The Naked Truth about Nudity

There has been much talk recently at our house about nudity. You'd think, as a general rule, this topic wouldn't get much play, but there has been some discussion. Inasmuch as the incidents involving nudity were comical enough to write about, the whole topic got me pondering the idea of nudity, and I think there are some nuggets of truth (thank you!) that can be gleaned from a study of nakedness.

1. The younger you are, the more comfortable you are with nudity.

Gavin and Sean have no problems with personal nudity. They would be naked all the time if they could (Gavin more than Sean), and for the most part they are equal opportunity nudists. They will walk around naked both before and after a bath to ask questions, get a drink, whatever, not realizing that others -- namely their sister -- would prefer they not. Their utter lack of concern about loin girding prompted the funny Facebook entry a while back where Grace commented that "naked people should not skip." She's right, but they don't seem fazed by all the hubbub. Gavin even intimated that at some point he would love to live where everyone was naked all the time. When Grace said there was no way she would ever visit him then, he seemed genuinely crushed.

I cannot tell you how many times I've wondered where one of the boys is after his bath and have found him reading a book on his bedroom floor, completely nude. "Why aren't you dressed for bed, honey?" I ask. "Oh, I forgot." Really? Forgot to put clothes on? Again, for them, there is something delightful and completely natural about being naked. There is no stigma, no self-consciousness, no desire to show off, perform or freak anyone out. The fact that Grace does get freaked out is strange to them (and is for the most part hilarious to us).

2. Tweenagers cannot abide nudity.

Grace is at that tender age where she is transitioning to the realm of adulthood. For her, any amount of nudity is enough to clear her out of a room. She also cannot abide embarrassing situations within a movie's storyline or deeply romantic scenes. These scenes just serve to embarrass her and remind her that she will soon be experiencing emotions on a different level and that things that used to be harmless between friends (talking with boys, physical contact -- hugs, thwacks on the arm, etc.) are now going to be fraught with meaning. Nudity has significance, and she is beginning to see that. So she spends time hiding herself (both literally and figuratively) by her clothing choices and screeching, "Please knock!" when the boys try to get into the bathroom to wash their hands while she's in there when just a year ago she didn't care. All of these feelings of hers are perfectly normal; they are part of the steps we go through to adjust to adulthood and how we grow in our understanding of how the world works. It also reminds us of our fallen state and how nudity for adults does mean something different than it does for kids.

3. Adults usually can put nudity in context, but sometimes nudity can still surprise them.

I had the funniest experience at the Theater during a performance of the musical Hair! I had no clue ahead of time that there would be actual nudity within the performance. The ticket said "Mature Content," but I took this to mean that the performers would swear a lot or there would be some bawdy comedy. I was prepared for either of those situations. I was not prepared for all the performers to be naked on the stage at the same time.

My initial reaction to the actors' nudity was shock and then embarrassment -- not for them, but for me, potentially, because this was an audience-participation show and we were in the front row (not kidding). I was suddenly petrified that I would have to deal with nudity square in the face (again, not kidding) and my insecurities about the subject would surface. When it was safe again, I began to marvel at the actors' willingness to brave it all, as it were, for this production. What must go through their heads each time they strip down? Can they be in character so deeply that this action is simply a reaction and doesn't require deep soul-searching or preparation? I tried to be cool during their scene, but I'll admit I was squirming in my seat. Is my own embarrassment about nudity and self-consciousness to blame? Perhaps.

Grant had a great time during the performance and seemed perfectly fine and not uncomfortable in the least. Of course, he knew ahead of time that there would be nudity -- "How could you not know?" he chided. "This show caused a huge scandal on Broadway when it debuted for exactly this reason." I admit I am a bit behind in my musical theater, and I am glad that I got to see this show. But I thought about his reaction against my own. My husband isn't bothered by nudity at all. Ever. It's something he doesn't peg with shame or embarrassment, so he doesn't get flustered or attach hidden meanings to it. People can simply be naked.

For me, the nudity made me think. It was not in the production for mere shock value as so many nude scenes are in movies and on television. For days afterwards, I thought about the show and its use of the human form. I was affected by the nudity -- not in the "Oh Lawdy, cover my eyes" sense but how the actors used it to convey what the show was really about: vulnerability. It got me thinking about what being naked can mean for an adult. The human who bares it all really is stripping away all pretenses and defenses for another person and is showing the essence of the person he or she is inside. Grace is beginning to see that vulnerability in nudity so she hides herself. She knows that nudity can be compromising. She sees that part of the self is exposed when our skin is exposed, and this is a valuable lesson. I think the actors on the stage wanted to showcase that -- exploit it even --as their characters were being exploited and used for a war they did not believe in. Their nudity was symbolic -- they wanted everyone to "see" them and realize that they were just people first, in the very purest sense of the word.

