The Rockwood Files

The Rockwood Files: Beagle trouble

December 10, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Charlie Brown and I have something in common. We’re both in love with and completely exasperated by a beagle.

My fondness for Snoopy was one of the reasons I happily welcomed a beagle into the family nearly four years ago. The kids named him Charlie. At the time, I had no idea how many times I’d stand at the front door and call that name over and over again, waiting for our wayward beagle to come home.

Perhaps I should have known a beagle would be trouble. There were plenty of clues in the Peanuts comic strip that should’ve tipped me off. Snoopy clearly had a passion for adventure, as evidenced by those daredevil flights as the Red Baron. And he was always more interested in his own agenda rather than blindly obeying his master.

I have two theories about our Charlie: He’s either the dumbest dog I’ve ever known or he’s the smartest and the most stubborn. My conclusion depends on the day and what kind of trouble Charlie has dug up for himself.

Charlie’s favorite kind of trouble involves a backyard prison break or, if he’s inside the house, it’s a “door dash.” Door dashers are dogs who wait for any door to open even a crack, and then they fly past you in a blur, streaking toward the outside world. We hired a dog trainer to help us break this habit. Although the training helped, even the dog expert warned us that it’s nearly impossible to overcome the power of a beagle’s nose. It’ll lead him to adventure every time.

If one of the kids lingers at the door too long or if one of us forgets to tell Charlie to “park it” (which is a shorter way of saying “Don’t run out the door”), Charlie forgets his previous training and sprints toward freedom. It’s useless to chase or call him because he can’t hear us. He’s too busy sniffing and mentally chanting the word “Squirrel! Squirrel! Squirrel!”

For dogs like Charlie, new outdoor territory is a fascinating action-adventure novel. Anyone who has ever stayed up too late at night reading a suspenseful book can understand the lure. To Charlie, every mound of dirt is mesmerizing. Every breeze is spellbinding. Every telephone pole tells a story.

The only good thing about a beagle’s insatiable nose is that, although it leads him away, it also helps him find his way back home, looking as guilty as he is – knowing the price of his adventure will be another bath.

Often, instead of coming home, it’s over the driveway and through the woods to Grandmother’s house, he goes. My parents live in a townhouse just a few blocks away, and Charlie sniffs his way there for a visit with their dog named Boots. He barks at their back door, and they let him in and give him multiple treats and then a nap in one of their plush recliners.

Mom’s theory is that by rewarding him, he’ll come to her house when he runs away instead of playing in the street. When Charlie goes missing, I get a call from Mom when he shows up over there. I can’t blame him much. If my human kids ran away, that’s where they’d go, too. At Grandma’s house, there’s a 99% chance that someone will be cooking bacon and an even better chance that a furry visitor will get a bite or two.

Mom says if I’d get Charlie his own recliner and feed him more table scraps, he’d probably stay home. And to that I reply with what Charlie Brown would probably say after groaning and rolling his eyes: “Good grief!”

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

The Rockwood Files: Phone Alone

October 8, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

My name is Gwen Rockwood and it’s been two hours since I accidentally left my phone at home.

I realized it roughly 20 minutes after it happened, and by that time I was already 15 miles from home with no time to drive back and get it. When I reached over to the passenger’s side seat to grab it, I found nothing but a lifeless charger cord with no phone attached to it. I hoped that perhaps it had slid off the seat and onto the floorboard. I searched the cracks and crevices around the center console. “Please be here. Please be here,” I chanted. But it wasn’t.

My phone was home alone. I wanted to slap my hands against the sides of my face and yell, “Nooooooooo.”

But there was no time for that because I was already late for my haircut appointment. I walked into the salon while still rummaging through my purse, hoping I might have overlooked it in the jungle of crumpled receipts.

“Is something wrong?” my hair stylist asked.

“I left my phone at home,” I said.

“Oh, no. That happened to me once. It was bad,” she said.

She led me over to the chair and fastened the black cape around me. I tried to tell myself this was a good thing and that some phone-free time at the salon would help me decompress from the digital demands of daily life.

But it didn’t feel good. It felt… weird. Like I’d left my right arm (or my brain) at home on accident. I couldn’t check email. Couldn’t read the online news. Couldn’t check the forecast. Couldn’t read my e-book. Couldn’t get or send a text. And I couldn’t even check the time because I use a phone for that, too.

Speaking of time, it stood still. What was supposed to be a relaxing hour in the stylist’s chair felt like eternity. I kept mentally retracing my steps, wondering where I’d left the phone. I imagined the text messages that might be pinging away in the stillness of the dark, empty house. I imagined it ringing incessantly. “What if the school nurse tries to call me because one of the kids is sick? Or hurt! What if Tom has an emergency? What if my mom has called so many times that she thinks I’m dead in a ditch somewhere?”

