Stinky Feet

My nostrils were assaulted the other evening when I walked into the living room.  A foul odor wafted from the general direction of my husband and son, who were busily playing Minecraft together on the Xbox.  Not the usual gaseous anomalies generated by diet, but a horrifically dense fog of an odor that practically melted my nose hairs.   This was a "OMG, something died under the couch three weeks ago" smell.  This was a "zombies are hiding behind the china cabinet" smell.  This was a "hasn't been seen by his neighbors in weeks" smell.  Have I adequately conveyed that this smell was AWFUL?  I could go on. 

As a result of chemo there are a number of smells that just make me want to immediately lose my lunch, and this particular smell was registering as a 13 on a scale of 1 to 10.  I had moments to investigate, locate the source, and destroy it before there would be a mess.

"What in the name of all that is holy is that SMELL??!!!" seemed a good opening question.

"What are you talking about?" Larry didn't move his eyes from the television.

"You don't smell that?" I was incredulous. How could anyone miss that greenish miasma floating in the air?  The mustard gas used in WWI smelled less lethal.

"I don't smell anything," Larry said.  Zane didn't say anything; he just kept digging or building or whatever it is you do in Minecraft.   I began to hunt around for the cause of such an obnoxious odor, sniffing the air and then gritting my teeth and dry heaving.  Fortunately, there were no dead animals underneath the sofa, although I did find a number of empty paper plates.  There were no zombies behind the china cabinet, either.  As I drew closer to my boy, however, I figured it out.

The foul, offensive odor was my son's stockinged feet.  Yes, I have to put this on record: the foulest stench I've ever endured in my almost fifty years, the smell that made me want to projectile vomit all over my living room, was the smell of my son's sweaty, stockinged feet.

I was appalled.  I know that teenagers often suffer sweaty, stinky feet.   But my boy is SEVEN!!!  He is way too young for such stinkiness! Do they even make Odor Eaters for kid feet?  If his feet were this horrific now, what would the teen years be like?  My brain cringed at the image of my son bereft of a date on Prom Night because he forgot to wear his Odor Eaters.  Instead of showing up at school with a left behind lunch, I'd be dropping off a new pair of shoes.

I was making myself dizzy holding my breath and staring at my son's feet.  Breathing through my nose, I looked closely at his socks.  Perhaps he stepped on something?  The socks looked a bit...lived in.

"Zane, when was the last time you changed your socks?"

"I don't know," was my answer.  I calculated, using laundry day(Sunday) as the latest possible date. 

It was Thursday. 

We had a discussion then, about remembering to change his socks on a daily basis.  It was the same discussion we have every month.  Except this time I told him that if he forgot again, I was just going to throw up on him. 

Mutually assured destruction, I called it. 

Stinky feet are NOT genetic. 

Different Ways of Parenting

My parents are a model for good parenting, I would say. My brother and I were fed, clothed, educated, and kept relatively healthy. We were given rules to follow and expectations to meet. Since I made it to adulthood without resorting to a life of crime, my parents can place me in the 'win' column.

Now I am a parent myself, and you would think that I would borrow the very parenting strategies that brought me into adulthood. But the Times, they have changed. And I am not my parents. I do things my own way, and it seems to be working so far.

1. I am just fine with cosleeping.  My parents did not allow us in their room. It was off limits,  my parents' sanctuary. I always wondered what the heck they did in there, but the rule never changed. Everyone slept in their own beds, and that was that.  Nowadays, I am okay with my son climbing into bed with us to sleep.  Most times I don't even wake up. I know that eventually he will sleep the night through in his own bed, but he is still young enough that he wants to be with his parents, even in his dreams.  In six years, he'll be a surly teenager, and will avoid us like the plague. 

2. I can stand a little dirt. My mom is a little obsessive compulsive about cleaning. She once made one of my friends move her car because she did not want oil stains on her nice clean driveway!  I don't mind a little dirt here and there. I understand that boys are messy, and I don't feel compelled to spend my days chasing after Zane with a broom. Unless I step on a Lego with bare feet; then all bets are off.

3. I am more aware. My parents let us play outside for hours, unsupervised. We were dropped off at practices. We walked to places by ourselves. Shenanigans occurred, and my parents had not a clue.. I know exactly what my kid is doing, at least for now. All those adventurous but probably not kosher things I did as a kid? My boy will need to be twice as devious to get away with those around me. Deviousness is a fairly decent life skill to have, right?

