Whistle While You Work

One thing that people living in the country where their native language is spoken can't possibly appreciate is the ease of understanding the song lyrics. To you it just comes with ease and zero effort. To me - it's a labour intensive experience and unless it's a karaoke night I am reluctant to sing out loud for over a decade now because of - Brian Johnson.

My biggest blooper with language and lyrics happened when my oldest son was 8 or 9 and got introduced to none-other than AC/DC by his "dad" - a wonderful man and a lifelong friend I rarely mention in my writing although he helped a great deal in raising my son. But I feel that the story of love and respect for the man who's on paper my "second ex-husband" deserves way more than just a blog post. No need to worry M, you can keep your anonymity a while longer, the memoir's not quite done yet!

Long story short, the kid got a boom box from his dad and a few CD's and the next thing I know the door to his room is starting to be more and more often shut. The music blaring behind it is angry; bass and drums are fierce seemingly shaking the very foundation of our East York home. I approach the door in order to intervene about the decibels when I hear my otherwise gentle boy's voice growl the most disturbing lyrics. Shocked, stunned and mortified, I run to the backyard where M is fixing their bikes so they can go for some equally savage ride and mistakenly I repeat what I heard, but first - of course - questioning his sanity as a co-parent to provide such disturbing musical content to my child.

AC/DC fan club 

   "Dirty deeds un-der sheets? DIRTY DEEDS UN-DER SHEETS!?"

What ensued was one of those moments that I only remember in slow-motion. M lifting his face towards me, dropping the greased bike chain on the driveway, whole face squinting into a grimace before his 6'5" frame rolled over to the grass patch where he laughed uncontrollably until the kid heard him, paused the music, got told how I understood "Dirty deeds done dirt cheap" , after which they both continued laughing and rolling on the ground - likely until supper time. Which I probably didn't even want to cook for them!

Understandably so, I stayed away from loud singing until this past winter, when my new set of kids (Oops 1 & Oops 2) fell very much in love with the Disney soundtrack. No, not Frozen, thank goodness but an old CD they inherited from their big brother, the AC/DC fan himself: Villain Songs! #boyswillbeboys

And since the best way to motivate the boys to get ready for school in a flash is to make it a competition (the kid that gets his snowsuit, boots, hat, gloves & backpack on first gets 2 songs on our drive to school while the runner up gets only one) I got to hear a lot of that villain music this past winter. Before  e v e r y  drop-off and after  e v e r y  pick-up!

When the lyrics finally managed to sink with my comprehension what stroke me as incredible were the lessons and social queues I totally missed when I used to hear these songs with Filip many years back! Disney Villains offer some seriously good teachings that can turn to be very useful for navigating both personal and professional relationships.

Here are some Disney song gems:

You can sleep safe and sound knowing I am around!

Have you ever been encouraged to trust, to trust so much so that once this convincing someone hears and "takes over" your worries you can actually 'sleep safe and sound' only to find out you've been conned? Well, if you saw the Disney cartoon version of the Jungle Book you have been taught a valuable lesson early on! Be careful who you trust and share your burden with - if you have to be convinced you are safe, it's likely a deception! Trust in me, Kaa is way more than just a pretty name!

Please be careful and say NO!

"I'm not asking much, just a token really, a trifle..."

Along the same lines is the lesson brought by Ursula the Witch. She nonchalantly tells the Little Mermaid it is actually her job to assist her.

"My dear, sweet child, that's what I do
It's what I live for
To help unfortunate merfolk like yourself
Poor souls with no one else to turn to."

The price will become visible only in the end, when it's too late - when the "favour" has already been completed. And when Ursula coldly says: "We haven't discussed the subject of payment" followed by "It won't cost much. Just your VOICE!" I actually had chills! Sometimes in life one is offered a deal at the expense of basic human rights, their voice included. Given my life's experience, I am dying to yell to Ariel each time "Don't do it!" as I listen to her singing naively thinking she made a wise choice by trusting a witch. This is when my sons go in unison, while strapped into their car seats in the back: 

   "Don't worry mama, she'll get her voice back!" 

Thank you boys. True. She WILL get her voice back. Of course she will. Silly me!

The lyrics state: "Whistle loud and long". Please DO!

Good news, it doesn't always take a villain to give sound advice. For all of us locked-up in a Monday to Friday routine sometimes referred to as a rat-race, the Snow White has an easy to follow advice: 

Whistle while you work!

What is more surprising, these exact words are echoed by grown-ass councillors that are trained to career-coach!

