We won’t let our tween lie about his age to get on social media. He says we’re ruining his life.

There are so many ways to win the coveted parental “You’re ruining my life!” award. My current prize has been bestowed by my 11-year-old son, who desperately, passionately, and unceasingly desires Gmail, Snapchat, Instagram, and Facebook.

Like most parents, my husband and I fear his exposure to inappropriate content with which he is not yet equipped to deal, but our current concern precedes this more common one: we worry that, as all of these accounts require a minimum age of 13 in order to gain access, he would have to lie about his birth year.

Now, lying about a birthday may not feel like a very big deal. We know lots of people who fudge birth years, often to seem younger than they are, but, as we may recall from our college years, sometimes to seem older as well.

In our home, like in many others, a primary rule involves truth telling. “We’re proud of you for telling us the truth,” we’ve often repeated to our kids, even if it involves how Nutella ended up on the curtains. We make a point of living by this rule as well. We let them know from the beginning that we are the “tooth fairy,” and we answered certain questions in their younger years by saying, “You’re not ready to know the whole story about that just yet” rather than making up tales about, say, storks or cabbage patches.

Of course, we know there may be times when lying is tolerable. Our kids recognize, for instance, that the individuals who lied to shield slaves on the Underground Railroad were heroes and that those lies were based in the highest ethical principles.

But lying about your birthdate to get something forbidden that you want? That is precisely the kind of lying we aim to teach our children to avoid. This seems to be the minority opinion.

For some of my friends and acquaintances, deciding that their children are sufficiently mature makes them comfortable with entering a false birthdate or permitting their child to do so. Their primary concern is with their child’s readiness, not the company’s policies or the questions the child must answer. They treat minimum age policies more as guidelines – “children require a certain level of maturity, but mine is unusually mature” than as hard and fast rules, which makes the lying feel less dishonest. They believe they’re following the spirit, if not the letter, of the rule.

Others take a different tack, suggesting that because these companies know full well that some portion of their clientele is lying, the companies are complicit, and the lying is, therefore, acceptable. If the companies know we’re lying, “there is no ethical issue,” one acquaintance told me. Certainly these companies know that children can easily submit a false date. Their rationale for the minimum age is very likely a hedge against bad publicity and legal problems rather than a deep concern for the well-being of tweens. But does the company’s supposed, even likely, awareness justify the lie? For me, it does not. Teaching my son that lying is okay when someone anticipates that you might lie doesn’t feel like a solid foundation for future behavior.

Another acquaintance explained that this occasion raises the opportunity to discuss the difference between a “fib/white lie and an out and out lie.” She articulated her teaching this way: “it’s never okay to lie but sometimes you have to fib a bit.” Telling a child that sometimes “fibs” are necessary – in this case, to have access to a forbidden but desired commodity – makes me fear the unintended lessons that may follow: I worry about how to articulate where that line should be drawn if email or social media accounts fall on the side of “okay to lie about.”

Many others “work around” the age restriction by setting up accounts in their own names, with their own email addresses as the contact information and with their own birth dates. But the account is in the child’s name, and he thinks of it as his own, even as the parents have access to the password and can read all of the posts or messages. To me, this seems like the closest to an honest policy in that the account remains, nominally, at least, the property of the parent rather than the child. But I question whether this sends the wrong message as well. Figuring out how to subvert inconvenient rules feels discomfiting to me, if understandable.

I don’t think Gmail is inherently dangerous, and I don’t even think that my son would do anything bad on Instagram or Snapchat. I doubt he’d be exposed to anything worse there than he would be on the school bus or YouTube, which has no age minimum to view most content. I realize that, no matter what accounts he has or does not have, I have to monitor his online activity regularly and speak with him about safety as part on an ongoing conversation. I also realize that my agonizing over how I model and shape his behavior may have no consequence on his future decisions and that kids, with or without their parents’ influence, make independent choices.

But in not too many years, my 11-year-old will be 19, and adding two years on to a birthdate can mean the difference between buying alcohol and not buying it. And lying to get what you want can mean the difference between marital fidelity and adultery, or between honest business practices and insider trading or outright thievery. If I tell him now that he can lie to get what he wants, even if the thing that he wants feels silly, inconsequential, or ubiquitous, what message have I sent him with into the future and out into the world, into a marriage, into a profession?

By ruining his life now, I’m hoping to avoid ruining it later.

Steinberg is a former professor who now teaches writing to high schoolers. She lives in New York.

How my son’s trip overseas taught me to let go

I wasn’t prepared for the way I felt when my 18-year-old son, Dylan, lifted off for a trip to Asia during his winter break.