4. I pick my battles. It was always my dad's way, no matter what. There was no discussion, negotiation, or bargaining. It was said once, and if it was not complied with immediately, there were consequences.  That's what you get when your dad is in the military and used to giving orders.  I am more relaxed. I'm okay with discussions and some negotiations. I've let Zane talk me into changing a rule or two, if his arguments were reasonable.  His clue that the bargaining has concluded is a 1, 2, 3 count. Zane hops right to it before I say the number 2. I have no idea what I would do if I got to the number 3. We've never gotten there.

5. I am way more sarcastic. My parents are very serious people. Very Germanic, very stoic, very deadpan. I can count on my left hand the number of times I heard my mom laugh, and she was never, ever sarcastic. My dad liked to tell horrible jokes and ask you to pull his finger, but was never sarcastic.  In contrast, I get pretty snarky, and I expect my son to keep up. When he doesn't understand what I am saying, or my tone confuses him, I will explain, but most of the time the boy is right there with me. He's learning the subtle nuances of language usage that he will need as an adult, and I will probably regret this when my son is a surly teenager.

How about you? How are you different as a parent from your mom and dad?

Go check out all the other writers in Mamakat's World Famous Writer's Workshop!  You can also sign up for her email, and writing inspiration will be mailed to you directly.  I used this prompt: 5.) List 5 ways you are different as a parent than your parents were.

The Ten Best Things About Being A Kid

Being a kid is wonderful. Oh, there's some things about being a kid that aren't great, like curfews and tuna casserole, but there's so very much to love about childhood.  It's taken on a mythical status in my mind, since for me, childhood was long ago and far away, but I'm reliving some parts as I watch my son grow.  Kids have some things that adults don't get to keep.


1. You get to be invisible.  Adults tend to forget that kids are in the vicinity, especially if they think that the kids are not paying attention to them.  Newsflash:  Kids are always paying attention!  Kids hear everything, and kids tend to remember what they hear.  The perfect spies! The NSA doesn't need to secretly monitor emails and online usage.  All they need is a pack of five year olds and a translator.

2. Everything is brand new.  For adults, there's nothing new under the sun.  We've been there, done that, bought the t-shirt.  There's a tendency to become jaded about the world, just from overexposure. For a kid, however, everything is brand-spanking new in their world, and they look at everything with a wonder and excitement that I envy.  The closest that I come is that hour before the newest episode of Game of Thrones airs.

3. Kids still believe.  There's an innocence about childhood.  Children still believe in people, still believe that people are good.  I sometimes wish I still had that belief,  but I know what is out there. However, I will move heaven and earth to see that my son believes as long as possible.

4. The world is a magical place.  Santa is real.  The tooth fairy really does visit to exchange a tooth for a coin.  Pixies live in the cow pastures, and fireflies carry wishes to heaven. Anything is possible to a child, and miracles are just a fact.  Of course, reality intrudes, and the dreams die hard, but while it lasts, the world is a little more wondrous.

5. It's a free ride.  Kids don't worry about whether the rent's paid.  They don't worry about the car being reposessed, or whether there's money in the bank. They know that Mom and Dad will be there to make sure that they get fed and are clothed and warm, even on a shoestring budget.  No matter what, someone will take care of them. I am an adult, and I still occasionally wish that someone would take care of me!

6. The imagination is on full blast.  Kids imagine all sorts of worlds, stretching over and under this one.  One word, one sound, and off their minds go, a journey of a thousand miles in an instant.  Sit a kid in a room with a box and a pencil and they're perfectly happy, because their imaginations provide the entertainment. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could keep that spur of the moment imagination?  It would be perfect for last minute blog posts!

7. No fear  My son would climb the tallest piece of furniture in a place and leap off...just because.  He'd probably love skydiving, which he would do by himself, because his mother is terrified of heights.  Kids aren't the least bit afraid to take a risk or to leap into the unknown.  Sometimes I yearn for that fearless time.

8. Everybody is a friend.  My son is a goodwill ambassador.  He has no problem approaching people and talking to them or asking them questions.  He doesn't care if the person he's talking to doesn't have legs because they stepped on an IED.  Kids don't care if the person can't see, or hear, or has autism, or any other thing that might give adults pause.  They learn that from their parents.

9. Kids get over things fast.  Kids cry. They pout. They glare. Then they get over it, usually after a brief nap.  Kids don't ever seem to hold grudges, and today's fight over the sandbox disappears when they close their eyes.  That resilience is enviable; it's impossible for me to remember that I was ever able to let go and move on so easily.   

10. No matter what, Mama loves you.  That's right.  Kids aren't always on their best behavior, they don't always say the right thing, they can be little terrorists.  But at the end of the day, their Mamas tuck them into bed and kiss them good night, and all is right with the world.  That is how it should be, and Lord willing, one day it will be so for all children.


