August 29, 2104--Best of Behind: Velcro Parents

This first appeared near the end of August 2010. Since then not much has changed--

It is still a few days until Labor Day, the traditional end of summer, but already things are getting quieter here on the coast of Maine where many families have been vacationing. 

Especially noticeable is the thinning out of the wait staffs at restaurants in the area. They depend on college students during the summer and now clearly older crews are struggling to cover more tables.

Schools for students of all ages are starting their fall terms earlier and earlier. To extend the school year for youngsters in an effort to provide more instruction than in the past; and, in the case of colleges, to get the semester's work done by Christmas so that students do not have to return after the holidays to finish their classes and take their exams.

This means that they, frequently with the help of their parents, have to head off to campus in late August with SUVs loaded with the things college kids these days squeeze into their undersized dorm rooms. I am showing my age, but when I went to college there were no computers and printers, microwave ovens, or stuffed animals and all sorts of non-allergic pillows. Just a bag or two of clothing.

But in addition to what undergraduates transport with them these days, they also, in more and more cases, bring their parents along with them. Not just to help with all the stuff but also to share the college-going experience. 

As a result, an increasing number of colleges are concerned about what some refer to as "over-parenting." They are for the most part happy to see an increase in parental involvement--and in response many colleges have opened offices of Parents Affairs to manage and take advantage of this increased interest. But they are also concerned that things for some are getting out of hand. So many parents, they feel, are hovering too close and pressing for more involvement than colleges feel is good for their students that they are instituting practices to help parents and their children go through the adjustment required when a youngster enters college.

After all, they say, college is supposed to be a major step toward young people becoming independent. To help facilitate the letting-go, some colleges have added activities and even ceremonies to wean parents from over-involvement, especially during freshman orientation.

According to the New York Times, Morehouse College in Atlanta now has a formal "Parting Ceremony." After introductory speeches attended by both students and parents at an off-campus chapel, freshman march through the gates of the campus which then are ceremonially closed with parents both literally and symbolically left outside. Emotionally difficult to be sure, but college officials feel it is necessary to help with the complicated transition.

At Grinnell, move-in day for freshmen was last Saturday; and after duffel bags and iPods were dropped off at the dorms, students and parents were invited to the gymnasium where they were placed on opposite sets of bleachers. According to the vice president for student affairs this was designed to be "an aha! moment, an epiphany where parents realize. 'My student is feeling more comfortable sitting with 400 people they just met.'" And then, after that hoped-for epiphany, parents are encouraged to leave campus.

At the University of Minnesota the same goal is being pursued but a bit more subtly and gently. There, when students are finished moving into their dorm rooms, they proceed to orientation activities that are just for them (at many places some parents insist on accompanying their children to these) while parents are invited to a reception held elsewhere.

But in some dramatic instances, after the colleges have done their carefully-orchestrated thing, so-called Velcro Parents manage to find ways to stay deeply involved with their children. Some go so far as to rent or buy apartments near where their kids are enrolled and travel there every weekend. As surprising as it may seem, many children of these parents seem to be happy with this arrangement, even bringing friends along to hang out with their parents and, of course, do their laundry. 

School administrators and sociologists are struggling to figure out what is going on. Some say it's because adolescence is continuing longer than in the past--perhaps extending well into children's 20s. Others are saying that parents are living vicariously through their children and, in effect, going to college as if walking in their footsteps. It is also speculated that this is a class-based phenomenon--that it is only middle-class and affluent parents who can afford to do this and/or feel sufficiently comfortable on college campuses to spend so much time there with their children. 

Whatever is going on, when I went to college I recall being dropped off on Manhattan's Amsterdam Avenue by my double-parking parents. I think they didn't even accompany me to my dorm room. I schlepped the bags up there myself. They were involved and loving parents and certainly had very mixed feelings about my going off to college, realizing how big a step it was for me and them. But they also knew that if I was to get the most from the experience I needed to do more of it on my own than many today appear to feel.

February 15, 2014--Saturday Special--My Funny Valentine ('s Day Gift)

This fun piece is from guest blogger Sharon--

Trained to look at the past to understand the present, I view my changing expectations for Valentine's Day a brew of early memories fermented by life's experiences.

