Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts | Tags: adulthood, body language, communication, email, family, humor, kids, parenting, south, southern, subourbonmom, technology, television, texting
I recently read a book for my job entitled Brain Rules for Baby by John Medina. (Like my kids, I have waited until the last minute read it, and now I’m wishing I had some Cliff’s Notes.)
In this book there was a chapter on the use of electronics by young children–according to research, children spend years learning body language and facial cues, some of which happen in milliseconds–so fast we aren’t even aware that we show them. For example, the subtle straightening of my mother’s shoulders and slight narrowing of her eyes were tiny clues, a shot over the bow before the non-verbal onslaught began; her pursed lips meant she was really annoyed, and I would be dealt with later. As I got older, I got better at seeing the first body language volleys before we ever got to the pursed lips—it saved a lot of verbal effort for both of us.
One day, there was enough silent tension in the room between me and mother that my brother asked his wife what was going on. She whispered, “Can’t you tell? They’re fighting!”
Reading body language and facial cues was extremely important for our survival as a species. If a person could not read the body language of an enemy or angry tribe member, they had a high likelihood of dying (see pursed lips above).
There are also body language cues that indicate when a potential mate is interested (or not). When the guy in a bar doesn’t know that we are interested when we play with our hair, lean in close and bite our lower lips, he’s going to go home feeling a little…blue. If people had not learned how to read those cues, we would have died off as a species millennia ago.
You can’t learn how to pick up a girl by watching The Bachelor.
The author goes on to say that children must learn these things from interaction with an actual person, not a video or CD.
Which brings me to texting, emails and tv.
I’m a fan.
I love texting and emails because as I’ve gotten older, I like people less and less. Texting and email enable me to simply ask for the information I need without engaging in actual conversation.
I love television for the same reason—I can lose myself in the storylines because I don’t have to respond to them in an involved way. The directors of the shows even help me out by going in for close-up shots when there is an emotion I need to pay particular attention to (HBO’s The Newsroom is great at this—thank you Aaron Sorkin).
Using technology to socialize is so much less tiring—and it’s making me lazier than those people who circle the gym parking lot to find a space (I mean, really? You’re going to the gym! Walk a little–consider it your warm-up).
I used to love sitting around, chatting with my friends, family, and anyone who would hang out. I loved drawing people out, hearing their stories, and offering advice (often unsolicited and even more often un-used). It’s often how I got ideas for my stories and books. There is a reason Southerners love front porches—we can talk and watch the world go by, and get to know you. It’s also why Southerners are so good at the backhanded compliments. We watch and learn what makes people tick by spending time with them, then jab them a silver, sugar-covered shrimp fork.
These days, I am usually in the car and in a hurry. I have resorted to texting and emailing in the name of efficiency, and talking in a very distracted way on the phone as I multi-task at home. And so, it seems, does everybody else.
I miss sitting on the porch, solving the world’s problems, or hearing about a friend’s concerns, and even mine. I miss the clink of ice in a glass as the conversation ebbs and flows. I miss the puzzle that is a friend’s face as they try to convey something that happened, or work out a problem. The subliminal cues are the best part—they are what let other people into our inner sanctum, even when we don’t mean for it to happen.
But, don’t worry, I’m not giving up my electronics. I want my Candy Crush fix as bad as the next person.
People still irritate me, and I love my tv shows, but I think I’ll try to make more of an effort to have some meaningful conversations once in a while, just to keep my ability to read people’s social cues up to snuff. You never know when you might need them to survive—I’ve got teenage daughters. If I ever needed to be able to read subliminal cues, it’s now (yes, girls, I can see your eye roll from here!).
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Posts | Tags: adulthood, Discovery Channel, family, Girl Code, humor, Middle-Age, My Strange Addiction, Naked and Afraid, news, parenting, southern, southern values, subourbonmom, surviving, teenagers, television
Recently, the news has sounded more like we’re on the cusp of Armageddon than usual. I watch a few days of it, get depressed over all the problems that aren’t getting fixed, and tune in to my standby shows that bring home to me those good ‘ol Southern values and messages I seem to crave: Duck Dynasty (family comes first and iced tea that looks suspiciously like bourbon), Arrow (a hot, I-never-wanted-this, comic book hero saves his city in every episode—courage and humility—did I mention he’s hot?), and The Newsroom (honor and perseverance). I desperately miss The GCB (Good, Christian B*&%$#$), because nobody can put you in your place with a polite, backhanded compliment better than Southern women—the world needs more of that, and less sarcasm.
TI’ve also gotten sucked into survival reality shows because they bring comfort to those of us who might feel a little out of control in this day and age.
