Wandering Through Nothingness

I am SO a morning person. One day last week, while driving my children to a doctor’s appointment I had conveniently (for me anyway) scheduled at 7:45 a.m., my son commented out of the blue, half-dozing, half awake. “I just don’t know why you do that.”

Hank is in tenth grade.

“I just don’t know why you get up so early. Why do you do that?”

I thought for a minute. By the time I responded, Hank had fallen back asleep, this time with his head against the passenger side window. I responded anyway. “Because, it’s the one time of the day I own.”

My Mom got sober in 1970. I was in fourth grade. Not shortly after, she started running. She would launch out of the house, the screen door slamming behind her, feet to follow on the gravel pathway just outside. One hour later she would come back, perspiring, red-faced and happy. She was literally transforming before my very eyes.

My mom was tall, svelte and quite elegant. She was captain of the basketball team and Homecoming Queen. She went to Smith College and shortly after, met my father. He drove onto campus, one fall day, in a baby blue convertible and the rest was history.

Mary still is the most authentic woman I’ve ever known. In March of 1970, she hit bottom. It took a couple of tries before sobriety “stuck” but once it did, she became a tremendous advocate for women struggling to get sober. She started working at a local Alcohol Treatment facility and sponsored dozens of women in a 12-step program. She wrote poetry, read poetry and even had a number of her poems published. She competed in many local 5k’s, winning her age group. She started running longer distances and competed in a number of 10k’s, 15k’s and even one half-marathon.

In 1974, I joined her on one of her early morning runs. I was 14. She was 52. The sun was not yet up. The screen door screeched “good morning”, our feet hit the gravel and we were soon journeying through our neighborhood. I ran one block with her–about a mile. We didn’t say a word. Our feet rhythmically hit the hard cement in unison, our breath in and out—mantra like–the crisp edge to approaching autumn filling our lungs. I had never experienced anything quite like it…the quiet, the fellowship, the power.

I started running regularly with my Mom. The one-mile block grew into two blocks and then three. Eventually we were running eight, nine and ten miles together, usually first thing in the morning. And no matter how crazy my “other life” got (high school, college, my 20’s) meeting my mom for that early morning run was a welcoming sanctuary, where mother-daughter became woman-woman…where I felt connected, loved and whole in spite of the low feelings of self-worth during the remainder of my day.

There is something quite magical about the early mornings. These days it is simple…a cup of coffee, a lit candle and time to just be with myself, by myself. The sound of night crickets crosses over to early birds, traffic, school buses and my children just waking. I have learned a lot about myself in the early morning hours…time to think, ponder, wonder and be. The weariness of the day hasn’t yet soaked in and my big ideas, hopes and dreams somehow seem to feel more honest, doable and realistic. There is a gleaming optimism that shines with each morning…not yet tarnished by carpools, homework and laundry.

I love the morning, whether I’m running, writing or just being. The solitude, quiet and expectation of the day feeds my idealism, hope and belief in my life’s work, my children’s futures and the future of all children. I am fueled by the certainty with which I write THIS morning that if I seek the good, then the good will come.

Good Morning…and it is indeed.

I think it’s always important to be honest.  So, true to my word, I should tell you at the outset, there will be nothing of particular significance shared in this post.  Basically I’m just trying to  kill some time until my kids wake up.

Recently, my daughter and I went to the mall to look at “stuff.”  (When did going to the mall become an American pastime or destination?)  After the obligatory stop at Abercrombie (I can still smell the store) and Claire’s we stopped by a make-up and skincare store.

 
I am 51 (not even close to old) but am starting to show some signs of aging on my face. (Like this is a bad thing?)  Years of training in the outdoors will do that to a woman’s skin.  I’m not concerned about it one bit…but thought, for the fun of it and because Helen and I were enjoying each other’s company, I would ask this wonderful teenager,who worked, in the store for her assistance.  (Alright she probably wasn’t a teenager, but I felt like I was old as I asked for her help. Funny, I didn’t feel old before I entered the store.  What’s that about?)

 
So anyway, this very young and very confident make-up/skincare consultant is going to consult with me and teach me how to apply certain products on my face. I sit on a stool.  Helen is on my left, said skincare/make up consultant is slightly to my right.  “These products will eliminate some of those obvious signs of aging and sun damage.” (May I interject a quick comment here.  I think my teenage friend was trying to make me feel good, but this statement somehow didn’t help.)

