A Dissertation on Why Punishment Generally Doesn't Work

I've been talking a lot lately. I know...shocking. But it's true. Between classes and licensure conferences for behavioral health professionals looking to work with kids diagnosed with Autism, I feel like the host of Oprah's Lifeclass on the Principles of Behavior. I don't consider myself an expert. I like to think of it more like....being Oprah. I'm just the messenger (actually, I do consider Oprah an expert on many things but that's for another day). (On another sidenote, I love that the word Oprah does not come up as a misspelled word on spell check. It just goes to show you how much street cred she's got.)

But anyway, in order for Behavior Specialists to continue to work with kids on the spectrum in Pennsylvania they are required to obtain a "license" and part of that requirement is sitting through 90 hours of training on a variety of subjects pertaining to working with individuals with autism. So I talk and talk and talk about all sorts of things that are important when working with this very unique population. But a lot of what I train on can be applied to people in general and is just good psychoeducational material to have in your backpocket when dealing with a child engaging in what us "behaviorists" call "behaviors".

Before I get to the title and why I think (and pretty much) know its true, let me give you a little back story. While talking and talking and talking, I'm encountering a heckler in the crowd. Other attendees referred to him as my "co-presenter". Because, no matter what I said, he felt the need to elaborate on and, in essence, show all of us how incredibly brilliant he is as a human being (and the British accent only added to his air of intelligence). Now, me being me , I initially considered this a intellectual duel per se, and met him tit for tat. I relayed information, he challenged, then I countered him with even more brilliance. It was like watching a tennis match. I know this because I could see everyone's heads bouncing back and forth between the two of us. After the second day, I made a pledge that I would no longer engage him in this manner because I started to feel like an ass.

So today, with a renewed sense of humility (I know...), and an agreement with one of our clinicians that if I felt the need to snap at Mr. Brilliant I would instead mock her (yes, she did  agree to the terms), I went in for a 5 hour stint of talking and talking and talking. And I did a pretty good job of it. First I present on the research on what causes autism (we don't really know if you were wondering) and then I gave a presentation about working with individuals with autism and the importance of looking at behavior as a valid, powerful form of communication. Now Mr. Brilliant, while still acting quite brilliant was somewhat subdued in his responses. I'm guessing he may have made the same pledge with himself that I did. But there was one thing he just wouldn't let go of, besides from being completely right in every sense of the word. He insisted, over and over again that the best way to decrease behavior is to increase punishment.

This is where I'm going to get all "expert sounding" on you. He's wrong. He's so wrong I can't even stand it. He's so wrong that I wanted to punch him, thereby punishing him, which would prove my point because there is no way he would have decreased his behavior of running his mouth about things he had no business saying.

We have all grown up in a punitive society. Historically, its what parents have done to deter negative behaviors. Your parents may have told you stories about having their mouths washed out with soap for cursing or having to sit at the table for hours because they refused to eat a green bean. They may have done these things to you themselves. You may have been spanked or even worse, abused as children. Now I want you to think back and ask yourself, did it actually work? Did you never curse again? Did you fall in love with green beans as a result of hours spent at a table? Depending on what you were spanked for (minor infraction), did you never engage in that behavior again? Did you even really know why you were being spanked in the first place? If you were actually abused, what did it teach you? To love your parents or to fear your parents?

The facts are (and there is research to back it up) that punishment only deters behavior in the very short term. More often, it simply teaches kids to discriminate, which is actually a quite valuable skill, between when they can curse (behind their parents back) and when they can't (when their parents are around). It doesn't teach them not to curse. They may suffer through eating the green beans, only to go throw them up in the bathroom. Or, it may teach them ingenious ways to rid the plate of green beans without the parent ever knowing (I've heard some dogs looovvvee green beans).