Recently, as we were driving to the beach, my mind went right from thinking about Uncle Si (Duck Dynasty’s quirky uncle–everybody’s family has one) to a new show on the Discovery Channel, called Naked and Afraid.
The premise of this show is that a man and a woman trained in survivalist skills are dropped into a difficult climate to survive for 21 days.
Naked.
That’s right, this is on the educational Discovery Channel.
For an hour two naked people schlep through the jungle or desert, trying to protect their private parts while acting like it doesn’t matter. There isn’t any voting off the island, and Jeff Probst isn’t there to heckle them and stir the emotional pot. I like to think of it as Survivor–Light.
I was so distracted by the fuzzed out parts and the fact that I couldn’t see how men would ever win because all their junk is on the outside (and that’s a lot more to protect), that I’m not even sure what actually happened during the episode.
So much for educational television, Discovery Channel. I don’t think I’ll tape that one for my class.
Now, while we are driving on road trips, Hubby and I don’t usually share a lot of our thoughts anymore, because those conversations usually go something like this:
Me: “What are you thinking about?”
Hubby: “Driving. That guy in the black truck just cut me off, so I’m matching his speed.”
(Long pause.) “What about you?”
Me: (Long winded explanation for my train of thought for the last ten minutes.)
This time, I told Hubby what I’d been thinking about and wondered aloud how I got from Duck Dynasty to the whole Naked and Afraid topic. Hubby glanced at me and said, “You just want to see the Duck Dynasty guys naked.”
Eeewwww.
Okay, maybe Jase…ladies, am I wrong?
And it’s not just me.
Daughter #1 has started watching her own teen survivalist show: “Girl Code” (there’s also a “Guy Code,” but I haven’t seen it), in which three or four female actresses and comedians talk about all kinds of topics, from STDs to gossip to trying on bathing suits. The topics may be…low-brow, but the message is usually on target. For example, during the episode on STDs, one girl asked, “How do you stay STD free? Simple: Stop being a ‘Ho on the weekends!”
Not how I would have delivered it, but the message is still the same.
Even Daughter #2 has been watching some version of people just trying to cope in this crazy world. After seeing a show called My Strange Addiction, she told me about a woman who was eating her husband’s ashes, even though she claimed not to like the taste. I’m not even going to take a guess at the psychology behind it, and I won’t crack any of the tasteless jokes that ran through my head, but Daughter #2, ever the existentialist, did come up with a question that made me pause:
“If you eat a dead person’s ashes, do they start missing pieces of themselves in Heaven?”
Naturally, my brain took off and I wondered: If dead people do start missing pieces of themselves in Heaven in a situation like that, what happens to the people who decompose in a coffin? Do their Heavenly counterparts start looking like zombies, with pieces of their face sliding off? Is that where the whole zombie thing comes from? The same question could apply to those victims of cannibalism: would their Heavenly counterparts start missing pieces as their earthly bodies become somebody’s lunch?
Yep, that’s how the conversations in our house sometimes go.
So, maybe turning off the news is a cowardly thing to do, but how else would we have these discussions? I like those types of questions better than, “Mom, why do all the people in the Middle East hate us?”
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Parenting, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, family, farm life, Farming, humor, kids, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, snakes, south, southern, teenagers, teens, travel
Nephew #1 Dangling The Snake
Occasionally, events happen that can make you re-think the roles you play in your marriage. In our house, all things accounting (see my previous blog: https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/09/redundies/), mechanical and packing-related fall to Hubby; most things domestic, flowers and shrubs, and cleaning up pet poop, vomit and carcasses (https://subourbonmom.wordpress.com/2012/10/26/chipmunk-popsicle/ ) fall to me. There was one category that fell to me by default, not because I necessarily am good at handling them, but because I was more familiar with them:
Snakes.
Hubby grew up in Bermuda, where there are no snakes, except for the occasional gardener that snuck in via a tourist’s golf bag. He has always had a healthy appreciation for them, and has never failed to rapidly remove himself from any uncontrolled snake situation. In fact, when I was very pregnant with Daughter #2, Hubby saw a snake dropping from my brother’s gutters, and in a moment of animal instinct, he jumped behind me (I like to say he threw me in front of him). For years this has been a family joke, which he good-naturedly took on the chin.
Oh, but that was about to change…
Yesterday, we took a trip to see the in-laws on their beautiful horse farm in Virginia. Various nieces, nephews and grand-nieces were there, all running about the place, kicking soccer balls, exploring the barns and generally causing mayhem everywhere they went. Around Happy Hour, as the adults were slowing down and the thought of a nice cool drink was sifting through our humidified brains, someone came rushing in to inform us there was a huge black snake in the tree outside. Of course, being the suburbanites we are, we flocked around to look at the rare (to us) creature of the wilderness.
