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The Struggle to Maintain Perspective

19 Friday Dec 2014

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It’s been a rough month.

Five years ago I had a double mastectomy. The girls turned against me so I had them taken off. My only concern was being here to raise my children, 6 and 7 at the time. There was no contest. I had the reconstructive surgery and moved on with my life and parenting my children. Till last month…..

Last month I went for routine blood tests and my cancer markers were high. Based on my history, my doctors are cautious and a roller coaster of medical tests began. X-rays, blood tests, sonograms, MRI’s, biopsies, Cat scans, PET scans….been there….done them…not happy to be doing them again.

The x-ray turned up a clear chest. I had an internal sonogram during which the doctor couldn’t find one of my ovaries. I joked that it was hiding – it knew what happened to my breasts when the girls turned against me so it was cowering in a corner. But ultimately, the sonogram proved to be normal.

What wasn’t normal was a breast MRI that showed a ‘suspicious mass’ in my mastectomy bed. I hate the term suspicious mass. I begin suspecting there’s bad news on the way. My mind goes directly to dark places.

In an effort to calm my nerves my oncologist assured me that if the biopsy ‘were something’ we’d just go in and get it. Although that was a bit reassuring, the thought of surgery and worse, the thought that cancer had reoccurred was far from settling.

It’s funny, not ha ha funny mind you, how you look at life differently when you think there may be less of it to experience. And it’s sad that the perspective gained when in that position is one that is difficult to maintain in the daily hustle and bustle of a ‘healthy’ existence.

For the second time in my life I began imagining my children without a mother. Wondering who would be there to care for them.  Who would rush in to cover Lara at 3am when she’d wake up calling out because she was cold.  Who would sit with JJ at night and talk about his day, what made him happy…what made him sad.

I began imagining missing their proms, graduations, weddings and the birth of their children.  It killed me to think there was a possibility I couldn’t be here for them.  To love them.  To mother them. I made myself have a little longer fuse when they acted out, let them stay up a little later at bedtime and looked at them….really looked at them – not just their faces, but their smiles, their eyes, the way their hair framed their faces.

I always hug my children and tell them how much I love them. But I hugged them a little tighter, conscious of their beating hearts. And when I told them I loved them I looked them straight in the eyes and followed it up with, “Don’t you ever forget that. Understand?” My heart was breaking.

With Christmas coming I began giving serious thought to buying the kids iPhones. I had planned to get them regular phones – no bells or whistles – just talk and limited text. But I was feeling extremely generous considering the uncertainty of my future.

“Don’t do it,” cautioned my friend Linda. “Don’t buy a guilt gift because you think you won’t be around next Christmas. Wait till you KNOW you’re going to die before you buy them iPhones. It’s a two year contract.” We both laughed at the absurdity.

My doctors scheduled me for a biopsy of the ‘mass’ and a PET scan. The biopsy was first. Not knowing what was lurking in my mastectomy bed just plain pissed me off. But needle biopsies are no fun and even though I was desperate to know what was there – I wasn’t looking forward to the procedure. I’m a big baby when it comes to physical pain so my doctor prescribed Xanax. I’d never taken it before. He suggested taking two before the procedure. I took four. They could have biopsied my brain.

Today was my PET scan. Although it’s not a difficult or painful procedure – fear of the results can be consuming. It’s quite the push and pull.  You want to know but you’re afraid of what you could find out. So all day I tossed myself into work and reassured myself that if something else were discovered “we’d just go in and get it.”

Tonight my children had their annual Christmas Concert at school. It was a jovial evening. I couldn’t help but smile while watching them sing Christmas carols with their classmates.  Then I felt my phone’s vibrating ring in my bag.  I checked quickly to see who was calling.  It was my doctor – it was 9pm. I hesitated, not wanting to ‘know’ anything that would ruin the night but my morbid curiosity had me rushing into the hall so I could hear his voice at the other end of the phone.

