The Real Threat (Trigger Warning: Religion AND Politics)

• A Note From Ben:
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• I’ve held off on both politics and religion, but now I simply cannot stay away from either. Too much has happened for me to sit idly by and not make my feelings known. Some of this may seem a little out there for some of you and you can write off some of it as conspiracy theories if you want, but I think I’m onto something here.
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• First off, I think we’ve all had it with religion being crammed down our throats.
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• “May the Force be with you.” Geez. Any time anyone does anything, these light-side guys have just got to say it. They can’t help themselves!
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• I’m running to the exchange to pick up blue space milk: “May the Force be with you…”
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• I’m emptying a moisture vaporator: “May the Force…”
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• I’m bullseying womprats: “May the…”
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• Haven’t you religious nuts got anything better to do than wish the Force upon me? And isn’t the Force in every living thing anyway? You people always tell us the Force flows through us, penetrates us, and binds the freaking galaxy together, so if all that’s true, then the Force is always with us and your little “space blessing” is redundant!
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• And now, all of a sudden, we’ve got to turn the whole galaxy upside down so we can find “Master” Luke Skywalker. Phht, some “Master.” He let his entire order get slain by his nephew, Ben Solo (a product of a space pirate and a princess with daddy issues), then bugged out while the entire galaxy went to bantha poo-doo.
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• Things were so much simpler when the Empire was in charge. I mean it! Take a look at the statistics from back then. Crime was at an all-time low, space travel was mostly free of scum and villainy, and, if you didn’t mind the occasional exploding planet, there was plenty of work to be had. In fact, the only ones you had to worry about were malcontent rebels and religious Jedi zealots. Sure, you had to have your identification, there were the work-a-day visits to the detention centers, and there was the occasional disintegration, but, all in all, you knew what to expect on a given day.
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• All that changed when the second Death Star (I prefer to call it a moon-sized security station) exploded over Endor.
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• The story goes that the rebellion mounted a desperate assault against all odds and managed to not only overcome the sizable Imperial fleet in orbit, but also destroyed the shield generator on the surface (with the help of the indigenous tribe of mini wookies, of all things), dropping the shields and allowing the rebels to do their thing.
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• I have it on good authority that a maintenance technician left a tool tray in the laser aspect bay and the thing shot itself all to hell during a weapons test when the beam was misdirected. But to hear the rebels tell it, there was some epic “Battle of Endor” that turned the tide for the rebellion and none other than Luke Skywalker was at the heart of it. The rebels claim that both the Emperor and his apprentice, Lord Vader, were actually on the thing when it blew. They also claim that Luke managed to get aboard said space station, talk his father into killing his long-time ally and mentor Emperor Palpatine, and ultimately escape just in the nick of time.
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• Of course, the rebels love to say, “Oh, but Luke helped his father turn to the light side!” Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that if it helps you get to sleep at night. Luke went to the Endor Death Star to wipe out the only other people trained in the Jedi arts in the entire galaxy. He didn't give a nerf-herder’s butt about getting dear old dad to the light; Luke just wanted all that power to himself. And what did Mr. I’m-the-Only-Jedi-in-the-Galaxy do after he got all that power? He tucked tail and hid while the bargain basement Galactic Empire (A.K.A. The First Order) showed up and blew up more stuff.
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• Let’s say we buy the rebels’ propaganda about Luke and the events leading up to the destruction of the second moon-sized security station -- er, Death Star. We’ve got to then swallow the tall tale that the one, the only, the cult-leader extraordinaire Darth Vader is, in fact, Luke’s dad. All that means is that Luke comes from a dubious family line. So, according to the rebels, Vader’s son is who the galaxy is pinning its hopes on to fix things, right? Then let’s take a closer look at Luke’s dad.
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• Anakin Skywalker was a special kind of crazy ever since he was a kid. As a child, he schemed gamblers at the podrace tracks; as a teenager he stalked the Queen of Naboo and committed acts of atrocity against the indigenous peoples of Tatooine (They are referred to as “Sand People” but I find that term offensive); finally, as an adult, he killed preschoolers and diplomats, domestically abused his pregnant wife, and finally attempted to kill his own mentor. Later in life, he took up hobbies like killing his adoptive parents, destroying an inhabited planet just to see what would happen, torturing his daughter, finishing off his mentor, torturing a smuggler just because he could, and dismembering the hand of his son. In retrospect, if Luke’s apple falls anywhere in the same planetary system of his family tree, we’re all in the trash compactor.
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• Speaking of parentage, let’s look at Ben Solo’s. His father was a scoundrel who shot bounty hunters in bar fights, hung out with wookies, and swindled other scoundrels out of everything from their starships down to the shirts on their backs. But that was nothing compared to his mother. The "princess” couldn’t decide who she was attracted to more: her whiny brother or a galactic criminal on the run. Really? You had a galaxy of sentient beings to choose from and that's who your final choices were?
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• Of course, who could blame her? Leia’s father never acknowledged her and when she did visit him, he did nothing but torture her the whole time she was there. Vader was your stereotypical abusive father so it’s no wonder she was all screwed up in the men department. All this rolled downhill to poor Kylo Ren, the Jedi-Formerly-Known-As-Ben-Solo. Throw in who his uncle is and it’s clear why he’s such a hot mess.
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• You know, if the rebels -- oh, excuse me, THE RESISTANCE -- had just left well enough alone and let the First Order do their thing, we’d have peaceful space routes again. But they can’t, can they? They’ve got to go gallivanting around the galaxy in their latest X-Wings, talking about finding Luke Skywalker and blowing up perfectly good planet-sized security stations. If they hadn’t gone off and been all like, “We’re gonna stop you dark-side guys,” the Hosnian System wouldn’t have been blown up! Talk about closed-minded. Wow.
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• But what do I know? I’m just some slug on the outer rim drinking my blue space milk.

