18 minute read
The Joys of a Family Bucket List
we learned about the Chain of Survival, in which every second counts. We were taught how to recognize cardiac arrest: First, check to see if the person is conscious by tapping them and making noise. Then see if the person is breathing (watch to see if their chest rises and falls, listen for breathing sounds, feel their breath on your cheek). If they are not conscious, call 911, and if they are not breathing, start CPR immediately and send someone to retrieve the nearest AED.
Katrysha demonstrated how to do chest compressions on an adult: Put one hand on top of the other, interlace your fingers, and place the heel of your hand in the center of the person’s chest, in line with the armpits. She played the Bee Gees’ hit “Stayin’ Alive,” which has the ideal 100 to 120 beats per minute rhythm required for hands-only CPR. The aptness of the song’s title did not escape me as I applied enough force to push 2 inches deep into the mannequin’s chest. I was surprised at how hard you have to push. I was even more surprised that my son and his friend easily had enough strength to do so.
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We placed a plastic pocket mask with a one-way valve onto the dummy ’s mouth, which prevents direct contact during resuscitation, and practiced giving rescue breaths. Katrysha then showed us how to operate the AED, and the kids loved the way the machine talked them through each step. A built-in metronome provides the chest-compression rhythm, just in case you can’t hear “Stayin’ Alive” in your head.
When the class ended, I was euphoric. For the first time since my husband’s release from the hospital, I wasn’t terrified. Learning CPR was the most empowering thing we’ve ever done, and I believe every family should do it.
Calling 911, performing CPR immediately, and using an AED can triple a person’s chance of survival, and yet the American Heart Association has found that nearly 90 percent of out-ofhospital cardiac arrests are fatal. The campaign CALLPUSH-SHOCK, cosponsored by Parent Heart Watch and the Sudden Cardiac Arrest Foundation, is working to increase survival rates by encouraging people to take action with CPR and an AED . While it’s frightening to witness this kind of medical emergency, a 911 dispatcher can also walk you through the procedure over the phone while you’re waiting for first responders to arrive.
I knew many parents who rushed to take an infant CPR course when their child was born so they could save them from choking. But we don’t think about how valuable learning CPR can be for the entire family.
We received a training manual and a certification card, and we now own a portable AED. But taking the CPR course gave us much more than first aid training. It became a turning point in our family’s healing journey: Finally, we were no longer powerless.
Be a Lifesaver
Hover your camera’s phone over the smart code to find a CPR class near you.
K i d s C a n L e a r n C P R
More than 356,000 cardiac arrests occur outside a hospital in the U.S. each year, and it can be hard to imagine that happening to a grandparent, baseball coach, or babysitter—possibly in front of your child. Learning lifesaving skills at an early age is both possible and worthwhile.
“If they’re strong enough, kids as young as 8 or 9 can easily do chest compressions and become CPR certified,” says Corey Abraham, director of instructor development at HSI, in Eugene, Oregon. “At that age, they should be able to understand and retain the information for recall when and if they need it in an emergency.” Most mannequins used in CPR classes make a clicking sound when students practice chest compressions to show they’re pushing hard enough and fast enough. “Kids younger than 8 can learn how to recognize an emergency and call 911.”
Many local and national organizations offer hands-on CPR training, including the American Red Cross and the American Heart Association. Make sure the person leading the course is a certified CPR instructor. The cost varies depending on where you live. “In Eugene, you might pay $70, and in New York City, the same course could cost $110,” Abraham says. When kids are in a class, instructors usually incorporate additional breaks, give out prizes to make it more engaging, and play songs like “Baby Shark” to demonstrate the correct compression rhythm. “I would encourage everyone to take a class, even if you have kids under age 8, because it’ll help them recognize an emergency,” Abraham says. “If that’s the only thing they learn, the course was worth it.”
L I F E.
E N J O Y T H E J O U R N E Y T O G E T H E R
FYI, there’s no time like the present.
F O R G E T R E S O LU T I O N S T H AT L E AV E YO U F E E L I N G D E P R I V E D . I N S T E A D , VO W T O H AV E M O R E F U N W I T H FA M I LY T I M E .
