Take heart when it comes to family dysfunction

Have you ever seen the “Saturday Night Live” skit that starts off with a generic family sitting together to celebrate a holiday? It doesn't matter which one. Fourth of July, Thanksgiving…It could be any one in a long line of holidays. The conversation is ambiguous and about nothing in particular.

Tempers flare over vague sentence fragments. One character threatens to leave the room, standing, snapping her napkin in her lap, crinkling her face into a frown.

The others around the table rally together to keep her in the mix. The chorus persuades her and she returns to her seat. When she sits, the whole thing starts again.

How many times have you found yourself in a similar situation? Who hasn't? When it happens to me, I have a hard time letting it roll off my back.

My usual MO is to try and fix things, watching them get bigger and bigger with each attempt. Then, of course, they blowup in my face, regardless of how noble I think my efforts are.

One day, I figured I would get outside of the feedback loop by phoning a friend for advice. Luckily, his input actually was a bolt from the blue.

He read a Thomas Moore quote to me from the book, “Care of the Soul.”


On the reality of family Moore writes: “It always has its shadow, no matter how much we wish otherwise. If we don't grasp this mystery, the soulfulness that family has to offer each of us will be spirited away in hygienic notions of what a family should be."

Moore seemed to be saying that if you are constantly trying to fix your family, you'll miss what it has to offer. I'm always trying to fix things and smooth over rough patches. Leaving them alone? It was a notion that would have never crossed my mind.

How could not fixing things make them better? I wondered.

Picture a family gathering. But picture it before the argument scene depicted in the SNL skit above happens. See your parents, siblings, aunts and uncles coming up the sidewalk to your front door, smiling and waving hello. What are they carrying? Food that they made? Desserts to share? Beer and wine? How do you feel?

I'm usually filled with happiness in these moments. I'm not even thinking of things to say to them or what I'll be serving them. I am just standing in my front door, waving back, peeking out to the cars to see who is getting out.

Moments like this are the reasons I scrub the house and prepare food and they are the reason that I will continue to do it, year after year no matter how much money parties cost, no matter how much cleanup is involved.

Sure, as the party goes on. There will be pressure to please, wrong things will be said. There might even be a dinner scene like the SNL skit. But how do such entanglements happen? Usually our faux pas stem from our expectations, our hopes and concerns. Our pride and the desire to impress gets in the way.

When confusion is in the air and emotions are running high is that the right time to iron things out? Going a step further, do things really need to be ironed out? How much of it is even under our control?

Moore also said: "By 'getting to the root' of present problems in family background, we hope to understand what is going on, and in that understanding we hope to find a cure. But care of the soul doesn't require fixing the family or becoming free of it or interpreting its pathology. We may need simply to recover soul by reflecting deeply on the soul events that have taken place in the crucible of the family."

That is real life.

By trying to make the whole of our experiences into Norman Rockwell-like moments, we are cropping too much out of the picture. What if we were to take pride in our family stories, even the ugly ones?

Might there be less internal conflict and less shame? Would it make it easier for us to share our passions and struggles? Who knows? That is not the way families operate.

But if I didn't run so fast from the less-than-perfect moments, if I didn't put so much energy into smoothing over the rough patches, wouldn't it be easier to at least see things for what they really are?

A photo of a frog

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If you want to buy, I'm your chap!

Unless you are a poetry lover, you’ve likely never heard of a chapbook.

Almanacs, history, myths, stories and folk songs were all preserved in small, crudely made chapbooks.

Those familiar with the term probably have romanticized visions of a duty-bound, literate few from the middle ages peddling their rag paper wares from village to village.

The peddlers weren’t just hucksters. They were disseminating information. They were bettering the lives of people, and not just the upper crust who could afford to have book collections of their own, but also the common man.

In an era when paper was expensive, chapbooks were sold for a penny or ha’penny. They were cheap and they were necessary.

“These old Chap books [sic], sold by the Chapmen, have given us most of our old nursery rhymes, English ballads, folklore and old legends," states the article “Chapbooks and the Nursery Rhyme.” at rhymes.org.uk.

"If you want to buy, I'm your chap,” the chapmen would yell as they went from door-to-door.
Also referred to as "merriments," they were pocket-sized and cheap.

“The Nursery Rhyme began to be printed in England as early as 1570! Chapbooks were also popular with people who could not read as they contained pictures," writes rhymes.org.uk. “The content and material of the Chapbooks expanded in the 1700s to include children's stories like Robinson Crusoe and various versions of Perrault’s Fairy Tales.”

The popularity of chapbooks dwindled in the nineteenth century in the face of competition from newspapers.

Chapbooks are still preserving culture. They are still on the side of the underdog. In today's world, the paupers are the poets and poetry lovers (both in reality and for the sake of this analogy).

Low-cost, low-production chapbooks are one of the few avenues available to the art with the lowest returns—poetry.

Because they are cheap, publishers are more willing to take a chance and produce a book that isn't expected to sell in high quantities.

