The Nathaniel Chronicles: A Columnist’s Bewildering, Crazy, Daunting, Wondrous, Jubilant Journey Through Motherhood

By Jane  Self

Is there a parent alive who hasnt at some point questioned her or his ability to raise a happy, healthy, well-adjusted child? Author Jane Self discovered that when it comes to raising children, nothing is certain. From the time her son was six until his wedding seventeen years later, Jane shared the uncertainties and fears, triumphs and joys of raising her son with fearless authenticity and warmth in her weekly newspaper columns and articles.

The Nathaniel Chronicles is a collection of these, capturing her roller-coaster journey through motherhood in a delightful, poignant, often funny way that will have parents and nonparents alike nodding in recognition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Sep 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504388023

Jane  Self

Jane Self is an award winning journalist and author. From 1986 to 1998, she was assistant features and religion editor for the Macon Telegraph and was features editor for the Tuscaloosa News from 1999 to 2007. She authored a popular weekly lifestyle column for both newspapers. Her books include Sixty Minutes and the Assassination of Werner Erhard and Alabama’s Fallen Warriors. She is also the creator of babyboomersbloom.com, a website that celebrates Baby Boomers living with gusto. She resides in Athens, Georgia. For more information, visit janeself.com.

Book preview

The

Nathaniel

Chronicles

A Columnist’s Bewildering, Crazy, Daunting,

Wondrous, Jubilant Journey Through Motherhood

Jane Self

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Copyright © 2017 Jane Self.

Author Credits: 60 Minutes and the Assassination of Werner Erhard and Alabama’s Fallen Warriors

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Jane Self is a former employee of the Macon Telegraph and the Tuscaloosa News. The material in this book is based upon articles first published in the Telegraph in 1986-1998 Copyright over a course of years and in the Tuscaloosa News in 1999-2009 Copyright over a course of years. Reprinted with permission. The Telegraph and the Tuscaloosa News retain certain copyright and syndication rights.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-8801-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-8803-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-8802-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017914114

Balboa Press rev. date: 09/21/2017

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my parents, David and Helen Self, for giving me life; my son, Nathaniel Taylor, for making that life worth living; my daughter-in-law, Sarah Taylor, and grandchildren, Eli and Chloe, for expanding it beyond my wildest dreams.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

Part I:  Welcome To Motherhood!

The Best Gift

A Little Boy’s Questions About Sex

The Working Mom’s Dilemma Doesn’t Shrink As Her Child Grows Up

A Mother’s Touch

You Can’t Get Too Much Help Raising Kids

Motherhood Isn’t What I Had Expected

Raising Sons

Kids Should Come First

Bridge Maintenance

House Musician

A Mom’s Dream

There’s Only So Much A Mom Can Do

Part Ii:  Getting Through Childhood

The Boys Were Way Off Base

On Money And Kids

Musician-Making

Modern Technology Wins The Day

Unattended Nooks And Crannies

Remote—No Control

It’s The Thought That Counts

Treasured Memories

Surviving The Teens

A Winning Team

Staying In Touch

Part Iii:  School Days

A Closer Look At ‘Pushing’ For Excellence

Premature Graduation Ceremonies Might Spoil The Real Thing

Homework Blues Can Come Back To Haunt A Fifth Grader

Setting Priorities

The Passing Grade

Living Up To The Prophesy—Or Making Excuses?

Growing Up Is Hard—On Parents, Not Kids

Restrictions Can Produce Unexpected Rewards

A Matter Of Time

A Day In The Life

Part Iv:  Listening And Learning

Kids’ Advice On Marriage

Braving It Together

Paying The Fiddler

What Can Be Done About Rampant Prejudice?

The ‘Easy Way’ Can Turn Out To Be The Hard Way

Always Learning

Broadening Horizons

An Unexpected Benefit For Coming To The Rescue

A Christmas To Remember

Perspectives Change As The World Turns

Part V

A Perfect Match

The Best-Laid Plans

A Sure Cure For Cynicism

The Path To Peace Remains Elusive

It’s A Mom Thing

My Army Son Is Out Of Reach For The Holidays

Protected By More Than Standard Gear

Almost As Good As A Call

Life Is The Same, But Different

A Mother’s Transition

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

My son was two and a half the day his dad moved out of our house. I knew my husband was leaving; we had discussed the details that morning before I left for work.

Doug and I had been sleeping in separate bedrooms for a couple of months by then, biding our time until he could find a suitable place to live, which he had done a few days earlier.

Neither of us considered talking to Nathaniel about the move, figuring he was too young to understand. After all, his father was just moving to another neighborhood in Atlanta, not far away. He would still be part of his son’s life.

The day was routine, with me dropping Nate off at day care and picking him up that afternoon as usual. But as soon as we walked through the front door, he knew something was wrong. He ran into his dad’s empty room, flung himself on the floor, and started wailing—a mournful, heart-wrenching sound.

I walked over to pick him up and assure him his dad had not left him for good. But he was having none of it. Screaming at the top of his lungs, he pushed me away with surprising strength, then shoved me out of the room and slammed the door in my face.

I was dumbfounded. Where was my sweet, adorable, playful little boy? I could hear him pounding the floor as he continued the piercing shrieks. Each time I tried to crack open the door, he threw himself against it, yelling, No-o-o-o-o-o!

