On the Precipice

In some ways he is already gone. Even the hours when he is here, he is somewhere else – ear buds in listening to music I don’t understand, texting with people I do not know, reading books I’ve never heard of, and surfing websites certainly not meant for parents. I’m proud of the fact that he is so independent and obviously ready to be out our door. Yet, my heart breaks at the thought of him being gone.

I watched him walk across that stage a few days ago, accept his diploma, grin for the cameras, toss his hat in the air. He celebrated for two days straight - eating every manner of junk food, laughing, throwing frisbees, solidifying memories to take with him when he goes. This is the last he will see of some of these people, but he won't feel that truth until decades from now.

It seems like only moments ago, he couldn’t remember to hand in homework and lost his shoes and jacket on a regular basis. Learning to drive stressed us both and I wondered if he’d ever be able to find his way without me or his father in the seat beside him. And now he comes and goes, driving to towns 45 minutes away, negotiating the city, and finding a friend’s house on a lonely, dark back road. Undoubtedly he makes a few wrong turns, but he figures it out eventually.

He will negotiate the world in much the same way.

I can’t imagine a day when he will not barrel down the stairs noisily, tease the dog, leave the open milk container on the counter and his socks on the porch. I miss him already and no longer complain when I find Dungeons & Dragons dice or Magic cards all over my house. They are evidence that he is still here.

I feel like this leaving is just one more example of the pain of parenting no one warns you about. The other stuff – sleeping through the night, potty training, starting kindergarten – there are entire books warning you about these trials, but no one tells you that one day this person who has taken up residence in your heart 24/7/365 for eighteen years is going to leave. And it will hurt like nothing you can imagine. There is no metaphor for this pain that is already casting its shadow on my heart even though I still have three months – three months! – before he goes.

For his part, he seems a little guilty. He is kinder and more grateful. Maybe he feels bad that he is so excited to get out of here and leave us. I watch him with his younger siblings. He listens to them more than he ever has – as if memorizing them. He will miss so much of their growing up and they have relished their front row seats to his adventures. This will be hard on them, too.

I don’t know when he discovered the horizon.

On the Safe Side of Fate

Every mother harbors nightmares about losing her child. It’s what makes us nag and remind and question and stay up in wait for the headlights in the driveway. We only want to keep them safe. We wrongly imagine it is within our power. This past weekend that nightmare was a reality for a mom in my town. I don’t know her, but she has weighed on my heart ever since the moment I heard that a five-year-old had been struck and killed by a delivery van.

It was an accident. The van wasn’t driving too fast. The driver wasn’t doing anything irresponsible. The little boy was probably being a typical little boy – impulsive, energetic, easily distracted. I imagine he was happy to be out with his mom on such a day as Saturday. It was a gorgeous, blue sky, gentle breezes picture perfect day. Not the kind of day to be pierced by something so tragic.

I heard the sirens. I was puttering in my gardens. I have a friend who once worked as a surgeon in an emergency room. Days like this were busy days for her – people are out and active she told me– motorcycle riders without helmets, kids falling out of tree forts, accidents at picnics and concerts and fairs and sporting events. I worried when I heard the sirens and did what I always do – mentally sorted through my own children’s whereabouts.

Savoring the Days

I sense that I’m losing control. Okay, maybe I never had control in the first place, but I sure thought I had it. Now I feel like a passenger in a car being driven much too fast over those hills that make your stomach do that droppy thing.

I no longer have any say in what my teenagers wear, eat, or choose to do with their time. My opinion is not one they welcome and only on a good day even tolerate. Luckily, there is still one child left here with me on the island, but even he is inching across the sand, searching the horizon and forgetting to put on his life vest despite the fact that I have a stack of them right here beside me.

I knew this was coming. We all do, right? We joke about when our kids will be teenagers, right up until the point where they are teenagers and we stumble through our days of empty cupboards, stinky laundry, unset alarm clocks, music we don’t understand, and the daily reminder that we know NOTHING and all we can think is – how did this happen?

