Financial Literacy

For those of you who don't know, I am studying to become an Accredited Financial Counselor. What does this have to do with anything important you say?

Well, I must confess that I have been slightly embarrassed by our lack of ability in interesting the boys in any kind of money management activities. Any card carrying, AFCPE certified, Accredited Financial Counselor should have kids who KNOW THEIR FINANCIAL STUFF. True? I think so and I still have a few months left before I have no more excuses.

Add to this the fact that, every day of my work existence, I talk to 18-22 year old college students whose eyes glaze over at the mere mention of capitalized interest on a loan. I have seen the future, and it isn't pretty.

So. As of this week. And, after many, many, many, many failed allowance schemes.....(and here I must give credence to Karen Podschun who warned me that the failures would happen)....I think we have finally stumbled across something that just might work.

I'm not saying that I'm ready to write a book or anything. I'm just saying that this particular system appears to be achieving the ultimate goals -- a) to get the boys to manage their own financial decisions and to b) have them connect to the concept of "earning" money.

To get to this point in our lives, Ross and I had to get over the feeling that we were giving the boys something for nothing. We aren't. The boys have household expectations. They are and will remain active, full participants in the maintenance and upkeep of the home and yard. As such, (and this is the paradigm shift) they also get to share an appropriate for their age amount of the benefits of living in the household -- a.k.a. regular cash on a monthly basis auto-deposited into their checking account.

The amount that is deposited might make some uncomfortable, and that is where the fine print comes in.

First, to receive this amount, they both had to agree that they would give a portion of it to God -- which prompted an interesting conversation when the youngest asked, "Mom, exactly how do you write a check to God?"

Second, they had to agree that some of the amount had to be saved each month via auto debit into their savings account. This amount could not be touched for one entire year.

Third, they had to agree to always keep a minimum balance in their checking account as a safety. The youngest was particularly impressed with the fee charged by the bank for overdrafts and immediately saw the prudence of this particular rule.

Fourth, they are now in charge of any and all entertainment/electronic/game/i-tune expenses with three exceptions: 1) Mom and Dad will still give them presents for birthdays and Christmas. 2) They will still get a souvenier allowance on vacation. 3) There could be bonuses for things like good grades and quarterback sacks.

Last, but not least, if Mom and Dad have to do any chores that do not normally belong to us, we charge $10/hour for the service. That includes picking up dirty socks that are stuffed under the couch or behind the couch pillows as well as the ones that are hidden on the fireplace mantle tucked up under the greenery.

Since the implementation of this system, I have born witness to the following events:

Sam is having a friend over this weekend. "We want to go to a movie," he said. "That's a great idea," I said. "Do you have money to go to a movie?" He was silent for a while. (Context: Sam is saving up for an I-Pod Touch.)

"Maybe we could just watch TV," he said. We then had a brilliant conversation about where in town you can get a movie for FREE -- like the library. Neither boy had ANY idea this was possible. Which, quite frankly, is shocking because we have borrowed them from the library before. Obviously their minds were otherwise occupied at the time.

Isaac received his first actual piece of "official bank mail" this week. He was thrilled. This is heady stuff for a 9 year old. The mail contained his monthly statement, a flyer about what the bank does with personal information, an advertisement for e-banking and an updated fee schedule. I told him to look through the mail and tell me if he had any questions about what was in there. He silently and diligently began examining the paperwork at the dining room table.

"WHAT!" I heard him exclaim. "The ATM card fee went up to $7!" He was outraged. I nearly cried. I'm also happy to report that I am fairly certain that people visiting our home will have a smaller probability of discovering random, unauthorized dirty socks.

The day will come when we will have to levy the per hour charge. But for now, I am sitting here watching the boys rifling through the cleaning closet -- unbidden -- looking for supplies to clean the toilets in the bathroom. Life is very, very good.

The Diner

“Mom, here you go,” said the youngest.
My eyes registered a June tan covered only by blue and white Spiderman boxer briefs race by my position on the couch. A single piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook drifted on to the Sunday School lesson I was studying.

