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Sending Our Kids to Another School

After weeks of agonizing, debating, praying and researching, Erin and I made the painful but necessary decision to move the kids from the only school they’ve ever known to someplace new.

Mood music:

In three weeks, Sean and Duncan won’t be starting school at St. Joseph’s in Haverhill. Instead, they’re going to St. Augustine’s in Andover.

We love the St. Joe’s community and always will. But the bottom line is that both boys have extra needs the school simply isn’t equipped to provide. Sean needs more of an academic challenge in the next two years, as he sets his sights on getting into a prestigious, private high school. Duncan needs an environment better equipped to meet the needs of his IEP (Individualized Education Program). St. Joe’s has struggled to do what’s needed for a child with ADHD.

We’re excited to send them to St. Augustine’s, which has many more resources to meet those needs. But getting to that decision was hard. And telling the kids was even harder.

Like many parents, we instinctively want to shield our children from trauma. Few traumas are greater to kids than being sent to another school, particularly when they’ve been in the same place since pre-school. As expected, they were upset when we told them. There were tears and protests. We were emotionally spent by day’s end.

The next morning, we took them to the new school for admissions testing and a tour. We spent more than half the morning there, and by the time we were done, the kids were smiling. They still have their anxieties about the unknown. They are not jumping for joy, and they won’t be. But by the time we left, I think they knew this was for the best and that they were going to be just fine.

They know they’ll make new friends, and we’ve made it clear that we’ll help them stay connected to their St. Joe’s friends. Doing so won’t be difficult. We’re still parishioners of the school’s parent church, All Saints. Sean is still part of the church youth group and will see many of his friends there. And both boys are still Scouts, which will ensure another level of continuity.

In the final analysis playing it safe was unacceptable to us. Kids are going to have tough experiences in their lives and need to learn to roll with it. As parents, we have to give them our time and attention and help them stay on the right path. But we also must take occasional risks, upsetting the balance in the face of opportunity, teaching them to do the same.

And so we have.

The New School

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The Importance of Family in a Family Business

For as long as I can remember, it hung on the wall outside the front offices of the family business, right next to the timecards: a memorial plaque for the company’s founder, the man I’m named for: William J. Brenner.

I always found the plaque somewhat disconcerting to look at because there was my full name and the “In Memory of …” I’ve gotten creeped out in similar fashion whenever I’ve visited the grave.

Mood music:

He founded Brenner Paper Box Co. in Chelsea, Mass., in 1922. The original building was one of the last to burn in the Great Chelsea Fire of 1973. My grandfather had died four years earlier, in late 1969, and my father had taken over the business. After the fire, he moved it to Saugus and transformed it into a store for party supplies and, later with my stepmom, he made expanded it into a business for all special occasions: birthdays, weddings, proms, you name it. The only occasion not represented was funerals, though I’m sure the main store had something even for that in one of the aisles.

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I practically grew up there, stealing the little toys we sold for birthday party goody bags and, later, hiding behind boxes in the warehouse smoking cigarettes and listening to the Mötley Crüe cassettes I liked to load into my Walkman.

I didn’t take over the business for my father, but the building continued to be a family gathering point long after I had forged my path in the world of journalism. Now the company is closing and the building is being sold. My father had the plaque removed and gave it to me yesterday. I’ve given it a new home on my office desk.

In some ways, it’s a strange place to keep it. In other ways, it’s entirely appropriate.

The company I work for is one of the critical pillars holding up the Internet and making it run smoothly so other companies can safely do business there. I’ve long believed that the Internet played a role in the slow death of the family business. Like many mom-and-pop companies, Brenners struggled to keep customers in the stores as more people went online to buy things. But while the company couldn’t survive as it had, the family lives on and has found ways to thrive in cyberspace.

My father and stepmom had already started figuring out the business potential of the Internet some years ago, and I know from talking to them that they’ll still be busy with business ventures, and a lot of it will take place online.

Now the memorial plaque can sit here and observe how business is done in the 21st century. You could say it has a ring-side seat. I’m honored to be chosen as its keeper.

Brenner Memorial Plaque

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A Benevolent Dictatorship

My kids learned a new term this weekend: benevolent dictatorship. It’s Erin’s way of describing the way of the household. We’re the parents, we make the rules and the boys don’t get to move the goal posts around. For the sake of Erin’s sanity and my own OCD management, it’s become necessary that the children understand this.

