Wednesday, June 20th from 9:30 – 12:00 – Jennifer will work with staff at Camp Kirk during their all-important pre-camp training.

Then, on Tuesday, May 29th from 7:00 p.m. – 8:30 p.m., Jennifer will help prepare St. Alphonsus Catholic School families for a peaceful summer!

Choose yes over no. Your children will thank you.

A few Saturdays ago, my eight year-old daughter—let’s call her Dervish because she whirls—came huffing up to me as I sat with my morning coffee catching up on emails and paperwork that had risen on my desk like an angry blemish.

I tore myself away from the screen to look at her.  Dervish was flushed with excitement.

What do you think happened next? Find out.

On May 10, Jennifer shares her model with a group of parents from Paul Penna Downtown Jewish Day School at an event called A Night of Shared Voices.

David Dobbs has compiled the available scientific answers to that question masterfully in “Teenage Brains” for the May issue of National Geographic. Teenage brains, he says, are effectively bringing a new operating system online.The brain doesn’t grow very much from age 12 to 25, Mr. Dobbs writes, but “as we move through adolescence, the brain undergoes extensive remodeling, resembling a network and wiring upgrade.”

Excerpt from New York Times

During her first overnight trip in Grade 7, Jennifer Kolari’s daughter suddenly became “absolutely terrified.”

The dorm room, her sleeping quarters at Wilfred Laurier University in Waterloo, felt like a prison cell. Her routines and comfort zones had vanished. Feeling terribly homesick, she called her parents and begged to leave early.

Kolari listened to her daughter on the phone. She did not dismiss her fears, and instead talked her through the situation.

“I think probably the most important thing to appeal to parents is that your kids have to have some of these experiences, even adverse ones,” says Kolari. “That’s a tremendous lesson. But they are not going to learn that lesson if you never let go of their hand.”

“That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Little Guy, gazing at the face of William Lyon Mackenzie King. “I need it.”

“Why?” I asked my son, incredulously.

“So, I can look at it every day.”

What is art, really? If something catches your eye and makes you feel, if you can’t stop staring or conversely if you can’t look too long, it’s probably art – or a car accident. On the other hand, if your two year-old can produce the same abstract as that hundred thousand dollar painting on the gallery wall or if the equally costly canvas with the perfectly spaced dots is more reminiscent of wrapping paper than Picasso, well, maybe it isn’t art — to you. There are many who would disagree, most notably the guy who painted the dots; to those people, I say, write your own essay.

I often notice art in nature. Cloud formations, ocean sunsets, and bare-limbed trees sometimes make me feel inclined to stop, fall prone and thank the universe for its bountiful beauty. When I was nine, however, my mother and grandma would pontificate on the beauty of cardinals, teacups and lilacs. I’d listen and yawn. To me, everything simply looked how it ought to. If someone pointed out the craftsmanship of a piece of furniture or the flowing lines of a modern building, more yawning ensued. But, Little Guy, at the same age, is different. He sees art everywhere and recently taught me that it even exists in a fifty dollar bill.

I have always viewed currency as colourful trading stamps I can exchange for things I want or need. I don’t feel special affinity for particular bills or coins. I admit I stashed a two dollar bill in the back of my “everything drawer” because it’s a relic from another century. And, as a bookmark, I keep an American dollar bill that I found floating in the Gulf of Mexico, more “valuable” than any sand dollar I’ve ever discovered. But, aside from those keepsakes, cash is cash.

My son is more aesthetically mature than I was at his age. He doesn’t use words such as, “transporting” or “incandescent” to describe the beauty he sees, but “awesome” or “cool” are high praise. Little Guy also loves paper money. He will jump at any opportunity to trade loonies and toonies for the more desirable five, ten and twenty dollar bills and he believes that entering into any such trade is “a good deal”. It’s not about the money, so to speak, it’s about the awesomeness factor.

Recently, I withdrew two hundred dollars to pay a contractor for some work he had done in our house. The bank machine I used was the kind that only spits out fifties and tens. After school, Little Guy passed by the table in our entrance-way upon which I had left the money and screeched. “Oh. My. God!”

Like any vigilant mom, I came running, worried that he was hurt or that our house had been invaded by giant centipedes. Much to my relief, all I beheld was my son, bent over the fifty dollar bills on the table. “Mom, have you seen these?”

“Of course, I’ve seen them. I put them there.”

“Whose are they?”

“I’m giving them to Plumber Pete.”

Little Guy looked up at me and folded his arms. “You can’t.”

“Why?” I said.

“Because Plumber Pete will just spend them on supplies or something. I need one of these for myself.”

“Don’t we all?” I laughed.

