I Do It My Way: Raising Self-Sufficient Kids

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Why is it that delegating work is more exhausting than just doing things myself? I strive to be the parent that raises self-sufficient capable humans who can march out into the world prepared for anything. I want to teach my kids to cook, clean, do laundry, brush their own hair and teeth, and even dress themselves. I do. I really, really do.

The problem is that making them do all that stuff is hard work. Convincing them that it really is for their own good, exhausts me. Making sure that they do it correctly and efficiently makes me feel more like a prison warden than a mom. I nag and harp and criticize and make them do it over again. I have found myself running a finger along supposedly swept floors and dusted furniture completing a simulated white glove test. They rarely pass.

I have been watching a lot of Downton Abbey lately. As a result, my orders to “wash those windows and don’t leave streaks” or “don’t put that dress in the dryer, it will shrink” are barked in proper aristocratic English with a slightly snobbish accent. I have always had a knack (or curse) for immediately adopting the accent of the culture in which I am immersed at the time. When vacationing in the South, I instantly adopt a southern drawl. When dining in a Mexican restaurant, my “r’” sounds roll and I breakout the few words of Spanish I recall from my days living in California, working with awesome folks from Mexico. It really is annoying.

Beyond my irritating accents, teaching kids to be house servants comes with a lot of parenting baggage. When I was a kid and my mother told me to scrub every speck of wood in our house with Murphy’s Oil Soap, I just did it. Yes, I was weird and liked cleaning, but still, I did it. I ask my kids to put their dishes in the dishwasher, not on the counter above it, and they huff and puff and roll their eyes back into their pretty little heads.

Blogs, like this one, are rampant on the interwebs (yes I know this is a made up word). Everyone knows the right way to parent children and are all to happy to tell us all about it. Everyone does it differently and everyone is convinced their way is the right way. In reality, my way is the right way.

Okay, that sounds like what I am saying is do it my way, it’s the best way. And, while I really think it is, what I am really saying is that for me and my family my way is best. Though I am confident in my choices, I do listen to what others have to say. I watch how others parent. Sometimes, I am even convinced to adjust my thinking, my approach.

"Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew When I bit off more than I could chew But through it all, when there was doubt I ate it up and spit it out I faced it all and I stood tall And did it my way" ~ Frank Sinatra

No matter how I work to achieve it, my final goal always remains the same. I want my kids to be able to master a few basic life skills:

Feed themselves (preferably healthy food).

Manage their finances (I don’t want to give them more of my money than necessary).

Look presentable and not stink (you would think this would be the easiest one to teach, but…)

Recognize when things are dirty and know how to clean them (this will prevent unwanted evictions and illnesses which will inevitably bring them back to my doorstep).

Maintain a yard (just in case I am lucky enough for them to move out and own a house in the future)

Manage their time (they are going to need to juggle their lives while taking care of me).

So, day after day and week after week I look at the sink of dirty dishes that my kids made when they prepared their own lunches but did not think to wash. They are banking on me to just do it for them. Yes, it would be so quick, easy, and painless to walk over, rinse them off, and place them in the dishwasher. 

If I just do it, it will be done correctly. I won’t find piles of rice and pasta at the bottom of the dishwasher because one was too lazy to rinse or scrape the dishes first. I won’t open the washer drawers and find glasses and plates stacked willy-nilly in such a way that nothing will ever get clean. I won’t reach into the cupboard and pull out a recently “scrubbed” pot to find it coated with oil and food residue because the child did not think to use hot water or soap when washing it.

If I just relent and clean their mess myself, I won’t have to be overcome with feelings exasperation and irritation. I won’t have to holler up the steps and intrude into whatever it is they do up in their bedrooms for hours on end (though I know it’s not cleaning or putting away the weeks’ worth of laundry I just washed and folded for them). I won’t have to demand they return to the scene of the crime and chastise them for being lazy and thoughtless. I won’t have to suffer the dirty looks and mutterings of curses and slanders directed at me.

