Walk it Off

 My wonderful son is EIGHTEEN, despite my efforts to keep him tiny and cherished. I can remember him chasing cats around the kitchen in his walker, and changing his diapers, and holding him when he was scared.  We had such wonderful conversations when I drove him to and from school with him securely strapped into a car seat.  We would talk about God and the whole world.  Now he actually drives himself to school while I say a silent prayer that he gets there safely.  

When I was that age, I didn't see myself as an adult.  I moved into my college dorm without a care in the world, thinking that college was just high school, part two.  Mom and Dad were there to take care of any emergencies that popped up. The first time I ever got sick while in college, I called my Dad. Any time I got sick, I talked to my dad, because he would say, "Meh, it's nothing, walk it off," and I knew that I would survive.  Except that is not what my Dad said this time.  

"What do you want me to do about it?  I'm a few thousand miles away." 

And I remember thinking a bad word, because Dad, in his infinite wisdom, was right.  That did not solve my dilemma, however. My stomach really hurt, and not in the way a stomachache has you laying on the couch sipping Sprite and eating crackers while watching soap operas.  This was actual pain, knives poking into my gut repeatedly. Never happened to me before, so I freaked, of course.

My anxiety immediately went to the conclusion that I was going to die.  

I eventually realized that there was a clinic on campus, and I walked there, slowly, in the dark. I saw a person at the clinic that may have been a doctor, but maybe not.  This person looked at my pale, tearstained face, listened to my tale of woe, gave me a prescription for what was probably Prilosec, and sent me home.  No emergency room visit.  I was fine the next day.   I probably could have just walked it off, but I was eighteen.  

So now my boy has been having stomach issues, but I am right here to share the wisdom of my Dad, and the OTC Prilosec.  And my son did indeed go walking, and his stomach stopped hurting.  There's a lesson in there somewhere, maybe about problem solving or pausing for a breath before freaking out.  I'll let my child figure it out.

Walk it off.  

Mother-Son Bonding, With Tissues

I grew up a cryer.  I was a very emotional child, and the slightest little change in the weather had me bawling my eyes out.  I cried for two and a half hours after (SPOILER ALERT) Old Yeller died.  It was embarrassing, because it is really hard to be taken seriously when you have a big snot bubble hanging off the end of your nose.  So I tried very hard not to cry.  Of course, the harder I tried to cry, the worse it was, but finally I arrived at a point where I could stay calm in emotional situations without getting teary.

Then I became a mom.  

Zane and I were sitting in the living room, each of us doing our own thing in a companionable silence one afternoon.  It was very hot outside, but the room we were in was cool and dark and comfortable.  I was squinting hard and trying to read an article on my phone, and Zane was determining which of his Lego minifigures needed a makeover. 

"Mom?"

"Yes?"  I gave up on squinting, and looked up at my son. When he was a baby, that expression meant that he was pooping, but now it signaled deep thoughts.

"You know how I'm going to grow up one day?"  Zane said, not looking at me.

"Yes, you will grow big and strong and follow your own path," I responded.

"Well, I'll be on my own, but I won't know everything, and I will still need you,"  Zane finally looked up right at me, his voice tiny. "Will you still be around?"

I pride myself on my ability to remain calm, and I very calmly burst into tears. I took a deep breath that hitched a bit. 

"That's the plan, son,"  I put my arms around him.  "But even if I am not physically here, I'll still be around to help you if you need me." 

At least that is what I think I said.  I was a little blubbery, and may not have enunciated.  But I think Zane understood.  I hugged him until he complained about me getting his shirt wet.  He went back to his Legos and I blew my nose, and the moment passed. 

Except it is still in my heart.   I've been looking at pictures of kittens online, just to get back some equilibrium. 


 www.kittenlady.org

Overcoming A Fear or Two

My son came home from school with news.  It seems that he was the top of his class in Geography.  We didn't know that Fourth Grade had Geography in the curriculum, but we congratulated Zane on a job well done.

There was more, however.  Zane was one of a group of kids who would be competing for the honor of representing Saint Monica School in the regional contest.  This was a big deal, Zane said, his voice a bit off.

"Are you going to have to get up in front of the other kids?" I asked him. I knew that Zane was anxious about standing up in front of a bunch of people; he had refused to try out for plays, and spelling bees gave him the heebie-jeebies.  He gets that anxiety honestly from me. 

Zane answered that he was going to do the Geography Bee, even though the idea made him nervous.  He then asked to call him Grandma.  I dialed the number and handed him my phone, whereupon Zane told his Grandma all about the Geography Bee and the big prize of a trip to the those Islands where Charles Darwin came up with his big theory.  Once he finished with Grandma, Zane asked to speak to his Grandpa and told him the same story.   He asked both of them to come on Friday to watch him in the contest.  I was listening, and Zane sounded excited.

He hung up the phone and promptly started freaking himself out.  He wasn't too sure about how he would do in front of all those people.  He might forget everything he ever learned.  What if people laughed? Each 'what if' is a tiny paper cut in the mind of a person with anxiety, and Zane is no different.

Larry and I told him that we loved him, and as long as he tried his best, it was all good.  These events require more courage than most of us think about. Larry and I knew Zane could do it;  he had to believe it as well. So we listened and encouraged and hugged, and when the big day came, his grandparents were all in attendance. Zane did not win, competing against kids in 4th-8th grade. He brought home his certificate and showed it with pride.  Larry and I cheered for him. 

My wish for Zane is that he tries this again, now that he's seen what he is capable of.  He may balk, but I'm goin to encourage him to try. There's a spelling bee coming up soon!

Parenting On The Draw

Larry and I were upstairs relaxing(otherwise known as "adult swim"), when Zane came racing upstairs. He looked nervous. He had his tablet in his hands.

