Category: Family & Parenting

When my youngest was in middle school, the questioning began. I was driving them to school when they said, nervously from the back seat, “Mom, I think I’m bisexual.”

“You do honey?”, I replied. “OK! How can I best support you?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s ok, sweetie. You don’t have to know. But please do know that your Dad and I adore you, and support you no matter what.”

“OK. Thanks, Mom.” I could hear in their voice that they were smiling.

Was this a little jarring for me to hear? Absolutely. But my other child, T.J., who is a year and a half older than my youngest, is autistic. So my husband Sean and I learned early into parenting that when one of our kids throws us what we would consider a curve-ball, we had to separate our confusion, fear, and disorientation from the message we wanted our kids to hear from us.

We never wanted our kids to feel “less than,” simply by existing. Our fear and confusion was ours, not theirs. Through all of life’s “zig zags”, as T.J. calls them, we wanted our words to our kids to be of healthy questioning, love, and support. 

I called a friend who is gay looking for guidance

I called a dear friend from home, who is gay, and asked for advice. When you came out, is there anything in particular your parents said to you that made you feel nothing but supported and loved? Whatever they did to produce that result, that is what I want to do.

I got some amazing advice that day, and from that moment on, my goal was to be the never ending source of love and support for my kid, no matter what they discovered about their true self.

When they were in high school, my youngest said to me, face to face, “Mom, I think I’m gay.”

“My love, I hope you know that your Dad and I love you so much, and support you every step of the way. We just want you to feel happy with who you truly are. We’ve got you, one hundred percent.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Again, that smile. I saw it this time. It’s such a beautiful smile.

Then they told me they were non-binary and wanted to change their name

Last year, when they were just 21, they said to me, “Mom, I’ve realized that I’m non-binary. I’m feminine leaning. And I want to change my name to Ari.” This took me a bit aback. This was big. A name change? Non-binary? I don’t know a lot about that and what that entails.

But I said to my kid, “Honey, we love you. So, so much. I’m so glad you are finding out who you are. We love you endlessly and support you no matter what.”

We have seen this beautiful kiddo of ours unhappy. Unsettled. Uncomfortable in their own skin. Now they stand before us, tall and proud, and happy. Truly happy.

“Finally!” I thought to myself. “Look how happy they are! And relieved, almost.” 

This is real. This is true. Their truth, finally. Yes, this one was a bit difficult for me. I loved the name we gave them at birth. It had meaning for us. 

But there is the catch – it had meaning, for us. Not for them. 

I understood that for them, maybe the old name stood for uncertainty. For feeling less than. For standing on unsteady ground. That’s no way to live. 

I’m thrilled that my kid felt strong enough to choose a new name, and a new start. A place to begin living their truth with confidence, security, and joy.

Isn’t this what we want for all of our kids?

Isn’t that what we want for our kids, regardless of gender? Joy. Security. Confidence. The fact that my kid is feeling these things for the first time about their identity is priceless. I never want them to lose that gleam in their eye and that smile on their face. I never want them to lose that security, beauty and strength in how they now hold themselves.

I don’t think I had ever truly seen them hold themselves that way before. And it was just a beautiful thing to see. It made me cry, not because I was losing something, but because I was seeing this beautiful child of mine, now a young adult, live in their truth for the first time.

A month later, I asked them to come home from their apartment, as I had a surprise for them.

It was their old Christmas stocking, the same one they have had since birth. But now their new name is embroidered on it, covering their old name. It hung by the fireplace just as it always has, with the rest of our stockings. 

It took a minute for them to realize what the surprise was. But when they saw it, tears came to their eyes and they hugged me. “Thank you,” they said, quietly in my ear. 

You’re welcome, my beautiful kiddo. You’re so welcome.

More Great Reading:

Here’s How Your LGBTQ+ Child May Have a Family And, Yes, Give You Grandchildren

I’m weary from worrying about my kids. 

I worry about their hearts and their brains, what they’re looking at on their screens, the voices they’re listening to in their circles and the voices they’re listening to in their heads. 

I worry about their mental health and how they’re coping living in this world with all of its sensory inputs and judgments and mandates on how to be. 

I worry about what they tell me. I worry even more about what they don’t. 

There are days I wonder if I have what it takes to bring them over the finish line into adulthood, if I’m cut out for raising teenaged humans. 

I didn’t know that parenting older kids would be this hard

I just didn’t know it would be this hard. I committed to diapers and feedings and being awoken in the middle of the night. 

I committed to giving up my freedom to fall asleep at whim, to putting little humans before self, to go and go and go until I could go no more, and then to keep going. 

I committed to pouring from my pitcher until it ran dry and to replenish myself on only a thimble of nourishment. 

Was there fine print that I missed, a clause that spelled it out saying just how challenging parenting older kids would be?

Some days it feels like we’re moving from one storm to the next; that just when I think we’re in clear waters with one child, I notice that I have missed the clouds rolling in on another, the winds picking up, giving word of something brewing.

When do we get a break from the hard? And is reckless, abundant, unconditional love enough to make it through?

My heart yearns for the little kids problems

I had the occasion tonight to look through old photos and videos from when the kids were younger. 

