun, almost toy-like, it was even better. Yet this flies in the face of science and human history that tells us that our bodies are nourished by the Earth and foods that come from its bounty.

We are old enough to have seen fads come and go and to know that the best foods are not fads at all, but rather pure foods that have existed for centuries.  By midlife we have outgrown sickly sweet tastes and foods colored in a way that nature never intended.  We like our relationships sincere and our foods real.

Forget diets, it is all about low-calorie, healthful food

Diet fads are almost as plentiful as food fads. Shame on us, those who have seen diets come and go, if we don’t resist the latest craze and remember that reasonable amounts of healthful foods and lots of exercise has served humans well for millennia.

Portion control is one of the biggest problems with weight control.  We eat the right foods, but even then eat too much.  We eat foods labeled low-calorie, only to discover that they are a chemical wonderland with few healthful benefits.  Chobani makes it easy.  Six ounces, between 100-160 calories (depending on the flavor), grab and go.  If I fill the refrigerator with the little colored cups, instead of the pantry with lots of chips, I can even get my kids to eat healthfully.

Grown and Flown is not changing.  We are still going to fill this space with writing about raising kids through the teen and early adult years and the changes in their lives and ours.  But what is more essential to hearth and home than how we nourish our children and ourselves?

If you would like to try a case of Chobani, delivered to your door anyplace in the USA, enter this giveaway for a chance to win. Pick whichever way you prefer to enter (not necessary to do all three) and good luck! 

a Rafflecopter giveaway

The post Chobani: Nothing But Good appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

Sometimes I would say to them, why do you want to come with me?  I realized that whatever I was doing would be slowed down by their presence and when I was in a hurry, I felt frustration.  But they wanted to be with me, even if the task was tedious, and irrelevant to them. If I just wanted to roam, they wanted to know where we were going. I loved being with them, loved everything about their presence, but their questions could wear me out.  They seemed happy just to be with me.

Then it struck me.  They wanted my life.  They wanted to be able to go where they wanted and do what they wanted.  They wanted to call the shots and be the person who made things happen, even if it was just going to the grocery store or, on a good day, Toys R Us.

Now they have that life.  Two are grown, out the door, and the third is in possession of a driver’s license.  The eldest has an apartment for the summer and the middle one left days ago to squat on his brother’s couch and soak in the City Life.

And now I find I want to stalk my kids.  I want to be 21 years old and see New York City anew. I want to live in an apartment with almost no belongings and hold impromptu parties on Friday nights feeling no compulsion to provide my guests with anything other than cheap beer.

So last night I was stalking them.  With the feeble excuse of bringing some extra sheets for the couch surfing brother, I drove into NY to see them.  I followed them from room to room looking at the apartment, I talked to one through the bathroom door and helped carry garbage to the downstairs.  I wandered the building’s basement and asked where the laundry room was and if the closed door was a gym.  I asked about work being done in the hall and why they had left the air conditioner on when they went out.  They looked at each other, with an expression that could only have said, “This would have been faster without her.”

When we left the apartment it was late and dark and I asked where we were going.  I was told, “We will find something, Mom.”  We stopped at a small take-out and picked up falafel and humus.  We wandered over to a teeming Union Square with bags of wonderful smelling food.  All the benches were full and my kids sat themselves down on some steps. The ground was dirty, my pants were white and I had a handbag that I would not have set down on my own clean kitchen floor.  The air was sticky and humid and teens swirled around us on the skateboards. The person next to me was blowing smoke in my direction and there were buses idling on the road nearby emitting noxious fumes.  But I was just happy to be with them.

photo credit: J. Kincaid

The post Stalking My Kids appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

My son, one of these nearly 2 million graduates, texted me from the processional line forming on the far side of the college quad, “here with the faculty wearing Harry Potter robes.”  His analogy was apt.  Not only did he and all of his friends have on black gowns, but the array of academic regalia included shockingly colorful decoration. On graduation day, a history professor might lack only a wand to complete his transformation to real life Hogwart‘s teacher.

It is no wonder that Harry Potter images came readily to mind. For once upon a time, in the fall of 1998, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone barreled into the US. From it’s September 1 release date, our son’s generation (and their parents) began to fall under J. K. Rowling’s literary spell. Here are ways their childhood was uniquely enhanced by her creativity:

Reading Harry Potter became a family bedtime tradition.  None of us dared miss a single adventure during those wonderful read-aloud days.  As each new book in the series was released (1998-2007)  families clamored to midnight bookstore openings or sat on doorsteps, waiting for the Amazon package to arrive.