"I feel like I am not alone downstairs," my boy said. I put down my book and sat up. We have been trying to work on Zane being alone on a different floor(hence the "adult swim"), but my child does not like to be alone, period.  I asked the obvious question.

"Who else do you think is down there with you?" 

"A ghost," Zane tried to climb up in my lap, which already contained a large dog. 

"Have you been watching creepy YouTube videos, like you are not supposed to?"  That was the next obvious question. The boy's latest thing was some "3AM challenge" where you post a video of yourself doing stupid things like cleaning the bathroom or something.  Lots of jump scares.  Or something.  I nodded off during the one I saw.  MY generation grew up with The Exorcist, for cryin' out loud.  And that was way before CGI effects.  

"Maybe,"  came the answer. 

Okay, I said. I could have just started yelling at him that this is the 438th time I have told him NOT to watch scary videos, but there would be no point. He gets that behavior from me, the person who likes to watch creepy videos while she is eating lunch.  At work.  During the summer.  When no one else is in the building. 

"There are no ghosts in this house right now, honey," I told him. I have not seen a single one this year."  To distract Zane from a meltdown many moons ago, I had blurted out that I could see ghosts.  I thought that if I said that, and I told him there were no ghosts, he would believe me and not be scared. It seemed okay at the time. It stopped the behavior, but the legend remains. 

Zane started to argue with me. I held up a hand, and he stopped.

"What was Zena doing while you were down there feeling not alone?" 

"Sleeping," came the answer.  I then explained that if there had been a ghost, the cat would have jumped up to chase the ghost off.   Cats are reported to be able to see this sort of thing, according to some book I read or movie that I saw. Zena would not allow any ghosts in the house, 

"There are no ghosts in this house, honey," concluding, I patted his head.  I tried to pick up my book.

My boy would not be soothed, no matter what. Fairy tales did not comfort him. Religious medals did not comfort him. Prayer did not comfort him.  Calling Grandpa did not comfort him. An explanation of the neurological processes involved in seeing ghosts did not zilch. Then I had an idea.

"What do the Winchesters do when the ghosts show up, Zane?"  Supernatural has been on longer than Zane has been alive, and with some gory episode exceptions, we allow him to watch. Usually, Zane just glances at the TV every now and then while he is playing.  But never underestimate a kid.  Despite our impression of inattentiveness, Zane knew the right answer. 

"The Winchesters use salt!"  He and I high-fived.  I told him that there was some salt packets down stairs in the pantry, and Zane ran down stairs.  I picked up my book, and praised myself for quick thinking. Until I heard the boy rumbling up the steps.

"Hey mom, do we have a shotgun?" 

It's Not Summer Unless There is an ER Visit

Zane had a cough.  He's had a cough for some time, and he'd already had one doctor visit for it at the beginning of June.  Just a random virus, the doctor said, and sent Larry and Zane home.  In the back of my mind, I thought of the possibility of allergies.  This is central Texas, after all, and everybody and their dog has allergies here(I am not kidding--our dog has allergies, too!)  Then I filed that thought under 'random things to worry about at 3am' and got busy doing other things, like being gainfully employed. 

And then last week, Zane still had a cough. No behavior changes, talking normally, no wheezing, nothing different...except that I burned my hand on his forehead.  My boy had a fever.  I gave him ibuprofen and went to work.  That night, Zane still had a fever, which had not really responded to just ibuprofen. We added acetaminophen, alternating them, like we have been told to do.  Just a cough and a fever.  Probably some random virus, Larry and I said.  We would call the doctor in the morning. 

And we did.  The doctor's office did not seem to be worried about it.  We were even told to stop the fever reducers, just to see if Zane could fight the infection off.  Okay.  Our family went about our business, which included painting the downstairs. Zane acted normally, which meant whining about the stinky smell of paint and not being allowed to play on the Xbox.  Around five, we took Zane's temperature again, and it was higher than expected.  We called the doctor's office and were told to give our boy ibuprofen and to bring him in the next day.  That would have been fine, except that Zane's cough had become rather barky-sounding.  And his fever went up, not down. 

This situation is one of the times that I forget that I am an adult.  I wanted my dad, because my dad always knows what to do in emergencies.  My entire life, if there was an emergency, my dad just rushes out there and fixes it.  However, my dad happened to be on vacation, so it was up to me.  I looked at my son.

"We're going to the ER," I said. 

Zane freaked out, because I never say stuff like that.  I freaked out, because I really don't ever say stuff like that.  Larry didn't argue about anything except which ER.  I wanted the closest, he wanted the children's hospital.  We calmed Zane down and headed to the children's ER.  I let Larry do the talking, because that helps with his anxiety.  All Zane cared about was not having a strep test, which of course, he had to have. 

And a chest xray. 

And two breathing treatments. 

And steroids.

And TWO antibiotics.

My son had pneumonia.  Pneumonia? PNEUMONIA.  If the doctor hadn't shown us the xray and pointed it out, I would have said he was nuts.  It wasn't severe just yet. You could barely hear it with a stethoscope. But there it was.  We went home with two pages of prescriptions, and over the past week, I have learned a couple of things:

1. Children with ADHD on steroids are not going to sit quietly as they recover. They are going to bounce off the walls and act like they normally do; and

2. Parents of children with ADHD who are put on steroids should be given a prescription for Xanax, so they can recover from having an ADHD child on steroids.

I have also learned that I can do adulting, if I need to.  Yay me. 

A Boy's Life Is Complicated

"MOM!!!!"

"What?" I walked to the back door, hoping that whatever Zane was excited about was not squishy or stinky. 

"There's a bug outside!" 

"There are lots of bugs outside, son." I started to turn around and head back to whatever I was doing, but Zane grabbed my hand.  

"No, Mom," he said as he pulled me outside.  "Come see!"