“The PET scan came back normal except for the area where you had your biopsy Monday,” he said. “But the actual biopsy isn’t showing any signs of cancer. They’re going to run more tests but you’re clear so far.”  Tears of relief rolled down my cheeks.

I have once again been humbled by fear, but I feel like I’ve been given another chance and I am grateful to God.  I have another opportunity to get this right.  I’m hoping I can be a better mother to my children, have more patience with them and myself.  Allow myself the time to experience their days with them – even when mine are hectic and I’m stressed.  I’m hoping I can stay in the moment and truly appreciate everything around me. I’m hoping that I can maintain perspective on what is and what is not important in life and for my children.  And I’m hoping that my children learn those lessons from me.

Oh, and I texted Linda immediately to let her know the outcome of the tests: “Lyn. Got my results. No iPhones for the kids this Christmas. : ) ”

(c) 2014 SeptemberMom.com

698XNJ

12 Saturday Jul 2014

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I can still remember approaching that old beat up brown and tan Mercury Monarch. With its scratches and dents, 698XNJ would patiently wait for me, parked on 94th street under the old maple tree. Its motor running.

Inside it was warm on blustery New York winter days, cool on muggy summer afternoons and dry when the sky would cry. And there was you, smiling brightly as I pulled open its passenger door and jumped inside.

The aroma of freshly brewed java greeted me as you’d reach deep inside the crisp white bakery bag to hand me coffee – milk, no sugar. I’d hold the cup with both hands and sip slowly. Its warmth filled my body as I’d anticipate the black and white sugar cookies to follow.

For a few stolen hours every afternoon you’d be a child and I’d be a woman, as we’d lock out the world from inside our four door house. 698XNJ wouldn’t judge and didn’t care how others would view us. A silent accomplice to our love.

With an ashtray full of Marlboro and Tarrytown butts, 698XNJ would sweep us through the world in a protected environment. Part of the whole, yet apart from it all. Its aging tan leather seats would cradle us as we’d watch seasons change through two half moons on the windshield, speeding on parkways or just sitting at the airport watching planes in silence.

It wasn’t always silent. But 698XNJ would never tell. It would never spill our dreams to a world that would crush them with cold realities. It was tolerant of a relationship others would frown upon.

Sometimes our laughter would drown out its dashboard radio. Other times, when frustration consumed our thoughts, the sound of its gently purring motor would ease the deafening silence. Even when I’d slam its passenger door in anger, 698XNJ would return for me. Just as welcoming, just as understanding.

That old Mercury Monarch was there with us through it all. The good times, the bad. The beginning, the end. A good friend, a constant companion and trusted confident. 698XNJ was as much a part of our romance as you or I.

I’ve searched highways and interstates for 698XNJ. But Mercury Monarch’s are hard to find these days. And I’ve been in many other cars, but they’re just a means of transportation. If I’d only known that in no other car could I relive the emotions I experienced within the steel doors of 698XNJ, I might not have closed the door so quickly.

Father’s Day Fallout

21 Saturday Jun 2014

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I think I’ve finally gotten over Father’s Day.  It took a week and a good amount of wine, but I’m glad it’s over.  At this age, and after the amount of therapy I’ve been through, you’d think I’d be past all this.  But I’m not.   

I’ve never been one for Father’s Day. I guess I feel like I’ve never had a ‘father.’ Sure there was the guy who lived with us, he put food on the table and a roof over our heads.  I wasn’t abused and I believe – or try to believe – that he did his best. But his best wasn’t anything near what the little girl in me needed. While other children’s dads doted over them, my father never hid the fact that he believe other children were better, smarter, more well-behaved. 

I’m well aware of how this affected my life. I spent early dating years with older men.  Then I realized what I was doing, began praying that I’d never marry a man like my father and to this day I question my judgement. No surprise, I never married.  Not even my children’s father. I like to tell myself that I just haven’t found ‘the one.’ But there are nights I lay awake wondering if maybe I’m just not good enough. Now, I’m old enough to know that I must take responsibility for my own life and move on. But it seems that no amount of therapy can change how I feel every Father’s Day. 

