Bitten

        Has anything you believed about parenting before you had children come back and taken a giant bite out of your back-side? It's been happening to me pretty regularly for the last twelve years. I'm beginning to think it's the only predictable thing about parenting.

        I worked at my college library as a student, and I remember having a conversation with the library secretary about being a working mother. She had two or three school aged kids and I was taking a psychology class. So, naturally, I thought we were equally knowledgeable on the subject. I talked about how important it was for an infant to bond with his parents in the first few months of life. She said, “I guess. But, sometimes I think they need you more when they get to middle school.” That sounded like crazy talk to nineteen-year-old me. After all, the Psych 101 textbook didn't say anything about that.

        Those bite-marks are really starting to sting.

        My kids can bathe and dress themselves. I don't have to ask them if they need to go to the bathroom any more. They know where the food is and are capable of making a sandwich or pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. My older son has been certified by the Boy Scouts of America in first aid. He's even received credentials to use a pocket knife and start a campfire safely.

        But with all of their knowledge and skills, there is no substitute for having time to talk to Mom or Dad about what is on their mind. And there is SO much on their minds. Between the things they hear on the bus and the news on the radio and TV, these years are a minefield of awkward conversations. In the past few weeks my husband and I have fielded questions about bullies, heroin, alcohol, mass shootings, French kissing, twerking, suicide, genocide, terrorism, theology and measles.

        But we do it. Maybe not joyfully, but willingly. Just like the thousands of diapers changed, and lullabies sung, and late-night feedings, it's part of parenting. Parenting a middle-schooler isn't much easier than parenting an infant. It's just different. And it isn't any less important. Back then the focus was on keeping their bodies nourished. As they become older, we focus on nourishing their brains and souls. Today after school my son just wanted to talk to me about the latest Lego sets that are coming out. So I sat with him flipping through the catalog feeling relieved it wasn't a “big” topic. But he's going to need the talk about all those “big” questions. Maybe if I give him my full attention when the topic is Legos, he'll continue to seek me out when the topic gets a lot more complicated.

Hi there! I know I've been a very sporadic blogger lately. So thanks for stopping by! Be sure and check out my next post. I have an exciting give-away coming soon.

Take THAT, Stagefright

           I know in most parts of the country, summer vacation is in full swing. But here in my little corner of the world, we have another agonizing week to go thanks to the hurricanes and blizzards that visited us this year. But the full-on crunch of homework and projects is finally winding down and has been replaced with field trips, science fairs, Hawaiian shirt days, and my favorites—school plays and concerts.

           Having been bitten by the performance bug when I was in sixth grade I get really excited to see my kids discovering the joy of being on stage. They had been reluctant to try, claiming stage fright (although how you can have stage fright without actually getting on stage remains a mystery to me). Several years ago I auditioned for a local production of “South Pacific” and there was a part for a child Owen's age. I asked him if he'd like to come with me and give it a try. He was wide-eyed with horror at the prospect, “I will if I have to,” he said. I assured him that he didn't have to and he was very relieved.

           During April vacation, he told me his class was going to be doing a play and he asked if I'd help him practice for the audition. After running a victory lap around the house, I settled on the couch with him to read his part. He wanted to be a palace guard—a small part that would allow him to wear his Halloween costume again.

           He got the part and last week after months of rehearsal, we finally got to see the production. He did a great job with the small number of lines that he had. (As we say in the biz, there are no small parts, only small actors.) But my favorite part of the show was an ensemble musical number where the entire cast sang and danced together. When the song began, he sang shyly and danced deliberately. As he warmed to the audience, the desire to entertain became greater than the fear of looking silly. By the end of the number he was glowing. Owen had discovered the joy of performing for an audience.

           When it was over, he ran up to us and said, “That was so much fun!”

           Yes Sweetie. Yes it is.

Monday

                    Since my children got off the bus Friday afternoon I have tried to shield my boys  from the news of Newtown. Like every parent I know, I was particularly anxious to see their faces that day. When they got home we drank hot cocoa with peppermint marshmallows and sang silly songs while we worked together in the kitchen. Saturday night we watched Mr. Popper's Penguins together. I thought I might use the opportunity to wrap some Christmas presents while the movie played, but I found myself unwilling to disentangle myself from their snuggles.

                   Now it's Monday and I suspect there will be discussion at school. We've already gotten a “robo-call” from the Superintendent about security measures. As much as I'd like to continue to shield this news from them, I'd like to be in control of how they get it.

                   I suspect that somehow Owen has gotten wind of the story. He asked me why they don't have police in school. I assured him that our city has police officers at the high school and I often see police cars patrolling near his school. I also told him they always have a detail officer assigned to events such as his band and chorus concerts. One of the benefits of living in an urban area is the presence of law enforcement.

                   It's a little after seven and the boys are still in bed. That's unusual for them. Normally, they're up at the crack of dawn to try to get some play time in before school. But it's dark and rainy and I'm sure their beds seem even more cozy than usual. Soon I'll have to wake them or we'll be late. I wonder what we'll talk about at breakfast this morning. Will you be talking to your children about Newtown this morning?

New Rules

             As my kids head back to school tomorrow morning, I’ve been reflecting on all of the parenting expectation I had before I had kids. In my perfect little fantasy world I would be firm but fair and my children, recognizing this fact, would be angels.  The would certainly never be exposed to junk food…

            …or video games.

            My family would always eat nutritious, homemade meals…

            and our vacations would all be educational.

            But parenting is much less black and white than I ever realized. And sometimes a quick call for a take-out pizza or a half hour in front of the television can save Mommy’s sanity.

            Lately I’ve had the chance to observe thousands of new college students converging on the Boston area. Some of them are ready to live on their own. They know what they need and how to get it. And some… well let’s just say it’s difficult to picture some of these kids living and thriving on their own.  My greatest wish for my children is to give them the tools they need to become independent.

