A slithery problem

Source: http://www.gogobot.com/east-grinstead-united-kingdom

I grew up in a rural part of Delaware. Now, for Delaware, it was rural; however, in other, larger states, it might have been considered suburbia. Whatever you might call it, it was wonderful. This was a different era, so traffic was minimal and it was quite safe for kids to wander around unsupervised.

Our house was surrounded by empty fields on all but one side. You’d think that with all that open space we’d have been overrun by wild creatures. However, because they had so much real estate, the creatures had more than enough room to explore and hide in without having to worry about humans.

Source: http://fl.biology.usgs.gov/posters/Herpetology/Snapping_Turtles/snapping_turtles.html

One of the first wild animals I came upon when we moved was a snapping turtle — fortunately, it was dead. Since I was only in second grade, the body looked about the same size as one of those snow saucers. The wicked beak made me nervous, but not nearly as nervous as the bullet hole in the creature’s shell.

Source: http://loyalkng.com/2010/04/18/tiny-tortoisebox-turtle-taco-responds-wake-lil-cute-mammal/

Finding a box turtle was always exciting (for us, not the turtle). I saw one just a few weeks ago in the back yard of a friend who lives in a relatively rural area. I was entranced, as were two preschool girls. The colors on the shell, the way the little guy tucked everything inside his home, and the “just popped into existence” feel of the experience. Finding a turtle never gets old.

I once literally stumbled on a snake while it was swallowing a frog. I nearly tripped on something that looked weird, and when I put a hand down to try to make sense of it, the snake backed off its meal and slithered off. Ew. I felt bad about it, actually. The frog was dead, and here I’d denied the poor snake a meal.

I was a tomboy (is that word still used?), and my best and only friend and I would wander the fields and woods over about a two-square-mile area. Streams were always lots of fun to play in and around. Little minnows, crawfish, and salamanders were fun to spot and observe.

Source: http://www.everwonder.com/david/snakes/blacksnake.html

On the day my friend and I found a blacksnake, it felt like we’d hit the lottery. We’d been down by a creek, poking around under rocks and trying to avoid brushing up against the skunk cabbage that seemed to be everywhere. I don’t remember who spotted the snake, but I do remember that it took both of us to carry it. That baby was going home with us!

I knew that we had a cage my dad had originally built for our short-lived experience with gerbils. However, the cage was fairly spacious, had a good lid, and was raised on old table legs. It was perfect for our snake.

We walked about the half-mile to my house and were walking across the back yard when we heard the “boom” of the back door being slammed shut. Even from across the yard we heard the lock being turned into place. We stopped in our tracks and looked at each other.

From one of the upstairs windows came my mother’s voice.

“You get that thing out of here!” she yelled.

“I just want to get the cage.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want it one step closer. I’m not kidding.”

Bummer.

So we left and went to my friend’s house to see what we could find to house our snake. I don’t recall what happened after that.

My mother’s mother died quite young, and my mother was raised by an aunt who was terrified of snakes. Not surprisingly, my mother picked up on her fear and made it her own.

Source: http://blog.pubquizusa.com/archives/5743

My mother’s fear is all-encompassing. When I say she’s afraid of snakes, I mean that she has trouble looking at pictures of them in magazines, images of them on TV, and even accessories made to look like them. She will only handle a toy snake in the direst of circumstances (e.g., taking it away from a child as a punishment).

I was just a year or so out of college when my mother called me at work. She’d been gardening behind her house in historic New Castle (think of a miniature Williamsburg on the shores of the Delaware River). She’d told me before about how my step-father had spotted a snake sunning itself out back. It’s a real testament to her need to putter in the yard that she was willing to take the chance of maybe encountering the snake while she was out there.

I knew something was up when I heard the quaver in her voice.

“Do you think you could stop by here on your way home?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I found the snake and was able to trap it under a flowerpot. Do you think you could move it somewhere else?”

“Sure. No problem.”

When I arrived that afternoon, my mother was in the house, so I made my way out to the garden. There on the brick path was the promised flowerpot. I lifted the pot and found … nothing. See, the thing about flowerpots is that they have a drainage hole in the bottom. The snake must have slithered out the hole and gone on its merry way.

My mother was not pleased to hear the news. It was weeks, maybe months, later when I learned that my mom came upon the snake again. This time it must have looked at her funny, because she screamed. My stepfather and a man who was helping him came running. The man was a recent immigrant from Poland who didn’t really speak English. But he was able to figure out what the problem was and went over and picked up the snake. It was apparent from his gestures that he wasn’t impressed. Being a manly man, though, he took the snake away, and working in the garden became much more pleasant for my mother from that point on. Still, in the back of her mind, she worried that where there was one snake, there might be others.

Source: http://deliveringreadingpassion.wordpress.com/2011/03/16/a-sense-of-dread/

My mother proved that her love for her grandsons outweighed her snake phobia when she purchased a copy of “Verdi,” by Jannell Cannon. In case you don’t know, Verdi was a young python who didn’t want to grow up to be big and green. He preferred being yellow and having sporty stripes. Ms. Cannon lives in the same area of California as my mother, so when the author had a book signing, my mother had her sign a book for Buddhaboy and Skimbleshanks, then mailed them the book.

As the boys grew, my mother would send them funny comics, the magazine sent to members of the San Diego Zoo and Wild Animal Park, and pictures she thought they might like to see. Among those pictures have been images of snakes. Want to know what a grandmother’s love is like? It’s when a woman with a terrible fear of snakes sends pictures of them to her grandsons, just because she knows that the boys will love them.

You need to back off

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I was bullied.

Hindsight being 20/20, I should have realized that taking that particular job wasn’t a good idea. I arrived on my first day toting a box full of reference books, teacup, tissues, and all the things that make your desk your home away from home.

“Hi! I’m Laurel,” I said to the woman who came into the main office when she heard me come through the front door. “Can you tell me where my desk is?”

“Um … I don’t know where they want to put you,” she said uncertainly. “I guess you can sit there.” She gestured to a desk right inside the door. The chair was a couple feet from the sink, microwave, and refrigerator.

Without going into a lot of detail, let me just say that this job was a bad fit -- a really bad fit -- for them and for me. For them because I wasn’t family or a friend of the family. That translated to “not to be trusted.” For me because I was there to use my skills as a writer and editor. Please refer to the above: “not to be trusted.”