"Frozen", just not by fear!

It might sound simple but it is actually quite profound. Whistling can make the time pass quicker. In case the work is dull & done only for the sake of a paycheque, it will remind you there is much more to life than just work. It is also contagious - the more you whistle the more people will join in making for a jolly company that weathers the daily obstacles together. We are never alone in our problems. Taking things lightly is a great strategy!

Ask any little girl and they'll tell you, no they won't tell you, they will sing you one of the most important life lessons we all - me first - need to get better at: Let it go!

The 2013 animated blockbuster "Frozen" offers the best ear-worm ever created and I am sure to be humming it until I fully and totally get it. Life-coaching taught me to never to allow things to be rushed, but rather acknowledged and processed - usually with a group of trustworthy peeps - in order for everything to be understood and closed. It's only then one can fully and completely "Let it go!"

I'll end my Disney-inspired silver screen adventure with an unusual learning. Can an ultimate villain offer a useful advice that actually rings truer than true? Absolutely!

When Daniel wins our little pre-school winter-dressing contest, being a jazzy kind of kid that plays a

Couldn't have said it better myself!

piano, he always chooses: "Cruella de Vil". When Joshua wins - him being a hearty little rascal - it's "Are you in or out" from Aladdin and the Prince of Thieves. When it's my turn, perhaps because of my fondness for choir music - I always pick Lion King's - "Be Prepared". And amazingly enough it is the worst of them all that precisely pinpoints how I feel these days as I enjoy my life, my family and my work while mapping our amazingly fun summer:

"Just listen to teacher:

I know it sounds sordid but you'll be rewarded

When at last I am given my dues!

And injustice deliciously squared.

Be prepared!"

Injustices can be deliciously squared indeed. It just takes a tiny little bit of patience and preparation: know who to trust, whistle while the work is getting done, then simply claim one's voice back. Then it becomes super easy to let it all go!

Live If Lies Let You

Some ten years ago, on an impromptu party in a beautiful home in Forest Hill (Toronto’s posh neighbourhood), three ‘privileged’ teenagers decided to get drunk, raid the fully loaded bar and even steal some cash. They were caught as soon as my friends - parents of the boy who thought he could throw a party then get away with it - returned from a weekend abroad. The perpetrators were all in Grade 12. They were 18 years old. 

The debate ensued: what should be the correct course of action? Legally they were all adults. Calling police would earn them a permanent record. Telling teachers might ruin the reputation of otherwise decent boys, a reputation essential to the second last report card - the one that goes to desired universities. Telling their wealthy parents… Ouch!

My friend, one of the wisest and kindest people I know, decided to try a new approach. After the boys replenished everything they had drunk and stolen they sat remorsefully in front of her, fully owning up to their stupidity and awaiting the verdict: 

Each boy was assigned to do some volunteer work at three of her friends who needed help. This happened to be the fall of my slow recovery from the West Nile Virus so one of the young men, Andy, was assigned to me. Andy’s job was to help rake our backyard which was filled beyond recognition with leaves that two giant sycamore trees from the neighbouring schoolyard would mercilessly dump each October.

Andy arrived on time and knocked at the door. He tried to act cool although I felt a shadow of the shame a culprit would wear to a mandatory Saturday work session.  

“Hey dude! Thanks for coming. We need you!”  were the words that did the magic. Andy realized there would be no mentioning of the mishap. His shoulders relaxed and a faint smile crossed his face. 

For a while, the three of us worked together - Andy and I raking and my son Filip, who was ten at the time, packing the leaves in paper bags. When given a rake Filip had a tendency of regressing to a ninja warrior, fighting the piles of leaves, destroying the already packed bags and then claiming exhaustion. No rake for Filip! 

Once my limited energy had expired, I went inside to make hot cocoa while the boys worked. By the time I brought the second round of treats out, they were buddies. 

What stayed with me a decade later from that crisp fall day was not the ease of redemption. Or how strangers—a teen and a tween—could bond in an instant over a chore. It was Andy’s father. When he came to pick him up he shook my hand with both of his and said:

 "Thank you for helping Andrew co-create his experience surrounding this incident. It is people like your friend and yourself who allowed Andy to grow into his learning and restore his integrity. I am very grateful to you for creating a safe space for him.”

Until then, I had never heard such terminology used in parenting: co-create, grow into learning, safe space, integrity. 

“Excuse me for asking, but what do you do for a living?” I asked, expecting to hear he was a family therapist.

