Thank You, Jay*.

Thank You, Jay*.


School was out for the summer and I was no longer getting paid. And yet, there I sat, waiting for the shifty eyed overweight middle school assistant principal to finish heating up her rancid smelling lunch.

“Jay is really difficult,” the assistant principal of the middle school warned me. “We had to give him the same teacher for fourth and fifth grade because it was a male teacher and the only one who could handle him.” She placed her hands flat on her desk and looked at me with exasperation even though Jay was nowhere in sight.

            “Can you tell me what specifically makes him so difficult and what works best with him?”  As the future 6th grade counselor, I met with the administration from the feeder elementary schools to find out which students needed some extra support in their transition to middle school. 

            She laughed. Not a pretty laugh. Not a nice laugh. It was a snotty, malicious, and condescending laugh. I didn’t let it phase me. I understood that she was tired. She was overworked; school administrators have a tough job. But still, her response wasn’t kind.

            “He’s out of control. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t want to complete his work. We have millions of meeting with his grandparents, but nothing changes.”

            And there it was, the first clue: lives with his grandparents. I wondered why and how Jay felt about it. Where were his parents?

            That fall, I met Jay. He had a lot of energy. It was as if he was always plugged into an electric socket that produced a low level humming noise audible within about ten feet. I liked him immediately because he was authentic. He didn’t know how to be anyone but himself.

“You’re going to see a lot of me,” Jay told me the first time we met.

            “Great,” I replied.

            “No, it’s not a good thing. I do really stupid things sometimes.”

            I laughed. “Don’t we all?”

            “Uh, I don’t know? Probably not.”

            “Hmmm. Okay. Well I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

“Yeah, guess so.” He shrugged and by the expression on his face I could tell that I hadn’t won him over. In fact, I might’ve repelled him. I wondered if I was too positive. Maybe he didn’t like that. He left my office and I felt a little disappointed by our lack of connection.

“See I told you,” Jay told me two days later. He was waiting for me in the wooden chair outside my office. His arms were folded while his legs bounced rapidly. This kid could power a windmill with all his excess energy.

     “Come on in.” I held the door open for him. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not taking math. It’s so fucking stupid.” He stopped the leg bounce for a moment and looked at me challengingly. It wasn’t a nasty or mean look. It was a what are you going to do about me look? I saw sadness in his face. Defeat too.

      “I take it you are not a math fan?” I knew from his records that Jay had an IEP and one of the qualifying conditions was a disability in math. He also had low processing speed and working memory issues tied to his ADHD diagnosis.

“I hate it.”

“Since when?”

 “Since always. I fucking hate it.”

 “Sounds like it hates you too.”

            He laughed a real laugh and smiled too, exposing his small front teeth. “Math sucks. Do you hate it too?”

            “Actually, no sorry to say. I always liked math because it was either right or wrong.”

       “Yeah, well you must’ve gotten it right. I don’t. I don’t ever seem to get math right.”

       “That must be really frustrating,” I said.

       “It is.”

      Together, we made a plan on what to do before his frustration surged out of control and he threw pencils or yelled obscenities. I roped in the math special education teacher, a good friend and one of the most patient and caring teachers. Our hope was to make sure that all of the teachers understood that the reason Jay acted out wasn’t because he enjoyed disrupting the class; it was because he was angry with himself and felt stupid.  

      It reminded me of my own struggles with writing. I never kicked desks or knocked them over, but the thought crossed my mind. I used to fantasize about lifting a desk and hurling it across the classroom at Mr. Borne, my tenth grade English teacher. He was a condescending asshole with a penchant for CB radios. Rather than teach how to write a thesis sentence, Mr. Borne educated our class on radio waves and communicating with truck drivers. He allowed us to watch movies rather than read books and I struggled to write a meaningful sentence until my freshman year at UCLA in the remedial writing course.

      Writing never made sense to me. I could formulate thoughts in my head and say them. However, whenever I tried to put them on paper, I was stuck. Feeling inadequate was a miserable feeling. However, unlike Jay, I didn’t act on my desires to scream and yell. I sat quietly and silently berated myself.  You can’t write. What’s wrong with you? It’s easy. You’re so stupid.

      Jay and I dealt with our frustrations completely differently. Rather than swallow his feelings or let them echo loudly in his head as I did, he spit them out all over the place. If he was frustrated, he showed it.  He didn’t hold it in and internalize all the negativity. He let his feelings out. Sure, he was over the top and hard to control. But he was REAL. He was angry that he didn’t understand math and had no problem letting everyone know.    