I was watched: what time I came in, what time I left, and how long I took for lunch. I was judged. At the time I was trying to combat my rising cholesterol numbers by eating oatmeal for lunch every day. It was hot, good, and cheap. The rest of the office (i.e., the family) got takeout every day and ate it at the table right next to my desk accompanied by the sound of open-mouthed chewing and tooth sucking. Oh, and their lunches usually ran about 90 minutes.

This was the job where, when I took it upon myself to move the desk in my new office so that my back wouldn’t be to the office door, I was taken to task. Even though our office was in a public building, apparently moving furniture must be approved by the main guy.

This was also the job where, when I was carrying out a task exactly as I’d been told to do by the boss lady, I was questioned on what I was doing. Then I was told not to be stupid.

The last straw for me was when I was on my way out the door at my regular time. Let me back up and say that my hours were 8 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., with 30 minutes for lunch. The family showed up anywhere between 9 and 11 a.m. So I was on my way out the door at 4:30 when the boss lady called me into her office. I don’t remember the content of the conversation, but I do remember the tone. It was nasty. I was taken to task for thinking or some such nonsense, and it went on and on.

Everyone has her limits. Even a rabbit will fight if it’s backed into a corner.

I’d had enough.

“You need to back off. Right now,” I said to the boss lady. I looked her right in the eye when I said it. She may have been seated in the power position (i.e., behind her desk) in her huge office, but I was standing, so I was looking down at her … in more ways than one.

I was shaking by the time I reached my car. I couldn’t believe I’d said that, that I’d actually stood up to her. But I felt good. I despise bullies, especially bullies who target people who they think can’t fight back.

Much later I was laid off from that job. It was a power play on their part. They’d hired their daughter-in-law, whose primary responsibility seemed to be to make sure that their son came into the office each morning. I suppose that hiring her meant that they had to cut expenses somewhere. Where better than by getting rid of that employee who they didn’t trust, who didn’t take the abuse they gave out, and who didn’t fit their mold.

In retrospect, being laid off from that hellhole was the best thing that they’d ever done for me.

One of the great things about reaching “a certain age” is not caring what people think about you. This is not to say that I am rude or nasty. It is to say that I will not tolerate rudeness, deliberate unkindness, or any of the other unpleasant things that life can sling your way. I now know how to stand up for myself.

When it comes to your kids, you want them to be able to stand up for themselves, too. However, it’s not as simple as teaching them to tie their shoes or brush their teeth.

We always thought that our younger son, Buddhaboy, would be the brawn to his brother’s brain. After all, when he became angry, we referred to Buddhaboy as “The Bull.”

As he grew, however, Buddhaboy became less of a steamroller and more of a thinker. His mind is always working — always. First we were waiting with breathless anticipation for him to say his first words, but now, we anxiously wait for him to draw a breath between monologues.

Buddhaboy neither liked nor disliked school. What he most looked forward to was the snack his father had in the car when he picked Buddhaboy up from school.

It came as a surprise when we learned that Buddhaboy had kicked another child on the playground. After reading the teacher’s note, we asked him about it. It turned out that he’d been watching a caterpillar at recess, just enjoying watching it move. Out of the blue, one of the boys in his class came over and squished the caterpillar. Then Buddhaboy kicked him.

The next incident also occurred on the playground. The janitor used an insecticide to kill all the wasps in a nest they’d made under the sliding board. This upset Buddhaboy, and he was teased by some of the other children. I believe he pushed them in retaliation.

As a side note, let me explain why Buddhaboy was given that name. When a fly is in the house, most of us dispatch it with a flyswatter and think no more about it. Buddhaboy put a stop to this practice in our house. Instead, he would use a spray bottle to mist the fly until it was unable to fly. Then he would gently capture the insect in his hands and take it outside and place it on the deck railing. True story.

Another incident was when some boys did something to the desk of a little girl that Buddhaboy liked. I can’t remember if he punched, kicked, or pushed them, but what happened next was a parent-teacher conference.

The counselor had a laid-back personality and really seemed to know what goes on in kids’ minds. I really liked her.

“Buddhaboy has a very strong code,” she said to me when we met. “He doesn’t like it when insects are killed, and it offends his honor when someone interferes with another person’s property.”

Huh. Interesting.

I don’t condone violence, having heard from my own mother since I was a child, “Always walk away from a fight.” On the other hand, I could understand why Buddhaboy decided to mete out his own kind of justice.

I saw a lot of the counselor while Buddhaboy was in elementary school. I am ashamed to say that it took quite a long time before I learned that there was actually a problem.

“Going to school is like torture,” he said to me one day. I followed up with him after school, asking questions that would elicit more than a yes or no answer. For a kid who barely remembers to breathe while he’s explaining mythology or dinosaurs or the future of the world, it’s sometimes next to impossible to get two words out of him.

At long last, I heard something that made everything click.

“Some boys are bothering me.”

“Do you mean just today?”

“No. They bother me every day.”

“What do you mean they ‘bother’ you?”

“They call me names under their breath and they kick me under the desk.”

“Does your teacher know?”

“No.”

“Have you told her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how about if you tell them to stop it the next time they start?”

This he did. However, he’d apparently reached his limit and shouted at them. He was the one who got in trouble.

In gym, Buddhaboy was always the last one picked, but he continued to be picked on. We’ve told our boys that if there’s something they’re not comfortable sharing with us, they should share it with their brother. So Skimbleshanks told me that a boy who’d been pushing Buddhaboy around during every gym class had finally learned his lesson. The last time the kid had done it, Buddhaboy had put the boy in an armlock, a painful, powerful defensive tactic. From that point on, the aggressor kept his distance.

If you factor in Buddhaboy’s tendency to stutter when he’s exciting about what he’s talking about, his utter social awkwardness, and his physical coordination, you have the perfect recipe for what Ed and I call bully bait. Buddhaboy was bully bait to the nth degree.

The bullying went on during every year of elementary school. Think about that. First grade. Second grade. Third grade. Fourth grade. Fifth grade. Sixth grade. For six long years, the bullying continued, despite preventive phone calls and meetings before the school year began and visits with the principal. Buddhaboy met with the counselor, and she gave him different techniques to try. Ed and I worked with him, role playing different scenarios. We asked Skimbleshanks for his advice, which he gave.

