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3/1/2010By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Last week, on Facebook, I posted my "status" as feeling as if I were "the guest of honor in a life-size Whack-o-Mole game." Details are boring, but due to sheer coincidence, a lot of household craziness is arriving in an Unharmonic Convergence of dogsitting, college visits for our son, dental unpleasantness and more.
The capstone was yesterday, as I sorted the piles of documents that I hand off to my husband as he fires up his tax software to do our taxes. I hate this annual job. I don't mind paying taxes--I just hate doing them.
Anyway, among the papers I was sorting, I found something very amusing and, for today's blog, I am going to plagiarize the entire content of this document I found in my tax prep pile. Here it goes:
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2/19/2010
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
One day, a few days ago, I had gotten to late afternoon and felt really sleepy. My husband George would be home soon, but I thought I would take a quick cat nap before the dog went bananas (which he always does when he hears the garage door go up. “Daddy’s home!”) I was just getting into the sweet spot in my power nap and, dang it, the phone rang.
It was a telemarketer. She asked for George. I said, on sleepy autopilot, “He’s not available at the moment, may I take a message?” She said—and I’m not kidding—“No thank you; this was just a courtesy call.” And then she hung up immediately. Courtesy call? COURTESY CALL? I went from cozy napper to boiling mad in 30 seconds.
I am about “that close” [picture my index finger and my thumb separated by about 3 millimeters] to dropping our land line. I’ve been asked if I want my carpets cleaned, and we have hardwood floors. My favorite is those who want to sell us aluminum siding when, if they drove past the house, they would see it is stucco.
Yes, we’re on the federal Do Not Call list, https://www.donotcall.gov , and this probably helps, but we still get unwanted calls on a regular basis. According to the Federal Trade Commission, telemarketers are required to search the list every 31 days and remove any of these numbers from use, but I’m not sure how often this happens in actual practice. There are some telemarketers exempt from the ruling—among them are charities, political calls and those with whom you have an existing business relationship. The FTC website also says that prerecorded messages (those annoying “Robocalls”) are reportable offenders. For all of the rules—and your rights—check out the FTC consumer information here: http://www.ftc.gov/bcp/edu/pubs/consumer/alerts/alt107.shtm .
Up here in Minneapolis, we are afflicted with an ailment called “Minnesota Nice.” It’s just about impossible for most of us to be assertive under any circumstances, even with blatant annoyances. But families should be able to control who is important enough to wake babies from a nap or interrupt their precious dinner hour.
Telemarketers don’t make a lot of money, jobs are scarce, times are tough, and the constant rejection must be brutal. I feel horrible about the whole thing. But I buy my phone service for my convenience, not theirs, and they are beholden to federal law. Calling me, when I have officially registered as “off limits,” is against the law. We don’t get calls from creditors, because we pay our bills. I owe these callers nothing. I’d love to offer to help them write a resume so they can find a better job!
There is lots of advice for dealing with this such as “Get Caller ID” or “block calls from unidentified numbers.” These cost me money to enact. “Don’t answer your phone” doesn’t help, because I have a loved one who is dealing with chronic illness, and I want her to be able to contact me. In the most ironic circumstances imaginable in this paradoxical world, this loved one of mine worked a short stint as a telemarketer. This rips my heart out.
The conundrum is how to deal with them without being abusive yet get one’s point across. Jerry Seinfeld’s method, from an episode of Seinfeld, is so cathartic to watch. Here it is: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hllDWSbuDsQ . One of these days, I will have a momentary lapse in “Minnesota nice,” and this Seinfeld technique will slip out of me. 2/10/2010
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
U.S. First Lady Michelle Obama is launching a nationwide campaign to raise awareness of childhood obesity. Here is an interview with her from last night’s News Hour with Jim Lehrer. http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/health/jan-june10/firstlady_02-09.html . It’s a serious problem and a grave threat to our nation. One in three U.S. children is overweight. We all know the risk factors thereof. I won’t go into any medical or dietary specifics, because I’m not qualified and because the whole “Let’s Move” campaign is explained on its own website. http://www.letsmove.gov .
