» Kids

Dirty Little Pills

Carla — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 01:17:35 +0000

WARNING: What you are about to read contains spoilers for the movie “Limitless.”

As a mother there are certain movies that I want my kids to see. For me, these movies convey a message or warning that is more easily accepted coming from a cool actor rather than a nagging mother. Two good examples are Midnight Express (don’t do drugs, and don’t even go near drugs in a foreign country), and 127 Hours (always let someone know where you are going and when you will be back).

I sat watching the recently released movie Limitless thinking: “I can’t get my kids to see this movie soon enough.” In the movie, Bradley Cooper’s character, Eddie, discovers a pill that takes him to near-one hundred percent brain capacity. He goes from a loser with bad hair and a messy apartment, to a wealthy, Wall Street woman-magnet within a few short weeks. This drug “shortcut” surely couldn’t end well for Eddie! His girlfriend warns him that the person he is on the drug is not the “real” Eddie. Robert De Niro’s character admonishes him for being cocky, letting him know that you can make money but you have to earn respect; he is also being investigated for a murder he may, or may not, have committed. If that’s not enough, Eddie finds out that other people on the drug have had horrible reactions and even died. I thought to myself: “Surely he will get off this drug and get his life together.” When the movie ends, Eddie is wealthy, has his girlfriend back, and Robert De Niro is asking him for political favors (Eddie is now running for elected office), and, he is still on the drug.

I left the theater thinking that I hoped to heck my kids DID NOT see this movie — EVER! I wanted to go to the director’s house and give him a piece of my mind. Does he have any idea how hard it is to raise kids these days? I was so upset I almost wished I had a Valium to calm myself down, or maybe one of those PM formula pain relievers to help me sleep it off.

Limitless left me thinking: “Have all of the ‘pills’ that we have come to depend on changed the culture of our country?”

There’s Ritalin to help our kids focus in school. This drug is rampant on college campuses — why bother to go to class or study during the week when you can pop a pill to stay up and study all night before the test and pass? Never mind that you won’t remember much of what you crammed into your brain when you really need it in a future job situation. There are myriad anti-depressants to help with everything from divorce to “life just isn’t fun,” Ecstasy for “this party is fun, but it could be more fun,” and steroids to get bigger, faster, and stronger. Developing coping skills or enjoying simple pleasures in life — football on the beach or a good conversation — is considered quaint. We give kids trophies for just showing up when they are little and when they grow up they take “supplements” so they don’t have to do much more than just show up. Things like underdogs, sportsmanship, and playing because you love the game have been sidelined.

There are pills to help you sleep and pills to help you forget, but not all “pills” come in pill form. There are energy drinks to get you going in the morning and pot to help you “chill” in the afternoon. Sometimes the pill is in the form of government: “we will give you a loan to buy a house with no money down.” The American dream has become the American entitlement. And, sometimes the pill comes in the form of parents: “We will get you a tutor to help you do better.” (Color me guilty!) The child doesn’t have to want to do better for him or herself. Why should they track down a teacher to get extra help, find a friend to explain something they’ve missed, or go online for any reason other than Facebook when their parents will pay someone to come to their house and teach them something that they probably don’t care about learning?

Don’t get me wrong. There are useful drugs that truly make people’s lives’s better, and sometimes shortcuts are necessary. But we’ve become a society that has become adverse to hard work and sacrifice and our self-esteem and self-respect have suffered for it. Having the self-discipline to save for a house or to turn off the television to study creates ownership and pride. Our intentions have been good, but the results of making things too easy have been disastrous — from our deficit dilemma to our failing schools. There is no “shortcut” pill to get us back on track. We are all going to have to swallow the bitter pills of hard work, sacrifice and discipline.

When I was young my mother used to tell me that hard work and adversity created character. I vividly remember telling her if that was the case, I didn’t need or want character…boy, was I wrong.

