Launch Number One

Some days I want my house back. Most days I’m okay with sharing it. It’s only been recently that I’ve come to realize how very close I am to launching my kiddos. Yes, the youngest is only in middle school, but as any high school parent can attest – it goes by fast. Five years. That’s all that’s left.

I used to think I would be sad. Maybe even a bit inconsolable when the last one leaves, but lately I find myself fantasizing about the quiet house. The counter that stays uncluttered. The fridge that stays full.

Will I miss them? For sure. But I’ll look forward to hearing about their adventures via phone, text, Facebook, and email. I’ll savor their visits and time spent with them. I think I will appreciate them so much more when I don’t have to pick up their dirty socks or clear their forgotten dishes.

I’m crazy proud of them and astounded at how great they are turning out, despite how unprepared their parents were going in. We could argue the nature/nurture dilemma until the cows come home, but I'd still lay my money on nature. Maybe it’s because they seem so ready to do their own thing, that I’m so ready to let them do it. It will be such fun to witness - the bumbles, the successes, the hilarious outtakes - I'm looking forward to all of it.

The first one launches tomorrow (In about 21 hours to be exact). So many small irritations and inconveniences have cropped up in the process of getting him registered, roomed, and paid for, that I’m more than nervous that it won’t actually happen or if it does, it won’t really stick. But, fingers crossed, the house will get one third quieter and the grocery bill one third smaller in less than 24 hours.

Will I be sad? I’d be lying if I said I won’t shed a tear or two. If only in memory of that sweet little tow-head boy with the bowl cut. I’m certain he’s still in there somewhere. I catch glimpses of him in a fleeting dimple when he laughs or the way his whole manner softens when he stops to run a hand over the dog’s head. I will miss my sweet boy with pudgy hands and deep questions.

Will I worry? You betcha. I’m a first-rate worrier. I can imagine all kinds of catastrophe, enough to keep my heart racing and sleep at bay for at least the first month he is gone. Will he find his classes, remember to eat, make friends, do his work, meet a girl? Will he drive his roommates crazy, lose his phone, get enough exercise, find his classes, or figure out how to do laundry? Mostly, will he miss us? Will he call me? Will he answer my texts? Plenty to worry about. I could make lists or write entire essays about it.

But I won’t.

Instead I’ll focus on the positive. No longer will I step on Dungeons and Dragons dice left all over my house or fish them out of the mouth of the latest foster dog. It will be nice to know the cats are safe as no cars will come roaring up the driveway at 30 miles an hour. The milkman will be relieved to only have to cart three bottles instead of seven up the driveway on Thursday when he makes his delivery. No one will wake me up at 1am with his pacing in the kitchen below me as he mentally sorts through a story or his evening.

I’m excited for him to meet interesting people who haven’t spent their entire lives in Pennsyltucky. I can’t wait for him to learn from professors who challenge his viewpoints and require that he actually read the text. I’ve been warning him this day would come when he will be responsible for his own diet and laundry and safety. Although he may learn the hard way how to set an alarm clock, keep track of his room key, and change the temperature on a dryer, I know he’ll revel in his independence. Which is what this whole parenting gig was all about. That’s the end game.

And hopefully, by Halloween I’ll be able to laugh at my fears. As always, my child will surprise me with his maturity, ability, and resourcefulness. This entire essay will seem silly. A silly collection of a mother’s heart, an overreaction, calling for one last roll of the eyes.

#launchingfirstborn #herewego #Susquehannabound 

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.

Ma'am I am?

I was walking the dog the other day and passed a young man in a baseball cap working in a neighbor’s yard. He looked up, smiled, and called, “Good afternoon, Ma’am!” I smiled and waved back, but inside I was shrieking, “Ma’am?! Ma’am?! I’m not a Ma’am!”

I look in the mirror and I don’t see a Ma’am. Next year I will be fifty, so chronologically, I am firmly in Ma’am territory, like it or not. Why did his respectful greeting bother me so much? I’m not one of those women contemplating Botox. My biggest worry when it comes to aging is that my knees will keep me from running or I won’t have the energy for my ever expanding garden habit. Age isn’t such a bad thing. I’m looking forward to less responsibility and more time in the hammock.

But I don’t want to be a Ma’am. Ma’ams are not sexy. They are not fun. They are not hip, interesting, or exciting. They wear cardigan sweaters, let their hair go gray, and cart around a few extra pounds. Ma’ams drive too slow on the highway and grumble over the check-out person who forgets to give them the extra ten cents off per pound on their ground beef. They complain about kids today and resent school taxes, pierced eyebrows, and loud music.