Mood music:

Kids will be kids. Our boys leave their dirty clothes all over the floor and Lego pieces are in just about every room waiting to be stepped on. They have the uncanny ability to sweep the kitchen floor without catching a single speck of dirt and the living room furniture is always at some weird angle. They don’t do this stuff to be mean. Any parent will tell you similar stories.

But my OCD is rubbed raw these days as I adjust to a new job and the resulting changes it brings to the family dynamic. I come home and pick up all the messes they make. I can’t help myself. Seeing chaos in the form of messy rooms makes my mind chaotic, which brings on a craving for order that makes me run myself ragged.

It’s not good for me and it’s not good for Erin, who then ends up having to take care of three kids instead of two, as I revert to an angst-filled teenager in my moments of OCD overdrive.

So we had a family meeting this weekend and laid down the law. We increased their chores lists and told them their allowance will get docked every time they protest having to pull their weight. But we softened the blow by giving them both a raise. All in all, they took it well. They even seemed eager to get on with it. But we know the blowback is inevitable. They are just kids, after all.

I’ve never been particularly good at enforcing the rules. I don’t like to yell at the children, and I often choose the path of least shouting as a result. But I do it at my peril.

Lately, I’m realizing that I can’t be the passive parent anymore, because it leads to me cleaning up every bit of destruction in the kids’ wake and they don’t learn the value of being on the hook for certain responsibilities. If I let them be irresponsible, I’m doing them more of a disservice then when I have to raise my voice. And I’m learning that the yelling isn’t necessarily a disservice.

That’s become part of my education in OCD management: learning how to be a hard-ass without being an asshole.

If I can master it, I’ll be in better mental health. Erin will be in better mental health. And the kids will grow up to be men who have the discipline and thick skin to make their dreams come true.

Or so I hope.

Duncan, Sean, Bill

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What Arline Corthell Left Behind

Erin’s paternal grandmother passed away yesterday. Although she’s gone, she leaves behind memories to treasure and influences to carry on.

Memories

Grammie had a gift for focusing on one person at a time and engaging them in deep conversation. She did most of the talking, of course. She could, as my sister-in-law Amanda put it, talk the ears off of a brick wall.

She had beautiful, penetrating eyes that focused on you and grabbed you like a tractor beam. She had a way of bringing a huge family together at reunions and holiday affairs.

Grammie wore a lot of hats, so many that some of the grandchildren called her Grammie with the Hat. She made me feel like part of the family from the first day I met her 20 years ago. There are a lot of other memories I wasn’t there for. Fortunately, there’s another writer in the family who was. To really understand Grammie’s essence, read this stunning tribute by my cousin Faith.

Influences

You can learn a lot about a person through their children, and Grammie had seven of them, along with way too many grandchildren and great-grandchildren for me to count. The closest example is Erin. She doesn’t let me waste anything, and she’s a stickler for detail. That’s a Grammie influence.

The Corthells are a stubborn lot during conversation. If they feel strongly about something, they won’t back down. That’s a Grammie influence.

Corthells are natural storytellers. Family memories large and small are told in a range of colors that make them impossible to forget. That’s a Grammie influence.

Corthells are fiercely loyal. They argue like every family does, but if you hurt one of their own, God help you. That’s a Grammie influence.

Corthells are rugged, hard workers. My father-in-law ran a driving school — a full-time job in itself — while working brutally long hours for trucking companies. My mother-in-law ran the school with him, teaching half of Haverhill how to drive while raising four girls. Grammie worked for the school, too. I remember her coming to the house after a night teaching driver’s ed or giving lessons, recounting the evening’s events in vivid detail.

The Corthells have been through a lot. Family members have died young. Jobs have come and gone, sometimes unexpectedly. But they have endured, soldiering through the darkness and living to fight another day with heads held high. That’s a Grammie influence.

Being part of the family has been essential to my own personal evolution. It’s been a lesson in being strong, standing up and being tough.

It all goes back to Grammie, a product of the Great Depression and WWII. She built a family that grows in number and spirit to this day, a family built to last no matter what life throws at it.

Thanks for making me part of it.

Grammie

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‘This Post Is Escapism and Blame’

A dear friend hated the post I wrote yesterday on how we’re all lousy parents. He found something in every paragraph to disagree with and found the opening particularly offensive.

He told me: “Not all of us were raised by lousy parents. Not all of us ARE lousy parents. No matter how one was raised at a certain point your life becomes your own responsibility. Not your parents. Not your genes. Not your phobias. This post, to me, is escapism and blame. I choose to fix the problem and not the blame.”