So, these are the thoughts that naked people bring to the mind in the Mosher home: deep thoughts, philosophical thoughts, emotional thoughts and then the boys and their love of being naked. The boys' quest for nudity does not involve compromise or vulnerability or a loss of identity. It is merely them, only naked-er. For now they are happy and innocent and content to spend their time after the bath reading, playing and, alas, skipping.

A Life of Precision

As we age, we come to understand certain truths: "I'll be done in a minute" means that you have about a five to ten-minute window; "I've got to get a few things from the store" means that you will be in there for at least a half an hour; When someone asks for the time, you don't say, "It's 1:27"; you say, "It's almost 1:30." Most people who ask for the time understand that you are rounding up because it's easier. They are not looking for the exact time down to the second; they want to know if it's in the middle of the hour or towards the end of the hour so they can make plans or adhere to them. As adults, we understand. It makes sense for our adult brains to allow this leeway. In fact, we encourage it. We roll with it.

My boys do not roll with imprecision. Call it part of their quirkiness, an aspect of their ADHD, whatever -- but they have never been okay with calling a spade a shovel. My boys lead a life where everything has a proper name and a proper time, amount of money, description, you name it. It's a bit irritating sometimes when adult understanding and child understanding meet head on, but I've been trying to get a handle on why being precise is so critical to both boys and what I can do to ease them into the imprecise world of adulthood. Here are my findings:

1. Children are always corrected. My mother-in-law pointed this out to me, and I was so glad she did. All their lives, the boys have heard themselves corrected by adults. They have had their grammar checked ("I caught the ball" not "I catched the ball."), their explanations reviewed (No, rain is not God crying; it's actually the water cycle -- here, let me explain . . . ), their questions answered even if they weren't asked (Did you know . . . ), and so forth. Not a day goes by that some adult is not imparting knowledge to these children. That is not a bad thing. What it means, though, is that the boys (and all children for that matter) are exposed to this type of learning/teaching style -- the lecture -- an awful lot. In their minds, when you know something, you share it for the benefit of the other party. It's the "learning is communal" way of life.

So why do they get reprimanded when they point out when an adult has made a mistake? They are simply extending the same courtesy given to them 200 times a day. My boys haven't clued in that no matter how wrong an adult is, it's usually not a good idea to correct his or her mistake. Don't tell an adult that it really is 1:27 when she has said it's 1:30. She knows the time but has rounded up for convenience sake. When the adult uses grammar that is incorrect, it's best to ignore it (although it is so, so hard to do so -- I'm with you, boys, on that one) and hope he or she figures it out later. Sometimes you have to infer what the adult is saying, as in: "Put that on the table," but she's pointing at the counter. Do you: a) put the item on the table in the other room or b) put the item on the counter that she's pointing to? This is a difficult choice for my boys who would rather believe the words than the body language or tone.

2. They are highly verbal. Both boys have high verbal IQs. They comprehend the world through the use of words, so for them, a gesture does not carry as much meaning as the word behind it. Sentiment is good, but words are better. So if the words are imprecise, they get confused. They put tremendous value on words, so these guys are going to be heartbroken when promises aren't kept or lies are told (I dread the dating years, middle school -- you get the idea). To them, words are like currency, the way in which they understand and navigate the world. So if something is off, they feel the need to address it.

3. My boys want to do it right, always. Part of the anxiety component of their ADHD stems from their wanting to be correct all the time. It's the perfectionist quality of their personalities that they inherited (so sorry) and that leads to insecurity. They want to be right in order to feel good about themselves, yet here is an authority figure who is telling them something different than what they know. Aaahhh! What to do? Does this mean that their understanding of that part of their world is off? This imprecision leads to confusion and anxiety on their part even if we're only talking about rounding up time or money or exaggerating something to make a point. To make sure they have it "right," they will question that point.

Bottom line is that I AGAIN need to find a source of patience for when these moments come up. Instead of getting irritated at their not understanding and attempting to correct my imprecision, I need to either explain the vagaries of the adult mind -- yes, we round up, we guesstimate how long it will actually take in the store, no I misspoke when I said "elevator" instead of "escalator," etc. -- or adhere to more precision in my own life. Precision isn't bad; it just takes more thought. It takes more time, which is what we adults don't have, which leads us to be imprecise in the first place. Ugh. What a never-ending cycle of woe.

My goal as always is to steer these boys into a deeper understanding of themselves and the world around them without sacrificing all that makes them who they are. So what to do with precision? Do I try and loosen them up or be more precise in my words? Maybe the answer lies somewhere in the middle -- or is that too vague?