That feeling of warmth and familiarity you have when you see an old friend rose up in me as I revisited perfect little chubby cheeks and toothless smiles, tiaras, tutus, trucks and footie pajamas; early glimpses of their personalities to come and versions of my children that long cease to exist. 

My heart pangs for their little kid problems (which seemed oh so big at the time) and the predictability of knowing how each day would unfold, when my biggest worries were how much TV they were watching and if they were getting enough fruits and vegetables to offset the copious amounts of goldfish consumed each day.  

Their needs then were so basic and easily met.

The stakes were just as high, of course, but the risks seemed lesser, my agency to control outcomes greater. I long for the confidence I felt then in my ability to mitigate those risks and keep my kids safe. 

I don’t have that same confidence today.

Did I do more right than wrong as a parent?

My mind can get trapped thinking about the balance sheet of parenting. Did I get more right than I did wrong? 

Were the things I got wrong weighted like an AP class with a multiplier of 1+, offsetting the non-weighted college-prep level things I got right?

I want there to be a formula with predictable, controllable outcomes, or a roadmap that clearly delineates what highways and exit ramps to avoid so that I can get it all right. 

But roadmaps and foolproof formulas don’t exist in parenting.  

I’m left only to my own devices and survival instincts, buoyed by whatever resilience I have. And love. Always love.  

My husband and I chuckle at how well (NOT) we are parenting our teens and tweens

Sometimes the noises in our house from tween-and teenaged humans yelling at each other is so loud that my husband and I can do nothing but look at each other and laugh at how well we’re (not) managing this parenting gig.

They bicker and fight and call each other out for slights and wrong doings that are silly and nonsensical. They slam doors and make threats and plead with us to arbitrate, but never are satisfied with our fair and balanced rulings.  

On these occasions it seems there will never be peace in our house. 

When later I catch them together, watching a show, laughing, playing together, I am always caught unawares wondering when the transition from war to peace was brokered. 

What happened that they are now relaxed, kind and generous to one another?  No memory or footprint of prior hurts exists. 

There is nothing to solve, nothing to arbitrate. The tension has passed. My body exhales. My breathing relaxes. There is peace, in them, in me, in our house. I want to cap the bottle in which lightning was caught. 

How long will this last?

It’s not that our little kids problems were little, it’s just that we have perspective and wisdom now

When we look back years later at parenting our little kids we feel that their problems then were so little and manageable, nothing in comparison to the might of the problems we’re facing as they are now older. 

But I think we need to look at that comparison differently.

It’s not that our little kid problems were so little compared to the bigness today of our big kid problems. It’s that looking back now, with the wisdom and zoomed out perspective that only time and distance can provide, we know the end of the story. 

We know it worked out. We survived and our little kids prevailed and became big kids in spite of all of our fears and concerns about how we may have been doing it wrong.  Maybe it takes surviving the hard for us to realize we can.

I sometimes see a glimmer of the adults my teens are becoming

Sometimes I get to see glimpses of the nearly fully formed humans my children are becoming: gracious, kind, empathetic, self-reliant, and self-assured.

Usually it happens when they are outside of our home with non-family members (A Kindergarten teacher once told me she gets the best of my child and I get whatever is left in the tank after a day of following rules and exerting self-control. That always made a lot of sense to me).

My friend Joann calls these moments “Godwinks.” It’s not the full picture to come, of course, but it’s enough to let you see you’re on the right path and your efforts are not for naught. We can’t always see that it’s going to work out when we’re in the thick of it, but Godwinks give us good encouragement along the way.  

I can draw on my experience to inform how I parent my older kids

Except in pictures, I can’t go back as an older, wiser version of me and tell my 30-something-year-old self to not worry so much about all the little kid things, to trust it will all turn out ok. 

But I can let the wisdom I know now change how I show up as a parent today of big kids. 

I can bet on the grace offered by perspective and the passage of time that a lot of what I worry about today is much ado about nothing (of the things that actually merit my worry, most of them will probably work out, and, of the things that don’t work out in the way I planned, most of them will probably end up ok, too). 

I can resist the urge to give credence to every wonderfully dramatic story my crafty brain churns up about what could or will go wrong. 

I can stay present in what is, right now, knowing that if the weather is stormy in my house or my kids’ lives, it will likely change if I can just hold on five minutes. 

I can look for the Godwinks that always abound and train my heart and brain to focus on the reasons my kids are going to be amazing adults and skip the time spent ruminating about how their shortcomings will create hardship or pain in the future. 

I can do my best to look for the humor in the absolute crazy town circus that is parenting teens today.

Above all else, I can rest in the knowledge that though I am not perfect and I am making mistakes along the way, my love for my kids is perfect enough and just what they need. 

More Great Reading:

Parenting Teens Is a Delicate Dance of Holding On and Letting Go

Tonight my husband noticed, and commented on, how good of a mood I am in. Not that I’m not usually a ray of sunshine, but my time to shine typically isn’t a Sunday night. Sunday Scaries. Sunday Shivers. Sunday Shutdown. Whatever you call it, it’s legit.

But this Sunday, I guess I am exuding a vibe of Sunday Sweetness. And I realized why. There is no school tomorrow. As a teacher, and mom of two teenage boys, school is pretty much the driving force in our life. And having a day off has given us an atypical Sunday night of stressless bliss.