Step-love

[This one's just from me (Esther), and without our usual hijinks. But don't worry, we won't make a habit of such serious posts!]


Esther:

When I was dating I was nervous about the possibility of being someone’s stepmom. What if the kid didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like them?

I steeled myself against several scenarios, never imagining that when I did meet my stepdaughter I would meet a daughter I was always meant to have. A personality growing before me that my own complemented startlingly well. Someone I would proudly be best friends with if we met when she was an adult.

It’s a sensitive thing, being a stepmother when the mother has died. On the one hand you don’t have to share your stepchild with her “real” mom. On the other hand you do, all the time, forever. And I’m learning that’s okay.

She never calls me “Mom” and I understand and respect that, even though my heart sings “daughter” every time we’re together. I wear my name when I’m with her and smile when outsiders say her mother would be proud of her. Because, even though I didn’t meet her mother, I think they must be right because of how proud of her I am. As proud of her as I am of the children I birthed. Love doesn’t know the difference between them.

It’s a pang, having no memories of her birth and only a handful of years to make memories with her as pseudo-mother before she’s grown and gone. I try to cram years of advice and motherly tips into our drives around town, try to tell her I love her and love her and love her to make up for all the years I hadn’t loved her yet.

And it’s okay, sharing her love with her first mother, because she has enough love for us both. The other night I handed her something and she said, “Gracias, mi madre.” My heart clenched. Even if in English I am always Esther to her, that one time she called me Mom in Spanish ...

... will fill my tank for the rest of our relationship.

Anatomy of an Anxiety Attack

Ben:

Mean people suck.

Yup.

They suck…

BAD.

We’ve had a less-than-stellar week. A neighbor who shall remain nameless tore yours truly a new one. It was decidedly unpleasant. Considering I already struggle from anxiety, being roused from bed on a Sunday morning to be shouted at by a scary person on my front lawn was enough to set me into an anxious tailspin – one which I’m just now coming out of. The good news is I AM coming out of it. With this fresh in my mind, allow me to share my thoughts on pulling out of emotional nosedives.