In terms of physical punishment, yes, it can be a powerful deterrent to negative behavior. I always counter the argument for the use of any form of punishment on children with behavioral or mental health diagnoses with the idea that typically developing children can learn from the cause and effect aspects of spanking. My mother used to just touch her shoe, as a signal that she may take it off and throw it at one of us, which I don't think she ever did. But that threat was enough to stop us in our tracks. On the other hand, kids with diagnoses such as autism, ADHD and ODD don't learn that way. They learn from being taught the appropriate skill, not by being punished for the inappropriate skill. So while it is NEVER okay to use physical punishment with kids diagnosed with a disorder, typically developing kids can learn from it. But at what cost? This man, who spoke so highly of the benefits of using punishment procedures, spoke openly of his disdain for his own father, who beat the living crap out a him (a variation of his own words). And he was not a young man. This hadn't happened to him 10 years ago. Or even 20 years ago. But he still hated his father for it today.

In today's society, we like to use things like "time out" as a form of punishment. We also like to take highly desired items away from our kids in order to "teach them a lesson". Well, I've got two thinking points on these strategies. In terms of time out...does your kid really care? What I'm really saying is have you spent enough "time in" with your kid ( meaning one on one positive attention) that the threat of you withdrawing attention from them for a period of time even matters? Yes, they may cry and scream and be upset in the short term but I'm here to tell you, if you are repetitively sending your kid to time out, you better be prepared to accept the fact that a) it's not working and b) you aren't spending enough quality time your child. I sent Max to time out once in his life. He is an only child and for most of his life had my undivided attention. Those 5 minutes were the longest 5 minutes of his life. Never had to do it again.

In terms of taking things away like the computer, the cell phone, the iPod or the iPad.....think very hard about that one. Because that one will hurt. Not only the child but you will hurt also. If you say no electronics for a week and that's all your child does because they wear their technology like an IV drip, are you really going to follow through? What do you think they are going to do without all that stuff? I'll tell you what most of them will do. They'll drive you completely insane until you can't take it anymore and you give in. Are you prepared to stand your ground? Like a soldier in battle? Because you are in a battle at that point. And I'd be interested to see who wins that one.

So, here's the good news in a nut shell. Rewarding your kids works. Why not let them earn the time on the iPod? Catching them being good instead of waiting for them to be bad works. It takes just as much time and energy to spend 5 minutes talking to your kid about how their day went (aka "time in") as it does sitting listening to them scream and cry for 5 minutes (aka "time out) because they asked you a question nicely and were ignored the first 5 times, so they screamed at you the 6th time. And its a much more pleasant experience.

Two Years Later: My Mother



Tomorrow is the 2 year anniversary of my mother's death. I went back and forth on whether or not I had the energy to blog about it but since I have an hour commute, by the time I got home after a very long day, I had thought out what I would say if I could muster up the energy to do it.

Anniversaries like these tend to creep up slowly. I, and maybe you, tend to start exhibiting symptoms of grief long before you, or I, recognize what they are. Crying for no reason, increased irritability and anxiety are just some of the things I've noticed I experience when the increasing "anniversaries" I've encountered in my life come to fruition.

You'd think these would be "old hat" for me by now. I know...we've all lost people. I just happened to have amassed a list of critical figures since childhood who have left this earth much earlier than either they or I were prepared for. And it sucks. And it's hard. And it really doesn't seem to get any easier the older I get. I've always been in awe of people who can funnel grief in a socially appropriate manner and then I secretly (or not so secretly) decide that these people are really just numbing out the real pain, or compartmentalizing it. I've never been good at either of these things in any part of my life, so....oh well.

So, tonight, while driving home, I spent most of the time thinking about the process of losing my mother and what that really meant to me. And I don't have any brilliant answers. Yes, it's the way it's supposed to be; I'd much rather be me losing my mother than my mother in the position she was in losing a son.

But about 40 minutes into the drive, I made the turn on 926 down by the Brandywine, over the bridge and crossed over the railroad tracks at Pocopson Road. And I turned my head left, which is the way I would have turned my car if I wanted to travel 5 more minutes to my mother's house. And I thought, without thinking, "I really should call my mom." And then I realized that wasn't even an option. And then I thought, "How could you even think that when you just spent 40 minutes debating writing a blog about your mother's death?" Crazy, huh?

