My husband and I do our best to instill these traits in our kids. We talk to our boys about the importance of hard work and setting goals. We try to give them tasks that might seem challenging to them, but that they can do and hopefully feel a sense of accomplishment for afterwards. We try to teach them with examples from our own lives. But, I have long wondered about what effect one’s ancestors can have on one’s sense of purpose and place in the world.

My questions arise from my own family histories, which at times are sad, utterly banal, or tragic, but rarely if ever noble. My maternal grandfather was an alcoholic cab driver who did little other than sit in a chair and smoke cigarettes. His wife, my grandmother, was a vicious gossip and so unpleasant few could tolerate her company, and the two together had a disastrous marriage. My paternal grandfather was also a cab driver and a sometime petty criminal who was hauled away in the paddy wagon more than once (you can read about a painting robbery he was involved in here: Gallery of Fools, by Jerome Tuccille, and married my father’s mother because he thought she had money. My grandmother, it turns out, did not have money and was a miserable woman as a result of this loveless marriage. All of these grandparents made for emotionally abusive parents for my own parents. If we go back another generation, the stories are yet more colorful. My paternal grandmother’s father owned a speakeasy in the Bronx during prohibition and was a snappy dresser (he is by far the biggest success story among my ancestors). Other than that, all I know was that he was a tyrant as a father. I don’t know much about his wife, my great grandmother. My paternal grandfather’s father was–this is priceless–the town lunatic, who was married off to the town cripple, my great grandmother. I don’t use these terms to be callous, that’s how the story has been passed down in the family. My maternal grandfather was physically and emotionally abused by his father, and his mother sounded like a long-suffering woman from what I know. My maternal grandmother’s parents were farmers. The mother is always described as cruel, but the children all seemed to have some affection for the father, although the stories are mixed. All my great grandparents were immigrants from either Italy or Germany, and poor. And there, more or less, you have it.

Despite their different backgrounds in terms of country of origin, they all shared one trait in common, and that is an inferiority complex. Each of them, from the stories I’ve heard, would respond to their children’s expression of their goals with a comment along the lines of, “oh, you think you’re better than us? You think you’re fancy?” Or, my grandfather’s now legendary line, “oh, they think they’re the ultra ultra.” My mother desperately wanted to go to college, but her dreams were thwarted by her mother, who did not want her daughter to leave, or surpass, her. My father’s educational goals were more or less supported by his family, but his father never respected him as a person, and would have been happier with a son who was clever in terms of organized crime instead of with a pen and paper, and consequently he frequently put my father down, calling him “little puke.” The negative messages sent by these fiercely unhappy parents constrict a child as tightly as shackles around the ankles.

I have listened to these stories over the years, told by my parents who wanted my brother and I to feel very separate from them. The stories were sometimes told as outrageous tales, sometimes as horror stories. We were never encouraged to identify with any of these people.

Despite my parents’ rough roots, my mother climbed her way to a good career in advertising in New York and my father became an author published many times over, and a stockbroker. They moved us to a nice suburb with good schools, and we learned to ski and traveled to Europe as a family. They were determined to give my brother and I good educations, and they did.

Probably around the time I was in college, I became very aware of other people talking about the earlier generations in their families. However, the stories I heard were about very different kinds of people. Everyone’s parents, grandparents or great-grandparents seemed to be founders of well-known companies, partners in successful law firms, or people that almost qualified for the olympics. They were world-travelers or women professors or activists that really made a difference. My friends have wonderful stories of visits with loving grandparents that taught them to make clothing, build boats or ride horses. My friends have fond memories of sailing on grandpa’s boat or visiting some beautiful beach house that was built by hand by family members only, using post and beam construction. At times I’ve wondered if people think I’m lying when I tell stories about my ancestors, or if maybe my friends just feel sorry for me. Still, having such a motley crew of unsavory characters for ancestors produces it’s own weird kind of pride and has its benefits. For example, I’m hardly tied to generations of family traditions for anything, which has created a sort of freedom that many people never experience. But, I digress.