Those sentiments were not what I was going for, so let’s clarify a few things.

Let’s start with the opening:

I’ve had conversations with other parents recently that highlight a fear we all share: Despite our best efforts, we’ll scar our children anyway.

I’m thinking my friend took this as me saying all parents suck, period. Not true. I was saying that among those parents I’ve had the conversation with, all of us share the fear of damaging our kids. That doesn’t mean we will. It’s simply something we worry about. He took the title in the fullest literal sense, which is unfortunate because I was being partly facetious. Since those of us who had the conversation are convinced we are imperfect parents, I was lightheartedly saying, “OK, but let’s try not to suck too much.”

The escapism and blame he frowned upon comes from this passage, I assume:

My father could be a brutal teaser and taskmaster when it came to things like yard work and working in the family warehouse. It always seemed like my best was never good enough. Even as a grownup, I would tell him about promotions and raises at work, and when I told him what I was earning, he’d deliver these stinging words: “That’s it?” Dad also doesn’t have a verbal filter. If you put on weight, he’ll look at you, smile, and tell you you’re getting fat. Yet here I am, teasing my kids all the time.

If I had stopped there, it would have been about blame. But I continued:

Like most moms and dads, I always swore I’d do better than my parents did. But the older I get, the more I realize I haven’t been entirely fair to my mom and dad. They made their share of mistakes, but they did a lot right, too. With the help of excellent doctors, they kept me from dying of childhood illnesses. They got me through school and made my college education possible. My father has helped me out of more than a few financial jams. Yeah, bad things happened when I was a kid, but they were often things beyond my parents’ control. They tried to keep my older brother healthy, but he died anyway. They tried to keep their marriage together, but it wasn’t meant to be.

The point is that I blamed them for a lot of things earlier on, but being an imperfect parent has made me realize they didn’t deserve my scorn. My own challenges have given me a better understanding of what they did right despite all bad cards they were dealt along the way. Bitterness and blame were long ago replaced by forgiveness and gratitude. True, my relationship with Mom and Dad could be better today, but I attribute that more to the differences we struggle with together as adults.

My friend ended his comment with this: “I choose to fix the problem and not the blame.”

So do I.

As imperfect as I am, my boys are growing up with love and encouragement. I’m a constant presence in their lives, and when I see myself screwing up, I work to correct it. I’m also as honest as I can be with my children. If I’m in the wrong, I acknowledge it. And every day I tell them I’m proud of them, no matter how badly they’ve tested my patience. That’s progress.

I point out the lousy parts of my parenting because in acknowledging it, I can improve. And in sharing, my hope is that other parents can do the same.
Bad Parent Alarm

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We’re All Lousy Parents. The Trick Is To Not Suck Too Much

I’ve had conversations with other parents recently that highlight a fear we all share: Despite our best efforts, we’ll scar our children anyway.

Most of us can point to examples of things our parents did to scar us for life, and we’re horrified to find ourselves doing the same things.

My father could be a brutal teaser and taskmaster when it came to things like yard work and working in the family warehouse. It always seemed like my best was never good enough. Even as a grownup, I would tell him about promotions and raises at work, and when I told him what I was earning, he’d deliver these stinging words: “That’s it?”

Dad also doesn’t have a verbal filter. If you put on weight, he’ll look at you, smile, and tell you you’re getting fat.

Yet here I am, teasing my kids all the time. And though I’ve historically been the parent most likely to let them get away with stuff, I’ve hardened my stance of late. I feel like I have to, because Sean is a tween with all the infuriating attributes. So I get on him about taking out the trash, picking his clothes off the floor and being a leader in his Boy Scout troop. Meanwhile, Duncan needs a lot of guidance and patience as a kid with ADHD. I often fall short because my OCD robs me of all patience.

See our resources section for sites parents and children will find helpful.

These things used to distress me. Like most moms and dads, I always swore I’d do better than my parents did. But the older I get, the more I realize I haven’t been entirely fair to my mom and dad.

They made their share of mistakes, but they did a lot right, too. With the help of excellent doctors, they kept me from dying of childhood illnesses. They got me through school and made my college education possible. My father has helped me out of more than a few financial jams. Yeah, bad things happened when I was a kid, but they were often things beyond my parents’ control. They tried to keep my older brother healthy, but he died anyway. They tried to keep their marriage together, but it wasn’t meant to be. The fighting around that divorce was vicious, but that’s what happens when a relationship decays. Some manage a divorce better than others, but there’s no instruction manual to help things along.