“I’m a Life Coach” he said, nodding slightly.  “I work with corporate VPs and executives. For sure it’s making me a way more effective and sane parent.”

Later that evening, I called the friend who had sent Andy to me to tell her of this profound parenting experience and also to share that after talking to the dad for an hour I had decided to become a life coach myself and attend the same school where he had trained.

“Oh, I am so happy for you!” she said “because, you see, the other two boys never showed up at their volunteer assignments. Their parents bailed them out.”

Often in life the ‘parent’ will not know how to parent. There will be rulebooks to read, papers to sign, curfews to obey. And still, when it comes to enforcing the rules and living the values that are the very fibre of the family more often than not the parent will decide to do nothing.The drunk teen will keep driving dad’s car. Steal smaller bills from the wallet. Harass his younger sister. I am never sure if the parent is so oblivious that she believes it’s just a phase or is it sheer ignorance? Could it be that someone told her to shut up!? 

Thank goodness - we all get to choose what we do in our own home, with the ones we are responsible for!  

The true gift of my decade of single parenting enhanced by life coach training and an unwavering set of core values, not much different from those my parents and grandparents held - is that I see things with laser-sharp clarity as they unfold in real time. And I am unwilling to lie to myself. And since my parenting is not a job but a calling, it is with 100% probability that my kids know: if I do this, mama will do that. It is exactly that predictability - no matter how un-cool or boring it sounds - that is the backbone of our family and the real deal behind the unconditional love. 

I love you so much that I will never lie for you. 

I respect you so much that I will help you learn to live with integrity. 

It always starts with me.  

Thankfully, it doesn't end with me. New generations of knowledge-empowered, empathetic and passionate truth-seekers is conquering what's left of the stale, corrupted and complacent world. In the following 'viral' five and half minutes, Donovan Livingston will inspire our children to become the "thorn in the side of injustice".
Perhaps it's time for "parents" to unlearn the art of lying.

Dial M for: Marriage, Motherhood, Memoir

On today's date 22 years ago I didn't know it was Mother's Day weekend.

Serbia doesn't do Mother's Day, or Father's Day for that matter.

1994

Twenty two years ago May 7th was "Djurdjevdan" - a big day in Serbian Christian-Orthodox Calendar represented by St.George on the White horse slaying a dragon. It's a patron saint day of many families in Belgrade, though not mine. On Saturday, May 7, 1994 my family was celebrating something completely different: their daughter's wedding. 

That daughter happened to be me. 

The decision to marry my boyfriend, once I had dated him for a few years, while diligently completing all the checkmarks my parents had insisted on (graduate from university, license as a pharmacist, find a good job, not get pregnant etc.) - well, the talented Bruno Mars perfectly sums it all up in the very first verse of  "Marry You" : "It's a beautiful night, We're looking for something dumb to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you!"

The initial wedding date was supposed to be in early April since my sister was emigrating to Canada in mid May and I wanted to give my parents a breather between these two monumental events in our family life. However, my pharmacy technician Mira, who was much older and wiser and also hypnotically persuasive - all that gypsy blood flowing through her veins - told me as we were manning a heavy afternoon shift in the pharmacy wholesale warehouse: "Never marry in April. April marriage--April joke." May 7th seemed like a perfect and safe day. 

Mother's Day 1996 was on May 12th. I wish I knew Mother's Day existed, not because by then I was a mom for the whole 110 days. I wish I knew because by then I learned how much I needed a mom, how much my mom meant to me and how at peace I was with everything that happened as if I wasn't doing my motherhood all by myself. If there is anything that touches the essence of my mom's motherhood it is the first few months of me being a mom - in my case, a single mom. 

My mom welcomed me home after a failed marriage. 

My mom went with me for ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.

My mom was at the hospital the night I gave birth to my son. 

My mom assembled (having our friends and neighbours pass down baby items) the most magical nursery for me to enjoy and heal in.

My mom woke up every night to keep me company while I breastfed. 

My mom cooked delicious home-made soups and baked pies.

My mom ironed mountains of cloth diapers each and every day. 

Bajce the Best!

My mom cleaned projectile vomits, soothed the crying baby and readily managed diaper explosions.

My mom patiently fed him his first solid foods. 

My mom assured me there is no rush to potty train. 

My mom...

My mom followed us to Canada at age 60.

My mom was my son's day-care. And a tutor. And a bestie. And a confidant.

My mom saved my sanity. And taught me everything I know about motherhood. 

