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

Not My Proudest Parenting Moment

Zane and I were walking to our car in the school parking lot, as were several other parents who had picked up their children. I asked Zane about his day, just like I do every school day. My boy responded with the usual nonresponse that most kids produce on command.

And then...

"Oh!  I remembered my first bad word!" My boy said, loud and proud.  A few heads turned our way. Usually I would tell Zane to lower his voice, but I was in "tired mom" mode.  It's exhausting some days, to work 8 hours at a job and then work another shift as a parent.  It's completely understandable that I made a tactical error on this particular day. At least that is my story. 

"Really?" I said.  "What word was that?"  As soon as the words left my mouth I wanted to call them back. I winced, then looked around at the other parents in the parking lot.  To my surprise, nobody else was staring disapprovingly in our direction.  Whew! 

"'Sexy' was my first bad word!" Zane was out of the gate, his mouth running.  I just had time to register the thought that "sexy" wasn't a horrible awful word and then--

 "The NEXT bad word I learned was sh**!"  

Now those other parents were listening, and glaring at me as they tried to hurry their own children along to their own vehicles.  I smiled and waved at them.  I was winging it.

"Lower your voice, Zane!" I hissed, reaching over to grab at his hand. I frantically tried to get Zane's attention, calling his name, but he was going to finish his thought come heck or high water.  It was actually the longest time I'd ever heard him speak on a single topic that wasn't Nerf-related.  I might have been proud, if under different circumstances. Now I feared I would be getting a stern phone call from the principal about allowing my child to corrupt small children in the school parking lot.  I braced myself for the next word, certain it would be the most egregious.  

"...THEN I learned the word FOCK..."

Wait--what?  Did he just mispronouce the BIG BAD F WORD?   My child did NOT actually drop an F bomb in the school parking lot? I was not a terrible mom after all!   I couldn't help it--I giggled with relief.  I then made an effort to cover up my laugh with a cough or two.  As we got into the car, I reminded Zane that those words were not nice words, and that he should not ever say them at school.

Or in church.

Or in front of his grandparents.

Or in polite company.

Well, maybe when discussing politics.

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. 

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.



  

Parenting Is Hardest

Tap, tap, tap

Softly in the darkness,

Tap, tap, tap

A cadence in my brain

Tap, tap, tap

Brings me out of my dreams.

I open one bleary eye to find my sweet child next to the bed.

"I'm thirsty!" he says.

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 Oops Side of Parenting

No matter what anyone tells you, parenting is always a work in progress.  You're always learning to be a parent; there's never any sense of  'course completion'.  Even when your kids are adults, there's still something new that comes along.  No matter how much a person prepares to be a parent, things happen that were not covered in the manual.  It would be nice in those situations if the Super Nanny was always. right there over your shoulder to whisper the best answer, or if Grandpa Walton was there to dispense homey advice.  I'd even settle for my mother to step in with an answer or two. No such luck.  Things happen, and Larry and I have to decide how we are going to handle it right there.  It's not always easy to think in these situations, when you're in panic mode.  Sometimes it seems easier just to say "Oops," and try your best to clean up.

Larry and I were initially vigilant about what sorts of television shows and movies we watched, just in case our boy's young brain became traumatized.  We've gotten a bit lazy these days, but we never worried about The Big Bang Theory.  Larry and I felt that we could watch the show with Zane in the room because most of the content was relatively benign. The content that was occasionally a bit racy, well, Zane never seemed to notice it at all. He only looks at the screen when Sheldon is talking; otherwise he wasn't in the least bit interested.  He usually plays with his cars or Legos at the other end of the room, or buries himself in his Boy Nest watching episodes of Chima or Monster Bug Wars.  He was oblivious, we thought.

We were watching an episode of The Big Bang Theory the other night, and Zane turned to my husband.

"Why won't Penny have sex with Leonard?'

Oops.

I cringed where I was.  Larry's eyes grew very large. He would not look at me, because Rule #7 of parenting is never show any signs of panic.  The man had to suck it up and wing it.