She applies something first…that has a very important medical name.  I am afraid of it, but she applies it anyway.  She applies the product in what I would call “military fashion.” My head is pushed back several inches with each application.  My daughter Helen thinks this is hilarious and begins what eventually turns into a running commentary of the entire event.  “Mom…gosh…PLEASE stop making those faces!”

 
Layer number one, completed, my personal make-up/skincare consultant now applies something else with a brush.  We have several “something elses” to go.  By the end of this consultation, I feel as if I have several inches of “something else” other than me, on my face.

 
Furthermore, she applied the something else’s so close to my eyes the fumes are beginning to make them red hot and I’m beginning to tear up.

 
“Are you okay?”  she asks.

 
“Yes,” I said stoically, trying to be sure that the make-up warrior in me didn’t reveal the fact that my eyes felt like they were going to permanently rebel against the mysterious-named-store toxic poison and close forever.

 
Meanwhile, Helen, my thirteen year old is telling me in my left ear (loudly by the way) in a kind of sing-song kind of Woody Woodpecker voice and in no uncertain terms, “Doesn’t look any different. Doesn’t look any different.  Doesn’t look any different.”  My make-up consultant continues to apply another layer of something else and Helen is persistently telling me throughout the latter stages of my makeover, “Doesn’t look any different, Mom.  Doesn’t look ANY different.”

 
When the consultant is done, I feel as if my face will crack if I smile, wink or speak.  I am blinded at this point by that darn third layer and weave my way dangerously toward the check-out counter.  I opted not to purchase the “something else package” and ended up purchasing some fruity lip gloss for Helen and blush for me.  I really didn’t want to purchase anything, but felt guilty for taking up so much time in the make-up chair.

 
On to the food court, just praying that I wouldn’t see anyone I knew.

I think I’ll just love my face the way it is and save the money for my children’s college tuition.

I’ve always struggled a bit with standing up for myself.  It wasn’t because I didn’t believe I’m worth it or that in theory I disagree with the idea.  It’s that I just wasn’t raised that way. I didn’t even realize it was an option.

So when I got these emails from Isabella, a girl in Girls on the Run, I was quite taken aback and actually thoroughly elated!

Our exchange goes a little something like this.

Isabella’s first email, 7:30 a.m.

“Dear Molly.  Thank you so much for inventing Girls on the Run.  I think I’ve learned a lot about being a strong girl.  I love the games and activities.  I am becoming stronger and am learning how not to choose the life of a girl in the Girl Box.  You are a super star.  Your friend Isabella.”

Isabella’s second email, 3:30 p.m.

“Dear Molly.  I just got home from school.  We don’t have Girls on the Run today.  I have it on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I would loooooooove to get an email back from you.  Thank you.  You are a super star.  Your friend Isabella.”

Isabella’s third email, 4:30. p.m., same day.

“Dear Molly.  One of the lessons we learned is all about standing up for ourselves and so I just need to tell you.  I feel frustrated when you don’t write me back, because I think it’s important that you write me back and I would really appreciate it if you did.”

Molly’s first email, 4:30.15.

“Dear Isabella.  Thank you so much for writing me.  I’m glad you are enjoying Girls on the Run.  It is quite clear to me that you are really grasping what the program is all about.  :)  You are MY super star.  Your friend, Molly

Wow…assertive…to say the least.

When I was a kid, girls were sweet, which in and of itself is not a bad thing.  But when we are sweet to the detriment of our own well-being…we are talking a whole other ball game. Good girls (and add good SOUTHERN girls) didn’t rock the boat.  Shhh! Heaven forbid and bless her lil’ heart.  As our good friend Yosemite Sam would say, “Keep vewee, vewee, quiet.”  I’m not blaming anyone…I’m jus’ sayin’…this is how it was.

While standing up for myself was not touted as a needed skill set or even known as one available to me back in the late 60′s and 70′s…standing up our hair…now that was an altogether different story.

Early on, I became well aware, that it was frequently, all about the hair.  I swear if I could get a dollar for every hour I’ve spent on my hair…seriously, I’m not kidding…I’d have millions.  Farrah Fawcett was all the rage, curling irons were new and hand-held hair dryers were, according to my teenaged sister, the most innovative invention since the cotton gin.