And I think I have a couple of different answers to that question, and I'm guessing they are all right. First, it takes a long time to let go. It just does. I had a friend who recently lost her father say to me in an incredulous moment of grief, "Isn't it crazy how you lose them in pieces?" And it's true. You say goodbye in phases and those phases are dictated by your ability to face those dark places in yourself. You are always someone's child, no matter what your age. And that doesn't change when your parents die. It just transforms.

Second, I have found that part of me keeps my mother (and brother) alive by keeping them, always, somewhere close to the surface of my consciousness. My mother loved books; not the classics and not trashy romance novels. She loved historical fiction and psychological thrillers. But she loved them most when they were hardback. Paperback books didn't really cut it for her. She'd caress those things like they were the most beautiful things in the world. And anytime I pick up an overpriced hardback book, I have a piece of my mother. I can feel her in the room. It's true. And it's the same thing for me with my brother when I listen to 102.9. Yes...102.9. Not because he listened to that station but the classic rock (and for some reason, specifically Foreigner) is like sitting next to my brother. And that keeps him here.

And I think the other reason I so seamlessly thought to call my mother today is because, on some level, she is still here. In me. In Max. In my brother and my sisters and their kids. And even in our friends. That was the one thing that I thought about at length today on my ride home. My mother's funeral was full, not of people in their 70's like she was, but "kids" ranging in age from 40 to 55. Yes, a few were there simply to support us, never having met my mother, but so many of the "kids" in the room had connected with my mother (aka Mrs. Ciliberti, Mrs. C or Momma Joan) across the course of their lives. She had laughed with them, cried with them, told them to get out of her house, given them "the look" and even smacked a few across the head. And they loved her anyway. Just like the "kids" she had actually birthed. And that is a testament to life well lived.

Any mother who can mother those who have mothers without stepping on toes is by definition a mother. My mother was, and is, a true mother. And we were all very lucky to have her mother us. Even if we didn't know it at the time.

Owning Your Shit

I am a firm believer in owning your shit. By shit, I mean all those less than stellar qualities about yourself that maybe you should change but inherently make you who you are. I'll be honest...I've grown into this philosophy of life quite rapidly over the past few years and while, it may not make me the most likable person on the planet, it's freeing and liberating and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I think it's hard to own your shit. Who really wants to stand there and say, "I can be a real asshole when I think it's called for." But I can say that about myself because I also firmly know that I can be compassionate, empathetic, fun and thoughtful too.

I think owning your shit is really about embracing the dichotomy in yourself. And I think that's a process. I believe you've got to come to terms with some really uncomfortable realities about yourself. You've got to be able to look at every experience, even those terribly cringeworthy ones with no regrets. You've got to believe you are doing the best with what you have at the time. Because, quite honestly, I think there are times when being an asshole is called for. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of times when its wrong and unacceptable but sometimes...you gotta do whatcha gotta do.

I can say with great confidence that I see the dichotomy in myself very clearly, live in it fully and own every moment of it. I think owning it is being real. It's actually living. It's a way of saying, "You know what? This sucks and I'm not going to pretend it doesn't to make you feel better. Because if I want to be real and true and authentic, I'm going to live in my truth and you are probably going to hear about it." And I'll seldom say I'm sorry because I said it because I meant it.

I think we spend too much time worrying about what other people think. You could literally die tomorrow and have spent more time worried about how others perceive you than if you lived your live with integrity. Long story short...own your shit.

At this point, since I'm owning my shit (which is specifically that I can be a little too upfront at times, moody and have great difficulty hiding my complete disdain for lack of common sense or people's inability to own their shit), I'll also say some good things about myself (it is my blog you know...).