**Before I start in on this, please remember that some anxiety issues, perhaps even many, require the aid of a professional to work through. Never tell someone you know who has anxiety to “get over it.” (That would be like telling someone with diabetes or MS to will themselves healed, that their infirmity can be overcome by simply thinking about it hard enough. It’s absurd, it’s unproductive, so don’t do it.) Also, please keep in mind I am NOT a medical, psychological, sociological, or even dental professional. I’m some guy at a keyboard typing whatever pops up in his head, so take it for what it is – more internet clutter. With the disclaimer out of the way, off we go!

For me, anxiety can be tripped when something unexpected happens. The event can be short-lived and may not even cause any physical harm, but its surprising nature is jarring to the emotions. I freeze. I want to run (I favor flight over fight) but I can’t if I’m already home. I’m being yelled at, at my home. A sickening wave of terror grips me. It's overwhelming.

If I can’t run, I try to appease, to please, to capitulate. I’ll say anything to get the person to stop attacking me with their words. I’m sensitive, and loud, angry words pierce me like daggers. It’s worse if the person yelling at me has reason to do so. In this case, I was responsible in part for a dog getting loose and causing an incident (no harm was done, but that wasn’t the point). Since I was in the wrong, the words that condemned me rang truer than all the words of affirmation I’d ever heard.

I couldn’t run, I couldn’t soothe the anger by agreeing, so with all my self-preservation tools used up, I fell apart. I was a kid again hearing my father’s disapproving words ringing in my ears. Defeated, I slunk back through my front door, a total mess.

The rest of the day was spent resting. I suppose that's the first bit of advice I can give you (well, the first is, get some help so you can better weather situations like that): Get some rest. When you’re experiencing emotional sunburn, seek out healthy things that will comfort you, whether it’s a show on Netflix, a go-to book you can get lost in, or even a location like a park or a small shop, go to that place and give yourself a chance to cool down. Also, even though it’s hard, please remember to take care of your physical self, too. The one can definitely affect the other.

The following day was still rough, so I took a moment to write a letter. It helped me put the event in perspective. After reflection, I found that my verbal attacker had overreacted. Yes, my dog had indeed managed to get loose, but when I thought about it I remembered that he got loose in spite of safeguards I put in place. It’s not like I didn’t try. So, where the events seemed horribly skewed against me, once I paused and took a moment to think carefully about them, I began to realize I didn’t really deserve all that condemnation the neighbor had piled upon me.

Later that day, I dropped the letter off for my neighbor to read. I didn’t do it so I might get an apology or provide them with some revelation. I did it so they would know my truth, and that I would know they knew it. They blasted me with their truth, so now they could quietly receive mine. (Mine’s better because a handful of written words trumps a thousand shouted ones).

Now, a couple days removed, I write to you about it. It’s cathartic, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my co-author, who was there with me every step of the way, listening, encouraging, and affirming. I guess the last thing I would suggest in this post would be to get an Esther… but you can’t have mine.

Esther:

Luckily for Ben, I’m a professional. Not professional like a doctor, but professional like an athlete. I’ve had panic attacks since early childhood, and, hey, practice is how professionals are made, right?

Here’s how my panic attacks typically start and continue:

• An overwhelmingly bad thing happens to me. • A later situation reminds me of that bad thing and I panic. • A future situation reminds me of the situation where I panicked, and I panic again. This is the “fear of fear” stage.

The sunny side of the “fear of fear” stage is that it happens during harmless situations, so I can direct all my energy toward riding it out. I do that by grounding myself: counting all the red items in the room, or smelling something calming, or thinking of something funny. Simple math, in particular, is a favorite go-to of mine (maybe because it was never my strength, so it takes the most work). While multitasking might be popular in corporate America, it’s not a real thing; so, while you focus your attention on grounding yourself, you don’t have that attention to feed the panic. And after you ride out a panic attack, the next one is easier.

In my anxiety there is no fear of the unknown. Even when facing an unknown situation, my fear is that the known will happen again. This hypervigilance is how I’ve survived this long, but now that my life has calmed down it’s hard to turn it off. If Ben will forgive me for speaking for him, I think this is the same problem he’s now facing.

You wouldn’t think two anxiety-prone people would make a good relationship, but it actually works. When one of us starts spiraling away from reason, the other is there to recognize it and help pull us through. Even when the other one is also caught in their own vortex of fear, at least we’re going through it together and no one’s standing around saying, “Get over it.”