And if I had to choose between that husband or this mom - I would've gone for this mom every single time!

2016

I'm aware of my incredible good luck to have this mom be my mom. 

I measure my great luck for being a mother of three boys myself, while still having my mom around - fun and wise and full of life. 

And to make sure my boys will know how to carry our good fortune and extraordinary parenting forward, I'm researching, interviewing and capturing it all in a memoir. 

Here is an excerpt of an early draft:

        It was January. There was no baby formula. No glider chair. No dryer. Only lukewarm radiators. 

I am sitting on a sturdy orange kitchen chair in what used to be the bedroom my sister and I shared as teenagers. My leg is propped on a ledge, my whole body coiled uncomfortably on one side trying to avoid—sitting. 

The newborn in my arms is crying. His mouth gaping open, like in cartoons. Red toothless gums framing a miniature paper-thin tongue. It’s a hungry, frustrated cry. 

1996

I’m crying. Mine is an exhausted, desperate cry. Manual for new moms was clear about breastfeeding. “Offer the breast whenever the baby cries. Mother’s milk is perfectly nutritious, served at the ideal temperature and always bacteriologically safe.” 

Mother’s breasts, the book failed to mention, were swollen and tender, chestnuts tightly packed into a balloon, hard from the milk that started pouring out all at once through the utterly unprepared ducts. The yellowish, greasy colostrum was everywhere, soaking and staining my bra and my PJs, spraying baby’s eyelashes, getting into his nostrils, sticking in his tiny soft golden hairs. It went everywhere but into his mouth. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Crying, chanting, I rocked myself front and back then stopped jolted by the sharp pain. The tiny mouth managed to latch and started sucking, sounding big gulps, almost choking at times, gnawing the nipple until it bled, yet never letting it go. I was nursing a wolf, not a boy. 

It was January. There was no maternity-leave pay for a retail pharmacy manager. Equal opportunity anything hadn't arrived in Serbia. No food in the supermarkets. No gas at the stations. Pampers for newborns sourced on the black market, too big for the skinny 6-pound body. One diaper, one Deutsch mark. 

“You WILL grow to hate me. You will look at me one day and ask ‘how could someone fail so profoundly at basically everything? At motherhood. At breastfeeding. At providing you with a warm room to sleep in. A clean diaper. A safe childhood. A normal family. A country with no war.’” 

The father-to-be handed me an envelope with neatly signed, stacked and stapled divorce papers ten days before the baby was born. “In case the child is born alive (for still birth please see below), the mother has the right to give the name and make sole decisions regarding medical, religious, educational and all other needs.” Then he disappeared. 

Twenty years later, I am sitting on a chair watching a 6’4”, broad-shouldered man with a hipster beard pack the last few items he’ll need in his sophomore year. Laptop—check. Guitar—check.

“Filip, how was it growing up with just me… never meeting your biological father?” 

“Oh, mama!” He turns around and gently taps the top of my head. Then he smiles. “It was magical!”

Happy Mother's Day!

Return To Innocence

Navy blue skirt. Crisp white shirt. A red triangular neck scarf. A star-shaped pin with a gold hammer & sickle symbol. All these comprised my uniform on the day in September 1976. when I became Tito’s pioneer with the rest of my Grade 1 class in Belgrade's Pioneer City. 

We wore that uniform every time we had a special assembly or whenever a foreign politician decided to pay my school or city a visit, be it philandering Valerie Giscard d’Estaing or notorious Nicolae Ceausescu. For the infamous visit of Muammar al-Qaddafi I was already a university student and could bail-out of those mandatory moments of waving a miniature flag, red carnation in hand.  

A wide blue rectangular Moskvitch was parallel-parked on the Smiljanićeva street, my dad periodically sliding underneath it on a home made dolly (my sister and I called it for some meaningless reason "lek-lor", remember Mina? It was one of our favourite outdoor toys!). I remember our father’s pharmacist hands often being black on weekends, smelling of motor-oil from changing it himself or replacing a part he managed to source. There was also mom’s red Fiat 126P, the size of a Costco shopping cart, and displaying the licence plate BG 159-19. For a good period of time - we had a near fluorescent lemon-yellow Citroen GS with black stripes racing along the bottom of each side of it. And in the last few years we could afford a car it was the sand coloured Lada Samara, BG 360-340. We loved this car so much we named it "the desert fox". But not after Rommel!