I am strong, smart, witty, thoughtful and empathetic. Now, those of you who have met the wrath of Carol maybe saying "Whaaa???" on some level. I can be intimidating. I know that. But I have incredible empathy for people....provided they are doing the best they can with what they have or know (see, another dichotomy).

But for every annoyed, in your face encounter with me, you are probably going to be able to remember a time I made you laugh, helped you talk it out, stood up for you when you couldn't do it yourself or actually cried when you didn't have it in you to cry for yourself (yes....I actually do that). My friends are my friends for life. I don't walk away from people or responsibility. But I can be a bitch too.

Honestly, I wish more people were like me. I wish I didn't feel like I was rocking the boat by being real. Because, no one is going to tell me that these social norms and rules out there are making people more psychologically healthy. If I'm afraid to tell you how I feel because it could potentially hurt your feelings, who is actually getting hurt? In my opinion, the answer is, both of us. Because we are just dancing around issues that we may both have feelings about all in the name of social etiquette. And who is going to suffer more from avoiding the issue? The answer, again, is both of us. Because we aren't really living. We are just going through the motions.

At this point, I'd like to say, this is a bit of a ramble that has played over and over in my mind multiple times over the past few years. I'm sure I've written about it in a variety of ways. But this time, I really just wanted to write a blog called "Own Your Shit." So I did. And I do.

The End.

Could I Have Accidentally Viewed Illegal Porn and Not Remember?

I'm not sure many of you could ask yourself the above question with a straight face, but last week, I encountered this very dilemma. You see, a strange thing happened to me at work the other day. Here I was, minding my own business (which may have been the problem, since I technically should have been answering work emails or something), chatting with a co-worker, about of all things...olive oil.
So, we are having this conversation and I told her I'd show her the website I had ordered some bottles off of and I did a Google search. The website comes up in the search and I click on the link. Up pops this pretty little website, all purple and shit, followed by a totally legit looking pop-up screen that says that a Trojan virus attack has been detected and I should click ok to clear.....which I did. Two seconds later, another pop-up appears saying the same thing but now there are 2 Trojan viruses detected. I click ok again...Big Mistake.

This appears...

Now, this picture does not do justice to the confusion and fear I felt when this screen overtook my computer. And you probably can't read everything it says so I give you the highlights:

-It starts off with the title "Internet Child Complaint Center" followed by "Department of Federal Bureau of Investigation"
-Then it starts spouting off some penal codes like "You have been illegaling viewing or distributing copyrighted content, thus infringing Article 1, Section 8, Clause B..."
-Then it says "You have been viewing or distributing illegal Pornographic content (Child porn, Zoofilia, etc.)"
-And then it basically tells me I'm going to jail.

So, a thousand things cross my mind, all while my coworker stands next to me in horror. "It was just an olive oil site. I've been in the store. Those ladies seemed normal. They told me it was BYOB (Bring Your Own Bread). Could that have been code for Bring Your Own Child Porn or Pictures of people having sex with animals? Side note - I just assumed "Zoofilia" meant people having sex with animals. I later looked it up and found out that it is in fact, Spanish, not English, for having sex with animals.

These thoughts came fast and furious, all while I'm frantically hitting the esc button to try to make it disappear to no avail. I even shut down the computer and tried to restart it but the screen came back. In the meantime, another coworker walks in my office and I'm left to explain why I am being accused of viewing porn at work.

Now, here's the best part. This coworker actually says to me, "Now wait. Do you think maybe you ran a search for your developmental psychology class on children and somehow stumbled....." And I actually start to defend myself. "No!!! No!!! I was trying to show Colleen this olive oil website. That's all." But in the back of my mind, I'm furiously running a mental catalog of everything I've ever looked at on the computer because...could she be right???

Then we notice (see photo) a drawing of a webcam and a microphone with a caption that reads "ALL ACTIVITY OF THIS COMPUTER IS BEING RECORDED USING AUDIO, VIDEO AND OTHER DEVICES".  And we actually start scanning the frame of the computer. And then Erin (my accuser) points out the computer doesn't even have a webcam or microphone. Maybe, just maybe, I've been scammed.