Life on a Stage

I am not my daughter. I know this logically, but it doesn’t stop me from assuming that she feels the same things I felt when I was her age or reacts to situations the way I did when I was a teen. I lay my own fears and insecurities on her, empathizing perhaps too much. She is much braver than I was or am.

I worry for her unnecessarily and don’t understand her annoyance when I try to share my sympathy or support. I spend endless hours sorting through my memories, reliving particularly painful events and imagining her experiencing a similar awkwardness. But times have changed and that old saying that nothing ever changes could not be farther from the truth. Our kids are growing up in a very different time.

We had the buffer of space and time that they don’t have in this age of instant feedback and constant images. You can’t close your door. The TV doesn’t turn all fuzzy at midnight and the phone is never busy. There is constant scrutiny 24/7. There is always someone available to chat or skype or text. It is never quiet.

Every move that is made is noted on twitter or Facebook or Tumblr or some other social network I’m too old and out of it to know about. You can’t untag some images and the lenses are everywhere recording your every move whether you want it or not.

It is nearly impossible to be a private person. People, voices, messages, images, and news bear down on you every waking moment. It makes it hard to sleep or think. All three of my teens spend almost every waking hour wearing earbuds which pound out a personal soundtrack for their lives. I wave my hands at them to get their attention in much the same way I call our deaf dog. They yank the ear buds out, annoyed before I’ve said my first word.

Trading Up for Success

We gave our 11-year-old son an iPod Touch for Christmas. It was a cop-out gift. We couldn’t think of anything “big” and his siblings were getting big presents. All he’d mentioned he wanted were nerf guns and ridiculously-expensive Lego sets. My problem with those choices is that Lego land mines carpet the floor of his room and every time I vacuum any room in our house I am forced to stop multiple times to pick up nerf bullets of every shape and size. (I would suck them right up which would be satisfying but ultimately mean more work for me since they clog up the vacuum.).

In an act of desperation, and with complete lack of forethought, we purchased an I-touch.

Here’s another little piece of background knowledge you should have – this child is my most screen-addicted off spring. He’s a sweet, obedient child but screens bring out a desperate, lying side we rarely see. Until he discovered the joys of YouTube and Minecraft we rarely fought. Now it is a scab we pick at daily.

So why, pray tell, would we buy him his own personal screen? Good question.

A few years ago, I spent a year breaking a particularly difficult horse. What made him difficult wasn’t his attitude, but his curiosity and his smarts. He taught me time and again that if I wanted him to make the right choice, I needed to make the right choice easy. Putting a screen under my child’s nose is not making the right choice easy.

The Difference Between Plum Trees and Children

The keys to pruning are patience and timing. Good pruning can be the difference between a healthy, happy tree that produces abundant fruit and a tree that struggles to survive. I’ve read lots of articles and books on the subject in an effort to coax fruit from our little orchard of 13 trees. Alas, because I am more of a lackadaisical orchardist, than a rule-following orchardist, we have yet to have any significant yield from our little grove. Each year, about this time, I prune all of our now-not-so-little-anymore trees with the greatest of hopes. It takes me longer every year. I’m not sure if it’s because the trees have grown so much, or because I debate longer with myself about each cut.

This past Sunday as I tromped through the snow to take care of the annual pruning, I once again resolved to be better at caring for these trees. That pretty much involves fertilizing them and nagging my husband to spray them. And pruning them well.

I set to work pruning the dead and unnecessary branches. It’s not always easy to tell which ones should go. You want to train your trees to grow in a way that they can optimize the sunlight. So you remove branches that crowd or cover others. When a branch begins to grow upward instead of outward, you study the branch and seek out a “notch” (where a new branch will most likely grow) that is headed in the direction you would like to see the tree grow. You cut the branch just above the notch so that the tree will send the branch out in the right direction. Then you clear out all the “suckers” which are branches that grow strait up the center of the tree. They are useless freeloaders that only sap the trees resources. It can take hours to make so many important decisions. Some years I’m cautious and others I think just cut where it feels right and hope for the best.

As I worked, I began to think about how parenting is very much like pruning. When the trees are little you have to work hard to start them out right so that they will grow straight and strong. Sunlight, water, and fertilizer are a much bigger deal than pruning, but the little pruning you do is critical.