What I am going to add is a few thoughts based on my reminiscences of a childhood battling a weight problem. I’ll tell you where “they lost me.” Phy Ed classes in 12 years of public school, with exceptions amounting to mere days, did me no good at all. What I remember is being asked to do useless activities such as try to climb a rope hanging from the ceiling of the gym—what was that about? In 49 years of living, not once have I had the need to climb a 20 foot rope. I remember bouncing on a trampoline and trying the uneven parallel bars—both disasters. I am afraid of heights and had no aptitude for gymnastics. I hate volleyball, basketball, softball and track. Sit ups, push ups and jumping jacks were a joke. Being forced to play sports against my will didn’t help me—it just made me resentful. Physical activity became associated with failure, embarrassment and fear.
Then, to make matters worse, in Minnesota we were forced to go outside in the winter for recess. I hated every single day. I stood outside freezing so that (in my mind) the teachers could have 30 minutes of peace and quiet. We were told we needed “fresh air.” As far as I could tell, the air was just as fresh inside the warm school. I didn’t get fit—I just got furious. I get mad right now just thinking about it. Gym teachers had curricular units they had to tick off and mark “completed” on their clipboards. With every checkmark, they gave me one more reason to hate gym class.
What I did like, but what wasn’t covered enough, was dance and swimming. What would’ve helped me would have been a physical education program designed around things I could do—and wanted to do. Like walking. Why was I forced to try sports that I was destined to fail at? I wish I could’ve left childhood committed to a lifetime of dance, swimming and just plain walking.
Here are the uneven parallels: athletic ability is endowed unevenly. I was born an endomorph. But there could’ve been a parallel track I would’ve enjoyed, pursuing physical activity I could’ve benefitted from and used throughout my life. I hope the Let’s Move campaign gets it right. 2/2/2010
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
This blog has been trying to write itself for months; since last summer, in fact. Why is it so hard for an otherwise voluble blogger to bang out 1000 words? It’s because in order to get to the happy ending, I have to go through some searing, painful memories.
Online social networking, and its effects on our lives, has brought on considerable controversy. That there are many downsides to one’s existence online; I don’t dispute this. But, this time, I want to write about how miraculous and wonderful Facebook has been in reconnecting me with two crucial relationships from my past.
Almost exactly a year ago, I opened up my Facebook homepage and saw I had a “friend request.” It was from Jane Shortridge—a personal message added something like—“Nancy is this you? The birthday matches.” At the sight of her name, I burst into tears. Jane was best friend from fifth – eighth grade. In 1974, the summer after eighth grade, I got devastating news—my parents said we were moving. I was 14 years old and crushed. I had to leave all my friends—but the loss of Jane hurt the worst. We wrote letters over the 300 mile distance for a while, but I quit answering them before long. I knew I’d never see her again, and it was best to just let her go and grieve.
Thirty five years later, I got her “friend request.” I clicked on her homepage—there was her birthday that I still remembered—and a photo that was unmistakable. It was her! Another miracle—she had been living just three miles away for years. As soon as we could coordinate schedules, we scheduled a breakfast together. When I picked her up, she got into my car and we hugged each other and just sobbed. It is cliché, but the intervening years just melted away—as if no time had passed at all. Here’s a photo of Jane and me at breakfast that morning.
Jane and Me - Feb 2009
Jane was my first Facebook miracle. The second one is the story I’ve been trying to write about for months. My family moved to a small town in northern Minnesota. I started babysitting for a family—the Nelsons. Randy Nelson was our high school counselor. His wife Sharon was our home economics teacher. They had three bright and wonderful kids. By age 16, I was sitting for them regularly. They were like family to me. Darcie was 7, Darin was 5 and Melanie was 3.