Some parents vow to quit drinking and smoking when a child comes along and often fail. But addiction is a powerful slave keeper. We vow not to cuss, but if I’m a fair example of the majority, the profanity creeps back before you know what hit you.

There are plenty of cases of parents carrying on like saints or demons, but most of us fall somewhere in the middle. We adore our children and drive ourselves to the brink of exhaustion providing for them. We show them a lot of love. But we have bad days, saying and doing things that end up in their mental time capsules, which are dug up in adulthood and analyzed for signs of trauma. Most of us have emotionally scarring back stories from childhood. The trick is to keep our shitty parenting to a minimum and get it right more often than not. Sadly, we have to wait until they grow up to see how it all worked out.

How to Traumatize Your Child book

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To My New Nephew

The family has been blessed with a new addition: Hunter Wild Anderson, born Saturday to my step-brother Brian and sister-in-law Sharane.

Mood music:

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Hi, Hunter.

I’m you’re Uncle Bill, the one who’s going to show affection by teasing you a lot. I’ll do my best not to go too far. I listen to really loud, offensive music. I can’t wait to expose you to that.

Your cousins have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Sean and Duncan, Lilly and Chase are going to love having you around. It won’t be long before you join them, racing around your grandparents’ condo, making forts out of the couch pillows and getting food on the floor.

You’re blessed with easygoing parents. Your mom knows how to laugh and make others laugh. Your dad has been through more than his fair share of adversity but has managed to stay positive and keep his humor. Together, your parents are a lot of fun. They’ll surely pass those traits on to you, and thank God for that.

Life is hard, and humor is one of the most important survival tools you can have. Your dad is also a professional chef. This makes you incredibly lucky, because high-end cooks are hard to come by in this family. You’ll figure that out the first time I cook something for you.

You have grandparents who will dote on you and love you unconditionally. You also have some fabulous aunts, uncles and cousins. Aunt Shira is one of the most serene and talented people I know. She’ll teach you how to dance and, when you’re being difficult as we all can be, she’ll respond with endless patience. Aunt Stacey, Uncle Sean and Lilly and Chase are very loving, generous souls, and that’s going to rub off on you, too. Aunt Wendi will give you a special appreciation for music and, along with Aunt Dee, will pass on a love of animals. Their house has enough dogs and cats to fill Noah’s Arc. You’ll enjoy that.

Life won’t be easy. You’ll go through plenty of ups and downs. But let me share a little secret with you: The key to getting through the down periods with your overall happiness intact is to simply recognize that life is supposed to be hard. It’s what helps us grow. And there’s no such thing as never having a care in the world. Some folks still reach for that state of mind, and they’re almost always crushed when reality fails to meet their expectations.

If you want, I can help you navigate through that stuff. I’ve developed some coping skills along the way. You’re going to screw up. Don’t worry about it. We all do. Screwing up makes us stronger when we’re willing to learn from our mistakes.

One more thing, my young friend: If you ever want to do something big in life and those around you tell you it can’t be done, ignore them. You can accomplish anything if you put your mind to it. That’s a cliché of a statement, but it’s the truth.

As I write this you’re only a couple days old. Sean, Duncan, Aunt Erin and I can’t wait to meet you.

You’re going to be great, kid. Welcome home.

—Uncle Bill
Hunter Wild Anderson

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A Tribute to Nana Ruth

I’ve been thinking a lot about Erin’s grandmother, Ruth Robinson, since she passed away Friday morning. I have lots of memories, all cherished.

Whenever I think of family, there’s always a lot of dysfunction to go with the joy. It’s like that in every family, and the dysfunction can be good, the stuff that goes into the humorous aspects of family lore. But when I think of Nana Ruth, I always see that smile. That smile could put the most uptight, cantankerous people at ease and fill them with warmth.

I know this because when I first started dating Erin 19 years ago, I was an uptight kid with a chip on his shoulder. Being the negative type, I always thought of my own family gatherings as battles to be survived. It didn’t occur to me at that point that you could or should enjoy time with family. I always chose to run. I don’t blame my family for that. It’s just how I was back then.

My perception started to change when I met Erin’s family. I didn’t feel like I had to be on my best behavior or watch what I said. I felt comfortable in my own skin. Nana Ruth really personified that environment. Hanging out with her was like soaking up the warmth of a roaring fireplace. She and Erin would talk for hours whenever we visited. Erin inherited a lot from her Nana: a love of knitting, endless worrying about other people, that smile.