            Sometimes it’s hard to let kids do things for themselves. We’re constantly saying we'd do anything for our children. And let’s face it, there are times when it’s easier to do the task yourself. But maybe we’re doing our children a disservice by not letting them do things for themselves—even if it means a few small failures along the way.

I want to know when we drop Owen off at college in eight years (shudder!), he’ll know not to wash his white socks with his new red sweatshirt. I want him to know that it will take him two hours in his work-study job to earn enough for that pizza he’s craving (and sometimes it’s worth it). I want him to believe that if a piece of furniture needs to be assembled, he can do it. I want him to know he can call us whenever he needs to, but I hope he’ll always try to solve his own problems first.

This parenting thing is a balancing act between providing for our children and giving them the tools to provide for themselves. I have a few new rules for myself these days. I hope I can stick to them.

A Lesson from my Son

             My boys climb into the car after a busy day at camp. They answer my questions of, “How was your day?” and “Did you do something fun?” with dull, short answers. They’re tired—all talked out from nine hours with their friends. A few seconds later a song or something a commentator says on the radio inspires Owen to speak. Something other than my boring question gets him started and he doesn’t stop. He tells me he hopes I’m voting for Obama and why. He tells me why Green Day is his favorite band. He tells me in great detail why he lost the last dodge ball game he played. He tells me why he no longer wants Fluff on his peanut butter sandwich. He talks until we arrive home and something else grabs his attention.

            When Owen was about sixteen months old, I was beginning to worry about his very limited vocabulary. Cookie and Daddy were the only recognizable words to come out of his mouth. If he was feeling particularly cheeky, he’d call me Vickie. But he never said “Mama”. I had done everything the books told me to do. I read to him, sang to him, babbled back at him when he was an infant, but he just didn’t talk much. At a party one day I mentioned my concerns to a friend who was a pediatric speech pathologist. He watched us interact and told me I had nothing to worry about. “He doesn’t talk because he doesn’t need to,” he told me. “You anticipate all of Owen’s needs. Stop doing it and he’ll start talking.”

            He was right. A few days later Owen leaned on the refrigerator door and whined. Normally I would ask him if he’d like some cheese. Instead, I said, “Tell me what you want.” He whined again. “Sorry, you need to tell Mama what you want.” He looked at me like I was crazy and said with utter exasperation, “Cheese!”

            He hasn’t stopped talking since that day.

            When the time came to learn to read, Owen struggled. He was bright. Anyone could see that. He picked up complicated concepts easily. But learning to read took effort he wasn’t willing to make. He had the tools to read, but he wasn’t ready to use them. Then he discovered the graphic novel section at our local library. I told him it was too awkward to read a graphic novel out loud and he’d have to read it himself. By the next morning he had finished “Missile Mouse”. It was the turning point for Owen. It sounds like a cliche, but overnight he became a voracious reader.

            Owen taught me that kids learn at their own pace. You can’t force them. Whether it’s reading or talking or even toilet training (especially toilet training?) a person has to be motivated to learn. All the incentives and lectures in the world won’t get a person to learn something they aren’t ready to learn. Now I wonder when he’ll be ready to learn to put his dirty clothes in the hamper.

I'm linking up with Mama Kat. This week we were asked to share a lesson we learned from one of our children.

Just Between Me and Me

 

            I’m linking up this week with Mama Kat’s Writing Workshop. The assignment was to write a letter to my teenaged self. This was fun to write, but I doubt very much that girl would listen to a thing I have to say!

            Hey Vic, got a second? I know you’re in a hurry to get to rehearsal or a Key Club meeting. I want to talk to you about your life now and what’s coming in the next couple of years. There are loads of surprises to come—some good and some bad. But there are a couple of tips I’m going to give you that might make things a little easier along the way.

            First of all, in the second semester of your freshman year they’re going to put a baked potato bar in the school cafeteria. Don’t get hooked on it. You’ll think you’re immune to the “freshman fifteen” because you didn’t gain any weight first semester. You didn’t gain any weight because you were in a musical and dancing a couple of hours a day—and because there was no baked potato bar in the cafeteria. Between baked potatoes and beer, you’re going to “cow out” as Jamie says. Stick with the salad bar. It’s much easier to stay thin than to lose weight.

            While we’re on the subject of weight, you look fantastic. I know you think you’re chubby and flat chested. You’re looking in the warped mirror of a self-conscious seventeen-year-old girl. Trust me when I say, there will be times in your life you’d give anything for the body you have now. Also, stop hating your nose. Just stop it. The love of your life is going to think it’s adorable.

            Make time to learn a duet to sing with Papa in Italian. He loves to sing as much as you do. Your voice is a gift from his branch of the family. It’s would be a shame if you never sing together.

            I’m not going to tell you to work harder in school. You should, but I know you won’t listen to me. If nothing else, PLEASE work harder in French. You can take advanced foreign languages in college to get out of a couple of math classes. Trust me, it’s worth taking the time to study. Believe me, you’ll have a need for French (or Spanish, or Portuguese) more than you’ll have a need Algebra in your life.

            Your oldest child will start talking. He or she (no, I won’t say which) will also learn to read. I promise. That child is as stubborn as you and his dad combined. He or she does everything in his or her own time. Pressure will only slow the kid down. When he or she starts talking and reading, it’s going to blow you away.

            There will come a time of deep sadness in you life. You’ll know what I mean when it happens. You’ll try to get back on your feet and make everyone think you’re okay before you really are. Don’t do it. Let yourself wallow for a little while—just a little while. You can’t go back and wallow later if everyone thinks you’re already fine.

            Don’t worry though. The blessing in your life will far out number the tough times. Listen more than you talk, take long walks, eat your vegetables, don’t sweat the small stuff, and wear sunscreen. 

Teenaged me would never believe I listen to country music. She'd be horrified. 

You Know You're a Mom When...

1.) Luxury is a shower where no one walks in.

2.) The last time you had a headache you had to take six chewable Tylenol because you couldn’t find the grown up medicine.

3.) Your idea of a nice restaurant means there is no drive thru.

