parenting fail

MEAN Kid or REAL Bully & When to INTERVENE!

by SoCalledMom · Jun 15, 2017

Bullying is one of the hottest parenting topics out there. As one of those overly protective moms, I have often overreacted to hurt feelings. Often times, I’ve used this terminology without really understanding its side effects. Aside from putting a label on kids, it also decreases opportunities for building resilience, acceptance and most importantly: resolution.

My last two posts had me vowing to clear my helicoptering parental habits. And ever since then, I have exorcised the demons! Well, sort of. There’s still a nagging feeling that wants to govern every situation my kids simply must experience on their own. But now I’m doing my best to ignore it. Even when it comes to the neighborhood bully. So I’m working on a different approach.

Which has me putting my new set of rules to the test: Case in point, The other day Pascal’s neighborhood tribe of new pals suddenly turned on her. She spoke of some rude name-calling earlier yesterday and I fought the urge to run out on my lawn, eyes a blazing, asking which kid wanted to experience a real bully. So for a moment, I fantasized about it and then directed my attention to Pascal. How do you imagine the issue resolving itself?

And then I buttoned my lip and listened.

Pascal seemed to have it sorted until the text messages started in as we were sitting there. I suddenly realized this was a bigger problem than just a squirmy boy calling her ugly (apparently name-calling isn’t considered bullying, go figure!). These kids were only engaging in a normal act of thick-skin building meanness until they began pulling other kids into a group text, ganging up on Pascal with the promise of social exclusion as far as the our neighborhood development could see. Then she was blocked, by all of them, in unison, so she couldn’t respond. Now that, my dear mom friends, is bullying.

Learning the ins and outs of this stuff is new to me, especially now that I’m So-Called helicopter aware. And even though none of us want our kids to feel any of the above, it helps to see these problems separated out into categories so that we know when to stay grounded and listen and also when to fly in, rescue and hover like hell.

But the information on what to do is still conflicting in my mind, despite obsessively reading a number of articles between my sleeplessness last night and this mornings coffee. Step in or get out-of-the-way? Rescue or relax? What builds resilience and what feeds into self-destruction?

The difference between intervening and not isn’t a chasm dividing the two, it’s splitting hairs between championing parenthood and letting your kids down when you should’ve been there.

And even though I seem to do it plenty, I’m not into the mom-fail thing. Or letting kids get away with bullying mine.

So then, I’d Love to hear it directly from my mom group.

What would you do: Intervene or not?

That is the question,

So-Called Mom

Confirmed: I am a Helicopter Parent

by SoCalledMom · Jun 9, 2017

Another parenting challenge you won’t find in any of the how-to books is how to help your 17-year-old firstborn navigate his first heart-break. Apparently helping doesn’t mean hovering, shouldering or swooping in and saving the day, my bad! Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing worse than realizing you’ve been meddling like this right up to your kids’ adulthood.

As a freshly self-identified helicopter parent, I recognize that no one, especially Jake, has asked for my help in this way.

Full disclosure (I’m getting good at those): my first instinct was to memorialize my reaction in a vlog. And in all my well-intentioned emotional “honesty,” I realized while editing, that all of it was best left on the cutting room floor as they say.

So here’s what I got out of this:

I’m lousy with boundaries. Whether it was their first day at kindergarten, or navigating friendships or getting their driver’s license or

having their heart-broken, I have bumbled my way through helping my kids cope, thinking I could “fix things,” truly believing I was an expert. Ironically, this blog is teaching me the flip side of being a so-called mom: that the more I think I know, the more I realize I don’t.

Don’t we all have that mom fix-it impulse? To step in and just take-over?

Well, apparently this So-Called Mom doesn’t just take over and fix, I flat-out hijack any and all rites of passage and then take it upon myself to fix things that aren’t even broken.

So back to where I began: my 17-year-old, Jake. Yesterday he fessed up that the reason he’s been staying home from school isn’t his “migraines,” but because the girl who he’s been crushing on all year-long is moving far away. I spent the day texting with him, while he was in class, about what to do. That’s no-no #1. And then I bawled about it like it was happening to me.

Note to self: Don’t create a false narrative about your kid’s so-called heartbreak like it’s going to create a lifetime of regret over “the one that got away.” Especially over a relationship that never even happened. It’s as if I see the disappointment of a first crush as proof that leaving the bubble of homeschooling was the bad idea I knew it would be.