I was thrilled the moment he first told my husband and me that he wanted to use some of his savings to visit a friend studying in Shanghai and travel around the continent. Michael and I had sojourned to Southeast Asia for a few months before we were married, and Dylan would be visiting some of the same places. We were excited for him to explore the world. We told him that traveling was one of the best ways to spend his money. “Collect experiences not things,” we said. “The memories will last a lifetime.”

It was exciting for me knowing my oldest child would be on such an adventure even so far from home. Last fall, in fact, while several friends were having a hard time letting go of their first-borns headed off to college, I was oddly okay with Dylan leaving home. I chalked my coolness up to that he’d already been away — sleep-away camps and a summer job in New England — and I felt comfortable with him being on his own. And with his college only a few hours from home, if something went wrong we could drive to him the same day.

Then came winter break and the sheer joy of having Dylan home again. Our family of five was together and I was at peace.

On the morning of Dylan’s departure, he woke the other kids to say goodbye, stuffed a few more things in his bag, and headed to the airport. Before he and Michael pulled away, I yelled one last time, “Be safe, and text when you arrive in Shanghai.”

That night, while he was flying somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, it hit me that Dylan was really on his own. I woke hourly, each time checking the clock and counting the hours before he would land the following morning. Doubting my decision to let him go, I felt anxious, prayed, and thought about all the things that could go wrong.

As parents, we know our kids grow up and may be ready to face the world, but do we ever see them beyond little kids heading off to their first day of school? I wanted Dylan back home, building a fort in the basement for his younger sister like he did days earlier.

And then I heard from him. The first text said he’d arrived. The second text said his luggage didn’t make it. At the time, the thought of him not having his belongings seemed monumental to me. It felt like he was missing the things that connected him to home.

I frantically attempted to track down his bag. The following day, I persuaded him to go back to the airport and search lost baggage, urged him to file a second claim, and suggested he go to the airline’s office in downtown Shanghai. My efforts were futile. I was frustrated, and all the while Dylan was texting me he was all right.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” he wrote. It was exactly what I needed to hear. He was okay and I could let go. From that moment on I gave him space to be on his own and to discover the wonder of new places without my input. There was no more talk about lost luggage or what he should do next. I knew that he’d figure it out and that the life lessons would be deep.

Several days into the trip (now traveling with his good friend, Jack), Dylan sent a photo from the top of Victoria Peak in Hong Kong. The sky was blue and clear, the city and harbor sprawled far below, and he was smiling and wearing the same clothes he left home in. His note read, “I thought I could never study abroad anywhere but Europe, but I could definitely do it here.”

And I was at peace.

O’Keefe is a manager of content development at National Geographic Expeditions and believes in the transformative power of travel. She tweets @sokeefetrav.

Learning to make room for a sibling

I clutched my 3-year-old’s fingers as we prepared to walk on her school stage. When we waltzed on with 75 other Nutcracker dancers – Zelda in her minuscule Victorian slip, me with my 38-week pregnant belly – the auditorium burst into laughter. What was I doing here? But as my daughter and I chasséd in sync, my racing heart melted. This show was our last hurrah, just the two of us.

That night, my husband and I sat by Zelda’s bed. I touched my stomach where a can-can session was in progress. This would be one of the last times Jon and I would sit together with Zelda at night, give her this unified mass of charged attention.

I’d been ambivalent about having children, as my own relationship with my mother was difficult. Born on my grandparents’ route after escaping the Nazis, my mom was a depressive hoarder who barricaded herself in between walls of Kleenex boxes and VHS tapes. Her Montreal den’s maelstrom of Dollar Store clocks and old newspapers swallowed my report cards forever. Her bed was stacked with old clothes. I couldn’t reach her if I had a nightmare. She worked at a government job, leaving before I woke up and asleep on the sofa when I came home. Mom loved me as she could, but was increasingly moody and unreliable. Always on guard, I hid among the clutter. When, at 19, I moved to another country, we connected by phone, an easier umbilical cord. On her good days, we analyzed books and later my romantic exploits. But my visits home were ever more fraught.

When I found out I was pregnant with a girl, I panicked, worried I’d lose my hard-earned independence, not to mention the white-walled, nearly-empty apartment I’d created with Jon. I was afraid I had no idea how to parent. Yet once I had Zelda – named for Mom’s mom, who raised me day-to-day – I nursed and cared for her with ease and pleasure. I was determined to be the opposite of my mother: organized, on-time, clean, calm. I hand-scrubbed the floors and maintained elaborate play schedules. I took Zelda to school and back every day, creating for her the security I never knew myself.