So my Father’s Day tradition is much different from that of many other people.  It starts in the card store while trying to find the perfect card.  One that’s not thankful for the support, love or example my dad set for me.  Tearfully I read card after card with Hallmark emotions I can’t relate to. If another customer catches my sniffle I casually brush it off by commenting how wonderful it is that writers can so beautifully describe  the love we feel for our fathers. Then I continue my search through the cards till I find the perfect one for me.  The one that just says, Happy Father’s Day. 

I wasn’t always this way. Way back in the day when I was still clamoring for his acceptance, I wrote an article for a magazine with quotes from celebrities about their fathers.  I closed it with a tribute to my own. I beautifully framed the piece and gave it to my father – sure it would be taken as the very special gift I intended it to be. It ended up in the garage before making its way to the garbage. 

Facebook made it markedly worse this year. I should have known better than to log on last Sunday. My heart broke with every post I read that gushed about who was daddy’s little girl, who was the best father in the world and how special dads made their children feel. Then there were the photos. The father daughter dances at weddings. Fathers walking their precious little bundles down the aisle. And the sad remembrances about dads who had passed – and were so missed. 

When my father passes, I’ll cry.  Not because he’s gone.  But because I’ll never have the chance to have the father I needed. The father I wanted. The one who made me feel special. The one who thought the sun rose and set on me. The one any little girl deserves.

The Ride

11 Sunday May 2014

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I took my children to an amusement park today. They love the rides. The higher and faster – the better. I’m not one for ‘thrill’ rides.  In fact, I’m not one for rides at all anymore. They terrify me. Even with my eyes closed, my heart races, I sweat and can’t catch my breath.

When JJ was a child I took him to Sesame Place in Pennsylvania.  Although I hoped that seeing Ernie and Big Bird was enough, his eyes lit up when he saw the roller coaster.  I hedged, he begged, I broke down. Reasoning with myself that the coaster wasn’t very high and if it’s safe enough for a 3-year-old it’s safe enough for me, I begrudgingly boarded.

We climbed in the car and I pulled him close to protect him from what I thought would frighten him. JJ wiggled away from my arms and grasped the bar holding us back. He was beaming with excitement and grinning from ear to ear.  As the car slowly climbed I snuggled closer to him, sure he would want to cover his eyes and huddle when he realized we were headed down – fast.  That moment never came…for him.

As most amusement parks do, a photo was taken when our car reached the top, seconds before the speedy decent. Now mind you, the ‘top’ wasn’t very high but you couldn’t tell from the photo. My arms were tightly clutching JJ and I was crying. His arms were tossed high in the air and he was smiling. I’ll never live that down.

This weekend I watched with both feet planted safety on the ground as JJ and Lara sped over tracks of hairpin turns and vertical drops on an adult roller coaster. I heard their joyful screams seconds before they came careening around the turn with arms flung high and bright smiles lighting up their faces.

I felt a deep contentment. There is nothing like the pleasure of seeing your child ecstatically happy. I was grateful, and amazed that such a simple experience could bring them such intense joyfulness. Nothing crowded their minds but the moment.  And the moment – to them – was euphoric.

As they faded from view my thoughts turned bittersweet. I tried to remember when I’d felt that kind of joy. I couldn’t. I sifted through memories and mentally sorted through my life’s highs. But life’s lows rushed up to steal their thunder pulling me down – fast. I smiled to myself as I realized that even with feet planted firmly on the ground, I too was riding, my personal emotional roller coaster.

As my children rounded the corner for another pass, they were still screaming, arms still flung high and still enjoying the ride. Ascending slowly, they taunted me as they motioned that they were headed for the top and the inevitable decline. But their eyes were wide with anticipation and their faces alight with grins.

Their laughter and delighted screams were washed out by the coaster car as it thundered down and rounded the last turn. I stood there hoping they’d never lose their childhood ability to experience nothing but innocent happiness.  But I realized that was a futile wish.