Readers of this column probably know where I am heading with this. One of my favorite pastimes is writing poetry. And yes, a chapbook of my poems was recently published.
It's called "Twitter Poems and Other Small Gems." It was published by a poetry blog—World Class Poetry Blog—and that seems apropos.

Bloggers work in the true spirit of the chapbook, using the Web as the new rag paper. The book, by the way, is available free at genemyers.com.

Shake whatever your momma gave ya!

What image does bellydancing bring to mind? I used to picture the old Hollywood stereotype of a woman in a veil and skirt entertaining a Sultan in his palace.

My wife, Sarah, loves to bellydance. Through her, I’ve gained a modern day understanding of the craft. Picture women from every background gathered to support each other. Everyone gets cheered on as bellies of all shapes and sizes jiggle about the room.

But what Sarah really loves is the chance to cut the rug like a whirling dervish.

The urge to let loose is something we all can relate to. I remember dancing with my grandparents when they came for Christmas and summer days spent in my cousin’s cool basement just plain going nuts to the J. Geils Band.

Dancing can be silly or serious, just for fun, or an elaborate ritual. Why is dance so important? Egyptian art shows that people have been boogying in one form or another for a long time.

It seems like we take to it naturally when we are young. What kid can resist the opportunity to shake their groove thing? Even though coordination may not come naturally to some of us, the urge to interact with the rhythms around us seems innate.

Life is full of rhythm. Whether it’s the body processes inside (hearts beating, veins pulsing) or the parade of busy things going on around us, there is always a beat and a counter beat.

The syncopation created when one rhythm is added on top of another creates music much the same way that a cell added to another cell makes for a more interesting organism.

My 2-year-old son loves to dance. As we bop him around the living room to Disney Channel videos, you can see the sheer delight in his face. Belly laughs abound as we spin him round and round.

As I got older, self-consciousness escorted me to the dark edges of the dance floor. But when I see the joy that my family gets from it, I think maybe it’s time again for me to join in with wild abandon. Who cares if I move like Bill Cosby in search of a Jell-O Pudding Pop?

Small talk can mean a lot to a little guy

At bedtime, my friends Chris and Melissa do something with their daughter, Sophie, that they call "chitchat." Their idea of chitchat is quality time with an educational twist. They started it when Sophie was a baby. Just before bed, they spent a few minutes talking.

It started simply with things like sounds and letters. As Sophie matured, topics grew in complexity.

They considered numbers. They picked random places on a globe and learned about them together.

Sometimes they used reference books. Sometimes they used the Internet to augment their discussions. (If they were talking about hawks, they would listen to audio and watch video of hawks in action.)

The key, Melissa said, is to keep it to a few minutes. Also, they stick to non-fiction topics.

I am amazed every time I see Sophie. She celebrated her fifth birthday last month. The theme that Sophie picked for her party was "birds of prey."

When I asked her what birds of prey are she replied with casual, conversational ease: "owls and hawks." She is an intelligent kid who can hold a conversation with adults.

My wife and I have a similar ritual with our 2-year-old son, Owen. Each night before bed we read two stories, talk about what he did that day and also what he will be doing the next day.

Then we wind things down with a song or one more story, which is actually a guided meditation that helps put him to sleep.

Unlike Chris and Melissa, our bedtime stories are usually fiction. Thomas the Tank Engine and Dora the Explorer are among his favorites.

While the stories are important, I've noticed another variation taking place in our version of chitchat. These days, the conversations have become more useful to Owen than the stories.

It is during our talks that we are able to put the day's events into perspective for him. This way of processing is so important to Owen that he even requests it during the conversations that I call guided meditations.

He still enjoys picturing himself driving trains while falling asleep, but now he requests that the new people in his life ride on his imaginary train too.

As we talk about the things he did and the people he saw, we put special emphasis on concepts that were new to him and summarize how we think he felt about these things.

We know this routine has helped him with language. He is already starting to use full sentences. He is even starting to grasp trickier concepts like personal pronouns.

But more importantly, I hope it will help him process his feelings and make some sense out of the world.

Choosing to flood my child with joy

You are standing on a train platform. It’s late, and foggy. No one is around. It’s just you and your child at your side.

You hear footsteps at the other end of the platform. They approach steadily.

You crane your neck, squint your eyes as the adrenalin starts pumping. You scan your surroundings as the flight or fight reflexes kick in.

Your child is also anxious and scanning for clues. But it’s not the approaching stranger that’s making them nervous. It’s you.

As adults we take our cues from our surroundings. Our young children however get their information from our faces.

Dr. Stephen Briers uses the example above to open the chapter on mirror neurons in his book, "How Your Child Thinks."

"When presented with an ambiguous or unfamiliar situation, the first place most infants look for further information is in the faces of their caregivers," writes Briers.

While children don’t have life experience to help them assess their surroundings, they master reading faces very early on.

Mirror neurons take reading your face to yet another, deeper level.

These special neurons are what allow us to learn from others by simply watching. Some experts believe that not only do we learn how to jump by watching someone else jump, we also experience the thrill of jumping from watching someone jump.