And there, in the middle of the patio, was this huge bug, legs up in the air.  It was as long as my thumb, and very dead.  

At least, we hoped it was dead.   You really can't be too careful with creepy crawlies.  

But I'm supposed to be the brave one in the family. After I established that the bug in question was not a giant cockroach(my persistent phobia), I flipped the bug over. A Rhinoceros beetle revealed itself.  A beautiful insect, and I was sorry that it was dead, but secretly not so much.  I explained to Zane that this was a perfect specimen, as it appeared to be completely intact. 

"You should take it to school and show your teacher," I said. Zane was skeptical, because he really wasn't convinced that the colossal beetle on the patio was actually deceased.  It still retained that lifelike sheen, as if it were about to slowly shamble into the grass.  I got one of those plastic tubs from the kitchen, and used a stick to roll the rhinoceros beetle into it.  Then I put the lid on and handed it to Zane.  

"Put it in your backpack for school tomorrow," I told him.  Zane was now in a quandry.  He wanted to be brave, like his mom.  And he wanted the 'street cred' that he would get as a nine year old with a beetle on steroids for show and tell.  On the other hand, creepy dead insect which might not actually be dead? In his backpack, possibly eating his lunch?  Big negative, Ghostrider!

My son and I share a fascination with insects and other creepy crawlies...from a distance.  Like pictures in a book kind of distance.  We enjoy watching bugs on television, for instance.  Or bugs on the other side of the glass at the zoo.  Bugs in the house, not so much.  I know that my issue stems from straight up heebie-jeebies--the feeling of those little hairs on insect legs crawling on my skin!  GAHHHH!!!  It is possible that Zane has picked up on my anxiety.  Kids are sensitive to such things.  Or perhaps genetics play a role.  All I know is that when there is a cockroach in the house, Zane and I are on the couch, feet up, while Larry dispatches the intruder.  

My boy sucked it up.  He put the container with the big beetle in his backpack.  He checked it three times before bed, to make sure it was still in the container.  He checked it in the morning.  I'm sure that he checked it on the ride to school, but I was driving.  His teacher was suitably impressed, and Zane basked in the glow of teacher approval. 

"She said it was cool!" Zane told me on the way home from school.  I told him that I was very proud of him for taking it to school.

"Okay," he said. "Can you take it out of my back pack now?"

 

Put a Mom in Charge

I consider it my sacred duty as a mother to be ready for all sorts of emergency situations, be it a torn pair of pants or a scraped knee. All moms feel the same.  However, when said parent has an anxiety disorder, the "emergency" becomes more bloody and horrific.  We can't help having visions of our precious offspring suffering some terrible malady, and we will do anything in our power to avoid such an occurrence.

When my son began to play soccer, I realized that various injuries were highly likely.  After all, soccer involves a bunch of kids running after the same ball in a swirling mass of legs and arms, trying to score goals.  Eyes get poked, ankles get turned.  What parent wouldn't be worried about that?  

The best way to alleviate anxiety is action.  Instead of being paralyzed by the vivid images in my brain, I started planning. When Zane was younger, I planned on those instant cold packs and band aids for the sidelines.  Since three year old Zane was of the opinion that an ice pack solved every ill, we were good. 

As Zane has become older, however, I've had to plan the first aid kit out more carefully.  In addition to situations requiring an ice pack or a band aid, we now have to concern ourselves with bug bites, allergic reactions, dirt in the eye, broken or sprained limbs, heatstroke, bloody noses, annoyed referees, and the occasional broken shoe lace. There's also the mud that gets on your cleats and makes a kid feel like they are running in quicksand. 

I have not sat idly by, nursing my anxiety.  I may not be able to rush out on the field when my child is hurt, but I've made sure to pack the most ridiculously comprehensive first aid kit in recreational soccer history.  At least that's what I think.  I was prepared for pretty much everything.  I've even got thermal blankets in there, too, in case someone goes into shock.   I spent one morning organizing and packing everything into a special container, labeling each bag with the contents, so my husband, who does get to sit on the sidelines near the players, can find what he needs quickly.

Except for the fact that Larry doesn't know the first thing about first aid, we're golden. 

But this exercise made me think that perhaps there were other areas in life where moms should be in charge of the planning and organizing.  In addition to first aid, moms should probably be in charge of other situations that require such preparation.  Maybe emergency management?  A mom would be able to stock up on everything needed to prepare for just about every situation.  How about managing the large crowds at a football stadium.  Moms might not be able to do crowd control, but they can spot areas of concern in an instant and they know how to fix the problem.  Moms do a lot of on-the-spot problem solving, and they should get credit for that. Whereas a man tends to be initially stymied by surprise occurrences, moms just wade right into the situation.

Maybe what this world needs is more moms in charge?    

Nobody Follows Directions Anymore

The instructions from my son's school were very clear at the beginning of the school year.   Carpool drop off was only on THIS side of the school, we were told. For everyone's safety, they said. The school even took the time to paint arrows in the parking lot to specifically outline the direction the cars were supposed to move and  to indicate where they were to line up.  Very simple.   I pulled up to the school the first day, as directed! I dropped my son off in the designated spot and headed off to work.  No problem.

Except then the additional directions began showing up in my email in-box:

Parents are asked to pull up to a specific point before dropping off their child.

Parents are asked not to 'cut' in the line.

Parents are asked not to pull out of the line after dropping their child off in some random spot.

Parents are asked not to chat with random passerby while in the carpool line.

Parents are asked not to pull into the handicapped spots instead of going through the carpool line.

**Parents are asked not to run over any of the random senior citizens who are arriving at church for the 8am Mass.

I started getting a little frustrated with all the emails.  The car pool directions were very specific and simple.  Easy to follow.  There are little yellow arrows all over the parking lot, and all you have to do was follow them.

What was going on?

Nobody was following directions.

