Articles by Tolly
 
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No does not mean Maybe, Possibly, In a Minute, or even Yes.  No means No.

Tolly P. Salz

The novel’s been sitting on my bedside table for almost a month now, recommended from a list of suggested summer readings.   After some months of reading things that were a bit heavy, interspersed with some silly mysteries, I longed to sneak in one of my guilty pleasures, young adult fiction.  Laurie Halse Anderson’s novel Speak fit the bill.

So last night, I picked the novel up off of the bedside table.  For the hour that followed, I did nothing else but read—and remember. 

Anderson’s novel introduces us to Melinda, a young woman who narrates her story of survival in a school of bullies, bitches, and bff’s who want nothing to do with her.  From the outset, we catch a glimmer of her angst as she states, “It is my first morning of high school.  I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.” Yet at this point, there is no way for us to know the back story, or a pivotal moment for Melinda during the summer prior to her freshman year. 

As Melinda narrates her everyday encounters with those who detest her, we discover only half of the story.  Later, she reveals all—to us as readers, as confidants, the truth of what really happened that August evening.  It’s a truth that desperately needs to be spoken, and by the end of the novel, Melinda finds the courage to speak, and not just with words:  she speaks with her silence, with her own artwork, and eventually, with her own actions.

I’m surprised that as parents, we don’t have more conversations with each other about the long-term effects of underage drinking, of binge drinking, of casual sex, of unwanted and untoward sexual advances, and of bullying.  I’m even more surprised that so many parents refuse to have this conversation with their own children.  If we don’t talk with them, then who will?  Their peers?  The media?  The role models of Hollywood?

Don’t get me wrong:  I’m not a total prude.  I am simply a woman who demands more for the children of this and future generations.  And while Speak is a must-read for all parents who are raising young women, I would argue that it’s also a must-read for all parents who are raising young men. 

Speak shows us what we need to tell our daughters—as well as our sons—about kindness, friendship, loyalty, decency.  About drinking and arrogance and sex.  About how no means just that—No.  Not maybe, or possibly, or even yes.  Speak shows us that true strength is in doing what is right, even—and especially—when it’s hard.

This is a novel I want my sons to read.  In this world that at times reeks of excuses such as “boys will be boys,” I want my sons to understand what true manhood is as well as what it looks like.  Teenage boys who act like jerks are just that, jerks, and we shouldn’t applaud them for their lack of character or human decency or excuse their actions that take no one but themselves into consideration.  Yet teenage boys who reach out to befriend and to be kind—even if these young men aren’t considered the “most popular”—are, in fact, the very ones we need to be honoring instead. 

I read Melinda’s story—and I remembered my own.  When my sons are a little older, I will share it with them.  I will admit that I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong person.  I will admit that I did not know how to speak—or how to speak in order to be heard.  And I will admit that while I did not possess Melinda’s strength and courage until years later, I have spent the rest of my years trying to use both to guide my actions. 

And perhaps, then, my sons will understand why I have tried so hard over these years to instill this strength and this courage in them, as well.  It’s simple:  being men of character is just too important for us not to speak about.

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 Tolly P. Salz

Every summer, I think back fondly to my childhood—the weekly trips to the public library, or swimming and tennis lessons; the occasional jaunt to the local pool and the Highland Park Pharmacy for a grilled cheese sandwich; a hot car ride to my brothers' baseball games on even hotter baseball fields in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of June. Thirty plus years later, I'm still carrying on the same summer traditions, this time with children of my own.

I learned early on never to say, "I'm bored," for uttering these two words would guarantee some closet or attic that was sure to need cleaning and organizing. Perhaps that's why, after all these years, I've never found myself bored. At the same time, however, I also find myself—still several years later—with closets and attics that simply cannot wait for another summer to be organized.

I wonder: is it possible for someone around the age of, say, 41, to learn how to get organized? And not just during one weekend of summer boredom, but rather, on each day of her busy life?

How is it that I have advanced degrees but still have not managed the simply task of filing? I can bake (firetruck and Batman cakes are my latest specialties), I can sew (yes, I managed to make 26 superhero capes!!), and I can wash the heck out of the dishes; but put me in a room with a pile of papers, and I am completely incompetent. It's this inability to know even where to begin that makes me stack the papers up in nice little piles, put them in a box or on a shelf, shut the door, and walk away.

But here's the thing: the closets are now full. And despite my protestations to the contrary, my husband's on to me. While over the years I have managed to purge a ton, I've also managed to accrue quite a collection as well.

