Ever since Scowl and Little Guy were old enough to stand on a footstool in front of the toilet and do their “whizzness”, I have instructed, encouraged and implored them to put the seat down when they are done.

Yes, I am out-numbered three-to-one in my house – unless you count the female fish, but they have been dead for several years, flushed to meet their maker through the very object with which I often take issue – or tissue, whichever the case may be.

My husband remembers to put the seat down 99% of the time. My boys?  100%, but only if you combine their success rates. I understand that it takes precious moments to do the thing I request, and who has that kind of time to waste when Play-stations and refrigerators beckon like rope-swings in the woods? My sons’ education is a work-in-progress. But, if marriage or even cohabitation is in their futures, I must ensure that they graduate Bathroom Etiquette 101 before leaving my tutelage.

Lately, though, I have been reminded that a man’s lavatory manners should exceed the boundaries of his own home.  Men always want to know how women feel, or, at least they think it’s important to us so they ask.  As a fairly mid-line representative of my gender, I have one piece of essential intelligence to impart: in public, women’s washrooms are sacred.

This, I realize, is a bit of an oxymoron.  There is nothing holy about any public toilet.  Typically, they are all a degree of disgusting, but the ladies’ room is still sacrosanct to its visitors and much less vile than, say, the men’s room.  Urinals are gross to those who don’t use them and the stalls are even more cringe-worthy because we know exactly what goes on in them.  In the ladies’ room, when one enters a cubicle, one is never certain precisely what transpired just before.  We imagine dainty Number Ones only; that’s our prerogative. 

Besides, with regard to washroom habits, women are simply neater. It is biologically obvious.  While we are compelled to share our bathrooms at home with whoever else resides there, out in  public there is an unspoken rule between women and those other people: we don’t enter yours and you don’t enter ours.

Last week, I arrived at my gym after a tense drive in one of the only snowstorms we’ve endured thus far, this season. As a Torontonian, the nearly two centimetres of snow had me coiled extra tight.  Understandably, once my body relaxed, I experienced the urge “to go”, in this case, to really go, to hop up and down, cross my legs, think- of- the- desert go. My work-out place has only single men’s and women’s washrooms and much to my vexation, the door to “Women” was locked.  I waited and waited and waited.  A personal trainer walked out of the Men’s, registered my mounting panic and offered me entrance to his room.

“No, thanks,” I said.  Not unless I’m extremely dead, I thought.

Placing my ear near the door to the ladies’, at long last I heard a flush and the sound of tap water running, welcome even though it fuelled my urge.  I stepped back as the lock jiggled and the door finally opened to reveal – a middle-aged man in tennis whites.

I can only imagine the outraged expression on my face at this unwelcome apparition. The guilty party looked at me and turned beet red.  “Sorry,” he said, brushing by me.  “So sorry.”

Disgruntled but desperate, I entered the room and noted that the seat was down.  Either the intruder had been well trained by his old mother or else he had been seated.  I didn’t much like the choices, but need trumped aversion.

I had recognized the man as a regular – pardon the pun – and as I made my way to a treadmill I saw him lifting weights.  He surreptitiously glanced at me between sets, but quickly looked away when I met his eyes.  I know that I will see this man often because we visit the gym on an over-lapping schedule.  Now, instead of a benign smile or nod of the head, we will avoid each other’s eyes, his dirty little secret hanging above us like a soot cloud after a fire. I imagine approaching the “faux pas fellow” one of these days and saying, “I forgive you your indiscretion.  Just don’t let it happen again.”

 But, I am too polite, too repressed or maybe too sadistic.  Part of me likes it that he will squirm when he sees me although I admit I would enjoy it more if I didn’t squirm, too.

This experience has led me to rethink my parenting skills.  I need to widen the net of manners for my boys.  It isn’t enough that they become considerate partners or house-mates.  I can’t rest until they are also bonafide citizens of public restrooms.  I have been thinking about embroidering a pillow, my first:

Where ever you roam, whatever you do,

Stay the hell out of the ladies’ loo.

Three things you can do to become a happier parent.  Check out the link to Chatelaine’s blog  ‘The Happiness plan“

I gave birth to Little Guy at the age of 43. I remember over- hearing one of the supervisors on the delivery floor direct a nurse to prep the “senior mom” for a C-section.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ancient One. It’s a great day to have a baby,” I imagined hearing the nurse declare when she entered my room bringing a sunshine smile and a foetal heart monitor.

Being labelled a “senior” felt distressing. I didn’t even consider my mom to be a senior though she had recently turned 65, and here I was about to be handled with latex kid gloves because I was old.

“Old-ER,” I reminded myself not for the first time in the past nine months. “Old -ER.”