“No. I mean, I need one, Mom. I can pay for it.”

“Honey,” I knelt down to face him. “It’s just money.”

Little Guy shook his head. “It should be in a picture frame, Mom.”

I told my son that if he felt that strongly, the next time I visited the bank I would procure a new fifty dollar bill for him as long as he traded me for it with his own money.

“Thanks. How much will it cost?”

I thought Little Guy might have needed a cheese stick or a granola bar. Only a hunger crash could account for his sudden lack of mathematical acumen. On closer questioning, I discovered that my son thought this new fifty might cost extra because it was ultra-cool with its hologram-like transparent section. When I assured him that it would only cost him the same amount in old bills, he was happily astonished.

The following day, I visited my local bank branch and asked the teller if she had two of the new fifties. “One’s for my son,” I explained, quite unnecessarily. “He thinks they’re cool.”

“They are pretty cool,” she agreed, placing two crisp ones in front of me.

Needless to say, Little Guy was over the moon and quickly produced a couple of scrunched up twenties and five toonies in exchange for his prize. Alone in the kitchen, I took out the other new fifty and peered at it closely with my reading glasses. I had read that this new bill was issued to honour the 50th anniversary of the Canadian Coast Guards and the back featured a picture of the Amundsen, a famous ship. Nice, but the real “piece de resistance” was the plastic polymer rendering of our tenth prime minister and one of the parliament buildings shimmering out of the right side of the bill. Apparently, this new technology is a deterrent to counterfeiting, but I didn’t care about that. The design was innovative, the paper surprising to touch and see. This was one beautiful bill and instantly, I understood Little Guy’s infatuation.

That evening, when my husband came home, he noticed the fifty sitting beside my computer and picked it up. “Mind if I borrow this?” he asked. “I need to run to the tailor and he only takes cash.”

I snatched the money out of his fingers. “Sorry, you’ll have to go to a machine,” I said. “I’m keeping this baby for myself. It’s art.”

Jennifer addresses the issue of Polarizing Parents for The Toronto Parents of Multiple Births Association on May 17, 2012 from 7:00 p.m. 8:00 p.m.  Save the date!

Jennifer shared her Connected Parenting model with Havergal College on Wednesday, April 23  from  7:00 – 8:30 p.m.

Learn what you can do to have a positive influence on your child’s brain development. Watch Jennifer’s TVO Parent interview.

Jennifer is sharing her Connected Parenting model with St. Stephen Catholic Secondary School in Bowmanville  on Thursday, April 19 from 7:00 – 8:30 p.m.

Hermon Public School is looking forward to hearing Jennifer speak on Tuesday, April 17  from 6:30 – 8:00 p.m.

If you’re expecting a blog about a Viagra overdose, sorry to disappoint. But, if you’re the parent of a teen, you know that the something burning is a lie. “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” is a rhyme mainly chanted by small kids on the playground, but the truth is, pardon the pun, teenagers lie most of all.

The happy news is that increased lying is actually indicative of their brain development and will probably abate in time. The guarded news is that when the lying becomes incessant, and the teen isn’t called out, it can worsen and ease the door open to bigger and more dangerous behaviours like stealing and abject plagiarism.

“I smell something sweet. Did you have an unscheduled snack?”

“Okay, I had a few gummy bears.”

“But, you smell like chocolate.”

“Fine, I had a chocolate bar, all right? I’m going straight to hell!”

This snippet was part of a conversation I had with my fifteen year-old son, Scowl, that had me shaking my head and laughing at the same time. Not only did he lie about eating candy, he lied about the candy he ate. In his warped brain, there is a hierarchy of unacceptable between-meal snacks and apparently, eating chocolate is a much more brazen act than chowing down on a handful of gummy bears. A few years ago, I might have yelled at him for fibbing, for breaking the sacred trust between us that began with the shared placenta. I have learned, however, that lying is learning and also so prevalent that if I screamed at him every time he did it, I would have permanent laryngitis.

In my experience, teenagers predominantly lie to avoid unpleasant consequences. “Yes, Mom, I ate some bad-for-my-skin-and-teeth-and-internal-organs food. Please, bring on the lecture.”

No kid wants to be badgered or punished, so they lie; it’s easier on everyone’s blood pressure. Teenagers also lie because they don’t want to disappoint us. “No, Mom, my teacher still hasn’t handed back our chemistry test.”

“But, you wrote it two months ago.”

“I know, I know. He’s such a slow marker – it’s ridiculous, isn’t it?”