No more sitting under one of those large upside down toilet bowls to dry your hair.  You could actually wash and dry your hair everyday.  Styling, lifting, teasing, curling all became a much simpler task.  The amount of time needed for the infamous, Southern “big hair,” while still astronomical, was much less so thanks to these daily conveniences which allowed women to take control of their hair and the time involved.  Minutes unknown to women everywhere, became available for other things.

One of those being sports.

What?  Alright, I admit it, perhaps drawing a direct line between the hand-held hairdryer and sports is a bit of a stretch, but think of it this way.

My mom was a beautiful, tall, svelte and graceful woman.  Her hair made her a good three inches taller. Every Friday, we went to the beauty parlor.  Just picture Steel Magnolias, except for mom’s beauty parlor was in the basement of what was locally known as “the Doctor’s Building.”  Men in horn-rimmed glasses were shuffling in and out of the front door, in their white doctor coats and stethoscopes, while the women were descending the stairs to have their hair “done” in what was I’m sure, at least to the men, some kind of freaky and frightening, voodoo kind of ritual.  My mom would literally spend a good 1.5 hours (or more) having her hair permed and treated by Meredith.  I used to love to go to the beauty parlor with my Mom.  We’d buy a small, cold bottle of coke and a pack of cheese crackers from the vending machine, (Mom would buy cigarettes.)  She’d smoke and I’d eat while Meredith would apply those lovely aromatic chemicals on my mom’s hair.  (It’s any wonder the basement of that building didn’t blow up with all the fumes and the cigarettes.)

All that changed, though, when my sister introduced her to the hand-held hair dryer.  All the effort in preserving the hair from one Friday to the next, flew out the window!

Women could now take charge.  Washing our hair everyday became a reality.  Baths were less frequent and showers became part of our daily regimen…AND so did sports.  Sweat was nothing to be feared, anymore.  The teasing, perming, chemicals, lifting and cranking up of the big hair could be recreated everyday now with the introduction of that hand-held hair dryer.  (Here is where I write my disclaimer that on behalf of all my African-American sisters who are now showing up in increasing numbers to triathlons, running events and other sporting activities…it can sometimes still be all about the hair.  The move toward “natural” is certainly helping my sisters of color  to more frequently experience the joys of exercise.  If you don’t know what I’m talking about…that’s okay. But please watch this…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0N6rbnIFEA&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fthankgodimnatural.wordpress.com%2Fchristia%2F&feature=player_embedded

So…about the same time, my Mom got her hand held hair dryer, she started running.  Every morning, long before our neighbors were awake, my mom would slip out the back screen door and head out on her run.  Decked out in her golf skirt, polyester collared shirt with the darts, and her tretorn sneakers on, off she would go.  An hour later, I would be just waking, come to the kitchen and see her there…her hair sopping wet and…not big.

Hours later, though, there it was again, high, big and three inches off her scalp!

Now…interestingly…it was probably less than six months after that my mom actually quit the big hair altogether.  She went for a very natural boy cut, wore dangly earrings and started to dress more youthfully.  She got sober, started working and generally transformed into, what all those around her would say without a doubt, an empowered, loving, strong woman, who stood up for herself and those around her.

Now, you may say its a stretch, but frankly, I think its all related.  The Hand-Held Hair Dryer and the Women’s Liberation Movement…I think I’m onto something.  Wonder what’s next?

This photo was recently posted on a friend’s facebook page.  My response was JOY!  There is no other word to describe the fullness of this little girl’s expression (or the camel’s for that matter.  )  But truthfully, I feel as if even joy doesn’t describe it completely.  I feel this photo more than I think it.

This past summer, Girls on the Run was invited to attend Nickelodean’s “Worldwide Day of Play” hosted by Michelle Obama, the President’s Council on Fitness, Nutrition and Sport and of course…Nickelodean.  I, along with several of our Girls on the Run International personnel were joined by several staff members who work in our DC office.

The event was overwhelming.  Literally thousands of people attended.  The music was awesome.  The mud left over from days of rain was challenging and as with all events such as this…the constant “on” can become exhausting.  BUT…the outcome of course…wonderful connections are always made.

