Puppy Love

My sons are in love. I didn't expect this moment to come so soon, seeing as they are 6 and almost 4. But hearts are on fire in our house, and they keep burning and burning with no end in sight. Their puppy love is no casual, capricious thing. It is absolutely serious and steadfast.

For Reeve, it began sometime last fall when we began to hear her name. Anna. When he said it loud, it was music playing; soft, it was almost like praying. We didn't know Anna; she was new to his class this year. Had he imagined her? She was never there when I picked Reeve up from school. Was she a character in a book? But soon his teachers too were advising us, "You need to make a playdate with Anna! They have such fun together." They showed me her picture. She had bright eyes, a spirited smile, reddish brown hair. The weekly class photos started to include many of Reeve with this Anna -- together on a school bus built for two on the playground, dancing side by side to Morah Debbie's guitar. At last we met her one afternoon, a sprite in a blue jacket with matching blue hat, chatting enthusiastically as she raced out the door with her babysitter - in Russian. Reeve's Anna didn't speak English! This posed no obstacle to their devotion. Reeve's father noted the universality of the language of love.

It is now February, and their relationship has grown and matured. Reeve has enjoyed two playdates with Anna, and we've had the delight of getting to know her lovely family. Anna and Reeve now speak English together. Reeve's favorite color has changed dramatically from red to green, which you might guess is Anna's favorite. Recently he made a mosaic picture frame for her photo so he can gaze at Anna at home. Over after-school hot cocoa the other day, Reeve explained to Duncan, "I worry about Anna, and Anna worries about me." At Anna's birthday party, Reeve sought grown-up intervention, "Anna needs help! Anna needs help!" when twisty-ties frustrated the birthday girl's effort to liberate a toy from its packaging. The teachers, once on their side, have now asked us to refrain from sending two green apples in Reeve's lunch box, one for Anna, in the interest of encouraging play with other kids as well. They've separated the two for quiet time so they will rest instead of gazing at each other.

Duncan is cultivating the big-kid habit of privacy about his affections, which we mistook for lack of developments. But after months of listening to Reeve talk about Anna, he admitted he had a special friend too. We had heard that various girls at his school enjoyed his company, and he's had one special girl friend since his pre-school years, a friendship that remains strong and important to him. But since Duncan started Kindergarten, we heard mostly about chess, the bus, Angry birds, parasha (Biblical) stories, his phonics workbooks, how to count by fives to one thousand, hot lunch, in other words, the kinds of typical school things parents hope to hear about. Jordy and I have often sighed in relief that his social life moved at a pace familiar to us from our own childhoods. We didn't remember all this loving and pairing up until our fourth grades at the earliest.

But it wasn't so. A few weeks ago Duncan casually let drop, "You know how Reeve has Anna? I have someone like that too." Duncan received a letter home that many will never receive in a life time. It was a manifesto of love: "Did you know I love you? And that I am in love with you? And that I love you very much?" It was decorated with rainbows and hearts. He showed it to his parents and Magdalena proudly and keeps it in his room.

Valentine's Day preparations were serious business in this house. Scissors swishing, glitter glue gooing, markers in young ladies' favorite colors marking. Reeve made two Valentines, both green of course. Duncan's was an elaborate collage that studiously avoided pink, which his beloved does not like (a preference he finds "cool"). In the interest of avoiding hurt feelings, Duncan's school does not observe Valentine's Day, presenting a delivery crisis. The Valentine would have to be delivered off hours. He begged me repeatedly to contact her mother for a playdate, going so far as to leave me a note on the counter simply stating her name. So I called her family, but the number in the school directory was mistakenly switched with another family's; in my distraction, I almost invited Ezra for a playdate to deliver a Valentine, which his parents might have been cool with, but realized just in time and hung up. No email was listed, so I had to track the mom down through Facebook. I am tracking my son's love interests down through Facebook!

They have a playdate scheduled for Friday. On the subway to school this morning I asked Duncan if he'd rather have her to our house or go to hers -- her mom was fine either way. His first answer was, "My house." Then he thought about it. "Why don't I ask her which she would prefer?" My little gentleman.