Two gifts bestowed upon my mother by my dad provided a baseline for both how it's done and what not to do. Early on, no more than ten years into their marriage, my mom received a gold charm bracelet with a single gold heart. At six or seven years old I interpreted this as a positive signal about my parent's relationship. About fifteen years later my mom's gift looked like a St. Christopher medallion, only she wasn't Catholic, it wasn't silver and it was so ugly that not only my mom but even the kids (at least my sister and I) were appalled.

Early on in our marriage, my expectations were influenced by these events. I actually "rescued" the discarded medallion from an ashtray and kept it as a reminder of what you didn't want as a symbol of affection twenty five years in. This was complicated by a husband who liked to celebrate birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas, but saw Valentine's Day as a Hallmark holiday.

In "How to Be a Better Valentine, Through Economics," Paul Oyer a professor of Economics at Stamford University's Graduate School of Business looks at the common view of successful Valentine's Day exchanges as measured by the amount spent per person and offers some alternatives. His prescription for a more successful Valentine's Day: "Figure out how to signal to your mate that you really care, spend money on yourself, and stop hoping for perfection . . ."

So in that spirit, when my snowed-in husband apologized for not being able to get out to contribute to this year's per person spent, I pointed out that both of us had already given and received the best gift. Earlier in the day, I had signaled I really cared by texting a local snow removal team, spent money on myself by paying them the equivalent of a REALLY nice dinner for two and my husband reciprocated by not refusing. As he was teleworking, he didn't mind having to stop for three hours to shovel, so this gift wasn't just for me.

As for passing on perfection, I'm sure he thought I was making a bigger deal than necessary (although shoveling 14 inches of wet, heavy snow is a big deal) and I remembered the days when in our 30s he was the one that made our landlord's wife happy shoveling the snow around our Connecticut rental, even though our 70-something landlord looked like he could still take someone down in a prizefight. My countervailing memory though was our 40-something neighbor who had a fatal heart attack shoveling out her car.

So, while TV news today focuses on the impact of the snow on floral deliveries, the story which caught my attention was the three local shovelers, all UNDER 60, who won't be around to celebrate 

At the risk of this sounding like "the real meaning of Christmas" story, although I like chocolate, flowers and things that sparkle as much or more than the next guy, a while back I realized the more important lesson from childhood wasn't what gifts were exchanged, but how you treat and regard someone over time.

And as for that bracelet, my mom must have sold it when the price of gold spiked in 1980. It was never really her taste anyway.

For the entire Oyer article see:

 http://economix.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/02/13/how-to-be-a-better-valentine-through-economics/

November 5, 2013--Size Matters: Concluded . . .

We found ourselves last week in Renys general store. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of life-long habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes.

Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

"These's don't look that bad," I said to no one in particular. There were a pair of normal-looking Nunn Bush shoes on display atop a stack of shoeboxes. "A little clunky, but of the type that at least look that they won't cause any additional pain." Maybe, I thought, I should try them on.

"Thirteens, thirteens. I can't seem to find any." They had 9s and 10s, 11s and 14s, but no 13s. "Oh well," I said, again talking to myself, "business as usual."

"Oh well, what?" Rona had joined me, clutching a half dozen pairs of Earthworks socks.

"It looks as if one of us did well." I was full of attitude when it came to anything involving shoes and feet.

"I love them. They're expensive, but Renys' prices make them affordable. But what about you? You seem to have found some shoes to try on. The ones you wear all the time are ready to be dumped."

"I agree, but before I do that I have to find replacements. And for me, that's impossible. Timberland, of course, doesn't make my model any more.  I knew I should have bought six pair. But these, which sort of look OK, don't come in 13s. I mean Renys doesn't have any in that size."

"Why not try the 14s then? One never knows. Their 14s may be similar in size to Timberlands' 13s."

I was dispirited, moping around. If there is anything I hate these days it's thinking about my feet.

"Try them," Rona was attempting to be encouraging--she knew all about my shoe-feet phobias. "What have you got to lose?"

"They're so big they'll make me look like Clarabell the clown." Here I was again assigning myself to the circus. But, in spite of feeling grumpy, I pulled the box of 14s from the bottom of the stack and tried the first one on.