Parents were not paying attention to the arrows carefully painted on the asphalt, so they felt that the directions did not apply to them.  Parents were in too much of a hurry to pull up to a specific spot in the line, therefore the directions didn't apply to them, either.  Parents needed to pull into the handicapped spot because it was convenient for their needs. The directions(and laws) especially did not apply to them, either.

This would not necessarily bother me in other circumstances.  I've always followed my own path.  I'm not the first person out there who thinks that some rules are kind of stupid.  But this is not about me, or those parents. It's about setting an example.  We send our kids to school to learn.  Part of learning involves following the directions. Kids are even graded on their ability to follow directions. Fer cryin' out loud, learning math is all about following directions!

How can we expect kids to follow directions when their parents can't manage it?  We punish kids who don't follow directions, and then we do the exact opposite? What is a poor kid supposed to do, when his parents can't follow the directions given by their own elementary school? 

It's the whole "do as I say, not as I do" routine that kids have dealt with for centuries. That used to drive me crazy when I was a kid, and it drives me nuts now.  I'm outraged for all the kids out there who are completely confused by these situations.  They have enough to worry about, without their parents causing such a ruckus. 

My first solution to this particular issue is to start with the shaming of those parents who can't manage to follow the directions. Knock on their car window and inform them of their error.  However, my son has informed me that I mustn't embarrass him in front of his friends and classmates.  This has thus far stymied my efforts, because my attention span is not very long these days.  I may get irritated by the behavior of my fellow parents in the car pool lane, but then I get distracted by a song on the radio or with thoughts about the coming day. 

I'm a work in progress. 

**I may have made that one up.

Being Darth Sidious is Stupid

A month ago, Zane said or did something that upset another child when they were playing in the bouncy castle.  Stuff like that happens hourly between children.  Friendships are made, broken, and reformed multiple times an hour among kids.  It's how they learn to get along with each other.  Whatever happened, the parent got angry about it. 

When some people get angry about something, they speak with the person they are angry at.  They may take a moment to calm down and organize their thoughts, or they may just erupt like Vesuvius.  But they speak up.  They talk about it.  And we work it out.  Problem solved.  You always know where you stand with people like that, even if you don't like what they are saying. 

I like those people.

This particular parent did not say a word.  Plans were even floated for a movie date the next day.  She went home, Zane and his father went home.  We did not receive the respect of a phone call.  We did not receive a visit.  We did not receive a memo.  This woman was angry, but it was a secret. She was so secretive about her anger that we never had a clue.  We have been blissfully unaware, and likely happier for it.

The problem with secret anger?  Nobody knows about it. And if nobody knows about it, who can do anything?  We, as Zane's parents, are more than willing to dole out consequences when he does something wrong.  If we know of a problem, we try to fix it.  It's necessary to have these conflict resolution skills in order to navigate the world as an adult, so we try to model them appropriately for Zane.  Except what is the point of trying to give a consequence a month or more after the fact?  Zane doesn't even remember what he did yesterday, let alone a month ago.  With kids, you have to jump on their behavior pretty quick, so the point sinks in. 

When I get angry, I speak up in most cases(sometimes, I know that the problem is me, and I take a nap and get over it).  I let the person know that they've done something that bothers me, and I try to work it out.    But secret anger, or passive aggression, isn't necessarily something you can prepare your kids for.  It's Darth Sidious, spreading the web of malcontent that finally overthrew the Jedi.  If the Jedi had known that Darth Sidious was feeling so angry, maybe they would have brought balance to the Force by offering him a cookie or something.  We'll never know.

Secret anger isn't helpful or productive. The person you're angry at doesn't get to explain, or make amends, or anything. The passive aggressive person gets to hug their anger close, feel morally superior over being wronged, whatever...yet the person they're secretly angry at goes about their business without a clue. There's a feeling of power for the passive aggressive person, but nobody else gets a payoff. How is that productive? How does that improve the world?  It doesn't.

The only reason we know about the secret anger is that we made the egregious error of asking about another play date.  Snarky text messages led to an angry phone call, and we still aren't exactly sure about anything.  Except that we will not be interacting with this person anymore.  Our life is already chaotic enough right now between surgeries and other aspects of my cancer journey.  I need positive people in my life, people who challenge and encourage me.  I don't need to be running around apologizing to everyone, just in case they are secretly angry.  If anger is so important to a person that they would rather keep it to themselves, that's fine.  I'll go hang out with the happy, positive people, none the wiser.

Strategic Friendship

I've always worried about my son's social skills.  He's an only extrovert growing up in a house full of introverts, after all.  Larry and I can go days without speaking, our noses in a book or at the computer, and we are content.  Zane would talk to grass if it would answer back, and gets irritated if there's no one around. 

I sometimes get to observe my son in his natural habitat, otherwise known as school, when there are schoolwide events.  I mostly hang back on these occasions and just let action unfold around me, because that's when the magic happens.  For example, I noticed both kids and adults approaching one student, George(not his real name), a boy in Zane's class.  George spent a great deal of time, hugging, smiling, and otherwise engaging with a great variety of people.  It's FERRIS BUELLER!!!! I thought to myself, because I think thoughts like that. 

"George, is there ANYONE here that you don't know?" I had to ask after the fifteenth person came running up to greet him.  After all, you usually don't see such happenings with an eight year old kid.  George never missed a beat.  

"Apparently not," he said. "I'm popular."

Popularity is something that I have little experience with, admittedly. It's never been important to me, the weird kid at the back of the room. I turned to watch Zane, content to run around with his little group of friends.  None of them seemed to mind that George had to stop and chat with everyone.  They weren't going to gather around him like an entourage, however. Zane and his friends went on about their business, and George caught up when he could. 

