Free to be...you and me...but who am I anyway?!

We have lived a different life as young girls than the women who came before us. We were told to not be nurses and teachers- that we were too smart for those jobs, those occupations were not good enough for us. We were told to be doctors and astronauts, hell, we could be President if we really wanted to. It was instilled in us that we should strive for something higher. I embraced that “Free to be you and me” stuff whole-heartedly; I don’t regret it either, because it helped forge my strong independent spirit and helped enable me to believe I could do whatever I put my mind to. (See Marlo Thomas, Free to Be You and Me online for details if you don't know what I am talking about!) I wonder if the ‘women’s lib’ movement is really behind it, or were our well-meaning mentors just trying to make sure we had it in us to shoot high. I don’t know. I know that we didn’t want to let anyone down…we wanted to make sure that whatever sacrifices were made in the name of women’s equality, were protected, that those were not done in vain. I guess it’s kind of like how it would have been disrespectful to the suffragettes to not vote, after they tried so hard to get women the right to vote. And yet, similarly, it was the ‘right’ to vote, not the edict to vote, but somehow we didn’t want to diminish those strong efforts of those who came before us, by not voting. In some ways, our generation didn’t want to let those women libbers down- we wanted to make sure we actualized what they had wanted for us. Problem is, it may have been a world of ‘you can have it all’, when in fact, you really can’t. I remember when I wanted to stay home after I had my kids and thinking that I was ‘wasting’ my education. I recall thinking that it was unfair somehow to have worked so hard in college and in my job to walk away from it to stay home and wipe noses and bums, and play with play-doh and go to the park. (I don’t regret that choice either; I am just trying to figure out what the hell to do now!) I think I now realize that the women’s lib movement wasn’t to push me into a certain ideal- in my mind it was to make those choices available to me- to enable me to choose to work in whichever vocation I would ultimately select. It was to allow the door to be there for me to open- should I choose to do so. It wasn’t necessarily about having it all, it was about being able to make the same choices and have the same access to the world that men had. I was free to choose my own path- which was much broader as a result of their efforts.

Which leads us to the current day issue of myself and my 40-something girlfriends. A good friend said to me about being this age, “You never wish for these years. You don’t spend your childhood pretending to be 45. You dream about being a young bride, about being a mother, maybe even about working and perhaps, retirement, but you never play ’40 somethings’ when you are young.”  It’s like you just are supposed to slip over or through this timeframe, jumping from younger more setout years to the so-called golden years of older age. I guess you also hit that mid-life thing head on at this age. Chances are, as a woman, you are finished having children, which brings many mixed emotions. Perhaps it was because we had been infertile, but I never saw myself as the woman who would be feverishly shouting from the rooftops, “I’m done! I’m done! No more babies for us! Wahoo,” although you do reach a point where you realize it probably either isn’t a good idea anymore, or it isn’t likely to happen-which is ok, in that you see it as the start of a new chapter.  In my case, I had told myself that if I didn’t become pregnant again by the time I was 40, then I would be ‘finished’ child-bearing. I would have taken on another pregnancy if that was what we both wanted, but I understood that my window was closing. I can’t say I am upset (anymore) about this fact, it just eventually kind of happens. At this age, you do start to realize that there are things on your ‘list’ that you will just never do. For example; I will never be an astronaut, I will (probably) never be the President of the United States, and I will most likely never jump out of an airplane. I don’t know that these items are necessarily things that were on my list, or if so  even high on it, but I suppose you start to realize that you aren’t just an open book with the world in front of you anymore- that you understand the mere reality that you just won’t do everything you might have thought you would or could. Again, it comes back to the ‘option’ to do these things- I made other choices in my life-it’s not about regret so much as just more of a realization that my life went down a different path that didn’t include those things. I guess that is the middle age thing- you don’t have to love the idea of limits, but it’s much easier to accept at least some of them as your own reality. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that at middle age you should just sit back and wait to die…I think there is plenty more to do and experience- and I will certainly plan to be in the driver’s seat of that train, but you come to accept that some of your really open-ended dreams will probably never happen. I think I am cool with this concept. What I am not cool with, however, is my seeming loss of confidence or ooommppf to ‘take on the world’. Somewhere in here, I lost something that made me just push and plow and go after whatever I wanted in an unabashed nothing can stop me manner. I wonder if it’s similar to a long love; it starts out fast and furious-you can’t get enough of it-and then as time goes on, it remains constant and is stronger in other ways, but not as frantic. I don’t know, maybe that’s what has happened to my fervor for my professional life. I am very passionate and driven, but to not have that direction for the first time in my entire life is unnerving. Perhaps knowing my kids and my family are a part of the big picture is also part of it. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean it like oh I want to ditch my family and join the Peace Corps- screw them- it’s not like that. I guess it’s just that I am not 18 or 25 anymore- but now I have other things to consider, as well as now I have other privileges that I didn’t have then as well. I do know that I have made significant strides in my life- and have skills that are useful and important. I guess it’s just the not knowing piece that is unsettling. Not sure if I am just waiting for the next big thing to come along that I will attach myself to and set the world on fire, or if I will have to invent it myself. My therapist has told me that I am a ‘starter’- I am someone who sees a problem or issue and decides to do something about it, then I set a plan into action and tackle it. I think not having that at the moment has made me unsure about what I am doing. I realize that my kids need clean clothes, and it’s important that I am here for them in so many ways, but I just feel like I should be doing something else too. I just can’t quite figure out what it is or how it fits into everything else in my life. I don’t want to look back in 5 or 10 years and go Holy crap what was I doing? I should have ________ (gone to grad school, or written that book, or whatever…) what WAS I doing with all that time?? So the process to figure it out continues. Those who know me know that patience (especially with myself!) is not one of my strong suits, so I guess I just have to keep trying and hopefully, in time, I will figure it out. I am trying to be patient and kind with myself.