I remember moving several years ago. My husband (who was my fiancé at the time) questioned how a person could fit so much in one small apartment, which he later lovingly referred to as the "clown car" for its abundance of hidden spaces that stored what seemed to outfit a family of fourteen. It was these messes that were, in fact, one of the many reasons we almost didn't get married in the first place. I'm certain that these messes are one of the many reasons that on some days he dreams of divorce.

His mother was different. In fact, I both envy and long for her sense of order and cleanliness. She was a woman who would design a home and have built special places for her paperwork, her children's artwork, and the mail. She also knew how to part with the extras—and even though we don't have tons of photos or memorabilia from my husband's childhood, we don't miss what we never knew existed in the first place.

But my problem is that I do know what exists, and these photos and memorabilia from my own children's childhoods are things I would be certain to miss if I were to part with them. While I cannot bear to toss any of the original artwork, perhaps I can toss the assortment of TAKS prep worksheets? Why am I still holding on to these in the first place? Like my eighth grader will really want to go back and look at his Interactive Learning worksheet lesson 19-3, entitled "Telling and Writing Time to the Half Hour" (measuring TEKS 1.8B, Read time to the hour and half hour using analog and digital clocks). I think it's pretty safe to say that he can tell time at this point in his life.

So why can't I throw this worksheet away? And the coupons that expired in 2007? Or the catalog that I will never order from? Or the Real Simple magazines that are supposed to help clear—and not contribute to—my clutter? Houston, we have a problem. I'm not bored, but I sure could use a little help here.

Over the years I've been to The Container Store, to The Home Depot, to Lowes, to Target; I've hired organizational specialists and have even enlisted the services of a Fung Shui master. I've read countless books and articles and websites. Yet I'm still a piler, not a filer. Waiting until the dog days of summer to get organized isn't going to cut it for much longer; we will run out of room here before we know it, and in all honesty, I'm sick of looking at these mini-messes placed strategically throughout the house.

And with these degrees, you might think that I'd know better by now. The problem isn't the house or the mismatched storage spaces or the lack of an efficient filing system. The problem is me.

I want to know what it is I'm holding on to. What it is I'm so afraid to let go of. Surely, these piles of paperwork aren't bringing me—or anyone else, for that matter—more happiness. They can't exactly go with me to the neighborhood pool, nor do they express interest in eating a famed grilled cheese from the Pharmacy. They certainly don't snuggle up next to me at night after I've read them a bedtime story.

So I think it's time for a new summer tradition, one that involves large recycling bins, some big trash bags, and a few glasses of wine. It's time to say goodbye to the old and embrace the new.

I can hear my husband laughing in the background: he's heard this pronouncement before. But this time, I mean business. Just this morning my doctor informed me that I'm entering the second half of my life (sadly, this was better news than that of the facialist, who told me that the only hope for my face was Botox. Gee, thanks!). So maybe it's finally time to grow up and get with the program because at this point, I've learned something: when we finally let go of something we've been holding onto for too long, we open ourselves up to beautiful things that exist in this world.

And it's these beautiful things—these beautiful, living, breathing beings who dwell in this house with me—that deserve my time, love, and attention. Not the worksheets, not the coupons, not the catalogues, not the clutter. Just four wonderful boys who have many more summers of memory making ahead of them. And in this second half of my life, Clutter and Paper, be damned. I'm choosing to join in the fun instead.

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Tolly P. Salz

Literature provides worlds of wonder and escape:  slipping into a microcosmic existence for a while, we are able to wonder who we are, to wonder of what we can become.  Such an escape can bring us face to face with those we admire as well as with those we want to avoid, and, with the turning of a page, we are relieved to find respite of sorts from antagonistic villains and boogeymen.  By our very nature, we find ourselves rooting for the archetypal hero, recognizing him even in the most untraditional, unexpected places.

We recognize him in Maycomb County, Alabama as a single father raising his children to be men and women of character and purpose.  As an attorney possessing the courage and integrity to champion justice at any cost, he teaches his children what it is to climb inside the skin of another human being and walk around in it.  By his example, he teaches them what it is to do the right thing regardless of what those in the community might say otherwise.  Even when it hurts, Atticus Finch teaches the lessons so that his children will know “right” from “wrong.”  He serves as not only their father, but also their mentor, their guide, their advocate. 