Then I notice that, according to the screen, if I pay the FBI some money, this will all go away (see bottom of photo). And then I start to think that I don't think the FBI would actually advertise accepting bribes.

At this point, I realize that instead of clearing the virus, I may have actually set it off, But I'm still stuck with going to tell the higher ups that I am now being watched by a line drawing of a webcam all because I wanted to show Colleen some olive oil. I've had prouder moments at work. But...not many funnier ones.

My computer was shipped out and I still don't have it back. I commandeered my part time supervisor's laptop since he's only in one day a week and he arrived today to no computer of his own. And then I had to tell him that I really wasn't looking at illegal porn. And what Zoofilia means.

Could I Write a Book?

For me, writing has always come out of living a fairly to-the-bone kind of life, just really being present to a lot of life. The writing has been really a byproduct of that. - Alice Walker

I've been writing most of my life. True story. It's a natural part of who I am; a piece of myself I've kept hidden from the outside world until the last few years. Basically, as long as I've been thinking I've been writing.

I wrote my first real "piece" in 2nd grade. It was a book (I say "book" because I not only illustrated it, but it was haphazardly bound together with some staples) titled "The Year of Two Santas". Now, I'll admit, I may have slightly plagiarized this title from a certain Christmas special that featured two brothers who reeked havoc on the weather in an attempt to ruin Christmas because Santa wanted the year off. But my idea was my own, even though it slightly resembled the dichotomy of a gift giving Santa and the gift stealing Grinch. All of this is beside the point. At the end of the day, I, a mere 7 year old writing prodigy, wrote a book about a nice Santa and a mean Santa and how they fought to the near death over how Christmas was gonna go down that year. Honestly, I'm not sure exactly, what the full story line was, but you can surmise from the title, it was brilliant.

Once my book was illustrated and bound, I was given the privilege of walking down the hall at Chadds Ford Elementary School to the kindergarten classrooms and read my story to a room full of children much, much younger than myself. I mean, they couldn't even spell yet.

And a writer was born. I continued to write throughout my youth; in cringy worthy diaries and occasional creative writing assignments. In middle school, I wrote something (what, I have no idea) that earned me a honorable mention in another "bound publication".

I've saved most of it, although lately, the thought of burning some of it (especially the diaries) has crossed my mind. Because let's face it....those diaries can contain some scary, scary shit.  The fact that I would put pen to paper and record my deepest darkest secrets of adolescence is simply put, insane. I look at my own child, nearing the tween years and wonder to myself, what if he struggles with all of those angst filled questions I did? What if he acts on those impulses and feelings like I did? Worst of all, I think, what if he found them and read them? Good thing (and bad thing) that I'm not exactly sure where they are.

I continued my love affair with writing in college, preferring papers to tests. Ask me a question and I'll write you an answer. Tell me to dissect an idea and I'm with you. Ask me to guess between 4 answers and it was a crap shoot. My senior year at Neumann College, I was one of 12 people in the Psychology program. We didn't take tests. We wrote. And I thrived. Just like a real writer, I poured myself into my papers. I really tried to figure out how the mind (not the brain) processed trauma. I actually came up with my very own theory and nearly peed my pants having to get up in front of the class to present it. My senior thesis started out with the question "Why could you beat your kid in the 1950's and it not be abuse but now it is?" and ended up being a critical analysis of what constitutes childhood historically dating back to the 1600's. I handed it in once and had it returned to me by my professor with the following feedback: "It's good enough for me but it's not good enough for you." And when my masterpiece was finally done, I let my friend John Forte read it. His feedback: "This is amazing. Not a single split infinitive." I didn't even know what a split infinitive was at the time. I'm still not 100% clear.