This is something that I need to keep in mind when I’m tired and grumpy. Inevitably, my 2 year old is following close behind watching everything I do.

Lose my keys in a huff, in a hurry, and he is there. Throw something because I feel like I am going to snap, he is there.

"When we frown at our children, they feel the chill of displeasure; when we smile and laugh, we flood them with the sunlight of their own capacity for joy," writes Briers.

How do we know mirror neurons really do have these effects on our kids? All I have to do is consider the way my son's laughter makes me feel.

When he plays chase, he runs around shrieking and smiling until he drops. By the time he hits the floor, I'm also exhausted. I feel like I could collapse in a fit of happiness. I certainly lighten up from watching him.

Why not return the favor? He doesn't know the world of bills, contracts, narrow windows of opportunity and disappointment. Toddlers don't fill with fear at the sound of a stranger's footsteps on a train platform.

To them, the world is not a harsh place. What they know about emotions, they get from watching Mommy and Daddy's faces.

How life has changed at the Shore

NNS Photo

As my wife Sarah and I walked down the pier I realized there are three phases to life at the Shore: couples, parents with little kids and teenagers trying to get away from their parents.

When Sarah and I came to the Jenks pier (as Jerseyans call it) as a couple, we’d drive down in my Jeep with the top off, park near a restaurant and sit on the beach ordering drinks like the Funky Monkey until the night’s entertainment started, which was usually a cover band that made good use of horns and a reggae beat. All we needed were our hats and shades.

This year was our first summer with Owen, our 15-month old son. We drove to the Shore in the four door SUV that replaced the Wrangler before Owen was born.

Instead of drinks on the beach, we packed juice and snacks. We also had to pack diapers, wipes, toys, extra clothing, and a tent to be built in the sand so that my half Nordic baby wouldn’t burn.

The main attraction of a band was replaced by the aquarium where Owen ran from tank to tank pointing to sea lions and sharks yelling, “Wawa! Wawa!”

When night fell, instead of bars, we all turned our attention to the pier’s choo-choo train and carousel where we took pictures of Owen smiling in amazement.

As it got later, teens and young couples flooded the boardwalk making navigation with a stroller difficult. Listening to myself grump about the hoodlums who had clearly been drinking it hit me—something had changed!

I was no longer the teenager heading into the T-shirt shops. I wasn’t even one of the young couples anymore. Trips to the Shore from now on would be centered around family fun, like showing Owen the ocean and watching him try new things like frozen yogurt and funnel cake.

I don’t mind the change. In fact, I am anxiously plowing ahead full-speed, looking forward to future summers when I’ll get to see him running along the water’s edge, flying kites. Maybe we’ll play miniature golf…Only one thought makes me pause: I’ll know I am in the next phase when he starts ditching me for his friends.

He’ll hurry through dinner as the sun goes down; put on cooler clothes and head to the pier where he and his buddies will laugh at the adults who grump along pushing strollers through the crowd.

I know they say that there’s nothing new under the sun. But still it shocks me to see how things change.

Originally published 08/27/2008 in Suburban Trends and other North Jersey Media Group newspapers

Ladies and gentlemen, the 'Old Mac Donald' Blues!

I have many harmonicas. There’s a pile of harps that I play and a pile of keepsakes – harmonicas signed by famous blues harp players, like John Sebastian and Charlie Musselwhite.

Whenever my 2 year-old son, Owen, runs into my office, the shelf full of harmonicas is the first place he heads. Maybe they were initially appealing because they were a collection.

Once he found out that the multi-colored plastic cases opened--and each one contained a shiny metal object--the appeal increased. By the time he discovered that the shiny objects made music, there was no stopping him.

Whenever I left my office door open, the little guy with a huge smile would make a mad dash for the harmonica shelf.

"Daddy, open this one," he'd say handing me a red case. "Open this one," he'd say pushing a blue one into my lap.

Big ones, little ones, plastic and metal, he'd grab as many as he could and plop himself down in the middle of the room with the harps scattered around him.

I bought him his own. But the plastic rubber orange harmonica with large holes made for someone his age had an unfortunate characteristic—it was hard to play. Even I had trouble getting sound to come out of it. Instead of letting him get discouraged by the toy, I let him play mine.

I got used to him honking the harmonicas behind me while I clicked away on the computer. He’d blow into the holes and listen. Flip it over and try again.

Eventually, he learned that he could make music in a number of ways: blowing into the holes, sucking air through the holes; he learned that moving up and down the harmonica would change the pitch. I was proud of my blues harp buddy.

Last week, I was sitting and playing harmonica with him and I noticed yet another milestone. He started to sing and play at the same time.

He breathed into the harp and then I heard a quiet voice. I couldn’t make out the words until he repeated them after his next riff: “With a moo moo here…”

He added another riff…

“And a moo moo there!”

He was singing his own blues adaptation of “Old Mac Donald!”

What a moment! I was so proud of him playing harmonica and trying to sing for one of the first times in his life.

The most common comment that I get from readers goes something like this: “Thank you for last week’s column. It reminded me of the love that I have for my child and made me appreciate them again, now that they are teenagers.”