My kinship with Zelda – this chance to redo the mother-daughter dynamic with affection and attention – was healing for me. I learned to be patient, less anxious, more open. We discussed our days over frozen yogurt. I taught her to express emotions by revealing mine. I knelt by her tantrums and yawned calmly through her sleep-regressions. Sure, I made mistakes, like sanitizing the highchair instead of reacting to Zelda’s gentle attempts to feed me, but her life filled me with confidence.

Once I had one child, I wanted two. Growing up, my younger brother had been my ally, the person who most understood my messy reality and saved me by playing imaginary characters. We hadn’t lived in the same country for two decades but were in touch almost daily. I wanted to recreate this sibling bond, the longest of one’s life. My girls would be three years apart, just like my brother and me.

Zelda constantly asked questions. Why is she a girl? Will she always be a girl? Was I always Zelda? How does she pee if she isn’t wearing a diaper?

I laughed but wondered if her desire to understand emerged from a deep anxiety. Her life would undergo so much change as she lost her position, my attention. I feared transitions, having witnessed my mother’s progressing mental illness, her personality leaking from her like a deflating balloon. I did not want Zelda to lose me.

I attended a sibling seminar for second-time moms. The leader reiterated the accepted wisdom: keep Zelda’s world intact. Talk about the baby a bit. Do not hold the baby when Zelda visits after the delivery. Bring gifts for her from the baby. Make her feel involved by teaching her to swaddle her dolls. Do not make any major household changes. Certainly don’t tell her you’re transforming her toddler bed into the baby’s crib. I followed the advice. I threw Zelda a birthday bash, inviting 29 toddlers to our apartment. I upheld this fragile, ice-castle world in which she was the special star.

I badly wanted a second child, but now could only focus on protecting Zelda from this kicking invader who would steal her innocence, her place – her mommy. Was I greedy to want more, stockpiling fortune like my mother did junk? Was I also a hoarder, collecting distractions instead of committing to what I already had?

I’d grown up among stuff, but feeling empty inside. I spent three decades filling my void, learning to love. Now I’d already poured my memories, passions, my milk into my first — what if I was depleted.

I was afraid there was no more room in our 2-bedroom apartment or in my heart.

The next morning, I hobbled Zelda into preschool. I’d reached the point where people were afraid to get close, worried I’d explode at any second. I showed the school director photos of the show. She laughed at the image of me, less Sugar Plum, more Winnebago. Then I explained that after two weeks at home, I’d be bringing Zelda to school again. “I’m keeping everything as normal as possible.”

As I chatted with the director, she put her hand on my shoulder. “Everything Zelda knows, everything she’s relied on as constant will shift,” she said, as I nodded, dizzy. “This is emotionally cataclysmic.”

“The worst thing you can do is pretend it’s not.”

Wait. What?

“I’ve seen parents try to keep everything as-is, taking children to swimming class in the middle of labor. But your family will be in turmoil. Let there be chaos. Zelda knows what’s going on.”

Let there be chaos jolted me in its simple directness. In Zelda’s future, she would be second-place, she’d be jealous. That was why I wanted her to have a sibling: to practice the hard stuff. I reminded myself that Zelda had been asking questions to cope.

I also had to practice the hard stuff. I’d have to learn to divide my attention, to find new pockets of affection. I had to admit the gravity of the change and help both of us manage the transition.

Billie was born big-eyed, robust, hungry and large – entirely different from her lithe ballerina sister. Jon was home with Zelda while Billie and I stayed at the hospital for five full days, a new mom-daughter cocoon. I was confident, smitten and giddy, full of old tricks, trusting my instincts.

A week later, Jon had to travel – my first time alone with my two girls. At 7 am, I nursed, staring out the window at the sleet storm. I was feeding constantly, the ground was slippery. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t take you to school,” I apologized to Zelda. Here I was, sacrificing her education because I couldn’t figure out a nursing scheme. I felt her world crashing, slipping away for the sake of her little sister. But then I remembered the director’s words and breathed. I had to improvise, create our own messy pas-de-trois.

Zelda shrugged and brought her favorite books into my bed as Billie began to cry. “I know it’s frustrating,” I said, “but I need to feed Billie. Afterward, I’ll read to you.”

“Can I hold her?” she said. “I’ll use hand-itizer!”

Zelda tickled Billie’s toes, initiating their lifelong rapport. Zelda sat on me, and I held the baby in her lap, a Babushka-doll pose, and there we were, we three, on my bed, room for us all.

Judy Batalion is an author and performer living in New York. Her first memoir, White Walls: A Memoir about Motherhood, Daughterhood, and the Mess in Between published this month. You can find her atjudybatalion.com and on Twitter. 