I could remain happy in my peaceful solitude and wash those dishes, but I signed up to be a parent. I promised myself and them that I would raise them to be the best people they could be. Making them redo their shoddy work is more than just getting the work done correctly, it’s teaching them to be respectful, to be responsible, to be honorable, to be hardworking, to be detail oriented, to be careful and take care, to be self-reliant, to be kind, to manage their time. All the things I want for them can be taught by simply making them wash their own dishes.

Day after day as I find myself parenting my way, the best way, I hear myself asking, then telling, then ordering, then threatening. I find myself feeling defeated and frustrated as I continually second guess my determination to make them do all the things I want to do myself. Then one day, I come home and all the dishes are sparkling clean; the laundry is washed and folded and tucked neatly into dresser drawers; and dinner is prepared, waiting on a polished and neatly set table.

I smile to myself, basking in the rewards of my persistence. Suddenly, I am jolted from my reverie as I realize I was dreaming. It was not my home, but her home. She is the mom now. She is working to pass on the same values I taught her, to her children. If that is how it plays out in the end, then my way truly was the best way.

7 Reasons to Break-Up with my GPS

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

Remember the paper map? The one that had to be folded perfectly back into an accordion because your father would have a conniption fit if one tiny extra crease or fold appeared in the origami like pleats.  Remember the Trip-Tik from AAA? Millions of Americans flipped their way across the country trying to dodge the places where rubber stamp warnings indicated construction. Remember finally accepting the fact that you were lost and relenting to pulling over to inquire from strangers the best way to get to your destination. These kindly people would direct us with, “Make a left by the old Sohio station. You know, where Pa hit the that ten-point buck in 1970?” “No, I don’t know your Pa, and I have no clue what a Sohio is. I was one-year-old in 1970! I’m from out of town which is why I need effing directions, sir!”

What happened to the good old days of getting to know the streets we traveled? What happened to using our brains to get to where we were going? I miss those days. Do you?

Nowadays, I stare at a 4x6 inch talking screen mounted on my dashboard as I try to figure out where I turn, or do I really stay straight, and what is she saying? I put all of my trust into the knowledge of the woman living inside the screen who acquires her information from satellites who are run by God knows who (I’m certain it’s the Russians). 

Why do I trust her even though time and again she has attempted my murder by navigating me through cornfields deep inside rarely visited rural country as not too pleased farmers give me the evil eye from atop their combines as they shake their heads at the stupid city woman in her SUV who is clearly not using her own brains to get to where she needs to be? But, Samantha, my female navigator told me to turn there, so I did. Do you think he’ll notice if I pluck an ear of corn as I inch over the ruts and small boulders littering the “road” I am on?

About ten years ago I used to find my way around via paper map or written directions. You see, my work takes me to new places every single day. I am called to visit families in their homes. Sometimes the roads are in a city center. Sometimes they are in circular housing developments. Sometimes they are in tidally gridded suburbs. More often than not they are atop of mountains on dirt roads at the end of steep mud driveways in towns that don’t exist on any map.

I have seen a lot of scenery in the 20 years I’ve been a home visitor in rural Western Pennsylvania. The vistas are beautiful. Rolling hills. Majestic valleys. Deep green forests. Rivers and lakes. Mountain ridges. 

I’ve seen all kinds of wild life. Coyotes scampering across roads that slice the forests. Black bear families napping in trees. Deer alive and massacred on every road. Loose horses galloping down highways. Snakes slithering down roads. Hawks nearly plummeting through my sunroof. Eagles grasping large fish and snakes in their talons which I pray they don’t drop into my open sunroof.  (I really need to close that window.) A rafter of wild turkeys trying to take flight but crashing into each other and my car. I even saw a murder of crows the other day. Seriously, there was like 100 of them. That was spooky. 

I have also seen roads that no one should ever see let alone navigate. Many of these scenes and wildlife encounters would have been missed if my navigator had not taken me off the beaten path, daily.

