Category: Parenting

The Fine Art of Accepting the Unacceptable

My nightmares often include my son Luke sitting in a dental chair

“Some people confuse acceptance with apathy, but there’s all the difference in the world. Apathy fails to distinguish between what can and what cannot be helped. Acceptance makes that distinction. Apathy paralyzes the will-to-action; acceptance frees it by releasing it of impossible burdens.”          ~ Arthur Gordon

In each and every calendar year, there are two days that I dread with every fiber of my being. They happen at roughly six month intervals. And, while I appreciate having some distance between them, all that really means for me is that by the time I’ve mostly healed from the scar of the last time I get to do it again. What are these heinous days of which I speak? Why, they’re D-Days…the days my sons get to go for their bi-yearly dental visits.

Before I go any further, please understand that I love my sons’ pediatric dentist and the entire staff at Southwest Pediatric Dentistry and Orthodontics as much as any person (other than a sadist) could love a dentist. They are the most helpful, professional, gentle adults, and their patience with my boys certainly qualifies them for sainthood, or at least knighthood. It’s hard to get any young boy to sit still in a dental chair for work. It’s nearly impossible to get a boy with ADHD to stay still and pay attention long enough for a proper dental cleaning. When Dr. Jim had to get braces on Joe’s teeth two years ago, I thought I would never recover from the trauma. And, Joe is my good dental patient.

Luke is a veritable nightmare at the dentist. He has an unbelievable gag reflex. In fact, as both Dr. Scott and the Mother Theresa-esque hygienist Kristy told me today, Luke is by far THE worst gag reflex patient either of them has ever seen. Ever. How’s that for a claim to fame for your child? Luke’s gag reflex is attributable to several things, a perfect storm of issues: 1) an actual oral defensiveness to textures and touch , 2) an oversensitivity to smells that makes so many things nauseating for him, 3) an active imagination (he can see something that grosses him out and puke as if on command…like the time he saw the preview for the film How To Eat Fried Worms and promptly vomited in the theater), and 4) a now-ingrained mental condition that makes him gag the minute the dentist or hygienist ask him to open his mouth. Luke has puked on poor Kristy before. And on me. And on Dr. Scott. I never leave these visits without a headache. I often find myself in the car afterwards in tears, full of frustration, dentist bill in my hand, beating my head against my steering wheel while my son watches with still uncleaned teeth.

Luke has done occupational therapy to combat his oral defensiveness. I’ve researched herbal remedies and acupuncture to see if those might be able to help. I’ve actually considered hypnotherapy for him. Can you do that with an 8 year old? Today, Dr. Scott suggested that next time we sedate Luke with nitrous oxide to see if that will help. Of course, insurance won’t cover that but if it works it would be worth it. I considered asking Dr. Scott if he could hook me up next visit too. Even if it’s not covered, at least with the nitrous I could relax a little in that office for once. Then, Dr. Scott casually mentioned that it is his job to prepare Luke for the approximately three years of orthodontics he expects Luke will need. Looking on the bright side, Dr. Scott told me that he’s fairly certain that by the time Luke is finished with braces his gag reflex will mostly likely be under control. What he failed to quip about is that by the time Luke is finished with braces I won’t care about his gag reflex anymore because I’ll be heavily sedated wearing a white coat with sleeves that attach in the back.

A while back I mentioned that I had seven mantras I was working on this year. One of them is “Practice Acceptance.” Practicing acceptance means letting go of the desire to be in control. That is what I have to do on Dentist Days. I practice accepting Joe’s ADHD tics and Luke’s crazy gag reflex. I practice accepting that this is who they are. It’s nothing they’re doing intentionally. They can’t help it. They’re not bad kids. These are simply their crosses to bear. They’re mine too, at least until they turn 18. I’ve been going through this with them since they were infants. Back then, it was frustrating. I didn’t understand. I got annoyed by it easily. As they got older, I got better at recognizing it for what it was, but it still embarrassed and aggravated me. It’s taken me nearly 11 years, but I am now able to accept these issues for what they are. Issues. We all have them. I don’t like it, but I have to live with it.

In the grand scheme of things, I know it’s not the worst thing I could have to handle with my boys. They’re healthy, able-bodied, sharp-minded kids. We’re making progress, oh-so-slowly but definitely surely. We’ll get it figured out eventually. I’ve never liked the saying “It is what it is” because it seems so lazy. But, in these situations, that phrase is completely valid. So, I’m going to continue working to accept the situation not out of apathy but instead with the understanding that not accepting it places an unreasonable burden on my two great kids who are just doing the best they can with what they’ve been given.