Gavin Said What?

The past few weeks were a bounty for Gavin-isms. He was in top form, both in his ability to crack us up and for the amazing things he does.

1. Armpit farts -- this may not qualify as amazing, per se, but the boy is pretty darn good at it. He even gave the family a tutorial one evening: "Step One -- Cup your hand like this. Step Two -- Place your cupped hand over your armpit. Step Three -- Fart." It was fairly straightforward, but I liked that there was an actual system.

Gavin has gotten so prolific at this talent that he can adjust the tenor and volume and tonality. It's really impressive. I've asked him to not do this in public or at the dinner table while we are eating -- we must have some standards, you know -- and he generally complies. He will now armpit fart absentmindedly as if he's biting a nail or cracking his knuckles. He can multitask while armpit farting also, which is pretty clever when you're taking out the trash or playing piano.

Speaking of piano, the other night we are sitting around the dining table playing a rousing game of Boggle. Gavin starts in on his armpit fart routine -- short, short, long, short, short -- and then he stops and tells us, "Hey, when I armpit fart, all the farts are in E flat." I started laughing. This was good stuff, except that Grace goes over to the piano and hits the note. Well, I'll be darned if he wasn't right. Most of the time his armpit farts hit an E flat. So, what do we do? Well of course we spend a good few minutes seeing if he can a) change the notes of his armpit farts and b) more importantly, if he could identify the other notes. He didn't get them all, but he did get some, which impressed me to no end. Can we take this kid on the road? I can see a future with the carnies, for sure.

2. What does my name mean? I think every kid wants to know why he or she was given his or her particular name. It is natural, after all, to want to know your story, to wonder why in the vast dictionary of baby names one particular name stood out to your parents and why they thought it would be perfect for you. Sometimes your name belonged to a family member, and you would like to know why that family member (and his or her name) was important.

We have this name discussion often with our children because they love to hear the stories of their names. Gavin was named for Sir Gawain in the legends of King Arthur who was afraid in the beginning of his tale but who did the right thing in the end. Grant and I have always liked this name, and if Grace had been a boy, she would have been named Gavin. Gavin means "white hawk," and we think the name fits this boy with his keen eye and fearless strategies for getting things done.

When we found out we were having twins, we had to find a name that would fit with Gavin. We tried many but ultimately settled on Sean, Irish for John. We kept with the Celtic/Gaelic tradition and sought the name because John was Jesus's companion and best friend. We liked the idea of the Lord's companion, someone He shared with and loved and trusted. We hoped that our twins would cultivate a relationship like that and that our gentle Sean would be a testament to the amazing and deep-thinking man who wrote so beautifully.

At the table again over the Christmas holiday, Gavin asked this time for the story of their names, and of course we obliged. We got to Grace Elizabeth's name and told them that Grace was named for the greatest woman monarch of all time (my own bias) and because her name means "a gift from God." Gavin interrupted at this point: "A gift from God?" and we answered, smiling beatifically at our daughter, "Absolutely. Grace means a gift from God that we don't deserve. An unmerited favor." We thought Gavin would be touched by this wonderful explanation and by our reasons for naming his sister. Instead, he wrinkled his brow in confusion and said, "If Grace is a gift from God, then why is she so annoying?"

Ah siblings. Gavin, you are awesome.

Digging Deeper Into the Burrow

It occurred to me lately after speaking with the hub and a very good friend that I have strayed away from the purpose of this blog. I started Tales from the Burrow with the idea that I would share all the craziness, the fun and the pressure or stress or complications that come from staying home and teaching your kids, especially when your kids are quirky and have ADHD. Instead of keeping to this agenda, though, I began to write about other stuff -- chronicling other happenings or riffing on random thoughts, which would have been okay if I had just done that once in a while. Instead, I began to get worried when I didn't have a new topic to discuss or funny thing to report. I lost my focus, and therefore my blog lost its focus. I know better! Know Your Audience! Write With Purpose! I could just kick myself.

So one of my New Year's Resolutions (in addition to exercise more, eat right, blah blah blah) is to recommit to my blog and write about what I wanted to in the beginning: the boys and the challenges and rewards of homeschooling. I know that I will occasionally detour and write about random things that happen and that's okay, but I will try and stay committed to my purpose (oh, and I have to write about the lovely and patient older daughter too. She's pretty nifty).

So, I'm hoping to set up some new categories for my postings to keep me focused, such as (names to be decided on later):

1. They Said . . . What?

2. Fun with ADHD

3. Cool Lessons and Those that Weren't

4. Today We Struck Up a Conversation With . . . .

5. The Pajama Game -- Which "Loungewear" Will I Be Wearing Today?

I hope you will come back and visit.