Have a happy and safe Thanksgiving.  May a little of the magic of childhood be yours!

10 best things about being a kid.

Kids Make You Do The Whacky

Kids are funny.  Let me amend that.  Kids are funny to people who have children or who work with children.  People who don't have kids seem to lack whatever hormone it is that makes mothers and fathers laugh at their children.  I am sure that that hormone has saved many a child (who might or might not have broken that 'thing' that was a rare family heirloom that was irreplaceable) from a spanking or two.  It is near impossible for me to keep a straight face when my child says something that strikes me as hilarious.  After all, I'm supposed to be the disciplinarian in this house. 

My husband is going to read that sentence and fall over laughing.  I hope that he doesn't hurt himself.
When I did not have children, I knew everything about children.  I had taken classes!  I had passed tests!  I even read books, REAL books, that were all about children. Dr. Spock?  Read him.  BF Skinner?  Read him, too.  They were all freakin' geniuses, and obviously they knew exactly what they were talking about, because they wrote a book about it that actually made money.  I would have devoured a Stephen King book on children, if he'd written one that wasn't fiction. (Although King has said that he modeled his child characters after what he saw his own children doing around the house.)

Then I started teaching...teenagers.  From the benefit of hindsight, no school district should ever hire any person under the age of 25 to teach a high school class.  I was 21, and I got asked for my hall pass a lot.  By students.  I had way too much in common with the students I was teaching for them to see me as any sort of authority figure.  But that was when the small voice in my head started whispering... 

"You don't know anything about children."

When my brother and his wife had their first baby, I was an expert.  I would talk to my sister-in-law nonstop about what to do with Tristan.  Most of my interactions with Tristan when he was young were brief, because they lived in another city, so I felt it necessary to impart as much wisdom as I could in the small amount of time I had.  I'm surprised that she didn't just punch me right in the face, and I'm sure that I would have deserved it.  Instead, she let me babysit when they moved to San Antonio.  Not only did she let me babysit Tristan, I also got the bonus child, Courtney.  I took along my future husband as a test.  He's the one who found Courtney jumping as hard as she could--on her parent's bed. Why?  Because she finally could!  Her parents weren't home, and the two noobs babysitting her and Tristan were putty in her manipulative little hands.  As Larry and I quickly exhausted our "educated" child skills, that small voice inside my head said, as plain as day...

"You don't know anything about children."

I argued with that little voice at first.  I've read books, I told it.  I've taken classes, I said.  I've been to trainings with known experts in behavior management.  I am a trained school psychologist, for goodness sakes!  My arguments became more and more feeble over the years, as that little voice grew stronger.  Finally, when I stared at my very tiny son in his little incubator in the NICU, I admitted defeat.

I do not know anything about children.

This admission was followed by sheer terror.  What the heck am I supposed to do?  I do not know ANYTHING about children!  What if he sleeps too much?  What if he sleeps too little?  Am I supposed to breastfeed him every hour?  Should I let him climb on that bookcase?  What does it mean if he is coughing a lot at night?  Is he supposed to be adding and subtracting in Pre-K?  What if I completely screw this sweet child up and ruin his life? 

And then there was another little voice...

"Mama, why are you talking to the wall?"

Last Kid Left at Daycare

My husband and I both work, we work in another city, and sometimes things just happen(like car accidents or two hour meetings with an angry parent). Sometimes we have to stay late for one of those "stuff that we aren't paying you for but we will write you up if you don't show" events. We all have to pay our dues for that paycheck, and sometimes it means that we don't get to pick up Zane at our usual time. That is when I freak a bit. Okay, a lot.

I have this fear that Zane will be the last kid left at the daycare. I know it's unreasonable. In my mind, showing up late means that we are horrible parents who should have our Parent cards revoked for abandoning our child. So when we are late, I start to panic. I told you that it was unreasonable.

Kids don't usually notice when their parents are late, and are perfectly happy playing outside with the other kids or playing with some toys in the classroom--unless they are the last kid. Then they do notice, because they can't help it. One by one, a Mom or Dad has shown up to take their child home. Every other child in the entire building has been picked up, kissed, placed in a car seat, and driven off. Except that last kid, and the daycare worker who has to stay with him.

The daycare employee, who wants to go home to his or her own family, starts to get impatient and short. She is also worried that a parent has not arrived, and wonders if something has happened. I know all this because I have worked at a couple of daycares over the years and have had to sit with the last child a couple of times. It just plain sucks. That sweet child is full of questions. The daycare employee does not have answers for the child. Children under five don't understand the why. All they know is that their Mommy or Daddy is not there. They have been abandoned. The trust that all is well with the world has been broken. Add hunger into the mix(it is the dinner hour or later), and you've got trouble. There are tears. Sometimes the kid starts crying too!