Perhaps I am affronted by the reference because being referred to as Ma’am reminds me that I am past my prime, fighting the inevitable creaks and pains and pounds more every day. I’m surprised by my age. I look at my face in the mirror and don’t see the years unless I’m not wearing my contacts and lean in close to be sure my eyeliner is lining my eyes and not my cheek bones. I’m startled by the tiny crosshatch marks and obvious wrinkles. Where did they come from?

Sometimes when I see a picture of myself I cringe at how old I look. How did that happen? How could I possibly look that old? Certainly, I don’t feel that old. I find myself talking to a thirty-something mom and thinking of her as my age only to be startled out of that assumption when she doesn’t understand a reference I make about the 1980s, she having only been a toddler at the time.

Maybe it’s denial; this insistence that I am not old enough to be considered a Ma’am. More and more I find myself ducking out of pictures not wanting any more documentation that I am aging. I even vainly untag less than flattering pictures of myself on Facebook. If there isn’t any photographic evidence, I haven’t aged. I’m fooling no one I know, but it’s the principle of the matter. I’m not old. And I’m certainly nobody’s Ma’am.

When I reached my late thirties, a friend explained to me that we were becoming invisible. She said that teenagers, young adults, and men younger than sixty didn’t see us anymore. We were no threat and held no potential as a sexual being. Therefore, they looked right through us. We could be classified henceforth as middle-age mom.

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.

A Whole New Season of Parenting

There are landmines hidden in my days. I never know when I might step into one.

I’m happily putzing along doing my thing – picking up the socks left under the coffee table, making yet another pot of tea instead of writing something, or wiping down the counter– when a thought floats through my mind, “This time next year, Brady will be gone.” I’m overcome, and have to sit down on the couch with his dirty socks in hand.

I find his socks all over the house (and a few on the porch, in the driveway, and of late – in the car). He has hot feet and has always had a horrible habit of removing his socks and abandoning them wherever he happens to be at the time, which is rarely his room and even more rarely the laundry room. He’s been doing this for 18 years, ever since I first covered his precious tiny toes with socks too small for my own thumb.

Somehow, he grew up. I wasn’t prepared for this.

All these years I’ve worked hard to raise a capable child – one that can cook a meal, pack a lunch, use his manners, put gas in the car, clean a bathroom, and be responsible for his own decisions (but not, apparently, his own socks).

The problem with this goal is, that once I’ve accomplished it – he leaves. And that is painful.

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?

How a Pepperoni Pizza Cake and an Annoying Little Dog Have Joined Forces to Keep Me From Fame and Fortune

It’s very easy to squander a morning wandering around on Twitter and Facebook. I clicked over there on the directive of the latest article I’d read on getting published. Since my lovely agent is busy pushing my latest manuscript on unsuspecting publishers, I thought I should help her out by following up on the advice that publishers want to see you’re active on these sites (at the very least these two, but they’d also love it if you were active on Tumblr, Pinterest, Instagram, and several other social media sites I hadn’t heard of.). And here’s where the trouble begins - staying active on these sites is nearly a full-time job for those of us who are easily distracted.

All I was planning to do was tweet a clever, profound comment and get back to work, but before I could do that, I was distracted by a picture of a pepperoni pizza cake – cake! – and I had to investigate that. This proved so distracting (Admit it, that picture is WAY distracting) that I couldn't remember the clever thought I’d come up with while running this morning, so I began reading everyone else’s clever thoughts which seemed to revolve around food.

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.

Boys and Baseball

What is it about boys and baseball? I’m not talking about the kids running the bases. I’m talking about the big boys doing the coaching. There’s something about this sport that brings out previously undisplayed passions. Watching these men coach and listening to them give rousing Go-get-‘em speeches in the dugout almost always shines a light on a side of these men I never imagined. These are guys who are quietly friendly and politically polite whenever I encounter them in the hallways on Back to School Night. Even at parties, these same men happily guzzle beer, but rarely raise their voices. We make conversation about the weather, township politics, even gardening, but their eyes do not light up like they do when a ten-year-old catches a pop fly or steals second.

Every fall the e-mails begin making the rounds begging for a soccer coach. Considering the

fact that soccer is the suburban sport of choice, you’d expect to find plenty of willing coaches. Not so. My poor hubby gets guilted in to coaching almost every year even though he didn’t play soccer (he’s a lacrosse man) and travels so much he misses at least a third of the season. But when baseball season rolls around, everyone wants to coach. There are hitting coaches and pitching coaches and catching coaches galore. And these guys are experts at least in their confidence if not their ability.