"To tell you the truth," I said with surprise, "it actually feels good."

"Try the other one too," Rona said, "And be sure to walk around in them for at least ten minutes. On the tiled floor too. Not just where it's carpeted."

Which I proceeded to do. Up and down, back and forth, up steps and down, I wandered all over the store. And then returned to Rona who was sitting, self-absorbed, on the bench stroking her new Earthworks. She looked up. "So what's the verdict?"

"Believe it or not they feel great and, even more amazing," I was genuinely excited about shoes, "if you can imagine, my feet, which have been killing me for years, don't seem to hurt at all. Could it be that . . ."

"Yes it could. That you've been wearing the wrong size shoes. Thirteens are too small for you. You've become a 14."

"How could that be? I'm not getting bigger," Rona restrained herself from having some fun at my expense, "In fact, I'm getting smaller."

"Indeed." That she couldn't resist.

Ignoring her I continued, "I used to be 6-5 but now I'm only 6-3. I'm shrinking, not getting bigger."

"You could stand to lose five pounds."

"That's not what I'm talking about." Though Rona is in fact right--I have been overdoing the desserts.

"But you know that as you age you're feet can get bigger. Actually, do get bigger." And she repeated, "You used to be a 13, but now you're apparently a 14."

So I bought the shoes (they were originally $110 but at Renys only $54) and have been wearing them day and night. All my foot problems have been miraculously resolved. In truth, most of them. And I am not using any Dr. Scholls' prosthetics. Just the new shoes and sensible socks.

There is, however, one problem--just as 13s were almost nonexistent back when I was an overgrown adolescent, 14s are now equally hard to come by. To cover myself, I got Renys to find a second pair so I can warehouse them. I'm gentle on shoes and these two pair should last me at least five years. I wish Renys had four more. Then I'd be set for life.

On the other hand I'm not sure I'll last five more years, much less longer; but at least when it comes to shoes, I'm in good shape. Any shoes left over, can be part of my estate.

While looking at my new shoes yesterday morning, Rona said, half to herself, "I think they'll be OK in the City. But maybe . . ."

I cut her off before she could complete her thought, "I think they're cool. So I, I mean we should be fine."

"You'll be fine," she corrected me.

November 4, 2013--Size Matters: Part 1

If you do not insist upon details, I will share a story about one of the few things that gets bigger with age.

First, some background--

I grew very tall very fast. I was at least 6-5 by the time I was 12. That was scary. If I kept growing until the typical time when boys stop, I calculated that I could get to be 7 feet tall.

My parents were worried I would become the butt of schoolyard jokes. They had cause to be concerned--there were quite a few nicknames in circulation about me, none of them flattering. "Beanpole" was the most benign. The others, I prefer not to recall.

One night I overheard my parents talking worriedly about my height.

Always not politically correct, my father said, "He's turning into a freak."

"No he's not," my mother said--she always tried to find ways to temper his frustrations, "He's just a little big for his age."

"A little big," he mocked, "Soon we'll be able to sign him up for the circus."

She was familiar with being disregarded, "The doctor said," attempting to change the subject, "we should Xray his wrists and feet to see how much growing room there is. That will give an indication of how much taller he'll get."

"So take him to the shoe store on Church Avenue. They have a machine there where you can Xray his feet. They use it to see if shoes fit. But you can just go in for the Xray."

And with that in mind my mother took me to the Treadeasy to Xray my feet.

Everything looked normal to me--I didn't see any big gaps between the feet bones, which suggested that there wasn't that much growing room left. Maybe, I thought, I'll stop growing soon and use my height to advantage when playing basketball. The only problem was that I was uncoordinated and had such big feet that when running up and down the court I kept tripping on myself.

But I did make a ritual of going to the Treadeasy store every Friday after school to Xray my feet. It's a miracle I didn't give myself radiation poisoning or cancer of the instep.

While there I pretended to be shopping for shoes. But in my size, 13, they had virtually nothing. Just an occasional pair of black Oxfords that to me looked like shoes for old men.

"Maybe," Morty the salesman said, "when you're older there'll be more people your height and size and you'll have more of a selection. In America, everyone is getting taller. Even girls."

