The Wall and The Mason

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

I am to be a wall of strength for my teen daughter. I read this amazing piece of advice in a well circulated Huff Post blog several months ago.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/what-teenagers-need-from-us-more-than-almost-anything_us_57e9b4c0e4b095bd8969fdbf

The idea of the be a wall movement stems from the fact that being a teenage girl sucks (almost as much as trying to figure out how to raise one). Teens rage because they experience copious amounts of pressure, both real and perceived.

When they rage, we parents need to suppress our knee-jerk emotional responses of anger and hurt remaining calm and sympathetic instead. We need to be steadfast in our unwavering love and support even if it means we bite our tongues so hard they bleed.

We must recognize that their yelling and swearing and stomping is not really directed at us, it’s just life in general. Being a wall of strength and security for them gives them one thing in their life that they can rely on. It gives them the stability to deal with all the other crap.

I shared this article with my husband. He appreciated the sentiments so much that now we use that phrase, be the wall, in whispers when we see the other sinking into the abyss of fury and frustration caused by our brilliant and beautiful daughter’s transformation into that hormonal teenaged monster that darkens our days from time to time.

Be the wall he says with an ironic look on his face as my daughter snarls at me because I dared to ask her how she did on her Chem test.

Just yesterday, I made the rookie mistake of saying, “Good morning. How are you today” to my fifteen-year-old. This kindness caused instantaneous eye rolls and a snotty head toss accompanied with the tight reply, “fine.” She stomped away and did not speak to me again.  My husband was not around so I chanted to myself, be the wall.

I often hear or recite this line as I make many mistakes like telling her she looks “cute in that top” or I am “proud of her A+ grade average” or that maybe she should “wear pants and not underwear to school.” (Ok, I get that one, but leggings are not pants and anything with a cotton crotch is underwear. Just saying.)

Be the wall.

Today, when I inquired as to why she randomly shouted a profane exclamation, because I was genuinely concerned, she muttered under her breath “shut-up.” This is one of those moments when my be the wall metaphor crumbles. Rather than being a wall I kind of want to push her into a wall (just saying).

In those moments, I imagine myself being a decrepit, ancient wall that cannot handle the weight of her need, of her displaced anger and frustration. I crumble and then disintegrate, inadvertently crushing her.

When this happens, I look to my husband to be the Mason. Like a super hero who wears painters pants and a canvas ball cap with a trowel in one hand and a chisel in the other. Maybe instead of changing into his superhero clothes in a phone-booth he pops into a cement mixer.

My Superhero Mason

When I explode into a million pieces of hurt, angry, incensed, confused, needy, and loving shards that smother my daughter in her needy emotionally irrational state, he must swoop in with his magic bonding agent and rebuild our egos and mend our fractured feelings. He must use his words to smooth us over and make us whole and strong. I cannot afford to be condemned because as much as I want to crush her snotty attitude, I must be there to protect and shield her from the hurts of the world until she is ready to be her own wall.

My mason is a hero with many talents. Sometimes it is as simple as him changing the subject. Sometimes he defends me. Sometimes he reminds me to consider that she is tired or hormonal. Sometimes he just removes one of us the moment. Sometimes I just need to whisper to my Mason hero that I want to crush her and we laugh as we chant in unison, be the wall.

My daughter is amazing and I just want to love her, to talk to her, to know her, to help her, to comfort her. At times, it feels like she just wants to cling to me and as she grips and claws at my aging and weakening frame, I try to shore myself up knowing that she is not trying to hurt me she’s just trying to keep herself together.

I remember being her age. I remember wanting a wall, and not having one. The circumstances of my parents’ divorce necessitated that I be my own wall or to rely on my equally broken friends to be my wall.

I want my daughter to know that I am here for her, that I love her, that I am proud of her, that I am excited for all the possibilities her future holds.  The older she gets the more she opens-up to me, the more she seems to recognize and appreciate our support.

Perhaps we are not going to be so fragile too much longer. Maybe I have patched my crumbling wall well enough that I can withstand her immense need. She is clinging to me less often. She has found her own strength and relies on it more and more.

