Then Bill brought out the inhabitant of the other crate. He set this one down, and suddenly a black bundle of energy started sniffing and licking and kissing me and Deb. A Havanese mix, she was peppered with white around her chest and her feet and had a wonderful personality. She had been rescued from a Pennsylvania puppy mill, where she would have spent four or five years breeding before meeting a grisly death. You could tell right away this puppy had charisma and a tremendous intelligence that radiated from her core. Can you tell I was smitten from the start?
Just at that moment, Nicky came home from school. He walked into the backyard and came to a halt, his eyes wide and his mouth open.
Among some of Nicky’s issues, he had a fear of dogs. It didn’t matter the size, the temperament or the gender. If we were walking on the street and he saw a dog, he would place me between himself and the offending dog.
This was going to be interesting.
The first pup had snuggled into Deborah’s lap and fallen asleep.
The second puppy trotted right over to Nicky, who amazingly and fearlessly dropped down onto the patio, where this newcomer climbed right into his lap and started licking him!
And he let her!
Then he started kissing her.
Deborah and I looked at each other.
And . . . we had a winner!
Any pup that conquered Nicky’s fear was destined to be our dog.
This little girl chose us.
We felt bad that the other pup would go home without being adopted, but Bill assured us that this little guy would have no problem finding a home. He said that although the light brown lad with the sleepy eyes was originally his first choice, he felt in his gut that this black-and-white beauty belonged with us.
With Bill’s help, we concocted a cover story about “watching” the puppy while she got ready to be on the Today show, in case it didn’t go well with the puppy, but that immediately went out the window as this little one was quickly burrowing into the fabric of our lives. Leila, too, had fallen under the new pup’s spell.
Some things are just meant to be.
Of course, the next question became, “What do we call her?”
Deborah wanted to call her Sugar, as an homage to her Southern roots—“sugar” being a term of endearment.
Leila came up with Pepper, since she was mostly black with a little white thrown in—Salt-’n’-Pepper.
And it stuck.
Over the weeks and months that followed, Pepper quickly became house-trained. She also quickly became Deborah’s third child. Wherever Mommy goes, Pepper is sure to follow. And true to form, while the kids help, the bulk of her care and dog walking fell to her adopted mommy and daddy. And we are happy to do it.
I promised myself that whatever dog we got would not be sleeping on the bed or on the couch. So guess where you can find Pepper just before bedtime every evening?
On the comforter at the foot of our bed. And she looks truly offended when I tell her it’s time to head downstairs. I am almost booed by my wife and children. That said, Pepper has developed a habit of growling and barking if she hears a perceived threat from some interloper passing our threshold. At one a.m., that is no fun. Does she have any idea what time I get up?
She should ask the kids. They’ll tell her.
Many families struggle over whether or not to get a pet. Sometimes it’s an issue of dog versus cat. (I contend dog people are dog people and they simply can’t coexist with cat people.) And as I’ve just said, even the subject of whether or not the dog can sleep on the bed can divide the happiest of couples. But the one thing Deborah and I never expected when we fulfilled the promise of bringing home a puppy was the incredibly positive impact Pepper would end up having on our son. Of course, how could we, since he was afraid of dogs?
I would have bet my last dollar Leila would be the more conscientious about walking and caring for Pepper, but it turned out that Nicky is the one who volunteers his time more often and is far more diligent about keeping the poop, pee and food diary up-to-date than the rest of us. He would even leave the house early in the morning to walk Pepper without telling us where he was going, which scared us! But now we’re thrilled that he’s taken on the biggest responsibility of his young life. He stepped up and took ownership in a way that none of us did, and we were all happy to allow Nicky to do it. It has been endearing and heartening to see him grow and mature from his love and care for the dog.
And there’s another thing. Through this connection, Nicky has discovered the power of unconditional love. Pepper doesn’t care what he got on a test or whether he has learning disabilities. She cares that he pets her belly and gives her treats. She likes when he speaks to her in a funny voice and plays ball. It’s a simple, loving relationship, and though we couldn’t have imagined it at the time, Pepper was the greatest gift we could have given him.
In a sense, to us Nicky is a lot like Pepper. Everything we have learned through him has been a gift. He is an inspiration with a bright outlook and a good heart. He continually amazes me as well as the people he comes into contact with every single day. He is indeed a gift—one that keeps on giving.
It’s now been four years since we brought Pepper home and I can’t even imagine life without her. In fact, I wrote the bulk of this book with her right by my side. She is an integral part of our family and of all our lives. I am so glad I convinced Deborah and the kids to drop their opposition and allow Pepper into our home. After all, she is, in fact, the WORLD’S GREATEST PUPPY!
12
People Are Not Labels
AL AND DEBORAH
Don’t Label Your Kids
The smart one.
The pretty one.
The sporty one.
The wild one.
The ambitious one.
The dark one.
We’ve all heard it said that children are like little sponges: They absorb everything we adults say and do. Our words and actions imprint to their memories and may very well influence their reactions, responses and behavior throughout life. It’s the classic nurture theory. Experts say who we are is largely defined by our experiences and how we learned to define ourselves early on. This is why as parents, we try to be hyperaware of those moments when we characterize any of our children. Let’s face it—we all fall prey to it, and though it’s not our intention, labeling a child can inflict lifelong damage.