Thanks for reading!

This blog comes as a bit of a surprise. I caught up with a close friend today and we were chatting about our trials and tribulations as parents. We talked about my son who evidently needs a different ADHD medicine and how I just feel so lost sometimes as a mom. She assured me that I am not alone, and remarked about how its so odd that one day you look at your kids and think, Wow this is really great- I feel so good about what we are doing, and the next day (like a change in the wind) you can feel so utterly lost, like you have no idea what you are doing, or how you got where you are. This fact brings me to this blog. I realized tonight that part of being a mom is learning from your own mistakes. Its not about just making sure your kids are happy-or even the path of least resistence- its sometimes about learning right along with your kids. I want to give my kids the tools they need to make their own choices, to learn, to try and sometimes, to fail. This is my job; to prepare them to go out into the world and exceed their own expectations, to go further than they thought they could. Its not about me-its about me helping them find their own greatness and being there to make sure they don't miss it.

What follows here is an actual email I sent to my oldest daughter's teacher tonight. I realize that she will probably be really pissed at me for posting this- but I hope that someday she can see beyond the obvious and get over herself enough to really embrace how much I truly believe in her and know that she is absolutely bound for greatness. Her own greatness.

Dear ****,

I am writing to request that a change be made to Ellie’s math facts log. I am requesting that for the time being, we suspend the log- that we do not have her record the times and use the log that has been provided. I would like her to continue doing the math fact pages, as quickly as she can, but I’d like to try not recording them for the time being. This request comes after several long conversations and lots of crying. It is my hope that Ellie and I can work together to get her over this hurdle, and have her come out of this successful in knowing her math facts. Pull up a chair…let me explain…

About two weeks ago, Ellie was given an assignment by her piano teacher to teach herself, “The Entertainer.” She thought it was hard, and was annoyed that she ‘couldn’t get it.’ So she got really mad and complained about how it’s in the so-called ‘easy’ book, but yet she couldn’t seem to get it. She stomped around a lot and said she didn’t know how she was supposed to get this difficult song. She was really angry and wasted A LOT of time and energy being mad about it. I told her that it is one of my ALL-TIME favorite songs (is truly in my top 50 favorite songs ever!) and that maybe she could learn it and play it for me as a Mother’s Day gift. I left her alone to be mad. She continued being angry and then one day just decided she was going to do it. Without a lot of fanfare, she went into the music room and started. At first she stumbled…she had to keep trying…she tried the left hand…made mistakes…pounded the piano a few times…got frustrated…shouted a lot…and eventually it came together. She had to repeat it and repeat it and repeat it. All of the sudden, after several hours (not all at once) it sounded amazingly like the ‘actual song.’ It was beautiful. This success gave her the energy and confidence to perfect it- she listened to the CD of the song and has now even learned to play the song with lots of emotion. She is very proud of this accomplishment- and she should be- because she attacked it with fervor- even though she didn’t think she could. Success is sweet.