BUCKLE-UP

Carla — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 22:09:00 +0000

My daughter (age 15 years and 11 months) got her driver’s permit last week. She could have gotten it five months ago when she turned fifteen and a half, but she put it off. Putting off getting her permit means she puts off getting her driver’s license for five months. If she puts off getting her driver’s license can you imagine what it’s like getting her to do her homework or clean her room?

I drove when I was 12. I grew up in a rural town in Arkansas: population under 2000, no stop lights and only one four-way stop sign. Much to my mother’s dismay, I used to skip kindergarten to go with my dad because he would let me sit in his lap and drive around the farms as he checked the fields. By the time I was 12 I was an old pro and no one even blinked when I would grab the keys and drive myself to basketball practice–all three blocks. Nevertheless, the day I turned 14 and could get my permit, I drove myself to the police station, parked a block away, and strode in with my birth certificate in one hand and the driving manual in the other. Luther, one of our two city (I use that word loosely) policemen just smiled as he handed back my perfectly scored test. Luther was as ready as I was to get me on the road to official, I’m sure he was exhausted from pretending that he didn’t see me speeding by.

Of course, I did not expect my lovely daughter to pass her driver’s test. As we drove to the D.M.V. I admonished her for not studying and warned her that if she didn’t pass, she was paying the twenty-eight dollars to take the test over. She assured me that she had studied. Her friend had taken the test last week and he asked her “a bunch of the questions on the phone last night” so of course she would pass the test. I reluctantly continued driving as I beat myself up for letting her miss first period and for wasting my time.

About halfway through the Chronicle my daughter walks over holding an official looking paper. She passed! Barely, but she passed. I have a sudden surge of regret! In a short six months she will be getting in the car, without me, and driving off to heaven knows where. Walking out of the D.M.V. my daughter grabbed the keys and jumped into the driver’s seat as I tried desperately to come up with an excuse to keep her from driving: It was wet out and the morning commute was not quite over and, she’s my baby!

My baby got behind the wheel, and grabbed the mirror. Good I thought, adjust the mirror before you start. Wrong! It was a make-up check. She puts her phone in her lap, moves the seat forward (I’m 5’8, she’s 5’3) starts the car, finds a radio station playing a song about “making love in a club” and pulls out without looking in either direction. I want to say something but I don’t really know where to start. She flies over a speed bump and explains to me that it’s really better to go over them fast. I tell her that the people who put them in disagree. We stop at a Starbucks for a celebratory latte–she’s celebrating passing and I just really need a coffee. We leave Starbucks and I settled in and pick up my latte. The aroma is already soothing my rattled nerves and raw emotions–I close my eyes and lift the cup to my lips. She slams on the brakes! “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I didn’t see that stop light.” “The one right in front of you,” I ask? We continue on, almost there and no one has died. As we approach a flashing red light I ask her if she knows what a flashing red light means. “Of course” she replies as she runs right through it, “I had that question on my test.” “Well you missed that one,” I say as I look around for a police car.

We are almost at her school. I have cleaned the coffee off of the dashboard and my heart rate is approaching normal. She ask me when she’s getting her own car because she has to have one registered to her before she can take her final driving test in six months. “What!” I say too loudly.

“Yeah, that’s what the lady said. I have to have proof of insurance and a car registered to me.”

She parks in front of her school and jumps out. I get in the driver’s seat, banging my still-shaking knees on the steering wheel. I make a mental note to explain “car registration” to my daughter when she gets home. I change the radio station, move my seat back, check the rear-view mirror–wipe the coffee off my face– and think about Luther back in my little hometown.

It Feels Like Fall Today–It’s Time

Carla — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 22:30:00 +0000

It feels like fall today. The air is crisp. But really, in San Francisco that means nothing, our “crispest” days can be in the middle of summer. It’s the light quality that let’s me know it’s fall. There’s a warm glow, a slight sepia coloring the world. Fall is bittersweet.