Mothers and daughters have complicated relationships. I envy my husband’s relationship with my daughter. Maybe I understand her emotions too much. Maybe I know how hard it is to be a girl growing into a woman. Maybe I expect too much of her too soon. I want to have the simple, light-hearted, bantering relationship she has with her dad, but it is too hard for me to let up and let go. The door to independence is getting too close too fast.

Is she ready? Did I teach her enough? Can I be sure she won’t cling to the wrong walls, the ones covered in poison ivy if I am not available, when I let her walk through the gateway to adulthood?

Just like when she climbed her first tree or sat on the edge of a wall that guards hikers from the precipice, my body tingles with fear and worry. In those moments, I was right there ready and able to pull her out and drag her to safety or catch her if she fell. I won’t be there at college or at her first job or when she moves into her first apartment. The gravity of my duty to let her go weighs heavily on me. I am glad my husband is my wall and my mason because in a few years I will need both.

Adoption Myth X: You Can’t Love an Adopted Child as Deeply as a Biological Child

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Nothing infuriates me more than when a well-meaning professional refers to me as my daughters’ “adoptive mother.” It is an unnecessary qualifier for our relationship that diminishes my all encompassing love and attachment for my children as if the fact that they were adopted means our relationships cannot equal those relationships developed between a birth mother and child

I am ashamed to admit that many years ago, when I was young and inexperienced, before I became a mother, I assumed that children who were adopted were not as precious to their family as those born into their families.

To “assume” makes an ASS out of me. I’ll leave you out of this

It makes me nauseous to recall my reaction to some "news" stories sensationalizing a permanently separated child and parent. Upon hearing the news, my sympathetic side caused me to become awash with intense feelings of sadness. Just as I was reaching for the tissue box, the reporter revealed that the child had been adopted. That little twist in the news reporting had it's intended effect, it gave me a reason to let go of my sadness, just a little. It allowed me to rationalize that I should not feel too sad for those grieving "parents" because the child wasn’t really theirs, he was adopted (say adopted in a whispered hush for the full effect).

Boy was I stupid.

From the moment I learned that I was going to be a mother, I fell in love with my children. I did not have the predictable nine months (we all know its really ten months) of feeling a life grow within me. My wait was longer and rife with a multitude of unknowns.

Rather than the nine to ten months birth mothers have, I had years to bond with my future child, at least the idea of her. I dreamed or her for years, imagining her life, waiting and wishing for her. I dreamed of how I would parent her and what her life would be like.

I had no idea when she would come. I had no idea what she would look like. I had no idea how old she would be. All I had were my dreams, my wishes, and time, lots of time.

I had this twice.

Just like biological parents, bonding with my babies took time but the love was instantaneous. Much like the Grinch, my heart grew ten times the day I learned I would be a mom (each time) and then another ten times the first time I held my baby (each time).

My heart is full of undeniable, unbendable, intense, true-love for each of my girls

Just as the judge decreed on our adoption days, we parent our girls as if they were born to us. More importantly, we love them as if they were born to us. Maybe we even love them more because they were so wanted and such unexpected gifts of perfection. Destiny brought us together.

Each one of us in our little family has his or her unique story of what brought us together. Each of us has our hurts and sorrows surrounding the circumstances of needing one another. Each one of us has our unique way that we fell in love with one another. The only thing that is the same is that we are a family. The word “adoptive” is not necessary. "Family," "mom," "dad," or "daughter" work just fine, thank you very much.

Lying Liar, Liar-Pants

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Liar, Liar Pants on Fire

Nose as Long as a Telephone Wire

(There is much debate on the lines subsequent to the first one)

Disclaimer: I will not reference my oldest daughter’s lies due to the fact that she reads this blog. If my youngest daughter ever makes an effort to support my writing, I will stop shaming her, maybe.

While doing laundry the other day I thought (for one misguided moment) that a liar’s pants really do catch on fire. Surely that would explain why I folded only one lonely pair of my daughters underpants when seven whole days have passed and she promised she "puts on new ones everyday." Believing that was easier than embracing the dirty truth. Enough said.