After college, my writing went largely dormant. Life happened. Every once in a while, I would put pen to paper but honestly, my ex-husband (not Stephen) was not very supportive of me exploring my mind so I didn't. At least not by writing. I always thought. I'm a thinker. He may have made me feel dumb for writing but he couldn't stop me from thinking. And writing for me was just thinking on paper. Going back to grad school helped get me back in a writing frame of mind but honestly, you try writing with a 2 year old yelling your name every 2 minutes. Although, I will toot my own horn for a moment and tell you that I did win $100 in a writing contest in which I was charged with explaining what Kennett Square meant to me in 500 words or less.

And then it happened. Everyone knows. My brother died (Insert shock but in reality just sarcasm). There was absolutely no other way for me to process that other than to write about it. And I did. Alot. And because I was in shock and devastated and oozing with grief, rather than hiding it in a diary or the hard drive of my computer, I hit share and let it out into the universe.

I look back on that decision (which was really more of a reflex) and think it has been as much of a blessing as a curse. On the upside, it opened the flood gates. I didn't believe I could ever get over (at least not to the extent that I have) losing my brother, or my mother. I credit hitting that share button over and over with that. That and a lot of crying and laughing. Which I must say, is a must. On the downside, it opened the flood gates. Many many times, just prior to hitting that share button, I questioned myself. Am I doing the right thing? Is this too much? Are people sick of it?

One thing I have learned about writing is that if you don't question yourself, you aren't doing it right. The other thing I've taken from all of this is that a single "like", public or even private message telling you to keep going, will, well, keep you going. And it has.

So, could I write a book? I'm not sure. Not unless Santa is involved. Then, it's a no brainer.

12 Lessons of 2012

So I did this last year (11 Lessons of 2011) and it was interesting and fun. I wasn't sure I could do it again and honestly won't know until I get started. So, here goes nothing.

12. I don't do the "balance" thing very well: I've known this for a while but it tops my list because I'm in the throws of it right now. I'm either in overdrive or laying in bed. I don't have a good grip on how to balance work, family, friends and me. I tend to push myself until my body can't go anymore and then beat myself up for not listening to all of the warning signs along the way. I lounged around all summer and felt like a slug for not prepping my classes. Then I spent the last 5 months going nonstop until I nearly cracked at the end. And the last week or so, I've just covered myself in a million covers, slept and read feeling really rundown.

11. 34 teenagers can bring you to your knees: Part of my overdrive mode of the last 5 months was teaching a college level Psychology class to a group of teenagers. Let's just say my intuition that I was not made to interact with large groups of teenagers at 7:15am was confirmed. I will say a few bad apples can ruin a bunch. And a single, thoughtful teenage boy who says thank you can make you cry.

10. If you can't laugh at the really shitty things, then your problems are way worse than mine. In all of my morose moments, I can still laugh. In fact, the more ridiculously sad or angry I am, the more I can somehow spin it in a way that I end up cracking myself up. And that, my friends, is a gift.

9. The glass can be simultaneously half full and half empty: I am a notorious cynic and at times can be incredibly pessimistic. But over the past few years, I've softened and found myself finding positive things in places I never thought possible. I guess you can call that evolution.

8. I do not like New Years Eve: Never have. Never will. I think it's dumb.

7. I love bacon : I have come to acknowledge my deep love affair with bacon. And I will tell you, the precooked microwaved kind isn't nearly as fatty as the real stuff.

6. Yes, I love my family: I'm talking about my family of origin here. We "enjoy" a complicated relationship but my mother laid the groundwork for deep love even when we want to rip each other's heads off. We often misunderstand each other, have learned that if you can't be honest with the people you've known your whole life, you will never be honest with anyone else and that we owe something (although I'm not always sure what it is) to each other. It's been hard to figure all of this out without my mother's proverbial smack in the back of the head, but it still holds true (at least for me...the rest of them can think whatever they want because my mother always said that was ok).

5. Max continues to amaze me everyday: I'm not sure that ever stops and I hope it doesn't. He keeps things in perspective, puts up with my shit, lets me yell and apologize without any long term psychological damage and just plain old cracks me up.