"In the meantime," I said, "I'm doomed to walk around looking like I'm a 90-year-old immigrant."

But over time, what Morty prophesied turned out to be true. With so many very tall men around--6-5 nowadays is no big deal--for at least 15 years I have had no trouble finding shoes in my size. Even in Europe. Even occasionally shoes that actually look cool.

But in recent times my feet have begun to trouble me.

I hate going to podiatrists and thought I would either on my own figure out what the problem was and see if there were any Dr. Scholls' products available to ease my pain or, like other symptoms of aging, I would accept aching feet as part of my lot in life.

I tried Dr. Schools Orthotic Inserts (no help); Ball-of-Feet Cushions (no relief); Sport Replacement Insoles (worthless); Bunion Cushions (made things marginally better); and Molefoam Padding (about as helpful as Bunion Cushions). I even tired the good doctor's products in combination--I adhered Bunion Cushions to the soles of my feet and also inserted Molefoam Padding in my shoes.

But still I hobbled around. Now, with so much Dr. Scholls' product on my feet and stuffed into my shoes that they no longer fit and this made matters even worse.

Thus plagued, we found ourselves last week in Renys. Rona looking for cold-weather socks, me, out of habit, wandering aimlessly among their stacks of men's shoes. Maybe, I thought, I have a shoe, not a foot problem. But Renys stocks mainly shoes for carpenters and roofers, contractors and construction workers, not anything I would feel comfortable--socially comfortable--wearing back in New York City,  especially downtown in Soho.

To be completed tomorrow . . .

June 28, 2013--Mon @ 105; Me @ . . .

It is difficult to continue to pretend that one is anything but old when one's mother is 105.

Today that becomes my reality.

Until she turned 100, my mother didn't tell the truth about her age. Not unlike many of her generation and gender, claiming that she was younger than in fact she was or insisting on buying shoes at least a half a size too small was expected. But then, when she became 100, Mom reversed gears and every six months proudly told everyone, "I am 101-and-a-half today."

And they would say, "But you don't look a day over 90."

Then and today my mother is amazing for much more than longevity reasons.

Though she is not as light on her feet as she was just a year ago, there is very little, very little medically to be worried about. Blessed in this way, that means she can continue to be her remarkable, at times perfect self.

More the one to do the taking-care-of than needing care; on most days more concerned about the state of our country and the world than concerned about herself; more interested in the welfare of her large extended family than interested in focusing on herself; and more attuned to the tremors of uncertainty that shape the lives of friends about whom she cares than to those that occasionally rattle her equanimity.

Though it may be expected that I today would focus entirely on her, including sharing examples of her grit and wisdom, I want also to say a word about how I am experiencing this remarkable passage of time.

OK, after one example:

While visiting with her today (to celebrate quietly the passing of the last day of her 105th year) she told us about how she is living in two worlds--has a foot in each, is the way she put it. One foot is in the world of the very old, of those waiting illness and death; the other world in which she also lives is that of the young--how she often feels, that in spite of her age, she is in young. Very young.

"At those times I believe I am thinking like a young person and have my whole life ahead of me." She chuckled, "And I suppose I do. Whatever is left for me is that 'whole life ahead of me.' And when I think that way, which is more often than you might imagine, I make plans, I think about what I can do to make things better in the world. Just the way you young people do."

That latter comment--about "you young people," generously including me among them--is a good segue to how I am experiencing her gathering of years.

As former children, as we all are, in some ways it is impossible to think about oneself as old. We are our parents' children even if they both are gone. I will always be my father's son though he passed away more than 15 years ago and this will be true after my mother is called. For as old as I in fact get, for as long as I live, I will be her son.

But having a living parent is different. It contributes to the sweet fiction that one is literally young. No matter the actual number of years--and mine is becoming significant--it is much easier to think about oneself as a child and to be comforted by the assumption, excluding tragic circumstances, by the feeling that as long as you remain a child of any age you will have a parent to take care of and protect you.

So, unlike my mother, I haven't yet switched gears to fess up about my actual age, I avoid bright lights when near mirrors, and am OK with the fact that I wear size 13 shoes.