Not after Rommel because no one wanted a part of a German soldier at play-time. Everyone wanted only to be a partisan. Or even better a secret group of friends fighting Gestapo on the streets of Belgrade as seen in the favourite TV series of my childhood “Otpisani”. Because in school, on TV and at the cinema, it was all about the WW2 and how - despite all odds - with Tito’s leadership we beat the Nazi's and became the ‘modern’ Yugoslavia.

And then they were parents like mine who refused to belong to the communist party. They did well as pharmacist and a lawyer, but never really as well as their peers who opted for the membership. Career advancements, free corporate apartments and posts overseas were reserved only for those who attended meetings and proclaimed themselves as communists. Instead, my parents would shut the windows, draw the curtains, explain to us kids the utmost importance of secrecy and keeping topics from home at home, then proceed to gather and entertain their free-minded friends, generously criticizing the government, exchanging passionate commentaries and telling jokes that could earn each adult significant time at the Goli otok - the barren island - an inhumane and often terminal stop for political prisoners. 

In essence, this is the fabric of my childhood. And as incredible as it might sound to you and the by-now fully North-Americanized me: we had the best time of our lives living in Yugoslavia!

Comrades flash to warn each other of hidden speed radars

Perhaps that is why this past winter I fell in love with Cuba. I had been to Cuba many times before - the favourite (read: inexpensive) winter getaway location for a single mom and her son snatched on a last minute website often just in time to tell my boss and his teacher. This winter, we made it our mission to let go of the all-inclusive circus (more on that soon) and explore Havana for a couple of days. Our mission: Havana before Obama.

The result? The nostalgic and overwhelming feeling I had entered the time capsule. 

Here is why:

Revolution is still a current and hot topic

 The Cuban flag is a point of national pride on many balconies

The red star still a common political and fashion statement

School uniforms ensure all kids are equal

Morro castle proudly reminds of hard fought independence 

And cannons and cannonballs are at every corner. Yey!

The coffee is real and far from the venti skinny vanilla latte craze

Domestic cola and beer reign, blissfully unaware of Pepsis & Buds 

Guys still sweet-talk girls over backgammon

Neighbours unite in common problems

Men and women are equal. Old age is treated with utmost respect

Even though the city is quite uniquely avant-garde

Dryers are obsolete on La Isla

Big work is only being done now because of Obama's impending visit

But as long as all Cubans remember the unfaltering courage  

They are at liberty to smile & salsa, enjoying a rare freedom

There is something seductively naïve in the collective demeanour of Cubans. They are kind, they are proud and their streets are safe for everyone even in the wee hours of the night. They know the world has moved on. And the Internet exists. The globe is suddenly much smaller. But they also recognize that the deep western unhappiness, cancerous corporate greed and modern-day enslavement is nothing to strive for. They really haven't missed much. 

When the taxi windows and doors closed and we departed for Havana, our driver Miguel (not his real name) told us - just like my parents did back in the days of former Yugoslavia - how things really are. Then he got careful to end all such conversations as we passed the toll booth. Cubans are anxious to see what will happen with the physical end of the Castros. Anxious yet calm. And hopeful.           

By day they work, considering themselves successful if they get anywhere near the Canadian and European tourists, taking any job even though they might have a medical, engineering or teaching degree already completed. Unlike their real professions, this allows them to earn in convertible pesos, needed for everything other than the government determined rations of food. 

By night they dance. The new generations of world-class musicians stemming from the original Buena Vista Social Club wizards does not allow for sitting not even a minute out. It is in their every step, smile and swing.

Mi familia explorando Habana

And they are  h a p p y.

Good Dad, Bad Dad, No Dad

The best thing my father ever did for me wasn't teaching me how to swim.

One summer in Greece when I was five, on a Papalimani Beach - the name even contains the root for "father" - my dad threw me off a dock and straight into water that was well above my head. The first thing I remember was the sea water burning my nostrils. The second, that as soon as my head bobbed up, I began raging accusations at him including the epic: "You crazy man, you tried to drown your very own child!" Our party burst into laughter. My tata (dad) told and retold this as a joke for many years. But by the time I ended my furious rant, I was a swimmer.

