The Morgan Docterman Free Spirit Award

For the past three years, I have attended the Woodland Park High School Awards Assembly each May.

In 2008, I attended because my son, Morgan, was a senior.

In 2009 and 2010, I attended because I was awarding his memorial scholarship to a graduating senior.

You see, Morgan died from bacterial meningitis 10 days after he graduated.   He never went to college.

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Morgan spent 5 years telling me he didn’t care about his grades, because he didn’t want to go to college.   I wasn’t worried one whit about his intelligence, productivity or ability to contribute to society.  But I did know his view and mine did not fit in with the culture we inhabited.   I figured it was my job to make sure his current choices didn’t ruin his future opportunities – in short, I told him to try to find a way to work within the system even as he yearned to change it.

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Now, each year, I sit for an hour or so, listening to what our country’s future leaders are told is important and what they are rewarded for.

I hear inspirational speeches from military representatives, knowing that those who join may not live long enough to take advantage of their earned educational benefits.

I listen to who did well at the Stock Market game – (I consider playing the Stock Market akin to playing penny slots, just more expensive, with less honesty and entertainment value…)

And then it’s my turn at the podium.

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In the aftermath of higher education, making money and serving your community speeches, I get up and tell everyone who is willing to listen that I don’t care what your grade point average is.

I do care what your passions and talents are.

I don’t care if you spend the award money on tuition, books or a van to cart your drum set to the next gig in.

I do care if you have a dream that needs funds and there are no scholarships available for what you deem important.

I urge the graduating class to question the status quo, never give up on their dreams and break the rules even while attempting to follow them.

I inform the school, the community and a bunch of teenagers that I think their individuality, dreams and passions are more important than what their ACT score is.

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I imagine there is widespread relief when I shut up and sit down.

I also think there are a few disappointed seniors, who did everything their teachers, parents, school counselors and society in general have told them ensures success – and I just informed them their transcripts, letters of recommendation and the need for eight years of education to do what they want to do, doesn’t  cut any ice with me and won’t win them Morgan’s award.

To my mind, those kids have a wealth of resources available to compete for.

The girl who wants to visit Japan and write about it, doesn’t.

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So today, when I watched the RSAnimate clip of Sir Ken Robinson’s lecture, “Changing Education Paradigms”, I was heartened.   Someone else feels the same way.  Given it’s popularity on the net, there are several someones out there.

And now I have a beautiful and entertaining way to share my thoughts with others, via his eloquence.

Thank Sir Robinson – you just made my year!

A New Look at Education

I usually just post my thoughts and leave you to your own devices  – but today, I’m ardently asking for 15 minutes of your time (reading my post time + watching linked clip)

I’ve been dissatisfied with the focus of our educational systems and cultural obsession with higher education for a long time.

Not that I doubt the sincerity, dedication and perseverance of those who work in our educational system.  Nor do I question knowledge being important and  I believe everyone deserves access to knowledge.

I just see how much we are losing in talent and productivity given our current way of doing things.  Many Kids ARE left behind – true creativity and pure brilliance is often disregarded, squandered on the useless and plain pushed aside in our society -  where individuality  is cramped by systems based on conformity and standards for measuring “intelligence” are woefully narrow in scope.

Thankfully, I no longer have to figure out how to explain my gazillion observations to you.

Sir Ken Robinson, via his RSA lecture, Changing Education Paradigms has said it all. ( And in a much more positive way than I probably would have!)

If you are a parent, student, teacher or healthcare provider, I’m Begging You to take 11 minutes and 14 seconds out of your day to watch the above clip.

If you wonder why education is failing, why drop-out rates are increasing, and question why ADHD has become a modern phenomena, here ya go.

School administrator, business owner, stay-at-home mommy – I don’t care who you are, Please Watch.

And I’m asking you to do your part in spreading the word!

Thank You!

Understanding Signs

My trip down memory lane this morning reminds me Ms. Taurus-Lotsa-Fun and her family where males outnumbered females 4 to 1 resulted in profound changes to my perspectives.

She was mistress of the house where many of the local teeny-boppers chose to congregate.   Good food, comfortable furnishings and a housekeeping code that allowed for the come and go traffic of young people all combined with laughter, jokes and wisdom from a cheerful Mom and story-telling Dad.

The results were entertaining and comfortable surroundings for those struggling with broken hearts, rebellious inclinations and/or boredom on a Saturday night in a small town.