During my pregnancy, some people treated my good news with a mix of pity and disbelief. “How exciting for you,” they said, but the subtext was evident by their inability to meet my gaze. You’re going to put your body, your family – your LIFE through the stress of a baby at your advanced age? Whoopie Goldberg was already a grandma at 43!

Whoopee.

I did not plan to have Little Guy on this time-line. I was shooting for late thirties, two and a half years after giving birth to Scowl (who was still known as “Chuckles” in those halcyon days of toddlerhood). But, the universe didn’t concur with my design. I endured three miscarriages, becoming more disillusioned but determined after each disappointment. I loved Scowl. I was adamant that he should have a sibling and saw no irrefutable reason to stop trying.

Towards the end of my first trimester with Little Guy, I began to display the same worrisome symptoms that had accompanied my three prior losses. But, when I rushed to the clinic and glimpsed his pearl-sized heart beating ferociously on the ultrasound screen, I felt relieved and assured that Little Guy really wanted to be here. I knew he would be a gift of unimaginable proportions for my family, but an unbidden question continued to pose: was I spry enough to raise him?

Nine years later, Little Guy is healthy, charming and smart. Maybe, older women really do birth brighter babies. My theory is that Little Guy spent decades rolling around in my ovary with nothing else to do but soak up knowledge that seeped in from the outside world. Thus, he emerged a “Professor of Life”, and the first thing he taught me was that if I was going to keep up with him, I had better get off my ass and lose fifty pounds. I accomplished this in eight months and have worked hard to stay in the best shape of my life. What choice do I have? Not only do I want to be around as long as possible for my kids, I also want to be able to catch them!

Mentally, I have had to learn flexibility, French (again), and the ability to look good in 3D glasses which I wear for just about every movie we see. Little Guy has taught me how to play and lose Chess games. I read to him every night, exposing me to the pure imagination of children’s literature. It is my recurring job to locate the pieces of Lego that he alleges are missing from packaged sets. He is amazed that I find them. I am amazed at the intense focus with which he puts them together, squatting for hours in a position that would have me screaming for a massage therapist or a winch.

Little Guy’s existence keeps me young. He inspires me to chase basketballs that roll dangerously down the middle of the street after missing the net on our driveway. He engages me in fanciful conversations about monsters and “what-ifs” and immerses me by proxy in all the activities of Grade Four life. Little Guy pushes me to be more.

There is a downside, though, to my extended childhood, which was recently exclamation- marked during a family weekend away. At what point does “child-like” become “childish”, embarrassing or potentially dangerous to one’s health?

Returning to our rooms after an evening of dinner and ping-pong, we found two elevators waiting open in the hotel lobby. Little Guy grabbed his big brother and boarded the “kids only” lift, announcing his intent to push the button for every floor. After arriving at our level in a timely fashion, I, the mature one, suggested to my husband that we hide and scare the kids when they emerged. I flattened my body against a wall around the corner while my husband watched from across the way, slightly bemused but anticipating some lively “family entertainment”. Finally, I heard my sons’ giggling and the chime-like ding of the elevator stopping and the doors pulling open. I tensed, listened for footsteps, and then flailing both arms in the air like a Zulu warrior, I leapt into the middle of the hallway and screamed something akin to, “Bbbllaaaaaaaggggggghhhh!”

The thirty year-old stranger with whom I came face to face, jumped back with terror-stricken eyes. Instantly mortified, I nearly tripped, but steadied myself on his arm. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I thought you were my son.”

“No problem,” said this polite, non- gun-toting Canadian, but I could tell by his bewildered expression that he wasn’t convinced of my sanity. He ran off just as the other elevator discharged my actual children, and I dissolved into paroxysms of unstoppable mirth.

“What’s so funny?” asked Little Guy.

“I . . . this man . . . warrior arms . . .” I sputtered, unable to form a cohesive sentence through laughter and tears.

At last, when I could explain, Little Guy didn’t understand why scaring the wrong person was so amusing. In his nine year- old world, these mishaps occur all the time. In my fifty-two year-old world, I was lucky to not have been shot or arrested.

Soon after our boys fell asleep, my husband recounted the event for the gazillionth time and burst into hysterics. I joined him for the next thirty minutes. Neither of us could remember the last time we had laughed so hard. We slept like babies.

On April 13 and 14, 2012, KMT The Learning Group presents, Child Development & Learning, a two day conference with internationally recognized child development experts Dr. Gabor Mate and Dr. Gordon Neufeld.  Joining Dr. Mate on stage, Jennifer Kolari, best-selling author of Connected Parenting: How to Raise a Great Kid, and You’re Ruining my Life, (But Not Really) will help address and respond to tough issues surrounding, ADHD/ADD, Bullying, Attachment Base Theory, Parenting and much more.