4. My friends mean the world to me: This is relatively new, to be brutally honest. I think for many years I was tied up in family drama, personal drama, figuring out how to be a mom, figuring out how to be a grown up. And then, I realized who stuck around, who showed up and didn't leave and who would put up with my shit. And it's a beautiful thing.

3. I love teaching: Despite my frustration outlined in #11, I absolutely love teaching. Sometimes, it totally feels like I'm faking it. Why are all of these people listening to me? But, honestly, it's because I'm quite entertaining. And I know what I'm talking about. For the most part.

2. I'm liking the 40's: Yes, they started off rough but after my 30's, I am still happy to have moved on into my 40's. There is something really freeing about your 40's (at least for me). I am way more who I am supposed to be then I ever was.

1. Yep - I still like my life: I was surprised at the end of my 2011 list to find that this is how I ended but it still rings true today. I'll be honest, my particular mood today doesn't necessarily reflect this sentiment but all in all, I am one lucky woman.

At her request....Shining a Spotlight on....Crissy

Sisters annoy, interfere, criticize.  Indulge in monumental sulks, in huffs, in snide remarks.  Borrow.  Break.  Monopolize the bathroom.  Are always underfoot.  But if catastrophe should strike, sisters are there.  Defending you against all comers.  ~Pam Brown

For the first time ever, someone has actually requested I blog about them. Of course, it is my sister, Crissy. To be more specific (and much to her dismay), my little sister. You see, I've dedicated quite a few blogs to the impact my friends have had on me, especially over the past few difficult years. But never my siblings specifically. Because, quite honestly....siblings are hard.

I say siblings are hard because I live in the real world. I lay it all out there (have you read my other blogs) for all to see. So, I recognize and embrace the complexity of my relationships with my siblings. I throw it out into the universe and let it be what it will be. This is most often met with fury from them but, oh well. We were all raised by the same woman and man, and inherited the same honest tongue. Some of us just use it more often than others.

The six of us span 16 years oldest to youngest and Crissy and I are almost 3 years apart in age. In some respects, we grew up as little sub families; Joanie and Ralph, Michael and Patti and then me and Crissy rounded it off. Our subfamilies were largely defined by our ages at the time of the death of our father (Crissy and I were 8 & 11) and our experiences as children reflected that. So, while the older kids had experienced my father's fury directly on some level, Crissy and I were more like observers at a really bad show. We saw it, knew the chaos well but we're lucky enough to never have it directed at us. Honestly, we lucked out.

I think we both thought we dodged a bullet when it came to my father but that is the beauty of youth. You can spend a large amount of time in denial before you get slapped in the face. My slap came quite a few years ahead of Crissy. I tended to be more in tune with those sorts of things at a much younger age. But, eventually we both figured it out.

So, anyway....Crissy and I spent the large majority of our youth fatherless. No need for the "awww" or "that's so sad". It was what it was. It was our reality. And you can spin it either way; a blessing or a curse. But what made our experience distinctly different than our older siblings was our mother. As dysfunctional as our parent's marriage was, our siblings enjoyed some level of an intact family that Crissy and I were not afforded. After my father died, my mother shut down. And Crissy and I were kind of on our own.

Here's where I put the HUGE disclaimer in....my mother was amazing. Anyone who has read this blog knows that. My siblings and I were blessed with a mother's mother; a woman who was truly born to mother children. And she did it well. Better than well; as I said, she was amazing. I was blessed enough to have many, many conversations with my mother over the years and prior to her death in which she was able to give me an incredible amount of insight into what she valued most in being a parent. Loyalty was demanded, respect was commanded and guilt did not exist. At least not on her part...she could give me a look and in an instant I was spilling my guts of all the lies I was trying pull over on her. My mother always said she did the best she could with the information she had at the time. And that was true.