I told Tucker this morning that there will be no romantic attachments for at least two more years, except of course with his old Mama.

The Penguin Mom Gets in Touch with Her Inner Tiger

On January 8, 2011 my life as a mother changed forever. For this, I have to admire Amy Chua. On that day Chua, aka "The Tiger Mom," published her incendiary article "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" in the Wall Street Journal. Within hours four independent (i.e. not Facebook friends to each other, i.e. evidence of widespread viral penetration) friends sent it to me. The WSJ site received thousands of comments. The blogosphere went nuts. Chua, rumor has it, received death threats.

The Tiger Mom shocked me too, but in a good way. I would describe our encounter as a reality check. If I were an animal mom, I'd be the Penguin Mom. My husband and I are small-ish people, more likely to waddle up and try to be your friend than to claw your back to get your kill. We work hard to share parenting: Jordy sits on the eggs while I trek to the ocean to feed; then I return to vomit up krill for the chicks while he waddles off to replenish his own wasted reserves. We are social (some might say compulsively so), enjoying the comradery and security of huddling with other penguins against the cold. We especially love it when one of the other penguins leads us in a song -- we are likely to dance along with great enthusiasm.

The Tiger Mom appeared on the edge of my snowy landscape like an animal that had escaped her cage, pacing the zoo with growling frustration to stir the rest of us to revolt. You live in a cage! She snarled. That snowy landscape? An artist's rendering to trick you into accepting limited horizons! Your so-called "hunt"? A zookeeper tossing you a fish! Don't accept the flattery of school children at the window as substitute for the pride of achieving your full animal potential!

Many found the Tiger Mom offensive, stereotypical, abusive, self-impressed, dismissive. I get those reactions. But I think she's worth listening to too. She believes many American kids are suffering from a needless lack of accomplishment, not just for status but for authentic self-confidence. As a former high school teacher, I appreciate this message; at the extreme, I had tenth graders who could barely read. I hear her message that Americans (yes, too broad a category but nonetheless) undervalue repetition, i.e. practice, as a route to mastery. We fear anything "rote" as a killer of creativity. Malcolm Gladwell would back her up that hours in = mastery out, and he uses the Beatles as an example. Practice hardly killed their creativity! I accept this criticism of myself and my parenting. I've always been lousy about daily practice of anything, and I fear I'm already passing my lassitude on to my children.

Over time the Tiger Mom has inhabited the parenting lobe of my brain. She gives me advice. I question her assumptions. She questions mine. We debate. Am I a good mom? Do I help my children achieve their fullest potential? Do I offer them a clear enough set of values to guide them in a confusing, contradictory, and often frivolous world? There are two things I've particularly grown to like about her point of view. First, she has confidence in her role as a parent. This speaks to a cultural neurosis in our generation. In my observation, many "American" parents tell themselves they should neither demand performance from their kids nor take credit for it. Why? To uphold our ideal of individualism? So as not to crush their spirits? Or as insurance against the existential risk of linking our fates with others? Chua makes no bones about it: She both expects and takes credit. Kind of refreshing. Does her investment diminish the kids' pride in their own accomplishment? I don't know. Second, I like that Chua doesn't complain about the hard work required of her to parent well -- a stark contrast to countless conversations I've had with women who are finding mothering "unfulfilling," "a burden," and who want their "lives back." Isn't this the flipside of the first coin? How can you find satisfaction in the hardest job you'll ever do when you don't allow yourself to take pride in it? And, moreover, your culture (and economy) doesn't take pride in you for doing it?

In her memoir, Chua recounts forbidding her kids from taking drums because kids who play drums inevitably "do drugs." I laughed at loud: Our 6-year old had just had his first drumming lesson. When he starts smoking pot at age 12, the blame will be mine. (Then again, drugs may be pre-requisite to success in the field of drumming. Exhibit A: Ringo Starr. So we're right on track!) But after a month of lessons without a single practice session, this Penguin Mom found her inner Tiger.