8 things this mom will do in 2016 to set a better example

A few weeks ago my sons pulled out the bathroom scale, which lives under a dresser in my bedroom gathering dust, and took turns seeing how much they weigh. They wanted me to join in the fun. “Mommy, your turn! Let’s see your number!”

The next 1.3 seconds inside my head went something like this: “Noooo way I haven’t stepped on that in forever I don’t like scales they don’t like me my shoes are on should I take them off I’m wearing too many layers I just ate lunch the number would be wrong what if the boys say my weight when we’re in public I shouldn’t be weird about this don’t let them see how scared you are,” all while a slightly embarrassed smile, masked as amusement, was spreading across my face.

And then I declined. Stupidly. For no good reason. “Nahhh,” I said as casually as I could as if the tone of voice I used made a difference in the way they understood my refusal.

They didn’t understand it and pleaded a couple more times before moving on to a new discovery, leaving me there in the bedroom staring at a dusty black scale and thinking about what I might have inadvertently just taught them – or missed out on teaching them – by what I didn’t do.

We don’t just learn from words and actions. We also learn from silence, refusal, inaction and disregard. Those lessons are perhaps scarier than the ones we actively, knowingly teach our kids, because we’re not really in charge of them. Sometimes we’re not even conscious of them. They’re just happening, right there in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday, because of space we leave open to interpretation when we freeze, or stay silent, or appear oblivious, or say “Nahhh” with no reasonable explanation.

The realization bothered me so much that I came up with a list of things Idon’t do very much that could very well be affecting the way my boys view themselves and the world around them. So this year, in a twist on the traditional New Year’s Resolution, here is a list of eight things I don’t do – or don’t do enough – that I will aim to do with both intention and frequency in 2016. Join me?

Pick up trash. I always thought I was pretty good at this one until I went for a half mile walk with my kids last summer. That’s when I noticed that I picked up easy target items – an empty Gatorade bottle, a discarded plastic grocery bag – while my kids picked up every tiny piece of trash they saw. Everything. It must have taken us 40 minutes to walk that half mile, and that empty plastic bag I’d picked up was stretched full of straw wrappers and gum wrappers and receipts and broken pieces of godknowswhat. There is no difference too small to make in the world.

Say the compliment I am thinking. Everyone wants validation and words of affirmation. I’m pretty good about doling out compliments to the people I know, but not the people I don’t know. If I want my kids to be observant, kind-hearted and sincere, I need to start modeling that, which means not just noticing someone’s pretty bracelet or well-behaved child, but telling them.Every time you think something positive, say it.

Work toward my dreams. The other day my boys asked if I’d read them a children’s story I wrote long ago, which they love. So I brought my laptop over to the couch and opened the Microsoft Word file that houses my dream. Why is it still on my laptop instead of in the hands of a publisher or agent? I have envisioned the day I could hand them a hardcover version of it, and they’d see their names inside and their mom’s on the cover, tangible evidence not just of imagination but tenacity. Don’t let your kids become the only dreams you work on.

Read. Not counting what’s on my laptop or iPhone, my kids rarely see me read. I have stacks of books I’d like to get to but don’t make the time. I don’t like what that is subtly telling them. Sometimes clichés are true: Knowledge is power, and reading is fundamental.

Put myself in the photo. When I look back on an archive of photos that document my kids’ growing up years, I want it to be apparent that I was there enjoying it with them, even when my hair was in a ponytail and I didn’t have lip gloss on. They do care about your appearance – but not your looks.

Cross traditional gender lines. My kids routinely ask me if my favorite color is pink, and are always shocked when I say “No.” Someday they’ll understand the subtle power and unseen strength in all that women do and are, but for now, they see whether or not I hand the hammer to a man when it’s time to hang a picture. If you don’t want them to believe in stereotypes, don’t become one.

Pray out loud. I want my kids to grow up turning to God in times of gratitude and distress. How are they going to know how to do that if I don’t show them? Since they can’t hear all the silent prayers I send up – for them and others – I need to pray aloud, not just at the dinner table or at bedtime, but when I receive good news about a loved one. Or when we pass the aftermath of a car accident. Or when they tell me a friend is sick or hurting.When you get the urge to call on God, do it out loud.

Step on the scale. The fight against our culture’s barrage of messages that suggest women are largely imperfect (and objects to conquer) is a daunting one, yet frowning at the mirror or refusing to get on a scale only reinforces those lies. I want my sons to believe all women are beautiful and deserve respect because they love and respect themselves. There is no numeric value attached to who you are.

Robyn Passante is a journalist and writer. Find more of her work atrobynpassante.com. She tweets @robynpassante.