We also recognize the father figure floating down the Mississippi River with a young boy in the 1850’s.  While not related by blood, the runaway slave and young renegade share more love than the young boy has  previously known from his own father, an abusive drunk more interested in money than in the joys and pains of raising his own child.  Night after night, day after day, it is Jim—and not Pap Finn—who provides the guidance and nurturing that all children need.  Arguably, it is because of Jim’s presence in his life that Huck Finn begins to understand better the conflict between his heart’s conviction and society’s values, and as a result, he makes the difficult (yet obvious) choice to do right and sets the course for freedom for all.

It’s fathers like these who guide our paths, who prepare our futures.  Parenting isn’t easy, but when we stop to ask what kind of fathers we want our own children to become, the answer can be found in these texts, and, if we are lucky enough, in our own lives as well.

I was that lucky, and so are my children, to have a father and grandfathers who love them beyond belief.  Today, may each child stop not only to say thank you to all fathers—fictitious or not—who have helped shape lives, but also to recognize the character of greatness that has allowed for such growth to take root.  For these are the seeds we should be planting for future generations of fathers.

Not just Maycomb County and the small towns lining the banks of the Mississippi River need a good father figure; so, too, do we.  Look around.  They are here, on our playgrounds, in our athletic arenas, and inside our homes.  These fathers shape our character so that one day, with conviction, we can be the authors of our own beautiful story.

Happy Father’s Day to all who play a special role in the life of a child.

BubbleLife Staff

By Tolly P. Salz

Some of you might know that I’m somewhat of a sports fanatic.  In my youth, I tried to keep up with the abundance of boys and tomboys on the block, which produced in me a kind of scrappy survivalist striving to maintain a sense of pride and dignity. I soon found that while I’m not the best player out there, I am an unbelievable spectator.  I consider myself one heck of an armchair quarterback and a champion for the underdog.  The only reason I even own a television and subscribe to cable is so that I can watch all the sports without having to travel.  But put one of my kids on the pitcher’s mound or free throw line, and I’m on the verge of throwing up every single time. 

It’s a curious thing, this nausea that arises when someone you love is working through blood, sweat, and tears to bring his best game.  And I know enough to admit this one fact:  I love my teams with this same kind of intensity.

This last weekend brought an unexpected trifecta of sorts:  The Horns beat Arizona State in game three, which secured a trip to Omaha (their 34th); the Mavs put out the Heat in game six, which secured an amazing victory for the city of Dallas—an NBA championship (the franchise’s 1st); and my younger brother won the famed Member-Member Tournament at the UT Golf Club in Austin (for the 2nd time), a pretty big win for someone who is “almost a man” nearing the age of 40.  Add in the fact that my oldest son hit an over-the-fence home run, and I’ve got more than a trifecta on my hands.

But there’s something else about these victories that make them so sweet:  they were earned not by one single hot dog or show boat, but rather, from a team effort.  With blood, sweat, and tears—and years of hard work—each participant brought his best game, worked with others, and emerged victorious. 

Ok, I’ll admit that I might not be writing this article if we were all a bunch of losers this weekend.  But maybe I would, because all of this winning has gotten me to think about another kind of victory here—and it’s a win that has the potential to beget far greater victories in the game of life.  It’s the fact that these teams who won did so together, with dedication, determination, character, and class.  Each player put aside his narcissism and kept his ego in check, focusing on bringing his best game to his teammates.

My husband is one of those guys who loves to coach, and his motto for all of his teams is this:  Your job on a team is to make yourself and your teammates better.  Winning isn’t everything, but if each player is doing his best to better his own game as well as the game of his teammates, then winning will come, in time—as well as in ways that span far beyond the “Hello, win column!” that results from a single game.

And that’s what I loved about watching the Mavs play, the beautiful yin and yang of talent that created an unstoppable synergetic force throughout the series and was most beautifully demonstrated last Sunday night.  And what I loved even more was the class that the Mavericks—and their owner—all displayed after the win.  When Jason Kidd was interviewed, he praised Dirk and his other teammates; when Dirk Nowitski was interviewed, he talked about the other players, coaches, and owner.  Each player interviewed lifted the entire team up; heck, even Mark Cuban had Don Carter share the spotlight—and the glory—of the entire organization.  Now if that’s not putting an ego in check, I don’t know what is.