"Uh...she had some other stuff to do."

"Ok".  Zane went back to doing whatever he was doing, and the moment seemed to have passed. 

Zane did not ask Larry what sex was, thank goodness. But that doesn't matter.  What matters is that something we should have been watching for slipped through the cracks.  Larry and I let our guard down a little too much.  We made a mistake.  It would be easy to completely overcompensate for that brief failure and do something crazy like send him off to a monastery to be raised in a completely isolated and hermetically sealed existence.  But the best way to learn is to get back on the horse, and that is what Larry and I will do.  We could flail at ourselves and wallow in guilt about it, but that never solves any problem. 

We made a mistake, and we will deal with it.   There will probably be many more "Oops" moments to come. I hope that we do better with the next one. 

Warriors From Birth

Warriors were once essential to the survival of a society.  They were the protectors, the defenders of the group.  As such, these individuals, mostly men, did not nothing but train for battles and do the fighting, with the goal of protecting the clan or tribe from outsiders. The warrior class sprang up all over the world, with entire mythologies created to support them, and tales of courage and honor and fidelity were told around a campfire to keep back the darkness on a cold night. Codes of behavior were created all over the world for this class,  describing what was acceptable behavior for warriors at all times.  Things like protection of the innocent, using a fork to eat instead of fingers, caring for the old, don't impregnate the King's daughter, keep your promise, don't take the money from the collection plate at church...were rules the warrior lived, or died, by.  Warriors who followed or exceeded the Code were promoted, celebrated, and adored by all.  Warriors who did not follow their code were considered dishonorable, and a shame to their families.  Even today, soldiers who violate the tenets of the Code are considered dishonored, untrustworthy, and are not allowed to be soldiers anymore.  It's that big a deal.

The definition of the word 'warrior' has changed as our world has changed.  It used to refer to a person skilled in combat or battle, but now it can mean "a person who has shown great vigor, courage, or aggressiveness" or someone who "is engaged aggressively or energetically in an activity, cause, or conflict". (thank you, Free Dictionary!)    There needs to be a new definition of Warrior, one that encompasses parenthood. We are all warriors, each and everyone of us. 

Getting pregnant is not always easy, no matter what all those movies say.  Staying pregnant, for some, is darn near impossible.  Giving birth is sometimes a life and death situation.  Adoption is one long, expensive paper trail that sometimes ends in heartbreak. To know all this, and still want to become a parent takes a vigor and courage that a lot of people just don't have.  To know all this, and still want to become a parent, causes some of us to dig deep and find bravery that we never even knew we had.

After the child has arrived, parents find themselves engaged energetically, sometimes aggressively, in the very practice of parenting.  Babies cry, babies spit up, babies need to be fed, babies cannot change their own diaper.  Their entire existence depends on you, the guy or gal who regularly forgets where he or she has left their glasses/car keys/stroller.  Everything that you do, from the moment you wake up until you lay yourself down to sleep, affects more than just yourself.  Everything you even think about doing has to been examined with minute care to determine how it will affect the life of that child, because it is no longer all about YOU.  Suddenly, you have a new Code, a new way of life, to follow. That is a mind blowing experience for some people, requiring more focus than they are willing to give, but most of us are up to the task.  We are Warriors. We will do whatever we have to in order for our progeny to grow up happy and healthy.  We will engage energetically in activities that our child is interested in.  We will fight to get our child into a good school.  If our child has special needs, we will practically kill to make sure that our child has all of the services they need to learn.  We will protect our child with our last breath, if we have to.  We've all seen news stories about mothers or fathers jumping into fistfights to protect their children.  While it's certainly not admirable behavior, most of us completely understand the strong emotions that went into that bad decision-making.

Parenthood is often denigrated, ridiculed in many ways. That needs to stop, but it won't happen while we still look at the practice of parenting as something less than honorable.  Something that we have to apologize for.   Parents are as essential to the functioning of a great society as Warriors.  Warriors don't apologize for following the Code that defines them as a group, and neither should we. 