4.) You’ve broken half a dozen rules about parenting you set for yourself before you actually had children. Most of them involve food or television.

5.) The term “dry clean only” either makes you laugh or cry.

6.) In your very large purse you can’t find a lipstick or a pen. But you do have Band-Aids, coloring books, a yo-yo, wet wipes, juice boxes, and at least a half a pound of loose Goldfish and Teddy Grahams

7.) The last movie you saw in a theatre featured aliens, princesses, mutants, superheroes, or anthropomorphized rodents.

8.) You’ve tried to write a check with an orange crayon because it was the only writing utensil you could find.

9.) You feel like something’s wrong on the rare occasion you look in the rearview mirror and no one is in the back seat.

10.) Finally, you know you’re a mom when you’ve made some truly unflattering choices for the love of your kids…

Do it Yourself

One rainy summer day a couple of years back, my children were keeping themselves entertained while I did housework. James, who was about six at the time, was creating an art project with old paper towel rolls and LOTS of glue. My then eight-year-old, Owen was creating a Star Wars style space ship out of Legos. Neither of them seemed particularly interested in eating lunch, so I figured I’d have something myself and take care of them afterward.

            I should have known better. The moment I sat down with a sandwich and a magazine, I got their attention. Owen dropped his spaceship, “Can I have a sandwich Mommy?”

            By this point, my blood sugar was getting low. I get really cranky when I need to eat. I’m convinced that most of the unkind things I’ve said in my life could have been prevented with the swift application of a Snicker’s bar. “Sure Owen,” I told him. “Just let me have a few bites of this and I’ll make you a sandwich.”

            “Can I make myself a sandwich?” he asked. My son is a genius! Of course. Of course he could make a sandwich for himself. He’s eight years old. I was doing much more in the kitchen when I was his age. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

            “That’s a great idea pal.” I said. “Do you know where everything is?”

            “I think so. Come on James! Wanna make your own sandwich for lunch?”

            “Sure!” said James as he jumped up from his art project.

            I watched as the boys got out everything they needed. Peanut butter, jelly for James, Fluff for Owen, and bread. Since they were making their own “recipe” they needed to a new and special ingredient—so they added Kix cereal for crunch.

            I enjoyed watching them make their own lunch nearly as much as I enjoyed the fact that I didn’t have to make it. They were so serious about getting the peanut butter spread out perfectly and sprinkling on just the right number of Kix. For the rest of the summer, the boys made lunch themselves almost every day. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? There is nothing difficult or dangerous about making a sandwich. The boys aren’t helpless and they love to bake brownies and cookies with me. They felt good about making their own lunch and I got a few moments of peace.

For the first couple of years we have to do everything for our children. Feeding, bathing, dressing—the list goes on for days. I had a moment of revelation at the pediatrician’s office a while back. The doctor inquired about the frequency of the boys’ bowel movements. I had no idea. None. It seems like only yesterday I could have answered that question in nauseating detail—not anymore. Unless they leave the bathroom without flushing, their bowel movements are their own business.

The boys are both in Cub Scouts. When Owen became a Bear he reminded me on numerous occasions that in the scouting world, he is old enough to have a knife. Every time he brings this up I want to hold my hands over my ears and yell, “La la! I can’t hear you!”  But I think back to my own childhood and remember the summers I spend camping and fishing with my family. I remember my first jack knife—I was probably about Owen’s age when my dad got it for me. It had a mother-of-pearl handle with a picture of a Canadian Mountie painted on it (we spent a lot of time in Canadian National Parks and he picked it up in a gift shop). I hated it at first. I wanted one that looked like the knives my older brothers carried—with faux wood grain handles. This knife didn’t look like a serious tool to me. Dad explained that this one was a better size for my small hands and it had a better blade than the wooden-handled knives the gift shop carried. It may not have looked serious, but it was a good tool. My dad is a machinist—he doesn’t mess with inferior quality tools.

A dad, his little girl, and a canoe.

I used that knife all summer to whittle the ends of sticks for toasting marshmallows and cutting fishing line. I never cut myself or anyone else with it. My dad gave me a good tool and taught me how to use it properly. Now it’s my turn to do the same for my kids. One of my father’s favorite proverbs is, “If you give a man a fish you feed him for a day. If you teach a man to fish you feed him for a lifetime.” Sometimes it’s easier to just do things for our kids, but teaching them do things for themselves stays with them forever.

I wrote an earlier version of this essay as a guest blogger for "Carrying the Cat by the Tail".  It was taken down a while back. Since I really like it, I thought I'd republish it for Father's Day. Hope you enjoy it. Happy Father's Day everyone!

Seven O'clock

 

            The clock on my computer reads 6:38 AM. The sky outside my window is beginning to glow as the sun rises. My workroom door is closed, but I can hear the sounds of waking from the boys’ room. Their door open and the elephant like thudding takes them to the bathroom and back. I can hear their discussion as they get dressed.

“Is it time yet?”

“You go in.”

            “No. You.”

            It’s nearly seven. My morning writing time is over. I ask myself for one more paragraph. One more sentence. One more word. It’s like the negotiation I had with my alarm clock an hour ago. Ten more minutes? Five? But then I was only stealing the time from myself. This time belongs to all of us.

            Finally, Owen has talked James into opening my door.

            “Mama!” he says in his babyish way when he wants something. He throws his skinny arms around me. “It’s snuggle time!”

            Back in September, the idea of snuggle time before school would have been absurd. Mornings were a constant state of chaos. The boys are in two different elementary schools this year. Their buses arrive at the same time in two different places. The two schools would be in different towns if they were any farther apart. After months of trying different combinations of buses and dropping off and picking up, we found a routine that works—most of the time.

            One morning this winter, Owen came into my workroom at 7:00. His eyes were sleepy and a little red. He loves his new school, but the work is harder and there is a lot more of it. Fourth grade is a big jump from third. There isn’t always time to just play and that really eats away at him. A nine-year-old boy needs to play as much as his forty-year-old mom needs time alone behind a closed door.