Sure enough, curled up in the crook of a giant old beech tree was a black snake. We could just see a few inches of its body, and it was definitely in the “bigger-than-I-want-to-get-close-to” category. Nephew #1 (the oldest at 16, and who lives on the farm), had a cast on his arm, but decided to scale the tree anyway and (what else?)…poke it with a stick.
Like a group of tourists watching a Bedouin snake charmer, we took videos and pictures with our cell phones. We gasped and shrieked as the harmless snake lifted its head and glared at Nephew #1. The smaller nieces were shooed away to the patio.
As Nephew #1 pushed and prodded the snake out of the tree, Nephew #4 (age 9, who also lives on the farm) stood beneath the tree, hoping to catch it by its tail as it dropped. The snake finally gave up its Happy Hour hiding place (which happened to be filled with water—he’s definitely related to us) and dropped to the ground.
Now, I’m not proud of this—in fact, I’m pretty mortified: as the snake hit the ground, I pushed Daughter #2 in front of me and ran to the patio with the little ones—just like Hubby had done to me 13 years ago.
That’s right. I pushed my own child in the potential path of a snake so that I could get away. Way to go, Mom—excellent parenting.
In the mayhem that followed, Nephew #1 grabbed the snake by its tail, letting it dangle for a while so we could all get a good view. Eventually, Nephew #4 draped the snake over his shoulders and took it to another part of the yard, away from the timid city-folk.
With the excitement over, it was soon time to go. On the way home, I told Hubby I would never, EVER, make fun of him for shoving me into harm’s way over a snake again. But I think Daughter #1 said it best. As we pulled out of the driveway, and it was quiet for a moment, her matter-of-fact teenage voice came from the back seat:
“We are not farm people.”
Filed under: Parenting, Sports, Travel | Tags: adulthood, Beer, Colorado, family, humor, kids, Middle-Age, parenting, Rafting, sports, teenagers, travel
The Family Rafting in Colorado
Occasionally, no matter how much it pains me, I have to admit that Hubby was right about something; and sometimes, there are many parenting lessons that can be taught/learned in one single event—family trips are rife with both of these opportunities.
Last week during a family trip to Colorado, the girls and I agreed that white water rafting would be a great family adventure. Hubby was skeptical, but, the day before we had spent hours watching candy being made by hand in a factory and panning for gold at an abandoned mine.
Lesson #1: Children don’t need to have the mystique of where candy canes come from destroyed by bulky men in hairnets;
Lesson #2: Pointing out that panning for gold is a lot like washing dishes does not help your cause at home.
These excursions were fun, but we all realized that Colorado was an outdoor wonderland beckoning us east coast explorers. So we picked up the white water rafting brochure and began discussing which trip we should take. There were two options: Beginners aged 5 and up, and a trip for Intermediates, or “Aggressive Beginners.” Since the last Beginner rafting trip Daughter #1 and Hubby took was like floating in a pool, Daughter #1 felt we were definitely ready for something more exciting. Hubby was doubtful, and tried several times to persuade us that the Beginner level would be fine.
We didn’t listen.
So, we paid $60 bucks each to cling to a rubber tub in raging, 40-degree waters.
Lesson #3: When a brochure says wet suits and helmets are mandatory, it would be wise to consider the reasons for this, and that the brochure was made by 20-year-old college students who think they are invincible.
Suited up, we fell in with the other mostly middle-aged businessmen, looking like a bright yellow SWAT team on the way to a bumblebee convention. Before the guides would let us put the raft into the water, there were cursory explanations about where to put your feet, and that each guide was required to pay “Sin Beer” for the multitude of rafting sins occurring during the trips, like guests falling overboard, missing stopping points, and losing oars. Volunteers for the front were solicited. Hubby bravely took one for the team and hopped in, having been informed that the front people have the greatest chance of falling out. I opted for the back, thinking the girls would be hemmed in by the others, and that I was closest to the guide, who could pull me in if I fell out.
Lesson #4: Unlike the mini-van, the back seat is NOT the safest place to be in a raft.
Within minutes we realized we were WAY out of our depth. Spinning round and round, we plummeted into holes of water and bounced out again, only to begin the cycle over. After bouncing out of my footholds twice, I finally lost my grip completely and tipped over backward into the swirling water, banging my hip on a rock.
Lesson #5: Panic can supersede parenting.