See Jennifer on Canada Am talking about the benefits of arguing with your teen.

A study from Concordia University has found that oxytocin reduces social anxiety and is a powerful antistress agent. Learn more.

RSA Animate – The Empathic Civilisation.  A fascinating talk about empathy on youtube.

Jennifer Kolari appeared on the  STEVEN AND CHRIS SHOW on CBC. Tuesday, December 6th. Click the link to view the segment.

“Wow, Mom.  You’re famous and now I’m famous too because I’m related to you”. Nine year-old Little Guy grinned broadly in the backseat of my car.

Earlier in our drive, he had spied a hardcover book on the floor that was written by a close friend of mine – a recently published tome on how to negotiate the teenage years ostensibly without murdering your teenager.

“Why’s this book here?” Little Guy had inquired.

I explained to him that my friend, Jen, had written it, that she had gifted me with a copy and that I was included in the Acknowledgements.  Little Guy wanted to find his mommy’s name, so I directed him towards the back of the book and to the second page of the Acknowledgements section.  After half a minute’s taut silence, my son let out a happy squeal.

“I found you!” he said and proceeded to read the short paragraph about my “contribution” to my friend’s life before looking up happily and declaring our family celebrity.

My emotions were mixed – part joy that my kid was so thrilled at seeing his mom’s name in print and part shame because I didn’t write the book; I was simply an acknowledgement.  Now, when joy and shame get thrown into a blender, the resulting concoction is often a little sour treat known as self-loathing.  Swallow enough of it and one is liable to feel the unbidden rumblings of “not-good-enough syndrome” rising like bile.

 As a mother solely engaged with raising her kids for the past fifteen years, I am a chronic sufferer of both these forms of self-flagellation.  There is a good deal of acknowledging that occurs in my life.  My husband regularly pays heed to my contribution to his professional success.  We all play our part in the family, he says, and if I didn’t do what I do for ours, he wouldn’t be able to do his job to the best of his ability.  He is a sweet man, my husband, for recognizing my role but let’s be honest – I’m not doing the deals, I’m not convincing others to work with me and I am definitely not bringing home the turkey bacon. These truths often leave me feeling like a human hamster; I run the gamut of my circle every day – school to home to school to home, but I am not responsible for actually making anything happen.

Or am I?

I take good care of my children, their physical, mental and emotional development. My proof is that they are healthy, confident, engaged and perceptive people.  Yes, fifteen year-old Scowl and I raft through his adolescence and my peri-menopause on waters often churning white with anger; sometimes, I feel like we will never recover our footing as mother and son.  But, so far, at the end of even the most horrendous exchanges, we shake off our emotional debris and keep swimming – together. Scowl has told me on several occasions, “No matter how bad we fight, Mom, I know you love me and have my back.”

If my teenage son is cognizant of the fact that I am here for him even at his most unlovable, and there are many of those moments these days, then just maybe I am not too bad at this mothering gig.

I began writing a couple of years ago, non-fiction essays mostly, inspired by my family and friends.  I haven’t been paid for any of them yet, but I have garnered readership and been richly rewarded by heartfelt responses – laughter, tears, recognition in my words and spirited conversation. Moving readers is an event of sorts and generally, I feel good when I reach inside someone. It is a feeling of positive power. On the flip side, because of the way our world works there remains a part of my psyche that would feel far more successful if my words were to earn financial “riches” as Little Guy calls money, but on the other hand, it’s true that you can’t take it with you – unless you’re an ancient Egyptian with a spacious tomb.

The same friend who acknowledged me in her book has told me that I am her inspiration for the friend she would like to be. This surprised me – I think she is a fine friend already and I have never considered myself anything other than a competent comrade, but she says I have a forte for friendship.  That also lightens my mood when I am feeling purposeless. One day, she showed up at my house with a freshly farm-baked blueberry pie, my favourite.  When I asked her what the occasion was, she said, “None.  You taught me this.”

I taught her to bring me blueberry pies?  If that is true, I think I may have found the secret to happiness.

Until I complete my novel and make my first million (by winning the lottery, not by publishing!), I will try to revel in being able to inspire those around me and to take care of the loved ones in my purview.  Maybe, being an acknowledgement is more substantial than I originally supposed – it sure as hell beats being a footnote!

Jennifer appears on the Steven and Chris show and deals with cyberbulling.  Click on the provided link to view the segment. http://www.cbc.ca/stevenandchris/2011/11/moms-on-cyberbullying.html

Jennifer Kolari’s book “Connected Parenting” has been chosen for the Coffee Klatch parents holiday wish list.