When I wonder what traits I might have inherited from previous generations, you can forgive me for hoping that genetics don’t necessarily play a big role in how people turn out. There are a few positive things I know about my direct ancestors: My paternal grandmother was apparently good at refinishing furniture, though no samples of her work remain. My maternal grandmother was a registered nurse, having received an education through a program for poor girls, and a good cook. I think my maternal grandfather was mechanically inclined and worked on war ships during WWII. My paternal grandfather was, he said, a good dancer, though I never saw him dance.

But maybe you can see what I’m getting at here. I wonder how much belief in one’s own DNA contributes to success in life. I’ve always imagined that if someone looks to their ancestors and sees captains and presidents and stars and innovators that they may subconsciously believe that that’s what they are too, and that there’s no reason they can’t experience similar successes in life. If that’s true, then the descendants of drunks, criminals, wise guys and generally nasty people may feel it’s in their genes.

I’ve informally researched this topic by wondering about it and living life, and have found that the people who seem the most confident in a deep way come from some very fine stock. They are not arrogant, they are just solid, confident people who truly believe in themselves to their core. On the other hand, many people from difficult backgrounds seem to have very low general self esteem, probably because they don’t come from much and nobody gave them any reason to believe in themselves.

All that said, since I can’t change what I come from, I want to focus on what messages these parents of good stock are sending to their children, because I think that may play a significant role in how kids turn out. It makes sense that confident parents will produce confident children. But they must also be good parents that take an interest in and encourage their children in the first place. For every wonder child I know born to a wonder family, I know the curious examples of individuals born to families of abundantly successful people who turn into adults that can hardly make one good choice in life. What happened there? Were the kids too blinded growing up in the dazzling glow of a wildly successful parent? Was the parent too narcissistic to pay any attention to the kids? Or, do some kids naturally have low self-esteem and rebel against their successful parents out of fear of failure?

Sometimes in parenting, I feel I am playing a little game. I’m not naturally confident. However, over the years I’ve learned to take the attitude of what the hell, I may as well try to do the things I want to do because if I don’t, what else will I do? That attitude helped me travel, go to grad school and take fiddle lessons. When I really hit my limitations, I have learned to try to compete against myself, going for my own personal bests instead of comparing myself to others. I learn these tricks from my more confident friends, from books, from learning about famous people I admire. This is all hard work for me, but then, if I don’t do the work, what else will I do? As a parent I’m hyper-conscious of how I react to my own challenges and those of my children. At ages 5 and 8 both kids have already exhibited natural talents and weaknesses. How I react to their accomplishments and struggles is, I think, one of the most important tasks I have as a parent and one I find difficult. What is the right way to deal with a child who knows he isn’t good at something? How can I make sure I’m not sending an “our people can’t do that kind of thing” message? What is the appropriate way to react to a child when something comes very easily?

Parenting is a hard job and no matter how hard I try to send the right messages to my kids, I will make mistakes. I remain open to learning. However, I find myself playing up the talents of my parents, cousins, and any family members I can find any good information about, just because if my hunch about core confidence comes from one’s provenance, I want my kids to think they are descended from great genes too. Just in case.

But then I noticed the somewhat surprised look on the face of Michele’s friend and surveyed the scene for the first time that day through the eyes of an outsider who happens to be a non-parent. It looked violent. There were weapons and sharp things and tools everywhere. All activity centered around banging and chopping and lunging with sharp objects. Michele and I must have had the same thought and burst out laughing. Her friend said, “I guess you get used to this.” And yes, I guess you do.

I am so used to boy play now I barely notice it. I have long come to accept that most boys like weapons and rough housing, it’s part of their DNA. If I hadn’t noticed Michele’s friend’s reaction to the scene and he’d asked me to describe Hugo, I’d say that he’s basically pretty gentle, and I would have said that while he was dueling, without a hint of sarcasm. And he is, for a boy. I’ve learned that although this is the way most of them often play, that it’s not really complete chaos. They want to know how to use the tools correctly and they don’t want to hurt their friends. They have a kind of “off” button so that if things get a little out of hand they can switch gears and lighten up.

The other day after soccer practice Hugo was actually wrestling with a little girl, Stella. They have known and loved each other forever, and although they were throwing each other to the ground, they were laughing the whole time. I was so happy to see them having so much fun together, when another little boy from the team ran over and wanted to join in their fun. His mother told him no, he couldn’t play with them, because it wasn’t nice. She practically grabbed her son by the ear and led him away, while he kept turning back longingly, every fiber in his body wanting to wrestle with his teammates. And I really felt awfully sorry for that kid.