And that made me feel some big things.

I love being a teacher but it’s stressful

I love teaching. I love my students. I love the dream of what school can be. And at the same time, it is more stressful than I have ever known it to be.

Maybe it’s the afterrmath of the way COVID placed a deep crack in the foundation of teaching and learning as we all knew it. Blank zoom screens that haunt all of our dreams. The lost years of social and academic connectedness that are so critical in building structures and strategies in school communities. Trying to rebuild it all, and knowing my kids are out there doing the same.

I think about my career choice a lot. It always amazes me that I opted to re-enter the doors of middle school-a place where I spent some of the worst years of my life. Years that made every day a test of resilience and courage; that bent me to a point of almost breaking. Years that most people would run in the complete opposite direction of they ever were given the choice.

Teaching middle school has exhausted me

Teaching middle school has accelerated the rate of gray hair growth on my head, given me a skin thicker than a Komodo Dragon, and has exhausted me to a level of tiredness I’ve never known. And while I embrace it with my whole heart, I know that “School Year Amy” is definitely not the same person as “Summer Amy.”

So when I think about how overwhelmed I sometimes feel as a teacher, it gives me a great pause to step into the Sunday night of kids. Mine and everyone else’s.

I watch my own high schoolers, week after week, shouldering the weight of the world that is school. Trying to manage it all- the work, the tests, sports and clubs, the social rollercoaster that at times, can overtake any ability to concentrate on anything else. And I see their bodies crumble as they walk in the door- letting go of the frustration of coming home from an entire day of working so hard to tune in to what they are supposed to, and tune out the rest.

And they breathe. But only for a second.

After a stressful day at school there is more to be done

Because, they aren’t even close to done. There’s more sports, chores, siblings to contend with, homework to do, and whatever other personal secrets they have locked away to navigate as the night progresses.

No wonder everyone is exhausted.

Friday nights feel like a big exhale out. And Sundays feel like we are all gasping for the air we need to do it all again. And that is a hard truth to unpack.

I know what Mondays bring for all of us. The stress of the cycle restarting. Everyone bearing backpacks of things that can never fully be unloaded over a quick weekend-sometimes even a lifetime. An unbalanced scale of emotion and overwhelm that only tips back to equilibrium in the summer sunshine of June. And, only for a little while. And, really, not even for everybody.

I wish Sundays could feel more like the rest of the week

Sundays feel like the end piece of bread in the package. The one that you know will never really hold together the whole sandwich that you are trying to make, but you have to use it anyway. Trying to build enough foundation to hold it all together, but knowing that the heart of it is all going to fall out again when you take your first bite.

And I wish Sundays could feel more like the rest of it. Just another part that adds up to the whole.

I keep trying to put my finger on why it isn’t that way-why the load can’t feel more balanced. Dispersed in a different way. I know that school will always carry some sort of weight on the shoulders, but I can’t understand why that weight has to be so heavy.

I guess, for now, I will continue to try and unpack what I can from those backpacks, and hope that someday, Sundays will just feel like another day rather than something bigger.

More Great Reading:

Dear Graduates, Your Middle School Teacher Remembers You

Legend says that when faced with Santa Anna’s demand to surrender his command at the Alamo in late February of 1836, Lt. Col. William B. Travis’ reply was a singular blast from his 18 pound cannon – heavier, louder and more powerful than anything the dictator dragged along from Mexico. The massive blast was, for the most part, symbolic, the Texian garrison’s blustering echo of the “Come and Take It” from Gonzales the previous fall, daring Santa Anna to do just that. 

Last week, the President of the United States and the British Prime Minister jointly fired off the modern equivalent of Travis’ 18 pound cannon, ordering US and British planes and ships to strike multiple targets in Yemen. History will determine whether it was merely a symbolic blast or if it will, in fact, deter further terrorist attacks on international shipping and American and British warships acting as security. 

I have a more vested interest in the current conflict

This is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that Americans are forced to brush up on world geography because of our military response. In decades past, we’ve wondered where exactly is Vietnam, Beiruit, Honduras, and Afghanistan? We know, like Americans heading to Europe in 1917, it’s somewhere “over there,” but not exactly where “there” is. 

This time, though, I have a more vested interest in where the rockets, missiles, and drones are tearing apart the friendly skies. Our son is now a sailor in the United States Navy, one of over 300,000 men and women tasked with protecting our shores, our national interests abroad, and our international friends who rely on us.

We are watching, waiting, praying, and listening carefully about what’s going on over there.

For the first time in 60 years, a member of my family is wearing the uniform

We are not the first family to watch the news more closely than before our sons and daughters, husbands and wives, moms and dads enlisted, swearing to defend and protect the nation. We will not be the last, either, watching, listening, praying and waiting for a word. This is to say I am not unique in any way, shape or form.

But for my family, this is the first time in 60 years where a family member is wearing the uniform. And, like thousands of other service member families, last night I found Yemen on a map, easier than ever before thanks to Google. 

In other words, it is entirely possible our son may be sailing into harms way sooner than later. He has friends, buddies, from boot camp and tech school who might already be there, or on the way.