Jay was an externalizer, more typical for males, rather than an internalizer. Externalizers are difficult to manage in a classroom setting. They’re disruptive and loud. With all the standards and requirements teachers need to meet, having an externalizer can completely upend a lesson plan.

       Jay was easy for me to work with because I spent one on one time with him. His outbursts were like police sirens warning of an emergency.  I didn’t have to guess or ask a million questions to figure out how Jay felt. He shouted it from the rooftops. Unfortunately, teachers didn’t have the luxury or time to talk with Jay one on one. They had ten, twenty, sometimes thirty other students to manage.  His outbursts weren’t fair to other students either. Every time Jay lost it in class, he interrupted the learning for every student in class with him. 

            But more than that, teachers aren’t counselors. They aren’t trained to look for the underlying psychological reasons, nor should they be expected to.  They have to meet learning objectives, create interactive lessons, promote collaborative learning, implement 21st century technology, and so much more. It was my responsibility to figure out how to help Jay manage his feelings without involving or disrupting anyone else.

            The first step was gaining Jay’s trust. He needed to see that I was on his side and I needed to see what his life was really like. I set up regular meetings with Jay. It was important that we connected during non-eventful days as much as, if not more than, the tumultuous days. I spoke with his paternal grandparents, the ones he lived with, and gathered their version of his history.

            And so Jay and I began to get to know each other. He’d come in for regularly scheduled visits twice a week. We wouldn’t talk for long – fifteen minutes or so. We’d talk about video games and annoying people. Sometimes he’d share his struggles with falling asleep or his dislike for the medications he took. He was on ADHD medication and another type of medication to help him sleep at night.

            I hooked him up with two phenomenal social workers that came to our school once a week and facilitated a mixed-gender counseling group. I talked with his teachers often. I warned them in advance if he was having a particularly difficult day and they knew to send Jay to my office if they noticed he was off. Some weeks Jay visited the counseling office multiple times a day. Some weeks, I rarely saw him.

            By the end of 7th grade, Jay recognized when he needed a break and would excuse himself before the teacher had to send him out of the class. I saw it as a huge win. Monumental. Jay might not have been able to regulate his emotions, but he was beginning to make great decisions – decisions that disrupted others less. Growth. Jay was growing.

            My favorite Jay moment was when he marched himself into my office and asked, “How many days?”


“Suspension. How many days do I get?

      “What are you talking about?”

       “You haven’t heard?”

       “Uh, no.”

        “I punched George Mason in the face. Hard.”

George Mason was notorious for his back-handed comments and manipulative nature. I wasn’t his counselor, so I only knew about him from teachers and the other counselors.  He wasn’t all too likeable from what I’d gathered.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not really sorry. I mean I know I shouldn’t get physical and you’re probably mad at me, but I would do it again, Mrs. Shortt. I really would. This kid is such an asshole, sorry. But, he deserved it. He is the most annoying kid. You should’ve seen how he was treating Yasmeen and Nas. I couldn’t let him go on. I couldn’t. I warned him though. I said if you don’t shut up I’m going to sock you. I told him. I warned him. He could’ve avoided being hit if he shut his mouth. So, how many days do you think I’ll get?”

I started laughing.  Not the appropriate reaction for a school counselor upon learning of a physical altercation, but I couldn’t help myself, just as Jay couldn’t help himself. Jay furrowed his brow, surprised no doubt. He came in to confess a suspendable offense and get counsel before seeing the principal and I was hysterically laughing.

To this day, I’m confused by my reaction. The situation wasn’t funny. There’s no humor in someone getting hurt. I am not a fan of violence. And yet, I couldn’t help myself.  My laughter was not the nervous kind of laughter. No, it was more joyful. I think that I was so relieved that someone like Jay existed. Someone messy and complicated. So good. So honest. Jay, with all his mistakes and lousy choices, laid himself out there. He never tried to pretend he was anything he wasn’t. What he thought came straight out of his mouth.

Truth, honesty, and integrity are hard to come by in a teenager, especially one who “fucks up all the time”. I guess Jay has always represented my hope in humanity. This young man with an Adverse Childhood Experience score of at least 9 took responsibility for his actions, protected his peers, spoke with honesty and integrity, and connected. He connected. Maybe his ability to connect is what put Jay in another league. Or maybe, it was his acknowledgement and ability to sit in despair and pain. Jay didn’t shy away from his pain.

Life was not easy for Jay and it would continue to be an enormous struggle. I worried that he’d drop out of high school because the pressure of math and all the information would be too much. The level of expectation for students in the affluent neighborhood he lived in, worried me. I was right to worry; he did drop out. BUT, he went back and finished high school and earned his GED through an alternative education program. He also became a recovering alcoholic by the time he was 17. He broke the law a number of times.