            “Mom, do you have time to snuggle with me before breakfast?”

            In all honesty, I didn’t see how we had time for one more thing in our morning routine. But he definitely needed some snuggle time, so I shut down my computer and we cuddled under an old wool afghan on the sofa to watch the first few minutes of Arthur on PBS.  We haven’t missed a day since. My mother used to say, “You have time for what you make time for.” and I’ve always found this to be true. My boys are growing up and before long I know the last thing in the world they’ll want to do is snuggle up with me and watch PBS. But for now they do. And so do I.

Keepable Resolutions

            I felt like I spent the second half of 2011 playing “catch up” both on my blog and in my real life. I never managed to write a nostalgic look back at summer in August and I never wrote about going back to school in September. Over the past few weeks I kept finding myself saying, “I can’t believe it’s Christmas. I haven’t even gone back to school shopping”. But now that the New Year is approaching I’m beginning to feel like I’ve gotten the hang of things.

            Being behind schedule isn’t a surprise. Juggling work, children’s activities,  writing, getting dinner on the table, cajoling the kids into doing their homework, exercising, rehearsing, sleeping, and all the other little details is no small feat. But I really feel like I never caught my breath this fall. And that is my main goal for the year—to take time to breath amidst the chaos.

            I’m not a big believer in New Year’s Resolutions. The idea of going on a diet or giving up some favorite vice when the days are short and the nights are dark and cold seems like setting yourself up for failure. If my goal is to lose weight, I’d rather do it when the weather makes me want to get outside and run and the local produce is in season. I could probably stand to lose ten pounds or so, but I figure it’s insulation for the winter weather.

            But resolving to stop and breath, to enjoy my kids, to take time to play all of their new games with them, to share some quiet time with my husband, to taste the food I prepare and not just inhale it on my way to the next thing, to be present in the things I do. Those are the resolutions my soul needs me to make. And on those dark and cold January nights, they are achievable.

            My boys and I have the day off today. We’re going to see “Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwreked” with their grandmother. I’m not going to lie—this wouldn’t be my choice of a movie. The charm of the chipmunks is lost on me. But my kids are thrilled to be going. So I’ll enjoy the time with my boys. I’ll bask in the warmth of their manic laughter. We’ll share popcorn and Swedish Fish. On the ride home, they’ll tell me the jokes from the movie over and over. And I’ll listen. I’ll breath in their childhood. Because each day, those boys of mine become less little and I don’t want to miss a moment.

            One more thought as we approach 2012. Thank you, dear readers for taking the time out of your own chaos to read my blog. This morning, I looked at my stats to find I just rolled over 10,000 page views. I can’t tell you how excited I am that people find my writing worthy of their time. I never anticipated “meeting” so many wonderful people on this adventure in blogging. I am truly grateful. May you make your goals, dreams and resolutions for 2012 come true.

Tough Mama

            Monday I took my fourth trip to Children’s Hospital in Boston with my son James. It was time to take his cast off. He had surgery three weeks ago to repair some damage he did to his hand a few years ago. We’ve had a few challenging moments with his right hand in a cast but he has adapted remarkably well. He has learned to use his left hand to eat, write, and of course play video games. I can’t imagine an adult coping this well without his or her dominant hand for this long. He rarely complained about pain or itchiness and managed to do almost everything he would normally do. The biggest challenge was trying to keep him from going full-speed and damaging himself again. Or damaging someone else—that cast made a pretty effective weapon.

            I love Children’s Hospital. Fear and sadness could so easily take over a hospital for children—there are so many kids with really serious conditions. But every kid is treated like a regular kid. No one stares at the little girl who has obviously lost her hair to chemo. No one makes a fuss over the boy with visible scars on his face. Everything is normal there. Maybe the definition of normal becomes much broader when you’re dealing with sick kids.

When adults at Children’s engaged James in a conversation they would ask him about his age, his grade, whether he liked Sponge Bob or if he liked sports. Everywhere else we go people ask him about his cast. The closest anyone at Children’s came was when they asked if blue was his favorite color—since his cast, his shirt, and his stuffed monkey are all blue. I’m not faulting folks for asking. They’re curious and concerned about seeing a little boy in a cast and James doesn’t seem to mind. But I would imagine that someone whose child had some visible long-term condition would get really tired of explaining it to strangers.

            Yesterday afternoon I was helping James do exercises the occupational therapist prescribed for him. It’s painful and slow. But if he wants to regain full motion in his finger it has to be done. He catches his breath as he bends each joint and holds it down for ten seconds. He gets a little teary eyed. “Don’t hold your breath Buddy,” I tell him, remembering the things I know from years of yoga. “Take a deep breath when we bend your finger.” We move through the three joints twice. “Do you want to just do two more and take a break?” I ask him.

“How many do we have to do?”

            “Ten.”

            “No. Let’s just do it.”

            It hurts but he keeps going. He knows there are times he can play me with his sad eyes and pouty lips. This time he knows I can’t let him stop. Giving him a break is all I can offer. Without the exercises his finger won’t be any better than it was before the surgery. James knows I can’t give in. He gets it and he’s willing to work through the discomfort to get better. I am so impressed with his determination.

            A part of me wants to let him stop. That part of me that nursed him countless times at 3am, the part that crawls into his bed when he has a bad dream, the part that has read Good-night Moon hundreds of times, the part that has sung “Sweet Baby James” thousands of times. That part of me wants to tell him it’s okay to stop and make him a cup of hot chocolate instead. The Tough Mama inside me has to tell that part of me to go sit in a corner while I do my job. The tough Mama (or Papa) is the part of our parenting brain that makes our kids get vaccinated, eat his vegetables and take nasty tasting medicine. It is the same part that makes him do his homework when he’s had a tough day or takes away privileges when he’s done something wrong. I hate being Tough Mama. But I know I have to be her sometimes.