(Let the reader understand: like Sergeant Schultz, I know nothing and am not implying, revealing, or hinting at anything. A few days ago, I asked Junior a too-pointed question. After only a moment hesitation, he firmly answered, “I cannot answer that, Dad.” An immediate, “…and don’t ask again,” hung unspoken in the conversation. Mea culpa…)

Relative calm in the world lulled us into a false ease when our son joined the Navy

It was one thing a year ago when he decided to join the Navy. After all, “It’s not just a job…it’s an adventure,” the old ad said. “It’ll be good for him,” we reasoned, “he’ll gain some experience, see the world, learn something while getting paid”

Yeah, in the back of our minds was the knowledge that he was becoming a very small, low-ranking cog in the maritime machine, but the relative calm in the world lulled us into an false ease behind our pride. 

The last few months, particularly since the mess has blown up in the Middle East, that ease has become more uneasy. We’re still proud – prouder than proud, in fact – of his choice and his determination to enlist and serve, but the shine is now off the apple.

The drums of war are thumping again

War drums are thumping. The 18 pounder has been fired in responsive warning. Technically, legally it’s not yet a war. Technically, legally it’s not yet a war. With conflicts threatening in Asia, and with ongoing fighting in the Middle East and Western Europe, it’s the Cold War turning warm – and that was before the planes and ships started firing last week.

That sound you just heard was the “gulp” in my throat. 

So, following in the footsteps of my mother-in-law when her husband went to Vietnam, my mom’s family when two brothers went to that jungle wasteland, my aunts and uncles when cousins deployed to various danger zones in places that twenty years ago they, too, had to look up, we watch, wait, listen and pray for our son, the warrior, and every other sailor, airman, soldier and Marine. 

More Great Reading:

What Makes Military Moms the Very Best Kind of Moms

About the author:

G. W. Hunter III’s son is a relatively new sailor in the Navy. This essay is his perspective as a father on the new reality facing those serving and their families.

By Louise Kinross

Shannon Crossman recently chilled some fresh snow, then melted it into water so a hospitalized child could use it to mix watercolour paints. “I wanted to include the season, so I told them we’ve captured some of winter into our painting.”

Shannon has been working as an artist at Holland Bloorview for 30 years. She now splits her time between coordinating the Music and Arts program at the hospital and clinical work with children doing rehab here and their parents.

You may have noticed Shannon with her mobile art cart filled with paint, clay, fabric, beads, wood and all of the tools that allow kids to create projects at the bedside.

“The work we do is meant for choice and agency and to alleviate boredom and loneliness,” she says. “It’s a chance for them to be themselves, and see themselves as whole people doing things that are comforting and meaningful and familiar to them. One child said ‘I really like it because you don’t ask how crappy my meds are making me feel.’ I’m not probing about their injury or surgery unless they talk about it. They’re driving the conversation and experience. This is creating some normalcy for them when they don’t have choice in interventions like physiotherapy, which is sometimes painful.”

Art at Holland Bloorview is less about instruction and more about “exploration and expression,” Shannon says. Each child chooses what they do from a range of options, as opposed to being presented with an activity. “We try to set things up so we can say ‘yes’ instead of ‘no.’ If an activity is messy it’s done in an environment to get messy.”

Activities are adapted for children with disabilities. For example, “we have a power link that allows us to connect a jelly bean switch to a sewing machine. The buttons on the actual machine can be hard to push. This way “a child can drive the machine on and off while I feed the fabric through.”

Many children find art-making soothing. “When I ask what they think the benefit of art is, they’ll say ‘it will help me not to be anxious.’ If I ask what would they like to feel, instead of anxious, they’ll say ‘I’d like to feel calm.’

Shannon says the greatest challenge of her work is the wait list. “When I tell kids this is once a week they’ll say ‘Can I have it every day?’ Knowing that they want the intervention and seeing how much they enjoy it makes me want to give them more of it. For me, as a practitioner, I excel in that one-to-one.”

Shannon says the main emotion she experiences at work is satisfaction. “When kids get to a place where they’re feeling good there’s a sense of peace and accomplishment.”

She does feel sad when hearing parents share painful stories during the art workshops she offers caregivers. “Sometimes the simplest of questions will lead to a floodgate of feelings. I might say ‘You’re painting a landscape?’ and they’ll say ‘I haven’t been to the beach since before my child’s accident.’ Some curiosity might open a whole discussion about the child’s injury and rehab and how deeply they love their child and how deeply they want them to heal. I tend to see the kids as pretty resilient, but I really feel for the parents.”

Shannon says she copes with stress by reaching out to colleagues. “The main thing that helps me is talking. If something has happened, I’ll get up and find someone I know and trust here to talk to.”

She likes to draw and journal in the morning before work “when my mind is super fresh and rich ideas and creative solutions pop into my head.”

If she could change one thing about the group art programs we offer outpatients it would be making “the fee-for-service cheaper or free, or subsidizing it in a way that anyone who needed to come could come. For example, we know that single mothers who are racialized and English isn’t their first language have less access to resources for their child.”