The Joys of a Family B ucket List
Taking a splashy trip together. Introducing the kids to your favorite band. Losing to them at mini golf. We all have things we’d love to do with our children before they’re grown. Let this be the year you check off a few of those adventures—and then dream up several more worth taking.
Conz Preti is a writer and journalist.
I G R E W U P hearing stories from my parents about our first trip to Disney World. I was only a year old when it happened, but they took copious photos to immortalize the occasion. There’s one of the three of us, me in a stroller, in front of a Mickey- and Minnie-decorated Christmas tree. I’ve looked at it so much that it’s burned into my brain.
I grew up in Argentina, and visiting the U.S. was a big deal, in terms of both money and logistics, but also just psychologically. Even though I was raised in big cities, arriving stateside always blew my child mind. That was multiplied exponentially at Disney. We visited many times. And as cliché as it might sound, my trips there with my parents are some of the happiest memories I have. When I visit as an adult, it’s as if I’m transported back in time, once again a little girl in awe.
As a result, I’d always dreamed of taking my own kids to Disney, giving them a chance to make similar memories. And it would be a lot easier for me than it was for my parents. I now live in the United States and am married to an American man who not only swept me off my feet but also introduced me to every bit of American culture of which I’d been unaware: cornhole, Field of Dreams, the Pittsburgh Pirates. When our first child was born in 2017, I knew we’d make the trip as soon as we could.
There came a day when I just couldn’t wait anymore. So, on a whim, on probably the busiest weekend ever, while my parents were visiting from abroad, I took the entire gang to Disney World. Everyone kept telling us that our son, who was 11/2 then, wouldn’t remember any of it, and he wasn’t going to be able to go on most rides. But they were missing the point. I wanted to see my parents with my baby in a place that meant so much to them, and to me. We had a blast, and looking at the photos fills me with the same joy I felt while gazing at the ones from my own childhood. In one, which I keep on my desk, the five of us pose with Mickey and Minnie. We all look so happy, each for different reasons: my son for meeting the characters, my parents and husband for seeing him so thrilled. And me for making this trip happen with everyone included. I had twin girls in March 2020, and once we get back to traveling, I know where we’re going first. I’ve got my Minnie ears ready to go.
Preti (center, holding her son) and family, plus Mickey and Minnie, at Disney World, 2018
Evett and his mini Jedi at home in Southern California
Corey Evett is a screenwriter.
I N E V E R W A N T E D to be one of those parents who foist their favorite things on their kids. Sure, I wanted to share the formative bits of culture that made me me, but if my kids weren’t into them , I knew I could suffer in silence and quietly judge their terrible taste like the very mature adult that I am.
But on a sweltering pandemic summer afternoon, while I was scrolling for something to watch with my 2-year-old son, the Star Wars logo appeared on the screen. He pointed. “I want to watch that,” he said. I felt a tiny kick of adrenaline. My heart f luttered. Maybe it was my complete lack of exercise in 2020, but more likely it was that I’d been one of those kids who wore out the VHS tapes of the Original Trilogy. Minutiae about minor characters, ships, and planets clog up a lot of space in my head, space that should probably be devoted to remembering what the RIE in RIE parenting stands for. And now the moment I’d longed for was here.
I should’ve been elated, but I hesitated, worried that Darth Vader choking rebels to death or the complete annihilation of a planet might be too intense for a toddler. Then a more salient question arose: Could I take another episode of Blippi? I clicked on the movie.
I thought he’d last five minutes. He sat rapt for two hours. You could say the film resonated: Imaginary lightsaber battles became a part of playtime, and he wanted to know the names of all the characters and ships. I could answer these questions! I’d spent my whole life preparing for this! I was full-on dadding.
Then one day he reached his hand toward me and said with sinister enthusiasm, “I’m going to destroy you.” He told me he wanted a red lightsaber. Do you understand what I’m saying? My child wanted to be Darth Vader. I’d managed to turn my son to the dark side before his third birthday.