            James hurt his fingers six years ago. Just his fingers. They’re going to get better but it’s going to take some work. When I helped him with his therapy I was thinking about all the parents of patients at Children’s Hospital—the parents whose kids are dealing with problems much larger than a couple of fingers. The Tough Mama part of them must be huge. I don’t know how they do it. I know the short answer is, “What choice do I have?”  But still, you do it. You tell the sweet-nurturing part of yourself to go find something else to do while you do what you have to do to make your baby well. I tip my hat to you Tough Mamas and Papas out there. You have my eternal respect and nightly prayers.

TAG, You're It!

            As a parent, I’m used to making my kids do things they don’t want to do for their own health and well being. I’m no stranger to saying, “No vegetables, no dessert.” I’ve held screaming children while they got vaccinations because I know that a few seconds of pain outweighs the possibility of contracting tetanus or measles or hepatitis. I don’t allow them to play with broken glass or rusty nails and running into traffic is simply off limits.

            Right now, it’s 2:00 am and I can sleep because I find myself wanting to make my son Owen do something he is reluctant to do. This time however, if he chooses not to do it, there will be no dire consequences. He’s been invited to join a Talented and Gifted program (or TAG) beginning next year in fourth grade. I am really excited for him—I had been a part of the program thirty years ago and loved it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a much better fit for me than where I had been.

When he brought home the invitation letter he told me he didn’t want to go. “All of my friends aren’t going,” he said.

            “Are any of your friends going?” I asked. I would be surprised if none were going, most of his friends seem pretty bright.

            “Well, Nathan and Randall* are going,” he admitted.

“Aren’t they two of your closest friends?”

“Yeah, but Evan and Josh aren’t going.”

            “Isn’t Evan the one at Cub Scouts who drives you nuts?”

            “Well…”

            “Listen Owen, there’s a meeting in a couple of weeks to learn more about the program. Let’s make an informed decision. I’m not going to force you into anything.”

            “Okay.”

            That meeting was tonight. The program sounds like one in which Owen would really flourish. The students learn at an accelerated pace so there is time for projects that you don’t find in a traditional classroom. The teachers and students go more in depth into the subject matter—more exploring and less “teaching to the test”. In addition, I saw a number of familiar faces. Even though this is a city of over 100,000, it can be a very small town. I saw parents I knew from the Y and some other parents I knew from Little League. So even though Owen wouldn’t be with all of his friends, he would have some friends and the potential to make a lot more.

            I was very gung-ho when I got home from the meeting. I probably should have waited until morning to talk to him about it. But I jumped right in while he was getting ready for bed.

“You know, I think you ought to give this a shot,” I told him.

            “But I’m scared,” he said as the tears filled up his eyes.

            “Of course you are. It’s scary to try new things. But if you don’t like it, you can go back to your neighborhood school.”

            “Really?”

            “Really. You know, they do a lot of really cool things.”

            “Like what?”

            “They have a science fair in fourth and fifth grade.”
            “But I wouldn’t know what to do!”
            “It’s at the end of the year, after you’ve learned more about science than you already know.”

            “What else?”

            “Last year the students who were learning about the Revolutionary War created a board game based on what they learned.”

            His eyes lit up, “A war game? With spies?”

            “Probably,” I said. “There were a lot of spies during the Revolutionary War.”

            “Well… maybe I’ll give it a try. Just for fourth grade.”

            So now, I have him onboard to give it a try and I can’t sleep. This isn’t the cut and dried parenting decision I’m used to. What if I’ve talked him into it and he hates it? He’ll be absolutely fine if he doesn’t go. But I can’t help but feel like he’ll be so much better than fine if he goes.

Red Writing Hood: Mankie

This week's assignment from Red Writing Hood is to write about something ugly and find the beauty in it. This piece is exactly 600 words--which is the limit. Constructive criticism is welcome.

Mankie

I pull the Batman sheets off my son’s bed, careful not to include any of his stuffed animals in the laundry. The top bunk is cluttered with creatures from a traditional brown teddy bear to a fantastic green dragon with shiny wings. Amid the plush menagerie is a baby’s blanket. Years ago it was powder blue with soft shiny trim. Now it’s browning with age and gets a little crusty between washings. The satin binding has been repaired many times. My uneven zig zag stitches create small lumps here and there.

When Owen was small he didn’t want a pacifier and he didn’t suck his thumb. He never even took a bottle. For the first few months of his life I was the pacifier and I was getting very tired of that role. Upon hearing my complaints one day, my mother said, “He needs a blanket with a satin edge.”

I couldn’t imagine why that would help. Why would one particular kind of blanket work when every brand of pacifiers on the market had failed? But I was willing to try anything at that point. “We have one,” I told her. “There was a blue blanket like that in the gift basket they gave me at the office.”

She hunted around the nursery and found the blanket. She presented it to Owen as if it was the Holy Grail. He immediately took it in his arms with a smile and rubbed his face against the satin binding. From that moment, the only time he was without that blanket was when I pried it from his hands so I could wash it. My mother was right. He needed a blanket with a satin edge. Apparently, when you’ve raised four children and had ten grandchildren and sixteen nieces and nephews, you learn a thing or two about babies.

Owen squeezed and chewed the blanket as he fell asleep for years. He wore it as a superhero cape. It cured carsickness, nightmares, hurt feelings and insomnia. Owen didn’t use the pronoun “it” when talking about Mankie, he would say “he” or “she”. I forgot to pack Mankie on one vacation—Owen barely slept for five days.

A children’s librarian once heard me call Owen by name and suggested we check out the book Owen by Kevin Henkes. In the book, Owen is a mouse who has a favorite yellow blanket named Fuzzy who goes everywhere with him. A nosy neighbor named Mrs. Tweezers convince Owen’s parents that he’s too old for Fuzzy. They try dipping the edge of Fuzzy in vinegar and being stern but Owen does not want to let go of Fuzzy.

As I read the book to my Owen I could feel him getting tense and holding Mankie closer and closer. At the end of the book, Owen and his mother come up with the idea of cutting up Fuzzy and making handkerchiefs out of it. I should have read Owen The Shining by Stephen King. He would have been less disturbed.