My father, sister and I, Belgrade 1969

Father's Day did not exist in Belgrade of my childhood. Dads I knew: my tata, my amazing uncle Zoran - a second father to me who I still lovingly call Koka, my friends' dads and our neighbours were a rarely-appreciated bunch - at least publicly. They went to work, they fixed our toys, bikes and each other's cars, they mastered the art of making "pljeskavica" (famous Serbian burger) on a charcoal barbecue. They stood up to a bully, no matter whose child was being hurt. They watched soccer, dividing themselves between being the die-hard fans of either Red Star or Partizan and cursing the missed opportunities to score a goal, all the while remaining good friends. And they would get up at wee hours, coats over their PJs to come fetch us from a party. My sister knew if she were to run downstairs, all flushed from dancing and sweetly beg: "Tajkane, it's now the best part, could you come back in, say, an hour and a half?"  that he would.

In all of my childhood I only remember one bad dad. There was a boy in my class who was often getting into fights. He was fearless and fast and dangerous. He lived with his single father who would show up to a parent-teacher meeting in an un-ironed shirt, dark wrinkly circles around his eyes. He smelled of alcohol and cigarettes. He would listen to the teachers’ concerns over his son's violent behaviour with only a silent nod, gaze hidden under puffy eyelids, far too calm for the list of offences. Then, my classmate would show up in school the next day with bruises. Before the day ended, he was in yet another school fight covering the home-made bruises with more honourable ones he earned while deliberately picking on a much older and stronger opponent. Years later we learned that his mother had barely escaped getting killed after one of the countless violent domestic disputes. Women's shelters were unknown. She fled to Germany, working as a gastarbeiter stealing moments to see her son while we were on overnight school-trips, twice a year.

This was my definition of a bad father. He was an addicted, sick man. It sounded like he had an excuse. Affliction comes conveniently to bad dads.

Throughout my life I have met many remarkable fathers. True heroes. The father who promptly RSVPs to his twins' tea parties. And those ones sporting glitter on their toe nails. The one who flew to the other side of the continent as fast as he could to watch over his baby girl while the socialite mom – whose turn for custody it was - was drunk, stoned and unaware that a 2-year-old can't survive if left alone at the poolside. The father whose yearly tradition was to take his kids camping in Algonquin Park in the middle of January, teaching them how to love, protect and befriend nature at -40 C. The father who welds half a year in the cold Canadian North and the rest of the time makes the best chocolate chip cookies in the world, showering his family with care and affection. And two fathers, a dad and a tata, who are masterfully raising their son with abundant love, teaching him the very essence of freedom. A dad, the soccer coach, instilling army-like discipline and precision in second graders, only to break all of his own rules as he ran victoriously across a field in East York, grin visible from the moon - with his step-son hoisted triumphantly high above his head in one arm, after the (accidentally) scored goal! Step-father? No way! Only a real father can be this amazing!

For the last several years I've been basking in the feeling of finally having back-to-back-to-back perfect Father's Days. School-made gifts I harbour for days at a time, while two sets of little feet keep anxiously stomping around them, revealing my hiding place well in advance of the Sunday morning's pancake breakfast. And the cheerful screams of "Aba, Aba!" fighting for my husband's attention as we map out the fun-filled day. This year, it was our first piano recital in a downtown Toronto gallery that our amazing teacher Viktoria holds deliberately on Father's Day. All throughout the audience I observed the beaming, glowing fathers with glint in their eyes who don't even attempt to hide how deeply moved they are by their offspring's performance, my man among them. So sexy!

But the duality of life wouldn't be complete without the bad dads, right? 

The decorated police officer who after verbally abusing mom in front of their child at the end of his weekend asks: What are you going to do? Call the police? - I am the police!

And the top-notch lawyer who sinks himself into his work during a 90-hour work week only to sink into his phone for the remainder of any possible family time.

Or the oil business white-collar executive who on Father's Day writes e-mails to the son he's never met in an attempt to weasel out of paying adequate child support yet one more time.

What "bad dads" don't understand is that kids are resilient. Their kids will grow up whether they abuse or blackmail or ignore or weasel out. They will actually be better for knowing who they don't want to be when they grow up. What will become clear one day, maybe only on his deathbed, is that despite the fact that he might have been a decent father to a dozen other kids, it is all worthless if he has been a bastard to one. That’s just how it is.

And while I'm at it, a huge bow down to the single mothers doing double duty on Father's Day and every other day. I've been one and I'm in awe of you - those I don't know and those I do and am privileged to serve. One good parent is more than enough! No dad - no damage. Not bad!

The best thing my father ever did for me was to get me a signature. Mr.Popović, a Belgrade lawyer, had the power of signing a document that would forever end a year of my greatest anguish. But he refused - he was too busy. He was leaving on vacation. Cottage-bound. The office is now closed and will re-open in two weeks. Please leave a message. Beep.