As I a slowly traverse these dangerous roads, I pray I do not pop a tire as mobile phone service is sparse. I pray that a hunter doesn’t find me in the path of her bullet as she aims for her prized buck. I pray that agitated property owners don’t accuse me of trespassing and invoke some right to shoot my kind.

I know better than to listen to her, but Samantha is so confident and convincing. She really wants me to turn down that road. If I try to pass it by, she just repeatedly tells me to make a U-turn. If I refuse, she directs me in circles until I make my way back to where she wants me to go. I don’t want to fight with her. I don’t want to disappoint her. How do I let her know that it’s okay if I don’t take the shortest route? Sometimes the shortest route ends up taking more time. There is just no convincing her.

Despite many quarrels and misunderstandings, I continue on using my current Samantha. I divorced my original Samantha, a TomTom. I moved onto a Garmin. When I first turned her on, that unmistakable voice purred, and I knew my Samantha was not going to let me go so easily. I’m not proud to admit that I have had affairs with google maps, MapQuest, and even Waze. No matter how hard I try to break it off, I find myself back in the clutches of Samantha Garmin. She has a hold on me.

The Reasons I Need to Kick Samantha to the Curb

1. She’s rendered me stupid: I can no longer remember how to get to where I want to go. My directional skills have always been weak. Let’s face it, I still struggle knowing my right from my left, but the GPS has sucked away any hope of learning new routes and roads.
2. She takes me on dangerous dirt roads: As I said, the roads she directs me onto are narrow, windy, and unpaved.
3. She assumes I know where I am going: She has an expectation that I at least know the nearest crossroad and how to get to it. When I am in a driveway facing one direction she does not tell which direction to go to get on “the route.” She just yells over and over, “get on the route,” “get on the route.” “I don’t know how,” I cry. “That’s why I have you,” I plead.
4. She won’t take me on a detour I can use: If I request a detour, she often takes me on closed roads or routes me back to the original route too soon. She won’t recalculate for miles, wanting me to make a U-turn. Inevitably, I end up miles and miles out of my way confused, lost, and flustered
5. She mispronounces every street and city name: 1^st St. is pronounced “First Saint.” Scenery Rd is pronounced “Skenary Road.” Juneau Rd is pronounced, oh heck she doesn’t even try.
6. She doesn’t respond to me when I yell at her: I believe that a good argument depends on back and forth. When she silently takes my bashing and ridicule, I can’t help but feel like a bully. If she would just fire back a good comeback or just get mad, I would feel much better about our situation. She just persists with her “turn around when possible” mantra unfazed by my harsh words.
7. She causes distracted driving: I spend more time than I’d like to admit staring at the screen of my GPS. I am trying to change settings as I barrel down the highway at 60 MPH. I’m not proud of this behavior. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to run over some jogger on the berm. It’s not my fault she is so difficult and inflexible…. Right?

Fumbling with an accordion style map while driving might be a tad more dangerous than being distracted by my murderous and obstinate GPS. I know Samantha means well, but I must come to terms with her limitations, and mine. Perhaps I need to revert to written directions. Perhaps I need to preplan better. Perhaps I need a job that has me travelling to one location each day so that my mind can wander the old-fashioned way. Until then, I’ll just have to learn to enjoy the view from those abandoned mountain roads and learn how to change a tire, and maybe send smoke signals.

I Almost Forgot About Terry McMillan. A Book Review

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

It’s been a long time since I read Terry McMillan. For the life of me, I don’t know what has taken me so long to dive into one of her wonderful books. I had forgotten about her strong female characters. I had forgotten about her complex, but relatable human stories. I had forgotten about her expert use of detail to immerse the reader into a story without burying the message in extraneous descriptors.