Posted on by Me

The Evil Gull Has Landed

The family at a stop on the fjord cruise

In the summer of 2009, my in-laws took the entire family on an amazing week-long trek to Norway. It was the boys’ first time abroad. They were then just six and eight. They were treated to business class seats on the flight from Newark to Oslo. We spent a couple days in Oslo at the Holmenkollen Park Hotel, our headquarters for exploring the city, viewing viking ships, and visiting the Vigeland Sculpture Park. We left Oslo and traveled via rail to Bergen where we spent two days enjoying the city, Bryggen, and the aquarium. We left Bergen on a fjord cruise. One of our stops on the cruise was Finnbotn farm where we were able to drink from a glacier-fed waterfall, eat traditional Norwegian food, and enjoy the odd sight of their pet parrot flying around the fjord. We later took a ride on the Flam railway, saw Kjosfosson Falls, and finally returned back to Oslo to enjoy the view from the roof of the opera house, which rises from a fjord. My point is that the entire trip was memorable. Each day was a grand adventure filled with incredible sights. For my boys, though, the highlight of the trip, the thing that still sticks with them, was a seagull.

On our first night in Bergen, as we were getting ready to put the boys to bed (a feat that is not easy when it’s 10:30 p.m. and still light outside), we heard a noise on our third-story window ledge. We went to the window and there, just inches away from us through an open window, was a large seagull that seemed not the least bit alarmed to find us staring at him. I told the kids to ignore him and get ready for bed, and we closed the window. Next thing we knew, the dang bird was pecking at the window. Seriously? Like it’s not difficult enough to get the kids to sleep? Now they know there is a large bird trying to peck his way into our room? Come on. Work with me, Norway.

The kids were by then completely riled up. They kept going to the window, trying to scare the seagull. It seemed, however, that the more they pestered him, the longer he felt compelled to stay. To get the kids away from the window, I decided it was time for a scare tactic. (I’m not proud of it, but sometimes they work when nothing else does.) I told them that the seagull, enraged by their taunting, was trying to get into our room so he could peck out their eyeballs. Okay. Okay. Not technically true, but effective nonetheless. They snuggled up to each other in their shared full-size bed and stayed well away from the window for the rest of the night.

The evil seagull hell bent on revenge

However, for the rest of the trip, they were convinced that every seagull we saw (and you can imagine how many frigging seagulls are in Norway) was the one from that window ledge. I have to admit that I might have encouraged the story a bit by pointing them out and telling them he was tracking them. When I did my 50-mile MS Walk in San Diego later that same year, I sent them this iPhone photo of a gull and told them he had found me so it was just a matter of time until he found them. I’m going to hell.

Well, today we were on our way home after school and Joe noticed a seagull in the park in our neighborhood. Of course, Joe not being one to let things go, the entire conversation began again. While Joe pondered their safety, Luke tried to persuade him that perhaps that gull he saw was just one of the original seagull’s henchmen (or is it henchbirds?) and that the true gull had not yet drawn a bead on their actual whereabouts or their eyeballs.

I have to admit that the entire legend completely cracks me up. How my kids, who started reasoning away the logical existence of Santa Claus at age six, can honestly believe one lone seagull is tracking them around the world is beyond me. Still, at the very least this tells me that a) they do actually listen to me and b) seagulls are a lot scarier than I thought. 😉

Posted on by Me 1

Can I Get an H, Pat?

All consonants are important, even if they're voiceless.

Joe is in the 4th grade and has graduated from those cheesy book reports that are mostly art projects designed to drive parents insane (you know…dioramas, mobiles, puppets….seriously, teachers?) to true, written reports this year. Joe is a solid C student in language arts. He reads quite well, but his writing and spelling are, well…let’s go with interesting. Still, he’s been doggedly determined to learn to write on his own so we’ve set him loose to see what he can come up with for his book reports. For the most part, we’ve been pleasantly surprised with his reading comprehension and his ability to retell the story for his reports.

Today I got quite a shock, however, when I proofread his written report for his latest book, Danny the Champion of the World by Roald Dahl. We’ve been on a Dahl kick at our house. Joe’s read James and the Giant Peach, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Fantastic Mr. Fox, and The BFG. So far he has refused to read Matilda because (and I quote) “It’s about a girl.” At any rate, as I was reading the text of Joe’s report this time, I became a bit concerned.

“Joe….what do you mean by ‘He ran away to poach peasants’?”