Jennifer shares her expertise with families at The Collingwood School in West Vancouver on January 30, 2012 from 6:00 p.m. – 7:30 p.m. PST.

Jennifer shares her Connected Parenting model and strategies with the Hillcrest Public School community in Mississauga on February 28, 2012 from 7:00 p.m. – 8:30 p.m.

This morning, in the newspaper, I read about “the choke game”, which is not unlike Russian Roulette for children.  The choke game involves tying a rope around your neck and the other end to something like the doorknob of your bathroom.  You fall backwards and the noose knot tightens around your neck giving you an incredible rush before you lose consciousness.

Fun — wow.  Theoretically, the unconscious part isn’t supposed to last long — just a few seconds.  You are supposed to wake up and be able to free yourself, to loosen the cord that is cutting off your air supply.  The problem is theory doesn’t always hold true and in this case, a different outcome results in death by asphyxiation.

The article frightened me because this game is being played by otherwise happy young kids who are just out for a kick.  It isn’t even as if you can stop it by watching your child for signs of depression because they may be having thoughts of suicide.  The players here aren’t suicidal — they are thrill-seekers.  Lots and lots of kids are thrill-seekers — most believe they are immortal, that death is something so far in their futures that they don’t ever have to worry about it because the time they reach ninety, some scientist will have eradicated mortality from the list of threats of which a human must be cognizant.

I have a nine year-old son.  He is a smart little dude, happy and full of life.  But, so was the thirteen year-old boy discussed in the article I read this morning.  I paused for maybe twenty seconds before deciding to tell Little Guy about the article and the game.  Part of me wondered why I was opening up a can of worms of which he very possibly wasn’t aware.  But, that question was soon replaced by the alternative — keeping quiet and the harm that silence can bring.

If what I am writing here is something you already know, I apologize.  Many parents who have already raised a child may not need to hear this regarding their second or third children.  But, I will take the chance of erring on the side of  talking down to anybody if it means potentially saving a child’s life.

Kids, I have discovered, know far more than what we think they know.  When my older son was in Grade Five, he recieved the “sex-talk” at school.  I remember feeling so nervous when I picked him up from school that day, afraid that his innocence had been shattered.  When I asked him if he was all right, if there were any questions he wanted to ask about the material discussed in school, he looked at me as if I was from the Planet Stupid.  “Mom,” he said, “a girl in my class told me all about sex in Grade Two!”

Apparently, I was three years behind the ball.  That was the moment it hit me — no matter how sweet and innocent my son appeared, in this day and age only a world-wide power outtage could keep him from finding out about all kinds of inappropriate and potentially dangerous things years before he’d be mature enough to handle them.

The choking game can kill our kids.  I had the talk with Little Guy, this morning on the drive to school.  Whether he already knew about it or whether my telling him was going to pique his interest did not phase me.  I needed to scare him smart.  I needed him to hear about a horrible risk from one of the people who love him most in the world.  His first reaction that it was the dumbest thing he had ever heard.  His second was to ask why I didn’t realize that he is too smart to ever try such a thing.  I reassured him of my belief in his intelligence and then reiterated that no matter what a fun thrill any kid every tells him this would be, it is his job to say no, to talk his friend away from trying and to tell me or another adult about his friend’s interest immediately if not sooner.

Please, if you haven’t already, if you have a child aged seven or more, talk to him or her about the choking game.  Tell them how dangerous it is; tell your child how precious he or she is to you; and give your little girl or boy a plan for what to do if the game ever comes up in conversation.  You’ll sleep better and we will all breathe better too.

Jennifer shared her model with teachers at St. Stephen Catholic Secondary School in Bowmanville on November 25 as part of their in-service training.  

Jennifer shared her CALM technique with doctors, nurses and other healthcare professionals on October 24 in Ottawa at (CHEO) Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario.

Jennifer will share her Connected Parenting model on November 14 with the National Council of Jewish Women of Canada at Council House in Toronto. Raising a Great Kid: Empowering parents to use mirroring and empathy to attune to their child’s feelings.

Jennifer Kolari’s article “How to begin mending a broken family” in the YummyMummyClub.CA

Jennifer presented Go With The Flow – Helping Parents Help Their Children Through Transitions to the St. Antoine Daniel Catholic School Community on October 18th.

Catch Jennifer Kolari in her new parenting segment this Thursday October 6th, at 2pm on CBC’s Steven and Chris show.

Jennifer will be presenting her workshop Parenting Tweens and Teens: Saying ‘No’ when the world is saying ‘Yes’  for the Family Care Office at the University of Toronto on October 12th

An article appears in the BC Local News about Connected Parenting. 
BCLocal News.com- link to article