Today my son was dropped off at school cleaned, clothed, fed, and happy. Neither my husband nor I slept more than a couple of hours, because the boy coughed all night. We're both hopped on more caffeine than we should be, but it's a battle we have fought before. At some point I'll discover that my shirt is on inside out, or that I forgot to put eye makeup on one eye, but that's small potatoes. Into the fray I go.

Now get in there and win today's battle.

***this pep-talk was inspired by my friend Lizbeth over at Four Sea Stars. She curses like a sailor, and I imagine that she has a mean right hook, but she's the very image of a Warrior. 

What About The Boy?

When the news first broke about the incident in Steubenville, Ohio, part of me was glad.  The more of these incidents that see the light of day, the more likely they will stop, was my initial thinking.  Even in this time of female empowerment, there is still a stigma attached to reporting rape and other crimes against women.  Girls feel especially vulnerable, and they sometimes let their peers talk them into not reporting these incidents, especially if the perpetrator is a popular boy.  Popular does not always mean 'good', but it might as well mean such a thing.  I was glad that she had come forward; it would have been easier to hide it all away.

Then I thought of the victim, and her shame and embarrassment.  None of what happened was her fault, and yet there are people out there who blame her.  She was exploited when she was vulnerable, and now everybody knows that. It's not going to be an easy trip, to recover from the betrayal, the hatred, and the anger.  Her parents have said that she just wants it all to go away.  I get that.  She wants things to be what they were before.  Before she went to that party.  Before she drank too much and passed out.  Before two boys, left to their own devices, did something that everyone regrets.

But it happened, and it's not going to go away.   Not for her, and not for those two boys. And not for all those kids who sat around and watched, the girls who felt justified in not interfering out of some petty jealousy, or the boys who didn't want to go against their fellow athletes.  Those students will have to live with their decision to not interfere, and it will come back to haunt them. Parenthood will do that to them.  Parenthood makes you think long and hard about the choices you made growing up, and how those choices might affect your children.

What about all those "good kids" who sat around watching while this entire event happened?   I refuse to believe that those kids, the ones who did nothing to intervene, all had horrible home lives.  I refuse to believe that those kids did not know right from wrong.  I refuse to believe that those kids were never taught acceptable societal values by their parents.   I refuse to believe that those parents never spoke to their children about treating others with respect.  And yet when it was time to make a good decision using what their parents taught them, those kids chose poorly.  There are probably several parents in Steubenville who were horrified by the behavior of their children, who will spend the rest of their lives wondering where they went wrong.

I'd like to tell you that my kid will be different.  I'd like to be able to say that I know that my child would never do such a thing.  I'd like to be able to say that my child will always be respectful of others, that he will be kind to the people he meets.  That he would never, ever do something like that to another person.  That he would have stopped those boys from hurting that girl.

But the fact is that I don't know. And that keeps me awake sometimes, knowing that a single bad decision could be costly.

We will teach him to respect others.  I will make sure that he knows that it is wrong to disrespect women.  He will hear that "no means no".  I will probably talk until I am blue in the face, just like I do every day, about being a good person, morals, family values, etc.My son will ultimately have to make his own decisions about his behavior, and I know this.  I can't be with him all the time, and he will eventually have to use what his father and I have taught him to make choices.  I may not like some of those decisions.  Some of his choices might result in some pretty negative consequences.  And I will have to live with that, just like he will.

All we parents can do is our best when it comes to raising children.  We may not always succeed, but we at least have to make the effort, don't we? 

Creative Parenting

Once upon a time, I had the bright idea that raising boys would be easier than raising girls.  After all, I said to myself, boys don't have all that extra drama about what they wear and who is their friend and all that.  I won't have to worry about buying the correct hair bows or getting the special sparkly tights. 