The Me on the Shelf

“I feel like I put myself in a box on a shelf for 16 years and now I’ve just taken it down and opened it again.” I may be the writer but my husband said it perfectly. I’d been having this odd feeling similar to when I went away to college or moved in to my own apartment the first time. This feeling of expansiveness, as if anything is possible.

Lately many mornings when I run, I’m conscious of an overwhelming feeling of transition. I thought it wouldn’t happen until my last kid left for college. This year my youngest entered sixth grade. He doesn’t need my assistance getting ready for school so my mornings are no longer consumed by finding shoes, tying laces, packing lunches or buttering anyone’s toast but my own.

Other than chauffeuring, laundry, and a few meal services, my kids operate very much in their own worlds now. My oldest is on the brink of getting his driver’s license, so I will be out of one of those jobs very soon. I try to pull together dinner a few times a week, but with practice, rehearsals, meetings, and games, my kids can’t always make it. They are busy. I’ve become more of a spectator than a player in their lives. Sure, they still need to be reminded to do their chores (now much more than when they were younger and more compliant), but they rarely need my help with homework, hobbies, or their social lives. They got it, Mom. Thanks for the offer. It is usually best if I just stay quiet.

WARNING: Your Children May Require You to Endure Never-ending Embarrassment, Pain, and Worry

Last week I spent ten hours driving back and forth to the high school. I’m not kidding. An entire day. If I had any advice for new parents it’s this – buy a house across the street from the high school. Or better yet, right next door (that way you don’t have to worry about your child crossing the street). In the course of six days I took twenty trips to the high school and back. Marching band, play practice, Quiz bowl, forgotten instruments and uniforms, meetings, and PSATs. Each trip was valid (except maybe the mad dash over to the school with the oboe that was forgotten on the counter so that Child #2 could practice her solo with the orchestra before the concert next week).

We do a lot of things for our children. Some are things we never imagined we’d do. Like capturing and releasing a bat from my oldest child’s bedroom as I did one night this summer. Or volunteering to be the PTO president of the Elementary School because no one else wanted the job. Freezing (or roasting) on the sidelines of countless soccer games, getting up at 2am to meet the bus to retrieve a returning child from an overseas adventure, or doctoring the bleeding wing of a beloved chicken that survived a fox attack.

We joke about dirty diapers, baby barf, and potty training, but every parent knows that’s coming when she signs up. What we don’t anticipate is the rolling eyes, the disrespectful words, the outright rudeness. I remember shouting at one child, “If my friend treated me like this, I wouldn’t be her friend any more!” To which, the wise child replied, “You’re not my friend!”

Pushover Parent

I’m a wimpy parent. I hate that about myself. I talk a big game, but when the whining and explaining and

bargaining begins, I cave like a Florida sinkhole. I wish I didn’t. Now that my kids are in their teens, they truly have the upper hand. I’d like to think that they don’t, but I am smart enough to know that I’d be kidding myself.

When they were little, it was so much easier. I made a rule. They followed it. Rare were the times when they didn’t and when it happened, my disappointment in their lapse was generally punishment enough. There weren’t a lot of time-outs in this house. Maybe that’s why I’m suffering now. They learned early on that I wasn’t very interested in punishing them. They interpret most of my actions as depriving them. And truly that is the only power I hold. I withhold junk food, cable television, game systems, and worst of all – the wifi.

For the most part, they’ve figured out ways around their deprivations. They jump at any offer of junk food from friends and strangers, indulge in cable tv on the internet, play game systems in other homes, and utilize the wifi at school and public places. The result is that I don’t have much leverage. I’m watching the events play out in Syria and I see the US government in a similar position.

What my kids tend to forget when they are complaining about their backward mother is that I almost always allow them to invite friends over. I have an open door policy. I don’t mind a gaggle of kids swarming my house. When they want to create something in the kitchen, I tell them, “have at it, but clean up after yourself.” If they can cook it, they can eat it. My daughter has perfected a brownie in a cup recipe she can whip up in the microwave in mere minutes. My oldest survives on popcorn pretty much. He’s not always so great about cleaning the popper, but I figure it’s a better habit than cheezits.