Darcie used to ask her parents to go out evenings and weekends so that they would call me. I spent countless hours, over at least two years, caring for these children, reading to them, feeding them—even bathing them. The bathing part proved to be tricky for 5 year old Darin. He was “all boy” and got himself dirty- a lot! He was at that awkward stage. For bathroom safety reasons, I couldn’t really leave him alone. Yet he was beyond the stage of where I should be in the bathroom with him. So I’d draw a bath, send him in, and coach him through the door. “Make sure you wash your neck!” “Don’t touch the faucet!” I was right there in case he slipped, but he had his privacy.
Randy and Sharon trusted a 16 year old to an extent that now seems unbelievable. But they were great judges of character. I was so careful with those kids. They would leave me the family van so I could take the kids places. Darcie teases me now that I was the only one in their lives who made them wear seatbelts just driving around in that small town (remember—this was 1976). Ice cream at the local drive in was a favorite trip. I took them to their dentist 60 miles away at least once. I was in their lives until a couple of summers after I graduated when I stopped coming home from college. Darcie, who remembered me best, wanted to find me again after all these years.
That morning I had a friend request on Facebook. It’s said, “Darcie Rossborough.” Who the heck is that, I thought? I clicked on the request, and the picture came up… there she was—my little 7 year old Darcie with a grown up face and a new last name. Again, the swell of joy was overpowering. The little girl I used to hold as we watched Little House on the Prairie was now 40, married and mother of two boys.
Darcie told me her dad had passed away, but their mom Sharon was living not far from Minneapolis. We had to get together! I told Darcie that I had a story to tell about her dad.
When I was a senior in high school, life with my family of origin was becoming unbearable. To say it was dysfunctional doesn’t even scratch the surface. Details here aren’t important except to say that there was so much conflict, I didn’t know if I could stay there. I went to Randy—in his role of counselor, not employer—and dumped my sorrows at his feet. I told him how terrible my home life was. I needed to tell someone. He listened, and I couldn’t believe it, but instantly he said, “You can move in with us!” I was bowled over! Who would take on another child—a teenager no less—without a second thought?
Nowadays this kind of offer appears to be a dual relationship with a boundary violation and, to some people, it might even sound creepy. It was not. Here is where context is everything. Up near the Canadian border, in the late 70s, there were no foster homes per se. They were all informal arrangements. As high school counselor, it would’ve been his job to approach the county and to suggest a course of action. As is customary today, foster care workers seek out reliable adults that the child already knows—usually relatives for “kinship care.” We had no relatives in the county, so he would’ve had to collaborate in finding me a home anyway. They were the adults I was closest to. End of story.
When Randy told me I could move in with them, suddenly, life became bearable. I knew that I had another option. I ended up staying with my family, mostly not to have to abandon my little brother. I told Randy that I would keep his offer in mind and let him know if I needed to jump ship. Meanwhile, I babysat as much as possible, which got me out of the home for long periods of time.
Fast forward 32 years. I got together with Darcie and her mother Sharon for breakfast last summer. I told them about my high school crisis. Interestingly, Sharon had never heard the story. Randy had kept my confidence his entire life. I asked Sharon what she would’ve done if suddenly Randy had told her she had a new teenager in the family. She said, as quickly as Randy had replied 32 years ago, that they would’ve taken me in without question. Here is a photo of “little Darcie"—me—and my “other mother,” Sharon Nelson.
Darcie--her Babysitter--and "mom " to us both
The resilience literature says, again and again, that it is sometimes only one person in a child life’s that means the difference between thriving and despair. Randy was one of a handful of guardian angels who were there at critical phases of my life. I want to honor him with this blog. My only regret is that he didn’t live long enough to read my tribute himself. Randy has grandchildren now. I hope Darcie, Darin and Melanie will share this blog with their children so they can read about how well, and how ethically, he practiced counseling and youth development.
I’d like to share a couple of pictures. This is a photo of me (standing) and talking with Randy and Sharon, who were chaperones at my senior prom.
