Tag: parenthood

Communication Conversion

Posted on June 18, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

Honestly – does your teen text you from inside the house? And if they do – do you text back?

What is happening to the art of conversation? Or at least the ability or desire to converse in person?

It’s an interesting phenomenon if you step back and look at it. When cell phones allowed us to go mobile, and speak to whomever whenever we wanted to, Americans thought that was amazing. I called my mom much more often, and it made long commutes in California traffic so much more interesting.

We no longer had to wait by the phone for that special someone to call – whether it was the repairperson or the person we were hoping would fix our relationship status (wait-we didn’t have that term then, either). Cell phones allowed us freedom to communicate all the time.

Then email hit. Suddenly, we didn’t have to wait for business hours to get information-we could ask questions, register complaints or schedule appointments at our convenience. We could break up, make up, or shake up relationships at all hours, and we could do it in the glorious isolation of our homes. No longer could the recipient hear the quiver in our voice, or the howl of pain, or the venom that we felt. All communication was one way, and we had time to think of a witty response.

With texting, a hybrid of phone and email caught on quickly with kids, not so fast with adults. I started texting because I wanted to communicate with my daughter, and since she had quickly deemed email too slow, and phone calls were nonexistent, texting was a perfect option to still communicate with her, and no one needed to know she was talking with her mom.

Her texts are often one to four word responses to my questions, but at least she’s answering, right? She texts me where she’s going, who she is with, and when she wants me to remember to deposit her allowance in her checking account. I get a text when she leaves a textbook at home, or after a particularly tough test at school. Just this morning I awoke to a text from my daughter. Away at summer camp, I guess she misses me?

So when she’s in her room and wants to know what’s for dinner, I get a text. I’ll admit-it kind of bugs me. Why can’t she get off her seat and come ask me? Is she really studying that intently, or is Facebook that alluring? Or am I just being old fashioned? Is this the way my grandparents felt when my mom stopped writing them letters from camp and called instead?

I’m beginning to think it’s a losing battle-texting is here to stay. And I’ll secretly admit it-I occasionally enjoy texting her from upstairs to remind her to do her chores.

Two can play at this game 🙂

photos courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Letting Go

Posted on June 5, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

I was just starting to fear the end of little league. Next week’s final game was looming, making me feel uneasy. My 12-year-old’s last season was wrapping up, and I stuck imagining what life will be like without baseball. Beginning with t-ball, then farm, AA, AAA, and finally majors, life has provided a rhythm for a good chunk of our lives.

With baseball not being his first sport, he hasn’t moved into the elite travel ball team status. He plays hard and is easy to coach. He shows up, listens, and performs well under pressure. I was beginning to wonder where he would go next. This doesn’t feel like something the parent of a 12 year old should be worried about-a washed up ball player at his age?

Then, like an answer to my worries, Little League announces a new division-for 11-13 year-olds. A division designed for kids like my son, who want to bridge the gap between Little League and juniors. Something for the regular kids.

But instead of celebrating the obvious solution to my problem, I created a new one. Click over to Yahoo! Shine to read more about my Little League situation, and how we may have a solution.

Jennifer Wolfe

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The Sixteen-Year Test

Posted on June 2, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

Sixteen years ago today I was waiting to give birth to my first baby. Today, I’m waiting for that baby to take her first SATs. The words of my grandmother ring loudly in my ears, reminding me of how fast the time goes.

I always thought that was old people just complaining, whining about missed opportunities and broken promises. I wondered if they wished they had done life differently, had spent more time pushing their kids in the swing or reading them bedtime stories. I briefly considered how that would feel, and tucked it away inside that long list of things I would never do as a parent, a list carefully created over years of trying to correct other parents mistakes that ended up in my classroom.

She was probably in her eighties when I started noticing the pain in her voice as she recalled her glory days of pigtails, freshly ironed short pants and dinners around the oval oak dinner table. Most vestiges of her children were long ago relics of days she cherished, only the occasional tear in her eye as evidence of when she felt truly happy.

Sixteen years ago, I was not thinking of the memories that would be building from the moment she was born; I was thinking of how strong I could be to make it through the labor, and not much else. I worried about how life would change and could I do all the right mommy moves to make sure she was safe, nourished, and nurtured. Never did I think this far into the future that she would be walking out of my car and working towards leaving me.

As I sit here, watching car after car pull in, I tense as the clock ticks towards the starting time. Kids continue to pour in even after they have no hope of admission through the testing door. I watch them come back, rejected, and notice a mom not willing to take no for an answer. Her son protests as she resolutely marches him back in, determined to give him another chance. Minutes later when she returns alone, I see love etched into every fiber of her face; the kind of strength it sometimes takes to be a parent.