Much like the roller coaster, life is a series ups and downs, hairpin turns and quick stops. But what I could hope for was that they always enjoy the ride and continue to take the swift changes of direction with their arms held high and a smile on their face.

As the coaster cars rumbled to a screeching stop, I waited for them to rush off and wondered which ride we’d be headed for next. However, beaming with excitement, they ran to me and in unison bunny-hopped yelling, “Can we go on again?”

“Sure….go ahead,” I answered, thinking it would be good life practice for the ups and downs to come, and hoping one day they’d see the correlation.

Mothers Who Leave

30 Sunday Mar 2014

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I recently heard of three mothers who’ve left their husband – and children.  One even left the state in which her ex-husband and three children live.  Sacrilege!

Although it’s not acceptable, it almost seems natural, how easily fathers can separate themselves from their children’s lives.  Sadly it’s the more-often-than-not experience.  But it’s hard for me to grasp that a mother could do the same. Mothers are the nurturers, the comforters, the arms children seek to feel safe and loved.  So I get judgmental – gasp!  How can a mother leave her child?  Leaving her husband is one thing.  But her children?!  What kind of woman does that?

When I get past my initial reaction, I take an honest tumble off my high horse. Although I don’t understand how a woman could leave her children – I can see why she would want to head for the hills and leave them in the valley. Parenting is hard.

As a single mom who left her ex, sometimes the guilt is crushing.  More often than not I can’t sleep at night.  My mind wanders, worries, is consumed with thoughts of my children.  Will they be well-adjusted?  Am I doing enough for them?  Will they get the right education? Will they grow into self-sufficient adults with a healthy sense of right and wrong?

My waking hours aren’t much better.  More often than not I’m exhausted from running kids here and there, caring for their every need, managing a house and working.  My kids wear me down with constant bickering between themselves – and with me.  Yea, those hills look pretty green.  But I know me and I’ll be staying in the valley.

Does that make me a better mother? Not by a long-shot.  I’ll admit, I fantasize about laying on a deserted beach, spending intimate evenings with a man, shopping for myself with no concern of a price tag.  Some days I want to get in the car – and drive far, far away.  Take an extended bath.  Listen to the music I want to hear.  Recapture the life I had before my existence revolved around my children. I’m not above the fantasy.

As it turns out, the men who are raising their children alone are doing amazing jobs.   They are the mothers – and fathers – in their house. So I wonder, do the moms who left deserve a little more respect?  Did they realize they could no longer handle their lives?  Were they at a breaking point?  Did they do their children a favor by leaving?  Maybe they weren’t being selfish.  Maybe they were overwhelmed.

Still my heart breaks for the children.  Even if it was the right thing to do, it will be years before they understand.  What’s unsettling to me is that I can understand it now.

My Lottery Ticket

18 Tuesday Mar 2014

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There’s a stack of unchecked lottery tickets on my desk.  Sometimes they sit there for months. Every now and then I uncover them when rifling through papers and for a few minutes I escape reality.  I’m not driven by money or material things and I’m blessed with work that modestly supports myself and my children.  But when my fingers sift through those tickets, my mind drifts to a place of opportunity, leisure – and dreams.  A place where I wouldn’t have to give a second thought to the cost of my children’s education.  A place where I could ditch my job and open an animal sanctuary.  A place where business writing would be a thing of the past and I could wile away the hours exploring my creative side. It’s a fun place to go, even though I know the odds are stacked against me.

There’s a man in my life who is my lottery ticket. He’s like no one I’ve met in quite some time. Yet my overwhelming attraction has morphed into a playful email distraction. I can’t say I don’t want to know more about him – I do.  But I’m guarded and fearful.  As as long as I don’t ‘check the numbers’ I can maintain the status quo and escape every now and then into a bubble that hasn’t burst.  I can keep my dreams alive. Not necessarily dreams of him. Dreams of what he represents. The possibilities. The unknown. The desire to believe that a kindred soul exists out there. Even though I know the odds are stacked against me.