“He went off into the woods and poached peasants,” he responded, as if I was crazy for not understanding.

“What do you mean by poach?”

“He gets peasants and eats them.”

“He eats peasants?”

“Yeah. He eats them.”

“Peasants?”

“Yes. Peasants.”

“Like he cooks them up and eats them?”

“Yes,” Joe replied, obviously becoming exasperated with my idiocy.

Was my son honestly telling me that this library book that I had selected for him was a book about people ingesting other people? I know Dahl’s stories are highly imaginative. In James and The Giant Peach, James’s parents are trampled to death by rhinoceroses in pastoral England. Then, James takes a trip from England to New York in a giant peach filled with a cast of bug characters who are all the size of an adult human. Dahl’s stories make me wish I had known the right drugs to do while I was in college. But, I still could not imagine a children’s novel in which Dahl creates cannibals who hunt and eat peasants. That seemed like a bit much, even for him. Joe and I went round and round until I finally grabbed the library book and began scanning it for evidence of cannibalism. Then, I found the word that might clarify the entire book report.

“Joe…were Danny and his dad poaching and eating birds?”

“Yes. Peasants are birds.”

“No, Joe. Pheasants are birds. Peasants are people”

“I know that,” Joe replied. “I knew they were eating birds. There were pictures of the birds. I just forgot that there was a difference between peasants and pheasants.”

“Big difference, Joe. At least your report makes more sense now. I was a bit uneasy picturing Danny and his dad feeding peasants sleeping pills stuffed in raisins and then watching them falling out of the trees.”

Joe had a good laugh about my mental image of poor, country folk dropping from the sky only to be then being picked up and subsequently cooked by gypsies. But this little miscommunication proves how delicate and complicated the English language is. One missing “h” and suddenly a simple hunting expedition takes a sinister turn. It’s miraculous that any of us learn to understand and communicate with the English language. There are myriad rules and then just as many exceptions to those rules. Take the suffix “ed,” for example, which can sound like “ed” (tainted), “d” (cleaned), or “t” (walked). For a native speaker, these distinctions are somewhat natural because we’ve heard them repeatedly. But, to a non-native speaker learning English, there is nothing but obfuscation. And, don’t even get me started on our punctuation rules, which can turn “Let’s eat, Grandpa” from a nice invitation for your grandfather to join you for dinner into “Let’s eat Grandpa” and somehow we’re back to cannibalism.

At the very least, today’s book report exercise reminded me to cut my kids some slack as they muddle their way through phonics and language arts in grade school. I have a master’s degree in writing and I still regularly have to research correct language and usage rules. I tell you, though, I am going to start being a bit more careful around Joe. If he could mistake pheasants for peasants, who knows what kind of breakfast he might cook up for me on Mother’s Day?

Posted on by Me 6

Lego Jus

A Lego representation of our family

My son Luke is our resident Lego fanatic. I would not like to hazard a guess about how many Legos he has. But if someone threatened to cut off my arm unless I estimated his Lego-worth, I’d conjecture that he has at least 5000 actual Lego pieces. It’s ridiculous. It’s the only toy he has asked for each and every birthday and Christmas since he turned 6. I would be disgusted by the whole situation if he wasn’t such a creative kid and a gifted builder. I’m quite accustomed to seeing Luke’s amazing creations that are the result of his merging pieces from several different sets.

Joe does not have Luke’s gift for Legos. He has built sets, mostly with Luke’s help, but he’s not the Lego visionary that Luke is. He wants to be, but he’s not there yet. Or so I thought. Yesterday, however, I was sitting at the counter working on my computer when Joe brought up a Lego creation. It was a representation of our family, each of us in our own likeness, as if we were gathered together in our dining area. Lego Joe was sitting at the table wearing his favorite green fleece jacket. Lego Steve was standing there looking dashing, a perfect representation minus the salt and pepper needed for his plastic hair. Lego Luke was petting Lego Ruby, who was the spitting image of her doggie self down to her reddish-brown and white border collie markings and her red collar. Then, there was Lego Justine. I had the long, blonde hair, the grey yoga pants, and the lipsticked lips. Looked like me all right. Then I noticed that Joe had me with my back turned to my family as I typed away on my computer. Ouch.