Finally Buddhaboy had reached the end of his final year in elementary school. At dinner one evening, I again asked him how he was doing in school and if anyone was bothering him. With an air of resignation, Buddhaboy said that, yes, some kids were bothering him. Ed gave a sound of frustration, then asked Buddhaboy to look at him.

“Look, your mother and I do not approve of or condone fighting, OK? But the next time a kid messes with you, I want you to punch him in the face — hard.”

I was horrified, and Ed could see it. He went on.

“Sometimes all a bully understands is a punch in the face. One good punch, and that kid — all the kids who have been bothering you — will get the message that picking on you is a really bad idea.”

I think at this point I was sputtering and most likely flailing my arms. Ed continued.

“You will get in trouble for fighting, and you will probably be suspended. I am not telling you to walk up to someone and just hit them out of the blue. And I’m not telling you to provoke someone into fighting with you. What I am telling you is that the next time someone starts something with you, punch him, and punch him hard. Do you understand?”

Buddhaboy nodded his head.

I think I put up some sort of resistance along the lines of “can’t we all just get along?” But even Skimbleshanks was on board with his father’s advice.

“Bullies expect you to back down, and they’ll never leave you alone once they start,” he said, looking at his little brother. “Punch the next guy who picks on you. You’ll get in trouble, but it’ll be worth it.”

I metaphorically threw up my hands at that point. All three of them had closed ranks, and I was missing the critical Y chromosome to be admitted to that particular party. I hate violence — hate it. I also hate the idea that I sent off my son to be tortured for six years of his young life. I hate that we’d tried everything we could with all the teachers and the administrators and yet our son was still being bullied at school. “Zero Tolerance for Bullying” may be a great slogan, but it appeared to still be bologna no matter how thin it was sliced.

I’m relieved to say that Buddhaboy never did punch anyone, in the face or anywhere else. The idea of his fighting makes me cringe.

On the other hand, as the victim of bullying myself, I have to say that a hard punch — or, in my case, hard words — can sometimes be damn effective deterrents.

Just try it for a week

Our pediatrician is a wise woman. She must be, because she took over the practice of a long-standing, popular physician — the kind of doc who would make sure that whoever took over his practice would live up to the standards he set.

When at long last we were expecting our first child, I decided that we needed to interview pediatricians before our baby arrived. After all, all the parenting magazines said that this is what one does … so we did it.

I made an appointment with a new pediatrician, and Ed and I arrived for the “interview.” I don’t know what I expected. Maybe I thought she would be eager to win our trust. Maybe I thought I’d be able to discern character flaws or questionable office practices.

What I found was a competent young woman who, although relatively new to private practice, seemed at ease talking to expectant parents (one of whom probably came across a suspicious and neurotic *ahem*). We decided to do away with the nonsense of interviewing physicians, reasoning that until we actually had a child for her to examine and treat, we didn’t have anything to go on.

Fast forward several years to when Skimbleshanks was in his second year of preschool. No, he didn’t fail the first year. His birthday is in January, so it was a judgment call as to whether he was mature enough to begin first grade. Besides, he was learning, having fun with the other children, and the preschool was close to his daycare.

I was entranced by all the different learning stations — so many different things to do! I loved that each child had his or her own hook and “cubby.” The teachers (two of them) seemed to enjoy the children and be happy with their work.

And then Skimbleshanks arrived.

I don’t recall that there were problems, per se. It was just that the teachers were at a loss as to how to redirect Skimbleshanks when he lost focus or wandered off to see what another group of kids was doing.

“The difficulty is that we’ve tried everything,” the exasperated teacher explained to me. “When he wanders off, we bring him back. If he disturbs the other children, we have him sit in a chair right there [pointing to a chair that sat alone, off the carpet], but he continues to make noises and faces and seems incapable of sitting still. Last week I had him sit in the hall outside the room, thinking that if he didn’t have an audience, maybe he’d settle down. When I checked on him a minute or two later, he was having fun rolling up and down the hall.”

The poor woman. She was looking a bit frazzled, not the same calm, collected professional she’d been at the start of the school year. Then she went on.

“Then the other morning I found myself chasing him around the room.” She shook her head. “I stopped, realizing that what I was doing was just silly.”

I promised her that Skimbleshanks’s father and I would talk with him, emphasizing to him the importance of behaving, paying attention, and respecting other people.

The end of the school year came, and Skimbleshanks “graduated” to kindergarten. Both of his teachers were wreathed in smiles on graduation day, but not just at the thought of my son moving on to a different grade in a different school … I hope.

Kindergarten was a real trial. First there was a bullying incident that I just happened to learn about when Skimbleshanks said something about two third-grade boys pushing him every morning while everyone was lined up to go into the school. A phone call to his teacher put an end to that.

We began to get reports on Skimbleshanks’s behavior that were eerily reminiscent of the ones we’d received during the previous two years. Inability to sit still. Unable to stay on task. Frequently interrupts others.

The school mascot was a rabbit (to sort of rhyme with the school’s name). At the end of each month, the school would hold a Bunny Bash. Those children who had behaved that month were able to attend the event, which usually featured a presentation, movie, or some other fun activity.

Each month Skimbleshanks’s teacher would keep track of his infractions. If he was able to have no more than three in one month, he would be able to attend the Bunny Bash.

To me, it seemed that three infractions over a 20-day span (give or take a day) was really hoping for a lot from a bunch of little kids. Still, the bashes were held, and many children attended.

Skimbleshanks did not.

And what was my kid doing while the others were at their party? He was in a room with the other kids who’d done something that got them banned from the fun. He didn’t have busy work — he sat there, nothing to do, not really understanding why he was being punished.

The year ended, and Skimbleshanks entered first grade. Again, we got notes from the teacher. Inability to stay on task … interrupting the teacher and the other children … fidgety.

At this time, ADD news was everywhere. I was adamant that kids were kids, and that boys liked — no, they needed to move. There was no way that ADD was real; it was just a way that society had developed to medicate children into compliance. My child was normal, whatever that meant. What it meant to me was that there was no way that I’d agree to medicating him for behavior issues.

I finally took Skimbleshanks to his pediatrician for a checkup. After explaining to her that, once again, his behavior was causing problems for him at school, she was quiet, then suggested that maybe we could try one of the ADD medications on him.