I think that’s why I loved the movie Cars so much.  Show-boat Lightning McQueen finally realized that being a one-man-show didn’t amount to much.  Only when he relied on the help and support of his friends and teammates could he win—and win he did, by showing the most character of anyone with his final act of selflessness.  At the end of the day, winning is nice, but it only lasts for so long.  True character, however, will last you a lifetime.  It might not be able to buy the biggest home or coolest car, but it can ensure a reputation that cannot be tarnished no matter the external elements.

Sports provides the perfect arena for our children to learn how to be young men and women of character—if we allow for such lessons to be learned.  If we’re so focused on the win or on our own child’s individual greatness (even in little league!), we lose out on an incredible aspect of raising good children in even better communities.

It’s players like Kevin Durant of Oklahoma City who decide, along with his coach, that his team would be more successful if he didn’t score as many points per game.  It takes true sportsmanship for that kind of player to put “team” before “me.”  It’s what the Texas Rangers did when they clenched the ALCS (which secured the Rangers their 1st World Series appearance in the franchise’s 50-year history) and waited for teammate Josh Hamilton to come to the locker room before starting the celebration—with Ginger Ale, not champagne, out of respect for his sobriety.  These are the victories of true winners not just on the field or on the court, but also—and especially—in the game of life.

And these are the victories we need to take more time to celebrate with our children—as well as encourage when they are playing on the field with their own teams.   And at the parade tomorrow, this is the victory I want my kids to see—the combination of blood, sweat, tears, and selflessness that brings about character.   And that this character is what the real winners of the game possess.

For some incredible stories of selflessness in the world of sports, here are some that are worth a look:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jocw-oD2pgo&feature=related
Sara Tucholosky’s (Oregon Softball) home run

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8SNx6W3X6U&feature=related
Tom Rinaldi tells of a heartwarming act of sportsmanship in one high school basketball game

http://basketballinsights.blogspot.com/2011/05/5-lessons-kevin-durant-teaches-players.html
What Kevin Durant can teach players

 http://www.cbssports.com/video/player/play/nba/UZqAf1NuQX9Qo2QPnxPIsQWowYxTLJDw
Jason Kidd’s post-game interview

Please share your own stories and links as well.

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By Tolly P. Salz

To all parents out there who have ever tried their best, I just want to say that you are not alone. There are more of us than we'd like to admit—parents who, at the end of the day, have gone above and beyond to ensure as much "normalcy" as possible, even if it means holding one's tongue while enforcing rules and reinforcing positive behavior.

Today, I had to hold my tongue.

Trying to follow through with my "parenting Brad McCoy-style" (Click for Brad McCoy Article), I was being intentional about my son's sucking it up and following through with a previous commitment. He complained of a sore throat; I thought he was trying to weasel his way out.

It wasn't a pretty discussion.

Yet that didn't mean that a bystander—another mother—could sit there and frown disapprovingly at me and my child.

Yes, lady, I get it that I'm not perfect. I get it that you think my child is not perfect either, that he appears to be more like Eddie Haskell than Wally Cleaver. I get it that I'm not spouting off memorized mantras of "Love and Logic" at him. And I get it that it might not appear that I'm using my inside voice, despite the fact that we are outside. But here's what you don't get: this is what tough love looks like. And while there's nothing tougher than parenting—and while there's nothing more worth loving than a child—if you've never tried parenting and loving a child with special needs, please don't even bother to begin judging me.

I remember the first time I received such a glare. We were on a family vacation when my son, who was two at the time, had a full-out meltdown. As nothing could console him, I picked him up, tossed him on my shoulder, and took him—screaming and kicking and flailing about—back to the hotel room. A mother with a newborn looked shamefully at us; surely, her son seemed perfect in comparison to mine.

This wasn't the first time he was banished to his room, and I'm certain it won't be the last. But just because he has special needs doesn't mean he gets a special pass when it comes to behavior and following the rules—it just means we both have to work harder. And that's part of what makes it so tough: most days, it feels like we move two leaps forward, and then fall five steps back.

So when we're both judged unfairly for doing our best, it hurts. It's moments like these—when people stare, glare, and judge—that I just want to say, Stop.

I want to ask these other mothers if they have ever peered into the depths of their son's heart to behold the beauty, the kindness, the intense love that resides within. I want to ask these mothers if they have ever listened in wonder for hours to the incredible world that his brain can spin so effortlessly. I want to ask these mothers if they have ever had to spend more than their monthly salary on various therapies just in hopes that something might ease the pain that their child feels. I want to ask these mothers if they know how beautiful, and how painful, loving a child can be.