So…here is a visual of the scene.  Girls on the Run had a booth tucked in between two other fabulous organizations.  The flow of “people traffic” was constructed so that folks had no choice but to walk by every booth.  (Good job Nickelodean!)

We had a table with some giveaways (wo)manned by enthusiastic volunteers.  Girls and their families would stroll by, stop with wide-eyed recognition of our logo and name and come in to the booth to meet and greet with us.

It was an all-day affair.  By 2:00 I was looking forward to sitting.  (And if you know me…sitting isn’t something that I come by willingly very frequently.)

Just when my energy was waning a bit, a family comes strolling slowly in.  Mom, Dad and daughter walked up to me, as I (and I’m being honest here) was trying to hide somewhere to the side and refuel myself by reestablishing a positive frame of reference (rather than focusing on my tired legs and exhausted voice.).

Well…if refocusing was what I was seeking, I definitely got what I was asking for because there in front of me stood this family. It was clear to me that they were not the most athletic folks at the event.  My first impression slated them as more cerebral in nature.

Dad was tall.  Mom was short (5 feet) and their daughter was quite short and shall I say…quite round.

Dad:  So, we’ve never heard of this “Girls on the Run.”  Can you tell us about it?

I stood up and flowed right into what I know so well.  “Girls on the Run is a program designed to enhance a girl’s blossoming sense of self….” The words come easily to me these days.

Mom:  This sounds like something I could have used when I was a girl.  (If I had a dollar for everytime I have heard that…seriously…we’d have an endowment as big as Texas.)  But our Abigail here…well…she isn’t into sports and seriously…doesn’t like to run…(pause here)…AT ALL.

I looked at Abigail.  She had a round, cherubic face, that was very flushed from the heat and humidity of the day.  Perched on her teeny-tiny nose were some teeny-tiny Harry Potter kind of glasses.  She seemed intrigued at that moment by the odd array of pronounced veins on my hands and arms…the result of years of athletic conditioning and the ensuing lean build that comes with that.  They were, of course, right there in front of that teeny tiny nose, while I stood to converse with her parents.

I lowered myself to a football stance…one knee to the muddy earth below us and one foot still perched beside it.

“What cha looking at?”

Her glance moved from my hands to my eyes.

I took my right index finger and traced a line on the vein of my left hand and said, These are pretty weird lookin’ aren’t they?”

“Yes.”  She nodded.

“These are like this because I run a lot.  I love to run.  I feel like a wild horse when I run.  Running frees me.   I am someone who is happy when I run.”

We pause.  “Your mom said that you don’t like to run.”

She shakes her head.

“What do you like to do?” I asked.

“Read, write and draw,” Abigail responds. She smiles.  Her eyes are twinkling behind those spectacles.

She likes being heard. I like being heard, too. We chat another minute more…about what specifically, I don’t remember.

And then we are done…with the talking anyway.  That’s when, for whatever reason, we begin, to just kinda look at each other…in silence…for what seems like minutes.   There was a lot going on around us…the music, the noise, the mud, her parents standing behind her, my knee slowly sinking into the muddy ground…but for that fifteen seconds it was just the two of us….the one of us…connecting, feeling, knowing, being.  There was a growing sense of wonder.

I took her hands.

“Abigail.  You know how you feel right now?  THAT feeling?”

“Yes,” she responded.

“That is how I feel when I run and I’ll bet how YOU feel when you read, write and draw.  That, my friend, is Girls on the Run.”

She smiled.  I smiled.  We knew.

We laughed about my muddy knee.  She hugged me and I hugged her back.

Funny…I met hundreds of people that day, but my connection with Abigail is certainly (and obviously) one that struck me in a way I will never forget.  I think real connection is like that.  We get so busy tangled up in words, trying to prove our point, say the right thing or explain ourselves that we forget the power that silence can bring…the chance for real connection…the willingness to wiggle through the awkwardness of it to the other side where words become unnecessary and just being with someone says enough.

I am in New York.

I am on the 10th floor of an old building.

I am in my friend’s apartment.

I hear a horn. Squeaky brakes. Another horn. More horns. A siren. A loud engine.

Someone  is yelling.

My daughter is with me.

She is sipping hot chocolate.

Today we wandered the streets.

