To all the Parents of Graduates:  

“As Good As It Gets” (first published in January 1994)

Deanna R. Adams

When I first became a mother, I would often get well-meaning advice from veterans (parents of teens or older) that went something like this, “Just remember to cherish these precious times with your little ones, they grow so fast. These are the best years of your life!”

I, now the mother of two girls under six, have often reflected upon these words of experienced parents and have indeed questioned their memory banks. Have their recollections taken a grace-saving leave of absence? Or am I simply an overworked, underpaid, unappreciative, therefore, inept mother?

Their words would echo softly in my ear as I’d awaken from a blissful night’s sleep by the insistent wails of a hungry, wet or potty-training child. I’d think of them through alternate wipings of baby faces and bottoms, or while hearing myself shriek, “Now what did I just tell you?” in a voice and expressions that would make Linda Blair in the “Exorcist” look like Dorothy from Kansas.

That’s when a sense of dread would envelop me like foreboding clouds of an impending tornado. “Oh, they’ve got to be kidding!” If this is as good as it gets, I’m not long for this world!” I say to myself. Yes, since motherhood, I’ve acquired certain personality traits that include talking to myself (who listens anyway?) and calling everyone in the house by a different name. Like when I called my two-year-old “Tigger” (our cat) instead of Tiffany, resulting in the poor girl’s first identity crisis.

 Between coping with sibling rivalry, abandoned social events for lack of a sitter, and crayon scribbles on furniture and doors, I must own up to an occasional pity party. To say the least, life is more complicated than I ever imagined during that time I thought only of having a beautiful baby to nurture.

After burning countless dinners by rushing off in response to blood-curdling screams from the next room (only to find the little darlings playing happily) and mopping the kitchen floor so many times a waxy buildup seems like a luxury, I have come to a conclusion.

We only remember the good stuff.

Indeed, somewhere between changing my last diaper (trust me) and seeing my kindergartner off to school, my sense of humor has been restored (though still takes flight now and then) and I’ve purchased some rose-colored glasses, allowing me to see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Now as I observe my children’s growing independence of me, and listen to the anxious concerns of friends raising teenagers, I’m beginning to grasp the meaning of those fateful words.

I can even conjure up a snicker or two recalling some of the unusual occurrences at our house during this post-baby era. Take for example, the day I was in a fenzied hurry and grabbing the wrong tube on the bathroom counter, began brushing my teeth with diaper rash cream. Or the time I spread chunky peanut butter over toast only to discover that the chunky part was actually some Cheerios that had mysteriously found its way into the jar.  Then came the most unusual day my youngest finally did exactly as I told her. We had made a cake and I said she could lick the bowl, which is precisely what she did, diving her tiny head in and licking the remains like a grateful cat.

I’m also learning to take advantage of my situation by blaming the kids for every tom fool thing I do. So when I put the box of cereal in the refrigerator or spend so much time looking for something that I forget what I’m looking for, I simply throw up my hands and remark, “It’s those kids, they’re making my crazy!”

Nowadays, I am experienced enough to recognize, even appreciate, this special time in our family’s life. Times I’ll surely look back on and yearn for these very days (did I say that?). Like moments when I receive huge bear hugs for no apparent reason. Or when I enter the front door and am bombarded with wet kisses and squeals of delight that “Mommy’s home!” Or as I stuff yet another artful drawing into the drawer because I can’t bear to throw it out.

The real joy comes from knowing my husband and I are the center of our children’s world. I love the fact that I’m the one they turn to whether they are happy or sad, and that they tell me everything on their minds—something I’m fairly certain won’t be true once they reach adolescence. This is the only time I still have control over their actions, when they believe all I tell them, and are more affectionate towards me that they’ll probably ever be in the future. Perhaps the best part is the evenings, after they finally are asleep and I sneak into their rooms to watch over them. I stand beside their beds gazing upon my little angels (see, the mind does play tricks on you) all tucked secure and safe and I treasure the feeling of knowing where they are and what they are doing. A luxury I realize I won’t always have.