A garage stocked with every tool you could think of, a fridge with beer if you were old enough and a drive home or sleeping bag on the living room floor, if you overindulged , were just icing on the cake.

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She knew what it was like to be a lone female in a male dominated world – hence, if you ever dated one of her sons, then you had to really screw up before you lost ‘daughter status’ in her eyes.

Due to a hubby who worked road construction and was often gone during summer vacation when remodeling projects were performed, she had also gotten pretty adept at learning how to take care of things herself.  Time spent with her meant you might just learn how to run electrical wiring and hang sheetrock.

No matter how many hours she had worked, it was still pretty certain any time spent in her company would result in your ears being rewarded with the melody of her giggling and laughter.   Slow to anger and a hell-hath-no-fury personality when her Taurus temper had finally blown, she was sure to let you know when you were getting to close to triggering Vesuvius.   Gave you plenty of cheerful warning spurts so you could back away and re-think your path choices.

In short, a safer bet than most authority figures peppering the town.

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I always wanted to pattern my home and mommying traits after her.  I desired to provide a safe and fun place for the local teenagers to hang out in.

I failed miserably.

Somewhere along the line, I got it in my head that earning money and being ‘socially acceptable’ were more important than having fun.  That Christmas tree decorating and applying wall texture was too important to be left to the inexperienced.  That teenagers would judge my cluttered house the same way neat and control freaks do.

In short, I had been seduced into the adult world of responsibility, duty, 401(k) plans, home and garden living.

I had also forgotten how to play.

To my everlasting regret, Morgan told me he had informed his girlfriend to make sure any Christmas ornament she purchased as a gift for me better be gold or maroon, else it wouldn’t find a place on Mom’s tree….”cuz she’s anal about it…”

I faithfully hang the properly purchased and gifted gold ornament at front and center every year…and every year I wonder what beautiful thing I would have received if I had not become a stupid adult…

It serves to remind me of the love and desire to please extended by the gracious to the insane who don’t deserve it…

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About four months before my son’s death, frequent clashes with him made me realize how far I had strayed from the ideals of my pre-motherhood days.  Hence, I decided it was time to do something about it.

I quit a job that was resulting in me being grumpy, tyrannical and stressed.   But I had left it too late.   I only  had 10 days left before Morgan would be gone forever.   Had I known, I would’ve stuck to my initial two-weeks notice and my last day would have been in March, instead of May.  Won’t make that mistake again…

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Most of my Facebook friends are young enough to be my children.   I read their posts and ask stupid questions, like ‘What’s mafia wars?   Are they cracking down on mob crime, utilizing teen-age and 20-something informants?” and “Is Pirate Bay the new vacationing spot?”

I’ve found the young are much more tolerant of stupid questions than adults are.

Because of our mutual loss, they are also very nice when I freak out and send floods of advice after they publish posts complaining about headaches.

They don’t tell me to quit worrying,  being negative, or bossing them around.

Instead, they apologize for scaring me and thank me for caring about them.

In my mind, the friendship of young people rates right up there with dogs and horses.   There’s quite a bit of tolerance for the stupid behaviors of others.

I see this as a sign my choice of friends is a good one.

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I’ve also found out the next generation of leaders are much more supportive and open to new ideas than those my age.   They understand rebellion and the desire to ‘do something different’.

They also appreciate that I reply “Yes” when they post, “Ugghhh…work…can I just sleep in front of my computer?” instead of accusing me of luring them down the path to hell….

They also like the fact that the F-word doesn’t send me into a conniption fit and that I know how to use it too.  I have freedom of expression in their circle.

I now try to do what I can to make sure adults don’t corrupt them too much.   I engage in the fun and irresponsible as often as I can.   I try to point out the insanity of our current structure and remind them creative solutions don’t usually come from the same minds that formed the problem.  I constantly tell them not to mold their minds to current standards, else we’re all doomed.

I encourage being a Free Spirit and following your heart.  I try to award the annual scholarship to those who know how to follow the rules and break them all at the same time.

I regularly publish posts to remind them just because someone is an adult, doesn’t mean they know jack…

In short, I try to live in a manner that would be met with approval by Morgan and Ms. Taurus-Lotsa-Fun.

I’ve been given Signs that’s the way to go…

Surviving The (parent) ‘Hood

Beautiful morning.   Fresh breeze, Peak looks beautiful, my writing is going well…  I’m in the Zone.