When you absolutely can’t answer your phone, you convince yourself you’re urgently needed by everyone, possibly even the White House.

Then over the roar of the hair dryer, I heard it. My phone! My heart leapt at the sound of that familiar ring tone. I dug through my purse again, certain it was there after all. In my head, I spoke to it. “Is that you, phone? Are you here?”

Then the woman in the chair next to me reached into her handbag, retrieved her ringing phone and crushed my hope. I looked at her screen longingly. “I remember when I was able to send text messages,” I thought, as if it had been two decades instead of two hours since I’d done it myself.

Finally the haircut was over and I paid the stylist as she set up my next appointment, asking if October 30^th would work for me.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “My calendar is on my phone.”

As I drove away, I reminded myself that this phone-free existence used to be normal and we managed to get through entire decades without them, even though it seems impossible now.

When I finally got home and scooped up my digital beloved (which had registered only one missed call that was not from the White House) I changed the ringtone to an old song from the late 70s. Maybe you’ve heard of it? It sounds like this: “Reunited, and it feels so gooooooood.”

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To check out Gwen’s book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

The Rockwood Files: Calendar entries don’t lie

September 10, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

I typed the appointment time into my smartphone calendar app and then frowned down at the glowing screen. I was beginning to see a pattern, and I didn’t like it.

Thursday: Oral surgery to have wisdom teeth removed

Next Tuesday: Mammogram

Third Thursday: Eye exam

Fourth Friday: Annual physical

Next month: Teeth cleaning

Lately it feels like I’m always scheduling another doctor’s appointment. When I factor in regular checkups for our three kids PLUS the appointments with my hair stylist who expertly covers these pesky gray hairs that keep popping up, I’m realizing that a big chunk of my life is spent in appointments.

Sometimes I see someone out in public and instantly recognize the face but can’t think of the name, and then I realize she’s one of the many nurses or receptionists I see when I go to yet another doctor’s appointment.

I hate to admit it but all these calendar entries don’t lie. More and more, it’s taking a significant number of trained professionals to keep this middle-aged body ticking along at top speed.

When did this happen? Back in college, I could get by on a sporadic diet of chili dogs and Cap’n Crunch cereal and only occasionally need a doctor during those rare times when I might develop a sinus infection.

Those days, sadly, are over.

The only thing that makes this situation easier is the fact that I’m not alone. My husband has had more doctor appointments than I can count lately, trying to get his prescription for bifocals just right. Bifocals! Aren’t we too young for those?

And yesterday I had a phone conversation with a dear friend who told me she has finally scheduled a date for surgery to correct her gum recession. I pounced on this news, eager for more information:

“So you’re doing it? My dentist wants me to have that done, too. Who’s going to do your surgery? Do you like him?”

“Yes, I had the consultation and he says I’m a good candidate for the surgery and really need to have it done.”

“Well maybe I’ll wait until after your surgery and if you like how it goes, then I’ll schedule my surgery with the same doctor. I want to hear everything about it, okay?”

“If I can still move my mouth, I’ll give you the details.”

After I hung up, I remembered back to a time when my girlfriends and I used to talk about boyfriends and what we were planning to wear when we went out on a Saturday night. Now we talk about receding gums, and we trade names of gifted oral surgeons. We compare co-pays on insurance plans. We swap tips about vitamin deficiencies.

Middle age brought with it a batch of subjects I never wanted to know this much about, yet here we are, spending more time on WebMD than we do on Facebook.

The good news is that, despite all the doctor appointments, I’m healthy and so is my bi-focal wearing husband. We’re the lucky ones. If we get regular checkups and medical screenings, I pray that we’ll stay that way. And I’m grateful we have good doctors who take excellent care of us when we do find ourselves in their offices.

But every now and then, it would be nice to feel like I did when I was in my twenties, when the only appointment on my agenda was with a chili dog and a late night bowl of Cap’n Crunch.

The Rockwood Files: Instagram versus the Awkward Phase

August 13, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Like many kids, I went through an “awkward stage.” A long one. Some days, I’m not even sure it has ended yet.

It was particularly bad in the fifth and sixth grades, when I decided a colored piece of yarn tied in a loopy bow might make for a good headband. It didn’t. Beyond that, I wore purplish blue glasses on a pale, freckly face. And I was skinny to the point of being gangly.

When I was old enough to start wearing makeup, it was the mid-eighties and we all thought blue eye shadow was a gift from the cosmetic gods. So I layered on tons of it until it looked like I had a blue shimmery dolphin arcing over each eye. Neon socks were “in” and self-tanning products had just hit the market and were turning me and the other pale girls an unfortunate shade of dark orange. Let’s just say the modeling scouts for Seventeen magazine were not knocking down my door.