“Just try it for a week,” she said. “The medication wears off in a day, and it’s not addictive. Just try it and see if it makes a difference.”

With feelings of trepidation and believing that our parenting had quite possibly ruined Skimbleshanks, I had the prescription filled. We started him on the medication over the Christmas break.

On the first day after school resumed, we had a voice message from Skimbleshanks’s teacher.

“I don’t know what’s happened with Skimbleshanks, but he’s like a different child,” she said. “He’s been participating in class, staying on task, and isn’t bothering the other children. He’s having a terrific day.”

Ed and I were stunned. Could it be that easy? Could our child really have some sort of chemical imbalance that the medication was able to address, allowing the real child to shine through? Apparently so.

As the year continued and Skimbleshanks continued taking his medication, he did really well. His grades climbed. He made friends. The only reports we had from his teacher had to do with how well he was doing.

Being a mother, of course I felt like a failure. It must have been something I had done or not done while I was pregnant that had led to the ADD. Or maybe it was something that I had done or not done before I became pregnant. Or maybe I was just a lousy mother, one who had raised her infant and toddler in a way that made it necessary for him to take medication to be able to process input like other children did.

But do you know what I finally realized? I just doesn’t matter why Skimbleshanks is the way he is, not really. That’s all water under the bridge anyway. What matters is dealing with the here and now. What matters is understanding that my child does have some sort of chemical or “wiring” issue and that this issue can be effectively addressed.

Sometimes smart people can be so stupid. I have clinical depression. I was diagnosed while Ed and I were trying to conceive, when I was in the midst of what they call a major depressive episode. I saw a psychiatrist and, like our pediatrician, she said something that penetrated my self-delusion:

“People with diabetes aren’t told to bootstrap themselves out of their condition,” she’d said. “You have depression — dysthymia, in fact, a textbook case.”

I wasn’t to blame … what an amazing concept.

She explained that my brain simply uses up all of one particular chemical way too fast. That’s it. The medication I take addresses that. Antidepressants aren’t “happy pills,” believe me. What the do is allow me to be me. Sure, I have ups and downs like everyone does. However, because the medication keeps my chemistry on a more-even keel, I don’t have those huge, mind-numbing troughs of fatigue, anxiety, and hopelessness that seemed to make up my life before I was diagnosed.

So, given my own diagnosis and treatment, you’d think that it would be an easy leap for me to apply the same to my child and his diagnosis of ADD. Yeah, you’d think so. But being a parent, being responsible for the health and well-being of your child comes with so much baggage. You want to make the best decisions, and you want to be perfect. And that wish for perfection is what leads to blind spots.

You tell yourself that your son is happy, healthy, and normal … whatever that is.

You tell yourself that ADD is just our society’s way of giving permission for accepting bad behavior or medicating children to attain good behavior.

You tell yourself that it’s the teacher or the school that is the problem, not your child.

You tell yourself that your child has a food allergy, is high spirited, or otherwise within the realm of what you define as normal.

When you have two preschool teachers, a kindergarten teacher, and a first-grade teacher all tell you the same thing about your child, maybe it’s time for you to step back and take another look at your child. If these professionals, who see all kinds of behavior, tell you that your child is at one end of the bell curve, it means that you need to pay attention.

It means that you need to see the situation clearly, without viewing it through the skewing lens of your own issues.

A diagnosis of ADD isn’t the end of the world. It usually comes at the end of a long, tough road. The path forward is full of doubt and uncertainty. However, with an astute physician, caring teachers, and your own clear vision, you can help make your child’s path forward just a bit smoother.

Skimbleshanks will soon be 18. His school years have been full of trials and tribulations. As he considers furthering his education, he wonders if he’s up to the task. Ed and I wonder, too … and worry.

“Just try it for a week.” Wise words from a wise physician. I need to keep them in mind as time goes by. Whether it’s dealing with a new medical diagnosis or college or breaking a bad habit, just trying it for a week seems to be good advice.

Yer mom

This post is all about words that make us cringe. If words like faggot, nigger, and fuck make you clutch your pearls, you’re probably going to want to visit a different site. Thanks for stopping by!

As every parent knows, once you release your kid into the wild (e.g., school, playgroup, etc.), you are no longer in control of what they hear or see.

The horror that was visited on the entire country on September 11, 2001, seared our generation in the way that JFK’s assassination affected my parents’ generation. However, what I remember most about that time is not the death, destruction, and widespread grief. It is that my precious snowflake, Skimbleshanks, asked me if “fuck” was a bad word.

I was in the hall, busy moving furniture when Skimbleshanks stepped inside the screen door to ask his question. This distance gave me the critical time I needed to formulate my answer. I already knew that I would remain calm.

When I was in elementary or middle school, I called my older brother a hemorrhoid … at the dinner table. My father was appalled and began spluttering about what a terrible thing that was to say.

“Do you know what a hemorrhoid is?” he asked, his eyes bulging, his face red with indignation. “I’ll tell you what it is!” he continued without pause.

While my father described a hemorrhoid to me, I tuned out his outrage and clearly remember having this thought: “Man, that must be a great word to use!”

So, back to my 6-year-old. As I walked out to where Skimbleshanks stood, looking at me for verification, I said something along the following lines.

“Yes, honey. The word ‘fuck’ is a very bad word. It’s an ugly word and is usually used by people who don’t have the imagination to come up with a better one.”

I paused to make sure that he’d taken all this in.

“Tell me … where did you hear that word?”

“[Neighbor girl] told me.”

“Really? Well, let’s go talk with her about it.”

I knew that I was sailing into dangerous water by taking this step. Talking to a child who is not your own about things like swearing, stealing, and the like can end … badly.

“Hey, [neighbor girl]. Skimbleshanks just asked me if the word ‘fuck’ is a bad word and said that he’d heard it from you. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, can you tell me where you heard it?”

“I heard it from [another little girl in the neighborhood].”

“OK. You guys can just hang out here for a bit. I’m going next door to talk with [neighbor girl]’s mom.”

So I schlepped next door, wondering how the coming conversation was going to go. Again, these kinds of conversations can wind up blowing up in your face.

I needn’t have worried. I explained to [neighbor lady] about her daughter’s enhanced vocabulary and where the colorful sentence enhancer originated.

“Oh, [other girl] has older brothers, so I’m sure she learned it from them.”