Don’t get me wrong, this is not a complaint or lament as much as it is a simple observation. Men love baseball. In fact, they love it so much it can reduce them to children. They argue and complain and bitch about league leadership, opposing coaches, subpar umpires, and occasionally overly enthusiastic mothers. The theatrics and drama on occasion leave me speechless while I silently think, “They’re acting like a bunch of women!” They quit the league and start their own as often as Southern Baptists in Georgia. The sport transforms them from mild mannered model citizens to zealots in search of their field of dreams. Bottomline is that it can make them nuts. Which makes the ten-year-olds running the bases sometimes look like the adults out there.

But as I said, I’m not complaining. I appreciate passion and commitment. And these men have those two things in disproportionately huge numbers. I love to see a person who believes in what they’re doing. It’s inspiring. Especially when what they’re doing is for the kids. I’m offering the benefit of the doubt on this one because most times I don’t understand the issues at stake or the level of disagreement or pettiness that can overflow like the Susquehanna.

I don’t know how much of the craziness the kids pick up on. For the most part, they simply want to play ball. I know my kid loves the game and grins ear to ear when he comes across the plate. He can deconstruct each play in which he touched the ball, explaining it to me like a patient preschool teacher. When I watch him in the outfield I’m amazed that he knows exactly where to move depending on factors like which bases hold runners, what kind of batter is at the plate, and where the ball goes when it’s hit. It’s certainly more detail than I could juggle. I keep track of the balls and strikes, outs and runs on an app on my phone. Without it I’d be lost, yet these men that crowd the dugout can replay every pitch. It’s a wonder.

One of my favorite aspects of baseball is the necessity of “backing up” the other players. The right fielder backs up the first baseman. The second baseman backs up the pitcher. The pitcher backs up the catcher. The left-fielder backs up the third baseman. I’m enamored with the concept that backing up someone is not your job because that person is bad at his job or weak with his skills. It’s simply because none of us are perfect. Sometimes the ball gets through, and sometimes you can’t hold on to a hard hit. What a beautiful life lesson. We need to back each other up. And we need to be backed up. Not only does the concept of backing up each other cement a team, many times it is the difference between winning and losing.

Another valuable lesson that baseball teaches is that if you don’t swing, you can’t get a hit. If you strike out swinging, at least you tried. No one gets a hit every time, and the boys who get the big hits strike out plenty. To strike out swinging is nothing to be ashamed about. Life is all about taking a swing. If you sit on the bench or stand still at the plate, you won’t get anywhere in baseball or life. It’s quite the metaphor.

I hope that when my son graduates from Little League, he takes with him many of the lessons he’s learned there. I hope he always has the courage to take a swing and I hope he always has the strength to back up the people around him. And I truly hope there will always be someone out there to back him up.

My Elementary Days Are Over (Almost)

I’m almost finished my last year as a parent of an elementary school student. There was a time when I thought it would never end – back when I was knee deep in book reports and dioramas. My days of remembering to sign the planner, pack the lunch, or locate the library book are nearly over. Sigh.

I’ve longed for this day, but now that it is upon me, I am misty. Somehow the six years of elementary school crawl by, but the six years of middle and high school are gone in a flash. I’m not sure what the science is that makes time work this way, but I’ve heard it from other parents so I know it is real.

I don’t have much say anymore in what they wear or what they eat or even what they do. Mostly my job is to drive them where they want to go. My words of encouragement or reminders are met with eye rolls and groans. I’ve learned that these actions are rote responses and don’t carry the meaning I supposed upon them initially when the teen years began. Now I know they simply mean, “Got it, Mom.” I don’t take offense at their insensitivity. Much.

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.

My Drishti is Grace

I’m trying to find a drishti for my life this year. I’d like more balance. Most of the time I feel like my life is very much skewed towards the being-the-mom part of my life. So I’ve been pondering the idea of choosing a drishti to focus on this year.

If you’ve never taken yoga (or even if you have since I’d hadn’t encountered this term in my very limited yoga experience), drishti is a point of focus where your gaze rests during meditation and during yoga poses. You look with “soft” eyes (not straining) at a particular spot. Not only does it keep your mind from being distracted by other visual stimuli, it helps you balance. I remember staring intently at an electrical socket in the aerobics room at the Y during my early morning yoga there. I suppose my gaze was a too intent because my tree pose almost always swayed and eventually fell over.

My memories of yoga are fuzzy. It was seven years ago and my youngest son was newly diagnosed with a rare autoimmune condition. Those yoga sessions brought all the emotions I had tried to keep on a leash raging to the surface. As soon as the lights went down and the instructor began her soothing instructions, my tears would flow. The quiet and the peace overwhelmed me. I don’t remember the term drishti, but I do remember trying to balance my heart and my body.

My life feels askew. My body is changing in mid-life, surprising me with its unpredictability and its complaints. My children ask less of my time, but more of my soul these days. My writing is more contemplative, less certain. My garden fascinates me and my animals have become my most receptive audience. Even my husband looks different to me.

