I love my iPhone: That's why you can't have one

I love my iPhone. That's why you can't have one.
November, 2013

I love my iPhone. I love the ping of an incoming e-mail and the double ping of an incoming text. I love how it keeps me in relationship with two of my friends who each live 100 miles away. I love how it’s allowed me to answer questions from work while laying on the beach and field questions from our kitchen while I am finishing up at work. I love how I can take photos and quickly send them to grandparents, friends or Jacob, away at college.  My phone keeps me closely connected to all the people who matter most to me. I rarely go anywhere without my smart phone.

            And my strong positive feelings about my phone are precisely why neither of my daughters—ages 10 and 12—will get a phone anytime soon. My strong positive feelings are why my two sons—ages 15 and 18—had to wait until eighth grade and freshman year of high school respectively, to get their own non-smart, no keyboard flip phone. They had to wait even longer for Facebook accounts.

            Managing my phone has little to do with managing technology and everything to do with managing relationships. I treasure my relationships, and I know this is why I have such fond feelings for my phone. It’s like carrying all the people I love (plus those I work with) around in my purse and having access to them all the time. I have no doubt my girls would feel similarly attached to their phones, if they had them. But Bill and I believe that for children in grade school, primary relationship efforts need to go toward family members, not friends. Our daughters need to build a strong connection first and foremost with my husband and me.  Our voices and values need to be loud and clear now because our time at center stage is limited—high school brings with it less time with the family and more time with friends, and more potential to move away from what we’ve spent all childhood teaching. Every minute texting a friend is a minute not spent being present to the people in the home. We’ve got about thirty months with Teenasia and fifty-four with Jamie to help them become so deeply the girls that God means for them to be that they will be strong enough to hold to their true selves, even in the face of high school peer pressure. I am happy to share these final months before the teen years with my girls’ friends—through playdates, activities, sports and church. But we will not give our girls away to unsupervised time of texting or online social networks.

            A phone that allows instant and constant access to friends and acquaintances requires the phone’s owner to have both wisdom and self-discipline, neither of which exactly run rampant among the grade school set. For middle-school girls, gossip is a constant lure as children jockey for social position within a class. I was a middle school girl once myself, and I still remember my horror when my seventh grade teacher intercepted a snarky note I tossed to my friend about another girl. I am still embarrassed about my unkind words about that girl and am thankful that the teacher ripped up the note, so that the girl would never know what I said about her. But a note from a 12-year-old today, written not on a scrap of paper, but texted impulsively, could be repeatedly forwarded and cause hurt beyond anything that was possible before. Our girls need to be protected from themselves. They do not need any device that makes it even easier to compare themselves with others; to gossip; to move up or down in the social hierarchy of the class. Girls will find enough ways to do this on their own. They do not need a phone more advanced than the computers that took men to the moon to help them with their clique-development.

            In a friend’s daughter’s sixth grade class last year, Instagram was all the rage. Instagram describes itself as “A fast, beautiful, fun way to share photos with family and friends.” But boys in the class were using it to send inappropriate photos and girls were using it to take pictures of gatherings where other girls weren’t invited. The parents eventually found out and most took the app away from their children’s phones, but the damage had been done.

            Studies show that both adults and children will say things online or in texts that they would not have the courage to say out loud, in person. In an article in the Wall Street Journal, Sherry Turkle, a psychologist and Massachusetts Institute of Technology professor, explains it this way: “We're less inhibited online because we don't have to see the reaction of the person we're addressing. Because it's harder to see and focus on what we have in common, we tend to dehumanize each other.”

            We are in our infancy as a society in learning how to manage advancing personal technology. Just as it took numerous fatal automobile accidents in the early twentieth century before society caught on that drivers should need to go through a licensing process, and even longer before sixteen was chosen as the minimum age to drive, so it will be with today’s children, phones and online access. As a society, we will likely need to live through a generation of children damaged by texting and risky online behavior before we understand the true danger. Perhaps when this generation of children grows up, they will look back on 2013 and say to their own children. “Can you imagine—I grew up back when parents still gave phones to 10-year-olds?”

            The parents holding out now will be shown to have been ahead of our time.

             

           

           

           

Who is my child meant to be?

Who is my child meant to be?

October, 2013       

            Saint Catherine of Siena. Our Toyota minivan has an extra “n” and on our busiest days, I could be known as Annemarie of Sienna. (Notice I did not include the title of “Saint” before my name. On our busiest days, few would describe me as saintly.) But I admired St. Catherine of Siena long before I needed three rows of seats to transport our family.

            St. Catherine of Siena said, “Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire.”

            Those words resonate so strongly for parents, I’m not surprised they named a minivan after St. Catherine. Our family has a huge dry erase calendar on our kitchen wall and each day of the month has a large square. From dentist appointments to birthday parties to soccer practice, the calendar shows what’s going on in our kids’ lives. That calendar symbolizes for me the paradox of parenting: On the surface, we seem to have a thousand things to do for our kids—find the cleats, wash the uniforms, drive to practice, supervise homework, make dinner—yet at the same time, all of what is required of us is summed up by St. Catherine. Our main job is to help our children become who God means for them to be. We need to help them become aware of their own souls; see the truth of who they are and the gifts they have. We need to lead them out to the greater world, so thirsty for people living lives that God intends.