I have to admit that as a newbie father of a boy who is only 2, the level of frustration parents can hit by the time their kids are teenagers is foreign to me. But I do remember being a teenager. I hope Owen is easier on me than I was on my parents.

When that time does come, when I feel like hitting the roof, I hope that I remember this moment--Owen and I jamming the "Old Mac Donald" blues.

I am betting that it will probably be a touchstone that I return to. I can’t imagine the road ahead of us. Was it moments like these that got moms and dads throughout time through the rough spots?

What makes apple pie so American?

Growing up, I celebrated many holidays in a log cabin. My Uncle Bob built it by hand. It was the perfect setting for Thanksgiving dinners, Memorial Day barbecues, etc. And the perfect dessert was the homemade apple pie that Aunt Joan placed upon her red and white checkered tablecloth.

What could be more American than that?

And yet, apple pie isn't American.

According to the "Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America," the pies enjoyed in America were first popular in England. They were a staple for the colonists because piecrusts used less flour than bread and did not require a complicated brick oven for baking.

The pies allowed settlers to stretch meager provisions. However, idyllic images of pies on windowsills wouldn't be quite accurate. These were pies for harder times. Heavy crusts made of rough flour mixed with suet tasted more utilitarian than heavenly.

Against the popular notion of the pies being a symbol of America, Alice Ross from journalofantiques.com points out that they were popular in the motherland first.

"The crust (wheat flour and lard) was intrinsically English, as were the apples, butter, and even bread crumb thickeners. And the sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg came from the far-flung British Empire to enrich the affluent British pantry. Indeed, the pie form itself was an English specialty, and unrivaled in other European cuisine," Ross writes on her Web site.

As the new land's orchards matured, fruit pies' popularity increased. Primitive pies sometimes had cream and egg custard mixtures and used reconstituted dried apples. But eventually the pies that filled tins and redware plates evolved into the shape of the pies found on my Aunt Joan's table: rounded crusts, rolled and crimped.

That is, before Uncle Bob and Aunt Joan sold the cabin and moved to Florida. And so goes the flow of people. Just like this great country, the apple pie, at its core, is really a story of migration.

According to Ross, most apple varieties originated in the Middle East. The fruit was then introduced to Europe by the conquering Roman legions. The apple's first appearance in New Jersey is estimated to be around 1632, according to the "Encyclopedia of American Food and Drink," and John Chapman, AKA Johnny Appleseed, took it from there.

Where does happiness come from?

http://bit.ly/HbThB According to Eric Weiner's "The Geography of Bliss," 70 % of our happiness comes from our relations with others.

Ode to Daddybloggers -- That's Why I'm Here!

From "Ode to Daddybloggers"

I'm really not one to buy into these pseudo-holidays that try make people feel that a bouquet of flowers and a trip to the spa are an adequate way to thank mothers for everything that they do or make us think that dads need yet another day to relax, watch sports, and enjoy what being a "dad" means in this culture.

It's no secret that I'd love to die and come back as a dad.

Whether it's the happy screeches and clingy love that he gets when he walks in the door, or the praise he gets for being the lone dad with all three kids at the pool, there's something about being a dad that's obviously missing from my experience as a mom.

At least beyond the twig and berries.

I don't deny that it can be tough out there for a dad, particularly those, like many, that are forced to choose between work and family. At least women have started a commentary about the challenges of working and maintaining a family presence; I just don't see it happening as much with dads.

The breadth of dad lit has just started expanding, but the level of analysis on the experience of fatherhood seems to just be scratching the surface....

For the rest of Kristen Chase's blog entry visit: motherhooduncensored.net

Splashing & laughing vs. litter & yelling

Last week, I wrote about almost coming unhinged by plans to mellow out and take a vacation.

It was after I got back though that I started to see the light.

I don't mean that figuratively. I am referring to the light on the lake near my home. I pass the lake everyday, at least twice a day. On the way to work, on the way home and on the way to most stores, I pass it.

It’s a beautiful lake. If you’re going to take a landmark for granted, it’s a nice one to have.

Sometimes when I drive by, I’ll see service vans, buses and kids’ bikes parked facing it.

Sometimes, I am smart enough not to pass it by.

One day last week, I pulled up to it and parked to wait for my wife and son who were 15 minutes behind me. I thought of my Chicago trip.

Last week’s column detailed the harried details of the trip that I tried to call a vacation.

I was so consumed with the preparations the vacation ended with me wondering, "Did I relax enough? Was I rejuvenated?"

I was still asking myself these questions as I sat parked in front of the lake. I watched the busyness in front of me. Kids were running back and forth to the water--the water splashing. The kids' parents were barely moving in their chairs.

My thoughts slowed down to about the speed of lazy toes in the sand. I felt myself relax a bit.

I backed off of the visual details in front of me. As a way of tamping down my thoughts, I tried to turn the scene into a two-dimensional work of art.

Instead of seeing people--my neighbors--reading books, sipping drinks and watching kids, my mind glossed over them, let them slip into the landscape. In other words, I zoned out.