My husband read an article a few years ago that said that boys who have fathers that wrestle with them do much better socially than those who don’t. The reason is because they learn how to have physical fun with their friends, but they also learn how to do it safely and how to not let this type of play get out of hand. The instinct is there, and by wrestling with their dads, they learn how to make it a safe outlet for fun. I’ve noticed that kids all seem to know which other boys can do this appropriately, and which can’t. To the casual observer it just looks like a rough pile of boys, but among the boys there seems to be consensus about who never means to hurt anyone and who does, and who won’t stop when you tell him to.

If you haven’t been around lots of little boys before, it can take some getting used to. But to me, it’s old hat.

I turned 40 this year, and having reached this milestone I can look back with clarity and see that each decade of my adult life has been markedly different from the last, and that the next one is setting itself up to be very different again.

Without question, my twenties were a time for personal exploration, adventure and growth. I finished college and tried several different career paths, none of them a good fit. Interspersed with these not-quite-right jobs was a lot of travel. Budget, shoe-string travel of course, thanks to the low-paying jobs, but after some quick math I discovered that I spent nearly two years of that decade out of the country. By contrast, I only spent seven weeks of my thirties outside of the United States. I lived like a pauper during the decade of my twenties using milk crates and hand-me-down futons for furniture, wearing second-hand clothing, and not owning a car. I also experimented with everything from sky diving to African dance classes and in trying to figure out who I was did all sorts of contradictory things like smoke cigarettes while enjoying the late-night bar scene AND work out regularly while making sure I had enough whole grains and calcium in my diet. But, by the end of my twenties and all that experimenting I had met my future husband, started graduate school and felt a little more settled.

My thirties, without a doubt, have been about raising young children and family life.  Our first baby was born when I was 32, about a year after I finished grad school. During the decade we bought and renovated three houses (I would not recommend this) and sold two of them. That wasn’t really a plan, just what ended up happening. I cooked more meals at home than I had during my entire life up to that point, and life has become much more complicated. I traded in my old milk crates for real furniture, took on mortgage and car payments, and sunk roots in a town and community. Although I’ve done some freelance work, this decade was definitely NOT about my career.

And now, with my youngest child going off to full day kindergarten next September, I am on the brink of a new phase. The phase of having kids, not babies, at home. What will my forties be about? Soon I will have something that I have not had in more than eight years: time.  Subtracting commute time, having both kids in school  all day will leave me with 30 hours per week to organize as I see fit. The changes have been creeping in—my life is not centered around play dates and kid swaps any more. I’ve been adding more freelance work and volunteer projects to my schedule. So, with all this FREEDOM ahead of me, I should be thrilled, right?

I’m excited, yes, but part of the reason for that raised pulse rate is that I am practically paralyzed with fear. I mean, the idea of entering into a phase where I can actually focus on myself without all the distractions I had in my twenties is great. I don’t have to worry about the dating scene or what my career direction will be—all that at least I’ve got set up. But now I’m afraid that it all won’t work out. What if I don’t get good design jobs, or enough work? What if it’s too lonely working from home? What if, if it is too lonely, I can’t get a job in an actual office? Will I really, for once, take the time to do the things that are important to me like painting and volunteer work? Will I be able to stay focused?

These questions won’t be answered for some time and the transition will take a while. I will miss having kids at home even while enjoying the peace and quiet. I will probably experience euphoric moments of enjoying freedom and accomplishing things alternating with low moments feeling like I will never be the person I want to be. I will probably find that those six hours every day while the kids are in school go very quickly (everyone tells me this is true) and I’ll probably realize that all the grocery shopping, cooking, schedule arranging and other household management duties are really very time-consuming. I will probably increase my expectations in every area from personal fitness to what I cook for dinner, so that everything I do will take more time. But, as my friend Sandy instructed me, I will really need to take some time to breathe and appreciate this new phase and not be too hard on myself.

