Category Archives: Parenting

Words, Glorious Words

My kids hate vocabulary homework.
More specifically, they detest my insistence that they occasionally—and I mean occasionally—use an actual dictionary rather than their favored online version.  “That is so dumb, Mom,” my oldest will complain.  No one uses that kind of dictionary anymore, “he insists.  “What’s the point, anyway?”
It’s at moments like these that I love to share the wisdom of experience.
First of all, my dear child, plenty of people still use a paper dictionary.  Why only yesterday I heard Steve Kleinedler, executive editor of the American Heritage Dictionary (one of several I own, by the way) being interviewed on NPR.  Enough of the 300 million people in America use a paper dictionary to justify new 7+ pound version, ten years in the making.
This is not to say I don’t use an online version myself.  I do.  I use both, depending on the day and what I’m looking for.  And I don’t mind if you use an online dictionary, too.  But I want you to be able to search through a print dictionary; I want you to use it some of the time.
Second, son, there is a point.  There are several reasons, in fact, that I’d like you to occasionally peruse the pages of American Heritage or Webster instead of click-click-clicking your way to a definition.  A few worth mentioning:
·      Memories.  Although you don’t realize it now, when the gray begins to sneak into your hairline and you’re parenting children of your own, there will be times when you suddenly recall something from long ago.  This memory will seem to come out of nowhere, but its genesis is really a scent or a tune or a phrase that instantly morphs you into a younger version of yourself.  When that happens your lips will turn up at the corners as you remember something you’d long forgotten.  Turning the pages of a dictionary is one of those things.  It’s a tactile experience.  The feel of the page and the smell of the ink will stay with you and one day, you will open the hard, heavy cover and smile as you think of these days.
·      New words.  As I sat down to write this post, I grabbed the closest dictionary and looked to see what was near where the skateboarding term “ollie” will be in the new edition.  There, I found “olla,” which I have never heard before, but is a noun that refers to an “earthenware pot or jar with a wide mouth.”  What I’ve found, over time is that once I see one of these words, one I’ve never heard before, I begin to notice it.  I see it in print or hear it on the radio.  Huh, I think.  Maybe I did hear it before, but I didn’t recognize it, so my brain just skipped right over.  I’m not suggesting you need to read the dictionary every day, but learning a new vocab word now and then never hurts.
·      Pictures, Ideas, Thoughts.  I am here to tell you that an online dictionary will not draw your attention to a new word or usage of a word with its non-existent pictures.  When looking for “ollie” I thumbed through the “P” section and saw a picture of Prometheus, which got me thinking about mythology.  One thought led to another and soon I was thinking about schools teaching mythology, then about schools pushing for more rigor at every age, and then about whether all of this supposed rigor really helps kids develop the critical thinking skills that will help them be agents of change in the future.
So, you see, son, thumbing through the dictionary is about a lot more than how to spell words.  You’re welcome.

Sorting God’s Laundry

photo by Beth Rankin

I’ve always been attracted to trouble.

My quandary is that I often see both sides of the story.  This propensity manifests in many ways.  One is that it’s hard for me to be an activist.  Even if I feel strongly about an issue, I can often understand—even if I don’t agree with—the other side. Not always, but often.  Another is that my heart goes out to the troublemakers. 
Countless hours of my teenage years were spent listening to friends’ tales of angst: an emotionally absent father, a drug-addled mom, boy troubles, girl troubles, thoughts of suicide—I heard a lot.  My friends talked and I listened.  I kept their worries in my heart.  
When mistakes were made and police were called and parents’ hearts broken, I still saw the good.  I wasn’t naïve—the good was there.  Sometimes it was buried beneath anger and sadness and general teenage drama, but it was there.  The boy who stole liquor from his friend’s parents?  He was kind and thoughtful.  The one who had her stomach pumped?  Heart of gold. 
Maybe it’s precisely because of these experiences that I see both sides.  Maybe it’s why I understand that good people sometimes make bad choices.
As a parent, this gets tricky. 
Empathy = good.  Hanging out with trouble =  bad.  Right?  My mother must’ve been a nervous wreck.
Our tendency, I think, is to grab the label.  He’s the One who stole the liquor.  She’s the One the ambulance came for.  It’s easier that way.  Labels help us navigate life’s choppy waters.  They help us identify the people we can play with; they help us identify the children we want our kids to play with.  Labels are a convenient basket into which we can sort God’s laundry:  That One belongs in the Good basket; wait, toss That One in with the Troublemakers.
We haven’t crossed that bridge yet in our house.  Perhaps none of my children will inherit my affinity for listening to others’ tribulations.
But if they do, I want them to know this:

  • ·      There are two sides to every story.  Sometimes one side is awful. Sometimes not. 
  • ·      There isn’t a perfect person among us. 
  • ·      There are a lot of opportunities for redemption between yesterday and tomorrow.
  • ·      Try to listen, to really listen. 

What about you?  Are you drawn to difficult stories or do you shy away from them? Do you share the complexities of your own story with friends?  Do you sort the children that surround your kids?

Brotherly Love

Re: my socks & brother’s whole outfit.
Please note that this was the 70s.

My little brother and I haven’t always gotten along.

There was the time, for instance, in elementary school, when someone ripped a whole in the fabric below the top bunk bed.  My mother, having had enough of our antics of late, confronted us at breakfast.
 Who did this? she demanded.  No one leaves for school until one of you fesses up.
We scurried off to solve this fresh dilemma.  Sequestered in his bedroom, we debated what to do.  I was furious and desperate not to be late. “Tell her,” I hissed.  “Tell her you did it or we’ll be late for school.”
We tromped back into the kitchen, slowly, one after the other, and my 8-year old brother confessed.
But why, asked my mom.  Why did you do it?
I didn’t really do it, he claimed, head down.  I just don’t want to be late for school.
His recant didn’t help.  And naturally, I didn’t forgive the grievance for quite some time.
But, more often than not, we were friends.  When the movers came, as they did every three years, and packed up the boxes with our treasured belongings, it was my brother who stayed by my side.  When we climbed into the old Honda or Lincoln Convertible (sweet ride, I know!), and pointed the car north, or south, to the next military base, it was my brother giggling with me in the backseat, speculating whether the new base would have a nice swimming pool, and wondering how we’d find new friends. 
The smell of the wrapping materials and cardboard boxes stays with me; if I close my eyes, I can conjure it in seconds.  In a new place, the empty rooms echo for awhile, until bit by bit you fill them with tiny pieces of your soul, little slivers of you that say I live here now, this is my home.  The room softens.  In the midst of the Madonna posters, piles of clothes, and algebra homework I made my way towards new friends and new memories, until we moved again.
And always, my brother was with me.
He lives 1,200 miles away now, but it doesn’t really matter.  The threads are woven, the bonds are strong.  If I need him, I can count on him to be there.


What about my own boys?  If they live far away—or even nearby one another—I wonder if they will share this type of bond.  How about you?  Do you share a bond with a sibling?  Do you think your kids will?