Her lies come in such rapid fire abundance that, some days, I feel like I should carry a fire extinguisher for when her overlapping lies cause her to self-combusts. Instead, I rely on perspective and a sense of humor to battle the lies. Oh, who are we kidding, most days I erupt with stern “talking to’s” which evolve to yelling and pacing and tearing at my hair.

She lies so frequently that I actually hear (in her whining intonations) “sorry” more than “mom.” For you non-moms out there, that is A LOT!

A Mom hears "Mom" 300 times a day!click for more info

Inevitably, her “sorry” is followed up with the knee jerk, “I didn’t know.” These words make my blood boil. I tersely explain through gritted teeth for the millionth, no billionth time the definition of sorry and that she did “know” she just chose to ignore the rules.

The lies are thinly veiled and, quite frankly, ridiculous. Her lies are so ridiculous that I often feel embarrassed for her and her amateur deceptions. Clearly, I am not raising her to be street smart. For example, she tells me she ate every last bite of her lunch as I am unpacking her lunch box and all the food I packed for her that morning. How blind and stupid does she think I am? That is a rhetorical question.

Over the years she has gotten away with several of her lies, but she must know that I eventually discover the truth and there are always consequences! (Clearly I have not found an effective consequence as she continues to lie to me daily).

Uneffective Consequences for Lying:

1. Yelling (Still not working but I am determined to keep at it. If nothing else it releases my stress.)
2. Shaming (i.e Facebook post. She just likes the infamy.)
3. Denying access to preferred objects or foods (Leads to stealing and stealthy trips to the corner store using her birthday money to buy bags of cookies.)
4. Teasing (As in, eating her favorite foods in front of her with exaggerated joy while denying her even the tiniest taste. This is the most effective way to make her cry.)
5. Seclusion (She just talks and sings on the top of her lungs driving us nuts.)
6. Hard labor (She is lousy at housework. Even worse she sings and makes it a fun game for herself.)
7. Reading up on the health risks associated with the lie.(Leads to lots of questions I am not prepared to answer.)
8. Crying, begging, pleading (Even then she won’t stop. Those aren’t my best parenting moments plus I end up with puffy eyes and blotchy skin.)
9. Logical discussions (These don’t exist with her. She does not operate on logic.)
10. Therapy and other medical interventions (We don’t have enough time to discuss these dead ends.)

When Kids Start to Lie Click for a link

I am not sure when her lies started, probably around age 3. However, I am certain the very first lies revolved around food as this is what the bulk of her current lies are about.

The latest chain of lies involved the the rotting corpse smell coming from her backpack. First, she insisted it was not her backpack that smelled. Then, she said the zippers were broken and I could not access the pocket in question. Next, she said nothing was in it. Finally, upon discovering weeks worth of her stashed uneaten lunch foods gone moldy, putrid, and petrified, she insisted she didn’t know how they got there. Flabbergasted, I asked her why she just didn’t ditch the evidence in the garbage cans at school. Seriously, this girl needs to work on her subterfuge.

Other Dumb Lies

• She “tricked” me into believing she threw-up by throwing water on the carpet and putting crunched up soggy food in the “puke” bucket.
• Self-care like brushing teeth, putting on deodorant, and bathing, as if her the smells emanating from her aren’t giveaways
• Putting away her clean clothes by throwing them into the closet.
• Insisting she is not going online as I look at the search history.
• Reporting she walked the dog after I watched her stand in the driveway for 10 minutes.
• She insists she puts on clean underwear every day even though I do the laundry and can count.

Though all of these things are easily refuted, she insists she did as she was told hoping that on that day, in that moment, I am too tired, busy, or distracted to notice. Many times I am and she gets away with hiding the empty boxes and bags of food she secreted under her bed. Eventually, the dog rats her out by burrowing under there to slurp-up the remains alerting me to her deceptions.

Just like I tell her every time she is caught, tired and lazy does not mean stupid. Even if I am too old to always remember her name and my my age, I can still count, and one pair of underpants is not the same as seven. Right? (Did I mention I am a tired aging mom?)

Spring is Hair: A Dog's Tail

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

With Spring upon us I look forward to warmer days and a sun that shines well into the evening hours. The longer days bring more energy and the urge to make closed-up dusty homes fresh and clean, and the drive to become active to make our bodies strong and trim after months of being cramped-up indoors under blankets while binge watching every show that popped up in our "suggestions for you” queue on Netflix.