It all came together for me the day I was celebrating my birthday. My daughters, Danielle and Tiffany, like most kids, love birthdays no matter whose it is. So with youthful exuberance, they anticipated Daddy’s arrival home, anxious for party favors and of course the favored birthday cake. However, my normally thoughtful husband, while remembering my birthday, forgot the cake. Once getting over the initial disappointment, Danielle had a brainstorm.

“I know,” she squealed, “We can use the pudding in the fridge as our cake. Mom, you get out the 3 and the 9 candles (She has a bad habit of telling me what to do—and of memorizing my age). So after dinner, Danielle presented me with a handmade card, her favorite mini-troll taped to it (“I didn’t make it to the store, Mom” she tells me) and as Daddy lit the candles, the girls turned out all the lights in the house. Then, gathered around the table, my family sang Happy Birthday to me.

And while we feasted on vanilla pudding (with sprinkles!) my newly acquired troll facing me, I thought of all the diapers and formula, the sleepless nights and of birthdays past. And I recalled those parents’ word of wisdom. And understood.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

*Letter to my Former Self, 2010: I was wrong. Sometimes it gets even better.

Northern Ohio Live - June 2008

Confessions of a “Bookie”

Deanna R. Adams 

It began innocently enough, as most addictions do. I was a toddler when I discovered the wooden bookcase in the corner of our family room. The bottom shelf held simple tales of kittens who lost their mittens, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, and adventures of Dick and Jane. But as I grew taller and my vocabulary larger, I’d reach for the top shelf that held a row of furrowed paperbacks with yellowed dog-eared pages (like the copy of “Peyton Place” a notorious story of small town sinners in the 1950s which became the first novel I read all the way through—unbeknown to Mom, who must have forgotten it was there).

Back then, I had all the time in the world to read. As an adult, not so much. So I take a book wherever I go. I always carried one to my children’s school recitals (but only to read before the show, honest). When the doctor is running late, I rejoice knowing I can probably get a whole chapter read before my name is called. And I may be the only person on Planet Earth who is delighted when stopped by a slow train. “Great! Now where was I?” 

To me, books are the greatest of companions, a blissful indulgence, a way to leave home without the expense of a plane ticket. Forget technology, with its audio books, its e-books. Part of the great pleasure of reading is holding the book in your hands, flipping the pages in anticipation of what will happen next. And oh, that familiar, comforting scent! Ahh, the smell alone is intoxicating to a true book lover. The older, mustier, and more rare the book, the better.

When I go to the mall to buy a simple gift, I always end up at the nearest bookstore. I confess, too, to spending a rude amount of time at a house party perusing the host’s bookshelves rather than socializing. And it’s weird how my car has this nasty habit of swerving across the highway whenever I spot a Book Sale! sign while passing a library.

But after the latest discussion my husband and I recently had about my books, I’m forced to own up to the harsh reality.

I am a bona fide Bookie. Not the gambling kind. The, well, book kind. While I may be a bibliophile, I am not (though my longtime spouse would beg to differ) a bibliomaniac, which is described as “a compulsive hoarder of books, most of which go unread. Extreme bibliophilia may amount to a diagnosed psychological condition.”

Psychological condition? Let’s not get crazy here. I, do, in fact, read all of my books. Every last one of them. Eventually. But just having them in my house—patiently awaiting my attention—gives me comfort, makes me happy.

My husband, a mere newspaper reader, doesn’t understand my need to be surrounded by books. “Honey, don’t you think you have enough books?” he’ll say, looking at the rising pile of tomes that no longer fit in any of the floor-to-ceiling cases in nearly every room of our house. Of course he already knows the answer to that. When these conversations became more frequent (and excluded the “Honey” preamble), I was forced to get a little sneaky, I admit. I began hoarding my beloveds, not in my house, but in my car trunk. Brilliant, I thought. I now had my own personal bookmobile. 

But soon, my trunk ranneth over, and I realized I’d have to bring some of them into the house (in the middle of the night, of course). And hope that my other beloved would not notice. For a long time.

Jeff didn’t know how they’d gotten there, but one day he detected that somehow more books had invaded our home, like wedding crashers. Who brought friends.  

“There is just no more room in this house for one more book!” He said in an exasperated (and in my opinion, thoroughly exaggerated) tone. He’d had enough and finally went the “tough love” route.