The first movie came out in 2001 and a real little boy replaced our imaginary Harry. The three stars of the show, Daniel Radcliffe, Rupert Grint and Emma Watson, were born in 1989, 1988, 1990. Had any of us lived in their neighborhoods, our same-aged children might have been playmates. Instead, the actors devoted a decade of their lives to entertaining our kids…and the rest of the world.

The last movie, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Part 2, was released in the summer of 2009, shortly after ‘13’s completed high school. We saw the movie as a family and the parallels were not lost on any of us. Tears were unavoidable while I watched Harry, Ron and Hermione complete their Hogwarts days. Having observed them grow up on the big screen, I would miss seeing more of them. It was akin to how I felt about my son and his friends, also moving on from high school.

In real life, college tour guides began to include any building that looked remotely like Hogwarts. In December ‘09, The Choice blog in The New York Times quoted then-senior, Lauren Edelson. She explained why so many of the collegiate volunteer guides pointed out Hogwartian similarities: “Most of us have grown up adoring Harry Potter and, through J. K. Rowling’s books, we’ve escaped many times into the world she created.” There could be no argument on Harvard’s tour, peeking inside Annenberg Hall, the freshman dining room.

The imaginary sport of Quidditch became real. Never underestimate the power of bored college students to create an enduring tradition. The sport that began at Middlebury College in Vermont in 2005 is now played at 1000 colleges and high schools. The first Quidditch World Cup competition was staged in New York five years later.  As the IQA website states, it is “The only fantasy sport that will make you break a sweat.”

Childhood bookshelves have a set of first editions.  The first book, published in the UK as Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, had a production run of only 500 copies and is an extremely rare collector’s item. Though the millions of copies printed for the later volumes have little value beyond their price, perhaps the sale of a set of seven original hardcover Harry Potters might one day help with a future grandchild’s college tuition, if a desperate need arises.

Harry, Ron and Hermione have all graduated from their Harry Potter lives.  Daniel Radcliffe is a film and stage superstar. Rupert Grint is better known for his work in indy films. Emma Watson is both a muse for Burberry and a film star, starring in Bling Ring, a film about thieves preying on celebrities opening June 14.   They have moved beyond the film series like our own college graduates are doing now, just with incredible wealth and fame!

The Harry Potter era was concurrent with childhood for this class of college graduates. Though pop culture will forever sprout stars and trends, will one ever equal this phenomenon? Furthermore, with the growth of e-readers and decline in bookstores, there will be no mass excitement of rushing to buy the latest volume at the stroke of midnight. Yet, Harry Potter is a masterful work of fiction and will endure for generations because of J. K. Rowling’s words on the page.

If and when my son has his own child, I hope to be able to participate in a read-aloud journey with my future grandchild. Oh, the stories I can tell her about her dad and the age of Harry Potter.

The post College Graduates in the Age of Harry Potter appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

Dad was a country-boy at heart and had a folksy way of speaking.  A petroleum engineer, he traveled around the world analyzing oil and gas fields. Whether he was in a boardroom on Wall Street or sitting at our kitchen table talking to my sister and me, he remained grounded by his boyhood in Pecos, Texas. As Father’s Day nears, I remember him and his favorite fatherly sayings:

He was pragmatic – he owned his own business, managing it amidst the extreme cyclicality of the energy industry.  “The sun don’t shine on the same dog’s tail all the time” was both his worldview and how he helped his daughters cope with their own periodic disappointments or moments of good fortune.

He was sympathetic – “Hard to get all your raccoons up one tree” was his way of saying that he understood the frustration of not achieving goals, whether they were mine, his corporate ones or those of a hunting dog.

He was kind – Dad was one of the least judgemental people I have ever known and approached everyone he encountered as an equal: “We are all ignorant.  We’re just ignorant about different things.”

He was optimistic –  “Even a blind sow can find an acorn from time to time.” He fully believed that acorns were there in abundance, waiting to be stumbled upon.

A family friend once described my father to my mother this way: “Jimmie would smile at the devil.”  He was good-natured, curious about people, and found striking up conversations with perfect strangers the most natural thing in the world.

On Father’s Day, I feel the loss of Dad in my life but am grateful that he lived until 80, long enough to know my two children. On occasion, I pull out one of these phrases to use with them. They knew their grandfather well and recognize his words. They smile in response, sharing a memory of Dad.