There were thousands with us…wandering.

We heard languages we did not know.

Consonants awkwardly woven between verbs.

Little pooches in Christmas sweaters,

With bells on their tiny painted toes.

They made us laugh.

Ice skating at Rockefeller Center.

Crowds so thick we could not move.

We were so cold.

Helen said her ears hurt.

I said the air felt like steel inside my lungs.

We held hands, fingers criss-crossed.

I look outside.

The digital sign on the skyscraper outside our window reads 23 degrees.

The sky is night.

We are tucked beneath a squishy comforter in a room with warm wooden walls.

On the 10th floor in my friend’s apartment.

Pajamas by 4:30.

My daughter has a fever.

She coughs.

We hear squeaky brakes, sirens and horns.

We hold hands.

Our fingers criss-crossed.

Because she is sick and it feels good to be together.

I listen.

I write.

I am.

The older I get the more child-like I become.  I’m convinced that 50…is the new 8.  Heck, 40 is the new 8.

Forty (and up) used to seem old.  I am not old.  Old people do not wear red cowboy boots.  Old people do not dance in the car.  Old people do not do carwheels for no apparent reason.  I do all of these.

I recall an interview with Gloria Steinem.  The man interviewing her said, “Well Ms. Steinem, you certainly don’t look 43 years old.”  Her reply?  “Well, honey…this is what MY 43 looks like.

 
I come from a long line of very youthful folk.  My mom was running and practicing yoga until the day of her death.  She actually did run and practice yoga on the day of her death!

My father, an avid sailor and squash player, was inhibited a bit by his years of cigarette smoking, but he would walk a brisk 18 holes of golf, in no time at all.

 
My brother was an elite cyclist and my two sisters, are both athletes, but did not have the same benefits that I did…both being born long before Title 9.

 
The youthfulness of my lineage isn’t only in the way our bodies show up, but also in our attitudes.  You can see it in our eyes.  My mom, known for her progressive attitude and authentic spirit had a sparkle in her eye that was very child-like.  She approached life with a youthful curiosity and a willingness to share her vulnerabilities.  As she grew older, there was a tendency even toward  being “wacky”, a characteristic that most people who knew her would definitely mention.

My dad, less open, at least until he got sick, always seemed older, but once he knew the years remaining in his life were limited (he was diagnosed with a brain tumor at age 60) he, too, became more child-like, open and fun-loving.  There was the return to his eyes of a beautiful and youthful twinkle…something I had never known existed, until then.  I am so grateful.

In honor of turning them and the growing freedom I feel to come home to my younger (and real) self, I thought it might be fun to list the top ten things I have learned from the girls of the world…and then in the next few weeks, attempt to do every one of them.  Care to join me?

So here goes:
TOP TEN THINGS I’VE LEARNED BY WORKING WITH 8 to 13 year old girls!

 
1.  When you are happy, it is perfectly acceptable to stop whatever you are doing and go into complete “Dance, Dance Fever” mode.   Don’t think too hard about this.  Allow the dance to be interpretive and come up from your soul.  If this means doing a full-blown “worm” on the floor, go for it.  If it means, cartwheels and/or break dancing, don’t hold back, brothers and sisters.  Dance, until you can dance no more!

 
2. When you are sad and you feel like crying…cry.  There is no reason in the world, not to.  Crying is not anything to be embarrassed about or to restrain yourself from doing.  Crying can actually feel good.

 
3. When you are hurt, either physically and/or emotionally, let someone know that you need their help and their love.  Don’t be afraid to say “Hug me.  I’m hurt.”  You’d be surprised how much that helps in the healing process.

4. When you are angry, let someone you trust know first.  Tell them everything.  Get all the mean parts of your anger out of your body before you actually confront the person who has angered you.  Being human isn’t always a piece of cake and sometimes we think really mean things.  That’s okay and just part of being human.

 
5. Trust yourself.  If something doesn’t feel right, trust whatever it is that is giving you that feeling.  Nine out of ten times, you are right.

 
6.  If you have something to say, say it.  Why the heck would you ever want to hold back an idea on your insides when there is plenty of space outside for the idea to live?  Share your big ideas even if they seem utterly undoable or ridiculous.  You’d be surprised at how many other people might also have the same idea, but just not know or have the words to express it.