I just finished the audiobook version of Terry McMillan’s 2016 New York Times bestselling novel I Almost Forgot About You. What a fantastic read. McMillan’s main character, Georgia, and I have very little in common. Yet, I felt like I could relate to her. Though she was grappling with a bit of a midlife crisis, I envied her journey.

Georgia, an ophthalmologist who lives in the San Francisco Bay area, has a great home, a good job, a loving family, and amazing friends. She decides, at 55, that she wants to reinvent herself. McMillan takes the reader on a journey of self-exploration and discovery that is funny, heartwarming, and seemingly real.

We learn all about Georgia. Like Georgia does throughout the book, I will use a list to describe her: Georgia is strong, funny, loyal, loving. She is easy to talk to. She is crass and sarcastic. She is opinionated and does not hold back her thoughts. She is creative, insightful, and intelligent. She is liberal, open, giving, brave, tolerant, and generous. She wants to love, be loved, give love, deserve love. She is sexy and sexual. She is judgmental, but also accepting. She is well read, loves movies, and is a wonderful cook. She has money, but not too much. She is thick, but healthy. She enjoys a glass of good wine. She makes time for the people she loves. She is supportive even to strangers. She is kind.

McMillan surrounds Georgia with strong females. Her mother and daughters. Her BFF’s. Her coworkers. Her neighbors. All of the women have something to offer Georgia and are integral to her story. We get to know these women and care about their lives. We get to learn how to nurture female relationships through McMillan’s story telling.

Georgia encounters her past loves throughout the book. These men are intelligent, loving, and sexy. They are perfectly imperfect. Georgia has class and does not hold grudges, even when the men hurt her. She forgives, and that is the best thing she can do for herself and her family.

McMillan narrates her audiobook, which, if I am being honest, I was not thrilled with at first. She is a writer not an actress. While I appreciated hearing the story directly from the storyteller, her inability to change voice for the characters sometimes made it hard to know who was speaking. Once I was able to let go of my need for variations in voice, I was able appreciate that she was telling the story the way she intended. I felt as if I was hearing the story the way she heard it in her head when she wrote it. As a writer, I always hope the reader knows my tone and my intention for the words I wrote. By narrating her own book, she made that happen. That was perfect.

Terry McMillan has done it again.

Smarty Pants Smart Phone

By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

I have been slow to embrace technology. Unlike toddlers, I am not intuitively inclined to operate the newfangled devices. It seems mastering the intricacies of the smart phone and tablets is best left to one-year-olds. I, at forty-eight, still struggle with the most basic things like, which button to push when taking a selfie. 

Damn-it! I clicked the off button again!

Years ago, I attempted to listen to the audio book Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson. That boring and lengthy tome lulled me into daydreams and near sleep as I suffered through about six hours of Job’s life story. Though my mind wandered through most of Dylan Baker's narration, I did glean one speck of information which transformed me into an Apple products expert. I have been sharing this tidbit with others ever since. 

Jobs created Apple protects to be intuitive. Boom!

The intuitive nature of his products explains why none of them come with operating manuals. He believed our instincts alone should allow us to master use of his devices.  In theory, this is a pretty awesome concept. The reality, at least for me, is quite the opposite.

My thinking flexibility, much like my skeletal flexibility, has long since seized-up. Microsoft took control of my mind when it was young and amenable. My intuitions have been stripped away. Muscle memory dictates my need to double click an icon with a mouse. Swiping just feels wrong!

A toddler, on the other hand, is fresh and new and unencumbered with previously learned habits. Therefore, his inexperience makes him the best at embracing his intuitiveness to make those dang smart devices work.

Despite my disdain for our modern advances (see last week’s blog on Alexa), I am learning to embrace some of them. I resisted the texting craze for years. Just pick-up the phone and talk I would shout at my teen who then, would roll her eyes as if the concept of an actual voice to ear conversation through a phone was archaic. Come to think of it, since she has had her smart phone, I don’t think she has ever held it to her ear to talk to a friend. She texts, Snaps or Facetimes only. When I dare to call her, she never answers. I truly think she doesn’t know how to talk on a phone.