Shannon says she identified herself as an artist at the age of four, and it was the influence of her parents that led her into the field. “My dad was a social worker and developed programs in the community and I was exposed to a lot of ways of interacting with a wide range of people. My mom used to work at the 4-H club in the states, and she also worked at what used to be called a sheltered workshop [for people with disabilities.] I’ve always found it delightful to work with children. They’re emerging into their sense of who they are and they’re unfiltered in the most charming way. It’s meaningful to be part of that.”

Like this content? Sign up for our monthly BLOOM e-letter. Visit us at BLOOM Facebook, follow @LouiseKinross on Twitter, or watch our A Family Like Mine video series.

By Louise Kinross

Shannon Crossman recently chilled some fresh snow, then melted it into water so an inpatient child could use it to mix watercolour paints. “I wanted to include the season, so I told them we’ve captured some of winter into our painting.”

Shannon has been working as an artist at Holland Bloorview for 30 years. She now splits her time between coordinating the Music and Arts program at the hospital and clinical work with children doing rehab here and their parents.

You may have noticed Shannon with her mobile art cart filled with paint, clay, fabric, beads, wood and all of the tools that allow kids to create projects at the bedside.

“The work we do is meant for choice and agency and to alleviate boredom and loneliness,” she says. “It’s a chance for them to be themselves, and see themselves as whole people doing things that are comforting and meaningful and familiar to them. One child said ‘I really like it because you don’t ask how crappy my meds are making me feel.’ I’m not probing about their injury or surgery unless they talk about it. They’re driving the conversation and experience. This is creating some normalcy for them when they don’t have choice in interventions like physiotherapy, which is sometimes painful.”

Art at Holland Bloorview is less about instruction and more about “exploration and expression,” Shannon says. Each child chooses what they do from a range of options, as opposed to being presented with an activity. “We try to set things up so we can say ‘yes’ instead of ‘no.’ If an activity is messy it’s done in an environment to get messy.”

Activities are adapted for children with disabilities. For example, “we have a power link that allows us to connect a jelly bean switch to a sewing machine. The buttons on the actual machine can be hard to push. This way “a child can drive the machine on and off while I feed the fabric through.”

Many children find art-making soothing. “When I ask what they think the benefit of art is, they’ll say ‘it will help me not to be anxious.’ If I ask what would they like to feel, instead of anxious, they’ll say ‘I’d like to feel calm.’

Shannon says the greatest challenge of her work is the wait list. “When I tell kids this is once a week they’ll say ‘Can I have it every day?’ Knowing that they want the intervention and seeing how much they enjoy it makes me want to give them more of it. For me, as a practitioner, I excel in that one-to-one.”

Shannon says the main emotion she experiences at work is satisfaction. “When kids get to a place where they’re feeling good there’s a sense of peace and accomplishment.”

She does feel sad when hearing parents share painful stories during the art workshops she offers caregivers. “Sometimes the simplest of questions will lead to a floodgate of feelings. I might say ‘You’re painting a landscape?’ and they’ll say ‘I haven’t been to the beach since before my child’s accident.’ Some curiosity might open a whole discussion about the child’s injury and rehab and how deeply they love their child and how deeply they want them to heal. I tend to see the kids as pretty resilient, but I really feel for the parents.”

Shannon says she copes with stress by reaching out to colleagues. “The main thing that helps me is talking. If something has happened, I’ll get up and find someone I know and trust here to talk to.”

She likes to draw and journal in the morning before work “when my mind is super fresh and rich ideas and creative solutions pop into my head.”

If she could change one thing about the group art programs we offer outpatients it would be making “the fee-for-service cheaper or free, or subsidizing it in a way that anyone who needed to come could come. For example, we know that single mothers who are racialized and English isn’t their first language have less access to resources for their child.”

Shannon says she identified herself as an artist at the age of four, and it was the influence of her parents that led her into the field. “My dad was a social worker and developed programs in the community and I was exposed to a lot of ways of interacting with a wide range of people. My mom used to work at the 4-H club in the states, and she also worked at what used to be called a sheltered workshop [for people with disabilities.] I’ve always found it delightful to work with children. They’re emerging into their sense of who they are and they’re unfiltered in the most charming way. It’s meaningful to be part of that.”

Like this content? Sign up for our monthly BLOOM e-letter. Visit us at BLOOM Facebook, follow @LouiseKinross on Twitter, or watch our A Family Like Mine video series.

I stood in my son’s new college apartment and eyed his boxes and piles of clothing dubiously.

“Should we hit the grocery store before we leave? Maybe I could help you unpack your kitchen a little bit?” I asked, fully expecting him to take me up on my offer.

“Nah, I got it, Mah. You guys have a long drive,” he said with a smile. 

I took a last look at the mess in his tiny apartment and hugged him tightly. I tried not to let him see my tears spill over as we walked down the hall to the elevator.

My little boy, it seemed, no longer needed my help.

“I got it, Mah.”

I’ve heard this phrase dozens of times over the years. I’ve lost count of the times I’d hear him groan those four words after I’d hound him about his college applications or finally emptying the dishwasher.

“I got it, Mah,” is one of my son’s favorite retorts

He’d utter, “I got it, Mah,” usually with an eye roll when I’d lose my temper over the state of his bedroom or when I’d remind him to pick his sister up from track practice. 