Randy, Sharon and Me-- May 1978
Then, this one I’ll call “The Little Rascals.” Here are photos of my charges, Darcie, Darin and Melanie.
The Little Rascals
I’d kept these photos all these years….
Finally, to Jane Shortridge—and Darcie Nelson Rossborough—thanks for finding me through the miracle of Facebook. It's a joy to have you back!
An important note to anyone who may have had a name change: make sure your former/ maiden name is embedded somewhere in your personal information so that the search engine can pick it up. If you want to connect with people from your past, this is the way they will find you. 1/14/2010
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Working at NCFR, I have the privilege of reading the research in our journals and reading a lot of books about family studies—both are my passion. It’s really relatively rare that I read a book that is not written for researchers and practitioners, but one that is written especially for family use—guides that families can use at home to improve their lives. Self-help books are everywhere and, to be honest and in my opinion, most of them aren’t much good. I have waded through many such books, and the disappointing ones tend to fall into four categories:
1) Books based entirely on anecdotal experiences of the author, which may be very well meaning, but they are not reliable scientifically, or
2) Books that may be research-based, but the studies cited are so cherry-picked, usually to further some agenda, that they’re of no use, or
3) Books that are written by some shaming “expert” whose advice is completely based on what dysfunctional people need to do to have lives as wonderful as the expert’s, or
4) Books that are excellent in terms of high quality research and best practices, but the “help” is written in the jargon of our field—or steeped in so many $50 words—that they’re not comprehensible to the general public.
I’ve stopped reading many self-help books. My blood pressure can’t stand it.
Every now and then, I come across one that is evidence-based yet written in language that is readable to a typical high school graduate. I’ve read such a book lately. It’s called Strong Families, Successful Students: Helping Teenagers Reach Their Full Potential by NCFR member Stephen Gavazzi.
What a reader will find surprising right away is that although the title lets the reader know that academic development is the goal, it’s not a collection of the usual tiresome litany of rules, rules, rules that parents must enforce (which in my experience, as a mother, just makes for a lot of yelling.) Gavazzi zeroes in on the source of academic success—the family relationships… that if families use their strengths and work together, they can build a foundation that makes the rest possible. In lieu of the finger-wagging expert, Gavazzi tells families that they are experts in their own families. It’s not anecdotal—Dr. Gavazzi is an experienced therapist and scholar. And although he’s a professor at Ohio State, the book is not remote and professorial. In fact—the language is so understandable, that I had to stop after a chapter or so and switch gears. I’m used to reading material at a much higher level—I had to imagine reading it if I didn’t know anything about our field. It was a refreshing change.
The book takes a family through an educational therapeutic process that many families can perform at home on their own. This is important to me, because what many people ask of families is to “go seek professional help.” Sometimes “professional help” just isn’t there. Sometimes those of us in the academic community forget that we tend to have health insurance and tend to live in population centers with therapists close by. I grew up in northern Minnesota where even Lewis and Clark didn’t go. When I was in high school, there was one itinerant therapist who served several small towns within a two hour radius. In addition, there is an estimated 45 -47 million Americans who do not have health insurance—it’s very likely that even fewer have access to family therapy. I heard on Minnesota Public Radio just yesterday that 20% of homeowners are “upside down” on their mortgages. We’re coming out of a devastating recession. If typical families can find some help in an inexpensive paperback, I’m all for it. This is not the book to help families dealing with severe pathology. Clearly there are many “don’t try this at home” situations. But as Gavazzi says, this book is for “good enough” families who could use some help in improving communication and setting the stage for a healthier family. And healthy families are the basis for optimal academic development.
Although I said the book is not anecdotal (in the scientific sense), it has some charming anecdotes—more like parables—that introduce a principle and then illustrate it in a real life example. I won’t be a spoiler and quote any of them, because I want readers to be surprised by laughter, as I was.