Zane left the group at one point, while his friends were shooting hoops  I finally noticed my son talking to the policeman hired for the day.  The officer was smiling.  Zane appeared genuinely interested in the officer's baton, his taser, his gun, and whatever other odds and ends officers keep in their belt.  And the officer seemed to love it, because they talked for about fifteen minutes.  The guy was still smiling as Zane returned to our group, and I realized that Zane had made a friend.

While Zane's friend George could be compared to Ferris Bueller, my child is more strategic in his friendships.  I used to do the same thing.  As an Army brat and perpetual new kid, I always made an effort to befriend the adults around me.  In a kid's world, adults are the ones who get things done, who make things happen. It's in a kid's best interest to take an interest in the adults around him. Especially those adults who might not be used to getting positive attention from anybody, let alone an eight year old kid who is truly interested in the people around him. Making friends with the adults around me helped me adjust more quickly to a new school and my place in it.   

Zane loves the librarian, and she loves him right back.  The second he walks into the library, he calls out "Hello, Ms. F.!", and you can tell that she doesn't hear that very often.  She lights up.  The two of them share a love of books that not many kids can bother with, these days.  My son appears to have made an effort to cultivate that relationship, just like his mother.  He's also made friends with the receptionist, the school nurse, the counselor, and the principal. I've seen them all light up when my son enters a room.  He's comfortable, and I like that.

Popular is fickle.  I don't care about popular.  Zane seems to care less about being popular, and more about the people.   Oh, that might change, as he gets older.  But for now, I'm feeling a little glow of pride in my son.  He's learning to make his way in the world.

Why I Can't Join The Perfect Mom Club

When I became a mom, I was envious of all the other moms out there.  They always made being moms seem so easy!  My mom friends wouldn't even blink as they wiped noses or opened a container of cheerios, while asking me about my childless adventures. All those moms made everything look easy.  Even my memories of my own mother were full of her calm demeanor as she cleaned up my brother's vomit.

This was clearly false advertising.

When Zane came along, I expected my Perfect Mom skills to awaken.  My boy was a preemie, but I was sure that I could step up to the plate and knock this motherhood thing out of the park.  I quickly learned, however, that being a mom is not as easy as it looks.  I was in way over my head and sinking fast, because children don't slow down and wait for their moms to catch up.  No, they just keep growing, and behaving like kids, and if a parent isn't ready for that, too darn bad. I aspired to be a Perfect Mom, I really did.  I've committed a number of parenting sins along the way, however, that have earned me a "Bad Mama" reputation.  I get looks from other moms, and I'm sure that some of them talk about me in hushed tones as a cautionary tale.  My sins?  

My son sometimes sleeps in our bed.  Yes, he's eight.  Yes, he has his own bed.  He has nightmares, or gets scared, and comes running.  He does not like to be alone in the dark. I can remember being terrified as a kid, all alone in my room in the darkness; I completely empathize.  Incentives don't work; Zane isn't awake when he climbs into our bed.  We have tried putting him back in his own bed, but let's get real, most of the time we don't even wake up when he climbs in bed.  And he's too heavy for me to pick up and carry right now, anyway.  My husband and I have never made a big deal out of the situation. 

My son does not take a bath every single day.  All the good moms give their kids baths every day, I'd heard.  There's entire rows of toys, soaps you can color the tile with, and other fun items to make bath time fun for the kids, since they're supposed to spend so much time in there.  However, I work 40-50 hours a week, and his father works about the same, and sometimes we are just too darn tired to do much beyond put some pajamas on the boy.  He gets a bath three times a week, and that is plenty for now.  Also, who wants to clean all that special coloring soap off the tile when bath time is over?    

My kid does his own homework. Zane has very messy handwriting when he rushes through his work.  And he rushes through his work all the time.  I could write everything out for him, but then I'm doing the work for him.  I may sit next to my son, and redirect him every thirty seconds when he sees a bird fly by the window,  but I do not complete his work for him.  If he asks me for the answer?  "I don't know", is my response.  He may get the answer wrong, but it is HIS work.  He earns the grades he gets, and he understands that.  It may take him a little longer to acquire a concept or two, but we celebrate his little milestones.

I yell sometimes.  I never start off yelling unless it is distance appropriate.  I always start off asking nicely.  I've read all the research studies on compliance over the years, and I try to follow them.  All the research studies on the planet, however,  can't compete with a child who does not want to stop what he is doing.  My son gets so hyperfocused that the building could fall down around him and he would not notice.  Or he thinks that if he ignores me that I will go away.  Or he just doesn't wanna.  The boy does not like to hear me yell, and he will immediately jump up and do as asked if I yell.  It's his Kryptonite, and I use it sparingly, so he knows that I mean business. If I yell AND use his full name?  He just goes straight up to his room.  

I don't make excuses for my child.  I have no illusions that my child is perfection incarnate.  If Zane comes home with a bad behavior note, we discuss it, and there are consequences.  Occasionally he tries to blame things on other kids or "the teacher made a mistake"--he is a kid. If they can get away with that, then that's what they'll do.  I know my kid, however.  I know that he likes to take shortcuts.  I know that he doesn't always pay attention if there's something shiny on the other side of the room.  If he is playing around in church, I call him on it.  If he's on the soccer field and playing around, I call him on it.  I don't blame the coach, or the teacher, or anyone else.  I hold my child accountable for his actions. 

So I'm not a Perfect Mom.  Parenting is definitely a "learn as you go" adventure, and what works for one mom doesn't always fly with another.  My version of motherhood is definitely not perfect, but my son appears to be thriving, happy, and healthy.  He'll be a surly teenager before I know it. And I'm okay with not being in the Perfect Mom Club.  I was never perfect to begin with, anyway.  I love being a mom, and I love my child, and I think as long as those things are true, every mom is perfect.



  

Microstories: Slippery

Tick 

A squalling newborn

Tock

I merely blinked

And the minutes have

Disintegrated,

Dust in my trembling hands.