Most of the time the arrangement works. Then there are other times. You see, I’m a dreamer but I’m a realist. The part of me that wants to feel like a teenager in love is constantly challenged by the woman who has been there – done that.  I’m naturally drawn to ‘check the numbers,’ yet anticipate a negative outcome. So I retreat to protect a fantasy. The possibilities. The dreams. A reality that doesn’t exist.  The winning lottery ticket.

A Child’s Pain

18 Saturday Jan 2014

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My son is home with me.  My daughter is at her father’s.  It’s not supposed to be this way, but it is.

Everyone told me not to say anything negative about my children’s father because soon enough, they’d see who he was on their own.  I just didn’t think it would happen so soon. I also thought I’d be happy when they saw him for the narcissist he is. I was wrong. I had no idea how much it would hurt them, and me.

Rewind to the Christmas holiday. JJ and Lara were with their father for five days. On the third night they called me from his basement. My daughter was crying. She missed me. My son wanted to come home because he was lonely. The conversation with my son went like this:

JJ:        I want to come home mamma.

Me:       Why?

JJ:        I’m bored.

Me:       Where’s daddy?

JJ:        Upstairs watching TV.  He does that every night.

Me:       Why don’t you just go upstairs and tell him you want to spend time with him?

JJ:        He’s with Kathy [his wife].

Me:       Why don’t you go watch TV with both of them?

JJ:        They’ll tell me I can’t watch what they’re watching and send me to my room. He says he’s here for me and I want to believe him but I don’t feel like he is. He’s here for Kathy and his TV.  Mamma, he doesn’t even know that Lara is down here crying.

Me:       Bring him the phone I’ll talk to him.

JJ:        No. You’ve done that before and he changes for a little while then goes back to normal and ignores us. It hurts too much. I don’t want to get hurt again.

Me:       But JJ Christmas is in two days!  Didn’t you ask Santa for an Xbox?  You may get it there.

JJ:        And if I do he’ll be like, “Hey kid, nice to see you.  Now go play with your Xbox.”

Me:       JJ, you play your games here all the time. What’s the difference?

JJ:        You ask if I’ve had breakfast.

His insight stopped me in my tracks. But hearing my 11-year-old struggle to strategically protect himself from emotional pain brought tears to my eyes. He shouldn’t have to think like that at his age.

So yesterday when their dad came to my house to pick them up JJ said he was staying with me for the weekend. I knew he was trying to engage his dad to extract any amount of encouragement to go – but he didn’t get any.  As his father left with Lara, I sat next to JJ on the stairs and my heart broke as he asked, “Do you think he left yet?  Can you see if the car pulled away?” And finally, “I knew he wouldn’t come back for me. I have no father.”

JJ and I sat together on the stairs for a few minutes in silence as I searched for words to ease his soul.

“JJ, your father loves you very much. It’s just that different people have different capacities for love and the way they show that love. Sometimes people we love don’t show us love or love us back in the way we want to be loved. That doesn’t mean that they don’t love us – it just means they don’t know how.”

JJ’s head dropped on my shoulder as tears rolled down his face.

“You have a great capacity for love and that’s a beautiful thing,” I continued. “But that also means others will disappoint you when they don’t have that same capacity. So you need to know two things; #1, that doesn’t mean that they don’t love you – it’s just not the love you are capable of giving and want in return.  And #2, never, never stifle the amount of love you can give because someone can’t give it back because when you find someone who can love you back the way you love them, it will be a beautiful thing.”

JJ buried his head in my chest and we both sat there and cried.

(c) 2014 SeptemberMom.com

Dried Purple Roses

13 Monday Jan 2014

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The dried purple roses on her black bedroom dresser held all her secrets.  Privy to her most private moments, they’d seen and heard it all. The tears, the laughter, the angry words – the love.  