“It’s me or the books!” He demanded.

This was serious. Seems a bookie can tax even the strongest of marriages. So, in deference to our twenty-five years of wedded bliss, I gave in.

“Okay, dear,” I sighed. “I’ll get rid of some.”

So began my mission. I decided that yes, I can live without the 1970 Thesaurus I used in high school. And okay, I guess I can toss out the Writers Handbook from 1994, and even relinquish the John Jakes novel I’ve read three times. 

I must say, I enjoyed seeing Jeff’s look of amazement as I casually tossed books into the Goodwill box. To keep this momentum going, I then, and in dramatic fashion, right in front of his astonished face, smiled as I grabbed my cherished, worn paperback copy of Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast,” and promptly tossed that in, too.

I believe I saw mist in my husband’s eyes. That alone gave me a wonderful sense of accomplishment.

And truth be told, the loss didn’t affect me in the least. Really.

After all, I have the latest hardbound edition in my trunk.

Today's Family August 2006

It Really Does Take a Village

Are we parents forgetting we’re all in this together?

Deanna Adams

My husband, Jeff, often jokes that whenever he did something wrong, his mom knew about it before he got home. That was because the mothers in the neighborhood looked out for each others’ kids – and if one of them was getting into mischief, someone’s mom was the first to make a phone call and alert the other. Jeff’s mom had six children—so that parenting network served her well. And because she only had two eyes, this certainly helped in the raising of so many children, and all their friends.

Back then, moms stuck together. Even if they weren’t the best of friends, they all felt a kinship, bonded by their parenting role. As a result, they didn’t feel so alone by the overwhelming task of raising children. And some did become good friends, accumulating lots of amusing stories they now share. 

Times have changed, of course. Unlike our parents’ generation, we rarely stop to chat over the fence with our neighbors (if we even know who they are), or feel free enough to borrow a cup of sugar, or heaven forbid, call another mother to discuss, and/or commiserate, about our teenagers’ activities.

Case in point. A few years ago, one of my daughters’ friends came to spend the night. I had never met the parents, so anticipated meeting the mom to assure her we’d make sure things went well during her teen’s first night’s stay at our house. But I didn’t get the chance. Soon as the car pulled up the drive, the girl got out, and Mom promptly drove away. I didn’t even have a chance to walk out and catch her before she was already out of view. No “Nice to meet you.” No “Thank you for having her.” No “Do you plan on being home all night?”

Sadly, that scenario has happened more than once and each time it does, I’m left baffled. Wouldn’t these parents want to know what kind of people we are? Do they ever wonder exactly what situation they have just placed their child in? How many other kids are in the house and what the sleeping arrangements are? Does the child have a computer in his or her room and thus allowed unsupervised time to access anything—and I mean anything—from it?

Have any of these questions even occurred to them?

Is it me, or does it seem like today’s parents are becoming disconnected with one another—and that many seem to prefer it that way? After nearly 20 years as a parent, I’ve noticed that, unlike previous generations where mothers kept in contact with one another concerning their kids, we hardly know the parents of the kids our children socialize with. Or even get a phone call from them with any kind of query concerning their child’s welfare. Or even a polite hello-and-goodbye upon dropping off them off before venturing onto their now kid-free activity? In fact, it sometimes seems parents make efforts to avoid talking to other parents. And I don’t believe it’s because they’re all too shy.

To be perfectly honest, I am uncomfortable doing so myself. I feel as if I’m bothering a parent by calling them to ask if they will be indeed picking up our children from an event, or that they’ll be no alcohol available at a party, or that one of the parents will be home while my daughter is there. And the awkward feeling has only intensified through the years because more than once I was made to feel embarrassed. When I’ve gotten a less than favorable or not-so-friendly response to my phone call or because I’d like to greet them when I drop my child off. While I view this behavior as just being courteous, they act like it’s an invasion.

Granted, there are a few—though now fewer than ever—parents who over-stay their welcome by chatting too long in the doorway, or attempting to become best friends. While there certainly are those who ruin it for the others, they are generally the exception, rather than the rule.