Seriously, who are these people who say “get over it”? Does that phrase work for any situation? If someone told you to get over it and you benefited from that advice, please let me know.

When to Fight and When to Flee

Ben:

When I was in the Air Force I played Dungeons & Dragons (D&D).

For those unfamiliar with D&D, you and a group of friends share an adventure in a fantasy setting much like Lord of the Rings or King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. One person in the group opts to be the dungeon master (DM). The DM’s role is to create the world the rest of the players adventure in by choosing the people, places, monsters, events, and treasure the group will encounter, and then weaves it all into a storyline that unfolds as the game is played. Good DMs are imaginative, resourceful, intelligent, know how motivate the players, and keep things moving along. Our DM, Chuck, was all of the above and then some.

Players choose their character race and class, and make up a bit of back story. A player can be Brodus, a human warrior coming down from the north to make a name for himself, or Dannar, a mysterious Elvish wizard seeking a mythical spellbook lost ages ago. The choices are endless.

Players usually fall into two categories. The first group wants to roll dice, hack monsters to bits, and collect the treasure so they can hack even stronger monsters to bits by rolling even more dice and collecting even better treasure and so on. The second group is all about roleplaying. They speak in bad British accents, refer to their cup of Mountain Dew as ‘ale,’ and do everything short of donning tights and puffy shirts and swinging from the light fixtures to immerse themselves in their roles. Our party of adventurers was made up of people from both camps and they rarely saw eye to eye.

On one particularly contentious evening, Chuck had had enough of our bickering. While our group was travelling, Chuck placed a group of a hundred monsters along our way. Our monster-hackers wanted to charge in and our role-players wanted to give rousing speeches; so we did both, and our party was wiped out. When both groups demanded Chuck tell us what we should have done, he looked at us as he was putting the game away, shrugged, and stated simply, “Run away.”

The reason I shared this lengthy anecdote with you is to encourage you to take a look at all the battles or potential battles you’re facing and think about whether you or not you should fight them.

A few years before I married Esther, I was in a very unhealthy long-term relationship that took quite a toll on me. I was on the receiving end of some really negative behaviors and should have left that particular battlefield long before it ended. However, I never did. I endured all the unhappiness and uncertainty because I thought I was doing the right thing.

I want to emphasize something to you, dear readers. If the other person in your life, whether business partner, friend, family member, or romantic interest, is mistreating you in some way and refuses to do the right thing, then the right thing for you IS retreat. No dishonor, no shame, no failure can be hoisted upon you. You are a PERSON and by virtue of your existence have every right to be safe, dealt with honorably, and treated with fidelity.

Not all difficulties should be run away from, however. If the difficult, uncomfortable situation you’re in is helping you heal, giving you valuable life experience and knowledge, or in some other way helping you grow, by all means, endure!

Consult people you trust and listen to their counsel. People outside your situation can see better than you and will help you decide whether to charge into that field of monsters or take the secret path behind them.

Some things are never worth the price and some things always are.

And now, I don my puffy shirt and am off to swing from tavern chandeliers.

WHERE’S MY ALE?

Esther:

That’s the second time this month we’ve had to replace the ceiling fan.

Yes, some things should be fled.

I stayed for over a year with an abuser (and exposed my kids to him) when he should never have gotten a second date. For almost four years, I allowed a bullying coworker and a toxic workplace to chip away at my mental and physical health.

And some things should be fought for.

The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do with my life was write, but didn’t pursue it until recently because I believed people when they said it wasn’t a real career. Three years ago I was weary of bad relationships but didn’t know how to find and keep a good one.

My boundaries were turned around for most of my life. I was always letting bad things through my door and locking it against the good. Maybe you can relate.

Knowing when to fight and when to flee is not one of those life skills I learned at an early age. Even now it sits on my tongue like a foreign language, but I’m learning it. I no longer subject myself to disrespect from others. I have a peaceful, fulfilling marriage with my favorite person.

Climbing out of my old life was possible. And hard. And worth it. And the more I learned from people who were healthier than me, the more I started to feel it in my gut when something was worth working at and when it wasn’t.