Spoiler alert: Most times, he did not, in fact, “got it.”

Flash forward a few years to his first college apartment. He was living alone in a large city for the first time, and I found myself crying as we navigated the city streets, leaving him and his grocery list behind.

Was he really prepared to cook for himself?

What if he got sick, living alone?

Did I impart the importance of Clorox wipes upon him?

I stared out the car window and wondered if I’d done enough.

The answer was yes. And most certainly, no.

My son detailed his first trip to the grocery

Shortly after we arrived home that evening, my son called and detailed his first solo trip to the grocery store. His odyssey involved a train ride, a poorly planned list, and far fewer hands to carry the way too many reusable bags he had to purchase to haul his wares home. I stifled a laugh as he recounted his long trip home, complete with a missed train stop and a steep hill while brandishing melting ice cream and an ill-thought bag of flour.

“But I bought chicken that was on sale, and I remembered to buy fruit for breakfast,” he said proudly.

There was hope for him yet.

Over the next few months, he would video call me as he cooked. At first, his calls were out of necessity: 

How do I make those roasted potatoes again? 

How can I tell if this chicken is cooked through? 

What’s the secret to your scrambled eggs? 

With each call, I’d cook our dinner as he stumbled through his cooking, and we’d chat about his college life. It was my favorite part of the day.

Eventually, as his skills improved, his emergency calls waned. Instead, I’d receive a text of a neatly set place setting with a steaming stir fry or other concoction he’d cobbled together.

My eyes would tear up as I noticed that his place setting was much like the ones I painstakingly set every night when he was a child.

Maybe my son was getting the hang of adulting

For all of the nights I wondered how a kid who could barely find the laundry basket would have clean underwear as an adult, I started to see that, maybe, just maybe, he was getting the hang of adulting.

“I got it, Mah” took on a whole new meaning for me in those months.

He had come a long way since that first call in his dorm room, asking me to walk him through how to use a coin-op machine. Now, he was calling to debate whether fabric softener was better than dryer sheets. 

On his trip home for Thanksgiving break, I noticed I no longer had to chide him about emptying the dishwasher.

“It sucks to wake up to a dirty sink,” he said with a shrug. We cleaned the kitchen in amiable silence that night, me marveling at how much he’d grown up. 

After we sent our last Thanksgiving guest home, he sheepishly thanked me for a wonderful day. He told me that it was mentally exhausting to plan meals for himself week after week. 

“You make it look effortless, Mah. I don’t know how you did it, feeding us like that year after year,” he said. “I appreciate you.”

Oh, my stars.

“I got it, Mah.” 

Yes, son. You sure did. 

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By Louise Kinross

Last year a groundbreaking study found that Black people in American counties with more Black primary-care doctors live longer.

Yet research shows that Black medical students have higher rates of burnout than white students, which means they’re at risk of leaving the field.

This month a new study in JAMA Network Open looks at burnout rates in medical students with disabilities, including those who are racialized.

The study of over 27,000 medical students in the United States found students with one disability were 70% more likely to report burnout than nondisabled peers. When a student had multiple disabilities, that likelihood rose to 254%.

Students with disabilities who were racialized had the highest risk of burnout—a more than three-fold greater risk.

“If you have multiple disabilities and you’re Asian or Black or Hispanic or identify as Indigenous, then your risk of burnout is even higher than that of white students with multiple disabilities,” says lead author Mytien Nguyen. Mytien is a medical student at Yale School of Medicine training as a surgeon and doing a PhD in immunology.

Burnout describes a lack of motivation or exhaustion—which can be physical, mental and emotional—and a feeling of being disconnected, Mytien says. Medical students across the country filled out a survey that used a 16-item scale that evaluates exhaustion and disengagement.

“During the pandemic, burnout in physicians has been a predominant conversation, but burnout was prevalent in marginalized medical students and trainees before the pandemic,” Mytien says.

Factors can include “a training environment that is not conducive to learning, the added stress of facing discrimination, and the additional burden of being asked to represent your community in a lot of diversity work.

“Many medical trainees don’t disclose a disability because medicine in general is ableist. They fear that bias and stigma, and worry about whether disclosure means they won’t be able to match into the specialty they want. Prior research has shown that requesting accommodations can be challenging and takes a lot of additional work, and what you receive may not be sufficient.”

The scientists wanted to examine the intersection of multiple disability with race and ethnicity.

Students who burn out may leave medical school or decide not to do residency training. “If they stay in the field, they’re not as engaged and don’t have that energy to be an active member and bring their best self everyday,” Mytien says.

Having doctors that reflect the patient population “is critical for quality and equitable health care,” Mytien says. “If you think about it, many of our patients are people with disability and our workforce needs to understand our patient populations and reflect the diversity of all of them.”

Mytien recalls growing up “in an underserved community in a rural area, where I was never able to see a physician who looks like me, or who identifies with me. I used to be my family’s interpreter. It’s very challenging for patients to develop a relationship with a physician when they don’t identify with them.”

Next steps for her research are to look at retention rates in medical school students based on disability, race and ethnicity.