We created some rules about Mankie as Owen got a little older, but I never tried to make him give it up. Mankie lives in the bedroom and can only come out to be washed or taken on long car rides. Mankie is threadbare and stained and smelly, but sometimes it comforts my growing boy. I was given many baby blankets when I was pregnant—quilts and hand knitted blankets and countless flannel swaddling blankets. And there was a beautiful blue blanket with satin trim. I didn’t know a blanket could do more than keep a child warm.

Family, Freebies, and my Fiftieth Blog Post

            Last week was February vacation here in New England. Unfortunately all the fun things we had planned for the week were cancelled thanks to a nasty cold virus that invaded our home. James and I got hit early in the week so we were feeling pretty close to normal by Saturday. That was right around the time his accomplice big brother became pale and feverish and wasn’t up for anything more challenging than sleeping through Saturday morning cartoons. So James and I went to Target Saturday on a mission for supplies to sustain the family through another day or so of quarantine.

            We picked up juice, crackers, ibuprofen, a tub of modeling clay, a jigsaw puzzle and a couple of movies from the $5.00 bin. It had been a long time since James had been out of the house and he was spastic bouncing of the walls enthusiastic at Target. The cashier remarked that there was only another day left of February vacation left. She was looking forward to sending her kids back to school on Monday. I could relate! James had been home most of the week before vacation with a stomach bug. I have been sorely missing my time alone for the better part of two weeks. I can’t tell you how blissful it feels today to go a couple of hours with no one asking me for juice, complaining about their stomach, head, or throat, ask to borrow my computer, or describe in detail the difference between a Storm Trooper and a Clone Trooper.

            But then the cashier said something I couldn’t relate to. She said, “If I had it to do it over again, I would have only one child not two.” I didn’t quite know what to say so I laughed it off and said something like, “I have two boys. They can be a handful, but they mean so much to each other.” She shook her head and replied, “It’s too much. I would only have one.” I try in this world of parenting to not judge other parents. There are so many choices to make and so may different ways to raise children. And none of us knows for sure what is going to work until our children are grown. But she said it twice. She said it casually to someone she doesn’t know at all. I couldn’t help but wonder if she says thing like that in front of her kids.

            Of all the things I’ve done in my life, the two things I absolutely wouldn’t change are having my boys and marrying my husband. I’ve been a parent for almost nine years and I have no romantic illusions of perfect children (or being a perfect parent). I’ve held my baby while he was getting stitches, been thrown up on, cleaned up all manner of icky things, been so tired I could barely stand, second guessed my decisions and had days of frustration and anger. I have wished my children would be quiet, wished I had more patience with them, wished they would listen, wished they wouldn’t wake up so early, wished they were self cleaning, even wished it were acceptable to duct tape them on occasion. But never have I wished I hadn’t had one of them. They are my greatest blessings.

            Another decision I am glad I made was starting this blog back in September. This is my fiftieth blog post! I am so grateful to the folks who stop by to read what I have to say. I am overwhelmed by the support and feedback I’ve received from readers—some of them aren’t even related to me! In honor of my fiftieth post, I’m offering my very first give-away this week. Leave a comment below before midnight Eastern Time on Thursday March 3rd and you’ll be entered into a drawing to receive a $20 gift code for CSN Stores. They sell everything from pendant lighting to popcorn poppers. I’ll announce the winner on Friday. Good luck!

Afterglow

            I’m pretty sure I’ve made it clear that I love Christmas. But this year I find myself enjoying the day after just a little more. The last few weeks have been a frenzy of baking, shopping, wrapping, food preparation and socializing. Today is all about unwinding. It helps that we’re having some serious snow around here. It started snowing around 8:30 this morning. We have blizzard warnings starting at noon today (Sunday) and extending until 6:00 Monday night. I couldn’t go anywhere if I wanted to—my car is terrible in slippery conditions.

I can’t think of a better day to be snowed in. I made prime rib for Christmas dinner and now the bones are simmering on the stove with veggies and herbs to make beef and barley soup for tonight’s supper. I have all the necessary provisions people scramble to acquire on a day like today: bread, milk and eggs. I also have some not-so-necessary things to make the day special like red wine, apple pie, proscuitto, good cheese, cookies, dark chocolate, and Knob Creek bourbon.

I have plenty of things to keep us all entertained. We have a couple of movies from Netflix that I didn’t have time to see over the past few crazy weeks. I can spend some time figuring out how to work my new GPS (thanks Santa!) and reading my new Sookie Stackhouse novel (don’t judge! I just finished Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections—I deserve a little brain candy). Not to mention the fact that I got Rock Band Country for the PS3. Video games aren’t really my thing, but I’ll take just about any excuse to sing. Move over Carrie and Martina—here comes Vickie!

My kids have been hopping from one new toy to the next since 6:30 yesterday morning—science experiments, Legos, magic tricks and video games. They jumped at the chance to play in the snow this afternoon. You know what I love about snow? It exhausts the kids! A couple of hours in the snow followed by some hot cocoa and a movie and they’ll be worn out.

There is even a Patriot’s game on TV this afternoon. It’s in Buffalo, where strangely, it isn’t snowing. So there is something for everyone.

Normally I work on Sundays so today is particularly special for me. I’m not going anywhere beyond my own yard at least until tomorrow. My boys could conceivably lure me outside to help build a snow fort later on. Right now they’re content on their own so I can read, write, play and relax. I hope you get the chance to do the same. If you’re one of those people who has a job keeping the rest of us safe—firefighters, police officers, medical professionals, and snow plow drivers—thank you and stay safe. I promise to stay out of your way.  Happy day after Christmas everyone! 

The snow before the BIG snow.

Playing Hooky

            This morning as my six-year-old son James was getting his coat on he announced that he wasn’t feeling well. He had been awake for almost two hours exhibiting only the slightest sign of having the sniffles. Being a concerned parent, I naturally responded with sympathy. I believe my exact words were, “Get your coat on.”