As utterly impressed as I was with Joe’s creation, his first ever fabricated solely using his own imagination, it was a bit sobering. Yep. That’s how you’ll find me far too often, sitting at the kitchen counter with my face turned to my MacBook and my back turned toward whatever else is going on in my house. Sad, but true. I suppose this is partly what I signed on for when I decided to focus on writing more. I imagine there are worse ways my son could have depicted me. I could have been napping on the couch or standing over him threateningly with a rolling pin in my hand. Those might not have been accurate representations but they certainly would have given me greater reason to pause. I’m simply going to let go of the notion that Lego me is glued to the computer like living me. I’m going to chose, instead, to focus on the fact that our Lego family is just like our real family, happily hanging out together in the heart of our home. I’m sure that’s what Joe was going for. 😉

Posted on by Me 2

Every Mom Is A Working Mom

I actually did earn a Master's Degree. Just because I only use it to stay home and blog doesn't mean I am worthless.

I am an unpaid, full-time employee of my children. There are the days when I can’t believe I left a job I truly enjoyed and was good at to stay home. In my previous life, I wrote and edited scientific literature for the Department of Energy. Occasionally I got to travel to DC, wear a suit, pass through security clearance with my government badge, and take meetings about exhibits and displays for government conferences. I loved flying into Dulles, taking a cab to my hotel in Dupont Circle, and carrying a briefcase. But, as much as I loved my job we didn’t “need” the money and my premature son did need me. So, I walked away.

Ten years later I am still (technically) unemployed. I am an unpaid, working mom. Most days, I’m more than fine with that. Yes. I cook and clean and manage the house. But, I also have the freedom to climb the stairs at Red Rocks in the morning and then meet a friend for lunch if I want or to drop the kids at school and head up for a half day of skiing occasionally. It’s a fairly substantial perk. The lack of paychecks sucks, but the freedom of being my own boss (at least when the kids are in school) is awesome.

I have a deep respect for paid, working mothers because I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to balance a career with being Mom and all that role implies. There are weeks when I am exhausted from all I have to juggle, and I have forty hours more per week to do it in than a paid mother does. And, a single mom? Well….she is more powerful than Superman. I am in awe. I only wish some of the paid moms I’ve encountered appreciated my situation as much as I appreciate theirs.

I wish there was some way that I could relay to others that just because my blonde hair is in a ponytail and I’m wearing yoga pants at drop off does not necessarily mean that I am an uneducated bubblehead with nothing better to do than figure out what snacks to serve at a 2nd grade Christmas party. I’m happy to help out at my boys’ school. In fact, as an unpaid, stay-at-home mom I honestly feel it’s a requirement because paid, working moms can’t get away to volunteer as often as I can. It’s my small contribution to society and the whole “it takes a village thing” that no one wants to admit is actually true.

Yes. I am an unpaid, stay-at-home mom, and I know that may not seem impressive. But, I am an integral part of American society. Maybe my master’s degree sits in my craft room instead of in a corner office. Maybe I don’t get paid for what I do. But, if I didn’t do what I do, it might be more difficult for paid moms to do what they do. It all works out. We moms, both paid and unpaid, should try harder to cut each other some slack. I’ll tell you what. If you promise to give me credit for being intelligent, useful, and greatly underpaid, I’ll stop making those annoying, handcrafted, overachiever Valentine’s Day favors for the classroom party. That way, neither one of us has any reason to feel inferior.

 

Posted on by Me 4

{{{Hugs}}}

Luke is the best hugger I know.

Sometimes my kids teach me the most amazing lessons. Oh, sure. Most of the time they simply make me feel I should be wearing a straightjacket. But, occasionally, when I least expect it, something brilliant comes from one of them. In those moments, I get a glimpse of why I have the two children I have.

Today, Luke came home from school with a D grade on a phonics test. The test needed to be signed. This is not his first poor grade in this particular subject, so I was not surprised. He’s been struggling with his “special sounds” for a while. To that end, I made something along the line of 75, two-sided flash cards with the sounds and their key words on them. I spent hours one night on this task as it required me to glue two index cards together so you could not see through from one side to the other. We try to take a few minutes a day to review a set or two of cards to familiarize him with the sounds. Given his 66% on this particular test, we probably need to augment our practice time.

As he’s handing me the paper to sign Luke casually says, “I told her maybe I’d be doing better if we worked on the sounds at home.”

Desperately trying to suppress the lava flow of anger that was rising from my ruptured heart, I said, “What? We HAVE been working on them at home. Why did you tell her that?”

“I didn’t want to get in trouble,” he replied.