I will never know how my dad did this 19 years ago, but somewhere in Serbia's cottage country the two men met. They sat down and had a glass of šljivovica my father brought. Talked about fatherhood and their daughters. And when decency and common sense finally crumbled the arrogant air of a hardened divorce attorney, Mr.Popović looked at my father earnestly and said: "I get it. What happened to your daughter is disgusting. I would have done the same thing for my child. I would gladly draft the final divorce, but this is a cottage. I don't have a computer and printer here". My father silently reached into a bag and pulled out a leather box that stored a Hermes original manual typewriter. Three crisp white sheets were already inserted, sandwiched with deep indigo blue copy paper. Mr.Popović, took a sip of šljivovica and started typing. He finished just after midnight. Pulling the papers out, the old lawyer said - "Damn! I have my stamp with me, but unfortunately no ink pad". Then he looked at my father. The moist purple cushion had already materialized in front of him. 

My father was a humble, quiet man. Although he was proud of us three girls - our mom, my sister and I - he kept his praise private. And he never asked for much back.

The following morning after feeding my baby boy, I joined my parents in the kitchen for our ritual of coffee and conversation before work started at the pharmacy, and they turned into my daycare.

My mom said: Good morning darling. We have news - you divorced yesterday. You can apply for a Canadian visa now. You are free.

Happy Father's Day, Tata. Thank you!

PaRENTing, ParenTEENg...

One of the first nice spring days last year an unusual thing happened to me: as I was backing out of the garage in my Toyota Rav 4, in the rearview mirror I spotted a man sitting in the very middle of our driveway. A bit startled, I immediately cut the engine and stepped out of the car to find a young fellow sitting on the ground picking loose stones out of our driveway. It was only then that I remembered my husband telling me that someone would be coming to fix those stones for us.

I introduced myself.  He had a broad smile and seemed to be in his late twenties. I made a little joke - something along the lines of a blonde driving an SUV – and then asked him not to risk his life by letting me manoeuvre around him. Unexpectedly, he scooted sideways and picked up two crutches that were lying on the grass. He then swiftly arose using only his impressive upper body strength and smiling all the while spoke a cheerful: "Here you go, Miss!"

I have to admit that although I have completed all sorts of disability and sensitivity-training modules, I thought about him that whole day, and I felt sad.

Karen Salmansohn wisdom

And now, this spring, in a seemingly-unrelated turn of events, I have found myself over and over again on the receiving end of what quite a few concerned parents have been telling me about their teenagers. The sheer volume and variety of feedback from both the "strangers" I coach as well as the people much closer to me has resolved itself in my head as the most prominent current topic.

Kids are talking back. Kids are failing school. Kids are hooked on gaming. Kids are having sex.

What did she say to you? How did the teacher react? How many hours was he playing that game?  Have you approached the topic of safe sex?

Forget about my coaching skills: the parent of a confident and well-balanced 19-year old immediately offered a silent prayer and a thank you to her first-born. Parenting him was a breeze. Or was it really? The beautiful thing is - I don't remember. Long ago I heard my favourite parenting quote - in Serbian - from a beautiful and wise woman who single-handedly dealt with some of the toughest life's problems while parenting. I am happy this wisdom has found its place in Gretchen Rubin's book, The Happiness Project. It goes: "Days are long but years are short". 

Simultaneously, that same parent of a 4 and a 6-year-old nearly freaked out as I calculate that by the time these 'midgets' have reached that same trying age, I will likely be right in the eye of the hormonal hurricane called menopause. I remember my own good mother urging me to work on finally checking out of puberty - the late bloomer that I was - as she felt she was riding on a speed-train headed straight to hot flashes and night sweats. It was not advisable that the two of us cross paths as crash would have been inevitable. Casualties guaranteed.

Life is busy and messy by default for those who have children. What do you do when these former little darlings start exploring life with no warning and at full speed "21st-century style": noise-cancelling earphones on, a smartphone glued to the palm of their hand, the screen lighting up every few seconds and an occasional photo disappearing as soon as it appears?!

I won't pretend I am a parenting expert who understands the psychology of adolescents and family dynamics - for all I know, my parenting style all those years while being a single mother was called "winging it". Miraculously though, it worked. It worked mostly – or perhaps because - my child was very clear he should not mess with the one parent he actually had. The sweet fact about single-parenting is that there is no struggle between different parenting styles. There is no good cop/bad cop. The little negotiators (read: manipulators) can't strike a deal behind your back. For every problem, guess what? You still have to come to me. And me only. And if I am any good, very soon you will be able to guess my response with near 100% predictability. Predictability was my best ally raising that kid on my own.