I don't know what I was thinking.  Boys aren't more difficult, but they have their own set of trauma-inducing chapters in their lives. I am starting to get a little paranoid about these lessons that I am supposed to impart to my child.  I have realized that I have no idea how to teach many of the finer points of being a boy.  When I was growing up and my brother said or did something completely idiotic, my dad usually just slapped him upside the head.  I'm not sure what sort of lesson a slap upside the head is supposed to impart, nor am I sure that any specific lesson was learned in that instance.  So how do we do this?  How do you raise a boy who doesn't shy away from challenges, but one who isn't a bully?  How do you raise a son who stands up for themselves without knocking anyone else over?  How do you raise a boy who treats others with respect?

How do you teach a five year old boy to be a gentleman?

Yesterday, I was getting my son ready for bed.  He was putting on his Very Special Skylanders jammies(I don't know why they're so special, that is just what he calls them), and I was walking around the room, picking up socks, shirts, and pants, so they could be washed and taken to Goodwill. I occasionally had to bend over to get my fingers on some items.  It was as I was bending over that my son laughed at me.

"Mama, you've got a big butt!"  Zane giggled.  I was horrified.  Where did he get that?  Did he hear that from one of his friends?  Should I make a big deal about it?

Where he got the sentence doesn't really matter, I decided. I do have what is colloquially known as "Junk in the trunk"; I generally like my extra cushioning.  However, I thought that Zane should understand that what he said wasn't a nice thing to say to other people.

"Son, when you say that someone has a big butt, it's mean and you hurt their feelings," I began.

But Zane had moved on to a new topic: the extremely voracious Army Ant. My words were not getting through. I needed to make an impact, because I needed Zane to know beyond a shadow that it was not okay to tell someone they have a big butt. Even if it is true. So I had to get a little creative.

"Zane," I made my eyes as wide as I could. "When you tell someone who is not your mama they have a big butt, do you know what happens?"

"No, Mama. What happens?"

"They will SIT on you!" I lowered my voice, trying to make it as scary as I could. "And sometimes...they pass gas!"

"EEEWWWWWW!" Zane looked horrified, but thoughtful. I considered my job complete, at least until the teen years.

Later, as I was relating this tale to Larry, I noticed that he was just staring at me.

"Stop looking at me like that." I said.  "You have no idea how hard it is to come up with this stuff."

Prompt:  Incorporate the phrase "stop looking at me like that" into your post.

Down Time

optional prompt: down time

There's quite a few things that nobody tells you about having children.  One of the big things that gets brushed over is the lack of down time. If you are a person who loves being able to enjoy a variety of activities, travel, and adventures, it might be good to put off being a parent for a bit.  From the moment you bring that baby home, parenting is a nonstop gig.  3am feedings.  Eyes peering at you over the bed in the early morning hours, wanting breakfast.  Demands for water at midnight. When school starts, there's projects and homework.  There's a never ending pile of laundry, and dishes are forever sitting in the sink, waiting to be washed.  When a child is sick, there's sleepless nights to go along with the rushing about days. 

All the things that I want to do, from reading a book to just taking a nap, have to be put on hold. When I do get to read a book, it is in short bursts, because when things get too quiet in the other room, bad things happen.  Occasionally I will have some time to sit at the kitchen table and work on my jewelry making, except that now 'my' spot at the kitchen table has become Lego-building central. My favorite chair, where I can sit and work on crochet while I watch my television shows, is now my son's favorite chair as well, and since needle work involves the throwing of elbows, I've had to abstain.  I love being a mom, but I've had some adjustments to make.  Most of my "Me" time happens after my son is in bed asleep, and even if I am exhausted I will sit at a computer to type.  Because I need my 'Me' time, however brief it is.  It's how I stay sane.

FIVE MINUTES. STOP.

There ends my 5-minutes Streams of Consciousness post. Want to join in? (We'd love to have you!)

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The Moment

Mamakat's prompt: Share a parenting moment where you really began to realize what this mothering thing is all about.

I didn't really get to touch my son until a couple of days after he was born, and even then, those first few days were kind of surreal. Zane was in an incubator, and our touching him was limited by his need to stay attached to monitors and feeding tubes.  So there was a little distance at the beginning, a little space between my heart and my son.  Breathing room.