Noise the pitch and timbre of a fire engine’s siren finally penetrates my self-induced dazed.   Out my window, I observe the fire drill in process across the street.

Perhaps a little background is in order.   Nice family lives near by.  Mom, Dad, two little ones, I’m guessing 2 and 3 or 3 and 4.   Neither old enough for school.  Usually pretty quiet during the weekdays, so I’m surmising both parents work.  But come the evenings and weekends, Dad and one or two of the child units can be seen ‘havin’ fun’ in the garage.

But not this morning.   Judging by the pitch of the first bellow, I surmise either physical or emotional hurt was inflicted on one child by the other.   The first wail is one  long, loud protest full of indignation, rather than actual hurt.   (Hey, I’m a Mom, I know these things!)

Dad, probably badly mislead by the same child psychologist that led me down the wrong path years ago, decides to join in, with his own rendition of throwing a tantrum.   (the advice is, when your child sees something more immature than him/her, they will stop in speechless amazement.  It’s hard for most folks to remember how to act more immature than 2.   So this advice does not work often.)

Pretty soon, the other child is chiming in, from pure empathy and about four neighborhood dogs believe the Twilight Telephone has started and they better add their part to the conversation, quick, before it’s all over.

(I’ve tried proofreading 3 sentences for the past 4 minutes or so now.   Can’t concentrate and feel irritation at the loud interruption.  But instead of trying to make it work, I take a break and go to the window, watching the drama unfold.)

One child is carried into the house by Dad – this one seems to have genuinely gotten into real crying by now.    The heaving little chest and hiccupped sobs tell you that True Hurt, real or imagined, has occurred. (My guess is all the hollering and howling have now scared us… bad.)

Out comes Dad, who returns to the house with the other child, who is not hurt, but still wailing at the top of his lungs with Indignation and boy, does he look pissed.    Wailing and howling from the dogs drown out some of the conversation (Dad has figured out by now that the so-called advice of shocking your kids speechless by your own tantrum is not working), but the gist of it gets through.   Little Mr. Ticked-off  is being given a time-out.

To which the continuous shrieking of “No! No! No!” is the only answer.

I hear and count the sound of parental hand coming into contact with diapered butt, five times.     Shrieking raises a decibel or five.  No more taps can be heard and the wailing has disappeared into the depths of the house, so I figure the time-out place has been reached, even if resentfully.

Then slowly, the dogs stop howling, the shrieking and crying stop and only the frustrated words of a Dad and the soothing responses of a Mom are left.

“He has to learn he can’t do that.   How else are we going to teach him?   I don’t know what gets into him.”  I can hear not only the frustration but also the confusion as well as a little slice of, “where did I go wrong?   What’s wrong with my parenting?”

Soft spoken words I can hear, but not clear enough to make out.   I think this go-around, Mom is in charge of drying tears, de-escalating anger and boosting the confidence of one who truly does want to be a good parent.

I think about going over and saying, “I know just how you feel and I’ve been where you’re at right now.  But cheer up.   It just gets better and better.”

But I figure its not really my place to.  Plus, right now, I don’t think he’d believe me.

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Dad might be embarrassed, knowing I’m sharing this with you.    Maybe he doesn’t know that anyone who is a parent understands this morning only too well.

Sad thing is, the only instruction manual kids come with is the one in the parent’s head.   The one that either got written by their parents, or the one they rewrote when they dreamed about what a perfect childhood would look like.   And yes, children can give us a lot of pointers on how parenting should be as long as they haven’t been exposed to TV, school, or the brats who live down the road. (yes, I’m prejudiced sometimes.)

There are all kinds of parenting books and some are actually written by Real Parents.   But alot of the advice and guidance handed out concerning parenting comes from folks too busy with getting a Ph.D., writing, interviewing and lecturing, to actually Have Children.   So my question always is, “What do they know?”

Not alot, sometimes.   And if your childhood was  less than good, chances are you are rooting around for some advice or else you’re rewriting the player’s manual, experimenting as you go.  And when stress, the unexpected and unmanageable all happen at once, it’s hard not to dive right back into the traditions and rituals you grew up with.    And later, remorse and regret when you realize, you lost it, what you tried didn’t work or maybe you should really leave this parenting stuff to the experts.  (You know, the ones who don’t actually have children themselves.)