But back to Crissy and her "spotlight". While my mother demanded loyalty, she did not demand we get along. She accepted the reality of our individual dynamics and Crissy and I enjoyed a volatile one. As small children, we simultaneously played together and beat the shit out of each other. More specifically, Crissy beat the shit out of me. Because, believe it or not, I was quite docile in my youth. Especially when facing a small child otherwise known as "Cookie Monster" or  "Gunkaberti" depending on who you talked to. I mean this is the girl who cussed my father out at age 3. No one cussed my father out. Except Gunk.
 
Our teen years proved to be even more volatile. Short story was we hated each other. Crissy was out of control in my humble opinion. I was probably out of control but just hid it a little bit better. She wore my clothes without permission to the point of me actually cutting a shirt off of her body (really I only had to cut the sleeve to make my point). She stole my car and went joyriding with her friends before she ever had a license. And she got a dog and then didn't take care of it. I have a distinct memory of tax day, a dog who had tore up her tax returns and Crissy walking out and getting in her car and driving away. While her tax return blew all over the front lawn.

It wasn't until we both got pregnant (unmarried pregnant girls....but its okay because we were like 27 and 31) that we started to relate to one another. I don't remember us even having much of a relationship between 21 and 31. But the dueling babies gave us a commonality we had never experienced before and we actually started interacting. Yes, we still fought but we started leaning on each other for the first time ever. Crissy became a mother 8 months before me. This actually worked out for the best because she is way more organized than me so she had worked out some of the kinks of the "how to's" by the time Max came along. An interesting thing about the day Max was born- my mother had recently undergone gall bladder surgery and was recovering at home. Because she couldn't drive and the doctors had told me my labor would be long (after being induced), she stayed home waiting to hear from me. I sent Stephen to work expecting not to need him until at least the next day. And then I spent the day alone, in labor. I have no idea why I didn't call anyone but I didn't. I know everyone knew I was in labor but I'm the type who's a real bitch if I'm not feeling well so maybe they subconsciously stayed away. 18 hours later I gave birth to a 9 1/2 pound baby boy via C-section. While Stephen was there, it was Crissy who walked in the room within minutes of me giving birth. It was Crissy who took me out for my first solo (meaning without Stephen) ride with Max. Crissy was the one I called day and night to make sure I was doing it right.  Crissy was the one who made me feel sane in the insanity of infancy. Our mother (you know...the mother's mother) thought we were both insane; insisting we take the crying babies out of the car seats to comfort while driving, give them rice cereal at 3 weeks and even suggested I start smoking again to lighten up!!!! On a side note, God bless those who mothered in a fearless world!

As the kids got older, Crissy and I enjoyed the reality of our relationship; a combination of arguments and understanding. We fought a lot but ultimately were there for each other. Remember...loyalty bound us in our mother's expectations. So, we honored it. Always.

Over the last 10 years, Crissy and I have enjoyed (if that's the right description) a close relationship. Mothering 3 kids born within 13 months of each other at the very least, forced it. But the cruel reality of losing our brother and mother over the last 3 1/2 years reinforced the relationship. This illuminated the unique disposition of our place in the family constellation. We were the littlest of the little sisters of our larger than life brother. We were the youngest of my mother's children and in some ways were cheated out of our mother's wisdom in how to do this parenting thing. We are orphaned parents not quite ready to parent on our own. So we look to each other to figure it out together. And argue it out along the way. It's a bit like the blind leading the blind.

The last thing I will say is this. At one point Crissy told my mother that the difference between she and I is that she values being nice over all things. And its true. She has probably raised the 2 most polite, kind kids I have ever met in my life. But my mother answered Crissy back in a way only a mother's mother can. She said "And while you value nice over all things, Carol values honesty." And that is true too. I cannot chose nice over being honest in matters of the heart. And Crissy has learned the hard way that, sometimes honesty does have to take precedence over nice. As the littlest of the little, Crissy has had to grow up in the last few years. And she has shocked and surprised all of us. And secretly made me proud.

So there, Crissy. There's your blog.