And, hopefully, I will face this phase with some grace and maturity. On top of other changes I have noticed more wrinkles and gray hair as I face this new decade than I did when I faced the last. Doesn’t maturity come with those gray hairs? And also, instead of buying Elle or Vogue magazine today as an indulgence I bought copy of More (for women over 40) because the article about empty nesters seemed more interesting to me than an article on Fergie, “On Fame, Josh, and Being Super Sexy.” That must make me mature, right?

In any case, once again I step into the unknown, as we all must do from time to time.  I am going to try to embrace the change, enjoy some more time, and feel optimistic about the future. But now I must go, my five-year old keeps climbing out of bed because he’s “not tired.” And, although change is coming, I’m obviously not quite there yet.

However, we just had a wonderful visit with Evie and her family, in Colorado, where they now live. Jasper and Evie have matured to the grand old age of eight, and they are both still passionate about the natural sciences. So, you can imagine how thrilled they were to go to the Denver Museum of Nature and Science. We made our way to the Gems and Minerals exhibit, and being there with the two of them was an experience in itself. Crowds of people come from behind and passed us while Jasper and Evie were glued to each case, studying each stone. They would get excited. “Oh, silicates, I knew this section would be huge, there are so many!” Or, “oh, look! Uvarovite! I didn’t know it was a kind of garnet!”  At one point Jasper saw some smoky quartz and said, “Cool, smoky quartz, I’ve got some right here,” and then he reached into the sizeable rock collection in his pocket to extract a piece of smoky quartz. A short while later Evie said, “why are all these people rushing through here? They can’t really see anything if they rush by it so fast.” When we got to the Tourmalines she checked every case for her favorite, Watermelon Tourmaline, and was disappointed until she finally found one in the last case.  They looked at the chemical makeup of the various examples and were thrilled to find that some only varied slightly after looking through the list of elements: Pb, Co, Cu…..

Trying to be the ever-supportive mom, I let them take as long as they wanted to see the exhibit and patiently let them explain to me what they knew about the various minerals and gems and why they crystals were certain shapes and what their favorite shapes were. They both had little patience for the polished and cut stones, much preferring everything in their natural form. But, after a long, long, while, even my patience wore thin. “Hey guys, have you seen enough? Should we meet up with everyone else now?” My questions were met with en emphatic “No!” from both of them, and I would bite my tongue and just watch them, both utterly transfixed, and listen to them exclaim from time to time, “Oh how cool! Fibrous crystals! They look soft but they’re really hard!”

Later, Evie’s mother, Kita, and I had a good laugh over our children. I think I can speak for Kita too when I say that I will be thrilled for whatever path in life my children choose to take as long as they are good people and are willing to work hard. However, it is hard to imagine these two children growing up and choosing a path other than science. I feel happy for all the plants, animals and rocks that are so passionately loved by these two kids. I know there are other people out there that share these interests to the same degree, but I don’t often meet them and so really appreciate how special Jasper and Evie are for being so passionate at such an early age. I will continue to do whatever is in my power to encourage and feed these voracious interests, but next time I take these kids to a museum, I will bring another adult along as backup, because they wear me out!

In a quick summary, it describes the temperament of an introvert, and touches on different qualities they possess, how they learn, how they react to different situations, and how they actually use their brains differently than extroverts. As I read it, I saw so much of my older son, Jasper, in there that I had an Aha! Moment, “oh, that’s what he is!” The article was very positive and there was no judgment placed, it is simply what is. First of all, since Jasper is 8, I guess someone could ask me why it took me so long to figure this out. But I can honestly say that although I’ve described him as quiet, reserved, shy, and maybe even introverted, I’m pretty sure I’ve used these terms interchangeably. I didn’t realize that introvert meant anything other than shy, and I now know they don’t mean the same thing at all. The article also mentions that introverts are very misunderstood, and that really rang true! My son has been misunderstood by me, never mind the outside world, for a long time. With my new found “wisdom” I now cringe at how I have thought that we needed to work on Jasper’s social skills because he’s not gregarious. I thought I could transform him into an outgoing person, somehow, and that this was goal, even though he’s actually quite polite and can play beautifully with friends for hours demonstrating excellent skills in sharing, compromising, and collaborating. I now understand that a person can be the most content and well-adjusted person in the world, and be an introvert. They won’t act like a well-adjusted extrovert, but they’re not supposed to. I finally understand my son.