There are a lot of tests run on babies, NICU babies especially.  Tubes are checked, oxygen levels are raised and lowered, blood is drawn, etc.  Most of it happens when parents are not around, because parents in the NICU tend to get hysterical, for rather obvious reasons.  It is just easier for the doctors and the nurses to deal with one patient instead of two or three.  So many of the medical tests that Zane had to undergo happened when we were at home or early in the morning.  Various tubes and wires appeared and disappeared, or we were informed of the results of this blood test or that.  Again, there was that distance for me. Breathing room.  Sometimes it seemed as if I were dreaming that I had a son.

Then one day, while I was sitting with Zane in the NICU, the pediatric opthamologist showed up.  Since premature babies have a chance of developing eye problems, the hospital wanted Zane checked out.  The doctor explained that he was going to shine a bright light into my son's eyes to examine the retinas and the blood vessels of the eye.  As the nurse pulled the curtain around us to darken the area, the doctor looked at me.

"You can stay, but you have to remain over there," he said.  This made me pause a moment, but I agreed to remain seated on the other side of the room.  Zane was sleeping, swaddled as tightly as I could manage, like the nurses taught me.

The doctor hovered over Zane's crib a moment.  Then he pulled out some clamps.  I'd seen those clamps before.  They were a smaller version of the clamps used on Malcolm MacDowell's character in the film A Clockwork Orange.   I watched in horror as the doctor used those tiny clamps to prop open my son's eyelids, then shine that very bright light into them.  Zane screamed in protest, and his cry ripped through that tiny bit of distance that had been between us since his birth and stabbed painfully right into my heart.

Intellectually, I understood what the doctor was doing, and knew that he wasn't being deliberately cruel to a three week old infant.  Intellectually, I understood the implications of pediatric retinopathy and what it might mean for my son's future if the doctor did not see normal blood vessels.  Intellectually, I knew that the doctor only took about twenty seconds to complete his exam and remove the clamps. Unfortunately, what I witnessed was not all about intellect.  I was unprepared for the emotional reaction. It was as if the doctor were shining that light into MY eyes.  I couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.  My child was in distress and I had to sit there and let the doctor do his job, even though I really, truly wanted to punch him right in the face. 

And I realized that this would be my life. They don't talk about this part of being a parent.  I might have to hide it, but I was never going to be able to hear my son cry without having this visceral reaction.  There would be times, however, when I might have to let doctors do their job. Immunizations would have to happen.  Stitches might become necessary, or other medical procedures along the way.  Someone would have to be there for the broken arms as well as the broken hearts.  And that someone was probably going to be me, his mother.   I have never felt so inadequate, but it was too late to go back.  I mentally sucked in my gut and grit my teeth as I moved to comfort Zane.  We were in this thing together, and we would do what we needed to do.

 

Happy Valentine's Day?

They're having a party in Z's class tomorrow, and we were given a list of the names of the kids so he(me) can make sure that they all have a valentine.  The cards that Zane picked out are supposed to have a button put on them, a little trinket that does not contain any sugar.  I opened the package and got out the cards...and actually looked at where I was supposed to be putting the buttons. 

Can anyone else see why I was a bit disconcerted?  No wonder those characters are smiling!

New Parent? Come On In!

Online Colleges

Somehow I won this parenting blog award from www.ecollegefinder.org, and since I am always desperately in need of validation, I humbly accepted. In my opinion, there just isn't enough education in this world, which explains the current Congress(those children should have been left behind), and it is a fact that the more educated you are, the more money you make over your lifetime. Really--go look it up.

As a consequence of winning this award, I feel that I should at least address some small part of what I have learned over the last four years of being a parent. In my case, absolutely NOTHING happened like it does in the movies! Well, except that my OB-Gyn sort of looks like Oliver Platt. Anyway, here's my two cents, adjusted for inflation.