This is what I wish more scholars would do—give psychology away—or at least make it accessible and affordable. Check it out. 12/14/2009
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
The homeless shelters in Minneapolis are just bulging. With our inclement weather here, it’s no wonder. Minnesota Public Radio recently covered this situation. http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2009/11/16/homeless . There are numerous charities that serve the homeless. If you would like to give, but can’t find one locally, go to www.unitedway.org. There is a zip code search engine that can direct you to charities in your area.
As a little girl, I recall my grandmother mentioning the “hobos” that came through their northern Minnesota town on the train during the Great Depression. “Hobo” is not a politically correct term today, but that’s what they were called in the 30s. Writer Bill Bryson posits that the term was not a pejorative one back then—and I’m sure this is the case because my grandmother didn’t talk that way about people. Bryson suggests in his book Made in America that it could either come from the railroad greeting, "Ho, beau!" or an abbreviation of "homeward bound.”
Back to my grandmother… my mother filled in the blanks many years later when she told me that no matter how much scarcity existed in their own home during the Depression, my grandmother never turned away anyone who was hungry. My grandmother was a simple woman with an eighth grade education, but she wisely practiced her faith via sandwich and coffee. Grandma knew “there but for the grace of God…” Ask anyone who works with the homeless population; many have mental illnesses, disabilities or addictions. Some are running from abusive environments. And some are those who lost their grip on the mainstream due to a devastating setback of some kind.
When my son Eric was a toddler, one of our favorite shows to watch together was Shining Time Station of “Thomas the Tank Engine” fame. I was holding Eric during Shining Time’s Christmas special—this was almost 20 years ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.
In keeping with the tank engine theme, there was a song that started playing about hobos who rode the rails. It was one of the most moving songs I’ve ever heard. I squeezed my son and cried. I’m sure he wondered what was wrong with Mommy—on the TV, he saw a man on a train and heard a pretty song. Today my pragmatic 21 year old would say “Crying won’t help them, Mom. Send them a check.” The video clip from this Shining Time Christmas episode is on YouTube, and I’d love to share it with you. It’s my Zippy News video of the week.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AGxVCl1ww4Q&feature=related
This will be my last blog for 2009. To those 700-800 visitors each month that find our NCFR blog and give our website a “hit,” thank you so very, very much.
By the way, here's the toddler I was holding. And what is he holding? His Thomas the Tank Engine.
My toddler circa 1991
12/9/2009
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Almost every year since my earliest memories, I’ve watched the classic Rankin-Bass production of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. When I was a small child, it was both traumatizing and cathartic. It’s hard to imagine anyone living in the U.S. who hasn’t seen this show at least once. Here’s the trailer to make sure we’re all on the same page. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6IAY9bSP7s .
There’s one scene in particular that grabbed me every year. Rudolph was singled out as being unfit for the reindeer games because his nose was the wrong “color.” The coach, Comet, sets down the rules: “From now on, gang, we won’t let Rudolph play in any reindeer games!” I just sobbed and sobbed. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyOY7Ld0JCU .
As a child, as is true for probably most children, I have felt the sting of a bully’s taunt. Maybe this is why my empathy for Rudolph was on overdrive. As the show progressed, Rudolph’s travels to find acceptance led him to The Island of Misfit Toys—a frozen ghetto for the marginalized; toys that were imperfect that no child would want to play with. Again, I’d cry and cry. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5SH1j1luFOw
But I knew that every year, if I could hang in there, TV life would even the score. Rudolph found out that his nose had a special role to play. In fact, his red nose was the basis for his being promoted above all the other reindeer.