The world is full of boring people and sad stalkers

It occurred to me the other day as I logged out of Facebook that I am fairly disappointed in people's daily, secret lives. In fact, I've discovered that most people's daily secret lives are incredibly and mind-numbingly boring. Just so you know, this makes me feel loads better about my own life trapped at home in the burrow. Knowing that other people's lives are as mundane as mine takes a lot of pressure off of me. I don't have to work to be interesting or relevant. I can wear my sweats all day. In fact, I think I will do both and then tweet about it, and people will read it. Huzzah! Greatest American Novel? Forget it; I'm blogging about hygiene again with perhaps a little dose of what the dog ate.

I used to wonder wistfully what regular people did during the day. I vaguely remember what I used to do besides work -- it involved errands and planning ahead and lots of banking. Now I know what others do. I know everything they do. They go to the gym. They go for coffee. Or they shop. And then they tell me -- and the whole Facebook world -- about it. "Oh Hey," I read on a recent post, "Stacy just pulled in to Trader Joe's." or "Look, Grace's 1st grade teacher is having coffee at Starbucks." It got me thinking that while I am happy that I am as ordinary as the rest of them, I am also disappointed in the human race for not being more interesting. FYI: When you ask someone what's going on in their lives and they answer "nothing," you need to believe them. People, you need to liven things up!

Even celebrities' lives are boring because they tweet or post the same type of stuff. What happened to the secret lives of celebrities? Are celebrities really as dull as the rest of us? Do they just want us to think that they are? If so, why? If you are going to be a celebrity, then be a celebrity. Tell us that you got the last table at a fancy restaurant that I cannot afford to eat at. Tell us that a famous designer just dropped off a whole new wardrobe for you. These things don't happen to the rest of us, and we'd like some insight into why we feel the need to worship you from afar. If it's because you are shopping with your family or taking a coffee break, then I'm confused. I do those things, and no one has given me the cover of Vogue. I realize that you are gorgeous, but I have gorgeous friends and no one is after them.

Which leads me to another point: I am starting to feel bad for stalkers. You used to need real skill to stalk someone (and a good pair of infrared goggles, a trusty map and a notebook -- not that I know anything about it). Now all you need is your phone and a global network. Why? Because people keep telling us where they are. Even celebrities. I think this bothers me most of all. If you've just arrived at a certain store and you let us know, or you are a celebrity and you tweet that you just finished a great meal at The Ivy or whathaveyou, then your stalker has a pretty good idea as to your whereabouts. He or she doesn't even have to try. It kind of takes the fun out of it. And for all our talk about safety and taking precautions in this scary ol' world, what are you doing mapping out the route back to your house?

Thank goodness for Charlie Sheen and his never-ending parade of debauchery to keep us on the right track. Not only does he never quite know where he is (presumably so he can foil his stalkers), but he also lives the celebrity lifestyle that I'm waiting to hear about. Charlie and celebs like him do things I cannot or will not do. For example, I don't have the wherewithal or the desire to destroy a hotel room with a hooker. I do not have the power to request only green M&M's in my candy bowl. I cannot in good conscience smack things with my guitar or get thrown off a plane. Those are tweet-worthy items. They may not make me worship Charlie Sheen and others of his ilk, but I'm pretty sure I can be amazed for a few short minutes. Truth is stranger than fiction, and sometimes we all need a dose of strange.

It used to be that the joy of logging on to Facebook was to catch up with friends who I won't see anytime soon and to look at their pictures or to read funny stories about things going on halfway across the world. Facebook has been brilliant in this regard, bringing people closer and helping us forge and maintain friendships that would have taken years with any other medium. The downside, of course, is our subjective lens when it comes to what is interesting or newsworthy. There are clever posters; there are sentimental posters; there are political posters and game posters (more cows for my farm, please). Then there are the "super posters," whose very job, they believe, is to keep you up-to-date. They believe in quantity not quality . . . or relevance . . . or even good judgment. Discernment, mystery. These are words missing from the vocabularies of super posters.

So please, friends, update me when Dylan makes his first touchdown or you need support because your twins are down with the flu, and it just sucks. Tell me about your latest trip to Costa Rica or the fact that your cat had 17 kittens and you are going crazy. These are the moments I want to hear about because they aren't happening to me. What I'd rather not hear about is your shopping, anything involving you and your spouse, bathroom issues, or any of the totally boring and ordinary things that are happening in my life too. Be mysterious. Show discernment, and who knows? Maybe I'll take up stalking again.