DEBORAH
While parents don’t consciously mean to label their child, it can happen in the subtlest of ways. One of my sisters vividly recalls a childhood incident. One afternoon she and an older sister got into trouble for climbing up on a stool with the intention of sneaking out through the kitchen window. Before they succeeded—or possibly broke their legs—my mom spotted them. Her scolding is one that my sister still can’t shake. Mom declared that this prank had to be the older sister’s plan, since the younger one couldn’t possibly have been “clever enough to devise such a strategy.”
Ouch!
Even at the age of six, those words stung and lingered.
My sister has never forgotten them.
Throughout childhood she carried feelings that she wasn’t very smart.
Because these two girls were close in age, they were often lumped together and compared. The older one was usually praised for being the smart one and the younger for being pretty or quiet. Of course, my mom meant no harm, but with those simple words, the labeling was done.
Fifty years later, my sister still wrestles with insecurities about her intellect even though she is a very bright woman.
Psychologists and child development experts have long cautioned that if children hear a negative label attached to them, they will eventually believe that label to be true and will fall into line with the behaviors associated with that label. Many of us label our kids in the same way we were labeled as kids. It can start with se
emingly harmless phrases like “She’s shy” or “He’s a real go-getter.” But those comments can set the tone for things to come, and sometimes it isn’t good. If you grow up hearing that you are “bad,” that description becomes as toxic as any chemical seeping into a home. Soon the child will unconsciously display more behaviors associated with their understanding of what a “bad child” is.
With this in mind, Al and I are conscious of all the adults in our kids’ lives, from teachers to babysitters, and whether they are sensitive and aware of how they speak with kids. Specific labels can create problems where no problems may have been. They can negatively impact a child’s self-esteem and create situations that will lead them on a downward-spiraling path, predisposing them to a life that may have been different had the labeling never occurred.
AL
My dad was a really athletic guy. When I was a kid, we used to go watch him play softball with his bus depot team every Friday night. Mom would pack a cold dinner of fried chicken and potato salad and a thermos of lemonade, and we would cheer Dad on against the other teams. I think my dad realized early on that I wasn’t destined to be the next Jackie Robinson or Willie Mays. I wasn’t athletic and had no interest in sports. I’m so appreciative that he never pushed me to be athletic; sometimes we would throw the ball around, but if he was ever disappointed that I didn’t do more, he never let me know that. Instead, he nurtured the things I seemed to gravitate toward, such as television, movies, comics and cartoons. Unfortunately, all of these things also produced a sedentary lifestyle. By the time I was in seventh grade, I had a real weight problem, although no one in my immediate family ever talked about it—at least, not that I ever heard. I knew I was heavy, but my parents never gave me a hard time about it and they never pushed me to get out of the house and do something active, either. I was one of those kids who liked drawing comic books and making my own movies. As I chronicled in my book Never Goin’ Back: Winning the Weight-loss Battle for Good, I’ll never forget the night I watched the prime-time NBC animated special Fat Albert. I loved animation, and one of my dreams was to become an animator for Walt Disney or Hanna-Barbera. But now a horrible reality fell over me. The medium that had spirited me away to solve mysteries with Scooby-Doo and fight Bluto for the unnaturally skinny Olive Oyl’s hand was about to deal me a crushing blow. In a split second, I realized that I was that animated blob on the screen. I was Fat Albert. I was black, fat and named . . . wait for it . . . Albert! I thought my life was over. This was the worst thing that could have happened to me. My head was spinning from the thought of having to go to school the next day. I knew every one of my schoolmates was home watching this show like I was.
The next day I went to school terrified, but much to my surprise, no one said a word.
“Well, maybe nobody saw the show,” I thought.
But within five seconds of that hopeful thinking, sure enough, I heard eight or ten guys shout out, “Hey, hey, hey!”
I spent the rest of that week enduring everyone’s imitations of Fat Albert. I laughed along with everybody else even though on the inside I was dying. I know many people with similar stories; we make self-deprecating jokes or embrace the label others put on us as a way to hide the hurt. At the height of my weight issues, I used to joke that some people want to see Europe, and I wanted to look down and see my johnson. I used humor as often as I could to deflect how I was really feeling about myself. I had become a self-fulfilling label. I was the fat, jolly guy.
DEBORAH
When I was in the sixth grade, I had an English teacher who made an enduring impact on my life. I still picture Mrs. Hardy with that shock of white hair, bright red lipstick and shiny crimson nail polish on her fingers. She was prim and proper, always dressed in a cardigan sweater, pearls and glasses, which often dangled around her neck. She introduced our class to the classics in literature and assigned poetry presentations. Works by Kipling, Dickinson and Frost are etched in my memory to this day, thanks to Mrs. Hardy. Her class was my first exposure to the beauty of the spoken and written word.