I rea lized that just sharing the movies with him wasn’t enough. If I wanted his little-kid mind to truly understand why I loved them—and if I wanted to bend his path back to good and away from evil—I needed to share the reasons why they resonated with me. I needed to drop some Yoda wisdom. So I emphasized the wonder and adventure of these films. More stars, less wars. Slowly, I convinced him that the bad guys weren’t as cool as the good. We’ll deal with the deeper philosophical stuff when he’s older, but for now, more often than not he wakes up belting out the opening theme music. And I’ll take that in a Tatooine minute.
Minnis and her daughter, Zoe
Clinnette Minnis is a voice actress and writer.
I L OV E E V E RY T H I N G about Election Day. I think it should be a national holiday. When it comes around, I wake up early. I get to my polling place well before it opens. I stand in line no matter how long it takes. Sometimes the process requires patience. And teaching patience to an 8-year-old, I’m finding, isn’t always easy. Even so, I’ve managed to instill my love for voting in my daughter, Zoe—the event I always imagined sharing with my child, even before I had one. Seeing her delight upon receiving an honorary “I Voted” sticker fills me with absolute joy and brings our family story full circle in a way that means so much to me.
When my mother first took me to vote as a child, we walked hand in hand through our suburban Los Angeles neighborhood, far from the Arkansas town where she’d grown up. I remember asking her if her mother had taken her voting too. No, she said. Grandma had been illiterate, unable to sign her name. Even if she had been, this was the Jim Crow South, and the poll workers would likely have had her guessing how many jelly beans were in the jar before she could cast her ballot. What I can do on Election Day she was prevented from doing all her life.
And I want my daughter to understand that the right to vote is by no means a permanent thing. Rights can be taken away. Ask the Afghan women no longer able to attend school. Not long ago, their mothers emerged from voting booths with purple ink on their fingers and a feeling that anything was possible. Democracy is fragile, threatened all over the globe. Here in America, oppressive forces are hard at work seeking barriers to stop people from exercising their right to vote.
I’m raising my daughter to be confident, to stand up for what she believes and fight to keep and express her own unique point of view. So many people fought and died for us to have civil rights. We can’t squander that by not speaking up with our vote. By not finding the representatives who will actually represent us. In a democracy, this is possible. When we work together, we can make a difference.
My mother and father left the segregated South for a better life. We integrated a California neighborhood and were the first Black family in the area. I’ll be forever grateful for that. So much of parenting is striving to give your child a better life so that the struggles and sacrifices of the past won’t have been made in vain. I take heart in my daughter’s glorious smile, how she beamed with pride at that “I Voted” sticker. It fills me with hope that we’re readying the next generation for the challenge.
Henriquez and her son, Noah
Jessica Ciencin Henriquez is the author of the forthcoming memoir If You Loved Me You Would Know.
E V E R S I N C E M Y son could speak, he has wanted to know what life was like when I was a kid. “Mama, where did you live? What did you wear? Did you ever feel scared?” It was sweet, this wondering: Who was his mother before she was his mother? I’d tell him stories before bed and show him old photos. He pointed out our similarities (our nose, our lips, our sneakiness) and differences (our hair, our height, our favorite sweets). But knowing these details did nothing to quiet his curiosity. For years it only grew. “What toys did you play with? Did you ever get hurt? Were you always good at spelling words?”
When he was 7, the questions still coming, we made a trip to South Florida to visit the house in which I grew up. As we pulled into the driveway, he stretched his neck to see out the window. To me, everything had shrunk because I’d grown, but to him, the pine trees were as tall as I’d described when I told him how I’d climb them to the sky.
We knocked on the door, and to my surprise, the new owners were happy to let us wander around. My son finally saw the setting of a ll those stories I’d been telling him. It was surreal, this collision of memory and reality, a little slice of history come to life.
“Was this where you used to Rollerblade?”
I took pictures while my son picked avocados off the tree I’d fallen from, losing my first tooth. He dipped his toes into the swimming pool into which I once plunged while learning to ride my bicycle. We sat together under the same banana vines that had given me shade in the summer. He dug into the dirt with his fingernails and pulled colored pebbles from the ground, the ones I’d pretended were “gems” and kept in a Mason jar. We wa lked around the block, and I took him to each of my hiding spots, inviting him into my childhood.