My kids are spoiled in other ways also. They want to learn the oboe? Fine. Drums? Sign him up. Fencing? Sure, I’ll drive to the other side of the city twice a week and sit in a smelly place to watch people cloaked in white thrusts skinny swords at each other in silence. They sign up for all manner of afterschool clubs and teams necessitating that I ferry them to and from the school multiple times a week. Does anyone ever tip, let alone thank, the cabbie? Not on your life.

Only in a country like America could my children feel they lived a deprived life. I hear my daughter inform her friends, “There’s no food in this house.” And my oldest son’s friends who congregate on our porch several times a week generally show up with food and drink in hand. If any of you have ever tried to keep teenage boys fed for more than two hours, you know that the fact these kids arrive with snacks is something for which I am exceptionally grateful. I do want to point out though, that there is plenty of food in my house. There just isn’t a plethora of junk food.

Back to my point at the beginning of this meandering essay, I am a pushover parent. But I am also an incredibly lucky parent. My kids, while they might not appreciate all the ways in which I indulge them, don’t generally take advantage of my lack of authority. They are good kids who offer most adults a modicum of respect, at least in public. I read stories, and hear other parents tell tales of kids who have no respect, who take full advantage of their parents’ lack of leverage, and push limits beyond what is safe. I listen intently and have nothing to offer. I believe you should hold kids accountable, and yet sometimes I can’t help but rescue my own.

Parenthood shouldn’t be a battle. I want that to be true, but I know that for some parents it is a battle. I suppose one way to look at it is to remember that these children are learning to leave their nest. They won’t leave if there’s no reason to. Hopefully the reason they leave is because better opportunity and adventures await them on their own and not because the oppressive regime becomes too much to bear.

I try to remember that it is my job to equip these kids with values, manners, and skills that will help them navigate the world without me. That’s the overall goal. That, and to love them so that they know how to love. Maybe my pushover parenting is teaching them that when it comes to loving people, especially the people in your own home, sometimes it's good to cut people some slack. So I’ll cut myself some slack for not always towing the line and for bending a few rules. As we get closer to the finish line, flexibility is the key. That much I know.

The Mother I Never Intended to Be

There seems to be an ever widening margin between the parent I intended to be and the parent I am. As my oldest bears down on the end of his years at home, I am painfully aware of the many things I hoped I’d do and be as a parent but have yet to achieve.

I wanted to be much more gentle and patient. I was going to be the all-accepting parent who fed their dreams and defended their right to be whatever and whomever they wanted to be.

But then personal responsibilities overshadowed free-spirit. There are things a young person must do. Education, society, their health, and my sanity require it. It does matter what kind of grade comes home. As much as I want to bristle at the busy work and chafe at the unimaginative essay assignments, they must be done. Hoops must be gone through. Clothes don’t necessarily have to match but they should be clean. Same goes for hair, teeth, and fingernails. Sure, I’d rather have ice cream for dinner too, but no one can live on a diet of sugar. And while I love their very essence, sometimes I need a little space between their edges and mine.

I tried to explain to my distraught teen who had put off the summer assignments until the night before school started that no, it didn’t matter if either of us felt some of the work was silly, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t have to be done. I explained (badly and somewhat over emotionally) that this work had to be done so that the teacher knew my child was a serious student so that my child could be successful in his class. Then I laid out why it was important to do well in the class and in school for that matter – and here’s where the mother I never imagined I’d be regressed to saying, “so you don’t live in my basement all your life.”

Vacation? What Vacation?

When you come home from vacation with your kids do you feel rested? I don’t. I feel relieved. We made it. Nobody got hurt, lost, sick, or too upset. I also feel stressed. Now we have to pay for that! Mostly I feel tired as I look around at the gardens gone wild, the horses filthy with old sweat, the chicken pen that is beyond ripe, and the living room carpet that will now need to be shampooed multiple times to remove the smell left from our incontinent aging dog who stresses out whenever we are gone. (Actually I’m just glad she’s alive – that was one of my biggest worries while we were away.) And then of course, there’s the laundry dumped from bulging suitcases, the mostly empty refrigerator (except for the Tupperware containers hiding on the lower shelves holding frightening concoctions left from weeks ago), and the endless messages and mail to process. Ugh.