For More Info on Cleaning Click Here

After prying the remote controls from our hands and peeling our lazy bodies from the sofa, we throw open the windows and grab our cleaning supplies. We work hard trying to coax dust bunnies into dust bins and polish away the film that Winter left behind on every surface. We scour, scrub, sweep, and sponge until our homes gleam and sparkle transforming them from the dim dwellings of the last few months into fragrant show places.

As we luxuriate in our sweet-smelling, glimmering homes we notice from the corner of our eye the dog. Banished to the confines of the yard as we cleaned for the last few hours, now she races toward the open door heading right for that freshly mopped floor.  

We conveniently forgot about the old saying “April showers bring May flowers" and the lesser known one “March is a muddy mess of melted gray snow and all the crap that has been hiding beneath it!” Yes, I made that saying up, but you know it’s true.

Your dog, who has been feeling just as housebound as you, left the house filled with Spring fever relishing the warmer sun and fresh air. Never concerned with cleanliness, she channeled her puppy-like energy into trivial pursuits like rolling in bunny turds, digging up the garden, and burrowing in the shrubs to find moles. Her Spring time traditions are decidedly less tidy.

The result of all this outdoor frolicking is that the dog, who boasted snow white fur a few hours ago, is currently a dark brown as she is caked in mud and filth and rabbit poo. Even worse, she has nearly reached the opening in the door you inadvertently left ajar.

Time slows as you move toward the door yelling "NOOOO", but the dog has four legs which outpace your stupid biped status. She slips through the crack just as you slam the door shut. You spin around still shouting the one syllable word that encapsulates fear, anger, surprise, and defeat, "NOOOO!"

The dog, rendered dumb with pure happiness, races through the house in one big circle leaving muddy footprints on every inch of hardwood floor and area rugs. Ears back and tongue flopping to the side of her snoot, she is ecstatic with joy and full of the Spring fever.

Suddenly, she puts on her doggy breaks, slides to a stop, and falls to the floor at your feet and onto the carpeting. She rolls to her back, feet in the air still pumping furiously as if she is still running while she squirms and wriggles with utter joy grinding the mud and the filth and the poo that coats her body into your once beautiful carpet.

In a flash, she leaps with impressive agility in one flawless motion to all fours then shakes her entire body catapulting the chunks of yard that had embedded themselves into the layers of her fur. Along with the dirt, her fur comes flying out in hunks. It is then you remember that Spring is not just the season of mud, but shedding season.

The sun rays that gleam through the freshly polished glass of the window illuminate all of the fine hairs and dander that dance and float in thick clouds through the once fresh air of your home. You watch helplessly as it all lands upon every newly dusted surface around you.

Though angry and frustrated, you can't help but smile at your frisky friend. You had one glorious moment to bask in the cleanliness of your home.

On the positive side, you can work on getting back in shape for bathing suit season as you bathe and brush the dog, reclean the house, and work on the yard. No boring gym life for you. You have a dirty dog to keep you fit.

Eating Healthy Ruined My Life

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Having received a generous gift card, I found myself staring at the menu at Red Lobster feeling slightly nauseous at the prospect of eating any of the food described and pictured in the lengthy and elaborate menu. Meanwhile, my husband and kids were buzzing with excitement as they tried to narrow down their selections to just one main dish.

Click here for menu

Why couldn’t I be excited about eating lobster 8 ways with a side of fried shrimp and diving into steaming hot, flaky, cheddar biscuits?

For my kids, it was a rare treat, eating at a chain restaurant. For the last several years, I have steered clear of all national chains whenever possible. I prefer to eat at locally owned restaurants where the food tends to be homemade, and a bit fresher and healthier.

I grew up eating Velveeta cheese and drinking gallons of Lipton Iced Tea (the kind made from scooping heaps of brown tinted sugar crystals into a half gallon pitcher and adding water). Mom did cook other things but Velveeta and Ice tea were the mainstays of my childhood diet

Velveeta was often times the star of the dish.