And, for my catchy one-liner ending, I’m borrowing Ben’s statement because I can’t sum it up any better than that.

Some things are never worth the price and some things always are.

We Had a Proper Honeymoon and It Almost Killed Us (or, How Not to Get Kidnapped in Alabama)

Ben:

We’re back!

(If you consider returning to a blog with only 11 entries in it after a 2-year hiatus something announcement worthy.)

When we began our brief yet ambitious project to blog together as a couple we hadn’t anticipated that college, kids, job changes, career startups, talent honing, missing West Highland White Terriers, and near-death experiences would be so annoyingly time consuming. Now that the whitewater rapids of our shared life experiences have finally spewed us into less white, less watery, and less rapid-y channels, we've turned our attention back to this tiny plant in the corner of the internet to water it with some more of our words.

Our first blog post touched on our honeymoon, which was fitting because it coincided with our getting married. Given our lean financial state at the time, we thought it best to kick the kids out of the house and enjoy what could only be described as a week-long sleepover with one’s best friend. (Our first blog goes into it a little more.) After a couple years of un-fun and hard work, we found we had a surplus of time, money, and stress, and we leaped at the chance to do a proper honeymoon.

In the late spring/early summer of 2016, Esther and I vacationed in the unassuming coastal town of Panama City Beach, Florida. It's steeped in charm and wonderful people, and we had an amazing time. Sadly, we had to drive through Alabama to get there and no one should have endure that, but it was a small price to pay considering. (Apologies to Alabamans, but seriously, you people need to grow proper trees, build a few new houses and for the love of all that is holy, dump all that rusted crap on your front lawns! I mean it! The entire state is badly overdue for a scrap metal drive.)

We had a proper honeymoon complete with intimate restaurants, beautiful vistas, and an ocean which has the magical ability to pull your worries out to sea. However, if you’re not careful, it will pull you out to sea too. We learned the hard way that calm sea surfaces don’t necessarily equate to calm sea depths. One minute we were bobbing merrily along on our body boards, and the next we were bobbing terrifyingly far from shore with no idea how we’d gotten there. Well, calls to the fire department, the police department, and the coast guard and an hour or so later, we were finally plucked from the ocean by, of all things, a Sea-Doo rental owner/operator from two miles up the coast.

Buffeted by our harrowing near death experiences, we returned home to be brought back down to earth by unimpressed kids and dogs who were infinitely more concerned about what was for dinner than how we survived driving through Alabama and back.

And now, I’ll hand it off to my lovely and talented wife, Esther.

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Esther:

Ben isn’t kidding when he says our honeymoon almost killed us. If you’re trying to think of ways to grow closer as a couple, I recommend sharing the risk of death. It works for army buddies all the time, think what it can do for you!

When it was just the two of us trapped in a life-threatening situation for what felt like hours, only what was important stayed afloat. Everything else sank quickly away. All that mattered was that Ben stay alive, and (to an oddly secondary degree) that I stay alive, too. But that we be together, no matter what happened. And together we finally made it through those back roads of Alabama and the fear of death by backwoods serial killer.

We can joke about it now but it really was the most afraid and helpless I’ve ever been. We hadn’t been married two full years, and now the man of my dreams had been swept out so far from me I couldn’t see him. At one point I thought he’d drowned. Not able to swim myself, I was kept on the water’s surface by a thin slab of foam.

When a wave knocked me off of it and I went under, I realized a number of things: (1) it would be too comically tragic for our marriage to end this way, dying on our honeymoon, (2) drowning wouldn’t be as terrible a death as I’d always imagined, and (3) … oh. The body board was strapped to my wrist. Pulling myself back onto the board was easily managed.

From the outside, it would probably seem silly that we went body surfing in the Gulf of Mexico on a red flag day, especially since one of us can’t swim, but it’s in keeping with the way Ben and I tumble through life. We’re equal parts preparation and madcappery, and it’s as comfortable as an oversized sweater, as thrilling as a sale on cheese.