Are you kidding me? You don’t want to get in trouble so the easiest thing to do is rat Mom out as the weak link? My own son had sold me down river. Now I really was angry. If I hadn’t been working with him, then fine. But to have put in personal time on this only to have him blame his deficiency on me was truly aggravating. Then, I did something completely uncool. I had a little bit of a Mommy Tantrum. I’m not proud of it, and I won’t go into details. I will admit that it ended with my stomping up the stairs and shutting my door a bit too loudly to put an exclamation point on my annoyance.

I sat in my room for a few minutes and tried to regroup. I knew Luke was downstairs feeling horrible about his lie, just as I was upstairs feeling miserable about my unnecessary tantrum. I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked back downstairs, avoiding eye contact with Luke the entire time. I could tell he was looking at me, but I also knew he was teary eyed. If I saw his sad little face I would back down. No. I would not cave. I deserved an apology.

About thirty seconds later, Luke walked over, wrapped his arms around me, and squeezed tightly. I sat down on the floor and pulled him to me and we hugged for a solid minute. Although I no longer cared about the apology, he told me he was sorry and that he didn’t know why he told that lie. I told him that he is a good kid with bad moments and I am a good mom with bad moments. Sometimes our bad moments coincide, and we hurt each other. Then, with childlike innocence and sage-like clarity he shared this wisdom with me:

“The only cure for sadness is a hug.”

So, I hugged him again.

 

 

 

Posted on by Me 1

Show Me The Money

Luke...preparing to be a trillionaire.

This morning I was rushing to get the kids ready for school. Still under the weather from the effects of some alien germ brought home by my children and trying to get out early because of the snow piling up outside, I was in no mood for interruptions as I barreled through my usual routine. I was in the process of making lunches when Luke surprised me.

“Mom, isn’t today clean the toilet day?”

Shocking, right? I was amazed both that he knew it was Wednesday and that he realized that meant he needed to clean the downstairs bathroom. He’s 8. So proud.

A couple weeks ago I proposed something new to my boys. They were already earning $5 a week allowance for doing the basics (clearing their plates, putting their clothes in the hamper, cleaning up their toys, and taking out the trash and recycling). But they were looking for a raise, and I wasn’t about to give them more money to do so little. Instead, I offered them each an extra $5 a week if they were willing to clean one bathroom a piece on both Wednesdays and Saturdays. I don’t know why it took me so long to realize that although I can’t afford to pay a cleaning service, I can certainly cough up $10 a week for the opportunity NOT to have to clean two out of the three bathrooms in our home. My children could be my tiny maids!

“So, is it my day to clean the bathroom?” Luke pressed.

“Today is Wednesday, so yes.”

“YES!” came his enthusiastic reply, which was accompanied by an actual fist pump. Was this kid for real?

He ran off to the bathroom and returned with the toilet bowl cleaner, which he needed me to open because it’s childproofed. (By the way, we should be putting toilet bowl cleaner in Cars and Princess Barbie wrappers to entice kids into thinking cleaning the bathroom is fun. Come on. We’re missing out on child labor, and companies are missing out on an entire market of avid consumers.) Anyway, a minute later he was scrubbing the inside of the toilet. Then he pulled out the Clorox wipes and cleaned the inside of the sink and wiped off the toilet seat. After that I noticed he was wiping off the granite counter with a wet paper towel. And, then for the pièce de résistance, he got up onto the counter to clean the two bathroom mirrors. I haven’t been this proud since he first learned to use the toilet!

He then emerged and reminded me that after he cleans the bathroom on Saturday he’ll be needing his $10 allowance. Ahhh…there we have it. The motivation. Here I thought he was merely being a very responsible, helpful little boy. Nope. Like a pirate, it’s the money he was after. I should have known that. When he was 5 and saw The Empire Strikes Back for the first time, I asked him which character he liked best. His response? “Han Solo because he’s just in it for the money.” Luke is the only kid I know who, when asked, will happily tell you that when he grows up what he would like to be the first trillionaire. At 6, he told us “I’m ready to grow up. I want to get a wife, have some kids, and just get on with my life.” He is a boy with ideas and ambition, and I know he will be wildly successful someday.

Some people might find it offensive that Luke is financially motivated. Some might deem it shallow and assume we’re sending him the wrong messages. Truth is that he’s always been this way. He’s great at math and he likes money. There are worse directions he could be headed. And, you know what? A clean bathroom is a clean bathroom, and it doesn’t matter what motivation caused it to become so. Someday Luke is going to make a top-notch husband because he’s a hard worker who isn’t afraid to get dirty to make his dreams come true and he cleans bathrooms. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Posted on by Me 6

Safety Dad Experiences Brain Freeze

Well...at least if it was his last photo, it would have been a good one.