 
7. Daydream.  So, maybe sitting quietly isn’t something that adults do very often, but lying on your back, watching butterflies and making shapes out of the clouds in the sky all provide direct routes to the deeper ideas in your imagination.  Your destiny is found in your dreams.

 
8. Stare at people.  Sure, this will make them uncomfortable, but every once in a while a stare leads to a connection and a connection is where friends are found.  (The best place to stare at people is on an elevator, so says my daughter, Helen Barker.)

 
9. As you get older, the fashion magazines and the “age police” will tell you what to wear and how your body should look.  They just make that stuff up.  Wear whatever you want to wear.  If you feel like wearing red cowboy boots with a pair of running shorts, this is perfectly acceptable.  Don’t think too much in this category.  The human body is pretty cool.  Take thirty minutes sometime and just see what your body can do.  Leap.  Jump.  Fly.  Skip.  Dance.  Amazing!  Let your spirit be your guide!

 
And last but not least… the topper, the whole enchilada, the icing on the cake and the cherry on the sundae…

 
10. Love people.  Love them “just because.”  Love them with all of your heart.  Tell them you love them…tell them a lot.  Tell them every day that you love them.  Love them with your words, your body and your eyes.  Tell them you love them with cards that you decorate yourself, with gifts that you made with your own two hands.  Love because you are love.  Love.  Love.  Love.

What would be the top one or two things you have learned from the children in your life?  What inhibits you from being child-like?  What one or two things do you promise you will do this week to celebrate the child in you?  Let me know!

The music invasion into our home was slow, but steady.  It started with the radio…mundane bleeped out pop music that, only a few years ago, occasionally mingled the word S**t or N***a into the lyrics.  How we got to where I am today is a bit like gaining weight slowly.  I didn’t see it happening, coming or even know it was here until it just hit me. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that the parade of purchases on I-tunes would show up in my email and I would just nonchalantly click “delete” on the notification and continue on with my work.  The purchases were made right under my nose.

So now…the lyrics I hear coming from my son’s bedroom are so offensive I can’t believe that any child of mine would play it.  I’m not trying to sound holier than thou or even judgmental, but the truth is, these words wound my soul…dig down into the core of me, not even just as a mother, but as another human being on the journey toward something in my life that is positive, fulfilling and genuine.  I am culturally wounded, socially numbed and wondering how I could have allowed this to happen.

My boy…my amazing, spirited, fabulous, kind young man is mumbling the words to one of his favorite musical artists under his breath and cleaning his room while singing.  (It’s hard to even write a few of these out.)

Get me another cup please.

I ain’t drivin’ home, so you can have my keys.

Got a bunch of tricks all hidden up my sleeves.

So I’mma get drunk, won’t be leavin’ till 3.

Yea, I got a reputation of gettin’ wasted.

Everything in sight, homie we ain’t tryna save s**t.

So no I can’t see b***h.

And frankly…these are the least offensive of the bunch.  This is being sung by my sixteen year old boy…the one who loved going on long walks in our neighborhood…who stopped to, with wide eyes, intently examine every yard gnome or dog on a leash with the joy of someone who believed that life just couldn’t get any better.

How we got here…I’m still trying to figure out.  On his Facebook page,his friends reference each other as n***a, like I use the word friend.  I’m not understanding how this has become so commonplace.  And I swear, I’m not an old lady. I’m upbeat, current and relevant.  I’m a 51 year old, single mom who dates, enjoys life, works a fulfilling job, hangs out with positive people.  I don’t drink, I don’t smoke and I work out five days a week.  I practice yoga, I buy my clothes at Ann Taylor or the Gap and I drive a Toyota.  I’m about as cool…as far as moms go…as you can get.

And so…at times I feel as if I’m teetering some where between mama bear, beating on her chest and screaming at the top of my lungs or caving in and falling down into a crumbling pool of apathy.