The teen avoids mentioning that he actually bombed on the aforementioned test. He thinks he can bring his mark back up on subsequent work and doesn’t want you to worry that he may never get a job because he hasn’t memorized the periodic table. Again, that filial concern for blood pressure is really very endearing, isn’t it? What you don’t know can’t hurt you – and more importantly, it can’t hurt your teen.

For my son, the long view is something that may happen in an hour. The concept that lying won’t actually change the truth of what really happened nor stop that truth from eventually emerging is not something he or most adolescents can easily grasp. So, it’s my job to help Scowl consider the potential results of any lying in which he engages, and I have learned that it’s best to keep it impersonal.

By this, I mean that I try not to take my son’s lying as a personal affront caused by disrespect. I know that he loves me and even grudgingly thinks I’m smart. The lying is about him, about his coping mechanisms. He isn’t trying to put one over on me so much as he’s trying to avoid being hectored. I get it, however, I feel that it is incumbent upon me to let Scowl know that I am aware of his lies and that escalating such behaviour will lead to a breach of trust that will have adverse consequences for his life.

“The more you lie about little things, the less I will be able to trust you about big ones.”

“Yeah, Mom. Okay. ‘What-evs.’”

“No, not ‘what-evs.’ If I can’t trust you to tell me the truth about your assignment due-dates, how am I going to trust you to drive my car some day far, far, far in the extremely distant future?”

Scowl’s ears suddenly perk up like he’s channeling his inner Dr. Spock. “Mom, my ability to drive a car has nothing to do with lying about putting off assignments.”

“It doesn’t matter. Trust begets trust and vice-versa. You have to prove you’re responsible and telling lies isn’t responsible. No trust. No car.”

“So, you’re giving me an ultimatum?”

“I’m giving you a chance to show me that you have the maturity to be honest and deal with the consequences. Your choice.”

On a daily basis, I have found that the best way to combat telling lies is to offer positive feedback for telling the truth. “Mom, the other day I carved my name in the leg of the dining room table. I don’t know what I was thinking; I wasn’t thinking. I’ll get some of that wood oil stuff and try to make it look better, or I’ll buy you a new table.”

Mmm-hmm. Instead of screaming or threatening to carve my name in his leg, I praise him for coming forward and being honest; then, I threaten to carve my name in his leg if he ever does it again.

As with all issues teenage, parents must carefully choose their moments for the big life lessons, let kids know that we understand they are having some difficulties becoming responsible adults who come clean, and help teach them by reinforcing their honesty when it emerges. Remember, everyone has lied. Anyone who says she hasn’t is, well, a liar.

Fifteen year-old Scowl agreed to watch The Academy Awards, this past Sunday, not because he has a particular fascination with celebrity fashion or because he put money down on the wins; my son was simply in it for the sociability.

And the pleading of a case. As cynically critical as adults can be about the plethora of navel- gazing award shows blanketing prime-time in Winter, our opinions are like saccharine compliments compared to the cinematic parsing of a teenage boy.

“Who’s that old dude, Mom?” Scowl asked. “What’s he been in?”

“Did you ever watch ‘The Sound of Music’?”

“Only the parts you made me see,” said Scowl.

“Well, he played the father. He’s an excellent actor – and he’s Canadian, too,” I said, pulling out my flag.

“Really?” said Scowl. “Then why is he speaking with a British accent?”

I was silenced. And speaking of which . . .

“If that movie, “The Artist” wins, I swear I am never watching this show again.”

Not completely in disagreement, I asked Scowl why. “Because why would anybody make a silent movie when they can make it with sound?” asked my son. “The only reason they made silent movies back in your day is because sound wasn’t available! It’s ridiculous. “And, what’s with the black and white? Seriously, we’ve had colour for over fifty years. Who wants to watch newsprint, Mom? It’s old-fashioned.”

That’s the point, I want to tell him, but part of me wonders. Is “The Artist” a complete original depiction of a wonderful era in film-making or a pretentious re-invention of false authenticity? Judging by the awards it garnered, the “powers that be” seem to believe it’s the former, but who are those people? Is anybody truly qualified to sway personal opinion?

As the evening waxed on, Scowl persisted with his commentary. I probably would have succumbed to sleep around time the “Best Foreign Film” award was announced if my son hadn’t deviously postulated that Iran only won because the Americans covet their oil and are prepared to suck up in any way possible. He also kept questioning why so many film editors and producers thanked their children. “What did they do for the movie?” he asked. “Puke all over Daddy’s shirt before he left for work?”

My son is too young to fully comprehend that kids are inspirational as their very existence makes us happy, makes us want to be better, stronger, and in my case, funnier – because Scowl cracks me up seventeen times every day.