Here is an explanation of drishti I found on the web that captivated me:

Drishti is a technique for looking for the Divine everywhere—and thus for seeing correctly the world around us. Used in this way, drishti becomes a technique for removing the ignorance that obscures this true vision, a technique that allows us to see God in everything.

I think my drishti this year is grace. I want to find grace in my interactions with others. I want to seek it in the world, find the tiny pockets that you don’t see unless you’re looking for them. I want to live looking through a lens of grace – accepting more, silencing my constant need to improve everything, understand behaviors, explain the mysteries. I want to let the life around me just be. I want to focus on grace as I speak to my children, my friends, even my animals. I want more grace in my life and less judgment.

 In Sanskrit, drishti can mean a vision, a point of view, intelligence, or wisdom. With grace as my drishti, perhaps I will find the soft edges in my world.  If I can sift through my reactions from the point of view of grace, will I find more kindness, more forgiveness inside me? Mostly I hope that by claiming grace as my drishti, I will witness more good in the world and in my life.

O Christmas Tree

Last Saturday morning I was busy rearranging bins and boxes in our basement (supposedly cleaning out, but mostly moving around) when I realized that we didn’t have a Christmas tree yet. Christmas was just two weeks away and the Christmas decorations were still snug in their boxes. How had Christmas slipped up on me like that? And more to the point, why hadn’t one of my three kids said anything?

For the very first time, no one wondered where the advent calendar was, never mind the brawl that normally followed in the debate over who got to hang the first ornament. The tiny, ugly fake tree that was the “pet’s tree” was still where I’d tossed it last January on top of the furnace. The wooden crèche scene I had managed to bring upstairs earlier that week sat on the side board in the kitchen, all the wooden shepherds and kings and lambs still in a pile in the back of the stable. No one had bothered to assemble the scene (or rearranged it because their sibling had gotten to it first). The nesting dolls and nutcrackers and Countdown to Christmas chalkboard had yet to be unpacked from the box I’d lugged upstairs a week ago.

For a very long moment, I wondered if decorating this year was even necessary. I mean, after all, I’d just be taking it all down again in two weeks. Sighing, I shoved the boxes back from whence they came, grabbed one of the big bins of ornaments and hot-footed it upstairs yelling, “Hey, it’s time to go get a tree!”

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.

I Hate Crazy Hair Day

I hate Crazy Hair Day. Can I just say that? Every school year we sail along smoothly and then sometime in October, Crazy Hair Day rocks the boat. For most kids Crazy Hair Day is a fun day. They turn their locks into masterpieces – spikes, colors, decorations, gel-engineered creations that look painful. My older two children were full participants, dreaming up hairdo’s that could only be perfected in their imaginations and crushed when their mother couldn’t fulfill their dreams with her curling iron and hair spray. Still, the day was one of laughs and squeals and smiles.

Crazy Hair Day seemed completely harmless until I had a kid with no hair. My youngest child has Alopecia Areata, an autoimmune disorder that causes his white blood cells to attack his hair follicles. At age 4 he became completely bald and has been ever since. He doesn’t remember having hair so early elementary years he was relatively unaffected. It was just the way he was. Some kids have big noses or green eyes; Ian has no hair.

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!”

Just a Simple Thanks

Just a simple “Thank you.” That’s all I want. Sometimes I think it’s all anyone wants. In the last month I have

cooked probably twenty or so meals. It would be thirty, except my hubby cooks fairly often and we have “Fend-For-Yourself” nights at least once a week. In that month I can count on one hand how many times a child has thanked me for one of those meals. In fact, I can tell you when they happened.

Last week my daughter brought home a new friend for dinner. She was polite, tasting everything I cooked and joining in on the competitive conversation that tends to fill our dinner table. When she got up from the meal, she turned to me and said, “Thanks for dinner.” I was charmed.

And then last night two of my children hollered “Thanks for the chili!” as I walked out the door while they sat down to eat their favorite chili I’d made twice in one week. It was laziness on my part – I couldn’t think of anything else to do with the ground beef I had on hand and I needed  a crock pot meal since I had an evening engagement. Still, their appreciation warmed my soul as I headed out in to the chilly night.

When I was younger I worked part-time breaking yearlings for a race horse farm. The assistant manager at the farm supervised my work. Many days she complained about the long hours, the hard work, and the bad pay. One day after hearing her litany of complaints, I asked her, “So why do you keep working here?” At that point she’d worked there for several years. She thought for a moment and then she said, “Because every day when I tell my boss that I’m finished and headed home, he says, “Thanks for all your work.” A simple thank you kept her returning every day to a job that was not easy.

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.”