You see, when you judge my child based upon some preconception of how children should always behave, you fail to see who he really is—a child with a huge heart; an amazing mind; and a tender, tenacious spirit. I refuse to define him based upon his disability; rather, I choose to love him enough to set boundaries so that one day, he might flourish—with his whole self—no matter how tired we both become. For all this loving is hard work.

But that's not going to stop either one of us. I will hold my tongue today, but I cannot promise that I will be as silent tomorrow. We're not the Cleavers, but we're not the Haskells either. We're just like any other family trying to do its best, loving toughly, logically, intentionally, and intensely. And I know nothing as beautiful that exists in this world.

For the love of a child, the mind of a child, and the spirit of a child all deserve to dance with happy feet. And even if we don't always hear or understand the music that drives our children's inner worlds, that doesn't mean we withhold the love and discipline that are essential for their growth.

And that also doesn't mean that we judge those who choose to provide both—no matter how tired they appear to be. For it takes work to love this hard. And it's work that every child, that every parent, deserves, no matter what anybody else has to say.

I want to tell this mother that actually, we're doing okay today. I don't judge her because she might not have experience raising a child on the spectrum, but I might feel sad for her, thinking that just possibly she might miss out on some of the most beautiful moments that life brings to us. I'll bet she's never waited for her son to write his letters and words or to express his love, only to one day receive his original poem that reads: "I love you the silverest, the silver of the moon at night and the silver of the sound of bells."

I know this child was meant for me, for I understand this silver love. It doesn't wear pearls or high heels and greet you at the door at five o'clock with supper waiting on the table, June Cleaver-style. This silver love is messier: it's soft and hard simultaneously, and in turn, it can both hurt and heal. Yet when you take the time to shine it, oh, how it sparkles.

It's the kind of hard love that lasts a lifetime—for those of us who are lucky enough to experience it.

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by Tolly P. Salz

Here’s the deal:  It’s a known fact that I have about as much in common with Martha Stewart as my stock portfolio does with Warren Buffett’s.  Yet that doesn’t seem to stop me from thinking that I have the time, talent, and energy to make homemade superhero capes for my youngest son’s fourth birthday party.

Sure it sounds like a great idea, but then again, so does owning 200 million shares of Coca-Cola (which accounts for 21.60% of Buffett’s portfolio, for those who were wondering).  How hard can it be to get some material, sew it together, and voila, instant super cape!  Surely it’s as easy as saving a couple of dollars, investing in a company, and, voila, gaining an instant profit, right?

Can you hear me laughing?  I haven’t even made it to the store yet.  Nor have I saved enough money to make investing in one of the Fortune 500 companies truly worth my time.  Yet I do have big plans for both the capes as well as the stock portfolio. . . .

To be honest, my personality is a bit more bullish when it comes to this sleeping bear market, and I refuse to let something as silly as a little sewing come between me and my dreams of magical capes.  This is the last child I will ever have to turn four; he’s the youngest of three boys, and even though I did send out an evite rather than printed invitations, I will make it up to him with the ultimate in party favors.  Yes, I could order cute little super hero capes (complete with masks!) online for $6 a piece, which is probably cheaper than buying material and making them myself, but that’s beside the point.  Surely, my investment of time, money, and energy will prove to be profitable?

Last summer, I made an incredible fire truck cake.  Well, kind of incredible.  Truth be told, it was kind of ugly, but kind of cute in its own homely homemade way.  Complete with red icing, hoses, wheels, and sirens, it blared, “I LOVE MY SON ENOUGH TO BAKE THIS CAKE, DAMMIT, EVEN THOUGH IT’S CAVING IN ON ITSELF IN THE MIDDLE!”  And after hours of trying to get red icing out of every baking dish and utensil (and random smears on the cabinets and baseboards that I found weeks later), the smile on my son’s face was worth it.  In fact, he still talks about that cake to this day.  Yes, with fondant and an expert, it would have been a true beauty to behold.  But mine was made with love.

Just as the capes will be.  As soon as I make it to the fabric store, as soon as I bust out my sewing machine, and as soon as I clear a space in this mess to work.  It will be an investment—one that might not yield any profitable return other than a 4 year old’s wonder, but if you ask me, I think that’s what I should be investing in in the first place. 

That and a few of his little kisses, even though today he’s not so sure that Batman gives those out to just anyone.  Stay tuned.  I’ll let you all know how it turns out:  same bat time, same bat place, next week.