Mom
You are invied to come for
Sam and
Isaac’s Dinner

Dad got one too; except he got a 25¢ off coupon seeing as tomorrow was Father’s Day.

After a short while, I heard my husband’s footsteps coming up from the basement. I put my book down and headed in the same direction.

When we reached the boys’ room, the door was shut. We dutifully knocked and were told, “Just a minute.” Soon after, the door opened and we walked inside.

On the floor in front of us was a pillow paradise. Tom Chapin was singing softly in the background and a blue 2 ring binder was lying in front of us. The boys were both dressed in
their Sunday suits – one standing by a table of magic tricks and the other behind his toy cash register.

The notebook contained a single piece of paper describing the menu; there was a cheese sandwich, chips, a bagel, and gum. Everything was 50¢ except for water, which was free.

Never mind that it was 10:00 a.m., we both ordered a bagel and some water. While one boy prepared our meal, the other treated us to a brief exposition of his talents in slight of hand.

We received our meal – served on Chinette paper plates – from in between the spaces of my
youngest’s bunk bed ladder. Sitting inconspicuously to the side was an empty Slim Jim container converted into a tip jar. We paid our bill and tipped in coinage easily divisible by two and took our meal downstairs to enjoy together in front of the TV.

Summer Nights

“So, how was your day?” I asked.
The evening was creeping into our front yard and the boys and I, too restless to sit in the basement in front of the TV, were sitting on the front porch stalking fireflies.
“Good,” said the youngest.
“Are you on level 3 or 4 in swimming?”
“Level 3. I still need to work on my back crawl…Mom, do you see any?”
“Not yet, they were probably scared away by the basketball noises.” (We had just finished a game of P.I.G.) “They’ll be back if we’re quiet. Keep watching.”
“How about you?” I turned to my oldest. “How was swimming today?”
“Great. I talked to my teacher about being a lifeguard. She says I have to do a dead man float for 5 minutes.”
“Wow! How long can you do it now?”
“I can float on my back for 5 minutes. But I need to practice my dead man float still.”
“Mmmmm….Look! I saw one over there!”
A sharp yellow light lit up briefly in the darkness underneath the oak trees. Both boys stood up quickly and ran to it.
“Can you see it?” I said.
“I lost it,” said the oldest.
“Do we have a jar to put it in?” said the youngest.
“Nah, we don’t need a jar,” I said. “Just try to catch it. Make sure you don’t squish it though.”
“There it is!” said the youngest.
His brother spun in the air to look. “Where?”
“I see it! Further into the middle!” I said.
“Look Mom! They’re all over!” said the youngest.

I looked. From my front porch bench, the outlines of my two boys were framed by the rustling black maze of leaves and overhanging branches and the silent, solid trunks of our two grandparent oaks. The boys were tensed, hands positioned in mannequin like poses as they waited for just one firefly to come close enough to catch.

The brave, lone scout that started our hunt had apparently signaled the all clear. Yellow lights were nearly everywhere we looked. It wouldn’t be long now.

“I got one!” said the youngest. “Mom, look! I got one!”
“Me too!” said the oldest.
They rushed back cupping the small, slender bugs that had been snatched out of the night sky by their quick fingers. The first one flew away the minute my youngest opened his hands. My oldest, a more seasoned catcher, watched as his bug crawled slowly over his nail and finger, examining the strange terrain. It stopped as if to test the softness of the strange, new surface. It signaled its findings to its comrades and moved on stopping and signaling three more times. Then slowly, it spread its wings and returned to the darkness.
“Coooool,” the oldest said.
“Way cool,” I answered.

Satisfied, the boys sat back down on the porch snuggling up on both sides of me. We watched the blinking lights and talked about nothing….and everything at the same time.