////

Congratulations, new parent! You've brought your progeny home from the hospital or from the adoption agency. This most precious creation now lies safely sleeping in the correct position in their crib, while you and your spouse gaze at them in wonder. At this point, you should be terrified.

This is normal. The people who tell you that being a parent is easy are either high or selling something. Being a parent is the hardest job on the planet. It takes courage to be a parent. It is not for the weak-minded or the frivolous.

If you get to be a parent, there are a lifetime of challenges ahead, true. There are a lot of heartbreaks ahead, too. There is also a lifetime of success and joy and happiness ahead that will light your heart up with warm and fuzzy for the rest of your life. Being a parent is hard, but the rewards make up for that. Without further ado, here is my advice to new parents, based upon my four fabulous years of experience.

1. You are the role model for your child. Whatever you do, from now on, that little face is going to be looking to see how you handle what life throws at you. Think about how EVERYTHING that you do looks from the eyes of your child. It is an exceptionally humbling exercise. If you do it or say it, expect your child to do it or say it. Behave accordingly.

2. You are never going to parent as well as the next person, because that parent is not you. The sooner you get over that, the better. It used to keep me up nights thinking about all the things that I wasn't doing "right", and I'll never get that sleep back(Sleep is GOLD to a new parent. GOLD). Your child is unique; you are unique. Your parent-child relationship is unique. There is no "one size fits all" kid, so why expect to be that kind of parent?

3. A parenting book can be a helpful reference, but it is not the Bible. I am partial to Dr. Spock, but a number of people like those "What to Expect books". Each parenting book out there says the same thing, except when they don't. One book may say that it is okay to let your baby cry for hours. Another book threatens to call CPS if you ever let your child cry for longer than twenty seconds. You can go crazy. Choose one book to use as a reference, in case you get stuck. Don't even open any other parenting book, for sanity's sake.

4. Loving your child is not the same as letting them do whatever they want. Nobody likes a spoiled brat; there's enough of those in Congress. Boundaries make a child feel safe, and that's a stone cold fact. Sometimes that means telling them 'no'. You are not your child's friend, you are their parent. Your child needs to trust you to protect them, even from themselves.

5. Once you become a parent, there is no going back to the life you had before. It is very easy to become frustrated as a new parent. Real life experiences can be scary. There is nothing wrong with admitting that you need help. If you don't have family members who can give you a couple of hours respite here and there, check with local churches, community groups, Any Baby Can, etc. This is especially true if you have a special needs child. Even God rested on the seventh day.

Dearest readers, do you have any advice for first time parents? Do tell--my kid is only four, so I have years of stuff to learn!

Doody-head

We were met by my son's teacher yesterday at pickup time. She was concerned about the 'bathroom talk'. I was momentarily confused, then I realized that she was referring to my son's current raging case of 'potty-mouth'.

For the past week, my son has called everyone around him, including my cat Morris, a 'doody-head', a 'dookie', and other variations of the same. All Zane can talk about is the potty--what sits on it, what goes in it, etc. These are words that we do not use, and we naturally assumed that Zane acquired this new vocabulary from his social group. We get that. Zane is apparently at the age where it is developmentally appropriate to talk about poop with your peeps.

Larry and I have discussed Zane's behavior with each other, and with him, several times. We can't even bring up any of the words without Zane exploding in giggles. Of course, every time my husband hears the word 'doody', he giggles. He's like Pavlov's dog that way. I'm not much better, I must confess. I have to fight off the urge to snicker, and everyone knows that you can't be a stern disciplinarian and snicker. It's just not done.

While Zane's teacher was talking, what am I thinking about? I am the MOM here, after all! I should be thinking about MOM things, right? Am I considering all the possible consequences I can inflict on my child as punishment for his wayward behavior? Am I rifling through my assorted behavior management tricks to find just the right thing to nip this particular behavior in the butt? (Sorry. Could not resist.)

No.

All that was going through my head was the Babe Ruth scene from the movie Caddyshack. I nodded and tried to look concerned, while in my head I was seeing Bill Murray in the hazmat suit holding the offending candy bar.