Ways we ate Velveeta:

1. Homemade mac and cheese made from a sauce of cubed Velveeta, milk, butter, and salt, pepper and garlic powder. Drizzle the sauce over cooked pasta shells, toss and eat by the bowl full several times a week.

2. Smother vegetables with melted Velveeta (can use same sauce recipe above).

3. Melt Velveeta between pan toasted, buttered, white bread.

4. Cube Velveeta into salads of diced Red Delicious apples, walnuts, and toss in  lots of miracle whip.

5. Slice Velveeta using a specialized wheeled cheese cutter and enjoy. 

6. Click for more Velveeta recipe ideas.

Mom did cook homemade foods. Her specialties were pork chops, roasted chicken, spaghetti, and roast beef. The vegetables that were paired with these home-style meals were things like canned creamed corn, the above-mentioned Velveeta soaked broccoli or cauliflower, potatoes, or really well boiled lima beans swimming in butter.

When mom did not cook, we ate bags of fish sticks, boxes of cream chipped beef over toast, lots of Stouffers French bread pizzas, and of course, my favorite Swanson frozen pot pies. 

I loved all of these things and thought my mom was the world’s best cook

My palate began to evolve once I started working in bakeries and restaurants where I discovered fish that was not breaded and fried, and tender filet mignon. My true dietary metamorphosis began when I moved to California.

What is Filet Mignon

I remember going to the grocery store to buy my beloved Velveeta and discovered it in the center aisles with the canned goods, not in the coolers with the other cheese and dairy items. I was aghast! No, I was stunned at the ineptitude of the store managers! They needed to get this fine cheese into the cooler immediately or scads of customers would surely die from some yet to be named Velveeta brain eating bacteria.

I raced home breathless with worry and reported the travesty to my vegetarian roommates. They laughed at me wrongly thinking I was being ironic. When they recognized the confusion and ignorance that my face could not hide, they pointed out to me that Velveeta was not real cheese. It was actually “cheez” a term coined to differentiate whole foods from processed foods. 

They even spelled it for me, C-H-E-E-Z. Then they explained that the chemicals that made-up my beloved Velveeta did not need to be refrigerated and could probably survive with the cockroaches in a nuclear blast.

Click here to learn more about Velveeta

Overtime, I became an annoying food snob.

My husband and I started eating at high end restaurants comparing and contrasting food quality and preparations. My husband took up the hobby of cooking and turned into a wonderful home-cook. He baked fresh breads, learned to make the perfect steak, and even mastered the art of slow cooked spaghetti sauce. He spoiled me with ever more difficult dishes and perfected several of Julia Child's more complex preparations. We were well fed and growing fat with our butter soak meals and good wine.

That all came to an abrupt halt as my health took an unexpected turn.

Progressively, I became ill and nauseated. I no longer could enjoy the beautiful meals offered to me. Eventually, my illness hospitalized me briefly. After many tests over many months I discovered I had developed every foodie’s most dreaded ailment, gluten intolerance.

Click here for more info on Gluten Intolerance

Click here to read more about my journey to becoming Gluten Free

That nasty protein, gluten, wreaked havoc on my digestive system and made food my enemy.

Once I accepted my condition and my fate of never eating delicious crusty chewy bread or luscious pasta again, I sought out alternatives. We learned to cook differently. No more canned soups or stocks for us. We became more adventurous with the vegetables. We ate more salads with homemade salad dressings. Fried foods became less and less part of our diet. It got to a point where I could not eat potato chips unless they were baked. Our palates evolved and became more accepting of the flavor of real foods.

My body started craving healthy, fresh, nutritious foods.

No longer able to enjoy the salty, fatty, processed foods many chain restaurants offer, we eat at home much more. Even my kids and husband who were super excited about Red Lobster took a few bites of their fried and butter soaked meals and started to turn a bit “green in the gills” as they say. We took the leftovers home and they sat untouched for a week stinking-up the fridge as we reached around them for the lettuce and apples satisfying the craving for healthy foods over convenience.

Thanks to eating healthy I can no longer enjoy all those iconic American eateries. Perhaps it didn't really ruin my life, but traveling by car would be so much easier if I could stomach the fare at Cracker Barrel.