There was the scrolled wrought iron music stand trellised with ivy in the corner and the antique rocking chair that had cradled her many a night. But there was something powerful about the discolored lavender bouquet whose leaves tightly engulfed the heart of each flower.   

It was years before she’d seen the parallel.

“God damn it!  Why are you doing this?!” he hissed, pulling back from her embrace. His fury overriding the yearning his body had for release.    

“What are you talking about?” she responded, confused by his abrupt withdrawal.

“You were there.  I saw it on your face – I felt it in your body. You were there and you just…..disconnected.  Shit! You turned away from me and looked out the fucking window!”

Perched above her, his eyes bore through her. Instinctively she turned from him again.  “You make it sound as if I don’t love having you inside me,” she responded defensively.

“You let me in but you won’t let go!” he demanded.  “Why can’t you just let go?” he said, rolling off her and tossing his legs over the side of the bed.  He sat there with his back to her.    

“Is that what this is about?!  You?  Are you feeling insecure?”

“No.  It’s about you. It’s about you keeping me at arms length,” he spit out grabbing his clothes off the floor.

He was right.  She knew it.  She’d had other lovers.  Yet the vulnerability she allowed herself with them – she would not allow herself with him.  

“Don’t go,” she said softly reaching for his arm.

His response was tinged with disgust. “Why not?”   

“Because I don’t want you to?” Gently she pulled him back to her body and they laid there in silence. 

Stammering, her words broke the stillness.  “I… I can’t….let go.”

“Bullshit.  We both know you have with other men.”

Cursing herself for being honest about her previous encounters she responded slowly, “But they weren’t you. They didn’t matter.”  

“Wait a minute,” he said shaking his head slowly in disbelief. “You’re saying that because you care about me – you’re keeping me at an emotional arms length physically?”  For a moment he paused, then threw his hands up in frustration. “Listen to this – its crazy making! You’d rather let a disposable lover please you – than someone you say you care for?” 

“I never said I wasn’t in need of intense therapy,” she responded, trying to lighten the moment. But his eyes, locked on hers, would allow no escape. “They can’t cut as deep. Or hurt as much. With you, I’ve more to lose.”

She felt his arm pull her close as his finger traced a tear down her cheek.  “Then with me you’ve more to gain,” he said softly lowering her beneath him. “Let me in.”

The dried purple roses on her black bedroom dresser held all her secrets.  They’d seen and heard it all.  And in many ways, they were just like her.   

They weren’t always lifeless….

A Letter Home From School

05 Sunday Jan 2014

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A letter from my daughter’s teacher came home from school Friday – with my son.  It’s never a good thing when a sibling is given a note to bring home.  Teachers know that the ‘rival’ sibling will always make sure Mom gets the letter – so the offending sibling gets what’s coming.  

Standing pensively by my side, Lara watched as I opened the envelope and read its contents.  Her eyes were fixed on my face – or maybe on the door behind me.  It seems that Lara forged my signature on a recent test.  At first she denied it – but then she admitted it to her teacher. 

Turning the page, I wondered how bad a failing grade was on the exam attached to the letter.  Lara was visibly upset with tears streaming down her face.     

“I’m sorry Mom, I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t want you to be upset.”

Her words shocked me.

“Upset?! You got an eighty-eight on the test,” I countered.  “Why would you think I’d be upset?  This is a great grade!” 

“You’re always telling us we can do better,” she answered, lowering her head. 

She was right.  I do tell her and her brother that they can do better.  That is, when they bring home 70’s.  And that is because I know they can do better.  Like any other mother, I want the best for them.  But I never intended to cause her such stress. I felt like a monster.  

I thought back to my childhood when I failed a spelling test in the third grade.  I was terrified of what my parents would do when my older sister brought them the test that afternoon.  I remember standing by my teacher’s desk during break.  In what I thought was a brilliant move, I grabbed a tissue off her desk and shuffled my test under her desk blotter.  No surprise, I got caught.  But the fear was paralyzing and now my daughter was experiencing that fear.     