            James somewhere, somehow acquired a penchant for drama. So I’m not quick to believe that he’s sick—even when he’s putting on a pretty good show. This morning he wasn’t even putting on his normal Oscar worthy song and dance. I figured he’d be distracted once he got to school and forget about being “sick”.

            A couple of hours later (while lying on the copy-room floor attempting to extract a sliver of paper from the inner workings of the copy machine) my cell phone rang. It was the school nurse. He didn’t seem that sick to her either. But there he was in the nurses office coughing—but only when the nurse said, “You don’t seem to be coughing.” 

            Back in the spring, I wrote the following piece for a writing class. It is written from the point of view of myself as a five-year-old and is based upon a day I remember spending with my dad. Thinking about days like this are probably the reason I left work and picked James up instead of sending him back to class. It's called “The Best Day Ever”.

It’s still dark outside when my mother wakes me up. I want to stay under my green and white gingham bedspread. She lets me hide a little longer while she works on getting my brothers out of bed. I can hear my sister in the shower. Kindergarten starts later than everyone else’s school and they are too busy in the morning to try to get me out of bed early. I love my bed—it is a river raft, and a stage, and a parade float, and a trampoline.

            Eventually my dad comes in to wake me up. They had something called lay-offs where he works so he gets to spend more time with me. He goes to school now too—just like me.

            “Come on My Little Chickadee,” he says. “Time to get up.”

            “I don’t feel good.” I tell him.

            “Why don’t you come downstairs? Maybe some orange juice will make you feel better.”

            “Okay. But I don’t think it will work,” I say with a sigh.

            He gets me an English muffin and a glass of orange juice. It does make me feel better but I still don’t want to go to school.

            “What’s the matter Sweetie? I thought you loved kindergarten.”

            I do love kindergarten. I love learning my letters and numbers. I love snack time—sometimes we get saltines with peanut butter! I love the monkey bars at recess. I even like naptime. I just don’t like the bus. Lisa will make fun of me. She is tall and wears pretty dresses.  She has shiny blond hair like Nellie on “Little House on the Prairie”.  My hair is brown. Lisa makes fun of my sweater—it is navy blue. Hers is pink. She says my sweater is black and looks like a boy’s sweater. I have begged my mother for a pink sweater. But she says my navy blue sweater is very practical—it goes with everything and doesn’t get dirty as quickly. I don’t want to tell Daddy about Lisa.

            “I do like kindergarten Daddy.” I tell him. “I just don’t feel like going today.”

             “Well I wasn’t going to get any yard work done today anyway,” He says looking out the window at the rain. I suppose one day off won’t kill you. Okay. But you have to help me around the house this morning and let me get some homework done.”

            I giggle when he says that. I think it’s funny that Daddy has homework like my sister and brothers. He is studying to be a teacher like Mommy.

            Daddy vacuumed and I dusted. I got to watch “Sesame Street” and “Mister Rogers” while Daddy did his homework. He bought a small bag of potato chips to have with our lunch. Mommy doesn’t buy junk food so it was a big treat. The best part was playing checkers—I won three times.

            I tried to get Daddy to let me stay home again the next day. But he said if I was well enough to beat him in checkers three times, I was well enough to go to school. At least it isn’t going to rain tomorrow. We’ll be able to play on the monkey bars at recess. Lisa may have a prettier sweater than I do, but she misses all the fun trying to keep it clean.

            So today, instead of telling the school nurse to send James back to class, I said, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes or so”. He definitely has a little cold—the inconsequential kind most of us work through and try to ignore. We had chicken noodle soup and peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. James helped me clean a little and he watched a little TV. When it was time to pick up his big brother at the bus stop, James declared, “I feel better Mom!” Maybe it was knowing he’d miss tomorrow’s Cub Scout Christmas party if he missed another day of school. But I like to think having a little one-on-one time with Mom made him feel better. Hanging out with him certainly made my day a little better.

Thanks!

            It’s t-minus forty-eight hours until Thanksgiving Day. You’ve probably noticed that the grocery store is packed with people who only cook once a year and don’t know where anything is. Facebook and the blogosphere are going to be jammed with lists of things people are thankful for and testaments to gratitude. I’m not going to knock that—I think a little extra gratitude could fix a lot of problems in the world. If my children grow up to have integrity, kindness and a sense of gratitude I will feel I did something right.

            So I decided to pull together a list of things I’m thankful for. I don’t have the obvious stuff on here. Of course I’m thankful for my home, my family, and my health. I make sure I say thank you to the Man Upstairs for those and my many other blessings on a regular basis. Here’s a list of the little everyday things that make my life better.

The Little things I’m Thankful For

1.)   My husband loves my laugh lines.

2.)   Strawberries. They’re good for you, have tons of vitamins and anti-oxidants and fiber and yet they are DELICIOUS! And they aren’t the kind of good for you like red wine and dark chocolate where you’re supposed to eat them in moderation. You can eat LOTS of strawberries even if you’re on a diet (unless it’s a low-carb diet which I can’t do—carbs are part of the delicate web that keeps me sane).

3.)   While we’re at it. I’m pretty thankful about red wine and dark chocolate too. So even though you can’t shouldn’t gorge yourself on them, they’re still so tasty and good for your heart and your eyes—and my gene pool is full of bad hearts and macular degeneration (so I have an excuse to eat extra).

4.)   I have a fantastic mechanic. He never tries to talk me into any services I don’t need or talk to me like I’m an idiot (which might be appropriate when it comes to automobile service).

5.)   I’m grateful that my brother Jim asked my parents not to name me Jennifer as they had planned (apparently we had a neighbor with a dog named Jennifer and he objected to me being named after a dog). Don’t get me wrong, Jennifer is a lovely name. It was also the most common girl’s name the year I was born. Plus, they would have named me Jennifer Anne—so my initials would have been JAP.

6.)   My six-year-old still wants me to sing, “Sweet Baby James” to him every night.