But that was okay because I wasn’t the first, the last or the only kid to endure an awkward phase. Things got better after a period of trial and error.

What I’m realizing now is that I was one of the lucky ones because I got to struggle through my awkward phase in relative anonymity. Other than a few school pictures and birthday snapshots, the awkward phase went mostly undocumented.

But today’s kids don’t have the luxury of flying under the radar until they start to feel more comfortable in their own skin. And I wonder if, now that we live in a time when everyday moments get captured, uploaded and shared in an endless stream of photos, is there any room left for an awkward phase?

I can’t imagine how tough it must be to get through that self-conscious time of life when you’re surrounded by a sea of unforgiving camera phones. A not-so-flattering photo can be snapped and shared in a matter of minutes. And the person who shares it can post an unkind caption that easily eviscerates an already fragile self-image.

While teenagers have become masters at adding filters to photos, they’re not always so good at filtering the comments they post about their peers, and some of it is downright cruel.

Sometimes girls, in particular, feel like their worth can be measured by the number of positive reactions they get on Instagram. Their self-esteem lives and dies by the “like.”

I recently read an article written by psychologist Dr. Jill Weber for the Huffington Post that talked about the impact social media often has on girls. This line, which points out just how easy it is to play the comparison game, jumped out at me as not only true but scary: “Negatively comparing herself to others on social media sites increases a girl or woman’s sense that she will never be good enough in her real life.”

Yikes.

I’m no psychologist but I am a woman who survived her own awkward stage and has lived long enough to know this one thing for sure: Growing up is hard enough without living your life under a social media microscope.

So far, my own kids have only begun to dip a toe into the social media waters. But I know that in the coming years, they might dive headlong into it, and we, like so many parents, will have to figure out how much is too much. We’ll have to figure out how to let them enjoy the good things about our hyper-connected world without letting them drown in a sea of social media commentary.

The Rockwood Files: Are we exasperating our kids?

July 9, 2015 By: admin

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Whether you’re religious or not, most parents can agree on the absolute truth and wisdom of the verse in the Bible that says, “Honor your father and mother.” It’s such an important verse that it lands smack dab in the middle of the Ten Commandments, right above “Thou shalt not murder.” We parents are big fans of this particular rule.

Any time this verse get read aloud in church, every parent in the room cuts his or her eyes over toward their kids with a satisfied look that says, “See there? God said so.”

But lately I’ve also been thinking about another line from the Bible – one that kids are often thrilled to hear – which says this: “Fathers, do not exasperate your children, so that they will not lose heart.” (I’m pretty sure the “do not exasperate” line applies equally to mothers.)

I’m no parenting expert but I’m beginning to think that the essence of parenting lies in that magical middle ground between those two verses. How do you raise a kid to honor his father and mother without sometimes exasperating him?

With one kid firmly entrenched in the teenage years and another well on the way, I’ve noticed that a kid’s “exasperation threshold” drops considerably as he hits the middle school years. The other day I called one of the kid’s names and heard an audible groan come from the other room – the kind of groan that translates into something like this: “Oh no, not again. What does she want this time?”

That’s when it hit me. Sometimes all it takes to go from a state of peace to the land of exasperation is the mere sound of my voice.

It feels like this shift happened overnight. One minute, you’ve got this sweet baby in your arms who coos and grins when he hears your voice. The next minute? He’s wishing you’d shut up already so he could get back to a far more interesting app on his smartphone. Any mom who has experienced this drastic drop in the level of maternal adoration knows it’s a bitter pill to swallow.

But I get it. I really do. I know how irritating I must be for them at times. Of course they don’t want to be reminded about homework. Or chores. Or piano practice. And they definitely don’t want to hear that tired old speech about how the toilet should be flushed every single time.

I distinctly remember when I was a teenager burdened with a mother who’d suddenly become supremely annoying. I wondered what had happened to her and was convinced it had nothing to do with me and the endless waves of moody hormones I was surfing. I look back on those days and feel sorry for my mom because I know now what she knew then: Trying not to exasperate a teenager can be, well, downright exasperating.

But if my mission as a parent is to raise kind, respectful, toilet-flushing citizens, there are bound to be times when those goals are at odds with what the kids would rather do. So they’ll get annoyed and they’ll mess up, just like most of us did at that age.

Tom and I are beginning to make peace with the knowledge that there’ll be times in the next few years when the kids won’t find us cool or funny or maybe even likeable. And that’s okay, as long as they treat us honorably even on those days we’re annoying.

And I hope that, even when Tom and I are supremely annoyed by the kids’ annoyance, we’ll find a way to correct and guide them without ever making them “lose heart.” More than anything, I pray that they’ll never doubt just how much we love their hearts.