Any of you ever watch “A Christmas Story”? Remember the scene where Ralphie’s mom calls his friend’s mom about a certain word Ralphie had said? She told the woman, then asked, “Where do you think he learned that word.” Based on the woman’s garbled voice coming through the phone and the mother’s startled reaction, you know that the answer was, “your husband.” I wonder if my neighbor was (and is) truly unaware of the spiciness of the language used in her own house … by her and her husband.

Oh, well. I’m not about to judge. What they say in the privacy of their home … at the top of their voices … with nothing but a window screen between my ears and their mouths … well, let’s just move along.

Certain words are inflammatory, period. There was a very brief period when one of our sons would call the other a “faggot.” The time period was very, very brief. I would launch myself at the offending child and deliver this speech every time.

“I do not want to hear that word spoken in my house. It’s an ugly, hurtful word and it makes you ugly when you say it. Is something wrong with being gay? Do you know anyone who is gay? Yes, you do: your uncle. Would you call him a faggot? Would you? How do you think it would make him feel to hear that word come out of your mouth? You will not use that word. Period. Is that clear?”

As far as I’m concerned, nothing in the world is wrong with being gay. There is something seriously wrong with belittling someone and using hurtful words.

No, I’m not a Pollyanna. I know that some words (like hemorrhoid) are used for their shock value. But it’s going to be a cold day in hell before I permit these ugly words to be used in my home. Let’s take a look at three of the worst offenders, shall we?

Faggot.

Nigger.

Retard.

I will not allow these words to be spoken by anyone in my home.

Years ago two our friends were visiting. The woman, referring to the Indian husband of another woman, said that she liked to “call a spade a spade.” And then she smirked.

I confess that I was so shocked that I didn’t say a word; neither did Ed. What I did do was make a mental note to avoid the woman in the future. I don’t have time or room in my life for a racist.

Growing up as I did out in the sticks, next to white-bread suburbia, it was common to hear people refer to blacks as niggers. Not in my house, though. My older brother used the word in my mother’s hearing — once. She immediately rounded on him.

“I don’t want to hear you use that word — ever,” she said. “Would you use that word to describe Mrs. Knott? Well, would you?”

My brother admitted that he wouldn’t, and that was that. Mrs. Knott was an elderly black woman who came and cleaned our house every two weeks once my mother was working full time (this was back in the early 1970s, when virtually no one’s mother worked outside the home). My mother would prepare lunch for Mrs. Knott and have it waiting for her, a sandwich in the fridge and a can of soup, a soup pot, and the can opener on the counter. And after lunch, Mrs. Knott would have a rest on our spare bed. My mother picked up Mrs. Knott or took her home, and sometimes did both. Mrs. Knott was treated like the treasure she was.

Ed has a nephew who is biracial. When the word “nigger” was spoken in our home by one of our sons, I asked him if he would call his cousin that name. My son thought about it and admitted that he wouldn’t. I said that it was an ugly, hurtful word and he was not to use it — ever — to describe someone who was black. If the person was a jerk, use that word; if he or she was an asshole, use that word. Ugly? Yeah, they’re ugly words; however, they aren’t hateful.

When I was growing up, you’d hear the word “retard” (pronounced ree-tard) several times during any given day. It was an accepted word to use to describe someone who was stupid, obtuse, dense, or otherwise not very good at using his or her brain.

Now, I cringe when I hear “ree-tard,” because I know people whose thought processes are damaged or impaired. I worked as a lifeguard one summer, and one of the kids had been in a car accident that had left him with a head-trauma injury. This 18-year-old young man was on the threshold of his life as an independent adult. Instead, he had a limp, a damaged arm, and impaired thinking. It seemed to me that he’d already been through more than enough pain. Only a sadist would add to it by calling him a “ree-tard.”

My father had a stroke a couple of years ago. This is a man who used to keep the financial books for two of his company’s sites. He taught me how to do my taxes. He was always — always — punctual. Now, as a result of the stroke, he is in a constant state of confusion about what day it is, what date it is, and what time it is. Dad tells me that it’s impossible to convey to others what it’s like to have this confusion. The numbers and the words (e.g., 9:00 and nine o’clock) just don’t make any sense to him. So, I suppose to some people my father is now a “ree-tard.” Ouch — even just writing that hurt.

Words can pack a powerful punch.

Now let’s take a look at the flip side. One of my sisters-in-law used to serve with the army reserve back in the day. When someone taunted her son with, “your mom wears army boots,” he didn’t bat an eye. Sure, she wears army boots; they’re part of the uniform.

It used to be that saying anything about anyone’s mom was a sure-fire way to end up in a fight. Don’t you say anything about my mom, kids (and some adults, too) would growl. I suppose some people are still touchy on that subject.

Not me. I will throw out “yer mom!” at my sons just to see them roll their eyes. Yeah, I’m weird. When they try to respond in kind, it’s a wonderful call and response:

“Yer mom!” one will say, trying to fire me up.

“Is awesome!” I’ll fire back, often singing the second word.

Words have power, whether you intend them to or not. If your special snowflake drops the F-bomb, your reaction, more than anything, will determine the course of your child’s verbal future. So explain to her what makes “fuck” a bad word. Ask him how he’d feel if someone called his friend a “nigger.” Explain the ugliness behind “ree-tard.”

Then lay down the law.

My law is: treat others as you’d like to be treated.

What’s your law?

My claim to fame

When I was in fourth grade, I found a tick had settled in for a meal at the nape of my neck. I pulled it off, flushed it, and didn’t think much about it beyond, “Oh, gross!”

I grew up in an area that had more empty fields than houses. The field behind our yard was overgrown with blackberry canes and long grass. It was also an excellent habitat for ticks. These ticks aren’t the ones you see in the news, the tiny deer tick. No, these were the garden-variety dog ticks. They’d hang out, waiting for someone or something to walk by, and they’d hitch a ride. Once on you, they’d head for a quiet place to take a bite.

Dog ticks aren’t easy to kill when they’re hungry. When they’ve had a full meal, they look like something from a horror story: little gray balloons with their heads and legs sticking out from their bloated bodies. These are easy, but messy, to kill. The hungry ones, however, are flat and impervious to all but the hardest of fingernails or sharpest of pins.