But seriously, do not listen to your GPS if it tries to route you through the back roads of Alabama. You stay on the widest roads you can find and you keep driving until you hit the state line.

Not-So-Sweetest Day

Ben:

Just say no!

…to Sweetest Day.

Oh, no. A male is lobbying against Sweetest Day? He’s no romantic!

Well, before some of you readers go grabbing the torches and pitchforks and offering Kleenex boxes to Esther, allow me to explain.

If you’re in a healthy relationship, then you’ve most likely put forth time, thought, and effort to get there. We don’t (or rather should not) let perfect strangers into the most intimate areas of our lives, so naturally you get to know someone and let them get to know you in order to have a close, personal relationship with them.

How do we typically do this? First, we learn about each other. We ask questions and share meaningful details about ourselves in return. In short, we engage in honest and heartfelt conversations with one another.

The problem with words is that, even if we’re completely honest with one another, they typically don’t carry the same meaning for all of us.

For Example:

She says: “I dabble in literature and fine arts.”

The reality: She runs a rare books store, and spends every weekend in art exhibits and every evening in book clubs, writing groups, and crafting circles.

He says: “I like to watch football when I get a chance.”

The reality: He has every cable sports package known to man. He has season tickets to every local professional, college, and high school team within a 100-mile radius. He experiences clinical depression during the off-season.

 It's one thing to make all sorts of claims about oneself or to hear someone make theirs, but until you see one another in action, the words are just that: only words. Our words reflect how we perceive the world, therefore inherently have a lack of objectivity.

This leads me to another element of the familiarization process: doing. We have to witness how one another lives in and interacts with their world, because this speaks volumes about values, character, and temperament. This is where you see one another in action and measure their words against their actions. If words and actions don’t mesh, it doesn’t mean they’re a liar necessarily, it might just mean you two see the world differently. However, doing things together is an excellent crucible in which to test your newfound relationship and whether you are truly fit to be a couple.

The final element to all this and the common denominator of both words and actions is time. You’ve got to spend time getting to know each another. Time bears most things out and will help you both discover if you are, in fact, compatible and capable of existing in harmony.

Okay, now, what has all that stuff got to do with Sweetest Day?

Once you’re in a long-term relationship, spending time, having conversations, and doing things together has got to continue. Unfortunately, some people operate under the notion that once you’re together you can coast. Doing those things is strictly reserved for people in the dating stage. Still others just get plain lazy and don’t feel like putting in the effort once they’ve “won” the person they were “gunning” for. Sadly, this neglects the other person’s needs for those things and the relationship languishes.

That’s where these silly holidays come into play.

Instead of consistently meeting the needs of their partners, these lazy relationshippers opt, instead, to spring for tokens of affection on romantic holidays. They believe that a prettily wrapped cardboard box filled to the brim with sugar, chocolate, and nuts will be able to take the place of these crucial relationship elements. Instead of routinely nurturing their relationship with time, acts, and words, they try for these grand (or even not-so-grand) romantic gestures, expecting it to make up for the negligence of the other 364 days.

A neglectful partner buying token gifts on romantic holidays for their lonely partners is akin to the early European settlers giving the Native Americans shiny beads in exchange for acres of land and natural resources.

In short, if you settle for a box of chocolates instead of being treated well on a regular basis in a relationship, you’re being ripped off.

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Esther:

When Ben and I were getting to know each other, he made the unfortunate mistake of saying he was a romantic.  I say "unfortunate" because the very word romantic launched me into a diatribe about what's wrong with the notion of romance.  For those of you who know anything about Myers Briggs personality typing, I'm an ENFP, and the reputation we ENFP females have is that we are paradoxically quite romantic and yet stubbornly unimpressed by displays of "romance."

I'll explain.

Imagine (A) your typical Casanova, who has perfected the art of romance.  His well-oiled voice and hair have seduced many a woman, and he always has roses and chocolates on hand.  He can recite pretty phrases at a moment's notice, and never lets a holiday pass without a flourish of gifts and songs scientifically designed to reduce his lover to putty.