Nana was big into family history. She’d spend hours telling us about the Sawyers and the extended Robinsons. At Robinson family gatherings we’d laugh and laugh.  All the girls of the family had traits Nana passed down to them. There’s my mother-in-law Sharon’s serene nature, Cousin Martha’s sense of humor and everyone’s faith in God.

Of course, she rubbed off on the Robinson boys, too. I think of Uncle David and Cousin Andy — two guys who are always generous with their time and talents. Uncle David once got rid of a dent and paint blemish on my car for free. Andy designed the art you see atop this blog, and didn’t seem to care if I ever paid him. I did — two years after he did the first design.

It all goes back to Nana Ruth. Her kindness rubbed off on everyone, including our kids.

Sean and Duncan are still young, but Sean remembers Nana Ruth getting down on the ground to play with him and his trains. She did so for a whole week once, keeping Sean occupied so Erin could continue working while I recovered from a back injury. She played with Sean on the living floor for hours as I lay on the couch a few feet away, passed out on pain meds.

We have to say goodbye to her this week, but all that warmth, kindness, laughter and beauty will be with us forever. I’d like to think she’s helped make me a better person, though that’s for others to judge.

At the very least, her influence — just like that of the grandaughter I married — makes me want to be a better man. I’ll keep trying, and I know she’ll be watching.

Nana Ruth

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Update on Dad

Thanks to everyone who left prayers for Dad on my Facebook page yesterday, and thanks to my sister-in-law Robin for dropping everything to watch the kids so Erin and I could go to the hospital last night.

Mood music:

[spotify:track:7gUfl0F0N9YE4XC3FKkfy8]

Dad had emergency surgery last night for a malfunctioning heart. In the end, it turned out the heart was pumping fine, but that the blood has nowhere to go. All but one artery is blocked, as it was explained to me. There’s not much they can do about that because of his overall health right now, so once he’s up and about the doctors will manage it as best they can with medication.

Dad’s a stubborn one, and I can see how it’s rubbed off on me over the years. He’ll overdo an activity when his doctors tell him to take it easy. He’ll eat things he knows he shouldn’t eat. He’ll get schemes in his head and won’t listen to anyone once he sets his mind on something. Like father, like son.

When you’ve had two or more strokes like he has, that behavior is all the riskier.

As infuriating as it can be, I have to give the man credit: He’s not willing to let physical disabilities keep him down. He keeps pushing, and that’s admirable.

With everyone’s continued prayers and good vibes, I think he’ll be back on his feet before long.

Heart Pinata

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A Bittersweet Birthday

I felt very loved yesterday as we celebrated my 42nd birthday. Erin and the kids got me a guitar and practice amp, and we had an afternoon of grilling and enjoying the sun with some of my closest friends. My father was there too, but he wasn’t looking well.

Mood music:

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Dad sat on the deck with his eyes mostly closed and kept dropping his water glass. When I was helping him out of his seat, he almost fell back. This morning my sister and stepmom called to tell me he’s now in the cardiac care unit of a hospital in Boston, with lungs filled with fluid and a heart with beat way out of tune from where it should be.

This is life in one’s 40s. You’re still young enough to lap up all the life around you, but you also have to watch your parents turn into the constantly sick people your grandparents were.

That’s not the universal way of things, obviously. But when I talk to other friends who are now in their 40s, you hear a lot of the same stories.

I don’t see it as something to be pitied for. It’s a part of life. My father hasn’t always taken taken care of himself, and he had a couple vicious strokes last year, which means life is spinning a little faster and more erratically these days.

I think Dad will come out of this all right, and frankly I think this is better than if he’d had a stroke. Dad has worked hard to regain his ability to walk, see and swallow, and he has made significant progress. Another stroke could have wiped out all that work.

I think he’s simply been pushing himself too hard. He doesn’t like sitting around at home all the time — a trait I inherited — so he’s been pushing himself into projects that require more energy than he has many days.

It sucked seeing him that way. But I’m glad he was here for my birthday. He got to see his grandkids and get a break from the monotony of therapy and limited movement. As shitty as he felt, I think that was good for his soul.

Thank you all for the birthday wishes yesterday. It was a real ego boost, which we all need from time to time.

As sad as it made me to see my father hurting, it was a very good day.

Please say a little prayer for the man.

Dad and Duncan