The post Fatherly Sayings for Father’s Day appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

Where has the generation gap gone?  Once defined by cultural touchstones and political splits, the gap that divides the generations is now far more subtle, defined by differences in outlook and attitude, rather than fundamental beliefs.

My sons think nothing of leaving the house and venturing out in public in their PJ bottoms. This has been a recurring nightmare of mine since 1971.

I use cash. They use credit for any purchase over 24 cents.

I pack in suitcases. They pack in the first vessel they can lay their hands on, plastic bag, gym bag, pillow case…whatever.

I worry about losing my wallet. They worry about losing their phones.

They believe the car when it says it has eight miles left before the tank is empty. I don’t even see numbers like that.

If I am meeting friends we will have sent emails, confirmed location and probably made a reservation if dinner is involved.  They will text their friends in the driveway and will alter their plans, change location at least twice before deciding on a destination.

I think established credibility is important. They belong to a generation that thinks market and crowd consensus is what matters.

I download apps and software that I need.  They download apps and software in order to find what they need.

I think good news can still come out of the mailbox. They think only junk resides there and never actually open it.

I think I have seen the movie when, in reality, I read the book. They think they read the book when, in reality, they watched the made-for-TV movie.

They think you cannot turn off a video game until it is over, I have no idea why.

They prefer to text, Facebook message, even email over dialing someone’s phone number to ask a question. I am getting like that, too.

They think “awkward” is the greatest social failing, a situation to be avoided at all costs. I feel the same way about “rude.”

Because of social media they still “know” everyone they have ever known. I look back and wish I could revisit moments with friends I lost track of decades ago.

Both The New York Times and Time despaired of our children this week, dismissing millennials as self-absorbed, lazy, narcissistic or as Time labeled them, “The Me, Me, Me Generation.”  But the Greatest Generation must have looked on in horror at the thought of ceding the world to the rebellious, profligate, never-experienced-hardship Boomers who wanted to reject every aspect of the social order while playing music at an ear-splitting decibel level.

As the leading edge of the millennials pass 30, I see a generation that is highly accepting of differences, comfortable with change at warp speed, values human relationships above all, despite being weaned on technology, and is innovative in the extreme.  I think we are good hands.

The post The Generation Gap Isn’t What it Used to Be appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

“Isn’t senior skip day tomorrow?” I asked tentatively.

“Yes, but I don’t think everyone will come, ” she said with a touch of panic in her voice.

“There are 80 seniors, right?” My mind raced to figure out how I could pull this off as my husband was out of town, I was headed to my son’s baseball game, had another commitment after his game, a meeting first thing the next morning and two more later that afternoon.

“Ok, Sophie,” I said softly.

“Thanks, mom, I gotta go, I’ll call you later.”

I raced through the next day, showed up for the meetings, filled up my cart at Costco, but snapped at my kids and my husband, when he called. As Sophie and I picked up tables at my sister-in-law’s house, she said, “Mom, sometimes you take the joy out of things because you get so uptight and anxious. This is not a big deal, it’s just some kids coming over. We just all want to be together.”

Ha! Just some kids coming over?! I wanted to yell at her and tell her that she doesn’t understand what it really takes to feed 60-80 people, that my house is not as clean as I want it to be, that I am hosting a graduation party for her in a month, that I was a bit annoyed that I would not be able to go watch my oldest son’s baseball game that afternoon, that I was overwhelmed even before she sprung this upon me, that I wish I would have had more notice, and that I wish my husband was home and didn’t travel so much…

But I didn’t yell, and back in the car I mentioned a few of my issues but mostly just listened. She was right. “I’m sorry, Soph, I just have a lot on my plate right now.  Are you excited to have everyone over?” I asked.

“Yes, I am, Mom,” she replied. “Thanks for doing it.”

“My pleasure,”  I smiled at her as my heart softened.

But then it was back home to the flurry of her friends barreling in and tossing hot dog buns, watermelon, corn, brownies and drinks on my kitchen counter and firing up the grill. The evening swirled by as my husband and son returned and another mom, and my sister and brother-in-law came by. My two younger kids tried to steer clear of the chaos, as more and more seniors arrived, giddy, after a day of skipping school and possessing that incredible feeling of finishing high school. They ate, talked, laughed, played volleyball, jumped on the trampoline and signed yearbooks.