       I know all of this because Jay and I have stayed in contact after he left middle school. No need to sound the ethics and boundary breaker alarms. I took a couple years off from school counseling once I had my second child and since I wasn’t an employee of the school district, I gave Jay my number.

      He used it. He never abused it. He’d call and tell me about the bad choices he’d made and ask me why I thought he did such “stupid” things. He told me about the alcohol use and his disappointment in himself and also the awareness that it was a disease. He told me about AA and his sponsor. We talked through the reconnection with his mother and he shared his tragically painful and shameful memories of his childhood.  And the relationships… we spent countless hours discussing his poor choices in women. He knew he was making bad choices but couldn’t help himself back then.

      The calls I receive from Jay now are of a very different nature. He calls me to talk about his career and to get advice on which path he should take. Jay earned his CDAC certificate and works with addicts. His end goal is to become a licensed social worker and is trying to figure out his educational path. It’s a long daunting road – first a Bachelor’s Degree and then the Masters. Math looms overhead and taunts him. However, I have faith in Jay. He’ll do it in his own time, just as it should be. He has a beautiful, loving partner whom he loves dearly. And she loves him just as fiercely. I can’t wait to watch the two of them get married.

       Through the years, Jay has relentlessly been himself. And I’ve always been in awe of his ability to sift through his pain, an excruciating process. So often we shut our eyes to what hurts. We refuse to acknowledge or look at our shadow (C.G. Jung). Instead, we adopt slogans like, “Think positive.” “Look on the bright side.” “Keep calm and carry on.”

Jay would say, “Fuck that. Life sucks sometimes.”

Life isn’t supposed to be pretty and perfect. How do we truly experience joy if we haven’t experienced it’s opposite?

“No mud no lotus.”

Jay, is the most beautiful, breathtaking lotus flower.  I am thankful everyday that our paths crossed and so grateful for the life lessons he taught me about being one’s self.

No One Cares If You Know Their Name

No One Cares If You Know Their Name

The lessons I’ve learned from my students and clients have become a part of who I am, how I parent, and how I view the world.  My mistakes shaped me.

I was 25 years old when I first started working as a middle school counselor in southern CA.  Excitement bubbled throughout me because I was fulfilling my dream of “making a difference” in the world.

I remember gluing copies of prior year school photos for each student on index cards. My goal was to learn all 323 names prior to the start of school so that I could welcome my caseload on a first name basis. I imagined the delight on my students’ faces when they heard me call their names. They’d feel seen, heard, and important. I had no children at this stage, so devoting more than twenty-five unpaid hours to this mighty endeavor seemed logical. I began my first year of counseling with gusto and the confidence that all of the students would love me.

There I stood, outside my office on the first day of school, ready to whip out Sarah’s name and positively impact her educational progression and success. However, the student photos I used were taken a full year prior, which translates into innumerable changes for tweens and teens. More than half of the students were unrecognizable from their 2×3 inch photo.

But whether or not I recognized them didn’t matter. I was an adult in their eyes and tweens and teens don’t care about the adults on the first day of school, or for most of the days of school. They care about who they are going to sit with during lunch, what friends are in their classes, whether or not their outfits are cool, if the teachers are mean or nice, will the curriculum be exciting or boring, and a million other things. The overly eager new counselor calling out random names registers as strange and slightly creepy.

Twenty plus years later, I can confidently say that I wasted so much time memorizing faces and names. My attempt at “knowing” the students was totally off base. They had never met me. I had never met them. Connection is made through personal interactions, being there when needed, and remembering important details after getting acquainted.  

I wanted to be liked. I wanted to be important. I wanted students to need me. But what I wanted doesn’t matter. What matters is following through with commitments, reacting without judgment or opinion, developing trust, listening, being an advocate, creating a safe space for students to come on their own accord, and providing thought provoking and enriching social-emotional curriculum and programs. Proving that I know a student’s name means nothing in the absence of a relationship.

It reminds me of Maya Angelou’s quote:

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Nothing Compares? Meh.

Nothing Compares? Meh.

Parenting is relentless. An undo button – so helpful when playing a game of solitaire on a phone- is not available. Therefore, parenting blogs and instagram accounts are often a welcome respite from the day-to-day drudgery of motherhood. Some offer practical tips for natural wellness , healthy food choices and recipes. Others connect with moms on an emotional level providing much needed compassion, humor and empathy. If you find the right community, it can feel like a sisterhood or a tribe.