7.)   Curbside recycling. It makes being “green” so much easier.

8.)   My blog has seven followers (hey! it’s a start!)—and they aren’t all related to me! Anyone want to make it eight?

Owen's contribution to the list.

9.)   My eight-year-old is still a hugger—and shows no signs of changing.

10.)                  I’m thankful that a crazy trainer at the gym talked me into running my first 5k. I never would have done it if no one asked. I’m not so thankful for her talking me into playing in the dodgeball tournament. I’m still having flashbacks.

11.)                  My husband likes my laugh lines. He does! No, he isn’t just saying that because he wants something—shut up!

12.)                  My cat thinks he’s a puppy. He runs to the door to greet me when I get home and lies on his back so I can scratch his belly. He has the temperament of a dog, but he’s low-maintenance like a cat.

13.)                  Fall in New England. I think it’s the main reason most of us haven’t moved south (that and we get tired of people asking us to say "pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd"). Sandwiched in between the near tropical heat of August and months of ice and snow, the gorgeous weather and scenery are reason enough to stay.

14.)                  My kids still go to bed before 8:00. Yes, they’re up pretty early but having  a couple of quiet hours in the evening is wonderful.

15.)                  Did I mention that my husband loves my laugh lines?

What are the little things you’re thankful for this year? Did you find jeans that make you look fabulous? Did you get carded even though you can’t even remember what you did on your 21^st birthday anymore? Does that special someone think you look great with a few extra pounds? Leave a comment—I’d love to know what you’re thankful for this year. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

The Reluctant Den Mother

            I’m willing to do a lot of things to help with the activities my children are involved in. I’ve baked for class parties, worked at school book fairs, and hosted an end of soccer season pizza party at my house. This summer I found myself writing and directing a couple of skits for Vacation Bible School. When it comes to Cub Scouts I’ve been more than willing to cook for the blue and gold banquet, ferry kids in my minivan the end of a parade route back to the beginning (where parents had parked). I’ve offered to help design posters and even work on getting a website going. But I have sworn that I would not become a Den Leader. It just isn’t my thing. There are plenty of ways I am willing and able to contribute, but Den Leader (or Den Mother as they used to say in the good old days)? Maybe you ought to talk to my husband about that sort of thing. He’s a guy after all—good with his hands, outdoorsy, not to mention far more patient with other people’s children than I am.

            I didn’t go to many of the den meetings last year. My husband took Owen to Scouts and I stayed home with James unless I was working a night shift—in which case Dan brought both boys along. Cub Scout meetings are torture for children old enough to understand what’s going on but too young to be a scout (it’s equally torturous for the parents of said children). But this year, James was old enough and was itching to sign up.

            This year, my husband has had rehearsals on Wednesday nights, so I’m the one going to Scout meetings. At the first Pack meeting of the year, they asked for volunteers. The Assistant Cub Master suggested that if each parent took on the responsibilities of Den Leader for one month, it wouldn’t be too much of a burden on any one parent. You know what happens next, right? No one raises their hand and says, “Pick me! Pick me!” So I took a deep breath and broke that solemn promise I made to myself, “Mike,” I said to the Assistant Cub Master, “I’ll take the Tigers (first graders) for September and October.” The next thing I knew, he gave me a binder with a weekly curriculum to follow and a website I needed to go to complete something called, “Youth Protection Training”.

Okay, okay, I'll be a leader. But NO uniform. I have to draw a line somewhere.

            Anyone who knows me (and probably someone who has been reading this blog) knows that I don’t do much in half measures (except maybe housecleaning). So I spent a lot of my free time the following week reading the program book, planning and gathering materials. By the next weekend I was prepared—but terrified.

            When we arrived for my first meeting as Den Leader, Mike, said to me, “Jack (the Cub Master) is stuck in traffic and probably won’t get here. Can you take the Tigers and the Wolves and I’ll take the Bears and the Webelos?” I pasted a look of supreme (and phony) confidence on my face and said, “Sure, no problem.” Thank God I have theatre training (it has loads of uses in the real world—believe me). So I took the boys—James, James, Jonathan, Jonathan, and Joshua (seriously—God must have been smiling down on me because I am HORRIBLE with names) downstairs and we made scouting scrapbooks and talked about the Cub Scout motto and the Cub Scout pledge. Much to my surprise, the meeting went well. So well in fact, that the following week I was still the Den Leader for the Tigers and the Wolves, which wasn’t so bad because it was only five boys. Preparation was a bit of a pain in the neck because I needed to create one program out of two to suit the different levels of scouts. It had to be at a level that first-graders could follow and wouldn’t bore the life out of the second graders.

            And then Cub Master Jack called on Saturday afternoon, “Great news! We had a sign up at the Hancock School Friday night and signed up nine new boys!” Um. Nine. New. Boys. “Wow,” I said after I regained consciousness, “How many of them are Tigers and Wolves Jack?”  The count was eight. Eight new boys for me. How was I going to handle this? I bet some of their names don’t even start with the letter J and then I’ll really be screwed I thought.

            Fortunately another parent stepped up to lead the Bears, which allowed the Cub Master to take the Tigers off my hands. Now I have a manageable sized group all the same age. Plus, October’s over right? So, I’m done, right? Because I just volunteered for September and October. Right?

            During my boys’ last check up, their pediatrician told me that he had been a Den Leader for years. Years.

“You know,” he said. “I think there is a gene we could call the ‘V’ gene for people who always end up volunteering for stuff—Den Leaders, soccer coaches, little league.  I hate to disappoint the kids.”

I thought about this conversation when Jack approached me at the last pack meeting. “Are you going to break my heart?” He asked.

“In what way?” I responded.

“Well, you only signed up for September and October. It’s November.” Jack thinks I’m really good at this Den Leader thing—either that or he’s flattering me so I’ll stick with it.”

I looked over at the boys who had become my Cub Scouts over the previous few weeks and I thought about what my pediatrician had said. “You know Jack,” I said. “I think I can stick with these guys through Christmas.”