The wind whisks all away

No matter how tightly I

Drip

Clench my fists around them.

Drop

When did my baby boy turn eight?

I Will Never Force My Son To Take Me to Lunch

A couple of months ago there was a story on the internet about a woman from Michigan who makes her six year old son take her on a dinner date.  The mother described how her six year old earns money doing chores, and he pays to take his mother out once a month.  This sweet little boy holds the door for his mom, holds her chair, and asks her about her day, per his mother's instruction. Her reason for doing this, she explains, is so that he can learn "how to treat a lady, and how to take her out on a proper date".

I read this story, and it bothered me. It bothered me even more that there were lots of comments from women about how this was such a great idea.  Yes, it is a great idea to force your small child to take you to dinner and spend the money he earned without regard as to whether there was any other item he would have preferred to save his money for. 

I don't have a problem with this young man learning about money, tipping, and other life skills.  Every kid should learn such things, since they will need those skills as adults. Every parent should be teaching their children those concepts. However, that this little boy is essentially forced to take his mother out to dinner so he can learn how to treat a lady.  Never mind that no self-respecting lady ever demands to be taken out anywhere.

What is this boy actually learning about women here?  He is learning that if he wants female companionship, he has to pay. 

I am a feminist.  I believe that women and men are equals, and should have the same opportunities and challenges. I remember the time before women began demanding equal rights. I do not want to go back. Yes, it is nice for a man to be polite and hold the door open for a lady, but you know what is even better?  Holding the door open for another human being, regardless of their gender.  I grew up believing that a woman didn't need a man to feed or pamper her. A woman can take the initiative and ask a man out on a date herself.  And if she does?  She pays for the meal, or they split the check.  Equality.  

Because when the man always pays, there's an expectation of some sort of required reciprocation. It may not be intentional, but it is there.  Many men think that women owe them "something" for buying them dinner, or at least they used to. That expectation is so established in our culture that movies and television regularly depict men demanding kisses, or worse, at the end of a date.

And who could blame them for being confused?  Men have had such transactional relationships with women for centuries.  We were seen as property.  The entire institution of marriage used to involve a father selling his daughter off to the highest bidder in exchange for a couple of cows and three goats.  Women who tried to be independent usually ended up disowned by their families, forced to marry, or burned at the stake.  Thankfully, that is no longer the case, at least not here in the United States.

My son is learning manners.  He is learning to be polite to everyone.  I want him to treat all people kindly and equally.  I want Zane to understand that just because he does something nice for another person does not mean that that person "owes" him anything.  There is no quid pro quo in friendship.  I do not want my child to grow up believing that he is obligated to buy a woman anything in order to have a friendship with her. 

Many women fought tooth and nail over the years to get us where we are now. We have earned the right to be seen as equals, to pay our own way.  So why would I force my male progeny to use his hard earned money to reinforce the stereotype that the man is supposed to pay for a meal?  If he chooses to buy me lunch, that's great.  I'm always happy to share a meal.  But I'm not going to demand such treatment and disguise it as teaching my son "manners".  

Besides, I can buy my own lunch.   

My Blog Is A First Grader

I realized a few weeks ago that I've been blogging for six years. It's my anniversary! Woo hoo!  *opens champagne*  I can't actually drink any alcohol for the next month or so, but it's not very dramatic to raise a glass of water for a toast.

When I started blogging six years ago, it was a way for me to write about my son, so I could remember things he did over the years.  Then I remembered how much I loved writing, and blogging became a way for me to be creative.  But my blog has become a bit more to me.

Ever since I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my blog has taken on a a bit of a therapeutic bent.  I've wanted to share my story, partly out of a need to let others going through cancer know that they are not alone, and partly to keep my own spirits up.  A blog is not a journal, and having to focus my thoughts into cohesive sentences for an audience has helped push my writing forward at a time when I might have otherwise fallen into a deep funk.  That's been an awesome side effect of having a blog.

It's sort of like my blog was my other "baby", and I've watched it grow from an infant to a healthy six year old, ready to head off to first grade.  Only this particular first grader doesn't need any vaccines and didn't have to go through potty training. 

It's been an interesting six years of growing and expanding and learning for me.  My reason for starting my blog is now eight.  I blinked and now, he is reading over my shoulder while I write.  He's also started critiquing my blog offerings, which I'm not too sure that I like. I suppose that it is only fair, since he features prominently.  He'll be a surly teenager before I know it!  

No Place For Funyons

When I was a kid and my parents took us to church, there were certain expectations for behavior.  My brother and I were to sit quietly, follow along with the service, say the prayers with the congregation, and pay attention to the sermons.  If we did not sit quietly, we got a glare from my dad.  If we continued our shenanigans, we would be escorted out of church and get a spanking.  It was a simpler time. 

As a parent, I don't resort to threats of physical harm to get my son to behave in church.  Zane is wiggly, but he usually tries to be quiet, and usually a glare will make him refocus.  After all, if he wants to make his First Communion, he has to demonstrate the appropriate behavior.  Sit quietly, follow along with the service, say the prayers with the congregation, and pay attention to the sermon.  Larry and I have drilled this into Zane's head repeatedly, and I'm happy to say that our efforts appear to be working.  Mostly.

Last Sunday, at the evening service, we sat across the aisle from one of Zane's classmates.  This excited my son, who is always happy to find someone he knows.  The boy practically did cartwheels trying to get the little girl's attention, while we glared and pointed to the pew.  Zane leaned over and whispered loudly that the little girl was in his class, and I patted his hand and handed him the hymnal so he could find the song they were about to sing. 

I watched the little girl out of the corner of my eye, out of habit:  I always want to know how my son's behavior compares to other kids his age. She was standing quietly next to her mother, just like Zane was standing quietly next to me. Cool.  I was about to refocus my attention on the service, when the girl's mother handed her daughter a bag of  chocolate chip cookies.