So tonight we were sitting at the kitchen table and she was working on a math fact page. She became frustrated quickly, watching the stop watch app go dark on the iphone, knowing she was ‘over’ time, but not nearly finished. She stumbled, she flipped her hair and became very, very agitated. She got mad and flopped her head on the table in disgust. “I can’t do this, I just can’t do this,” she exclaimed, tears welling up behind her gigantic blue eyes. I could feel her frustration and pain. As a parent, I want to alleviate her suffering, but I also need to make sure I don’t simply remove her obstacles, as she needs to learn how to surmount them. I think we needed a new way to tackle this, or at the very least, a new way of thinking about it.

A few days ago I jokingly bought flash cards at Target on clearance for $.28. She was really angry about it. She loathes flash cards. I didn’t say much, and as tempting as it was, I did not put them in her Easter basket. We sat at the table tonight and I pulled out the 7s and the 8s, the ones she said she just doesn’t know. We went over them several times. She started to cry. “Why can’t I do this? Why am I such a dumb- ***?” (she didn’t actually say the expletive, but told me she wanted to). I told her that she is not stupid and she can’t refer to herself that way. She said she is embarrassed by this. She looks at the chart and she just hates that it makes her feel so dumb. Why can’t I just do this?, she asked. We talked about the piano piece. I asked her why she did that- why did she tackle it even though it was hard? She said, “Well, Mom, I care about THAT.” So then it clicked. She has to care about these math facts. Through her sobs she explained how she hates these ‘stupid math facts’ and how all the other kids knew this stuff in 2^nd grade, and she just hates that she has to do it. I took the math binder and threw it on the floor. I said, “Ok, that’s it. You’re done. No more logs.” She was stunned. I asked her how she memorized all the bones in the body in 1^st grade, but yet math facts are escaping her in 7^th grade. She told me that she cared about the bones- “...that was interesting,” she told me. I told her that if there were no more logs- no more chastising- no more bad words in her head- could she care about it enough to just open up her mind and JUST memorize them? I asked her to think about how you look at a painting, and you can’t really see it…so you squint…but you still can’t quite get it…so you back up…you ‘loosen’ your mind and let it flow. Suddenly, it becomes much more clear. I asked her to try that with the math facts. She cried about how much time she has wasted. That she looks at the many minutes listed in the columns of the logs and how much of her life she has ‘lost’ by doing this, but STILL not getting them. I told her to let it go. I said that I wanted her to just loosen up her brain and let herself memorize them. Stop trying to think it through, you KNOW that 6 times 7 is 42… just trust that you don’t have to calculate them…you know that they are correct. Forget trying to rationalize them- just allow yourself to remember them. You don’t need to add 6 more to 6 times 6 which is 36 to get 42… just accept it. Plain and simple- just repeat them. We spent about 50 minutes going over the 8s. She nailed them. She is finally confident. She amazed herself. I told her that we would devote an hour, or whatever amount of time was needed to doing this for each one. No logs, no timers, none of that stress. Let’s just repeat them until they come out cleanly. I told her that she still has to take the math facts sheets, and she still needs to be patient with herself, but she needs to loosen her brain to allow the facts to just permeate her memory. She tasted a small bit of success tonight. She told me that she likes math- she doesn’t want to miss out on the ‘smarter’ math and science in high school because she can’t get these. She wants to do the higher level math. I do think she is capable of that as well.  I reiterated that she needs to just memorize these. I reminded her that many of her mistakes in her algebra and also in the fractions unit were arithmetic- that she needs to remove that as a factor so she can just concentrate on the ‘good stuff’.