As the picture in front of me flattened out, I felt myself relaxing a little more. The light quietly dancing on the ripples in the water caught my attention.

Instead of seeing the ice cream sandwich wrappers, beach towels and sunblock strewn across the hot sand, I saw sunbeams in cool water. Instead of parents yelling at their children to stay close, I heard the kids laughing.

Sometimes my wife requests vacations where we do nothing, just sit somewhere with drinks. I argue that I don’t see the point. I always think that sounds like a waste of time.

Now I see the point.

It's a way of letting things even out without you. Taking time to do nothing allows you to disengage, like turning the details of life into scenery. You can extract yourself--even if it's only for a little bit.

Killing myself to have a relaxing vacation

Vacation was on the horizon. I worked myself silly writing and editing so that I could take a week off. I typed away until my fingers went numb.

But I didn't mind. I had high hopes for this vacation. I was heading to Chicago to see a friend get married and I was looking forward to showing my wife around the Windy City.

I had a lot of fun on previous trips: the Chicago Blues Festival, deep dish pizza, the impressive "L" (an elevated train that rides above the streets), the House of Blues, the Navy Pier...

The typing started to wear me out, so I added another agenda item to the week. I banned myself from typing. I type when I am at work and I type in my spare time for fun.

Besides this column, I write music articles, have five blogs and I run a literary magazine. My favorite pastime is writing poetry. And did I mention the daily tweeting on Twitter?

My hands needed a break. On top of all of that I had one more goal for the week. It was the most important one. I wanted to make a point of spending time with my wife.

My parents were going to watch our son. That made the trip a rare opportunity for my wife and me to focus on each other for a change. So that is what I had in mind for Chicago.

With all of that squared away, I was going to be light and breezy for the week—not the overdriven perfectionist that usually huffs around my house wearing my clothes. I was going to prove that I could be freewheeling.

However, the only way that I was going to be able to mellow out was if I had a clean house to come back to. So, there was a cleaning frenzy.

By the time the house, cars and yard were all in shipshape and all of my last minute tasks were checked off, I was running to make the plane.

That's OK, I thought. For the rest of vacation, I'll be taking it easy.

Of course, that would be after we found a rental car, stopped at a local store for more supplies and unpacked.

The whirlwind would surely calm down once we successfully juggled time to meet up with my wife's friends and mine. Next thing I knew, the wheels of our return flight were hitting the ground in Newark.

Did I miss something? We had a great time—went to the blues festival and had great pizza. I showed my wife the “L” from below but the Pier would have to wait until next time. The wedding was fantastic. The dance music at the reception seemed to match the pace at which I was vibrating.

Did I feel refreshed? I wondered as I headed back to work. I didn't have time to dig too deeply for the answer though. The first week back at work would be like the week leading up to vacation—I'd have to be moving at a breakneck pace.

For more of The Joy of Life, visit thejoyoflifeblog.com.

The joy that can come from following your heart

Columnist Tracy Beckerman writes about her life as a mom and wife with self-deprecating humor. Before she turned her wit loose upon herself, she was a TV producer and writer. The career switch has worked out well for Beckerman. Her self-syndicated column, "Lost in Suburbia," which started in her local paper, is now read by millions and was compiled into her first book, “Rebel Without a Minivan.”

But more important than all of that--she's happy. Beckerman is an example worth noting for anyone who is wondering how to start again in this economy, anyone who is looking to follow their heart and start fresh.

GM: Your initial career was in television. How did you wind up being a columnist?

TB: After my son was born, I decided to leave the TV biz and become a stay-at-home mom. It seemed like a much better use of my college degree in television production than actually working in the television industry. Needless to say, I really loved the time I spent with the kids, but after five years I started to feel that I needed to supplement my brain with something more challenging than learning Elmo songs and making PB & J sandwiches.

GM: How did you come up with the concept for "Lost in Suburbia?"

TB: One day something funny happened to my son in his kindergarten class and I sat down and wrote about it. A humor column was born. On a whim, I sent it to our local paper and they ran it. Then something else funny happened with the kids and I wrote about it. The paper ran that one too. I soon realized that my life in suburbia was a veritable buffet of funny material.

GM: What happened in your son's class?

TB: It was more sweet than funny. It was Valentine's Day and I was worried that he wouldn't get any valentines from the kids in his class and he would be traumatized and withdraw from society and live out his years a bitter, lonely man all because he didn't receive a Spider-Man card stamped with "you're nice" on it. He ended up with 18 Spider-Man cards and I felt stupid for obsessing about the love life of a 5-year-old.

GM: Is there someone you are modeling your career after?

TB: I don't have a modeling career. I'm a writer.

GM: Are you sure? Most writers don't have their picture in the paper. Minimally, you'd have to admit that being a columnist is somewhat glamorous...Isn't it?