We just returned from two weeks in California for long-overdue visits to family, hikes in the Redwoods, and kicking around San Francisco. It was quite a production to get the five of us fed, housed, transported, and entertained for two whole weeks on the road. I still can’t quite believe what it costs to feed three teens (the youngest may not be a teen, but he eats like one). Someone recently passed around a cartoon on Facebook that had a beleaguered mom sighing, “Again? But I just fed you yesterday!” That’s how I felt. They eat and eat and eat and then we get in the car and have gone only twenty miles when one of them declares, “I’m starving! Do we have any snacks?”

I sorted through the pictures last night and felt defeated. The age of digital cameras is a good and bad thing. It’s great because you can take all the pictures you want, never worrying about wasting film, but it’s bad because 1200 pictures is entirely too many to digest in a sitting. That’s nearly 100 pictures a day. Was it really that exciting? Granted these are the pics from three cameras and the youngest just discovered that he “loves” taking pictures. His subjects and angles are actually quite brilliant, but mostly blurry and hilarious.

                                                                                                      

I am confident that with time, this vacation, like childbirth, will seem worth it. I’ll be glad for the memories, the bonding with relatives, the new worlds discovered. But right now I’m thinking vacation is not vacation for most mothers. It needs a different name. 

It seems ridiculously arrogant to be complaining about vacation. I do appreciate that. I’m grateful that we can afford to take the trip we took. I’m just pondering, while it’s painfully fresh on my mind and heart, if it is worth it. Call me a homebody, but I might be just as happy to stay home. I like my home. I like my quiet days in the garden and at the keyboard. I like cooking in my kitchen and lingering on the porch over dinner. I even like the stolen moments playing games on my phone while I wait to chauffeur a child to yet another game, practice, lesson, or gathering. I like the routine. Maybe going away is necessary once in awhile if for no other reason than so we appreciate home. I’m going to go with that.

Vacation is defined by Webster as “a respite.” The definition of respite is “an interval of rest or relief.” Hmmm. We all need a respite. I’m not sure that’s what you get on vacation, at least not if you’re traveling with kids. Or with anyone for that matter. One person’s respite is another person’s torture. I’d consider it a respite to sit in a beautiful, quiet place with a glass of wine and a good book, with a cat curled up beside me. Or to hike all day until my legs quiver with exhaustion before floating in a lake and eating anything cooked over a fire. I doubt my kids would go in for more than a few hours of that kind of vacation. They were happy with the days that involved water of some kind – beach, pool, stream, hot tub. Our vacation had plenty of water. But they are also happy with a vacation fueled by a steady stream of junk food, screens of any kind, games, rides, and cousins. Not me. The cousins were great, but the rest not so much.

So this was one for the kids. Like much that I do as a mother, this was a vacation for the children. It’s a time in my life. Someday I’ll get my respite, but until then I’ll just count my blessings and sort the pictures.

This is "Zabu" the cat that came
with the cottage we rented.

The Redwoods - at a an angle.

The photographer

A Redwood from an 11-year-old's perspective

This pic just cracked me up. My kids are such
country bumpkins!

Trying to rearrange the California coast.

Use Parental Judgment

I have spent my life surrounded by nerds. I don’t say this as if it’s a bad thing. In fact, I prefer nerds. They are honest about who they are and unafraid to be true to themselves. That they are maligned by the popular crowd is not lost on them. It registers and I believe it does inflict some pain, but not enough pain to compel them to seek fashion advice, join a gym, or start watching mindless television. And we all know that the nerds win in the end which is what matters most.

When I was younger my brothers played a game called Dungeons and Dragons. They played it for hours on end. My friends and I found it odd, but we didn’t ask questions because the mainstream Christian establishment had labeled it the devil’s game and to our teenage minds that made it kind of cool.