            The complicated truth is that we need to help our children become the people they were created to be while we are finding the cleats and driving them to soccer practice. We need to help them discover their call and their true identity while we are quizzing them on spelling words and reminding them to clean under their beds. And as much as we may wish God would just descend on our family dinner and announce the plan for every family member as we pass the mashed potatoes, that is not God’s way. 

            Helping a child become the person that God intends often involves structuring a child’s world in a way that limits outside interference. A friend recently told me that after her daughter received a few low test grades as a freshman in high school, she and her husband decided to take the cell phone away after 9 p.m.  “It wasn’t so much a punishment as it was an understanding that it was impossible for her to concentrate with all the texts coming in,” my friend said. St. Catherine might have said it like this: “The texts are preventing your daughter from being the student God means for her to be.”

            For many parents, the struggle with technology and children is constant—Facebook allows friends (and non-friends posing as friends) to visit our children any time of the day or night. Gaming wreaks havoc on many families as children neglect school work and time outside in pursuit of another win and a higher score. Gossipy texting and inappropriate photos can turn a mundane night of homework into an evening of hurt and heartache. Kids and adults alike stand ready to convince our children to become what may be profitable or convenient, rather than the people God means for them to be. The thinking parent’s role in this new technological world is a cross between IT director and guard dog.

            The church calls parents “co-creators with God” of their children. From this vantage point, we can see more clearly than others the pieces of our children that can stand in the way of their ability to become the people God means for them to be. One of my children struggles with stubbornness; another with impulsivity; one is working on becoming more honest; and one wishes to be more decisive. I know I am called to hold my children accountable and help them move past their struggles and do their best, yet I am also aware that children are fragile, and if I push too hard for improvement, I risk causing a collapse of progress we’ve made. I want nothing more than for my children to grow up and set the world on fire. I want nothing more than for them to be the people God means for them to be. My constant prayer is that Bill and I figure out how to work with God to make this happen.

            Eighteen years into my parenting journey, Catherine of Siena’s words call to me some days; haunt me on others: Be who God meant you to be and you will set the world on fire. Parenting carries the privilege and the burden of helping to shape the life of another. It can be so difficult to see the right path, to find the right balance, to say the right words.

            I’m praying in the minivan.   

           

            

For Crying Out Loud-- Notre Dame's Orientation

For Crying Out Loud-- Notre Dame's Orientation 

When they began to play the final song at the liturgy that closed the freshman/parent orientation weekend at the University of Notre Dame, I started to cry. The song, Canticle of the Sun had been the opening song at our wedding, 20 years before. As the choir and congregation sang, I struggled to compose myself, as my way-too-verbal brain created new lyrics to accompany Marty Haugen’s. 

            The heavens are telling the glory of God (You have grown up, Jacob. Sob, gasp.)

            And all creation is shouting with joy. (I am incredibly happy for you. More tears.)

            Come dance in the forest, come play in the field. (Wasn’t I just playing Legos with you?   How             could that be ten years ago? Tissue from Bill.)

            And sing, sing to the glory of the Lord. (I had no idea on our wedding day what we were                      embarking on. How glorious. How difficult.)

           

Jacob later told me he could see me weeping from where he sat with the rest of the students, fifty rows away, across the Joyce Center’s Purcell Pavillion. I asked him if he was crying, too. He just smiled and shook his head.

My liturgical crying was nothing new to Jacob. In the weeks leading up to the orientation weekend, I was on the verge of tears all the time. Everything was crisper and held more meaning knowing that Jacob’s days as a full-time member of our household were limited. Good family moments became beautiful and small problems between kids became unbearable.

But even as I bubbled over with emotion for the entire month of August, Jacob remained true to his calm nature. Never a kid prone to extremes, he matter-of-factly started piling his clothes, books and electronics on the ping pong table in the basement, next to his suitcase. He met his soon-to-be roommates on Facebook and ordered a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee so they could play at night, if need be. We fell comfortably into our roles: I was the mom holding onto the memories; he was the young man ready to leave.

Until one night, when we were cleaning the kitchen alone after dinner. I handed Jacob a pot to dry and he said, “I don’t want to go.” 

I looked up, startled. I scanned his eyes—soft, clear, worried, and a little ironic.

“You don’t have to go,” I said brightly. “Stay here. It will be great. There are lots of universities around.”

“I don’t want to do that either,” he said, after a pause. “I just want things to stay how they are right now. I like being here. I liked being at Dominican. I don’t want it all to change.” 

I nodded. And despite all the crying I had done in the past month, and all the crying I would do at orientation weekend in a couple weeks, in that moment, in response to that statement, I did not cry.