I have actually heard - and observed - that some women respond favorably to this sort of cookie-cutter treatment, and it baffles me.  Would you want to be no more than the current stand-in for this narcissist's imaginary lover, knowing that when he moves on or cheats on you, he will give identical flatteries to the next woman, and the next?

Now, for contrast, imagine (B) your typical mouth-breathing American male (I said typical *mouth-breathing*, because I don't think all males are this way).  While it's true he's more honest, he also completely misses the spirit of romance, to the point that, when he manfully tries to execute romantic occasions, well - bless his heart - it's almost painful to watch:

Him (checking his watch with a sigh): "You almost ready? The dinner reservations are for 7:00. How long does it take to fix yer hair, anyway?"

Her (emerging from the bathroom, wearing a new dress): "I'm ready now. How do I look?"

Him (grunting): "Fine. Oh, and here's a card and some flowers. Now c'mon, let's go."

Having only come into contact with Column A and Column B type men, I'd decided the mouth-breathers were disappointing but at least more authentic than the Casanovas.  Therefore, despite my need for romance, I'd determined to ignore my occasional pining, and beg whatever man I ended up with to just please, for God's sake, ignore all romantic occasions (because he was going to botch them anyway).

Thankfully, I am wrong once in awhile, and have discovered there is at least one more Column.  A man in Column C is not boxed in by romantic occasions, and will treat his woman so well on any given Thursday that she does not starve until the next Valentine's or anniversary bone is thrown her way.  He'll take time for a simple walk with her some evening, and during that walk he'll remember something funny from the early days of their relationship, and he'll tell her how his life feels now that she's in it.

The Column C kind of guy will notice his girl having trouble with something, and he'll quietly find a solution for it, not for her praise, but just for the pleasure of making her life better.  He'll stop everything when he catches her looking just so, and he'll tell her she's beautiful.  He'll listen when she talks, and love the things that make her who she is, despite the down sides of some of her traits.

This is real romance, in my opinion.  It's an attitude, not a special occasion; a journey, not a destination.

On the off chance that a mouth-breather has somehow read this blog post, however, and you now feel less than adequate because you don't know how to be a Natural Romantic, it's okay.  Go buy some chocolates.  Today is your day.

Beware of Momzillas! (And why you don't want to be one!)

Ben:

We have teenagers. This means dates, dances, roller coaster rides of emotions, etc. We have solid relationships with them and are able to communicate back and forth about their personal lives. This puts us in a good position to advise, but to do so at a comfortable distance.

So, being a new inductee as a parent to teenagers in the dating world, I learned of a rather peculiar phenomenon – Momzillas.

I believe parents should keep a comfortable distance from their kids’ dating lives. (It feels strange to say “dating,” considering they’re still kids, but I digress…)

What do I mean by “comfortable distance”?

I’m not suggesting parents leave their credit cards on the table, vacate the house, and tell the young couples to have at it. However, I do think that parental involvement needs to end at the front door. The politics of school romances need to play themselves out. School is not only where kids get their scholastic educations, it’s also where they get their social training. Young couples get together and break up. There’s unrequited love, unfaithful boy- and girlfriends, grand, stupid gestures, and horrible poetry – and it all unfolds in the little social Petri dishes known as middle and high schools. The point is, they work it out amongst themselves (or at least they should).

It’s maddening as a parent to hear the litany of social developments in a given school day:

“Greg said that Marsha saw Bobby holding hands with Erica after she just got done passing a note to Lisa to pass to Suzie to pass to Brad that said, 'BFF’s Forever? Circle Yes or No!'”

What’s even harder is when your kid is the one being rejected or treated poorly.  It’s so difficult to not get caught up in all the drama and to not step in and deal with things personally. I mean after all, it’s been your job to look after them so far; doesn't that include intervening in their love lives?

Absolutely. Not.

This is where Momzillas come in. I’ve witnessed (first- or second-hand, I won’t say), control-obsessed parents who cross healthy boundaries for the express purpose of meddling in their teenagers’ romantic affairs. I don’t mean buying Haagen-Dazs ice cream, renting chick flicks, and having a swearing-off-boys evening after a tough breakup. The Momzillas I refer to assert themselves into children’s domains, applying adult-level pressure to young people situations. For example, I’ve heard of grown women pressuring teenage boys to date their daughters, or those same grown women contacting a girl that rejected their son to ask why. I’m sure it’s a common occurrence, but to me that makes it no less creepy. In addition, it adds a whole new level of completely unnecessary drama. School relationships are complicated as it is without some forty-something adult getting in the middle of it.