Farewell . . . for Now

It started out as a normal farewell dinner, if indeed there is such a thing. Farewell dinners, by their very nature, are NOT normal. In fact, they signify, quite publicly, that things are not going to be "normal" ever again. The farewell dinner states for those in attendance that the status quo no longer applies. It helps prepare us to think differently. What will life be like now? How am I going to feel about my world tomorrow? The whole evening became quite poignant for me in that regard.

At this particular farewell dinner, I said good-bye to my wonderful friend Diane who is moving to Chicago. She is relocating for her job, and she will be leaving in a matter of days. I said good-bye eight years ago to our other college buddy and confidante, Rhonda, who relocated to Florida to be with her now-husband Oren. It was hard to see Rhonda go, and it is difficult to see Diane go as well. We have so many memories here -- memories of achievement, of struggle, of friendship, of love, of anxiety, of sorrow, of encouragement, of bonding. These girls were present at the birth of all my kids, threw me a fabulous Goddess shower, read Mists of Avalon with me and exulted in our feminine power, and shared a graduate program and masters' exam experience with me. Both these women have been fabulous role models and friends, and I miss just hanging out and discussing literature and life and wine and food and everything else that makes a life. Diane and I usually meet Rhonda for lunch at Zov's, our favorite restaurant, when she is in town. Now, I will try to arrange lunches with both of them when our schedules all coincide. I think we all know that those occasions will be few and far between. This is simply what life will be now.

In the midst of this reverie at dinner, I felt a pull in another direction: a sense of farewell to a former self. Marc, our dinner companion, friend, and colleague of Diane's, was amusing us with tales from the office. Then, Marc and Diane took turns amusing the table with tales of their many work adventures. As I laughed and listened, it struck me that I had little to contribute. This had been my world for many years when I was working as an editor and then when I was heading up the non-profit. I knew some of the players in their escapades, but my association with them was long ago. My stories aren't current. Staying at home and educating my children is my new job, and most people aren't interested in the vagaries of this highly unglamorous (and grossly underpaid, I might add) lifestyle. My value is now lodged elsewhere, and it's impossible to wow a table with stories of ADHD medicine decisions, how Sean loves wearing his Mario Halloween costume hat everywhere, how Gavin won our first Bookopoly round the other night or how Grace is really bummed that Teen Titans has gone off the air.

Even as I write out these frustrations, I am keenly aware and know for sure that staying home with the boys is the best decision I could have made. I know that everything I'm doing now is of critical importance to the boys' growing selves, to their self-esteem and identities. I just want to scream from the rooftops sometimes that my life is more than the minutiae of our day-to-day lives. I don't want to be ungrateful; I know it sounds petty to complain about staying home when there are so many women for whom this is not an option. But I cannot make a living doing what I'm doing. We are struggling financially, and I am capable of so many things. I guess I'm just hoping that others will notice. I am a force to be reckoned with. I have skills!

These insecurities and neuroses lie deep within me or bubble to the surface depending on the day. Feeling a bit overwhelmed (and overweight I might add) that night, I fought with my feelings of inadequacy a lot, understanding that I am going through a season of my life, that Diane's life is not one that I could do well, that my life has value even if there is no paycheck, and so forth. I will have power one day, just not now. And just to underscore that idea, the waiter who had been very fun and attentive all night dropped off the bill and his business card, hoping to entice the table back for another visit. The only problem is that he gave his card to Diane and to Marc only. He did not offer me one, nor did he offer one to Jacquie, Diane's mother.

I'm not sure what his message was in excluding both Jacquie and me. Did he not think we would come back on our own? Did he think that we were not decision-makers? This slight bit of business, this unexpected oversight was hurtful in ways that Craig the Waiter could not have imagined. It shocked me. I felt ashamed. I felt angry. Could he not see that I was a person of value? Who was he to judge?

I went home that night defeated and just sad. Part of the sorrow is that my friend is leaving. Part of my sorrow is that part of me is already gone. I have to say farewell to who I was before staying home with the boys. I need to mourn that identity and take advantage of the lessons I am learning now so that the new me can flourish when I am given or I take the chance.

And Another Thing . . .

Hi there Target,

I am so glad that you now carry more grocery items. Imagine my surprise when I found Honeycrisp apples and Greek yogurt the first time I looked around. Awesome. You are my favorite store, hands down.

However, you need to hire people who know how to bag groceries. It was a bit disconcerting to find my apples in the same bag as the new hand soaps I bought. Even more disturbing was to find my new yogurt in the same bag as two heavy cans of soup. That my yogurt did not burst open on the way home after being jostled against the Progressos had to be an act of the gods.

Just a helpful hint. Thanks!