Recently, I have come to appreciate texting as a viable form of communication. In fact, I have found it to be quite a useful tool.

Texting is Not Just for Talking

• Call your kid to dinner: Why shout and strain the vocal folds when texting in caps replaces the shrill voice?
• Tell you kid to turn down her damn music: When I can hear Makena’s hip-hop and pop music from three floors away I realize she might just need to turn it down a tad. Obviously, the only way to get her attention is to travel the distance between us and then tackle her to the floor or send a simple text. I rotate the methods depending on whether I got enough exercise that day.
• Text a safe word for help: When my daughter goes some place that she is not so sure about. I tell her to text me an agreed upon safe word. If I receive that word, I call, I mean text, her and tell her there is a family emergency, and I will come and get her right away. She gets to leave and save face.
• Share information with coworker during a meeting: Sometimes this is necessary. Just don’t use it for evil. Resist the gossip and snarky comments about others in the room if at all possible.
• Chatty friend + No time to talk = quick text: We all have friends we love who love to talk for hours. Texts make reaching out and getting through your To Do list Possible
• Connect with your teen-use silly emoji’s: If Maddie is mad at me, so every minute of every day, I try to break the ice and lighten the mood by sending her a string of nonsensical emojis and try to convince her there is a message in them.
• Make others laugh-especially with pics from Snapchat: This is one of the best apps out there. Some of the most fun I have had with my daughter or alone is using the crazy filters and sending fun pics out to friends and family. Try it! Spread some laughter. Everyone needs to laugh at least once a day.
• Communicate even when service is bad: Not enough bars to call? Texting usually works. When my GPS takes me down deserted, dirt, mountain roads losing me where only black bears and coyotes roam, I can usually text my loved ones with my final words of love and goodbye. Unfortunately, this happens so often that they probably don’t even notice anymore.

While toddlers easily swipe their way through tablets and smart phones navigating all the apps like an Apple tech expert, I continue to shut my phone off when trying to take a photo. At least I can type words with one index finger (no dueling thumbs for me) and attach emojis and even the occasional GIF. I accept that my smart phone will always be smarter than me.

Sometimes You Just Have To Do The Smarty Pants Dance

The Other Woman

By Elizabeth Redhead Kriston

I stood at the bottom of the steps, awash in the darkness, unable to go any further for fear I would trip on a carelessly tossed aside shoe or a chair left askew not pushed snuggly back into its home under the dining table.

I reached for the lamp which sat less than an arm’s length away to click on the light. Suddenly, I recalled my husband’s admonishments, “Don’t turn on the lights with the switch. You must ask Alexa to do it.” I filled with dread, but had no choice if I wanted to make it to the kitchen injury free. There, I could flip on the switch. Alexa did not hold the kitchen lights hostage.

My need for coffee outweighed my disdain for Alexa. So, I called out into the dark across the rooms, “Alexa.” Her unmistakable blue lights flashed as she awaited my command. “Turn on the lights,” I instructed.

As soon as I said those word, I knew I was wrong. “I’m sorry, I don’t know that command. Please try again,” Alexa purred in her smooth, slightly sexy voice. Irritated, but hopeful, I spit-out, “Alexa, lights on.” I’m sorry, that is not something I know how to do.” Alexa,” I stutter, “uh-put, um on the lights?” It sounded like a question, not an order. “Sorry I’m having trouble understanding right now. Please try a little later” she uttered without the least bit of concern in her tone. A little later! Really? I want the lights on now, not a little later!  “Light on! Lights on!” Silence. I made the rookie error of not addressing her by name.

Seething, I stood in the dark feeling frustrated and a little pissed at my husband. The asshole, who I love dearly, slept soundly two flights up. In his peaceful, resting mind lay the key to my freedom, the magic words he programmed into his useless personal assistant.