I feel like singing from the mountaintops, “my son is an introvert, my son is an introvert!” I want to declare a national introvert day, although instead of having parties everyone could just stay home and quietly work on projects. I see my life raising Jasper flashing before my eyes: bringing him to playgrounds and playgroups as a toddler and being confused as to why he’d cling to me or play by the bushes alone instead of with other children, quietly contemplating leaves or rocks; bringing him to birthday parties and having him just watch the hullabaloo without joining in. I remember with horror dragging him, as a kindergartner, to the “school dance” which was a gymnasium filled with screaming children and loud music and watching him sit on a chair, observing it all, and asking to go home. I remember taking him to California last spring, picking up a bunch of our friends’ kids, and bringing the whole crew on a tour of Lucas Films to see the Star Wars stuff. Jasper’s whole face just glazed over as his body visibly shut down. I cringe at the memory.

But, that’s all over now. I GET my kid. And, all things considered, I haven’t done too badly as a parent. For every overwhelming social gathering I’ve dragged him to we’ve sat for hours quietly reading or drawing together, and as a family we’ve taken many a hike in the woods. For every overwhelming activity I’ve enrolled my child in, I’ve allowed him to stop going when it was clear it was NOT his thing (I’m still haunted by the memory, “mommy, why did you MAKE me go to cub scouts?”). Fortunately, despite my troubles understanding our child, my husband never has, and at many of the aforementioned gatherings my husband happily took Jasper away from the crowds to collect seeds or search for insects while I chatted away with friends in the middle of the pack.

I understand now that no matter how many large gatherings or busy activities I take him to, he will never “develop” the skills to enjoy them. In addition to the article I am now reading a book about raising introverted kids, I am realizing that he’s a happy and thriving introvert. I feel a weight of anxiety lift off me.

Still, I realize that introverts are not necessarily valued in our society and often misunderstood. The book I’m reading describes how many introverts are mistakenly stuck with labels ranging from ADD to Integration Sensory Disorder to Asperger’s. I want to go on an “introverts awareness campaign,” and I’ve started by forwarding the article to my son’s pediatrician and guidance counselor. I will send it to his teacher, too, although she seems to appreciate introverts just fine.

In any case, although Jasper may continue to be misunderstood by people like, well, me, I will look on the bright side. I think of all the money we will save by never taking Jasper to Disney World, which I think might be his worst nightmare. And, I am looking forward to all the sleep I will not be losing in the future, because I know that although he may not run with a pack of extroverted children, he is very happy just being the kind, contemplative introvert that he is.

Fortunately, I have a plan B. Instead of dwelling on today’s non-existent small problems, I feel that I can at least look to what I might be worrying about down the road, and sort of nip those future problems in the bud before they start. I am going to the gym frequently to put an end to the “saggy butt in a bathing suit” problem before summer. I take fish oil to avoid all future health concerns. And, I am doing CSS tutorials to get up to speed on current web design technology to fend off future, “oh no, the kids are both in school full-time and I don’t have a plan” worries. Now, when  I have free time, I do the tutorials and apply what I’ve learned to a web site I’m doing for a local film festival. I’m doing more volunteering. And, I’m still taking fiddle lessons. And guess what? When I’m doing this in a nice focused way, I don’t have time to get wrapped around the axle about stupid stuff. It’s like magic.

So, I’ve revised my resolution a little. Instead of trying to not get wrapped around the axle about stupid stuff, I am going to find more things I really want to do that I care about, because little by little, my kids need me just a little less. But that’s okay, there’s nothing to worry about.

This year, I came up with the idea to make a fire in the fire pit in the yard and have the kids make s’mores. But we didn’t start that right away. They were to have pizza first, and before that was “free play” upstairs while everyone was arriving and pizza was baking. Well, for the first 15 minutes all we could hear was wild, over-exuberant yelling and jumping. Almost instantly my younger son was crying as a result of a rough tackle, and one of the party-goers came to me with a bloody nose. Fortunately it wasn’t a bad one. Thoughts of Martinis floated through my head as I looked at the clock and saw we had one hour and 45 minutes to go. Fortunately, the pizza was done. Food calmed them, and then I sent the children into the yard where we set them up with sticks and marshmallows. And it was… a hit! Thank God! Every child loved it. The fire! The s’mores! More fire! When we ran out of marshmallows the children just wanted to burn things and my husband carefully cut sticks into small bits and let the kids toss them into the fire. This lasted quite a while, and they played outside, despite the cold, for most of the party. Then they started trickling back in. We sang happy birthday and had more dessert and they entertained themselves by blowing up balloons until their parents showed up.

