"Are You Sarcasing Me Mom?": Passing Down the Gift of Sarcasm

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

“You look really pretty today” was what that sweet 8th grade boy said to me. My response was “shut up.” Why, you ask? Because of sarcasm.

It was picture day and I was trying out a new look. The night before I had convinced the hairdresser to style my wiry, frizzy brown hair into the smooth flipped style of the blonde

model in the Glamour magazine page I had ripped out. She tried to convince me that was not the style for me, but I pleaded. Somehow, she wrestled and wrangled my unruly tresses into a style resembling the photo.

I slept sitting-up so as not to destroy the hair style that belonged on a California blonde’s silky smooth locks. I woke the next morning and put on my new blue plaid, high neck, double breasted, ruffled blouse (which I bought with the $13.00 that Martha M. lent me while we were at Severance Center Mall, and I think I still owe her. Martha, if you’re reading this, the check is in the mail), pairing it with my grey flannel wraparound skirt that fell mid-calf. I finished this racy look with taupe-colored hose that I had cracked fresh from their plastic egg container and brown leather sandals with a one inch platform heel.

My 8th grade school portrait by Mike Corbley

I did look pretty hot for a 13-year-old. And, the outfit was a stretch from the blue plaid skirt, solid white, oxford cloth, button down blouse and navy vest I usually wore. Oh-My-Gosh! I just realized I basically wore my Catholic school girl uniform, but in reverse, wow!

I did feel a bit pretty that day and wanted someone to notice my “new” look. But, thanks to my sarcastic upbringing, my guard was always up. So, when I received the compliment I so desperately wanted, I shot that shy boy down. The look on his face was a combination of hurt and confusion. Why did I tell him to shut-up? That was when it first dawned on me that some people just give compliments, no strings attached.

When my daughter was about four years old I said something to her and she paused a beat then replied, “Are you sarcasing me?” At a very young age my daughter had learned, not to recognize good sarcastic remarks, but to expect them.

My reaction was mixed. Initially, I felt proud. Then, I felt a bit concerned. Was I setting my daughter up to not trust a compliment? Was she going to grow up believing what I believed, that everything kind and unkind said to me and around me is probably said with irony?

Growing up with my mom and her siblings was like growing up immersed in a master class of sarcastic remarks and retorts. The zingers flew in rapid fire succession. Eventually, my cousins, sister, and I crafted our art of the sarcastic quip. Now, when we are all together, we are prepared to decipher which remarks are tainted with mockery and which just might be straightforward compliments (truth be told, those are rare).

As I grew up and ventured out into the real world, I didn’t, at first, understand that others do not have as highly cultivated senses of irony, and are, in fact, deeply hurt and insulted by my sarcasm. I have burned many bridges in my life simply because others from normal families and upbringings cannot recognize and appreciate a finely crafted turn of sarcastic wit.

Sadly, I am now well into my forties and I have just come to truly appreciate how many kind people I have inadvertently offended.

I told myself that I would not raise my girls with the same sarcastic comebacks that I grew up learning to dodge and craft. But truth be told, as much as it hurt me throughout my life, I LOVE sarcasm. It requires quick thinking, intellect, courage, and a sharp sense of humor. It is all in the delivery.

Sarcasm, when it is delivered just right, at the right time, to the right person, with the right wording paired with the right facial expression and body language, is awesome. Cultivating that laughter and respect for a well-turned phrase or comeback from the recipient and onlookers can be heady. Unfortunately, for every well played one liner, about 20 fall flat.

I consider my penchant for using sarcasm with my daughters, daily, as a gift. If they learn the fine art of irony and caustic quips used for good and not for evil, then they too can garner a small following of folks who appreciate their skill. Maybe they too will piss off a few good folks along the way, but do they really want people in their lives who can’t appreciate their humor and intellect? No.

Okay, maybe they have a different opinion than me. Just in case, I try to throw in a serious and heartfelt compliment from time to time so they know how to recognize those too. Of course, when I tell them they “look pretty,” they pause, look and me with a sidelong glance, and then ask , “Are you sarcasing me mom?’ Oh well, I tried.

It’s Electric, I’m Electric

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Electric Boogie By: MARCIA GRIFFITHS

It's Electric!