I don't want that to be my kid, hence my unreasonable fears. I hate staying late at work because it deprives me of time I get to spend with my son and my husband and our cats, safe at home, being a family. Family comes first, as far as I'm concerned. It seems that nobody else has this viewpoint; there's always some reason that Larry or I have to stay late at least once a month. We've tried to solve this dilemma by having a grandparent pick him up when we know we won't get there on time. I still get upset that it's not Mama and Daddy picking Zane up, but at least he's not the last kid at daycare.

Kid Logic

Kids are funny creatures. They listen to adults talk, even when we are not aware that they are around, and they take in our language. What WE say becomes what THEY say. Scary stuff, because often we say things without thinking. Mean things, bad words, etc., all the bad language habits we've picked up, don't sound so funny coming from the mouth of your three year old.

Then again...

"Zane, why did you throw that rock/eat that bug/break that toy/various other rambunctious behaviors?"

"That's why because." Zane says. We don't know where he got that from, but it makes perfect sense. If you're a politician, that is.

The next time Obama has to answer another question second-guessing a decision he's made as President, I would like him to say that.

Gratitude

Guess what? This is fiction, so don't freak out!

"Give it back!" I heard my brother yelling, and I walked around the corner of the apartment building toward the playground to check it out. He was standing nose to nose with another boy who appeared to also be eight. The two boys were mirror images of defiant children, with their chins jutting out, hands fisted on their hips.

"No! It's mine!" said the other boy. He held up his prize in one fist, intent on keeping what was in his grip.

I sighed loudly. I had told my brother that if he brought one of his Marvel action figures outside of the house, some other kid would want it. When we got home from school, Albert had wanted to take the Hulk outside to play in the sandbox. I had told him not to do it, but he didn't ever listen, and since he was my baby brother, I almost always gave in. Now I got to clean up the mess, without any thanks from him. I waded through the sea of bystanders into the center of the arena.

"What is going on here?" I pitched my voice a little louder than usual to get their attention. It did no good.

"Give my Hulk back right now!" My brother's face was starting to turn crimson. It was the color that meant he would either explode or cry. Or both. I did not want to have to explain the situation to my mother when she got home.

"I told you, it's mine!" The other boy was being kind of a jerk, I decided. Considering that his size was extremely round, I thought that Jerk-boy should be more polite.

I was ready to take Albert and go home, back to our apartment, to get started on our homework before supper. I marched over to Jerk-boy. Being thirteen and taller, I roughly grabbed the wrist holding the action figure and extracted it from his smaller hand. I wasn't gentle, and I heard some cracking as I pried the fingers open, but I was the more determined, and so I was the victor.

When I had the toy back, I let go of Jerk-boy's arm and he fell right on his butt onto the ground. The sound of the bystanders laughing reminded me of their presence, and I vaguely wondered why it was so entertaining to watch two eight year olds fight.

Jerk-boy struggled to his feet, holding onto his hand and crying. He gave me an angry look and ran off, shoving the crowd out of his way. A few jeers followed him, but I was more interested in Albert.

"Are you okay?" I put my hand on his shoulder. Albert jerked angrily from my touch. He whirled to face me, and I noticed the dirt on his face, and on his clothes, from playing in the sandbox.

"Why do you always have to do that?" Albert raised two fists and slammed them into my chest as hard as he could. I didn't even pretend to flinch.

"Why do I have to do what?" I responded, bewildered. I expected his gratitude. I had retrieved his toy for him. Why wasn't he happy about this?

"You get in my way!" Albert screamed, and began trying to hit me repeatedly with his small fist.

"I think that you should show a little gratitude that you have a big brother to help you out when you need it," I was starting to get angry. My brother was not ever grateful when I helped him out like I did today. He never thanked me or hugged me or anything!

"All I am trying to do is help," I insisted.

"Don't help!" Albert screamed at me, and started to cry. He began running toward our apartment, and the crowd began to disperse. I looked down at the Incredible Hulk toy in my hand, sighed again, and turned around to follow Albert. I took two steps before I stumbled over something in the dirt/sand. The Hulk looked back at me from the grass. I did a double take. I held a Hulk in my hand, and there was one on the ground. I looked from one to the other for several second, my brain not processing what I was seeing at first.