The archetype of conquering heroes who are at first an object of ridicule and then soar past their peers is one of the oldest stories in the world. This past year, as Susan Boyle shocked the world on Britains Got Talent with her rendition of I Dreamed a Dream, we all again watched a new Eliza Doolittle turn into one Fair Lady. It’s worth watching again. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY . By her own admission in interviews, she felt like a misfit as a child. She battled learning disabilities and endured bullying. But she could sing. Her first CD was just released, and I bought it right away. It’s stunningly beautiful. And speaking of beautiful, Susan has gotten a makeover, and she’s just lovely. Check it out: http://cm1.theinsider.com/thumbnail/400/559/cm1.theinsider.com/media/0/543/75/susan-boyle-amazon-record-breaker.jpg . Part of me wanted her to keep her “look”; but I applaud any change she wanted to make to feel better about herself.
A moment of my childhood that I still remember with pain was the time the other girls in third grade found out that I wore “Sears Chubby” size. Yes—if you can imagine, Sears carried a line of clothing for the fat little girl. Here’s a vintage ad: http://contexts.org/socimages/2009/01/30/vintage-ad-for-chubby-fashions . One of the bullies happened to see the tag in the back of one of my slacks… Sears Chubby it said... and broadcast the news to the entire class. It’s been 40 years, and I still cringe when I think of it.
When I was young, schoolyard bullies were not recognized for the damage they did. Now they are. There’s recognition for bullies that children interact with online—cyberbulling. Here’s some good information for kids on the topic. http://mcgruff.org/Advice/cyberbullies.php . And now, there’s acknowledgement for another venue for bullying—in the workplace. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/25/health/25well.html .
To this day, gals like me are euphemistically referred to as “big-boned.” Now our clothing is called “Plus Sizes.” But I don’t care anymore because I have so much else in my life that defines me. In third grade, however, it was humiliating.
Back at age 9, I wish someone would have told me that in 40 years, it wouldn’t matter anymore. There’s always tomorrow…. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUgMaL89Lqc
Were you bullied as a child? Are you dealing with a bully in the workplace? Please post a comment. Comments are moderated (we screen them before we post them) but they are anonymous—we do not track where they came from in any way. 11/19/2009
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
These past couple of days, there has been a firestorm of reaction to the new recommendations just released from the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force about mammography and breast health.
Briefly, the newest recommendations state that routine mammography is not necessary for women under age 50. There are other recommendations, but among those that surprised me the most is the recommendation that teaching breast self-examination should be brought to an end as well. Beginning as a teenager, I have had it pounded into my head that once a month we were supposed to examine our breasts in the shower.
Disclaimer: NCFR is not a medical organization, and we do not disseminate any recommendations outside of our professional organization’s areas of expertise. As a blogger, I have no medical credentials either. I will give no medical advice. However, I do have two breasts which entitles me to have an opinion... and to be just as confused—and angry—as any other woman.
Even though NCFR is not in the cancer screening business, cancer is a family matter. I thought that it might be helpful to collect some of the official sources of information as well as some of the commentary from other organizations—and from women themselves—for the convenience of our members, so that the information is accessible from one site.
Here is the actual information from the US Preventive Task Force (USPTF) that touched off the controversy:
http://www.ahrq.gov/clinic/uspstf/uspsbrca.htm#summary
Here is a CNN story about it: http://www.cnn.com/2009/HEALTH/11/16/mammography.recommendation.changes/index.html
Here is how the American Cancer Society is weighing in—they are resisting the change:
http://www.cancer.org/docroot/MED/content/MED_2_1x_American_Cancer_Society_Responds_to_Changes_to_USPSTF_Mammography_Guidelines.asp
Here is the official position of the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology (ACOG), whose protocols will also remain unchanged:
http://www.acog.org/from_home/Misc/uspstfResponse.cfm
ACOG has a good summary of the rationale for the USPTF’s change: that having routine mammography has its own risks… “the harms assessed by the USPTF were radiation exposure, false-positive and false-negative results, overdiagnosis, pain during procedures, and anxiety, distress, and other psychologic responses.” Even breast self examination has “risks”: women feel what they perceive as a lump and it requires mammography—and then the resultant radiation, false results, biopsies and several days of fright. However, ACOG’s official position after the USPTF’s news was that ACOG’s recommendations will not be changing.