"What was that all about?" Larry wanted to know when we finally got out to the car.

What could I tell him?

"Doody."

Bad Mama

Zane learned a new trick at daycare. It's all about drama at the daycare these days. Not only is there REAL crying, now there's the fake crying. Not only is there REAL illness, there's the fake illnesses. Not only is there the REAL "I don't know how", there's the fake one, too. All the aspiring actors out there don't need to pay money to an acting school; just spend a couple of weeks studying the kids in my son's class. Lots and lots of drama. I don't know how those teachers do it.

I hate that crap. I have ZERO patience for it, especially after a long day. I think that I deserve a little consideration in this instance. A Get Out Of Drama Free card would be perfect. If I could sit my son down and explain things to him in way that he understood, I would. Three year olds don't speak my language, however, and my comprehension of theirs is always an iffy thing. I just want to explain a few "guidelines", such as "Do not fall on the floor and start bawling because the cat barfed on the Aquaman action figure that did not get picked up last night."

Or "Do not start screaming and hitting because of the No Cookies Before Dinner rule."

Or "Do not say "My tummy hurts" when it is time to take a bath."

And especially, "do not tell the person who buys your favorite food, books, and toys that you don't love them when they ask you to clean up your toys." That is just plain heinous. Plus, it hurts my feelings.

///

"Zane, are you pretend crying?

"Yes."

"Knock it off, kid. Right. Now."

"Okay."

///


The only kind of drama I want to see when I am at home is the stuff on the television. So my responses to Zane's melodramas are probably less than appropriate. My husband usually ends up chastising me for not being sensitive to our son's needs. Except a mother knows when their child is faking.

I'm a bad mama. I don't fuss and give hugs and treats and attention for that kind of behavior. Zane will be an adult at some point, and he is going to want to have a job. Do you think that an employer is going to pay an employee to throw himself on the floor when he doesn't get his way? (actually, in some countries, that probably costs extra) No, it's best to just nip that dramatic but manipulative tendency right in the bud early. It's either that or give the boy an Emmy or something.

Same Page, Different Readers

Yesterday, while I was in a meeting on a campus, my cell phone vibrated. I saw that it was my son's daycare. My stomach gave a little lurch.

Crap.

I apologized to the others at the table, and they were very accommodating.

"Hello?" I answered the call. I could barely hear the voice. It was the director of the daycare.

Crap.

"Yes?" I was surprisingly calm, considering. It's that moment before they tell me what is wrong that just kills me. I prepared for the worst, but at the same time I don't want to think about what the "worst" might be.

"Your son snorted a bee," the director told me.

My reaction was immediate.

I snorted, thinking that I had heard wrong. I bit my lip to keep from giggling--how often does any parent even contemplate hearing that sentence on the phone?

The director repeated herself, then elaborated. Zane had been outside playing, and something had flown up his nose. My son thought it was a bee and went to his teacher for help. Not before trying to dig the dead insect out of there, however.

"Is he okay?" I asked, but at that point I kind of knew the answer and I was relieved. They had recovered bug parts, according to the director, and there did not appear to be any swelling or allergic reaction at this time. The comment about 'recovered bug parts' almost got me giggling again as I hung up the phone. It was funny, dammit!

Just a typical boy and a typical bug having an encounter. Maybe flying up noses is what bugs do when they are old; maybe human noses are the equivalent of the Elephant Graveyard. I had a mental picture of a bee trying to fly into Zane's nose; it seemed farfetched, but I wasn't there. If it was a bee, then it didn't sting him, and since Zane has never been stung by a bee before, he should not have an allergic reaction.

I texted my husband and told him that his son had snorted a bee. Next thing I know, the phone vibrated again. It's my husband, and he was freaking out. He was upset that his boy might be hurt, wondering about allergic reactions, and thinking that we would be going to the ER.