I recently brought up this issue at a party and most of the parents—several with now grown children—knew exactly what I meant. I had only to mention a couple of my own experiences to tweak their memories. They all had similar stories.

“Don’t parents care what’s going on with their children, or are they just too busy, or dare I say, too lazy to take the time to touch base with one another?” I asked one father of a 15-year-old son.

“I think they do care,” he said, “but being the one always asking the questions [tell me about it, I add] seems too much of a hassle, so they just avoid it. And yeah, sometimes they’re just too lazy to bother.”

Although lazy sounds a bit harsh, I believe it’s at least partly to blame. It echoes today’s culture. We’re already doing so much. Working a lot of hours, as well as a host of other pressing responsibilities. Taking time to follow up with other parents, many who we don’t even know, is hard and just another duty we have to perform.

One mother at this party said it best: “It’s so much easier to just let them (teens) go. They don’t even have to ask anymore. They say ‘Hey, Mom I’m going to so-and-so’s house, and I’m staying overnight there.’ And off they go and the parents don’t even make a call to check if that’s true. It’s takes time, effort, even assertiveness, to communicate with the parents – and to have to tell your kids ‘no’ sometimes, and precisely why it’s really hard work being a responsible parent.”

I agreed, adding that my daughter, when the subject comes up, says it’s because “their parents trusts their kids”—in a slightly accusing tone. Hearing that from my daughter (who I do in fact trust, though I’m not blind to the reality that 16-year-olds will at least, on occasion, try to get one over on their parents) is painful. Not just because I don’t want her thinking that I don’t trust her, but because trust is actually the bigger issue.

It appears that today’s parents are too trusting. Yet we don’t seem to trust, or believe, that we should all be working together. If we did, we might not feel so alone with the overwhelming task of raising children. And we might actually make a few lasting friendships along the way—while accumulating lots of amusing stories once our kids are grownup. 

I may not agree on every issue Hilary Clinton supports, but I do know this. She is absolutely right about this one: It does take a village to raise children. I think we owe it to our children to take that time to stay in touch with one another. To band together for support and camaraderie. And in our doing so, can keep our kids safer, maybe even  prevent them from getting themselves into mischief.

Deanna Adams realizes there’ll be some parents who won’t agree with this article. She looks forward to greeting them at the door when her daughter comes over. But she promises to keep her visit under five minutes, and won’t even make them sign a release form.

April 22, 2006

Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven

About the only thing I don’t like about getting older (besides physical changes, of course) is losing people I care about. This includes parents--mine and my friends’--as well as other people who have graced my life with their presence, if only for a short time.

      This week alone, I’ve heard of the all-too-sudden passing of two guys whose friendship I enjoyed. The first one was Ron Thomas, who I never knew well but who was an entertaining character I’d run into fairly often and who always had a lot of energy and excitement whenever the subject of music came up, which it always did when Ron was around. I always got a kick out of how thrilled he was that I had mentioned the bar he once owned in Eastlake (Ryno’s) in my book. He was currently booking entertainment for Cabana’s in Mentor, and when I last saw him there a few months ago we chatted a bit, then he was off again, doing his thing. His car accident last week ended his life all too abruptly, and he will be missed by not only his family and family but also acquaintances, like me, who at least got to know him enough to appreciate his love of music and musicians, and the pleasure in seeing his smiling face and lively personality.

      As sad I was to hear about Ron, I was struck numb by the absolute, unexpected death of my good friend, Jim Girard, who would expect nothing less than for me to write a bit about him at this time. He, too, passed away quickly, although I understand he’d been ill for a couple of weeks. I learned of his illness at 4 p.m. today, and learned of his subsequent passing not much more than an hour later. No time to call him and say a few words. No time to send a card. No time to say something to make him laugh, which I always seemed to do without even trying. That credit is more to him than to me. For although Jim certainly had his life struggles, he laughed easily and often saw the humorous side of things, which was one of the traits I found most endearing about him.