The telltale tickling of a tick making its way along an arm or leg was an unwelcome way to be awakened on a hot summer night. They were common enough, though, that I slept with a baby-food jar half-filled with turpentine on my bedside table. When I captured one of the little blood-suckers, I’d squeeze it between a thumb and forefinger while, with the other hand, I’d take the lid off the jar. In the darkness of the night, I’d drop the critter into the liquid, rubbing my thumb and forefinger together to make sure that it had made the trip to its doom. I grew quite skilled at this and was able to remove and replace the lid on the jar of turpentine without spilling a drop.

I can’t remember of my father gave me the jar or whether this was something I did on my own. It boggles my mind, though, that any amount of turpentine was allowed out of the basement (where my dad had his workshop).

On the day that I found the tick attached to me, I got off the bus that afternoon complaining that my neck was stiff and that my head hurt. My mother was skeptical; however, in her defense, I wasn’t doing at all well in school that year. In fact, she met with my teacher while I waited in the hall. I didn’t really care what they said, so I wasn’t paying attention. However, the following statement my teacher made has stuck with me all these years later: “She can do the work — she just don’t.” Oh, Arturo, prince of irony!

From the day I came home complaining of a stiff neck and a headache, the events of the following two weeks were a bit fluid — for me, anyway.

I became really sick, and my doctor prescribed penicillin. The next day, I developed red spots on my hands and feet. My mother called the doctor, and he discontinued the penicillin, thinking I was having an allergic reaction to it.

By the next day, I was as limp as a dishrag, and my mother bundled me up in a blanket and drove me to the doctor’s office. (Note: I don’t recall if I saw the doctor before this — this was the only visit I can remember.)

In the examination room, I was placed on the exam table, still wrapped in a blanket. I was pretty much out of it, but I remember that my doctor pulled out a huge medical textbook.

“I’ve done some research, and I think this is what Laurel has,” he said, pointing to a description in the book. “Rocky mountain spotted fever.” He and my mother had a conversation that I don’t remember at all. However, in one of the highlights in my childhood, my beloved doctor picked me up and carried me out to the car, placed me in the back seat, and made sure that the blanket covered me.

Things went downhill from there. Soon I was covered head to toe with spots. I’d stopped eating and wasn’t drinking. Our neighbor, who had a little gadget that crushed ice cubes, sent over a few cups of crushed ice. I suppose the thought was that if I wouldn’t drink liquids, at least I could suck on the ice chips.

So, what’s going on in the mind of a really sick kid? It wasn’t too bad, actually. My temperature was up around 105F, so the hallucinations kept me pretty entertained.

In one hallucination, I played hide and seek with Snap, Crackle, and Pop. Obviously, they were the ones who hid since I didn’t have the energy to move. They liked to hide in the curtains, and I was able to point to where I thought they’d secreted themselves.

I upset both of my parents pretty badly with another hallucination. In this one, hundreds of baby spiders were on my bedroom ceiling. You may recall that at the end of “Charlotte’s Web,” her children all created little webs, which allowed them to fly away on the breeze. Well, I’m sure that this is where this particular vision came from. In my hallucination, however, the spiders were all in pastel shades, so they weren’t that scary. Still, I hid under the bedclothes, yelling about the spiders coming down all over the room until one of my parents got a broom and swept them off the ceiling.

Early on, when my parents were still trying to tempt me to eat, I remember being given a plate with a chicken drumstick on it. I’m sure more was there, but I was tripping at the time. I thought that a kid was hiding on the floor next to my bed, and I gave the drumstick to him or her. Gotta keep your visitors fed, you know? Turns out, though, that I actually gave it to our dog, who survived … or maybe my brother or parents arrived in time to take away the bone.

I wasn’t aware of it, but my mother had been sleeping on the floor next to my bed when I was at my sickest. I didn’t learn this until years later, and I was pretty surprised. My mother is not, even on the best of days, a floor sleeper. Learning that she willingly put herself at my bedside for days at a time made me really understand just how sick I was.

At about this time, my parents wanted me to be examined again but were, I suppose, leery of exposing me to the cold. A nice little doctor with glasses and an actual bulgy leather doctor’s bag came to our house and into my bedroom to examine me. He confirmed that, yes, I was a really sick kid. He issued the edict that if I didn’t begin drinking fluids the next day, he would admit me to the hospital.

This conversation must have happened in my room or in the hall, because the message of drink or go to the hospital must have made it through my fevered thoughts and into the still-working part of my brain. That night, I dreamed I was bundled up in blankets as I sat in the middle of an empty movie theater. Someone handed me a cup of chipped ice and said that I had to eat/drink all of it or I would be taken to the hospital. So, little by little, I consumed it all.

From that point on I was on the mend. I had been sick and in bed for a full week. It took me a further week to be back on my feet. My mother did her best trying to keep my occupied in a way that would take minimal physical effort. I suppose that the threat of a relapse must have been in the back of her mind.

My claim to fame is that mine was the first case of rocky mountain spotted fever in the state of Delaware. I felt pretty special once I no longer felt like roadkill.

My “specialness” lasted for less than a year. The following summer, two of my friends developed rocky mountain spotted fever, too, although neither of them was as sick as I was, thankfully.

These days it’s all about the deer tick and Lyme disease, and rightly so. If it’s not caught in time, it can take a terrible toll. Fortunately, caught in time, Lyme disease is easily treated.

I was fortunate that the right treatment for rocky mountain spotted fever was determined about 20 years before I became ill. I was also fortunate that my physician correctly diagnosed and treated me and that my parents provided me with such good care.

I don’t have a phobia about ticks, although I suppose I’d be well within my rights to have one. I haven’t seen a dog tick in years, even though we have dogs and our neighborhood is loaded with squirrels, raccoons, and groundhogs. I suppose we’re just lucky.

On the other hand, the mosquitoes around here are plentiful, voracious, and l-o-v-e me. I’ve set a bounty on their heads: five cents for each head. Exterminate with extreme prejudice.

If you’d like to read more about rocky mountain spotted fever, here is a good article. http://www.medicinenet.com/rocky_mountain_spotted_fever/article.htm

Self-Defense

When our boys were young, it was pretty apparent that neither one was interested in sports. Shocking, I know, because everyone knows that every boy is just crazy about sports, right? They are if wrapping paper, clothing catalogs, and commercials are to be believed.

Our boys weren’t and still aren’t. However, Ed and I decided that we wanted the boys to do something physical, if for not other reason than to prevent them from becoming permanently rooted to the chair in front of the computer.