My problem? I feel my kids pain even more than they do. And then whenever there’s a remote discomfort, I want to “protect” my kids from feeling it—and I do, without realizing that letting them experience these things is essential to building confidence and resiliency.

Look, I want to say it’s not as bad as it sounds, but the truth is that he is transforming into an adult faster than I can keep up with and I just want to be able to say I did OK. Part of that means that I can look back and confirm that I provided an equal balance of support and letting go—that he has been able to find his own path after I showed him the ropes. But I realize now that I haven’t been doing that—and not just with Jake but will all my kids. I’ve been leading the pack too strongly and controlling their emotional responses.

So this next part is going to be hard. It means backing off of my instinctive responses and keeping my pain to myself. I get this about letting them fail. But maybe I’m afraid of failing myself? Do other moms also share that?

Please say yes,

So-Called Mom

Happy Birthday Son: We Got you a Stolen Car!

by SoCalledMom · May 11, 2017

Yesterday we gave 17 year old Jake the ultimate birthday present: A stolen car.

There are several things wrong with that sentence aside from the obvious: Buying a stolen car. The most important being that we purchased a car for a kid who has failed his permit test not once but twice, and that in doing so, mom and dad left their due diligence at home in exchange for a too-good-to-be-true situation.

I’ll give some context, and let the on-line games begin.

Spoiler alert: I get that we screwed up. However, I still found a silver lining.

I wanted Jake to have a car for his birthday because I hoped it would become an impetus to finally pass his drivers permit so he could learn to drive. (That would include studying for it). I need him to take this next leap to get him to adulthood and since he has an (almost) girlfriend, and a nice big mother-in-law quarters to practice apartment life in, I figured a car would give him the drive to actually commit….and maybe even enjoy doing so.

Pippin found a great option on Craigslist and we met this kid and his girlfriend at their apartment complex (or so we thought) and took it for a test drive. We were in a hurry so we ignored any and all red flags and just handed over a wad of cash and he split—leaving us with a gorgeous BMW, a counterfeit title and a copy of (what we believe to be) his fake ID. I mean, a gorgeous BMW that now spews black smoke from it’s tailpipe, begging for a new expensive engine. Of course the kid’s phone number doesn’t work anymore.

This is the kind of thing that can easily pit husband against wife, leaving a bubbled over mess of resentment and anguish. Instead we said to each other: There are so many would’ves and could’ves —we took a gamble together and lost together. We have been so lucky and have done so well for ourselves. There’s bound to be a slip up like this in the mix somewhere. It was time, and this dig isn’t so bad. It could’ve been worse.

I can’t believe we didn’t fight. It would’ve made the situation even worse and we knew it. But we chose the high road. Well, really it was me who did, since Pippin is the one who is always so damn cool. I’m usually the one raking us over the coals…but I just didn’t. Instead I kept telling myself: That kid is in a bad spot. It must be so hard to live like that. I hope we helped him out. And….I’m glad he’s not my son.

The funny thing is that the moral of the story isn’t to be more careful next time, but rather—shit happens and it’s most important to lean in and love each other through it. As such, I’m calling this situation a serious fucking score for the home team.

The rest of the night ensued with birthday cake and watching Ghostbusters with Jake (his favorite movie). And while we likely need to give the stolen car back, I still gained something. Jake texted me on his way to school: Mom, thank you so much for the car. I know it was such a headache, but I want to get my license now more than ever. I promise to work harder for that.

After the dust of the night settled and the kids were in bed, Pippin and I finished unpacking in the new house. We poured ourselves a glass of wine and danced in our living room to a pile of records, laughing and talking until there was nothing left to be said.

However, even though the love is still in the air, none of it makes the problem go away. So we’re weighing our options. To put a lien on the vehicle and see if it can be ours (and then get expensive repairs). Or, turn it in (to whomever it belongs) and cut our losses. To drive the car downtown, park it in a high ticket area and walk away (yikes, but a good way to find the original owners quickly). Pippin has asked me not to worry about it. He’s got it, apparently.

Would love to know: What would you do in this situation?

Hustled to hell and back,

So-Called Mom