Fall is the beginning and the end: The beginning of an exciting new school- year and the end of the halcyon days of summer. You put away your swimsuits and flip-flops and get out your sweaters and boots. If you are in school, you are generally happy to move-up–most years you’re taller, one year you will graduate from a cubby to a locker, and someday you may actually drive yourself to school. If you are putting someone through school, you are generally shocked that they can’t wear any of their clothes, concerned that they will never remember the combination to their locker, and TERRIFIED that they are behind the wheel of a car. You watch them drive away and wonder how this happened.

I took my son to college a couple of weeks ago. 2853 miles and three time zones away.

I was ready for him to go. I really was. I promise! The constant pull-and-tug of our relationship was exhausting. Him pulling away because he’s 18 and wants to live his own life; me tugging him back via my “rules” for living in this house and because I’m his MOTHER and I’m the one that’s operating with a fully developed frontal lobe. We were both doing our job. Having a child living in your house is like a baby living in your placenta: At first things can be a little tricky, then everything is great, but toward the end it gets a little cramped and uncomfortable for everyone. A placenta is only good for a limited number of days, and then as much as you know it’s going to hurt, that baby has got to go.

Just he and I made the trip back east. It was fitting. What you might not know, and what he doesn’t remember is that for the first three years of his life we were pretty tight. With no family in the area, the dad working 12 hours a day, mostly single friends, and no nanny, my son and I filled each other’s worlds, and thus, we developed a kind of shorthand. As we walked around the campus on that first day, I knew just what he was thinking, I was thinking the same things. I was nervous and worried about him; I could tell he was nervous and worried about me. We were both overwhelmed by the possibilities (and the heat), scared at the thought of the responsibilities, and desperate to remember names and find our way around. I knew that he wished he had a place to go and take a nap and just deal with all of this later. I wanted to tell him to just put one foot in front of the other, but I didn’t, I told myself.

When we left our house to go to the airport the morning before, it had been dark. I sat in the car and watched him go from room to room, knowing that he wasn’t just saying goodbye to a space that had housed him, but to his childhood. When I left his dorm room the next day, after moving him in, I made my way to my rental car making polite conversation with other parents, hoping that they couldn’t see the gigantic lump in my throat. I drove around campus and explored his new world while letting go of the old–I knew that things would never be the same. I went back to my hotel room, ordered room service, got in the shower, and cried.

Back in San Francisco, walking the dog with friends at the beach, we talked about taking our kids to college. One friend asked if I felt my son was ready for college. I assured her that my son was half-baked, but that I had had the oven on high and had used the best ingredients. I’m hoping that he’s like his favorite cake: red velvet. I get asked for my recipe all the time and when I give it to someone I always emphasize that you only cook it for the prescribed time. I warn them that they will not think it’s done but when the time is up they should take it out anyhow. This is the only way that you can assure that the “heart” of the cake stays soft. If you leave it in until you think it looks done it won’t be good. It may look good from the outside, but cakes, like boys, matter more on the inside. It’s scary to take what looks to be a half-baked cake out of the oven or to send what looks to be a half-baked boy across the country to college, but you have to have faith…and pray a lot!

I miss his big smelly hugs and when he tells me to not let go before he does. I don’t miss his stinky laundry. I miss the sound of his car pulling in the driveway, knowing that he’s home safe, whether it’s in the middle of the day or the middle of the night. I don’t miss the calls in the middle of the night when he’s trying to negotiate his curfew. I miss listening to the radio with him in the car to see who can be the first to guess the artist of the song playing (I kill him at this game). I don’t miss asking him if his homework is done and him saying, “It’s all good,” which is code for no.

A few nights ago I dreamt that he was three and running down Chestnut Street in his Batman cape that he made from a black garbage bag–the vision was as clear as a summer day. The next morning the memory of the dream had faded. His childhood has taken on a sepia tone in both our minds. But the possibilities for his future, and for mine, are as bright and glaring as the noonday sun off the water in mid-July.

Change is bittersweet, but this is the way it’s supposed to be–he’s eighteen and it’s fall…it’s time.