Suddenly I stopped, walked over to the window and sat down in a chair. I took a breath and stared outside at these kids who were finishing high school. I saw two boys (young men) perched up in the tree house heckling a classmate and then ducking down so she couldn’t see where the call was coming from. “They are still like little boys,” I said to my friend. But they aren’t little boys any longer, even if they still want to play like them.

I saw my daughter laughing, appearing so happy and carefree. I wanted to go hug her and tell her how happy I was for her and glad that she had invited all her friends to our home. I wanted to say how excited I was that she had reached this stage of life where she had freed herself from the angst of adolescence and was right smack dab in the middle of the “I’m free and life is an empty canvas” stage of teen land.

At that moment I felt so grateful for her, for the 18 years that I have had with her, and for all that she has taught me about life.  The 18 years seemed like a blip, a sliver of what I prayed would be her long and lovely life.  As I heard her roar of laughter, I blinked and she was three, playing ring around the rosie with her friends, squealing with delight when it was time to “all fall down!” A sense of peace flooded over me with the realization that my first-born baby was 18, happy and free, and that she still emotes the same joy as she did when she was a little girl.

Thoughts of the mess outside and the dishes in the sink snapped me out of my trance. “Thanks so much for hosting this for us so last-minute, Mrs. Burton,” the seniors said with sincerity, as they filed out of my house.  My heart was full of the many blessings that my daughter has given me, including the gift of filling my house up with her friends’ laughter and youthful energy, and the reminder to not let my stress to get in the way of enjoying the moment.

“This goes down as one of my best senior memories,” one of my daughter’s closest friends said as she hugged me goodbye. “Me too,” I said with a smile as I hugged her back, struggling to let go.

Julie Burton is an experienced writer specializing in any and all aspects of parenting, relationships and finding balance. She is a wife and mother of four children ranging in age from 8 to 18, and is working on a tell-all book for mothers. You can find her at unscripted mom.

The post Finishing High School, a Final Gift appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

At Grown and Flown, our friend and neighbor, Renee Cohen, is chef/instructor of CuisineArts Cooking School and supplied much of the culinary inspiration for this Memorial Day cookout.

1. Lemonade with fresh mint

Mix together the juice of 10 lemons, 6 cups water, 1/2 cup sugar, 3 sprigs mint. Adjust to taste and add 8 sprigs of mint. Refrigerate and serve in tall glasses with a sprig of mint in each.

2. Watermelon margaritas

This recipe is from the late, great Gourmet magazine: Cut up a watermelon into cubes, place in Ziplock bag and freeze overnight. Place the frozen watermelon (5 cups), 1 cup Tequila, 1/2 cup Triple Sec, 1/2 cup fresh lime juice, and 1/4 cup sugar in a blender and blend until the consistency is slushy. Serve in margarita glasses.

3. Crudite with a yogurt-based dipping sauce with chipolte pepper

From Chobani Yogurt’s website: In a blender, puree 2 cups nonfat plain yogurt with 1/2 cup salsa, 1 can chipolte pepper (halved and seeded), with 3/4 tsp salt. Chill overnight.

4. Deviled eggs

Hard boil 9 large eggs for 11 minutes and place in a bowl filled with ice-cold water. Peel the eggs, halve them and remove the yolks. Mash the yolks with a fork and mix with 2 tbsp mayonnaise, 1 tsp mustard, 2 tbsp heavy cream, salt and pepper. Fill the cooked white egg halves and top with a sliver of jalapeno.

To read this article in its entirety, visit 12 Most.

The post 12 Most Lip-Smacking Recipes for a Memorial Day Cookout appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

I have just about finished raising my kids.  My youngest has one foot out the door and only senior year in high school stands in the way of his liberation.  I know exactly how he feels. During my senior year, I put a huge wall calendar on my bedroom wall and crossed off each day with a black X.

As if that were not enough, I counted backwards from the day I would leave home so that every morning I could stare at the number of days until my release.  As a parent I have often thought that my parents must have felt terrible seeing these markings on my calendar,  just one step away from a prisoner scratching a tally into the side of her cell wall.

Except that I don’t think my parents felt bad.  Yes, they were sorry to see me go, as they would be when my brothers followed, but their life was not about me. Their identity was not about me. And their universe certainly did not revolve around me.  In this I think my family was like many others in the 1970s and 1980s.