Cookies?  At Mass?  I was shocked.  My parents had had a firm "no food in church" rule; it was considered disrespectful, and the faithful are supposed to fast the hour before Mass. I shook my head. They were kids.  Maybe the family hadn't eaten dinner before the service, and this was to tide the girl over until supper. I should be less judgmental, I told myself, especially in the House of God.  But Zane was eyeing those cookies, completely distracted, his hand twitching.  I put my hand on his shoulder, the service was about to begin.  The children's choir started to sing.

That was when the woman pulled Funyons out of her purse. 

Funyons?!!!  No.  That can't be Funyons.  I looked again.  Yes.  Yes, they were Funyons.  The bright yellow bag crinkled loudly in my mind, but nobody else seemed to notice.  She opened the bag and handed it to her son.  I couldn't help staring, but I had no idea that my mouth was hanging open until Larry touched my shoulder and looked at me. 

"What's wrong?" he mouthed.  I just stared at him a moment, before leaning close. 

"THAT. WOMAN. HAS. FUNYONS. IN. CHURCH."  I whispered in outrage.  Larry looked across the aisle, and then rolled his eyes. It didn't bother him. He's Methodist.   My normally tolerant self, however, was scandalized.  It must have been all the nuns in my family history, surfacing in my consciousness, rulers and rosaries at the ready.  I fully expected lightning to strike.  Fortunately God is not that much of a stickler about eating in church.  Maybe he likes Funyons. 

I decided that I was tired, and perhaps not thinking clearly. I was okay with chocolate chip cookies, but I drew the line at Funyons?   I was probably more upset that Zane saw the food exchange; now he would want to know why HE wasn't allowed to eat cookies during Mass, or bring toys. What parent likes having all their hard work erased by another parent?   But repetition is part of learning, and definitely part of parenting.  I'm sure that Larry and I will be repeating our behavior expectations for church, and other events, right up until Zane graduates from high school. 

I plan to bring Funyons. 

Labor Pains

In just about every conversation I have with a group of women, the subject of our children comes up. I guess that it is inevitable, since we are members of the Mom club.  We love our children, and we want to share that funny thing that Caroline said, or the cute little picture of Joe with his father.  Children are conversation starters, and most moms love to share.  It is also inevitable that every mom will share their birth stories, and describe labor and delivery with all the gory details.

I can't share in those tales.   

I didn't have labor pains when I was pregnant. Zane came along well before that time. I didn't feel those twinges and pangs that signal the start of the birth process.  My water didn't break.  I didn't scream out my pain as I pushed my son into the world.  I wasn't even awake for my c-section.  Since I'd had c-sections before, I didn't even experience the pain that women experience after birth. 

At least that's what most people would say.  I would respectfully disagree.  I may not have experienced the physical sensations that society calls labor, true.  But I've had eight years of what I would certainly call labor pains.

Every time my son cries, I feel a pain in my heart.  When he is hurt, I hurt. Each time he falls down on the soccer field, I positively ache until he gets up again.  It's almost impossible for me to take him to the doctor, because I hurt every time they plunge a needle into his arm, even though I know the good of vaccines.  When he is sick, I long to be able to take his fever away, so he can be his normal, hyperactive self.  When Zane does something he is not supposed to, and I have to give him a consequence, it hurts me twice as much as it does him.

Once you become a mother, however you begin your journey, your attachment to your children is a shared journey.  Our love for them, strong as it is, makes mothers everywhere want to shield their children from the pains and hurts.  However, we also know that if we are to adequately prepare them for life, we have to let them explore, make their own choices, and get hurt.  That knowledge gouges at our souls, every single time, over a lifetime.

If those aren't labor pains, I don't know what they are.

Bullying Will Continue Until Morale Improves

We have been hearing tons about the bullying that goes on among kids for some time.  There are numerous stories on the internet, in print, and on television about kids who are bullied and how bullying is horrible and traumatic and we should not allow it to happen.  Our children will be scarred for life, and all sorts of calamities will occur, we're told.  Suicides have happened, with teens and children so devastated by how they are treated by their peers that they take their own lives. 

It is a problem, but we are trying to solve it. Bullying programs, designed to provide students with the tools they need to deal with bullies and their minions, are in place all over the country. Parents are up in arms the second they believe their child is being bullied; lawsuits over bullying are filed even before the ink is dry on a discipline referral. There are tons of expensive instructional programs out there that schools use to help with the problem. 

Kids do still bully each other, despite all our attempts to eradicate it. Why is this? Sometimes I am sitting in on a  parent meeting and the subject of bullying may come up.  That's when I usually hear a parent make the comment "I don't know where my son/daughter learned that behavior."  I want to speak up so badly that my jaw hurts.

Yes you do know, Mom. 

Because bullying is not just a problem for kids.  

Turn on the news.  Donald Trump calling other people names, making disparaging comments about women?   Ted Cruz threatening to shut down the government if he doesn't get his way? Vladmir Putin walking in and "annexing" Crimea, following it up with attempts to acquire more of Ukraine?  All the threats/violence/terrorist attacks over Planned Parenthood?  That cowardly(if you're proud of what you're doing, you don't wear a mask) group in the Middle East threatening to blow up this or destroy that?  That's bullying.

Walk into your office. Does your boss tell you that you "should just be grateful we gave you this job"?  Do your coworkers go to lunch and purposely exclude you? Do they roll their eyes when you speak?  That's bullying.  A few weeks ago two of my colleagues decided to 'gang up' on me. They did not want to take 'no' for an answer.  I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach, like someone was about to punch me. I've had years of dealing with bullying, both as a kid and as an adult, so I handled it. It was not a touchy-feely moment.