How different our reactions were! It's usually the mother who freaks out and the father who talks her off the metaphorical ledge. Yet my husband and I seem to react directly opposite the expected stereotypes. It likely won't be the first time that Zane gets something stuck up his nose, because that is what kids do. They also poke things that aren't supposed to be poked, push the buttons that aren't meant to be pushed, and pull on things that don't necessarily like being pulled. Accidents are going to happen.

My husband will give himself a heart attack from overreacting for the next eighteen years or so, and I worry about that. But things could change. Maybe there will come a day when I will be the one freaking out in an emergency and Larry will be the calm one.

Nah.

The State of Undress

We have been having a long running "discussion" with my son. When Zane was younger, clothing was essential; everybody had to be dressed. He even chastised characters on television if they weren't fully clothed.

Then my son decided that he wasn't going to wear any clothing at all. Since they frown on this at most public places, we informed him that he could not go out of the house naked. We stuck to our guns. That seemed to work for a bit. Zane has now decided that clothing is optional. As soon as he enters a home, he immediately strips to his skivvies, even if the home in question is not his. This has certainly made the idea of attending children's birthday parties more interesting.

Is this stripping a guy thing? My husband doesn't run around the house naked, but as soon as he walks in the door after work, he strips down and gets "comfortable". I've heard similar stories from other women about their men, enough to know that it is not just my house that strips. I don't know, nor have I ever heard, of this phenomenon occurring in women. I might change into shorts or my jammies after a long day, but I don't walk in the door and strip. I suppose that this tendency might reflect the generally positive body image that med seem to share. Or maybe it's all about comfort. All I know is that I sometimes get a little jealous of that ability to just throw off clothing and let go of the cares of the day.

We will leave clothes for Zane to put on, but odds are that my son won't be wearing them.

Instead, he will put on a hat. When we ask him about clothes, Zane exclaims that he is NOT NAKED! in a loud and proud voice.

Or he will put on just his shirt, and again point out that he is NOT NAKED.

One day, I came down stairs and he was wearing nothing but his backpack and shoes. He was ready to go to his grandma's house, he told me. I told him that he could not go outside naked.

"I not naked!" Zane asserted. And technically he was right--he was not naked.

I don't think that would have been enough for Grandma's tender sensibilities, but it might have been worth it to see the look on her face.

The Things I Do For My Kid

When I was a teenager, I would be at the pool every single day during the summer. Of course, I had a pretty nice body back then, before life hit me like a Peterbilt. And back then I was all about boys, so showing off my bathing suit, and what was in it, was sooo very important. I stayed out of the deep end, because I absolutely MUST have one foot on the ground at all times(a sensory processing issue) so I don't freak completely out.

These days, I have absolutely no desire to be anywhere near a pool, for several reasons. First, I haven't swam in ages, so I am definitely out of practice. Second, I have exercise-induced asthma. Third, due to previous misadventures, aka being on a respirator, I have developed a strong aversion to anything that might inhibit my breathing. Fourth, I sunburn easily because my skin is extremely pale, and when the sun hits it just right I can probably be seen from space.

And finally, I look simply awful in a swimsuit.

I am not trying to garner sympathy by saying that I look terrible in a swimsuit. I am acknowledging a fact. Swimsuits just don't seem to fit me in the right places, no matter what size I try on. I've accepted it and moved on. I am not bitter; I have just tried to stay away from swimming and bathing suit competitions.

To sum up, I now avoid pools. Except that now there's this little dude:



And he wants me to take him swimming. My kid doesn't just love the water to splashy-splashy and look cute. Zane likes to put his head underwater and 'swim like a fish'. He doesn't even want to get out of the pool when the lifeguards signal a break.

This has required an adjustment on my part. I can't very well refuse to take my son swimming just because of my own reluctance. It would be wrong of me to visit my own anxieties on Zane, no matter how "reasonable". He is an adventurer at the moment, and I will not take that away from him. So I dug out a swimsuit, slathered on 4000 SPF sunscreen, and went to the pool with my husband and son. I even got into the water with them!



The worst thing that happened was that I got sunscreen in my eyes. And that call from NASA about my being visible from space.