Yesterday when I picked Duncan up at the bus, he asked what we were doing after school. I dropped casually, "First we'll practice drums for 10 minutes, then-"

"Why? Why do I have to? I already had my lesson yesterday! I only want to play with Dan! No fair! ..." Despite the 21-degree air, he collapsed on the sidewalk in a huff, immovable. I walked on, my confidence boosted by the tiger. When we got home we ate a snack, then, hoping I'd forgotten, Duncan proposed playing with the baby.

"After we practice the drums," I reminded, in a neutral voice. Repeat meltdown. I let it subside, then I calmly threatened to take away Angry Birds for all time. With that we went to the basement to practice.

In fact, he loved showing his younger brothers and me what he had learned. It only got dicey again when we practiced a more challenging clapping pattern. He wanted to stop at one repetition, after which it fell apart. I demanded he keep going until I said stop. He tried, more mistakes. He stomped off. I told him mistakes were fine; the effort is what mattered. Tears, frustration. I told him to try again. He refused. I pushed it, "You think the drummer of the band quits when he misses a beat? The band depends on him. You have to keep going till the end of the song."

Anger. "Now you're hurting my feelings!" he yelled at me.

To which, thank you Tiger Mom, I was prepared with a quiet but powerful response. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. But do you know what should actually hurt your feelings? If I said, 'Ok, you're right, this is too hard for you, you can't do it.' That should hurt your feelings. But I don't believe that. I believe you can do it. I believe if you try again and again, you will get it." He groaned, then tried again, and did it.

I could never go to the lengths Chua went with her kids, but I was glad for the prompt to go further than I had before. Duncan was proud of getting past his fear. I was proud of getting past mine. Amy Chua and I will always differ in our definitions of success for our children, and her methods will never be mine. I am a penguin after all, and I am happy hanging out on the iceberg with my chicks, not always practicing our diving or roosting skills. And I think the world is big enough for all kinds of Moms and kids, and that we shouldn't let the proximity that modern life gives different cultures -- our contemporary zoo -- make us feel we have to prove one way "superior" and all do that. Then we'd all just be lemmings. But this penguin owes the tiger sincere thanks for helping us reach our fuller penguin potential.

Hope Springs

On the one hand, it's hard to make conversation about anything but this winter's brutality. On the other hand, we here in New York are leaping at any sign of spring. A few illustrations...

On Sunday I ran around Prospect Park near sundown. I passed four riders on horseback, despite the still substantial snow cover. Reveling in the balmy 39-degree breezes, many joggers ran in shorts. Crossing the inner loop required deft timing as bikers, no longer fearing Death by Black Ice, clogged their lanes. I was surprised to find many kids still eager to sled, despite the punishing layer of ice that last week's rain lay over the choppy remains of the snow. The playgrounds teemed with tots again, even though access to the swings required traversing snow and slush waist-high to a two-year old.

Yesterday Reeve rode his scooter to meet Duncan at the bus. This would seem a small triumph unless you'd been living, as we have now for weeks, in 1-foot wide foot paths of ice where 4- and 8-foot wide concrete sidewalks used to be. On our return home, Duncan scaled the grimy peak of a glacial bank where he flexed his arms, announcing his super strength as a result of the "metal parts" in his body that draw power from the Cold. At home, I was finally able to break up the 6-inch deep ice jam on our back steps and clear a path to the backyard for poor old Wiley and his hips. And I did so without wearing a coat!

Make no mistake. It's gross out there. Trash pick-up has gotten the shaft as sanitation workers have been diverted to snow plowing. Public bins overflowed for weeks onto snow banks that are now melting, leaving a pervasive gray soggy detritus all over the city. (Yummy, Wiley says.) And we are still more than two months from seeing a leaf on a tree. But the hopefulness of New Yorkers itself lifts my spirit, however delusional we may be.

It's only February 1st

The sky is so low you can reach up and touch its icy shards. Crusty snow banks have made a maze where neighbors exchange miserable grumbles. My boys' bodies have broken out in angry rashes, and the dog's arthritis, aggravated by the cold, makes him hobble on three paws. It is hard to detect the lengthening of the days under this persistent darkness.