17 years ago, I needed that sisterhood but it was a couple of years too early.  So, I joined a mommy’s group. I filled the last spot of a group of eight. I can’t remember how I found the group. Maybe a friend of a friend told me? My ObGyn? I don’t remember much from those early days, in all honesty. Brain fog. I do remember being hopeful, however. Sure, I had friends to talk to, but none of them had children back then. I assumed that being with other moms would feel different and maybe lighten they burden from all my conflicting feelings.

How do I juggle work and home?

What about the changing relationship with my partner?

Is okay if I don’t love all aspects of being a mom?

Does anyone else feel bored being with her baby and then guilty?

Anyone else want her boobs back?

And what about the drudgery of the repetitive day?

I figured we’d connect as women and complain about motherhood together while our babies played. It would be the perfect combination.  These women would feel the same way I did.

Alas, I was WRONG. All of the women in the mommy group were lovely. They were intelligent, caring, and friendly. There was nothing wrong with any of them, and that was the problem. I felt like I was holding on by a thin thread, and they appeared perfectly blissful.

Motherhood is such a blessing.

Isn’t this the most incredible experience?

Breastfeeding is a miracle.

Don’t you just get lost watching them sleep?

Nothing they said resonated with me. In fact, it made me feel more alone.

They’d talk about the color, size, smell, and consistency of their babies’ poop. It wasn’t a three-minute conversation either. It was an in depth exploration of shit. 45 minutes of SHIT. I wasn’t interested. I could care less that my son’s shit was a little runnier than normal so I really didn’t want to listen about someone else’s shit. Once, two moms opened the diapers to compare colors. 

And the breastfeeding. Oh boy. Now, I’m not prude. I don’t mind seeing naked bodies or talking about the body. But, sitting in a circle with 6 out of 8 women breastfeeding and dripping milk wasn’t on my list of favorite things. So after about 5 or 6 meetings with this group, I politely excused myself. I made up a bullshit excuse so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings; something along the lines of – it’s not you, it’s me.

But, I should have said the truth. I should have told these women, “I don’t love the baby stage, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t love my baby son something fierce. I’m leaving this group because I need more than SHIT talk. I’m looking for friendship and to get to know you all as women in addition to being mothers.”

In hindsight, had I been honest, the group probably would’ve rallied around me and we could have gotten to a different level. Maybe they could’ve helped me through that not so delightful stage and then I could’ve returned the favor. But, I was afraid to share my true feelings. I was afraid to be me. I was afraid of judgment.

Not anymore.

I don’t like the baby stage. Or the toddler stage.

Bring me your adolescents (ages 10-19). The more the attitude, the more I like. Obnoxiousness is not a problem. Bring on the sassy talk. I love watching a little being twist and turn and morph into a larger being. Many people look at me incredulously when I reveal my preference for the teen and tween. That’s okay! I feel that way when they gush over a baby. We’re all different and that’s the beauty of human nature and motherhood. The only “right way” is your way. Be you.

I’d love to hear your experiences with mommy groups or being a mom! Please comment below!

Parenting: The Course No One Teaches

Parenting: The Course No One Teaches

Whenever I’m unsure professionally, I call my psychiatrist father. It’s instinctual and immediate. My father’s psychiatric expertise is based upon years of medical school and residency. He taught psychiatry to residents so of course he knows the right course of action in a psychologically charged situation. Student in crisis, ask Dad. Parent off the handle, ask Dad. Tricky diagnosis, ask Dad.  He provides great, solid advice.

Why then didn’t I run to my father for parenting advice as soon as my children where born?

‘Hang on. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Apparently that’s not a good idea.’

My mother and father did a good job with me. They weren’t perfect; notebooks of EMO poetry from my teen years clearly highlight my discontent. Despite their errors, I turned out relatively self aware and stable (in my humble opinion). My parents were present, loving, and involved. I felt loved and loved them in return.

So, I’ve spent quite a bit of time contemplating why I never solicited my parents for advice or suggestions about parenting. In fact, the moment my mother or father offered a suggestion or idea about how to do something differently, an eruption the magnitude of Niagara Falls went off inside my body (and possibly out of my mouth).

What do they know?

How dare they!

They don’t know my children better than I do.

They’re old school.

Life is different now; they don’t get it.

What I’ve finally come to understand is that my insecurities hijacked my rational thoughts. I heard every suggestion as a criticism. Their advice somehow meant that I wasn’t a good parent.  I expected myself to “know better”. 

But there’s no way to “know better” when you’ve never done it before! Just as I wouldn’t expect myself to land a triple axle in ice skating on the first attempt, so should I not assume to get parenting right on the first go (or second or third). Plus, there’s not only one correct way to approach parenting.