There were two Hulks, which meant that someone else besides Albert had decided to take their toys outside today. I was horrified that I had taken a toy that belonged to Jerk-boy. I didn't even know his name. I had no way to find him. I was ashamed. I was a bully. No wonder Albert was so angry and ungrateful.

Just then I heard a loud popping sound, and a scream. I looked up and saw my brother standing for a second, people running from him, before he crumbled to the pavement near the door to the building. I began to run to him. Jerk-boy was standing a few feet away, and in his hands was a gun.

As I reached him I heard a rattling sound as the last breath Albert ever took left his body. I had heard that sound before. I shook him, as if trying to wake him up. It was too late.

I turned to look at Jerk-boy, who was still standing there, holding the gun, as if he were in a trance. His eyes were round and locked on Albert's body. My tears did not prevent my vision from suddenly going red, nor did they stop my feet as I stood up, nor did they stop my movement as I walked over to Jerk-boy and grabbed the gun from him.

"Here, this one is yours," I gave him his action figure back. There were sirens in the distance, getting nearer. I raised the gun, pointed it at his head, and pulled the trigger. The loudness muffled the sound of my sobs for a moment. Jerk-boy dropped to the ground and didn't move. The gun fell from my hand. I woodenly walked back to my brother's body, sat down, and waited for the cops to arrive.

At least our mother would be grateful not to have us around anymore, I thought.

Being a Mom is Hard.

On Friday I brought my son to the school district for an early childhood "screening". Zane had been receiving early intervention from the Brighton School since last year at the request of a developmental psychologist, but Brighton's services stop at age three. If he qualifies, the local school district will pick up the services starting on his birthday. Our main concern for Zane has always been his language, and we really feel that since he started with daycare and has been around other children, his language development has accelerated. His articulation hasn't always kept up, however. There are still times when I have NO idea what the heck that boy is saying, and I know that he probably thinks that I'm an idiot. He's probably right.

Based on Zane's behavior during the screening, which included climbing on tables, overturning tables, and generally causing mayhem in the play area, they asked to see Zane as soon as possible. Which turned out to be today.

On Saturday Zane was invited to a birthday party for Davis, a little girl that he knows. It was at the Children's Museum in New Braunfels. They have a neat setup with wooden trains that Zane is absolutely gaga over--the last time we were there that was ALL he would play with, for the entire hour. This time was no different--when it was time to go for the party, Zane had what is known as a conniption fit. We got him into the room where the party was and finally got him settled down with some cake.

Keep in mind that none of the other kids were having hissy fits about having to leave what they were doing to come have cake, and that these kids were all around Zane's age. So my son stood out like a sore thumb, and I could feel lots of eyes on him. He did sing "Happy Birthday", had some cake, and some lemonade. Larry left to go put our spare tire on the car, since right as we pulled into the parking lot our rear tire blew out.
So I sat in one of those little tiny kid's chairs with Zane, while the other kids were able to sit at tables by themselves, and I watched Davis open her presents. Zane's attention wandered, as it usually does, but at least he stayed seated.

Suddenly Davis pulled out a pink little toy train. Zane zeroed in on that and takes off for the front. The train had been put on the counter, within easy reach, and Zane went right for it. Everything was happening in slow motion for me. I told Zane, "That is not your train." I got to the front of the room as fast as I could, considering that I was sitting in one of those tiny chairs.

He disagreed vehemently and ran into a corner, screaming, "MINE!!!!" I had to stay calm on the outside, but inside my heart sank. I managed to get the train away and pick Zane up. He promptly smacked me a couple of times in the face, but to my credit I didn't drop him. I took him back to the back of the room and he continued to wail. As soon as he could convince me to let him down, Zane ran off, out of sight, straight back to the trains.

I can't describe to you the feeling when you realize just how different your child is from normal. Intellectually I know that it's possible that Zane is developmentally behind his peers in some areas. Emotionally I am trying to wrap my brain around the possibility that something else might be going on. Because the behavior my son exhibited on Saturday is not the kind of behavior that will get him through kindergarten, or the rest of life, in a happy manner.

So this morning Zane and I went back to the school district and while I filled out about four questionnaires about behavior, the speech pathologist and the LSSP(school psychologist) tried administering several different batteries to Zane. Usually I am the one giving the various batteries of tests, so I generally tried to ignore everything going on over there. The adults were smart and blocked Zane in so he couldn't run off, but it eventually ended up requiring both of them to sit beside Zane and give him immediate feedback to get him to respond to just about everything.

We have to wait for the results. Darn it. I want to know now. All this has been extremely difficult for me for some reason. Okay, not for 'some' reason. It's been hard because I want my son to be okay, whatever that means.