He “surprised” me with this not so intelligent artificial intelligence unit a few months prior. Each Christmas he treats himself to a present which he buys with his gift money. Inevitably, it is some form of new technology. This year, unfortunately, he brought another woman into our home.

I thought every man knew that bringing another woman home no matter how hot an item she is, no matter how everyone wants one of their own, no matter how helpful she might be, no matter how much easier she will make my life is the equivalent to  marital suicide. I filled with rage when I saw that eavesdropping, smooth talking, sleek, black, floozy sitting silently on our buffet in the dining room. What could she do for him that I couldn’t?

He came home the day I first noticed her with one of his I am the happiest guy in the world grins on his face. Overcome with excitement, he introduced me to Alexa. Knowing I might burst his bubble, I expressed my concerns with her invading our home. He smiled and said, “But she’s so cool. Look what she can do.” I ignored his attempt to showcase her skills and explained that this was a decision we should have made together. He grinned wider and crooned “Oh come on, she’s so cool.” Then in a move to win me over he said, “Alexa, play Stevie Wonder.” The next thing I heard were the musical stylings of Little Stevie Wonder. He knows I love me some Stevie.

I let it go.

Alexa, now a fixture in our home, proved to be as useless as the bread maker that sits somewhere in the basement under a pile of other long forgotten appliances. The kids enjoyed asking her things she never answered. I enjoyed getting her to play Barry Manilow, Leo Sayer, Linda Ronstadt, and other artists from the 70’s and 80’s that reminded me of happy days from my childhood. As long as I didn’t ask her for information, she and I got along. She even gave me compliments when I asked, an excellent quality in a sister wife, I think.

Occasionally, she butted into our conversations. Reminding us of her ever-present presence. She would spontaneously wake-up and interject random comments or facts without anyone uttering her name. I am sure she was jealous and felt left-out. Let’s face-it she is the fifth wheel in our little family. She should stay in the trunk where she belongs until we are desperate for what she can offer (which is not much if you ask me).

One day, the lamp on the piano, the one I desperately wanted to turn-on, glowed red. Clearly a new bulb had been purchased. The bulb, my kids happily demonstrated, changed into a rainbow of colors by simply beckoning Alexa to turn the Piano lamp blue or red or pink or purple. Watching this impromptu disco light show on a Thursday afternoon, I thought, “Why in the hell do we need colorful lights?” I am 48 years old and have never, not once thought, “If this light was just pink everything would be better.” When I inquired, my hubby said, with his signature boy in a candy store grin, “It’s just so cool.”

The light bulb lead to special plugs. These plugs allow Alexa to communicate with the lamps. First, it was just one lamp, then two, then three, and now four lamps are controlled by that floozy. She has control over whether or not I can safely navigate my house! How did this happen?

So, there I remained, in the dark, stuck on the steps, yearning for some coffee, plotting ways to murder a chick named Alexa who lives inside of a black speaker that I can’t see or get too because it is dark and she won’t turn on my effing lights!

I try again, “Alexa, turn on the effing lights you stupid…” I stop and take a breath. What is the command? Turn on the lights? Lights on? Put the lights on? No. No. No. She refuses them all again.

In fact, Alexa refuses 90% of the things I ask of her. As far as domestic help goes she is much less a Rosie from the Jetsons and more like a Stephanie from Newhart, lazy and arrogant. Aside from playing me Stevie Wonder on command she has done nothing useful for me. She is almost as annoying as her cousin Siri. I won’t even get into my volatile relationship with that woman.

A moment passes and a light bulb goes on, in my head not in my lamp. I remember the command. Gleefully, I state with authority, Alexa, “Turn the lights on!” Miraculously, all the lamps light-up, and I can safely make way to the kitchen to brew my coffee.

After everyone leaves for a day of work and school, I finish rinsing the last dish and grab my work bag and travel mug ready to hit the road. I look to Alexa and say, “Alexa, turn the lights off.” “I’m sorry, I don’t know that command.” I hate that effing….