      I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell him how I so enjoyed our many, many phone conversations and meetings at coffee shops over the years, and of working with him as my editor for Citi-Music Magazine a few years back. The magazine has been in hiatus for sometime now, but you can still check out his terrific articles at www.citi-music.com

      I first talked to Jim over the phone when I was knee-deep in research and somehow found my way to him, who throughout much of the ’70s, was the editor/general manager of the wonderfully eclectic Scene magazine. We then met at a local Denny’s and sat over coffee for more than 2 hours (the server must have loved us!) where he related these very interesting, entertaining, and some absolutely-not-fit-for-print stories of his days at the Scene. He was also a member of the Euclid Beach Band, which had an unexpected and highly promoted run from 1978-1980.

      There is probably much I didn’t know about Jim as we’d mostly talked about music and of the people involved in the industry. But through the years I worked and talked with him, I grew to learn a few great truths about Jim Girard. He was well-read, he loved music, he loved his family and his kids, and he loved his friends. And he was absolutely loyal to those he cared about. If someone was in trouble, he’d round up the troupes to gain support. And when a friend--or his son--was working on a CD, he was out there getting the word out before it was even finished.

      As we baby boomers all get older, a lot changes as time rushes by. Some of those changes inevitably include losing people who have touched our lives in some way, and who we don’t think much about how we’d miss them if they were suddenly no longer around.

      The last time I saw my friend Jim, a few months ago, we had lunch at Yours Truly restaurant and on the way out, we hugged and I said, “See ya later.” One of us--I can’t recall which one now--said we’d call. Then we went on our way and got busy with other pressing matters.

      And neither one of us called. Even though I had thought of doing just that a week or so ago. Now, I’m left beating myself up for ignoring the little voice that had told me to give him a call, see how he was doing.

      Regret is a terrible thing. But then, I’m thinking that Jim understands and would tell me to not to think of it that way. To focus on the friendship we had developed, the fun conversations we had, and I hear him say, “And though it’s good to stay busy, don’t forget to enjoy life - and music, of course. And do what you love, and spend as much time as you can with the people you love.”

      Yep. Sounds just like him. So in his honor this week, I’d like you all to remember that. And to keep those thoughts with you in whatever you do in your life.

      I’m reminded of the article Jim wrote in Citi-Music about Warren Zevon when he was dying with terminal cancer. He wrote:

      “Well, Warren, if your ride's here and it's time to turn the digital tapes off, remember it's just because we all gotta go and you're in good company UP there. You will NOT be forgotten...”

      And neither will you, Jim.

      We’ll all be seeing you down the road, and in the meantime, say hi to our fellow music lovers who are already enjoying the music in rock ‘n’ roll heaven.

      I hear they have a helluva band.

      God Bless You.

First Published in the Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine May 2005

What We Keep

My Mother Saved Everything and I Am Grateful

By Deanna R. Adams          

I’m standing in the middle of my mother’s living room, just staring at the “stuff” that surrounds me. Where do I begin? I say this aloud, despite the fact there is no one here. My mother left this place abruptly, rushed to a hospital she would never return from. And now I’m left to clear out the condo she loved so much and I can’t seem to move. What do I keep? Throw away? What would she want me to do? It all seems too overwhelming when I haven’t even accepted the fact that I, at 50, am now an orphan.

For days, weeks and months, I sort through my mother’s life. I can’t believe the things she saved. Everything is kept, or rather, preserved, in plastic bags, or wrapped in newspapers, and placed in boxes or dresser drawers. For larger items, there are stacks of huge green (her favorite color) plastic containers she bought at the discount store. Getting rid of her furniture and clothes is the easy part. She wouldn’t care what I do with those things. And her cat? My daughter reminds me, and my husband, of when Grandma said she wanted Smokey to be hers. What could Dad say to that? And so we take her home with us, despite the fact our spoiled feline is less accepting to the family addition.

But what about the rest of Mom’s things? The old pictures in old frames of old relatives I couldn’t identify in a lineup? Letters and cards from people I never met? How can I simply toss it out knowing they meant something to Mom?