Instead, I told Jacob everything I knew that was true. That the friends he would be meeting in the coming semester could very well be friends he would have for the rest of his life; that over the next four years he would glimpse a career he might be called to; that he was soon to become even more of the person he already was—the adult version of the fantastic kid we had always known.  I told him that I had no doubt that God had led him to this point and that as much as he loved our family, this house, his high school, God had more in store for him.

Jacob didn’t cry either, when I told him all this. I wasn’t saying anything new. Anything he didn’t know. He nodded, finished drying his pot and didn’t bring it up again.

Now, a month into his new school year, Jacob sends us quick texts about delicious funnel cake fries from the cafeteria. He emails us news of Frisbee club happenings, and we can look at the picture of himself, his roommates and Nicholas Cage posted as his Facebook profile. He’s filled us in on the young, newly-ordained deacon who is rector of his dorm and the funny French calculus professor who teaches barefoot.

And as he tells us of all the good going on around him, I can read through the emails and texts how happy he is. I think back to all the years he lived at home, and to that summer day in the kitchen, when he actually said he didn’t want to leave, because he liked it here so much. And how, even after saying this, he left anyway.

Twenty years have passed since our wedding day. Our oldest son is in college. He is happy. All creation is singing for joy. And that’s why I’m crying.

            

Discovering Motherhood: A new blog

I have been writing about my children since Liam, now 15, was born. Interestingly, I didn't write about Jacob, now 18, when he was a baby. I don't think I realized at the time that he wouldn't always be a baby. Sure, other people had toddlers, kindergarteners, college students. But those days were impossibly far off for me. Baby Jacob would be a baby for a long, long time, I thought. By the time Liam was born, when Jacob was three, I had caught on. Time moves; these children were growing, and I had thoughts, ideas and reflections about the whole process. I thought it best to write these down. In the years following Liam,  our daughters Teenasia and Jamie joined our family through foster care, then adoption.

 This blog is the story of our family.

May, 2013: Letter to Jacob, graduation from Dominican

           

 Dear Jacob,

How can you be graduating in three weeks? Last Saturday at midnight, I woke up and you weren’t home yet. Usually when this happens I drift back into a drowsy half-asleep state, waiting for either the ding of a text telling me you are on your way, or the buzz of the garage door opening, telling me you are home and safe. But last Saturday night was different; my mind snapped fully awake.

As Dad slept on, oblivious, images flashed through my mind. Images so clear, Jacob, they seemed to be from last week, rather than from eighteen years ago. Newborn Jacob. Your tiny fingers with remarkably sharp baby nails; your fuzzy aqua sleeper with the giraffe on the front; your quiet, content personality, agreeable and reasonable from your very beginnings. Baby Jacob, I remember being amazed at how large you seemed at your six-week check-up. Now I look back—how could I have thought a twelve pound baby  was big? Dad and I used to speak about your age in days; then we spoke about it in weeks or months. Finally we moved on to years, but sometimes we added a half for clarification, because when you’re very young that half makes a difference. He’s six and a half. And now you are graduating?

And I think the reason I bring such disbelief to the end of your childhood is because my feelings for you, eighteen-year-old Jacob, are not that different from my feelings for newborn Jacob, or four-year-old Jacob or twelve-year-old Jacob. Your birth brought me into motherhood. Your birth taught me a love I had not previously known. Holding newborn Jacob, wrapped tightly in a blanket, I understood, as I had never before, what Mary must have felt for Jesus. I wanted only the best for you. I wanted you to grow to be kind and compassionate; smart and funny; I wanted you to be faithful and to hear the voice of God. And what I want for you now has really not changed since those blanket days. During my fearful moments as a mother, I have whispered to Mary, asking her to pray for my children, to pray for me. I have talked to Mary about you, Jacob. She has listened.

You are graduating. Last Saturday night, as I waited for you to come home, I tried to make peace with the idea of your graduation, of your upcoming move to college. New images rushed at me. You, at age two, crawling around barking, pretending to be a dog. You, a fourth grader with your Battle of Books notecards. You, a seventh grader, impossibly skinny, playing first base, stretching to catch the throw. In each memory of you, I was there, too, gradually stepping back. As you grew, I handed more and more of your life over to you, believing always, that I was never handing it to you alone, but to God, also, who was with you; who was in you. And often, as I stepped back, I would whisper to Our Lady, to Mary, who I knew understood all about letting go.

So, Jacob, I will step back again, believing that along with the literature and calculus, you have also learned about prayer and God’s presence. I will step back believing that you will search for the Holy Spirit’s nudging when you need direction. I will step back, believing you will call me, text me and trust me to step forward whenever you find yourself in need. I will step back, knowing that as I do, your university will step forward to teach you things that Dad and I cannot. And as I step back, I will continue to whisper to Mary. Jacob, I pass you to a university wise enough to choose the mother of Jesus as its namesake. I step back with faith. I step back with profound love.

And I pass you to Notre Dame.  

Love,
Mom