You can't see it
It's electric!
You gotta feel it
It's electric!
Ooh, it's shakin'
It's electric!

The ubiquitous wedding reception song, Electric Boogie, haunts me. Not only am I the only person of my generation who has no idea what to do when the beat starts and girls scream as they jostle for position amongst the lines and rows of other dancers of the Electric Slide, I feel like the song lyrics are taunting me (or as my husband would say, “tauting me”).

It took a while, but I finally realized that I am electric (not in a good way). It first happened as I walked down the road on a bright and sunny day.

I walk at least two miles nearly every day of my life. I usually walk with just my thoughts and the sounds of the small town in which I live to fill the void. It is very relaxing.

Recently, I started using my IPod on my walks so I could listen to an audio book. It was a really good book and I couldn’t break away from it, not even for my daily walk which was meant to recharge my mind and spirit as much as keep my aging, creaky body in shape.

Little did I know that I was recharging myself in other ways.

I pushed my earbuds in and headed out. About ten minutes into my walk, I felt a prickling sensation in my ears. It was annoying, not painful. I wiggled them around it hopes of dampening the sensation and kept moving forward. It happened again. The annoying prickles returned. They were disturbing but not enough to make me stop listening to my book. Hey, it was a pivotal moment in the story.

The more it happened the more perplexed I became.

I attributed the sensation to static electricity. It was a cool, dry day and I was walking fast so I just ignored it. However, once it started happening each time I went on my walk it became so annoying that I removed the earbuds just so I could enjoy my walk.

One day, I casually asked a friend, who also walks, how she tolerated being electrocuted by her earbuds. She looked at me like I was insane. Confused, I inquired as to what I said that made her look that way, or if I have something in my nose? She said she did not get electrocuted by her earbuds. I scoffed. She followed up with that was “not a thing” that happened to normal people. And then she rubbed her nose which made me think it was a sign I needed a tissue too.

I was confused.

I inadvertently both infuriate and amuse my husband. Nearly every time I try to turn the TV on or work on my computer, something goes very wrong. The buttons don’t respond to my touch. Random error codes flash on the screen. Inevitably, he has to spend copious amounts of time resetting and reprogramming our electrizicals (a word for electronics coined by my youngest).

Even worse is when, despite multiple attempts, I cannot get a device to work then he walks over, pushes one button, and voila, it works. Rather than being sympathetic and supportive, he mocks me and my ineptitude as if I did something wrong. He always ends these interactions by saying something like, “see, I told you there is nothing wrong with it” implying, not too subtly, that there is most definitely something wrong with me

These interactions require that I sit on my hands so I do not strangle him and his smug look .

Overtime, I began to question my physiology and realized, that yes, there is something wrong with me. Sigh, I hate when he is right. This new realization became painfully clear on that day when I was running on the treadmill. As I ran listening to music, I felt a shock of electricity course through my body. It was brief and minimal. The treadmill shut-off. I paused and then decided to start running again.

I ran for about five minutes when, ZAP, it happened again. This time, I was slightly more concerned, but I kept running. The third time I vibrated with electricity, I got scared and exited the treadmill deciding it was not worth dying to get a few more minutes of exercise.

I went upstairs and sat in front of the computer deciding completing some paperwork was a better choice. The second I touched the computer in it shut-off. The screen was bright blue with the standard screen saver bubbles happily bouncing around one second and the next, nothing but the matte blackness of a dead computer.

Poof everything was gone. 

I sat in stunned silence for a beat. Then I realized that my electrically charged body caused my computer to self-destruct in a heartbeat. There was no denying that something was very wrong with me. And damn-it, I had to ask my husband for his help again, sheesh.

I can’t even wear the ubiquitous Fit Bit or other fitness devices like my lesser known “UP” band. Not only did it frequently malfunctioned, but it caused me to have a tingling sensation all through the arm I wore it on. In fact, I interfered with the inner workings of that electrizital so badly that it got red hot and self-destructed. The company was incredulous, but agreed to replace my malfunctioning band. I never told them the new one broke too.

Eventually, I had to acquiesce that I am not wired right. But whose to say it’s wrong wiring? It’s Electric. You cant’s see it. You gotta feel it. I’m Electric!

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.