Taking a moment to compose my thoughts I examined ‘my signature’ at the top of the page.   A part of me wanted to lock up my checkbook.  Her forgery was pretty darn good.    

Holding up the test I said, “Lara, I’m proud of this – well, not you forging my signature but your grade.  I’m proud of you and if this is your best – that’s okay with me.  Now you signing my name on the test is another issue.  But I’m glad you did it.”

Lara was confused, yet relieved, by my statement.

Chuckling I continued, “You realize you should have waited till you got a 30 or something before you tried something stupid like forging my name.  Now your teacher is going to be examining these signatures like a hawk.  You blew your shot.” 

I smiled, she smiled.  And I’m hoping we both learned valuable lessons.

I hope Lara will never again feel stressed or fearful over tests grades and that she will always try her best. And what I realize now is that I need to let Lara do her best – and accept what that ‘best’ is.

The Christmas Grinch

22 Sunday Dec 2013

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That’s right, I’m the Christmas Grinch.  At least my son will think so Christmas morning when he doesn’t get the gift he has his heart set upon.  But can you blame me?  It’s Grand Theft Auto V (GTAV).  I don’t like many video games – especially ones with violence and guns – but I must admit I have caved on a few.  However, my feet are firm now. 

For several months my son has been asking for GTAV.  For several months I have been saying no.   His argument for the game is that all his friends have it.  That – in itself – is very disturbing.  My son is eleven.  So are his friends.  What parent allows their 11-year-old to play a game with violence, blood, cursing – and did I mention prostitutes and sex?  

When JJ first asked me for a video game system, I refused.  He was heartbroken.  “But Mom, I have no friends,” he said.   “And you think sitting inside playing videos is going to change that?” I responded.   “Yea,” he answered. “All the kids at school play together online every day.”  Obviously, I was quite out-of-touch.     

When I was a kid, we played outside.  Bands of children running through neighbor’s yards playing hide-and-seek.  We joined with other kids on the block and had punch ball tournaments in the street, or we’d ride bikes till it got dark.  That’s how we played together.  Times have surely changed.

Maybe I’m a little guilty, because I don’t let my children roam the neighborhood like I did years ago.  But it’s not like they’re always sitting home.  Both JJ and Lara have dabbled in many activities  – gymnastics, baseball, guitar, choir, swimming, robotics, chess, afterschool drama club….I could go on and on.   But now they’re limited to two main activities.  They’ve been taking Tae Kwon Do since they were four; JJ is in the Boy Scouts and Lara takes drum lessons.  

Even so, JJ continued tugging at my heart strings until they broke.  Still, I didn’t run out and buy him a system.  I shared the expense with him and his sister for an XBOX 360.  Big mistake.  Big, big mistake.  Now his ‘friends’ are playing GTAV.  

I’ve explained – till I’m blue in the face – that the game is violent and the language they use is inappropriate.  That robbing and killing people for cars is not how you get them – working hard and purchasing them is the only acceptable route.  And furthermore, equally important, I don’t want him treating women with disrespect.  Now, I’m no Pollyanna but that game is off my moral compass.    

His response, “Mamma, don’t you think I know it’s a game? I just want to play with my friends.”   

Now I don’t blame JJ’s friends for enjoying games that are way above their mind’s capacity to process what is actually taking place.  They are, in fact, just children.  But they are children who are becoming dehumanized and desensitized by having the shock factor removed from truly horrible actions while taking part in behaviors that are detrimental to their emotional and psychological growth.  

While I believe I am doing the right thing for my son, my heart is still breaking and it will be crushed on Christmas morning when he realizes that Santa, nor I, got him what he really wanted.  I’m hoping Santa brings him new friends this year.  Friends who have parents who care to raise socially and politically correct adults with a conscience.  To me, that groundwork is a little shaky when 11-year-olds are allowed to pick up hookers and participate in desensitizing violence while ‘playing’ GTAV.   

(c) 2013 September Mom