We decided on the martial arts and set about finding the right place. Some martial arts studios are, quite frankly, creepy places. The instructors practically drip aggression and put me in mind of Robert Wagner in those Energizer battery commercials (”Go ahead. Knock it off. I dare you.”). Other studios are so wrapped up in “the mystery of the orient” that it makes you wonder if they require their students to carry a cast-iron pot across the room using their inner wrists a la the David Carradine “Kung Fu” TV series.

My least-favorite martial arts studios are the ones where I’d walk in, and the male staff would check me out, making no effort to be subtle about it. Some dismissed me out of hand, which was fine by me. Others, though, would begin preening. Yeah, nothing is going to get me out of my clothes faster than watching a guy flex his muscles while trying to look sexy. Ugh.

At the recommendation of one of Ed’s sisters, we checked out a martial arts studio about 20 minutes away. As soon as I walked in, I was struck by how relaxed and happy all the kids, parents, and instructors were. The classes were hard work, but looked fun, too. The facility was clean and full of sunlight. The instructors were, for the most part, young men who were friendly, polite, and engaged. Best of all, my creepy-o-meter didn’t even register. Sold!

The fees for this school were pretty steep. We justified the expense because the boys would be learning self-defense skills and discipline, plus they’d have the opportunity to socialize with a new group of children.

Buddhaboy could take kenpo karate or leave it. He’d participate; however, his mind was usually in a different place during class. Skimbleshanks, on the other hand, took to kenpo like a fish to water. He was focused, intense, and did well.

One day as I was driving the boys to karate, I learned that there had been an incident on the playground that day involving Skimbleshanks. I didn’t get a lot of information, but what I did get was that a girl had choked my son on the playground. She wrapped her arm around his throat and squeezed and did so in full view of the adults who were monitoring recess that day.

The more he talked, the more apparent that Skimbleshanks was devastated by what had happened. No, not the choking. He was angry and embarrassed that he hadn’t used his self-defense techniques on the girl. Instead, he’d been stunned into immobility.

The very first thought that went flitting through my mind as he told me the story wasn’t about my son. No, that first thought was, “My god, what must that girl’s home life be like that she’d do something like that and do it in front of adults?” I still have that thought today, nearly 10 years later. Did the girl witness violent acts in her own home or maybe was permitted to watch inappropriate things on TV? Did she have rage issues? Was this being done to her, perhaps? It makes me ill just thinking of the life she must have been leading.

Skimbleshanks was my top priority. He was growing more and more upset as the minutes went by. When we arrived at the karate studio, he was nearly in tears. Once we were inside, I immediately looked for one of the boys’ — heck, everyone’s — favorite instructors, Mr. Anthony. Once I found him, I quickly and quietly told him what had happened and asked him to talk with Skimbleshanks.

As the two of them talked, I saw that Skimbleshanks was beginning to calm down. He listened attentively, as did I. The main point that Mr. Anthony made was that it was never right to start a fight; however, everyone has the right to defend himself or herself. He described what Skimbleshanks could have done and what he might do if he found himself in a similar situation. And he drove home the main message: It’s OK to defend yourself.

The next few years went by without any similar incidents. Then, when Skimbleshanks was 13 and in middle school, he again found himself being choked by someone. (As an aside, let me point out that we live in white-bread suburbia here, not in what anyone would describe as a “tough” area.)

What I learned was that this kid’s last name was Racer, and this was back in 2008, when the movie “Speed Racer” came out. The boy was upset about something, and Skimbleshanks said, “Whoa! Calm down, Speed Racer.”

“What did you say?” the boy responded.

Now that phrase is generally known to be a warning shot across the bow. When someone says “what did you say?” in a tense situation, it’s a warning that things are about to get ugly. Most people know this, right? Maybe, but Skimbleshanks didn’t.

So he repeated himself.

Mr. Racer then wrapped his arm around Skimbleshanks’s throat. Since he was sitting on a bench in the locker room, Skimbleshanks didn’t have a lot of room or time to maneuver. The incident ended (I’m not sure what happened. As a mom, I don’t get a lot of information from my boys, and when I do, it’s usually after a lot of effort on my part). Both boys were sent to the office.

I had to explain to Skimbleshanks several times how important it is to be able to read body language, tone, and atmosphere to prevent these situations from escalating. I don’t know whether he ever got my point or if he’s even capable of picking up on these nuances of human behavior. Some people are highly attuned to these sorts of things; other people are not. I pick up on the mood in a room and whether a person I’ve just met is trustworthy almost immediately. Maybe this is because I’m an introvert and am an acute observer. Who knows? With Skimbleshanks, all I can do is coach him on this stuff and hope that he trains himself to be more observant.

The third and final encounter Skimbleshanks had with an aggressive person was also while he was in middle school. It seems that there was a group of girls on his bus who were loudmouths (his description) and bullies (my deduction).

One day on the bus, this group of girls was throwing things and, in general, being annoying. One of the items thrown was a bottle of water. When the bottle hit Skimbleshanks, he picked it up and pegged the lead girl in the head with it. (No, I don’t condone that, and yes, I did tell him so.)

In a rage, the girl got up from her seat and began to charge up the aisle toward Skimbleshanks. In turn, he stood up, took up a fighting stance, and let out a “kee-ai!” The whole while, he had his game face on, shooting laser beams of “don’t mess with me” at his attacker.

She stopped in her tracks. Then she turned and went back to her seat.

Skimbleshanks had no further problems with that group of girls.

This event is what made all the mileage, all the expense, and all the effort of the boys’ self-defense training worth while. Skimbleshanks finally had learned to be aware of his surroundings and was ready to defend himself.

Once you release your child into the wooly wilds of the real world, it’s important that you know and that he knows that he can take care of himself. The world is full of bullies and people who don’t know what to do with their rage. Fortunately, they’re not all concentrated in one area. But all it takes is one person who can strip you of your self-confidence and make you feel like a victim.

Skimbleshanks was a victim twice (that I know of). He could have been a victim a third time. Instead, he recognized what was happening and what might happen if he didn’t take charge. And by standing up to a bully and letting her know that he wasn’t going to just take what she intended to dish out, he proved the adage that the best defense is a good offense. Or, as Mr. Han said in “The Karate Kid,” (2010), “Best fights are the ones we avoid.”