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Robyn Silverman, Ph.D., is a child and teen developmental specialist who hosts the popular podcast, How to Talk to Kids About Anything. In her book How to Talk to Kids About Anything, she gives parents tips, scripts, and solid facts to help answer children’s questions that often come out of nowhere: Are you going to die? How are babies made? Why won’t anyone play with me?

As parents almost all of us have been stumped at some point. I had some questions of my own.

Did How to Talk to Kids About Anything stem from your own experiences, questions your children asked that you weren’t sure how to answer, or more related to what you heard from parents?

A bit of each. When I was in 5^th grade, I was ostracized from my entire class, courtesy of a very powerful girl who didn’t like that her best friend was also mine. Many days I spent recess alone, watching the rest of the class whispering on the hill by the doors of the school. My teacher unsuccessfully tried to do something about the constant gossip and freeze-outs. At home, my sweet mom handed me tissue after tissue as I cried. She didn’t know what to say either. I knew that I wanted to help key adults know what to say to their kids in different tough situations.

My kids always asked questions, and I wanted to be the kind of parent who answered them with honest, solid information and to become their trusted source. When parents don’t answer their children’s difficult questions, children often turn to others, and we may not like who they choose or what those people tell them.

You’ve written a step-by-step guide to address kids’ difficult questions, whether they come from toddlers or preteens and teens. You cover everything from friendship to divorce, even money and body image. What do you think are the most difficult questions for parents to answer?

Parents tell me that the toughest questions to answer are related to sex or death. That’s usually because these subjects are the furthest things we associate with children. Talking about sex can make parents feel uncomfortable because they think it’s one, big, monumental conversation. You know, the sex talk, puberty talk, suicide talk, divorce talk, failure talk… That’s a lot of pressure. But it’s not—it’s a series of many conversations, starting when children are young through the teen years and even young adulthood, adding more detail as our children’s needs and interests change and mature.

You mention using “teachable moments” to keep conversations going. Can you give an example?

Talking to kids about death is many little talks since their understanding of death evolves. A teachable moment for a young child might be when our house plant dies. “These plants need water to live. We forgot to water it. It died. It is not alive anymore.”

Or, you might be walking along at the park and see a dead bug. “This bug isn’t sleeping. It’s dead. It can’t eat, sleep, or do any other buggy activities because it’s dead. It feels no pain. We see it’s bug body but it’s no longer alive.” We don’t want to mince words and confuse kids by saying it’s “sleeping.” This is the time to introduce death.

You have these kinds of teachable moments; then, when the family pet, the neighbor, or a grandparent dies, you don’t need to start with the concept of death—they have an initial understanding. Conversations grow with the child—older children might ask about what happens to the body, why it happened, where someone goes after they die, or more existential questions. Young children are very concrete, whereas teens often consider less tangible concepts about death.

Another example is talking about sex. These conversations start with naming body parts, discussing consent around hugging or tickling, or having discussions about who is allowed to touch your body and how. As children get older, these exchanges might be more focused on how babies are made—and grow further into discussions of misogyny, dating, romance, etc.

What about the child who doesn’t ask questions, but you know you should be talking about sex or friendship snags, for instance? How do you bring up the topic you think your son or daughter needs to understand? Should you?

Absolutely. There are lots of ways to springboard conversations:

1. Use something you saw on the news or online. “I read something today that said something surprising… what do you think about that?”

2. Use a story. I provide a lot of stories in my book that parents can use to broach difficult topics. For example, “I know you are frustrated about not being selected for the special art camp you wanted to go to this summer. Did you know that Dr. Seuss had to submit his first book 27 times before someone said ‘yes’? Remember, failure happens to everyone—and if we keep at it, practice, tweak, get help, and try again, we eventually can be successful. Keep going!”

3. Use a statistic. A statistic can be just the little morsel that starts the conversation. “I read about the most interesting study today! It said that 30% of teens experience bullying. Have you noticed this in school?” Even if your child doesn’t want to talk about it yet—offering a safe place to talk about these topics might just open the door to later discussions.

How does a parent know if their children are listening and absorbing the answers they present?

All of us wonder at times if our children tune out as soon as our lips start moving. But when I hear my daughter telling a friend, “It takes time to make friends at a new school—you’ve got to put yourself out there and try,” or my son tells me how his peers are being mean to a kid with disabilities because, “That’s just how his brain is wired, and he can’t help that he acts that way,” I think to myself, this talking stuff is actually working, and some of our other conversations may be working too.

Copyright @2024 by Susan Newman

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Parenting is a journey filled with joys, challenges, and countless growth opportunities. When a child has special needs, the journey takes on a unique set of challenges. Understanding and navigating these challenges is crucial for fostering an environment where special needs children can reach their potential. Whether special needs or not, parents can play a pivotal role in helping their child’s development, but this can be extra important with a special needs child. 

It’s not that I’m unfamiliar with the term “soiling the nest.” I’ve already endured one round, after all, when my husband and I launched our first baby adult into the wild three years ago. It’s that my second child has reached full soiling season and it is about 983 times more amped than what we experienced with his sibling.

It’s that this child was supposed to be our easy one, a sweet reward for what we endured in that inaugural soiling. I should mention that our first child is now a dream. This is good. This gives us reason to look skyward with a sigh of, “Give him a few years, it’ll get better” as we navigate round two. 