Outnumbered

I was nine months pregnant one hot June Sunday when I walked out of church with an elderly member of our congregation. She had raised ten children herself and inquired as to how I was doing in the heat. I told her I was scheduled for a C-section in three days and she shook her head at “technology today.” Then she asked, “What number is this one anyway?” It took me a minute to understand that she was referring to what number child I was due to deliver. I told her it was my third and she said, “That’s the back breaker honey, good luck!” before ambling off to her car.

I puzzled at her remark, but a few weeks after I returned home from the hospital with my new baby, I understood exactly what she meant by "back breaker." I have never been as exhausted as I was in those days. For some reason going from two kids to three kids was an exponential jump rather than simple addition. Suddenly I didn’t have enough hands or laps or food or time or energy. And it certainly hasn’t let up. I don’t know how she managed ten. I was done at three.

What If Everyone Had Cancer?

When my youngest son was four years old he lost all his hair to an autoimmune disorder called Alopecia Areata. Over the course of a month all of his beautiful red curls fell out, then his eye lashes and eye brows. My heart broke on a daily basis. But he was four, and hair to a four-year-old is not necessarily a concern. When a classmate at the snack table in preschool asked if he’d gotten a haircut, he looked confused until another classmate spoke up and said, “Nah, Ian’s hair fell out.” Everyone went back to their juice and animal crackers unalarmed.

As a parent you begin imagining your child’s life when you first see those two pink lines, perhaps even earlier if you’re a true romantic. I couldn’t imagine what elementary school would be like for my newly bald child. Or maybe the problem was that I could imagine it – teasing, bullying, heartbreak. For a few months we stayed in, but then it became obvious that the hair would not be re-growing so we resumed our life with our three kids, but I hovered close to my youngest ready to defend him at the slightest provocation.

While my husband was traveling, the kids and I ventured out for dinner one night at the local pizza shop. We snuggled into a booth and I tried not to notice the obvious stares of the other patrons. The kids were oblivious to anything odd and happy to be out to dinner for the first time since Ian’s diagnosis. When it was time to pay, I left the kids in the booth and went to the cashier. She told me not to worry, our check was already paid. I didn’t understand, but she assured me another patron had taken care of our check and wished my little boy well. I stumbled back to collect my children and made for the exit. Driving home it finally dawned on me that the kind person who paid our check must have thought Ian had cancer.

Disregarding the Fish

Sorting through the mess accumulating in my hallway this morning, I came upon a pile of stuffed animals abandoned in the giveaway box. We keep this box in the hallway outside the kids’ bedrooms so it is conveniently located when they determine that an article of clothing, a book, or a toy are no longer needed in their lives due to physical or emotional growth (and sometimes due to the wax and wane of teenage culture). My ten-year-old rarely contributes anything except for clothing he received for Christmas, so I was surprised to find a collection of once treasured stuffies in the bottom of the box.

I admit that my eyes got misty when I spied the colorful fish amongst the other animals. The fish was my child’s first Webkin. I’m certain that Webkins will someday be what Smurfs are to my generation – a relic that causes a mixture of nostalgia and embarrassment when they appear in present day media or in the back window of someone’s car. My two younger children amassed a sizable collection, which is impressive considering those were the days of dial-up.

Talking to Toddlers or Teens

My toddlers

When communicating with toddlers, you have to speak literally, basically channeling Amelia Bedelia and thinking carefully about every word you use. You must be clear as a freshly washed window.

And when listening to a toddler, you have to search for the unsaid words, while simultaneously sorting through the garbled interpretation of the language presented. Many times what a toddler says makes no sense, especially out of context, which is typically how a toddler talks. He might say something like “Today I was dinosaur and kitty was up there. I had the yellow one.” And what the toddler is referring to is sometime last month when there was a kitten in the neighbor’s tree and he was wearing his favorite dinosaur t-shirt and carrying his yellow bucket.

I would give anything to go back to the simplicity of communicating with my teenagers when they were toddlers. It was much easier.