TB: Certainly, it's fun to be recognized. But it takes a little effort on my part. Even though my picture is next to my column, they don't usually recognize me. So then I say, "I'm Tracy Beckerman." They shake their heads. "Tracy Beckerman who writes the 'Lost in Suburbia' column in the newspaper." Still Nothing. "You know, that column in your local paper that you get every week and sometimes read?" "Ohhhh right," they say. "That's you?"

GM: What is it that you're striving for? Ideally, what do you hope your readers take away from the column?

TB: I think what makes my column work is that my topics are things everyone who has a family can relate to: Being the only one in the house who seems to know how to change a roll of toilet paper; dealing with your children's Halloween costume meltdowns; trying to figure out how to lose the "baby weight" you put on in pregnancy before your kids go off to college...These are things we all contend with; things that drive us crazy. If I can find the humor in it, and by doing so, I can help someone else laugh at what they're going through too, than my column is a success.

How many ways to say 'NO!' are there?

Now that my son Owen is 2,  the baby has been replaced by a confident little man who has his own preferences.

One of his favorite things to do at this moment is to say “No!”

It doesn’t matter what the question is, “No!” is the most appropriate answer.

“Owen, would you close the drawer?”

“Want to sit with Daddy?”

“Did you have a good day, Owen?”

“Do you want to color?”

Of course this sometimes presents a problem for him. What if the answer isn’t “No?” What if he does want to color?

The answer is still “no,” but he has a “tell” as they say in poker. His face changes. His eyes widen as he worries about the outcome. Then he hesitates before giving his standard answer. This is the only way he lets on that the answer actually is in fact, “yes.”

I thought teaching him a fun way to say “yes” would do the trick.

“Owen,” I said with my thumbs-up ala Fonzie style, “this means ‘yes,’ and this means ‘no,’” turning my thumbs upside down.

He started to smile.

“No!” he said laughing while attempting to put his thumbs down.

He saw the beauty in what I offered him—another way to say, “no.”

He ignored the thumbs-up. Hmmm…

“OK, Owen, try this…Shaking your head up and down means ‘yes’ and shaking it from side to side means ‘no.’”

He illustrated he understood with a nod from side to side.

For help, I turned to the Web.

A number of parents consoled each other and offered what help they could in the article "Parents say: Getting past No!" on a BabyCenter Medical Advisory Board site.

"When your toddler falls in love with the word "no," it can feel like you've run straight into a brick wall,” it starts.

“We like the idea of giving choices within boundaries. For example, with our 22 month old, Noah, if he says he is hungry, I might say ‘Okay, lets have a piece of fruit. Would you like a banana or grapes?’ That way he is making the choice, and the choice is a healthy one,” wrote Adrienne.

Respond with humor advises Jan from Minnesota.

“My 2 1/2-year-old won't always cooperate — no surprise! For instance, I'll ask him to sit down to eat and he'll say "No!" and laugh, and start dancing around instead. That used to make me mad (okay, it still does), but I try to laugh back and say something like, ‘What's going on there, Legs? You tell Bottom to sit right in that chair!’ That makes him laugh and breaks his defiant mood,” she writes.

Lisa from Washington also uses lightheartedness to prevent a head-on battle.

I try to deal with stubbornness by making the task seem more fun. Going potty before leaving the house can be an endless battle in our home, so now we ‘fly’ our 2 1/2-year-old son to the bathroom. By the time we get there, he is laughing and having so much fun he is willing to go potty,” she writes.

Of course, there is the old standby, reverse psychology.

“When I have heard one ‘no’ too many from my 2 1/2-year-old son, reverse psychology always seems to work. I just say, ‘Oh, okay then, I'll do it by myself.’ He always chimes right in with that fierce independence and says, ‘No, I will do it by my big self!’” offers Barbre from New Jersey.

One other tip that I thought would be useful came from Arizona native, Carey.

"Our daughter Dayna is 2 years old and wants to do everything herself. When I ask her to do something, like get out of her car seat after I've unbuckled her, I give her some time to do it herself (a few seconds). Then if she's not moving quickly enough, I tell her it's now her turn, but if she doesn't do it, then it'll be my turn.”

All of these tactics  have conflict avoidance in mind.

Familyeducation.com agrees that this is paramount and brings up another important point.

Being able to say “no” is important to toddlers.

“Kids this age are driven by the need to make their own decisions, to be autonomous, and to control their world, and the way they express these needs is through the word no,” the site states.

From the toddler’s perspective, living in a world where the chairs, tables, and sinks are too tall, drawers are too heavy and the stairs are too steep can be frustrating, the site reminds.

The word “no” can be a relief to little ones.

Giving Owen choices, letting him do things for himself and letting him participate in chores and important household  tasks (like getting the mail) will go a long way to reducing his frustration and empowering him.

After all, a sense of empowerment is what the word “no” is all about.

Lastly, familyeducation.com reminds readers not to expect their children to always be nice, “and don't take her 'no' personally. Your child is not defiant, angry, or negative—she's a toddler saying no.’”

I wonder if there are any other ways I can teach Owen to say no?