There isn’t a course or a degree you can earn to become an educated and verified parent. There’s no outside agency to provide a credential or stamp of approval. It’s trial and error. It’s being OPEN to making mistakes. It’s about listening to other opinions and scanning through the advice to make sure that it resonates with our own values and ethics.

Now, I welcome my parents’ insights. They provide a different perspective, which I appreciate rather than feel embarrassed or ashamed by. Sometimes I agree. Sometimes I don’t. Most importantly, I forgive myself for parenting gaffes. I expect to make mistakes as I expect my children to make mistakes. Together, we learn and figure it out. For better and for worse.

Lessons from Parenting

Lessons from Parenting

Years ago, when my sons were toddlers, my psychiatrist father and marriage and family therapist mother provided sound parenting advice but as a new mom, I dismissed them because I thought I knew better. They were outdated; they didn’t know how to raise kids in the 21st century. There were newer, better “rules” of parenting. Besides, I had my masters in counseling and had been working as a school counselor for 6 years.  So what if I was exhausted, cranky, and stressed? So what if I imagined running away more than seven times a day? I perceived their suggestions as attacks on my ability to parent, indications that I was failing. If they commented on my child’s obnoxious behavior, I became even more sensitive and defensive. 

And there was no shortage of obnoxious behavior in my house. My youngest son had perfected the art of throwing a horrific tantrum by the age of two. A fair skinned child, Charlie’s face would turn a fabulous shade of heirloom red tomato as he kicked and screamed with tears and snot flowing everywhere.  He screamed as if his insides were being torn apart. Ask him to do something he didn’t want to do and BAM the world was coming to an end. Say no to him, and WHAM screams hurled through the house.

One day, my parents were visiting and we were headed to the park. Before we left, I asked Charlie – in my calmest and most encouraging voice – to pick up the Magna-tiles he’d artistically strewn across the living room. That wasn’t on his agenda, however. I calmly explained to him that we weren’t going to the park until the tiles were picked up. He didn’t budge. A back and forth of me telling him to pick up the toys or we weren’t going to the park ensued. I cajoled, bargained, and bribed. Nothing worked.

My parents watched until I was so fed up I wanted to fling the tiles at all three of them: Charlie for not listening and my parents for witnessing my complete lack of control.

“How many times do I have to tell you to pick up your toys?” I yelled at my 4 year- old son.

“As many times as you’ll do it,” my mother said under her breath.

“He’s four!” I snapped, feeling immediately defensive and embarrassed. “He’s only four!” I was totally out of control and they were witnessing it. My 4 year old was in charge and I was a failure.

“You know, Cindy,” my dad said in his slow smooth voice that only a psychiatrist of 30 years can master, “seems to me like he’s making your life pretty miserable and you’re always trying to make his life wonderful. Maybe there’s a problem?” 

Maybe? Um, definitely.

I repeatedly bargained with a toddler. I issued threats without follow through because holding the line and sticking to boundaries was exhausting. I bent over backwards making sure that he had play dates (social interactions) and park visits (time in nature) and story time at the library (early exposure to reading) and the list continued. I kept doing and doing and doing. Making his life wonderful while I felt miserable. So I decided that I needed to make his life as miserable as he was making mine.

I wasn’t going to intentionally make his life difficult, I just wasn’t going to turn myself into a pretzel to make sure that he felt no discomfort. I decided not to care about the looks from strangers if he pitched a fit in the middle of the grocery store. His tantrums weren’t about me. They weren’t a reflection of my poor parenting. His tantrums were because he wasn’t getting what he wanted. But, he needed to learn that behaviors have consequences. If he refused to clean up before going to the park, he wouldn’t get to go to the park and play with his friends. The other mothers could think I was a “mean” mom. They could think whatever they wanted, but I decided that it was more important for him to learn that life is unpleasant, sometimes. And it’s okay. He’ll be okay.

Now that my boys are teenagers, I’m grateful for my parents and their unsolicited advice. They helped me understand the importance of not fixing every situation, not giving in to every whim. To allow failure. To allow disappointment. Disappointment and struggle are necessary for the developing mind. Young people need to experience sadness, frustration, worry, and embarrassment because they need to know that they have the capabilities to handle themselves and come out on the other side.

Problems lead to problem solving.

Rescuing leads to dependency and the belief the child isn’t capable of handling the situation on his/her own.

We need to be there to listen, love, and support. But parenting isn’t about making life perfect . (Instagram and Facebook have the market on feigning perfection.) Instead, we can parent for independence and true belief in one’s self. Parenting is the hardest job and it doesn’t end when our children become “adults”. If we start out parenting by running ourselves ragged and making sure that everything is “just right” for our children, we rob them of the opportunity to take care of themselves and we exhaust ourselves in the process.