Our children’s discoveries on the internet are akin to Alice down the Rabbit Hole.  They observe one site that leads deeper into another, and then to another, and then to another and slowly but surely they can, if we are not careful, become immersed in an underground world where parents simply don’t exist and some other committee of marketing gurus, commercial widgets and deeply disturbed men and women, engage them as their own…raise them to think, see and feel a certain way… so that the products they produce and the lifestyle they promote will keep him coming back time and time again.  They hammer away at our societal sense of decency, degrade our sense of worth, diminish the spirited light we have and pull us in for money, ego and frankly…I don’t know what else.  The distance between that world and the one I want to support and live in, often feels like a chasm so wide and deep I want to just throw my hands up and give in, give up and quit trying so hard to make a difference.  I know I sound like I’m paranoid or an overly dramatic alarmists, but the truth is, we are entering unchartered territory here.  The verdict is still out about how all this technology is affecting not just our cultural thoughts, but literally affecting the brains of the people who use it.

So…on a smaller scale, I realize I’ve got two years left before my boy  is technically on his own…what influence I have is fleeting even now, but I want him to feel the power of a home where sanctuary from all that external noise can be found…where he is safe to talk with me about this world he knows, but can recognize that it isn’t operating with his best interest in mind. I want him to know there is another world over here where he is valued, honored and held accountable for his decisions.

And I guess here is where I digress a bit and talk about me.  I’m a warm and fuzzy kind of person…a bit over the top on Kumbayah kind of love.  I believe that inherently we are all pretty good at our core and occasionally get off track…but that our higher self…the one that some may call God, Divine, Higher Power really does bring us back home to ourselves.  For some it may take more time than others, but we do eventually get back there.  (For some it may take an entire lifetime.)

So I struggle with being tough…it’s just not in my nature. I just keep thinking my son will eventually get it…like now…like figure out how all this ”junk” is contributing to the anxiety he often feels, the sadness he openly (and gratefully) shares with me and the sometimes (still infrequenty though) apathetic attitude he has toward school and his ambitions.

So, for me it comes down to securing that oxygen mask on myself.  What I know and believe is good for me, I know and believe will be good for him…and so…this past week I implemented a “Technology Takedown” in our house.

I’ve taken custody of my children’s computers and activated the parental controls…for the time being anyway…until they spend more time over here on the positive side of technology.  This inludes time limits on how often they use it. I could benefit from this as well.  How I have made this appealing (and it seems to be working so far), has been by offering family outings, meals out together, board game competitions (really…can you believe much fun a silly board game can be?), walks around the neighborhood and other just FUN stuff.  We are all hungry for these simple ole’ timey activities (my daughter referenced these activities as such) these days and have just forgotten how much fun and love can be exchanged within these precious times together.

We are going to learn how to use Facebook and Twitter responsibly… explore websites that engage them in a positive way.  I’m asking each of my children to be the “master” of my Facebook and twitter accounts for a month each.  I am using these in a very positive way and want them to experience how fabulous those channels can be in engaging people to do good in the world.  I’m going to prohibit language and music which offends the airspace which surrounds me and create a “negative-free” lyric zone.  No more ho’s, n****s and b****s will be marching through my kitchen while I’m trying to cook dinner.  I just can‘t take it anymore.  I’m feeling beat up, assaulted, downright exhausted and strangled by the onslaught.

What they choose to listen to, download and explore on their ipods is up to them.  Their room will be theirs.  But from now on, all purchases will need my approval…at least if they want me to pay for them.    I want them to feel the positive power of technology, emerge from the rabbit hole and move upwards…find space in the world around them where youtube is good and people are generally kind to one another.

I want to at least give that world a shot, too.

Then they will know, experience and be aware of the difference.  We can’t know sorrow without knowing joy.  We can’t know sun without knowing clouds.  They can’t know that what they are currently surrounding themselves with is negative and destructive until they know and experience the positive and uplifting elements that technology can bring to the world.   Then they can decide for themselves which master they will claim as their own.   Fully armed at that point, they will know and then be able to intentionally decide which route they want to take.

I was feeling as if the xbox, MTV, reality show world had my children hostage.  They courted them (and me) early on with their seemingly harmless nintendo ds, gameboy and telletubbies and eventually pulled them in to what feels like…all the way…out of reach…and apart.  I guess I let it happen, but now Mama’s got her oxygen mask and has gone in, armed, ready and prepared to take her baby cubs back.

What do you think about technology and its effect in your children’s lives?  How have you managed it?  What suggestions do you have?  What fears?  I’m asking, because I need to know as do others.  We are all entering unchartered territory…here.