Reflections on Mother's Day

“Happy Mother’s Day,” my youngest said to me in the church pew this morning. It was said as an afterthought, after a sleepy stretch following the end of the sermon. It was my first such greeting of the day, and it was all that I needed.

For the last fourteen years, Mother’s Day has been a mixed bag for me. I slink by the tables of carnations sitting by the door of the church hoping someone else will be trapped so I can escape flower free. I avoid the card sections of general stores and their deafening pink reminders. I go to movies where time is relative and disappears quickly. I clean. I talk about politics, about books, about events. I do everything – but think.

For the first four years following Mom’s death, I successfully avoided processing the day all together. And then, I had a son. And then, I had another son. And for the last ten years, I stand conflicted.

I’m a mess. I’m still avoiding, ducking, slinking. But, now I’m avoiding, ducking, slinking and celebrating. This year it was cuddling in a darkened movie theater giggling through the scarier parts of Star Trek.

How can I not rejoice? How can I not feel incredibly lucky to share life with these two beautiful souls? I look forward. I watch in wonder as two lives follow separate, but equal rhythms. One is thoughtful, observant – as calm and deep as a quiet walk on a forest trail. The other is vibrant and wild – as lively and passionate as a jazz quartet on the streets of the French Quarter. And, dearest God, how much I love them both.

It’s the same love that turns and suddenly stabs me – stabs me with look-back thoughts – the ones that remind me of how beautiful she was; of how her laugh sounded; of what she could create with fabric, chocolate and icing; of how she would have loved to be a grandmother.

The thoughts hit me with the force of red matter and crush the center of my chest. I feel my eyes getting wet, my contacts moving a little smoother against the cornea, my vision sharpening. Silently, I battle the onslaught. For Pete’s sake! Fourteen years! It should be easier by now. It simply will not do to be discovered crying on Mother’s Day. I wrench my thoughts forward again, stubbornly back-filling the hole.

Following the Rules

There are times in life when a person would like to just pick up and move out to the country. On the other hand, life lessons learned when living “among humans” can be priceless.

Last Saturday, I was catching up on some work in the basement and the husband was upstairs napping to gain a little ground on an illness that has been running through the house. The boys were happily playing outside.

After a couple of hours, the youngest appeared at the top of the basement stairs. “Mom, you need to come outside.”

“Right now?” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” he replied.

So, deciding to take a little break from the report I was working on, I meandered up the stairs. I was thinking that the boys had built a fort, or possibly had a very intricate chalk drawing on the driveway that they wanted to show off.

I put on my shoes and headed out the garage door, the youngest son in front of me. At the top of the garage steps I peered out into the neighborhood and froze. There in the middle of the cul-de-sac was an emergency fire vehicle, a police car and what looked like six emergency service professionals standing with my oldest son, the neighbor boy and his parents.

It was about this time that the youngest decided to say, “Um, yeah, mom, you’re probably not going to be too happy with us.”

“What happened.” I heard myself say through clenched teeth.

“They want to talk to you,” he said.

So we walked out to the little group standing in the grass. The first person to acknowledge my presence was a policeman.

“Ma’am, your boys were apparently lighting fireworks, a neighbor saw the smoke and called the fire department.”

He proceeded to explain that fireworks were illegal within the city limits, normally this offense is a $100 fine (which he explained he would not be charging us this time), and did he need to confiscate any other fireworks that we might have in our house?

I politely said thank you, explained that we do not have fireworks in our home, asked the boys to apologize to the nice emergency service personnel and then asked both boys to turn around and return to the garage where we would have a little “family discussion.”

The public areas of the house are now free from toys, the boys room is cleaner than it’s ever been and the garage sparkles. After one month of good behavior, MAYBE we’ll allow them to see the blades of grass in the front yard.

After about a two hour discussion of the ins and outs of the events surrounding what is now going down in history as “the smoke bomb incident,” they have hopefully learned that it does not matter who brought the fireworks to the party, supplying and using carry the same punishment in the real world. It is our job to weigh the options and do what is right.