This afternoon my daughter arrived home from school. “Hi!” I said brightly. She continued to rummage through the cupboards without acknowledging me.

I’m used to this because my oldest has ear buds permanently installed in his ears. It’s necessary to physically get his attention. I must clap or yell (just like our 15-year-old dog who can’t hear either).

Home Alone

Home alone. Lately it seems to be the story of my life.

Having a husband who travels frequently for his job has its pros and cons. Mostly I’m thinking cons. When the kids were young, it was tough because all the diaper changing and long nights fell to me. The unrelenting toddler talk and constant baby carrying simply wore me out, body and soul. These days the children are big enough to bathe themselves (but apparently not big enough to pick up their wet towels or carry their dirty clothes to a hamper), yet the exhaustion can still be overwhelming. I’m the only one who can help with homework, wash the pans, chase down the errant dog, or locate the form that was supposed to have been signed yesterday. No one but me can be trusted to lock the doors, turn off the lights, and throw the cat out at night. The game pieces, dog toys, and snack leftovers will lie where they are on the living room carpet until I pick them up. No one else feels responsible for their whereabouts.

When Your Child Dumps You

When your children are small and snuggly and clamor for your attention you can’t imagine there will come a day when they will ignore you, dismiss you, or outright avoid you. But the day comes. And I don’t care how sweet and loving your child is, or how close you are or how openly they share their hearts with you; one day they will shun you. I promise. And it’s a good thing. Even if it doesn’t feel like it.

I looked up the word parenting in the dictionary and it says: “the rearing of children.” And what is “rearing”? I, being a horse person, of course thought of that moment when the horse lifts its front end off the ground and attempts to set you on your butt. But Dictionary.com says, “to take care of and support up to maturity.” Huh. So there’s some comfort in knowing that once they are mature I don’t have to support them anymore. I know a few parents that would find that knowledge welcome relief.

Sibling Truce At Last

Kids fight. I know this first-hand. I remember some particularly spectacular disputes with my little brother that ended in violence – me with a pencil point in my hand, him flung against the kitchen wall so hard he was knocked unconscious (or faked it really well) causing me to hide in the bath tub from my mother. I remember when “I’m rubber and you’re glue, everything you say bounces off of me and sticks to you” seemed like a powerful protection, forcing me to resort to saying nice things.  

My own kids fought just as fiercely. There have been days when I have screamed in frustration when every other word uttered by my cherubs to each other was antagonizing or insulting. I continuously underestimated the topics and situations over which my children could fight with each other. I was horrified by the vehemence with which they spoke to each other. I lamented that they would never be friends. I implored them to remember that they were related and needed to back each other up, and when that didn’t work I reminded them that they were stuck with each other forever! 

This past weekend we headed out to choose a Christmas tree. It is not difficult for me to pull up recent memories of tears and insults passed back and forth in our quest for the perfect tree. The threats given in hushed voices with knowing looks did not quell their battles. Their insults and complaints echoed across the valley of trees causing childless young couples to shudder and me to cringe with embarrassment. As I recall there were always pleasant families, happily choosing and cutting their trees just one aisle over, while we sent someone back to wait in the car if they couldn’t be nice. More than once, my husband asked me, “Why is it we do this again?” 

If this is your family too, then it is with great joy that I offer this glimmer of hope. We chose our tree peacefully this year. As we wandered the rows of trees, the kids joked and gave silly names to potential trees. Then after posing for pictures with the chosen tree, they happily carried the tree up the hill to pay for it. My husband smiled and said, “Do you remember when…” and we laughed.  

I’m not sure when the moment happened that our children ceased their fighting and put down their guns. But sometime over the past year, they’ve discovered that they actually like each other. Sure, there is a nasty word on occasion, but for the most part the teasing is good natured and funny. Instead of hearing shrieks of indignity from the kitchen in the mornings as they get ready for school, I hear laughter. I watch them walk down the drive to the bus stop, chattering about music, computer games, comedians.  

They are developing their own collection of inside jokes. Some I am allowed in on and some they keep to themselves. They call each other by nick names and send each other funny messages on Facebook. They enjoy each other. 