I would like to say I would have made Bear Grylls proud and hauled myself back in, but in reality, I panicked and grabbed Daughter #2, who is 90 pounds wet. With the guide yelling at her to pull me in, she yelled back and tried not to be pulled in by her own mother. Somehow, the guide managed to steer the boat and haul me back in at the same time. I was clearly never going to be the hero I thought I was. Cost: 1 12-pack of beer.
For the next half-hour, we struggled to keep the raft upright as we surfed, spun and tumbled in the Class 3 and 4 rapids. We lost another of our team in a Class 4+ rapid, plummeting into a hole that folded the raft in half. The young woman in front of Daughter #1 tumbled ass over elbow for a full minute in the frothing water (another 12-pack) and lost her paddle (another 6-pack), until hubby was finally able to pull her back in. She landed on top of him, in shock, and the only soul left rowing on that side was Daughter #1. I will never forget the look of panic on her face, which remained glued there until her feet touched dry land. We missed a mandatory eddy and had to continue on (another 6-pack).
Lesson #6: Remember to praise the bravery and outspoken nature of the children you have raised.
Daughter #2 made sure the guide knew she was in trouble when she couldn’t pull me in, and Daughter #1 never gave up, rowing for all she was worth, even when she was scared to death.
The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful (we even sang “Under the Boardwalk” while we paddled), until the final five minutes. Under dire warnings that if we missed the next eddy we would involuntarily go down the Advanced Rapids, we paddled for all we were worth toward the waiting rafts. We hauled heaved and shoved at the water, until we hit one last hole. In went Hubby (another 12-pack). Thankfully, he was close enough to shore that he could make his way to the other rafts and get hauled in.
Lesson #7: Sometimes it’s okay to let Hubby say “I told you so” as much as he wants after a day like that. He earned it!
As we waited to get on the bus, we stood in the sun and tried to warm ourselves by placing shaking hands on rocks and shedding our life jackets. Our legs trembled with fatigue from the waist down, and after several minutes, our eyeballs returned to normal size. We paid our guide well in tip money and “Sin Beer” money (we figured we owed him for at least 2 cases of beer).
Lesson #8: Show your children it is right to reward excellent service.
Without brave and “invincible” guides, we would never have made it—they earn their tips every time they step into that raft with a bunch of “Aggressive Beginners” like us.
Will we ever do it again? Only Hubby and Daughter #2 say they will. She maintains it was fun, and has blown up a picture of her sister’s terrified face and now keeps it on her phone. Was it a priceless experience? Absolutely!
- The Family Rafting in Colorado
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, Parenting | Tags: adulthood, cicadas, family, humor, insects, Marriage, Middle-Age, mom, parenting, parents, south, southern, teenagers
The other day over the rising din of the cicadas, Daughter #1 commented that they don’t have much of a life—they sleep and grow for seventeen years, eat themselves silly, mate, and die after leaving a new generation to come forth seventeen years later. Now I wasn’t touching the mating part of it with a ten-foot pole, but the more I thought about it, I realized we really aren’t that different from those red-eyed, bug freak shows.
For the first seventeen years, we humans sleep and grow in our rooms. We morph and change in our childhood shells, protected form the world, often only emerging for basic sustenance, especially in the latter portion of our incubation. When we do crawl out from our teenage lairs, we eat…and eat…and eat…and mate (or try to). Some of us bring forth the next generation right then. Others never find that mate despite our best singing. The only difference between us and the cicadas is that we don’t die immediately afterward. We go through the cycle at least two more times, with slight variations.
For the next seventeen years, we sleepwalk through college and grad schools, finding that first job, hating that first job, and changing jobs. We try to sing, but we aren’t developed enough yet to find the right mate. Then, somewhere in our mid-thirties, we wake up again. That biological clock begins to tick, pushing us out of our sleep and into the world. We begin to sing in earnest. Many of us find our mates, procreate, and feel like a part of us is dying afterward as our toddlers get their tenth ear infection (a part of us is—the single, care-free part that slept through our twenties).
Seventeen more years of unconsciously suppressing our own desires and needs as we care for our kids (a.k.a. sleeping) passes, and suddenly the children are gone. We are in our early fifties. We emerge again, this time with less desire to mate, but just as much desire to sing. Sometimes our singing does result in mating (hooray—the kids are gone!) and the occasional new generation, or mating occurs with a subsequent divorce, but mostly we just want to sing—and we do, as we travel, go out to restaurants that don’t have crayons on the table, and look at all the pictures on the wall, wondering where the time went.
So, before you step on that crusty shell, or flick that gross-looking cicada off your towel at the pool, remember—we’re a lot like them, only cuter.
Subourbon Mom 