As we left the neighborhood that afternoon, he turned to me and asked, “Mama, do you think we would have been friends if we were kids at the same time?”
The question unstitched me. I told him of course we would, and that I’d be the luckiest girl alive to have a friend like him. And with that answer, he finally seemed satisfied.
M e m o r y M a ke r s f o r a n Aw e s o m e 2 0 2 2
When it comes to sharing good times with your kids, the possibilities are infinite, from tiny bursts of fun to once-in-a-lifetime events. Here’s a sample bucket list to inspire your own.
Cook a whole meal, side by side.
Wear matching outfits. (Get this one done when they’re little, before they find the idea massively uncool.)
Ride in a rowboat together.
Point out the constellations and planets. Most nights Jupiter is visible to the naked eye, and with an app like SkyView, you can often spot Saturn too.
Go fly a kite.
Visit an aquarium’s touch pool. Or better yet, a beach’s tide pool.
Do all that wonderful snow stuff. Snowball fights, snow angels, snowmen, sledding—the whole bit.
Film them being goofy in slow motion: jumping on a trampoline, making silly faces, or screaming (crank the sound up for that one).
Have a picnic. Maybe someday under the Eiffel Tower or beside an acacia in the Maasai Mara—but for now, your living room floor works too.
Sit outside at dusk to watch �ire�lies appear.
Plan to hit up every last one of something: national parks, baseball stadiums, all the taquerias in town. The point is to �inish the full list.
Go bowling.
Take them with you to work—a place not exactly exciting to you but in�initely fascinating to them.
Go �ishing. Worry not at all about catching anything.
Feed ducks at the pond.
Make root beer �loats.
Plant a seed. Check on it, and see to it, often—and together.
Learn origami.
Go to a petting zoo. Bring quarters for those little pellet machines.
Take a road trip. No activity opens people up, including kids, like a drive with nothing to do but chat.
Go on a rainy walk. Footwear appropriate for puddle jumping is a must.
Make homemade ice cream.
Continued on next page Jacquelyn Mitchard is the author of the new novel The Good Son.
T H E D AT E I S S E T, the rental house chosen, the pontoon boat hired. For three years, my brother and I have been planning The Trip to Anywhere, so-called because the destination is irrelevant. This summer, with all our kids, we’re going to go off line: a grill, a deck of cards, a Scrabble game, and the wilderness. Okay, not quite the wilderness. It’s a big house with a TV and air-conditioning. Still, it will be the kind of vacation our grandparents took us on when we were kids, up to the lake. No amusement parks, just a few hikes and fishing poles, and the stories we’ve never had enough downtime to tell the kids. The time we sat on Al Capone’s grave at midnight on Halloween. The time we dove from a construction crane into a rock quarry of crystal-clear water 30 feet deep. The time we ran along the fence of the monastery with sticks until the monks
let the guard dogs out. Stories about minor mayhem, like the ones our parents told us: the time they won the swing dance competition at the old Aragon Ballroom, in Chicago, only to lose the crown when it was discovered that they hadn’t paid admission. The kinds of stories that become family lore. More important, though, is the unplugged-ness. We’ll try to ban twice-daily TikTok and Instagram posts, nix phones at dinner, disallow work emails. We’ll be out of state and out of touch, living life in real time. How boring will it be for our children? Well, the highlight of their day will be frying fish, so you tell me. But if we’re right about this, the experience will soon grow more comfortable until at last there’ll be a new rhythm, the eat-when-you’re-hungry and sleepwhen-you’re-tired kind, and enough space and stillness to really hear not just each other but nature, and our own thoughts. Maybe it will work out so well that we’ll do it again. Maybe it will be a well-intentioned f lop. But one thing’s for sure: Our children will remember it. They ’ll tell their children stories about that lost time—and perhaps someday give the same to them.
Mitchard’s family jumping into a good time