And so I don’t. They find a place, somehow, in my house. More months go by before I feel strong enough to discard more items. And that’s when my mother begins talking to me. Opening an old jewelry box, I find old women’s watches, clasp earrings, and a ring with a note attached. “This was your grandmother’s,” it reads. I smile as I hold yet another cherished piece of a woman I still miss after 20 years. Another item, another note. “My necklace given to me by Uncle Ruth when I was six months old.” My mother is telling me this as I hold a keepsake with her faded baby picture in it. There are antique brooches and bracelets and more notes telling me about items I didn’t know she had. And copies of poems. The ones she wrote for my brother and me marking important events in our growing lives. And dozens of black-and-white snapshots. One shows my mother, who always warned me of the dangers of motorcycles, sitting on a two-wheeler before she became a mom. My Harley-riding husband and I get a kick out of that one, wondering if she ever actually rode on it. Then there are the stacks of saved greeting cards and letters from family and friends that span decades.

The wastebasket half empty, I put these things in a special place. And realize why we, known as packrats, “save.” So much of my mom still lives through these items that I know I’ll never discard them. They keep her close to me. Sorting through these many mementos, I also realize how much I’ve learned in the year since Mom’s been gone.

I’ve learned that costume jewelry can be worth more than a pile of diamonds. And from where I inherited my innate love of words. And that I come from strong stock of colorful women. And that there is nothing more valuable in our lives than the people we share it with.

I’ve also learned that it’s not such a bad thing to be a “packrat.”

And that mothers teach us from the time we are born.

And even when they’re gone, they teach us still. ~~ 

Just a Matter of Class

By

Deanna R. Adams

“Mom, how old do I have to be to say the S-word, or the D-word?”

My 14-year-old daughter is asking me this is in the car en route to the mall, shifting my thought process from shopping to touchy subjects requiring just the right answer from her mother. She does this a lot. Our most significant conversations take place in the car where we discuss unwelcome topics like boys, declining grades, and well, swearing, on neutral ground where neither of us have to make eye contact. And unlike the topic of sex, where, clearly, there is no gray area, bad language is murky, at best, when one considers the open use of language these days. And frankly, I’m surprised she even asks this, knowing that kids have been known to do what parents tell them not to, anyway.

I hesitate in giving her a pat answer, recalling the times I tell my girls about my own wonder years. Specifically the TV shows I grew up with where married people slept in separate beds, and Lucy and Desi weren’t even allowed to say the word, pregnant, on television. “That was back in your day, Mom,” they mutter, kindly refraining from adding the word, "dinosaur." In fact, one of their favorite stories of when they were little (and of which they accidentally overheard) have to do with my oldest daughter using the F-word at age three before her novice father realized he can’t say that anymore.

I hesitate, also, because of the timing. Her question comes right on the heels of the now-infamous Janet Jackson Superbowl “costume malfunction.” So what normally would be a simple answer to a simple question takes on many different levels, particularly when it comes to what we’re all exposed to nowadays. The decency issue so prominent in the news lately, is a topic even her mother and father don’t always agree on. Although my husband and I normally concur on how we’re raising our young women, he gets livid about the government “taking away our rights.” “You can always change the station,” he says. I, on the other hand, cringe at the extreme lengths that networks have gone over the past two decades.

Several years ago, after canceling MTV and the stations that show R-rated movies so our babysitters couldn’t watch these shows in our small children’s presence, I hated the fact that I had to do it in the first place. Now, even prime time TV can shock this middle-aged woman, leaving me pining for those old films when a door was closed and you had to use your imagination to what happened next. And the easy flow of sex-talk and yes, swear words, can still make me blush when I’m in the presence of my kids, or my 70-something mother. Perhaps I’m just an old stick-in-the-mud and terribly old-fashioned but I can’t help wondering about the effects all this open sex, violence, and obscenities have on future generations. For example, what about all the high school kids driving to school listening to Howard Stern in the mornings? Will the boys think that this is how you talk to women, and decide that girls are worth no more than their physical attributes? Will my teenage daughters think that such 24/7 focus on the female, and male, anatomy is totally acceptable? These thoughts chill my motherly soul.

Of course, I know it’s not the '60s anymore. And I realize I can’t change the world. I can only try and make a difference in my own. As an open-minded person who revels in my own personal freedom, I fully understand the emotions raised when Big Brother gets involved in the matter of choice. Had I not had children, and as a normally unbiased journalist, I probably would be the one raising the roof against that interference. But I do have children. Children who, in just a few years, will be on their own making their own decisions. Until then, I’d like to think my husband and I are raising confident, intelligent women who conduct themselves in a classy way.