I understand the basics of statistical assessment of this issue, and that epidemiology is based on numbers from the aggregate of studying a huge number of women. That doesn’t mean that each of us doesn’t have a half dozen anecdotes of a friend, neighbor or coworker, under age 50, who found her own malignant lump or had it picked up on a mammogram. This “anecdotal evidence” is pretty emotionally-charged. Without mammography in her early 40s, I would not have one of my dearest friends today. One of my aunts found her lump herself. However, I am one who had the kind of results the USPTF is concerned about—I had a suspicious lump found by mammogram at age 45. I had a core biopsy (not painful), but I did have several days of official freak-out waiting for the results.
What is causing me more freak-out now is the confusion. Across all of these organizations that we are supposed to trust, there is no consensus. Surprisingly, I am reading very little about using a women’s family history as a factor in the decision. Worse yet, I worry about the implications these new recommendations may have about insurance coverage for screening for those whose doctors recommend it.
ACOG notes that although heart disease is the highest risk for death in women, “surveys have shown that women are more concerned about their risk of breast cancer than heart disease, which is more common.” We are concerned. In my opinion, trying to keep us from unnecessary worry is a moot point. We already worry. Women don’t run races and sport pink ribbons for nothing. The website of the “pink ribbon” people—Susan Komen for the Cure—offers perhaps the most calm and compassionate assessment of the controversy. http://ww5.komen.org/KomenNewsArticle.aspx?id=6442451500 .
What am I going to do? I’m going to listen to my doctor. 11/3/2009
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
Our annual conference is coming up next week, and I can’t wait. It’s my favorite week of the year. I bumped into someone recently who reminded me of another conference, many years ago, that I’ll never forget.
About 15 years ago, I was working at a university as an academic adviser. We usually attended one professional conference a year. I got to talking with a colleague, Gordy, who planned to go to the same conference that I wanted to attend. It turns out that Gordy had already registered and had a hotel reservation. In fact, he said they’d given him a two room suite. He said that he wasn’t going to use the other room, so I was welcome to it. I thought it was a fabulous idea—a way to save on our organization’s travel dollars.
Everything went off without a hitch until we got to the hotel in Miami. We got our keys and went up to settle into our two room suite. We got to the door, opened it, and walked in. It wasn’t a two room suite. It was a standard hotel room with a King size bed in an alcove and a “living room” sofa that folded out into a hide-a-bed. The “bedroom” was separated by a thin louvered door, more flimsy than the ones on a standard home closet. The other opening to the alcove had no door whatsoever. “Two rooms” was a gross exaggeration.
I looked at Gordy and the blood drained from his face. We quickly decided that sharing a room was not what either of us had in mind. I called the desk and asked for another room. There was “No Room at the Inn.” In fact, there was some major event in town. The desk clerk told me it was hopeless. There wasn’t a hotel room to be had anywhere within miles. I told Gordy the news. AWK-ward! We tried to think of what we could do. There was no other solution: we had to share the room. This was going to be an adventure. Other than my husband, I’ve only bunked with one other guy in my life—my little brother, and we were preschoolers at the time.
Gordy was and is happily married, and I knew his wife, Leslie. She worked in our organization too. I, of course, was and am happily married. I called my husband and told him about the situation—which he thought was a scream. So—Gordy and I shared a room. My only complaint is that chivalry lost out; Gordy claimed dibs on the King bed leaving me to sleep on the fold-out couch. It was the only solution, though. Gordy is every bit of 6’4” and would never have fit on the sofa. The bathroom had a real door on it so we could both shower and change with privacy. We were both no-nonsense let’s-make-this-work types, and it did. Gordy was the perfect gentleman, and I hope I wasn’t too unpleasant to room with.