The 'Big Red Spaceship Car' that caused a time rift

Over the past week, I feel like I've aged 10 years. When my wife and I went out looking for a new car, I was thinking of the sporty Subaru WRX, or maybe the bold Toyota FJ Cruiser.

We came home with a Dodge Caravan: 17 inch wheels, inferno red, nine speakers, I was ready to roll.

And what was our first road trip? Turtleback Zoo!

As we cruised down the road I wondered why my office mates gave me such a hard time when I tried to show it off.

"I remember those days," one groaned.

"I just got free myself," said another. "I couldn't wait to get out of that thing."

"But it's got the sports suspension," I countered.

That gave everyone a good laugh.

Luckily, my wife and I suffer from the same delusion and we were totally happy with our purchase.

"Put on Dan Zanes," said my son.

Dan Zanes, good idea, I thought to myself as I hit play and started the folk music sing-along.

How could anyone not think this minivan was cool?

"Comfy back there?" I asked as the minivan that my son named "Big Red Spaceship Car" floated along. This was certainly a new phase in my life.

The time shift caused by purchasing a minivan was not unlike the effect caused in the movie "It's a Wonderful Life" when the scene jumps from young boy George Bailey to a fully grown Bailey in a fedora.

Viewers first meet him as an adult holding a suitcase. This scene perfectly illustrates why I love my minivan.

Just like the jumbo suitcase that wide-eyed George Bailey intended to buy, the minivan represents possibilities.

Family trips to Colorado to see Owen's grandparents, Florida to see my cousin...the same cousin I teased for buying a minivan not so long ago!

My mind switched to thinking of him. We always had fun camping together as kids.

I should take the family camping with the minivan I thought as I took off my fedora and put it on the passenger seat.

Yes, I was wearing a fedora, and yes, I was driving in the right lane.

I do feel older in my new minivan, but maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Listing 10 things that make me happy

Last week, I wrote about the thrill of negotiating and how much I was looking forward to car shopping. Of course that was followed by a week of car shopping. While showrooms are like toy stores to me and cars are the ultimate toys, there is also the dark side.

Writing last week's column through rose-colored glasses, I must admit that I forgot about the stare-downs, the deadlines, the ambiguity of option packages.

Memorial Day weekend car shopping got tense.

To regroup I tried a trick found in Barbara Ann Kipfer's book, "Field Guide to Happiness," which features many quick fixes for whenever your happy meter is running low.

The first exercise suggested in the book is listing 10 things that make you happy. A simple idea, and after a weekend of finagling, simple's exactly what I needed.

1) A job in journalism that seems pretty secure: Everyone knows that many papers are sinking fast. Luckily, the paper where I am the features editor -- Suburban Trends -- is in the black. So, I get to continue to do what I love while a lot of my colleagues are having a much harder time.

2) Time alone with my 2-year-old son Owen: Mommy had to work on Saturday last weekend. That meant that Daddy (me) and Owen had an entire day of guy fun, which included playing with cars, playing piano (we have a red plastic toddler piano next to our Yamaha) and mopping. (I am a bit of a neat-freak and I'm happy to report that so is my boy!)

3) Barbeque at my parents to start the summer: I love going to my parents' house. It always feels like a holiday to me. Dad at the grill means summertime.

4) Test driving cars--is there a guy out there who doesn't think test driving cars is fun?

5) Seeing Owen at his neighbor Thunder's house: Thunder is the dog next-door. Owen is eternally curious about the gray terrier he hears through his bedroom window. If he doesn't hear Thunder barking, he runs over to his window and stands on his tippy-toes, "Thunder sleeping? Thunder eating? Maybe Thunder inside?" he'll ask with a shrug. Up close, Thunder's a little scary to Owen. But being perched between Mommy and Daddy at a picnic table at "Thunder's house" was an adventure.

6) Sitting at a neighbor's for yet another barbeque: you can never have too many barbecues on Memorial Day weekend.

7) The opening of the near-by lake

8) The mysterious flowers my wife planted that deer pass up and have neighbors scratching their heads: there are many, many deer in my town and my wife has managed to plant these tall purple flowers that remain in tact while other gardens get chewed down.

9) The three day weekend

10) Hearing Owen suffer a kiss attack from my wife in his room as I type in my office: If Owen stands in "the kissing corner" in his room, it means one thing -- a "kiss attack." I know it sounds corny, but oh how it makes him cackle!

Kipfer suggests making your list soothing and paying attention to moments of awareness -- things that are a little deeper than finding money on the sidewalk.

Throughout much of Memorial Day weekend, what really made me smile was how much my son loves me. While car shopping he wore a slouch hat because I wear slouch hats.

Sometimes, he gives my wife and my mom a hard time making them squirm as he picks at his food when they want nothing more than to see him fill his belly with a substantial meal.

But if I make a turkey and cheese sandwich for myself and make an extra one and put it on a plate next to mine and sit him in a "big boy chair" -- he'll eat the whole thing. No muss, no fuss.

I'm not sure who enjoys that more, him or me...

The guilty pleasure of morbid curiosity

The Moai are a collection of statues that cover the beaches of Easter Island — big stone faces scattered across barren land.