Class. Now there’s a word you don’t hear very often anymore.

So while I understand both sides of this never-ending debate, I tell my daughter this about using the same words she hears on a regular basis through all forms of the media.

“Honey,” I say as I pull into the mall parking lot. “At 14, you’re getting old enough to make some of your own decisions. And this is probably one of them. But let me say this: There are certainly worse words that you could use, but I think it shows more class (that word again) when you don’t use any of them.”

Right or wrong, black or white, it’s my constitutional right to give her my honest opinion in a world where sex sells, and morals are often compromised. As we venture toward our destination, I put a reassuring arm around her and smile. Because I realize that if this is the worst I have to worry about at her age, I guess I can resign myself to the fact that if I can’t change the world, I can still change the station. ~~

Freelance writer Deanna Adams still enjoys watching those I Love Lucy reruns.

First published in Plain Dealer Sunday Magazine

Two-Wheel Tuesdays

By Deanna R. Adams

Tuesdays with Morrie, it’s not.

A few years ago, my husband began spending Tuesday nights with the boys and their bikes. Actually, the “boys” are grown men in their 40s and 50s, but on this occasion, they revel in their boy-ness.

These boys have one thing in common: They are all HOG Club members. That acronym stands for Harley Owners Group, an international organization whose members meet monthly at their local dealership. But that’s another story.

On Tuesdays, a select few are at Bob’s house – or rather, his garage. Every week at 6 p.m. or so, ten to twenty strappin’ guys, all clad in black leather, roar up the long driveway on their shiny motorcycles. For several hours, they stand around and talk about their gleam machines. Or so my husband says. God knows what they really do, but it keeps them off the streets.

Mind you, I get no gossip from this party. When I ask about the wives or girlfriends, or who so-and-so is dating, the answer is always precise, as if rehearsed.

“I don’t know,” Jeff says. “We drink beer and talk motorcycles. That’s it. That’s why it’s called ‘Two-wheel Tuesday.’”

Well, I do know they plan annual road trips to Daytona, Sandusky, and events like “Al’s Fun Run.”  But I get the message. This is definitely a guy thing – No girls allowed. Rumor has it one guy brought his girlfriend once. The stern looks and steady doses of bike talk ensured she’d find other things to do on Tuesdays.

Clearly, we women would be bored stiff. No discussions on the meaning of life. No debates on world events. No talk about our kids. No gossip?

We’re not missing a thing.

After a while the inevitable happened. My hubby wanted to buy a new Harley.

Was I upset? Did I complain?

Are you kidding?  I upped the ante.

“Sure, honey, you can get a new bike,” I told him. “After I get new carpeting, kitchen tiles, and a better car.”

Voila!  My three wishes were granted faster than you can say “Hog.” I even got a bigger, cushier seat for when I ride on the back. Who am I to look a gift horse, err, Harley, in the mouth?

This night out with the boys has its perks. For him, weekly male bonding keeps his testosterone level up (and that’s a good thing!) while relieving everyday stresses. And, apparently, he learns more about motorcycles each week.

For me, it gets him out of the house. I know where he is. And he returns relaxed and happy.

Best of all, I get to lounge on “his” couch – wine glass in one hand, “his” remote control in the other. Life is good. May Two-Wheel Tuesdays last forever*

A personal essay on parenting, written in 2001

My Mother, Myself

Let’s Face It - Sooner or Later We All Become Our Parents

        I’m walking out of my 14-year-old daughter’s bedroom, her CD player and earplugs clasped in my hands. It’s 11 p.m. on a school night, and I’ve just scolded her for listening to her music when she’s supposed to be asleep.

        I’m still upset with her when I approach the living room and my husband asks me what Danielle did to create such wrath. As I’m telling him, a swift wave of nostalgia floods through my psyche. And it’s not good. Suddenly--horrifyingly--I am jettisoned back to my own teen days as I recall that little transistor radio I’d listen to every night under my bedcovers. I did that for years, never got caught, and did it hurt me in the least? Well, perhaps it did my grades, as I wasn’t exactly an honor student. But that was probably more due to a teen-angst attitude than late nights with “Wild Child,” the radio deejay I tuned into every night.