I ran into Gordy at a store about a month ago. Since he’s about 20 years older than I, he’s long since retired and, of course, I now work at NCFR. I hadn’t seen him in years, but when we spotted each other, we both started to laugh. My husband was a couple aisles away in the store. I waved him over, and I finally got to introduce him to Gordy... who will always have a fond place in my heart as My Other Male Roomie.
10/30/2009
By Nancy Gonzalez, CFLE
This year is our twenty-fourth anniversary of NCFR's conferring of the Certified Family Life Educator credential. And yet, formally, the field is still relatively young. But family life educators have always been around—we’ve just been called different things. Historically, parenting wisdom has been passed from generation to generation. Marriage advice has been offered by friends or clergy. And then there are the Old Wives’ Tales.
I collect vintage family life education materials. With books and brochures, I’m sure I have over 100 now. I find them at used bookstores, on the internet and at estate sales. My oldest piece, and my treasure, is a book on the sociology of the family from the 1880s. I’ve got Ernest Burgess’, Ernest Groves’, Evelyn Duvall’s and Elizabeth Forces’ classic books and lots of brochures from the Children’s Bureau as well as pamphlets on caring for baby that were created by hospitals to send home with new mothers. (It seems that the vintage ones were aimed at mothers.) What I expected to read when I began my collection is a compilation of laughable counsel. What I'm amazed about is just how often the vintage works got things right.
Parenting materials became more popular beginning in the 1920s, if my library is representative of the field. However, I’ve found that in the early 1900s, parenting advice was available in etiquette books. I have a book called The New Book of Etiquette, by Lillian Eichler, from 1934 that has a chapter specifically about etiquette for children. It is almost 100% parent education. Here are some highlights:
It is always a great temptation for an indulgent parent to yield to a child. It is so easy to stop a fit of crying with a candy or end a fit of childish temper with a toy. But “peace at any price” is costly in child training, and is often disastrous to the child’s developing personality.
It goes without saying that one must have the grace to overlook tiny faults that cannot possibly grow into bad habits. One must not nag youngsters until they fear to act naturally.
Infinite patience is required in the training of children. Never under any circumstances lose your temper, or use words the child may remember and repeat, to your embarrassment.
Another fundamental on which parents can depend in teaching language to children is the passion for repetition. The same old story told for the hundredth time delights the youngster—even more than a new story—for he likes the thrill of recognizing characters and incidents.
Mothers do children a grave injustice by forcing them to wear clothes they do not like or in which they do not feel comfortable. Every normal child is born with the urge for physical activity; and clothes that, for one reason or another, hamper this natural urge do more damage than might be supposed.
Not too bad, is it? There are “fads” in parenting opinion that have gone in and out. In the 1920s, there was real anxiety about toilet training and regularity. Beginning in the 50s, there seemed to be a new recognition in popular materials that adolescence is a distinct stage, providing “dating” guidance. True, there are some that have made me laugh—one is a brochure on menarche for girls with the title Modess… because. (Because what? Menstruation was too taboo to mention, obviously.) The old etiquette books on “courting” protocols from the turn of the last century are now painfully dated given today’s reality of STDs and hook-ups. Sadly, the vintage materials make almost no mention of Intimate Partner Violence. I have one publication on advice for new husbands that barely skirts the issue; it mainly urges men to be kind to their wives.
The future of family life education will undoubtedly be as interesting as its history. Myths are still being debunked. The Baby Einstein fad is officially over—read this article from the New York Times; Disney is now offering refunds to parents who purchased these tapes. Quoting from the article, “Despite their ubiquity, and the fact that many babies are transfixed by the videos, the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends no screen time at all for children under 2.” http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/24/education/24baby.html . Looking back is fun… looking ahead will be fun, too. I can’t wait to see what the future of my field holds!
Note: In anticipation of a question I might be asked, no, I do not lend these materials. I did it once and almost didn’t get them back. However, for any NCFR member who is working on a project about the history of family life education, I would be happy to go through my collection and offer references, referrals and help in any way I can. |
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