A rare peaceful moment a few years ago.

As I said, I’m not sure what changed. At some point they crossed over an invisible divide. Maybe it’s that the youngest is old enough to keep up with their verbal banter. Or maybe the middle one has mellowed. Or perhaps it’s that the oldest finds them both a good audience. No matter. I’m not asking questions. I’m just grateful that the war seems to have finally ended.

Spelling Bees and Life

Is there a more awkward, obvious way to torture children than a Spelling Bee? This morning I witnessed my own child’s Bee. To be fair, she was not up to her normal revel-in-the-spotlight self. She wasn’t feeling well, woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and was rushed out the door to run for the bus. And spelling isn’t necessarily her thing. It’s her brother’s thing. Which he reminded her of before the qualifying test. “They didn’t have the Bee when I was in Middle School, so you’re my only chance.” (None of us pointed out that there is another child in the house. That one’s still warming to the idea of spelling words correctly.) 

After she qualified for the school Bee, her older brother decided he could “train” her. He asked her to spell nonsense words he made up in an attempt to teach her patterns. It made a pretty hilarious comedy routine for the rest of us, but sadly, his efforts were a little too late (first practice was the night before the Bee). She was undone in the third round of the Spelling Bee by the word ‘receptacle’. Tricky word. I had to type it slowly. 

The thing about Spelling Bees is that the words are chosen at random. You might get ‘dog’ or you might get ‘reluctant’ or you might get ‘contemporaneous’. It’s very much a game of luck. And good memory. And the ability to keep track of where you are in the word as you spell it out loud. Some kids had pens with them and wrote the word out on their hand and then simply read it in to the microphone. Seems like cheating to me. I was surprised my daughter didn’t employ this method since she is constantly scrawling the lyrics of her favorite songs on her arms. 

At any rate, as I watched my beautiful, smart child on stage nervously trying to recall “receptacle” my heart hurt. She is so very bright, but at that moment she felt much less than bright. In fact, when I met her on the way out, she said, “I’m so stupid.” Wrong. I told her this and pointed out that she was one of only 28 students out of the entire school who had qualified to be on that stage. Still, she walked out of there feeling less smart.  

I’m sure the Bee affects different kids differently and deep down she is proud of the fact that she qualified for the Bee. Her brother certainly is. I heard him bragging to another high school student that his little sister had qualified for the Spelling Bee. He then went on to explain his inventive training program. 

A long time ago when my oldest child was lamenting that he wasn’t a superstar soccer player, his father reassured him that he was a superstar in other areas. He told him, “If there was a travel team for reading, you’d be on it.” So I guess the Spelling Bee is basically the travel team for English. It’s something to be proud of and an experience that will most likely seem better in retrospect.  

I hope the memory will be one of pride and not failure. Our kids are constantly putting themselves out there – testing their academic prowess or their athletic ability. Measuring themselves against their peers. The test of character is not which round they make it through in the Bee or how many goals they scored in the big game, it’s what they do with the assessment of their abilities. Are they proud of their efforts? Will it inspire them to work harder or will it cause them to pack up and go home?

 

We are constantly judging ourselves. I’m not sure if it is good or bad, but I know that it is a constant. Very few people, if any, refrain from comparisons. Spelling Bees are brutally embarrassing ways to rank abilities.  

When my daughter comes home this afternoon, I will tell her again how well she did. I will watch her face to see if the Bee has inspired her or defeated her. This was a big, public assessment, but every day in smaller ways our kids are working out their spot in line. They wrestle with the demons that doubt them. They are sorting out their abilities, their preferences, trying on possibilities. Society tells them that they must be the best. Just getting on the stage is not enough. 

Most likely she will have already left the Bee at school. “Spelling,” she’ll tell me, “is stupid.” As long as she doesn’t tell me she is stupid. Then she’ll sit down at her piano or pick up her guitar and make music. It is her medicine for everything that ails her. 

My youngest, non-spelling child is anxiously awaiting the results of the preliminary screening for the Geography Bee. He hopes to make it again this year. At ten, he is confident about the world and his place in it. The teen years will change all that.