Panic rose in my throat, threatening to take over. I had the urge to curl up on the floor myself and bawl my eyes out. I had no idea what to do.

Forcing my way into the room would certainly make things worse. But I was afraid he would hurt himself thrashing around if I didn’t calm him. Finally, I quietly slipped into the room through a second door accessible from my bedroom. I sat on the floor against the wall to wait.

After what seemed like hours but was probably no more than ten minutes, the screams diminished into whimpers and soft gasps. I crawled over, gently scooped him up in my arms and began to rock, whispering that everything was going to be all right.

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At two and a half, Nathaniel was easy-going, curious, and adventurous.

As soon as I could collect myself, I put Nate in the car and drove the five or so miles to where I knew his father was in a meeting that afternoon. I pulled into the driveway, leaped out, and barged through the front door without knocking. Doug was in a planning meeting with several other people, but I didn’t care. This was far more important than anything else he might be doing. I demanded he come outside immediately to console his son. Surprised and alarmed by my behavior, he rushed to the car.

And that’s all it took. After just a few minutes of Dad’s reassurances and a promise to see him soon, the old Nate was back. By the time we arrived home, life was perfectly normal again.

That was thirty-six years ago. Nate doesn’t remember the incident, but it lives for me like it happened yesterday. Thinking about it still causes my chest to tighten and my eyes to fill with tears.

Nothing had prepared me for such a crisis. I felt helpless, and I felt like I had failed. Both were sickeningly unfamiliar sensations for me. I was the one who always did her homework, always had the answer, was always prepared. But this? There was no instruction manual for mothering a child in the throes of a fit—and who was acting out with good reason. His life was changing dramatically, and we had not seriously considered the impact on him.

My self-confidence was shattered. What if I’m a terrible mother? What if I’m just not cut out to be a mother at all? Had I screwed Nate up for life?

An overwhelming sense of aloneness crept over me. Doug was gone. My parents and sisters lived hundreds of miles away in Alabama and Kentucky. I had a few friends in Atlanta, but most didn’t have young kids. In that moment, I felt doomed to slug this out alone, day by day.

Don’t get me wrong—Nate and I had wonderful times together over the next several years. Underneath it all, though, I still had the nagging sense of being out of my league in this parenting endeavor.

A few years after that awful day in Atlanta, I made a couple of momentous changes. I remarried, and I changed careers. By the summer of 1986, I had spent almost a decade in public education, including getting my doctorate in school administration, followed by a five-year stint as a planner with the Georgia Department of Corrections. As I compiled studies and drafted reports, I uncovered a passion I didn’t know I had. I loved to write! Even better, I was good at it. I found I thoroughly enjoyed the process of putting facts and ideas into words in a way that others could understand.

That discovery eventually led to a job as an entry-level copywriter at the Macon Telegraph, in a city about an hour south of Atlanta. Within a year, I was promoted to assistant features editor and began writing a personal column every Sunday for the newspaper’s Georgia Living section.

The assignment was to write from a feminist’s perspective about lifestyle issues our readers would find relevant. Not surprisingly, stories about Nate, who was then around six, and my various child-rearing challenges found their way into every fourth or fifth column.

And then a funny thing happened. People began to respond. It seemed everyone—whether or not they were parents—had ideas about how children should be raised, and they were eager to share their thoughts.

Sometimes they wholeheartedly concurred with my approach to a particular situation; other times they vehemently disagreed. Either way, they let me know. Most of the letters I received were positive and supportive, even when they thought I had taken a wrong turn. They empathized with a young mother who was just trying to do her best and was willing to be public about it.

Grandmothers in grocery checkout lines would recognize me from my photo in the column header and strike up a conversation concerning my latest topic. When I picked Nate up at school, the other parents often wanted to chat, to commiserate, to laugh together about one story or another they had read. I tried out the advice that seemed promising and discarded what didn’t. But I appreciated it all.

The column became an effective sounding board as I groped my way along the winding path of motherhood. I didn’t feel quite so alone anymore. I had a community who functioned almost like a cheering section, and it really made a difference.

My career as a feature writer, editor, and columnist spanned twenty years, for the Telegraph and later for the Tuscaloosa News, when I moved back home to Alabama to become that paper’s features editor in 1999. I wrote my final column in 2003, soon after Nate got married.

He rarely read my columns. In all those years, as he was (gently) teased by his buddies and cheek-pinched by well-meaning relatives and friends who had read about his adventures in my articles, he hardly took a peek. When I asked why, all I got was a shrug and a smile. It was clear he didn’t mind that I was writing about him; he just wasn’t interested in reading about himself. He was too busy living.

I retired in 2007, planning to write full-time. But a few years later, Nate and his wife, Sarah, asked if I would be willing to be the nanny when they had children, as they both work full-time. I was honored and told them I would be delighted to do that. I moved to Athens, Georgia, to take on my new role after my first grandchild, Eli, was born in 2012.

My writing was relegated to part-time, and I embraced building a relationship with my grandson. He’s five now and has a two-year-old sister whom I care for as well. Being a part of their growing up has been an amazing experience that I wouldn’t trade for anything. And, it’s been challenging.

One particular afternoon not long ago, Eli threw a major temper tantrum. I had just put his sister down for her nap, and it was his turn. Only he didn’t want to. He started throwing his ball—a no-no inside the house.

Please wait until we can get outside to throw the ball, I said. "We’ll