Naked Time

Some kids are clothes horses. Some could not possibly care less what they wear. And then there are those who’d rather not wear a thing.

Skimbleshanks was one of those nature kids who didn’t really see the need for clothing. I’ve never had a problem with a little kid who wanted to just let it all hang out. I figured that, since we were either in our home or in our secluded back yard, the only eyes that might be offended were my own. Besides, who was he hurting?

Early in the spring of 1997 I was stumbling to the car after an appointment whose outcome would answer the question, “Am I pregnant?” with a resounding “Yes!” I was stumbling because I was exhausted and trying to catch my 2-year-old, Skimbleshanks, who was merrily stripping off his clothes in the chilly morning. I was shouting out different bribes, trying to reach an accord with my son that would result in his keeping at least one item of clothes on. I was exhausted, and the cat-and-mousecapades were but a foreshadowing of what my pregnancy would be like while dealing with a feisty 2-year-old.

One warm, sunny morning later that spring, Matthew and I were waiting for my father to come over for a visit. Matthew wanted to run around naked in the yard, and I was fine with the idea. It was while he was naked that one of nature’s angriest insects, the yellow jacket, began buzzing around Matthew. I kept my eye on it and probably shooed it off once or twice. Then, right in front of my eyes, that little bastard landed right on Matthew’s … um … penis, not to put too fine a point on it.

I didn’t blink, and I didn’t hesitate, but time seemed to stand still. God, being stung there would be torture to any male, let alone a little 2-year-old.

As I pulled my hand back for my forward swing to shoo the critter off, it’s butt dipped down, and it struck. Time sped up into hyperdrive. The wasp flew off, and in the second before all hell broke loose, I scooped my kid up and bolted for the house.

He was howling by the time we hit the back door. I flung it open, scrabbled around in the freezer, and put an ice cube on the injured part with one hand while dialing the phone with the other.

“Ed? Matthew was just stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?!”

“Do? I don’t know.”

“What if it swells up and gets infected and falls off?!”

“Um … maybe you should call Jan.”

Jan is one of Ed’s sisters. She’s a postpartum nurse and the mother of three boys. She’s either seen or had to deal with just about every sort of medical emergency under the sun.

“Jan? Thank god you’re home. Matthew’s been stung on the penis by a yellow jacket. What do I do?”

In her usual calm manner, Jan suggested ice (check)to slow down the progress of the venom through the bloodstream. Then she asked if I had any of the spray they’d given me in the hospital when I’d delivered Matthew.”

“It’s name ends in -caine.”

“Yeah, I still have it.”

“Good. It’s a numbing agent and should help with the pain. Good luck.”

I took another look at Matthew’s poor little penis, and it was a dark, angry red, swollen in a way that me imagining gangrene and all sorts of horrific outcomes. It was not a happy penis.

(Note: This has got to be a record for the use of the word “penis” outside of a medical text. Porn and erotica usually don’t use the medical term … or so I’ve heard.)

I ran to the bathroom and threw things around inside the closet and under the sink until I came up with the right spray can.

Matthew was, as you might imagine, a little leery of my spraying his wounded penis with anything. It took some work, but I managed to convince him that the spray would make the pain go away — and it did.

I wanted nothing more than to just bang my head against a wall. For Pete’s sake, what is wrong in the world when a little boy can’t frolic around in the all-together without a pissed off insect causing him grievous harm?

In due course, my father arrived. Once he got settled, he asked me what was new. I told him about the morning’s event, ending with something to the effect that, frolicking naked is an utterly harmless activity.

“I guess you learned that you were wrong,” he said. I would have felt better if I’d punched him, but he was just being my dad. He’s never one to let a so-called teachable moment pass by. I would refer to it as an adding-insult-to-injury moment, but that’s just me.

When Elliot came along, we had a different problem. Both boys loved stripping and running around. It was harmless, but aggravating. We didn’t want to punish the boys for doing what little kids just love to do, something harmless. What to do?

We owe a debt to Dana Carvey. The comedian, who also has two boys, described what he and his wife did to deal this this exact situation: Naked Time (for the boys, not Dana and his wife).

So that’s what we did, too.

“Boys! It’s now Naked Time. For the next 20 minutes, you can run around naked.”

“Elliot!” Matthew would shout. “Naked Time!” Man, you would have thought that we’d announced that it was Christmas and that a bottomless bowl of candy was being provided for their enjoyment.

Ed and I warned the boys that Naked Time would end if there were any accidents. Now that I think back, I don’t believe there were any.

By that point, Matthew knew how to use the toilet — more importantly, he knew how to hold on until he reached the toilet. Buddhaboy, however, was a different matter. He was just a toddler and had neither the skill nor the inclination to use a toilet. Still, the excitement of Naked Time was enough for him to put his natural functions on hold.

I wonder … maybe if we’d instituted more frequent Naked Times, we might have been able to get Buddhaboy out of diapers w-a-y sooner.

Naked time, of a sort, didn’t end when the boys were toddlers, either.

Ed and I have always been very open with the boys, telling them that they should feel comfortable asking us anything. We want our kids to have correct information and believe that the odds of that are much higher when the information comes from us. Now, when you take that position, that means that you are agreeing to answer any question on any subject, regardless of whether it embarrasses you or not.

I was reading, curled up in my favorite chair, when I heard the following: “Mom? Does this look normal to you?”

Even before I turned my head to look, I pretty much knew what I was going to see. Call it intuition.

A boy (identity concealed to protect the guilty) stood next to me in his all-together, holding his penis out so that I could inspect it. I believe there was a pimple or small discoloration on it. In the calmest voice I could muster, I answered.

“That looks perfectly normal to me, honey. Why don’t you have your father take a look and give you a second opinion?”

Somewhat relieved, the boy left the room. I rolled my eyes and went back to my book.

A short while later, Ed came into the room.

“Why did you send him to me?” he hissed.

“Because I don’t have one of those. You’re the default expect on that particular subject matter.”

It’s true. When you have kids, whether you’re a woman in the throes of labor or a father being presented with a questionable skin condition, your modesty really isn’t the issue at all. What it’s all about is remaining calm and answering those questions as best as you’re able, reassuring your kid that all is well. Save your embarrassment for another time. Believe me, there will be plenty of them as your kids grow up.