I told her a story that I don’t know I had ever shared with her in such detail. I explained how I had to take remedial math- arithmetic in college. I told her the story of how I had failed that class twice- I had to take it a total of three times. I hated myself. I hated every math teacher I ever had. I hated my parents. I hated the graduate assistant who was collecting a paycheck just by giving me the weekly test- not teaching me a damn thing. I hated everyone, but mostly myself. I remember failing the class and going back to my dorm room and crying into the pillow. I remember feeling like I was going to quit. I couldn’t do it. I simply couldn’t do it. I could write fantastic papers, I could speak French, I could win scholarships in regional and statewide debates, I could do all of those things, but I couldn’t do this math. I had no other option than to quit. As I sat up on my bed, I remember thinking, “Huh? What? I am going to quit college because of a stupid arithmetic class? Uh, NO.” I had to do this. I didn’t have to like it. I didn’t have to want to do it, but I HAD TO DO IT. And I did. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. Not for the grad student, not for my parents, but for me. When it was all said and done, I did it. FOR ME.

So tonight began a new way of thinking. I reminded her of the P!nk song, “F’in Perfect.” She loves the song and the video. The first time we both saw the video together it made us both cry. How could someone hurt herself – how could someone hate herself so much? How dreadfully sad. In the song, she talks ‘about changing the voices in your head- make them like you instead.’ I made her promise me that she would try REALLY hard to let go of all the angst that this has caused and start anew. Forget the ‘lost time’ and all the tried attempts, just start again. Tonight. I explained to her that I expect her to do this- I am not getting her ‘out of it.’ She has to want it, and for the first time ever, I think she really does. So it began. She went to bed knowing the 8s- really knowing them. She said she was afraid that she’d forget them overnight. I said well, if you do, we’ll do them again tomorrow. It’s ok. You’ll get it. Just like the piano song. I am so proud of her, I KNOW she can do it, and for the first time, I think she finally thinks she can too. That will make all the difference.

Sorry this is so long, but after all she has been through with these math facts; the bribery, the flash cards, the threatening, the math sheets, the computer programs, the silly math song CD that she hated, all the conferences that it has been discussed, I think I needed to explain. I hope this will be ok in the classroom. Please let me know what you think. Thanks so much for your patience and understanding. We appreciate you greatly. Take care, Carol Hilty

My personal time capsule revealed

It’s been a long time since I have had a blog entry. When I started this venture, I assumed I would continue writing regularly. That was my intention. After taking off to study and take the LSAT, I am writing again, and there is probably enough for a book, but more on that later. Come along with me on my latest discovery… You won’t believe this one!

On New Year’s Day, I found a box containing some pretty pertinent ‘old’ documents. I uncovered an actual time capsule!  This discovery, a few fill-in-the-blanks books that I completed when I was 7 and another when I was about 9-10 years old, revealed my thoughts and feelings at the time. Remember those?  These had blanks with prompts like, “If I had a magic ring, I would…,” and, “One thing I like about myself is…” It was, after all the 70s, and I guess we were all trying to get in touch with our feelings or something. At any rate, I was both amused and enlightened to read some of my entries. I won’t bore you with all of the gory details (although some are really funny!), but the general gist is that I was a happy child who was facing and squaring up a tremendous burden of loss; the fallout  from my parent’s divorce, which happened when I was only 4 years old. I cannot remember a time that I wanted my parents to get remarried, or live together, but these pages document (in my own little handwriting) that I did, in fact wish that they would do so. My therapist says that maybe there was a time in my life where I realized that either, a) this would never happen, or b) if it did, it wouldn’t really be a good thing, so I turned it around and stopped wishing for it, and maybe even tried to convince myself that their separateness was actually for the best. I was, and probably still am, an optimist at heart. I have always seen the good in people and have searched to expose the best in myself. I trust and I put myself ‘out there’ in a passionate and sometimes very vulnerable way. I yearn for the good and the just, but know that there is injustice and suffering as well, a fact I knew even at that tender young age.