The real world, the one beyond education, is full of bullying, only there's no teacher or principal to step in and intervene.  Our children are going to grow up and be out there in that world some day.  Children look to us to figure out how to behave, and what are we doing?  All the research based interventions in the world can't halt vicarious learning. Glorifying people like Trump and Cruz, labeling their namecalling and threats something to be proud of instead of ashamed. Putting them on the news every night, just to get ratings.  What does that say about us?  How can we expect a higher standard of behavior from kids, when the adults can't even get it right?

We can't. 

I don't really know the answer, or if there even is one out there.  I'm used to standing up to bullies after a lifetime of experience, but I'll be the first person to say that my way is not always the correct way.  But nothing is going to change as long as we allow this bad behavior from the adults out there to continue.  As long as people keep showing up to celebrate people like Donald Trump, holding him up as an example of a good businessman, there will be kids who copy that behavior. 

And we will have to deal with the consequences.

My Son Took Me To School

The guy ahead of us looked kind of scary.  His shaved head and tattoos could have been the typical uniform of the heavy metal fan, but there was a hard look about him that made my internal caution light go off.  I wasn't necessarily concerned, but it never hurts to be aware of who is around you and what is happening.  It helps to ease some of my anxiety, anyway.

Zane and I were doing some grocery shopping, and the place was packed.  I was a bit frazzled. Shopping with my son is a never ending battle of  "I want that!" and "No", along with him trying to sneak items in the cart along the way.  Happy to be close to the end of this particular trip, I was focused on getting the groceries onto the conveyor belt.  I noticed the guy ahead of us, but not much else.  He was finishing up his transaction; he reached into his front pocket for his cash. I turned away to reach for a bulky item underneath the cart, barely registering the sound of coins bouncing off of the concrete floor.

Zane sprang into action.  He ran over, dropped to his knees and started hunting down all of the coins that the man had dropped.  When he had gathered up all of the change, my son stood up and held his hand out to give the coins back.  That's when this intimidating man told Zane to keep the coins, thank you, and handed him three dollars.  Zane ran back to me clutching his newfound wealth, very excited.  As I made sure my son said thank you, I realized something.

My son held no preconceived notions about the human being in front of him.  He saw a person who needed help, and he helped him.  That was it.  Boom!--Kindness.  On the other hand, I had a prejudiced view of people who looked like this gentleman, and I let that color my opinion before we'd even had an interaction.

I don't often see my own biases laid out before me so plainly, but there they were, like freshly washed bloomers hanging in the sunlight.  I try so hard not to judge people, but perhaps not hard enough.  I felt a little chastened.

My son took me to school.  I hope that I can remember this particular lesson.

Fiction: Not With A Bang

 I want to grab the man by his collar and tell him to snap out of it.

But he's not any different than any of us at the moment.  Lots of blank-faced men and women standing about today.  We only had hours to live.

I didn't have time for this hulk of a man to be blocking the sidewalk.  I needed to be at home with my family.  Molly and Charlie were there.  Mimi had at least called me before she abandoned them to go to her own family, but they were too young to be alone.  They needed me. 

"Hey!" I yell at the man.  "Excuse me.  I need to get by."   He didn't move, and I gave up all pretense of polite conversation and shoved at him with all my strength.  The man grunted, but my momentum got him to move the three inches I needed to sidle past him.  I broke into a run, my short legs moving quickly.  My lungs burned after a block, but I kept going.  The blue sky above looked just like any other day, but I knew that it was all a lie now.  The blue was going to fade as the atmosphere disapated.

Two more blocks and I staggered up the front steps, pausing to catch my breath before I opened the door. I could tell that there wasn't much time.  Hot tears burned at the back of my eyes, and I wanted to scream.  I needed to be calm.  I opened the front door and called for the children; they burst out of hiding from behind the red couch in the darkened parlor.  

"Mama!" Molly had been crying "We can't find Mimi!"

Charlie is right behind his sister, his bottom lip quivering.  They're terrified and fighting for breath.  I move to the couch and they struggle briefly to climb in my lap.  I gather them to me, useless words of comfort coming from somewhere to soothe their fears.

"It's all right, my sweets,"  I tell them.  "Mama's here. You are two of the bravest children in the world. And now we can all be brave together."

Molly lifts her hand to touch my face, and I realize I am crying.  I rest my cheek on the top of her head, rocking a little.  The news reports stated that children would be the first affected by the catastrophic depletion of oxygen in the atmosphere.  Charlie's eyelids begin to droop, and my heart clutches in my chest. No! My brain screams. Children are supposed to grow, to live.  To be. 

But there's nothing that I can do but watch.  There's nothing that anyone can do; it's too late.  Both of my children fall unconscious in my arms, their shallow breaths trickling into silence.

I hold their bodies, and I wait for my turn, cursing the fates. 

Santa's Negotiator

I was driving somewhere with my son, and it was a typical day.  We discussed his school day, the possibilities for dinner, and other ordinary things.  And then this happened:

"Mom, what does Santa bring to people that are bad?"

"I believe that naughty people get coal instead of presents,"  I stated confidently, remembering stories from my own childhood.  I felt that I had responded to the question appropriately, and gave myself a mental high-five.  A bit prematurely, as it turned out.

"What if you're a coal miner?" came from the backseat. 

"Uhhh..."  I blamed my lack of a response on my need to concentrate on my driving. My mind was completely blank.  Zane wasn't done.

"What if you need coal for fuel?"

"Doesn't coal become diamonds?"  

Those were good points, I had to agree.  They weren't questions that I would be able to answer with any clarity, however.  I suggested that Zane ask Santa next time he saw him, to see what he would say, and exhaled in relief when my suggestion was met with agreement.  I almost felt sorry for that poor Santa at the mall.

I also wondered why Zane's father never had to answer these sorts of questions!