Mrs. Hardy, a true Southern belle, demanded a lot from her students, and you can bet there was no gum chewing and no speaking out of turn. She also insisted that all of her students—black and white—practice proper grammar and speak clearly and concisely. Even today I cringe when someone says “you and me” instead of “you and I” or when I get an e-mail with “your” when it should be “you’re.”
Thank you, Mrs. Hardy!
There are some teachers who are simply frightening and off-putting to their students . . . but others have an intrigue to their edge. You are drawn to them like a moth to a flame. To me, Mrs. Hardy was indeed an inviting flame—a beacon of light. It was as if she was saying, “I challenge you to win,” and I thought, “Game on!” I found myself inspired to work hard and to excel. Whenever Mrs. Hardy praised me for a job well-done, I knew I had truly earned it—and the words somehow carried more weight coming from a white teacher. This was just two years post-segregation, and I was a dark-skinned black girl being told I could be somebody.
I didn’t mind being labeled as someone who wanted to achieve. I loved it. But because of my drive, ambition and tenacity, some kids in school weren’t so kind, calling me an “Oreo,” a black girl who acted white. Because I went out of my way to drop my Southern drawl in favor of proper grammar, I was accused of trying to act white. I also made friends with a number of white students . . . something new in my world.
For some kids in my school, my ambitions were at adds with the black experience. In their eyes, I wasn’t representing. My desire to reach beyond the boundaries of my small Southern town challenged a lot of my peers in a way I didn’t expect. I still recall the taunting and teasing. Likewise, I’ve never forgotten the important influence Mrs. Hardy’s belief in me had on my belief in myself. My English teacher had lit a fire in me that would burn for a long time. From then on, I thought, “She’s right! I really can be somebody!” The power of a few words gave me the strength to reject negative labels.
AL
I think I have a pretty good sense of my kids’ strengths and weaknesses. Nicky has some learning and development delays, so each day is busy, filled with school and appointments to help him grow and overcome his challenges. There is occupational therapy once a week to help him get better at fine-motor skills like using a screwdriver or scissors. There’s physical therapy twice a week to help him to become more coordinated while running or playing catch. And then there is tae kwon do, swimming and chess club.
Nicky is a very outgoing kid, but he is different. And even though I know in my heart he is going to do just fine in life, there are days when it’s difficult. Although I do my best to stay focused on the positive, sometimes that’s easier said than done. If we’re honest, parents of children with special needs will admit to occasionally thinking, “I can’t wait to get back to work,” after a ten-day vacation with the family.
Come on, I know if you’re a parent, you get what I’m saying. You’ve thought it yourself, even if you won’t say it out loud. And God bless all of you stay-at-home moms and dads who choose to be with your kids full-time. I’ve been working full-time since I was a junior in college. I sometimes fantasize about stepping off the train, at least for a while, to spend more time at home with my children and watch them grow, but I’m not sure I’m cut from that cloth. Besides, I haven’t come to a stop long enough to really think about it.
When we first learned of Nicky’s learning disabilities, many of the doctors we saw wanted to label him with a specific diagnosis. In fact, Deborah and I also wanted a name we could use for his condition! Naming the problem seemed like a prerequisite for solving the problem. However, after years of neurological testing, he still falls under the vague heading of “otherwise health impaired” or “processing delays.” The upside is he doesn’t have a label. And the downside is he doesn’t have a label. We just don’t know the exact cause of his disabi
lities. We know he exhibits some quirky behaviors close to the autism spectrum, but he is not officially autistic; he’s too verbal, social and self-sufficient to fit the label. He has a keen wit, dresses himself, makes his bed, walks the dog on his own; he also reads and writes below grade level and sometimes asks you to repeat what you just said so he can process it. He is who he is.
In many ways, our son is an enigma, but he is also a very loving kid who looks you in the eye, wants to please and make everyone happy, and who knows when he has done something wrong and immediately feels sorry.
While I got good grades in school, I had to work at it. A few years ago, after neuropsychological testing, we learned Nicky was a couple of years behind where he should be for his age, but wow, I admire the fact that he works harder than I ever did. He is the first one to open his homework folder and wants to get it done right. He loves math challenges and is proud to solve a problem. I believe this kid’s sheer will and determination will get him wherever he wants to go. We spend lots of time organizing tutoring and experiences to help Nicky reach his goals, and we feel blessed to do it. Nicky is now on the lower end of his grade level, and I know he’s going to just keep growing and learning.
I remember the day I heard that Nicky got his Top Gun badge for attending four hundred tae kwon do classes. Very few kids achieve this level. I was as proud as if he’d just gotten his black belt—and he’s on track to earn that in the coming year! That’s the kind of commitment and determination our son has and that’s what makes me so proud of him every single day.
Leila, on the other hand, is a girl who has an embarrassment of riches. She is smart, funny, sassy, quick-witted, extremely talented and beautiful to boot. I think she defies labeling.
She is growing up on New York’s Upper East Side, but she rejects a lot of what that entails. She has said she is not a “skinny minnie” and never will be. She has lamented the unfairness of her baby brother inheriting Deborah’s lean physique while she was saddled with mine.
Been There, Done That Page 23