Our son was such an easy child

Our son has a long history of being a breeze but that breeze has recently turned into gusty winds blowing people out of every room he enters lest we want to endure the glares of disgust produced simply by having to live with us, the dumbest people he knows. Our son is soiling our nest mostly silently, through eyesrolls and raised eyebrows and exasperated sighs. Our first child was a bit more vocal (a bit?) in her soiling, something we never imagined we would actually miss.

This new entrant onto the reasons-why-I-have-gray-hair list took a very smooth road for his first 17 years. He had very few academic issues, a summer gig as a lifeguard, a great group of friends, and was always a pleasant participant in family activities. Then, as the chorus of “Happy Birthday” drifted to silence on his 18th birthday, the soiling began. 

Grades? Who needs ‘em? 

College? Why should he apply to more than one–especially if that one practically guarantees admission? 

Curfew? That’s for 17-year-olds! 

Job? Laughable! He worked all summer long, this should be his downtime.

Our son needs a job

That’s the real issue in our home these days, the lack of a job for this child testing boundaries. When our son signed up for his final year of classes he earned the gift of a schedule filled with electives. “Amazing!” we said as we all agreed that he would also work during this, his senior year. That agreement was meant to be both a learning experience (balancing work/school) and a savings experience (beefing up that bank account pre-college). 

That agreement was tossed out the window in lieu of more time with his first serious girlfriend. 

While this young love is absolutely adorable, it is also the likely source of those drooping grades, missed curfews, and inability to focus on finding a job. Please note I said “it” and not “she.” Our son’s girlfriend is a go-getter and we often wonder (hope?) if some of that go-getter-ness will rub off on him. 

My son is silently soiling the nest

He is soiling the nest silently and I hate it. With our first child, we got the emotional release that comes with a good old-fashioned parent/child argument. Sure, those heated discussions often ended with zero resolutions but at least everyone got to speak their piece, gaining that satisfaction of feeling heard. 

My husband and I spend a lot of time urging the real world to arrive quickly into our son’s sights. We know that this attitude of I’ve got it all figured out will immediately be tested once the real world comes into focus. Heck, we even started charging him rent at the turn of the year in response to one too many declarations of “I’m an adult now.” 

Yes, my child, yes you are. And to help you adult, we will now show you what it’s like to pay for that phone and pay for that car insurance and, what’s that? You’re going to drain your bank account? If only there were a way to procure incoming funds…

Paying us rent made him a little more ‘aware’

Nine days after our son filled out his very first check ever, our youngest baby adult did, in fact, secure a part-time job. Dare I say he even seemed a bit chipper? I mean, no, I would obviously not expect any words affirming our parenting choices–those won’t come until later, right? Right?!? But as with his older sister, it seems that having to physically write a check to his parents/landlords did kick a small bit of ambition into gear. 

For us, those pesky recipients of said check, we saw a glimmer of the future. A future in which that beloved frontal lobe will reveal itself and our child will suddenly latch onto all those eye-roll-worthy words of advice we’ve bestowed on him. 

Give him a few years, it’ll get better

More Great Reading:

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So… does something look different around here?

I should hope so.

I changed a lot about the design of this blog, from the layout of the sidebar, to the menu options across the top, updated the about me section, fixed the subscription option that had been broken and I hadn’t noticed, so please subscribe.. oh, and did you notice the new header?!?!?! 

I really needed to update that header… like years ago. A graphic artist friend made mine for me not long after I started out, and it was beautiful and it reflected what my blog was about then… which in many ways was nothing like it is now. 

The image had a baby in a cloth diaper, homemade pickles, homemade bread, solar cooking, baking soda… all representing the extreme frugality (and mom of babies) that this blog was about back then. 

My life has changed a lot since then. I’m no longer in dire need of saving every last cent that I’d need to cook using the sun. My youngest has been out of diapers for… 8 years… I don’t live extremely frugally anymore. And the logo having the words “A Rich Life on a Minimum Wage” no longer is relevant, because I don’t live off a minimum wage. 

The focus of my life has changed, with the main themes of my life being parenting neurodiverse and complex teens and preteens, all the while being a disabled single mother dealing with my own mental health and physical health issues. I still am frugal but nothing like I used to be, and in fact, I have trauma from those days of extreme poverty when I needed to be writing posts about how to minimize electricity spent on fans in the summer. These days, my health necessitates having air conditioning all year long, yes, even in the winter my bedroom is cooled with air conditioning.

I also made a different version of the header to use as a profile picture for my new Facebook page. 

I’m really proud of myself. It was a lot of hard work, a lot of trial and error, a lot of teaching myself new skills, but I think I did a great job.

(And though most of you aren’t local, today I also revamped my local website where I advertise my foraging classes, and I raised my prices to ones that reflect my capabilities and what I have to offer, while also providing options for people who need lower pricing. If you’re local and want a link to that website, just shoot me an email to PennilessParenting@yahoo.com.)

Sooooooo… What do you think?

What do those pictures in the header bring to mind for you? What do you picture in your head when you hear the term “Money mindfulness and more”?