The books revealed me saying that I wanted to be a ‘lwyer’ when I grow up (obviously my spelling prowess developed later!) and that I ‘wished I could buy a new car for my Mom.’  Some of you may remember the gold colored, chrome emblazoned 1963 Rambler.  This car was later dubbed, “The Welshmobile,” which was embarrassing in many ways, but did (usually) get us where we needed to go. This goofy car seemed so much older than anyone else’s I knew. I don’t mean older, as in cool classic, vintage car way, I mean just old. It was more primitive than you can imagine-particularly by today’s standards- no radio, one bench seat and lots and lots of shiny chrome. The interior of that car was probably downright dangerous in the sweltering summer heat. The Rambler was older than me- I was born five years after its model year, so I guess that may have contributed to why it seemed like a relic to me. It was just so damn different from everyone else’s car, a fact that I just hated.

As tempting as it is, I will not put my dream of becoming a lwyer on my lw school applications, no matter how cute it appears, because how reliable is a 6 year old in knowing what she wants to be when she grows up? Not very. It is cute, however, and I guess I wanted to find the right thing to help people. Helping people was a big theme throughout all of the books. I thought of myself as a friendly person who never wanted to hurt anyone-still true.  I did want to be a lawyer from as far back as I can remember. In second grade, I wrote that I wanted to be the Attorney General of the United States. When asked what that was, I told people ‘that I would prosecute federal cases.’  Hmmm. I think it makes some sense, as we did read the newspaper, and they were tumultuous times in the wake of Watergate, etc. I probably thought a high profile job looking for the good and the just for something as seemingly screwed up as the government was a great fit for me.

One odd question was, “If I had very long legs, I would…” and I wrote, “Make fun of other people.” This is pretty weird, but understandable, as being as short as I am, I was always teased about it. I hated that with a passion.  I guess I had aggression in that I thought if I were tall I would do it right back at the perpetrators. Nice. Lots of people did make fun of me, even adults, but it was the 70s when the term ‘politically correct’ hadn’t even been coined yet. I’d like to think it made me a ‘stronger’ person, but it didn’t. It might have made me try harder in sports, or maybe even make my voice louder, but knowing my personality, I may have developed those characteristics without being chastised for something I couldn’t control. (Wow, I may still harbor some frustration there…stupid as that may seem.)

These were all interesting and enlightening discoveries, and as I scanned my new-found cursive handwriting, I remembered filling in these books as a young person the age of my children.  It gave me a sense of myself and maybe in a small way helped me define myself, at least at that time. I bet it was cathartic. I am, however, most surprised by the ‘crown jewel’ of the box… the book that won me the 5^th grade Young Author’s Contest.  This book is entitled, (Get this!) “Coping with the Divorce.” Yeah, I know, no way, did I really write a book in 5^th grade at age 10 about how to cope with my parent’s divorce? Yes, I did. Frankly, it’s pretty amazing now, all these years later how poignant is remains. I remember wanting desperately to win the Young Authors contest. It was an honor, as they picked one book per grade. The winner’s book was typed (by the school secretary on a typewriter!), and then it was bound and put in the library for other kids to check out. You also had the distinct pleasure of attending an all day seminar with the winners from each elementary school in the entire district. It was SO cool. I was elated. It was truly one of the proudest moments of my life. I remember sitting at my little 5^th grade desk grasping the manila inter-office envelope that contained my manuscript. This was for ME! I carefully slid it out and my eyes skimmed the newly type-written text (in true ‘courier’ print- you should see it)! I was cautious to not to get fingerprints on it. My name adorned the first page, “Carol Welsh, 5^th grade, April 11, 1979.” I was an AUTHOR. These were MY WORDS. I was so thrilled. I also remember that we had to read this to the other authors at the seminar, and I believe, to the entire elementary school in a school-wide assembly. I would pay money to go back in time and be a fly on the wall to see the teacher and staff reactions to this book- what were they thinking? My therapist said that she bets I made a number of people uncomfortable. But there was someone at Warwick Elementary School who saw this and thought it was worthwhile. Someone was progressive thinking enough to realize that here was a kid with something to share and she actually had the courage to articulate it. Wow, how cool is that? The other piece that is contextually different from today, is that I was the ONLY child I knew (other than my siblings of course) who experienced divorce first-hand. I did not know a single other family who had gone through a divorce. I was referred to as “the broken family,” which, while I understand that it was the 70s and people didn’t know any differently, was extremely painful to me. I remember thinking we weren’t broken, we were just different, and beyond that I was frustrated to be labeled as broken, through no fault or doing of my own.