Yet despite our generation’s belief that “we turned out just fine,” we decided to bring up our children entirely differently than we were brought up.  In fact, we only trot out the phrase, “we turned out just fine” when something about our parenting has gone wrong.

Here is where we differed:

We went to bat for them.  Going to bat for your kid is code for taking their side against a teacher or a coach or some other authority figure who has delivered an unpalatable verdict. Going to bat for your kid is, metaphorically, arguing with the umpire to see if you can get the call changed.  It shouldn’t work, but often it does, hence the reason so many parents try it.

While we may be trying to make our kid feel supported we are in turn teaching them one of life’s worst lessons.  Not only have we taught our kids that if they screw up we will make it right, but we have taught them that we will flout authority to do so.  In this we have shown them a world far different from the one they will actually live in as adults.

We told them how special they were, every last one of them.  Here is the quandary.  Why are almost no baby boomers special (okay Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Bill Clinton…still counting on one hand) but millennials, every millennial, is special and they have been since birth?

Somewhere deep down, we had to know this was a lie and even that didn’t stop us from telling it to our children.  Life told us that self-esteem was an outgrowth of accomplishment.  We knew this from experience. Yet as parents, we ignored that hard-won knowledge choosing instead to believe that we could instill self-esteem by telling our kids how great they were. Constant praise results in narcissism, entitlement and self-absorption and in turn the need for more praise…ooops.

We berated ourselves for being human and labeled it bad parenting.  I screamed at my children, I lost my temper with them and I punished them.  Sometimes it was simply because I was too tired.  Sometimes it was because they were seriously annoying. And sometimes they deserved it.

Yet after a particularly bad moment of loss of parental self-control, I would berate myself for not having kept my mouth shut. In reality, I was giving my kids valuable lessons.  When you annoy someone, when you do not read the signs given by a teacher or boss, you will find bad things happen.  Teaching kids to read the moods of others, to judge one’s behavior with respect to others and discontinuing behavior that annoys those around you were gifts, even if it didn’t feel that way at the time.  Giving our kids real world lessons at home is not bad parenting, quite the opposite.

We hated to see them unhappy and did what we could to avoid it.  Seeing our kids unhappy is excruciating.  As a parent, it grips at our hearts.  Which one of us got through life without pain, real bone-chilling pain?  By letting our kids see how much their pain hurts us and the lengths that we would go to to avoid that, we sent them the message that pain was not just part of life and that someone else would try to fix it.   Neither of these messages will hold up.

What was I thinking?  First, we had the best of intentions and got swept up in popular psychology of the day.  Who wanted to raise the only kid of their generation with no self-esteem, not really a palatable alternative.  Parenting fads come and go, but it is very hard to see that when your are in the midst of one.

Second, we had a lingering sense that while our parents had the best of intentions, if we really focused on parenting, we could do an even better job than they did.  All we had to do was combine what the research told us with heroic effort.

Finally, we brought them up this way because we love them, want to be close to them and, over the course of our lives, stay that way.  And as I watch college kids and young adults relate to their parents, choosing to spend time with them and making them truly a part of their lives, I think in this we may have succeeded.

For further reading you might enjoy…Great Parents…In Training for the Empty Nest…or Note to Self

The post What Was I Thinking? appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.

No longer will his schedule, and ours with him, be dictated by a calendar of September- May. The school schedule, with its rock-solid predictability, provided the foundation on which his life in the classroom and the sports field was built. For three months each summer, the structure relaxed but sprang back to life in the final days of August. Then, before the first class began, we bought new school clothes (last year’s were always too small, too short) and new supplies to load into a crumb-free backpack. The obligatory first day of school photos now fill our albums, shoeboxes and flash drives.

After Sunday’s college graduation, we will begin a new era with our son.  We will place graduation photos in last pages in his childhood photo album, close it and put it away.

What is unchanging, of course, is my unending love for him as mother and son. My pride and excitement on the eve of college graduation are at an all-time high. But “child,” was a label he began to outgrow when he graduated from high school. Soon “student” will no longer fit. In their place will come other ways I will think of him as he takes his first job, moves into a first apartment, and someday, I hope, finds someone he loves enough to marry and becomes a parent, himself.

But in the meantime, until he grows into all of those much more adult monikers, I stand at a parenting edge, waiting for his name to be called.

The post College Graduation and the Parenthood Abyss appeared first on Empty Nest Parenting: Grown and Flown.