Researchers posit that around 9000 B.C., Polynesian mariners discovered the
isolated island and settled it.

They made their homes under its palm trees. At first there were only a few dozen settlers. They thrived in an island paradise where the palm trees reached 60 feet into the air.

The settlers used wood from the giant trees to construct homes and boats. They successfully fished in the island’s waters, and society boomed.

To thank their gods for their prosperity they made large idols, the Moai. The largest statues weighed 86 tons and were 33 feet tall, according to Wikipedia.

They fashioned ropes and ramps from the palm trees that allowed them to handle the large offerings, which archeologists think were carved to resemble ancestors who were revered as gods.

The population was advanced for its time, and with each generation, its numbers grew. By the year 1500 B.C., there were 15,000 islanders. But the island couldn’t support a population that size. Resources were depleting, so they splintered into factions and fought for what was left.

Then the story got even spookier. From the clues left behind, historians surmise that even in the face of a catastrophe, the natives weren’t able to change their ways.

They raced to the end of their days, speeding their own extinction. The more resources dwindled, the more they fought.

Each tribe built more and more monoliths to stand guard over them as they fought. When they ran out of tree bark to make ramps to carry the statues, they let them stand in the quarries where they were carved.

According to Time magazine, there are 877 statues on the island today in various states of completion. But the islanders’ pleas to the heavens went unheard. Deforestation wreaked havoc on their soil. They ran out of wood to build fires and boats.

By the time the island was rediscovered by the Dutch in 1772, there were about 2,000 people left. They were cannibals living in caves with no memory of the great civilization responsible for the statues around them.

There are some fantastic theories on what happened to the people of Easter Island, like their technical skills were so advanced, they must have been an alien race who abandoned the island to go back to their home world.

But the exotic story of Easter Island doesn’t need sci-fi embellishments. The reality paints a heart-stopping picture that grabs our attention. And people learn best when emotion is involved.

Picturing the island’s exotic stone faces against the night sky sets our neurons on rapid fire, and the car crash of a once prosperous civilization is laid out so we can learn vicariously.

Morbid curiosity may seem like a guilty pleasure, but that’s how we learn what happens when we don’t play by the rules. Rubbernecking allows us to see the results when mistakes are made.

Do people ask for miracles these days?

"When was the last time you asked for a miracle?" I asked friends and family a couple of weeks ago.

I was curious how they'd respond.

Putting religious interpretations of miracles aside as well as scientific, historical or cultural vantage points, I was more curious about people's expectations.

What does modern man, scratch that, post-post-modern man expect from his world? Past the age of reason, past the enlightenment, have we become disenchanted thanks to our focus on facts?

In general, I think the answer is yes. To me, it seems that beyond the half-hearted attempt of Santa Claus, we have painted ourselves into a corner.

What corner? The idea that anything could happen to me in this great big, mysterious world is what excited me as a child.

That excitement translated into dreams and those dreams nourished a desire to be the first one out the door everyday. Every plane that hung from the sky, every car that whizzed by populated my world with possibilities.

Outside of the realm of religion, the purpose of miracles has a lot to do with our expectations. Does it sound over the top if I say that I expect my life to be miraculous?

Out of the dozen or so people that I surveyed, only three had given any thought to asking for a miracle as an adult. What do we lose in our rational preference for proof?

If you don't ask, you don't get, as the saying goes.

Years ago, in my previous career, a co-worker who was more successful at what he did than I was, walked me through an intriguing exercise. It went something like this:

"Picture yourself down the road, years from now," he said. "Let's say you're 30. How much money do you want to be making by then?"

I replied, "$30,000."

"OK, now that you have that in your head," he said, "you'll figure it out."

I thought it was an absurdly brief and arbitrary exercise. I picked that number to be my future salary because it sounded like a lot of money at the time. As it turned out, the goal wasn't a hard one to achieve.

My friend's method worked. It sounded like a shot in the dark to me at the time. How would I go from making $24,000 to $30,000 in just a few years, especially since I found my way into that company as a temp?

The path forward was unknown to me. Without the aid of facts, it was a leap. But it was a leap that I believed was possible. And what if I chose to be a realist?

The odds that a temp, who knew nothing about the field in which he landed, would be able to almost double his salary in such a short time seemed low. (I actually overshot my goal by a lot!)

A realest might have assessed himself at the bottom of the totem-pole and thought lower expectations would be prudent.

"If it is something you can receive by asking is it a miracle?" my mother-in-law, Ann asked.

That is the key point here. Many times, what you believe determines the outcome.

"Are hoping and asking the same?" Ann continued. "Is a miracle bigger than a hope?"

Are people's hopes big enough these days?

My dad once offered advice that would fit well here.

"There are many reasons why you can't do things in life, but if you can think of one reason why you can, go for it," he said.

Shooting down the possibility of miracles in your life takes away that reason. This is the corner we should avoid painting ourselves into.

When was the last time you asked for a miracle? Is there one that you wish were possible?

For more of The Joy of Life, visit genemyers.com.