The cover is fantastic flowers in goofy 70s colors… throughout the book, I used colored pencil to draw FLOWERS- you remember the daisies with the round centers and the half-heart shaped leaves?… My therapist loved this fact, as here was this deep, emotional, adult subject on the pages, but illustrated with happy and almost smiley flowers. The contrast is amazing, and oh so ME- the “Eternal Optimist”.)

I wrote an introduction explaining that I “went through a rough time when my parents got divorced,” and, “I hope you enjoy as well as learn from it.” The book was comprised of an introduction, two chapters and a conclusion. The main point of the book was that kids shouldn’t feel like it’s their fault. I explained that my parents got divorced when I was only three, and that it was hard to understand. I wrote, “At the time I didn’t understand what a ‘divorce’ was. All I knew was my dad was not living with us anymore. I didn’t know where he went or why.”  I told the readers that sometimes parents don’t love each other anymore, or maybe they fight too much over ‘stupid little things.” I said that sometimes parents need to see a marriage counselor, but sometimes that doesn’t even help.  I went on to explain my family’s scenario, and that we had visits with my dad, but that he wasn’t living with us anymore. I am struck by my own candor-that even as a little kid I had some poignant thoughts about this very serious-very adult subject.

I described the pain I felt, “Inside I felt like a different person, I really looked the same. The reason that I felt different was because my parents weren’t together anymore.”  Wow. Isn’t that the truth- that when something really awful happens to you, you look the same, but you feel terribly different- or wrong-on the inside? I am surprised by my clarity on this subject. I continued discussing the emotions. I wrote, “I had a really hard time figuring out what was going to happen to me. My emotions were all mixed up.”

Finally, I stated that kids shouldn’t have to take the responsibility of divorce. I told kids that they aren’t being punished by their parents breaking up. They shouldn’t feel responsible. I ended by trying to tell them that this scenario isn’t what we’d choose as kids, but it’s not their fault.  I said, “Kids whose parents are divorced know that their lives are going to change a lot. They have to remember that is will take time to adapt to this big change in their lives. In the long run, things will work out for the best.” I am, after all an eternal optimist, no? The final line of the book reads, “So I hope this book has helped you a little! Think about the things I said!” What a hoot!

I want to publish this book. I think it would be helpful to write an introduction explaining the context, and the fact that it was written by me as a 10 year old. The message for kids is, in my opinion, timeless. Kids can benefit from it.  I think there are audiences for it-there are an awful lot of 40-somethings out there who have lived this scene. We are adults now, some married, some divorced, but every one of us has been affected by divorce in some way.  My kids know the same number of kids whose parents are married, as those with divorced parents. I am not yet sure if it should be a children’s book, or one that is aimed at adults, or some kind of combination of both. If I do publish it, I would like to print it AS IS- in all of its 70s flowered glory. The typewriter font and my happy flowers really set the tone and context.

In retrospect, I think I was searching for meaning. I suspect that while I didn’t know any other children of divorce, I knew there had to be more in the world. I knew that if I could help another kid, then my suffering might give rise to meaning. Just as people share their experiences when suffering from illness, or survivors of tragedy want to help others by recounting their story, I must have wanted to find meaning in my pain. Maybe by expressing it, I would help another child to not feel as alone as I evidently did, and it would give meaning to my pain.  I am now 42 years old, happily married with three wonderful children of my own. I read it to them, explaining the background of why I wrote it. My oldest, 13 cried a little when I read it aloud to them, feeling empathetic to my pain.  My son, 10, (the same age I was when I wrote it!) ‘Thought it was cool’ since I wrote it when I was his age, and said he ‘was surprised that he could understand how I felt since I was his age when I wrote it.’ Martha, the youngest, 7, said, “You know Mommy, I just don’t get it. I am sorry, but I don’t understand it.” I sobbed when I looked into her big inquisitive brown eyes. I hugged her tightly and said, “You know Martha, I hope you never have to understand it.” How completely cool is that?!