To Heck with Preschool Readiness: Let Kids Be Kids

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

If I could remember being two or even three years old, I am certain that my memories would be of me playing with a pile of blocks and dolls. I guarantee my memories would not involve my mother subjecting me to flashcards trying to make flipping through the numbers, shapes, and colors seem fun. Nor would they involve battery operated “learning toys” that featured a toad sporting a ball cap that judgingly stared at me as I ineptly tried to operate the machine as if I was the dumby. No, I think my toddler years focused less on school work and more on good old fashioned play.

I bring this up because yesterday I sat and listened to a young mom fret that her one year old child was “not smart” and was “not going to get into preschool” because he did not know his colors yet. Her worry, though sad, was genuine, and I argue, misguided.

“More than 90% of parents agonize that their child is not as smart as other children”

Sadly, this mom’s fears are not unique. More than 90% of parents agonize that their child is not as smart as other children. Okay, I totally made up that statistic, but based on my daily interactions with parents, I think it is a valid percentage.

At my real job, I work with kids who can’t talk or eat safely. Kids who have trouble relating to other people. Children who are very, very sick. Children who can’t hear or see. In nearly every single case, the mom or dad or grandma shows me, with great pride, all of the “learning toys” that they have for their beloved child to use.

As in aprevious blog, I still argue that these toys are mostly overpriced on/off buttons as most toddlers love to turn them on and then turn them off over and over until you want to either rip your ears off or toss the toy into the Atlantic, even if it means driving 3 ½ hours to get there just for the satisfaction of watching it be swallowed by the icy, gray waves of the roiling sea.

Nevertheless, we still cave to the pressures of genius advertising campaigns and the neighbor who gloats that her ten-month-old can do his multiplication tables and recite Shakespeare while peeing on the potty. So, we purchase these toys and try to convince our kids that they are fun in hopes that we can force them to be better and smarter, and let’s face it, kind of nerdy (not that nerds aren’t awesome; it’s just that baby nerds should not be a thing).

“Let him feel the wonder and excitement of his life.”

In the meantime, we are missing so many amazing opportunities to let our kids have fun. I’ll tell you what I told this mom, “Let your kid be a kid. Let him feel the wonder and excitement of his life. Let him explore and be silly. Let him play with toys that don’t require batteries. Let him explore all the things that nature and the house have to offer. Talk to him. Sing to him. Read to him. Most importantly, enjoy him for who he is, not for who you think he should be” (you can do that later when he becomes sulky teenager who dislikes everything, and I mean everything, about you).

“Take the time to imprint his whimsical silly self into your memories.”

Translation: Let him eat Play-Doh. Let him stack canned soup and beans until they crash down and terrify the sleeping dog. Let him roll in the mud outside and discover earthworms naturally. Let him be bored. Let him dance, sing, and lick glass (Seriously, so much can be learned by licking things. Tad the Leap Toad never teaches kids to do that). Take the time to imprint his whimsical silly self into your memories, you’ll need to tap into that later.

In my earliest years, I bet I spent countless hours licking and eating things that maybe should not have been part of my diet. I imagine I danced to the warbled tunes cranked-out

by my little wind-up record player (high tech equipment in the ‘70’s). I bet I jumped on my bed and climbed into boxes preferring them to the toys that I dumped out of them.

Maybe I learned my colors and shapes and numbers along the way. Maybe just touching and tasting and seeing and feeling and hearing things gave me the core skills I needed to be a successful preschooler.

“Home should be the place you learn to love life”

Preschool should be filled with the learning of educational skills like how to steal back your toy train from that the mean, train-hoarding kid who ripped it from your hands. It should be filled with eating paste and peeing your pants (of course children must be potty trained to go to preschool nowadays, sheesh. My preschool teachers sent me home toting a plastic bag of urine-soaked pants and wearing different clothes every day because I did not grasp the whole “pee goes in the toilet” movement).

Preschool should be the place that you start to learn shapes and numbers and letters and colors. Home should be the place you learn to love life, learn to have fun, and learn to be a kid.


Additional Resource:

http://mybrunettelifeasaredhead.blogspot.com/2016/07/learning-toys-not-required-experience.html