Sixteen years ago, I had no idea what it would take to be a parent. I knew it was something I wanted for my life, not understanding the determination, dedication and sheer will it would take. I didn’t understand why it would be so hard to watch her ride off on her bike alone, to let go of her hand at the corner of the school building, or let her take over the car steering wheel. I did not imagine the pain of watching her cry or struggle through friendships that had ended or defeats on the ski hill. I didn’t comprehend the many, many hours I would lose sleep to hold her tight, rock her gently, or support her through the different phases of growing up.

Sixteen years ago I never imagined the tests my baby would put me through, or how she would help me grow into a better human. When she walks back to me today I will welcome her with the swirls of my grandmother’s voice running through my head, and realize that what she said really is true: they do grow up so fast, and the years pass by far too quickly. I will lock this memory into my mind, knowing all too well that when she finishes this test, another will present itself, challenging me to dig deep and take it on.

Jennifer Wolfe

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Friday Photo: “Never Give Up”

Posted on May 26, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It was a rough playoff game. The loser faced the dismal loser’s bracket, forced to claw their way back up. Neither team wanted to start off the series that way.

The game started out ok, and we kept it tied for the first few innings 0-0. Then 1-1. But when we got to the third and fourth, and their pitcher sent curve ball after fastball after slider at our boys, their spirits sank and so did their bats.

The opposition took advantage, and runs began pouring in. 3-1. 5-1. Then it was 6-2, bottom of the sixth. Our last up at bat, and hope was nearly gone – until their pitcher ran up his count, and had to exit. Thank goodness for Little League arm-protection rules.

And an amazing thing happened. Our boys started cheering each other on. We got on base, one after another and they were loaded. One out. Home plate started seeing our footprint, and when my son stole home it was a tie game, 6-6. Before we knew it, the shortstop stole home, too, and we were on top-a place we never expected to be.

After the game, I asked my son what he thought about the night – how was he feeling during and after? He paused, then responded, “Well, I guess you just can never give up.”

Life lessons from a 12-year-old.

Jennifer Wolfe

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The Bullies, Bullied and Bystanders: Which One Is Mine?

Posted on May 7, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe

via Photobucket

55 middle school students and I crowded into our local movie theater this week, not sure what we would experience. Our group was a combination of kids from several classes at school, mixed ages, races, and genders, but the common thread that pulled us together was our experiences with bullying.

I don’t think there’s a person alive who hasn’t felt bullied. Sadly, it seems to be part of the human experience. And it’s not just kids that bully-I’ve experienced adults bullying kids as well as other adults. Working in schools as long as I have might have made my bully radar more heightened than most, but I still remember the childhood feeling of wanting to melt into the earth rather than be the last one chosen for a team, or the criticism for how I dressed or how quietly I spoke. I remember my high school classmate who died at the hands of a bully.

In fact, bullying has reached such epidemic levels that some independent filmmakers followed kids with video cameras for a year, inside and outside of school, to document exactly what is happening with bullying in America. The resulting film,“Bully”, is heartbreaking, terrifying, and leaves the audience wondering what to do next.

via Photobucket

It didn’t take long for the mood in the theater to change from excitement to shock. Watching regular, American kids experience verbal, physical and emotional abuse on the big screen made my popcorn unappealing, and had me reaching for a tissue. I felt my body convulse with sobs as I watched Ty’s parents bury their 11-year-old son, a boy who reminds me so much of my own. As his mother, nearly comatose, rocked in his bedroom, wondering what she could have done to prevent his suicide, it was more than I could take. I wanted to scream at the screen, lash out at the pathetic creatures who taunted this little boy day after day until he felt, at 11 years old, his life wasn’t worth living. What person has the right to inflict this type of torture on another human being?

During our debrief after the film, my students kept coming back to the parents. How could they not have known what was happening? And what kind of parents would raise children to think that this type of behavior was acceptable? I wonder myself, if the parents of bullies even have an idea of what their kids are doing to other children. Do they think that they’ve raised their son or daughter to be intolerant of differences, to be an aggressor, to be a bully? And do they feel responsible for their child’s actions, even the slightest, when they find out that the baby they raised has turned into someone who takes joy in bringing others pain?

And I wonder about the parents of those who are bullied. Do they know what their child endures every day as they ride the bus to school, walk the halls, or eat in the lunchroom? Is their child ashamed to share their experience as a victim? I wonder what I would do if my son or daughter came home and told me that they never wanted to go back to school, that they had no friends, and they didn’t want to face another day.

Days later, these thoughts continue to clog my brain. I tuck my 12-year-old son into bed at night, and wonder why and how he’s escaped this torture. I watch my 15-year-old daughter, weary with studying, and wonder how she has escaped the cyber bullying. And then I wonder, do I really know what’s going on with them? Do they see this happening at school? Are they bullied? A bully? A bystander?

I tell myself all is well, I’m doing my job, and they are safe.

I wonder if Ty’s parents thought that, too.

Jennifer Wolfe

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