Update – while I’ve been musing about parenting, peace and harmony have returned.   Mr. Ticked off and Dad sat on the porch for awhile, little arms around big neck.   Now they are in the garage, trying to get the vehicle Dad is restoring started.    Mr. Ticked off has become Mr. Handy Manny and is right ready with whatever tool Dad needs.    Mom is watering the flowers and looking pleased.

The crisis that wasn’t a crisis after all.

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There’s a reason why opposites attract.   Its all about Parenting.    Someone has to be the one to keep their cool and help heal and bolster, no matter what catastrophe just happened.  If a couple has way different sets of phobias, fears and what’s important, then somehow, all the bases get covered.

In my house, that means I’m in charge of answering questions about sex, love, spirituality, why junior high girls are mean and high school girls think they’re fat when they aren’t.  I’m also in charge of answering questions about history, the universe and the natural world. (Thank goodness for Wikipedia!)

Hubby is in charge of figuring out which cell phone, computer or software is safe for use and a good buy.   He’s also in charge of deciding whether the boys can shoot BB guns, have rollerblades or go snowboarding.  I think those things are too dangerous.   He reminds me I’m raising boys.  Once they got older, he was also in charge of purchasing birthday and Christmas gifts, because I think Xbox is the antichrist and I still can’t figure out how to get my pictures from my Blackberry phone to the computer, other than emailing them to myself right after I take them. (yes, he’s in charge of purchasing my technology too…)

I remind him that life is too short and how dirty socks lying on the floor won’t matter in a hundred years.

He reminds me that just because I’ve lost 3, doesn’t mean I can smother the one we’ve got left.

I’m in charge of finding out the REAL reason a little person is upset.

He’s in charge of telling me to back off, when the answer is, “Nothing.”  (even though I know it’s not ‘nothing’!)

Somehow, we’re always there to reassure each other and when necessary, to protect the little person in our house from to much smothering or micro-managing.  Too much mushy-gushy or too much bossing.

Little Persons need someone in their corner, All The Time!   Little Persons that don’t get this, turn into Mean Adults.

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About a year after Morgan died, I ran into an old friend.   Seems she and a colleague were writing a book about parenting.  (She’s allowed too, she’s got three Little Persons).    She complimented me on my parenting views regarding teenagers.  That was fine with me, since I’ve been around her teeny-boppers and pre-teens.   I enjoyed them.

Although I had changed a lot about my parenting style before Morgan died, there were even more things I changed after I realized that no matter what you do, they can still be gone in an instant.   My youngest is old enough to be a good reality check for me.

When we get cross-ways, he’s now old enough for us to sit down and talk about what exactly is causing the problem, what each of us want, and where to find the common ground we can both live with.  Kids do know the boundaries and they know when they are being selfish or taking advantage.

It’s not beat or talked into them.  They know.

But they also see a lot of adults around engaging in the same behavior, so why not?

The hardest conversation I ever had with a child was trying to explain why I expected better behavior from them than they were observing in the adults around them.

“Because I know you can.   Because you’re capable and compassionate.   Because there’s still a chance for you to fashion something different for yourself.   You don’t have to live the way these folks do.”

If I had gone over to Dad this morning, that’s what I would have shared with him.   That Little Person is your best friend.   They’re  the one that reminds you when what you say and what you do don’t match up.

They  keep you honest and make you more conscious about the choices you make.

They are your own little Dali Llama, gift of the Universe.

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

No one said Teacher would show up potty-trained.

(P.S.  I will share with you the one, and I mean only one, time that the advice regarding temper tantrums pointed me in the right direction.

Morgan was 3.  Lego’s all over the living room.   Me?  I’m working graveyard shift, dispatching, and trying to figure out how to survive on 2-4 hours of interrupted naps.   He’s asked to pick up his toys.  No.

He’s asked again, more firmly.  Then he’s told, sharply.   And the tantrum begins.

I feel myself getting ready to ‘lose it’ – - so instead I start running around the house, waving my arms in wide circles (remember Windmill exercises from P.E.?  Yup, that’s it.) all the while laughing and bellowing at the top of my lungs, “I’m losing it.  I’m losin’ my bloomin’ mind” over and over.

It worked.   We ran around like wacko’s for a good five minutes or so.  I sink on the couch, exhausted.   He hugs me and says, “You’re funny mommy.”   And went over and started picking up the Legos.    I think the laughing is what did it.)