For the last few weeks I've been mulling over what would be the most effective advice I could give to all the concerned and loving parents, the future me included, who have been hijacked against their will into the mess of "big kids' problems".

From a personal trainer

The best way to narrow it down is a two-step process: fast forward and take care.

First: fast forward a decade. What does life look like?

What would the future you tell you about you as a parent from this sensitive time?

Were you a gong-show parent who exploded with each new 'undesired' event? Were you disintegrating into smithereens mourning 'what could have been' should your child have obeyed all the rules you laid out? Were you the human equivalent of a drone hovering above your kids attempting to prevent ‘bad’ things from happening, even at those times when their decisions should start being considered personal and theirs alone? Were your kids altering the truth to protect you from you while sombrely facing their real issues?

Or were you a parent who knew how to listen; how to say - "Wow, hold on darling, are you sure that was safe?" A parent who received all the facts with "help me understand" as the only reaction. A parent who, no matter the news, could take a deep breath and say: "This did take me by surprise - but I am here, no matter what. And I love you. Always.”

Second: take care of yourself first. You’ll need all your strength, sanity and humour to be able to push through this and every other part of life. Equally important, your child needs to see (not hear) that all of life doesn’t orbit around them. No matter how loud or defiant they get, right now they do feel lost - the last thing they need is all the attention while figuring their stuff out.

That’s right: They have to figure out their choices. They have to ‘rescue’ themselves. You can stand by or listen or strategize if it’s welcome. Most of all just love them through it, seeing them a few years from now as solid, on their feet and well on their way to the life that serves them best - and much wiser for this rough patch.

One of my biggest epiphanies, coming from the Serbian culture of mothers who love to sacrifice, was to put myself first. Then came my son. Many methods describe this principle through the attendant’s safety instruction recited at the beginning of each flight: “put your oxygen mask first before assisting other passengers”.

I saw myself as a tree trunk that needed to be strongly rooted and nourished in order to provide for that light green, fresh little new branch with a tiny leaf on it. It took some serious work but I did achieve a zero sacrifice/zero guilt equation. This served my son really well.

Now that my big kid is on his own, making decisions about what to study, what course to drop, with whom to move off campus, how to spend his free time, etc., it may sound dry, but I see the past 19 years as "renting" the time and space with him. I paid in unconditional love, effort to figure out a better way, time (as in buckets of patience) and then some money too, to have the opportunity to grow this young life. To be a part of his journey. At first, just to love, nourish and sustain him. Then slowly to teach and empower him, while modelling the healthy behaviours myself. Then finally, to trust him, to see him start to self-direct and let him go explore life on his own. And then to tell me about it when he is in the city or when I'm in town or when we are both on-line and he is done Skype-ing someone very important to him ;-). I am no longer 'renting'. He having me in his life this much is completely optional. And I'm grateful.

I love the line Hal Edward Runkel, a licensed marriage and family therapist, wrote in his book Scream-Free Parenting: "The truth about children (and the stock market) is that past performance is never a guarantee of future results." This can help us to see all children, no matter what headache they may be causing their parents this very moment, as whole and capable of great things.  Perhaps this hardship is their best education to date, the lesson that had to come in this exact shape and form. Envisioning best-case scenarios and meditating on them perhaps the last five minutes before falling asleep is a great use of our parenting time. Worrying about potential even worse-case scenarios just seems like choosing a very sinister energy to marinate in thinking it will help. Perhaps a part of our 'rented' time with our soon-to-be grown-up children is to learn and apply that alluring unconditional love coupled with the absolute absence of judgement. They need this lesson. It’s all good.

Just as the sun was setting a year ago and I was coming back home from work, I met a woman who was parked in front of our home, MADD sticker on the back of her car, blocking the now neat and repaired cobblestone driveway. She opened her window and cheerfully waved at me saying: "Sorry, I am just picking up my son, he will be out in a minute."

I turned off the engine and stepped out, intrigued: "I met your son this morning... he left quite an impression on me!"

"Oh, he is stellar! I am so proud of him.” Then I learned it wasn't always easy:  “At 17 he got caught up with the wrong crowd and was in a motorcycle accident while driving drunk." Thankfully, no one else got hurt.  “He speaks in schools now about safe driving and works full time, loves masonry.” She laughed a little: “He is now my rock!”