Of Meryl Streep’s win for Best Actress, Scowl was glad and almost philosophical. “Good that she won, Mom. I know it’s been a long time for her and maybe now that she earned this award for playing a dull, old British woman with no sense of humour, she’ll relax and go back to making movies that matter like ‘The Devil Wears Prada’.”

‘That’s all,’ he added in his best Miranda Priestly impersonation.

I smirked.

When “The Artist” won Best Picture of the Year, Scowl threw up his hands in disgust and stomped off to bed with the righteous indignation only a fifteen year old occasional movie-goer can affect. “I am done,” he announced. “Never again,” he reiterated. “Mom, really. ‘The Fast and the Furious 5’ wasn’t even nominated and this boring, silent, colourless thing wins? I just wasted three hours of my life!”

And I had just enjoyed three of the most entertaining of mine – no thanks to the telecast.

I am certain that Scowl, with his lopsided grin that accompanies each opinion, is well aware that “The Artist” is probably more accomplished than a formulaic action film. I am also willing to wager that my kid will never watch “The Artist” unless it’s compulsory in Grade Twelve Cinematic Studies. If truth is in action, my teenage son lives life like he’s permanently under oath.

Word to his mother.

The “punishment” belongs to Little Guy, my nine-year old son, and the “pleasure” is all mine. Recently, my son inadvertently reminded me how important it is to be present in my children’s lives, how much there is to gain from 100% attendance.

My fifteen year-old son, Scowl, and I are both battling our hormones. He’s a teenager and I’m, well, not a teenager. Sometimes, I’m afraid we model less than exemplary behaviour in front of Little Guy and lately, I have noticed that he is becoming mouthier. Since my youngest son does not push my buttons the way my older doppelganger- child does, I have mostly allowed him to get away with unsuitable comments and tone. But, now that Little Guy is growing older, I realize I need to nip the freedom mouth in the bud and teach him to respect parameters.

I have never been particularly strict with Little Guy, not just because he is the youngest but because I worked so hard to have him and have always viewed him as a gift. Maybe, I have spoiled him with leeway, but I now realize that I am actually doing my son a disservice. It is my responsibility to teach him how far is too far.

It was in the spirit of education that I confiscated Little Guy’s 3DS, last week. Probably, he was tired or in need of food to restore balance, but his behaviour was disrespectful, sarcasm and mimicry mixing into a hot and sour soup that required aggressive cooling. I knew that taking away his electronic fun was not one of the “natural consequences” that child therapists tout. I also knew that I couldn’t put a muzzle on him – social services would have been all over me – and the action I chose seemed like a good way to help him stop and think instead of becoming absorbed in the wonderful worlds of dragons or moustachioed race car brothers.

Little Guy took it like a “little man”. He listened, he understood and his behaviour immediately changed once I made him aware of how it affected me. Still, I felt compelled to maintain the consequence.

Usually, when we’re in the car together, Little Guy plays his games. This day, on the way to school, we instead listened to music and had a rollicking conversation about some of the inane lyrics we heard. “Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong,” sang Buffalo Springfield. “Mom, that’s ridiculous. Of course, nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong – it’s obvious. Why is that guy saying something we already know?”

Why, indeed. “Because sometimes, people need to be reminded,” I said, “and if you listen to the whole song, it makes sense.”

In my mind though, my nine year-old made me wonder – and I liked it.

After school, once we discussed his day and agreed that, as a snack, skinny Cheetohs pack a more flavourful punch than the fat puffy kind, we went for hair-cuts. Usually, while waiting his turn, Little Guy becomes lost in his electronics, but since the ban was still in effect, we simply kept talking. Little Guy asked me why it is that his bed always feels the most comfortable the moment he is asked to get out of it. He also wanted to know why kids in movies are always shown gargling during their morning ablutions, whereas in real life we only gargle when we’re sick. Damn, if he didn’t make me think and smile.

“Do you miss your 3DS?” I inquired on the way home.

“No,” said my son.

“Me either,” I said.

“Can I have it back, though?” Little Guy asked.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “but, nice try.”

My son grinned in submission. I felt it was important to stick to the consequence. Plus, I was having too much fun riffing off his mind; to me, there is no greater entertainment than engaging with a free-thinking child, especially when it’s my own.

That evening, after a convivial dinner and bed-time reading session, I wondered if part of the reason why my son’s behaviour had immediately improved was because he enjoyed my undivided attention as much as I enjoyed his. Usually, while he is concentrating on his games, I am busy with thoughts, other conversations, or electronic screens of my own. Maybe, the remedy for mouthiness is ear-i-ness; listening and conversing with the dearest people in our lives.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where ever you roam, whatever you do,

Stay the hell out of the ladies’ loo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whoopee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s so funny?” asked Little Guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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