          Listening to myself as I rattled this latest “issue” to my husband (who seemed to be just humoring me), I suddenly saw myself as old-fashioned, out-of-touch, and, God forbid, an old fogie. Even worse, I heard my mother’s voice somehow creep into my brain like a song that plays over and over in your head--and it’s always one of your least favorites. Phrases like: “Because I said so!” “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” “Now, you sit and think about what you did.” And, “If so-and-so jumped in the lake, would you do it, too?” That one was favored by all parents living near the Great Lakes.

        Sitting down, staring at the radio in my hands, I realize the humility I’m feeling is becoming a frequent companion these days as my children enter adolescence. I can no longer deny that I am indeed “middle-aged,” and my thoughts and actions reflect it.

        As any parent can attest, it isn’t easy raising a teenager. The experience can wreak havoc on the self-esteem you’ve worked on your whole life. You begin to question every decision you make, knowing those choices may come back to haunt you. When you have a teenager in the house, your world often mimics situations from your past. Only this time, you’re on the other end of the scene. And you better be on top of the game. So when you’re not sure of the right answer, and all else fails, you refer to what you know.

What you’re already familiar with. What you’ve heard a thousand times, from a higher power…

          Simply put, I have now become my mother.

          Not that, dare I say, there’s anything wrong with my mother. I just never imagined certain phrases spewing out of my mouth, such as, “Go to your room this minute and take off that makeup.” “School’s for studying, not socializing.” “There is NO way, you’re wearing a skirt THAT short to school…or anywhere else for that matter!” “Life is unfair, get used to it.” And finally, “You can’t go to sleep listening to that ‘crap.’ ”

         Funny thing is, the music my mother thought was “crap,” I still listen to today and my daughter, in turn, will most likely follow suit. Oh, it was so much easier when my kids were little. The lines were clearly drawn. It was right or wrong, black or white. No gray areas. It was simple common sense: “Don’t run out in the street.” “Don’t talk to strangers.” “Eat your vegetables.” “Be polite.” And we parents had to make sure to “watch our language.” My husband found this out early when this same daughter, then an adorable three-year-old, used the worst word a child could ever utter (begins with an f, and it’s not fantastic), because she’d heard it from her father (who then got a stern lecture from her mother).

        Now, it’s become more challenging. My daughter wants me to explain why I don’t like a particular friend (having “a feeling” isn’t a good enough reason). And although I constantly emphasize the importance of math, she and I both know her mother has gotten along just fine without it. And finally, there are the times I have to admit to her, contrary to what she strongly believed as a child, that her father and I aren’t perfect, after all. 

         So whenever I use those time-worn euphemisms, I make a mental note never to repeat them again. But, of course, I do.

          It’s one of life’s great mysteries, or perhaps ironies. For although I’m well into my 40s, I consider myself young…even hip. Despite the fact I am much older than my mother was when I was 14, I consider myself more “with-it” than she was then. When I was a teen, my mom didn’t have a clue who Jim Morrison of the Doors was or about the underlining messages in the music I listened to. I, on the other hand, make a point to keep current with today’s music. I know of Erykah Badu, Blink-182, and Aaron Carter (though only because of the poster my 11-year-old has hanging on her wall). And I am all too aware of Eminen’s lyrics.

          But none of that matters to our kids. We can be as hip as Ricky Martin and Madonna …they’ll still see us as Fred and Ethel Mertz.

          The cold, hard truth is, no matter how “cool” we perceive ourselves, how well we keep up with pop culture, or how we try to hang on to our youth, we eventually become like our parents - people who are expected to act civilized, are all too often “unfair,” and yell at our children because we clearly “don’t understand.”

      But considering that most of us rebels turned out okay, maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

      Still, when it comes to rules like “no music at bedtime” (particularly rap music), Danielle will have to live with the fact that some rules are handed down and she’ll most likely inherit them herself.

       Though she’ll never believe me.

       Until she turns out to be just like her mother….

Deanna Adams’ mother will get tremendous joy out of reading this – but she’ll never say “I Told You So.”