My son was delighted and only sad that the party had to end, and I felt like we successfully made it through another kid birthday party. That was Saturday, and I am still tired today, Wednesday. I just get emotionally drained throwing those kinds of events. Why do I get so wrapped around the axle about a child’s birthday party? Even the glass of wine after the party didn’t quite cut it. At the moment at least I am thankful that I don’t have to organize another one of these events until next October, when Hugo turns 6. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll just want a nice, quiet family dinner. But, I’m not counting on it.

Hugo’s birthday having been fully celebrated, both boys in one week had parties at school and parents were invited and encouraged to bring food. So, even though my free time was once again taken up with the festivities, I prepared yet more treats to bring into their classrooms so they can feel adequately loved. I watched them both, separately, frost and decorate cookies and play games like “hot potato” but with a twist so the game became “hot pumpkin.” Wasn’t I tortured with this stuff enough as a child?

I finished the costumes today and Halloween is tomorrow. Weather permitting we will have soccer games in the morning and trick or treating at night. I love seeing the kids dressed up and think it’s a fun holiday, but can anyone blame me if just a little part of me can’t wait until it’s over? And, it will be good to stop focusing on the holiday since we should really spend some time Sunday helping Jasper with his science fair project and Hugo with his coat of arms for school (yes, he’s just in preschool, but he, oops, I mean we, get an awful lot of homework).

I can’t believe that even though my kids are only 5 and almost 8 years old, I already long for the simple life when there were so few obligations on their behalf. Schools now are out of control, I think, with all the parties and forms and just so much parental involvement. I feel pulled into a million directions. And sometimes, I feel like I have no life.
I reflect on me a little bit. I used to be pretty interesting, I think, but now there’s so little of me that gets to be me. And there’s so much I want to do. Some of what I want to do is dull, like paint the bedroom and organize the overflow room on the 3rd floor. Some of what I want to do is use my degrees and my brain and my skills. Some of what I want to do is spend an entire weekend going to musuems that do not have dinosaur bones or rocket ships in them or hiking trails longer than 1 mile. I could throw a night of dancing in there.

So here I am bitching and it’s not even Thanksgiving yet, and there will be plenty to do for that. I am already giving thought to Jasper’s December 12 birthday party, especially because one of his good friends planned his birthday party to take place that same day, which is causing a bit of stress around here. Somehow, we will celebrate his birthday, and then Jim’s on December 19, and somehow I will decorate for Christmas and bake cookies and plan meals, and I will do all this while Jim is in California or Washington or Texas or Michigan and then he will come home and Santa, a.k.a mommy, will come and make everyone feel loved and spoiled once again.

I’d like to start a movement to move some holidays around. Why can’t we celebrate Thanksgiving in April? We all know Christmas 25 has nothing to do with Jesus’ birth, why not celebrate Christmas in March or May? I can’t do much about my kids’ birthdays, but I could really use a breather this time of year. It’s just too much. And I know Martha Stewart would be shocked to read all this, but I guess I’m just a wimp.

When did this happen? I had no idea he’d memorized all the airplanes in the book. I guess maybe I’d realized he’d been able to follow the directions on his own for a while, but it seems like just yesterday that we got the book and I had to do all the work and he was barely able to fold the paper correctly even under my instruction.

I’m sure there will be many more moments like this, when things seem to just be plugging along without any major changes, and then we get taken by surprise. I’ve already grown accustomed to deferring to Jasper’s expertise when wanting to identify a bird or mushroom or tree, or, if I’m trying to figure out something like how long ago modern humans showed up on Earth. Of course I’m mom and for years to come I’ll be dispensing information and advice in many, if not most, areas. But I know these moments of role reversal, when I will be seeking the expertise or know-how of my children, will become more common.