Why these people do this, I’m not sure. I suspect there is any number of reasons they behave the way they do, but I’m certain they’re unhealthy. You don’t give your kids the chance to find their own way if you’re involved in every aspect and nuance of their lives. They’ll be ill-equipped when they are facing things on their own for the first time. There’s a season for control and a season to let go, and this period falls in between.

Let me be clear: I’m not suggesting a total hands-off approach – just the opposite. It's imperative you stay involved in your kids’ lives. Be at the ready with advice, consoling, and guidance. Be the safety net for them when things go awry (And yes, it's school. Things always go awry). Set good, healthy rules and boundaries, and maintain solid relationships with them. Set the example for how they should expect their prospective mates to treat them. Also, be ready to step in when things get out of control – just be sure to handle it on the adult level when you do. It’s much more appropriate to address parents when resolving romantic conflicts than to address their kids.

So, in short, don’t be a Mom- (or Dad-) zilla.

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Esther:

Now, there are some issues I struggle with, and some I don't.  Let me tell you why becoming a mom-zilla is NOT a tendency I have to fight against.


1.  It sends the message that my kid isn't much of a catch.

"I can't believe that boy you've had a crush on broke your heart by asking out another girl!  What a jerk!  Well, I bet if you wear this and we do your hair tomorrow, he'll notice you then..."

If I were to treat my daughter like this, I think I'd be saying that (A) she'll never find someone who's wild about her, so she should settle for someone who isn't into her, and (B) he's somehow a jerk for just not requiting her feelings, but he's also someone we're still wasting time on, so she should totally keep chasing after jerks.  Oh, and also (C) she's a failure if she can't manipulate someone into liking her back.


2. Trying to make a teenager date my teenager is as creepy as shoving a toddler who takes my toddler's toy.

Seriously not cool.  If a kid disappoints my kid, my job is to focus on my own kid - comfort him, encourage him, and teach him coping skills for the next time someone disappoints him.  If the other kid actually *harms* my kid (as opposed to breaking my kid's heart, which, while it feels like harm, is a good learning experience), then I'm gonna take it up with that kid's parent.  But if a girl breaks my son's heart and then I confront her about it, I'm ignoring one of two important truths: I am not that kid's parent, and I am not that kid's equal.  Ignoring the former is crossing a boundary; ignoring the latter is deciding to be a bully.


3. Mixing my personal feelings that much into a teenage romance might be a red flag that I need to see a therapist.

Because, you know, I'm a grown woman, and not a teenage girl whose world will come unhinged if a teenage boy chooses someone besides me -- I mean, my daughter.

I don't expect that those first romantic interests out of the gate will end up being my children's soul mates.  Instead, I expect is that my kids will learn, as they begin dating, what sorts of people they're attracted to; which personalities work with theirs, and which don't; how they should treat someone in a relationship, and how they should expect to be treated.  I expect that I'll get the chance to guide them through the giddiness and heartache, to teach them about pacing and picking up cues, and to encourage them to find out who they are and then be patient until they find someone who fits uniquely with them.  If I conduct myself appropriately during my kids' dating adventures, I'll be a valuable resource they'll keep close even during their angst; and, at the other end of it, my kids will have a better-than-average chance at romantic happiness that lasts.

Oh!  I've just realized we've spent this post on why one doesn't want to be a Momzilla, and not necessarily how to beware of a Momzilla.  I'll keep it brief: DO NOT ENGAGE.  Do not take the bait when they act all crazy and dramatic.  Stay sane, clutch your children close, and avoid eye contact.  Eventually, they will be drawn away by the next thing that moves.

Ben would like to add here, "They'll go after the next person they imagine hurts their kid, which is pretty much everybody."  But I'm not including that because this isn't his part of the post.