My husband is extremely reliable and consistent, especially when it comes to safety. He is always looking out for me and the kids. If it were practical to pad our boys in bubble wrap and secure them with duct tape, he would do it. Me? I’m not as vigilant as he is. While I’m not quite encouraging them to juggle knives or anything, they might find time to get to it while I am busy watching reruns of The Big Bang Theory and ironing.

In conversation over dinner a few months ago, the severity of his cautious behavior became painfully apparent to him.

“Mr. Andrew is funny. He’s a fun dad,” came Luke’s innocent comment.

Steve paused to consider this. “Aren’t I a fun dad?” he inquired.

“Sort of,” said Joe. “Mostly you are Safety Dad.”

“Safety Dad?” Steve sounded entirely confused. I could tell he was disappointed by the moniker. And, just denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, he continued. “I don’t think I’m Safety Dad.”

Then, with perfect timing, Joe and Luke started proving to him exactly how he is Safety Dad by throwing his words right back at him.

“Look both ways before crossing the street.” Joe quipped.

“Wear your bike helmet,” Luke chimed in.

“Watch out for rattlesnakes,” Joe continued.

“Get those Legos out of  your mouth before you choke,” Luke remembered.

It was both hysterical and horrifying at the same time. They had him pegged. I was simultaneously impressed with their observations and heartbroken for my husband. He wants to be Fun Dad, but strong with the Safety he is.

I point all this out because yesterday Safety Dad had a brain freeze when it came to his own safety. Steve was going snow shoeing with a friend. He told me they were going up Bergen Peak in Evergreen. Sounded like a fine plan to me. It was a nice enough winter day and Bergen Peak, although 9700 feet in elevation, is well traveled.

He left at 6:40 a.m. to get breakfast and head to Jeff’s house to pick him up. With total reliability, at 6:58 he texted me from Starbucks: Love you sweets. Perfect. He was on his way. I figured that, given his plans, he should be home early in the afternoon.

His next text, received at 9:22 a.m., confused me. Just got to Echo Lake. Echo Lake? Echo Lake sits at the foot of Mt. Evans (elevation 14,240 feet). While it’s sort of near to Evergreen, it’s not exactly in Evergreen. I texted for clarification about his plans but he was apparently out of cell phone range already. I went back to my laundry.
Round about 1 p.m. I started to wonder what he was up to. I knew he hadn’t packed much food and, although it was sunny,  it was bound to be cold and windy where he was. At 2:02, I finally got another text from him. It was a photo of a rocky ridge with some snow on it. What the hell? He was supposed to be on snow shoes. At 2:15, I got this message: Getting gas in Evergreen. We went up Mt. Evans Road. No coverage. Sorry sweets. The road up Mt. Evans (the highest paved road in North America) is closed to car traffic from the first snow until Memorial Day due to inclement weather conditions and heavy snowfall. I’ve lived in Colorado most of my life and I know all too well that people die in the Colorado high country every winter due to exposure, avalanches, falls from icy precipices, and general lack of preparedness.

Steve and his friends had decided to trek up snowy Mt. Evans with no real knowledge of the area, no maps, no emergency supplies, no phone coverage, and little food, all without telling anyone exactly where they would be. What kind of idiot was I married to? Had Safety Dad taken temporary leave of his senses? I know that if our sons ever did what he had just done he would have lost it.

When he finally called me, I told him (for several long and surely insufferable minutes) what a stupid move that was. Then, I took a long, hot shower to calm down before recounting for my children their father’s entire adventure, making sure to let them know I would expect better judgment from them someday.

I guess I should cut Steve some slack. Safety Dad had taken an afternoon off. Isn’t that what I always hoped for? I guess I was simply disappointed to learn that when Safety Dad has a brain freeze, Safety Mom has a meltdown.

Posted on by Me 1

Christmas Break Is An Oxymoron

What happens to my kids when they are out of school for way too long.

Today is the first official day of Christmas break for my kids, which means that for the next 11 days (not including weekend ones), my children will be in my house. Yes. IN it. I will not get my usual 6.5 hours of requisite peace and quiet daily, the same peace and quiet that keeps me from understanding why some species eat their young. I can look forward to knocks on the bathroom door, toys scattered everywhere, and the sound of my own scream as I yell, “Who didn’t flush?” They’ve only been out of school for 23 hours and already the house looks like a herd of wild bison have trampled through. At times like these, I can’t help but contemplate this thought: “Whatever happened to the good old days when kids worked in factories?”

Oh…and did I mention that my husband is off for the next week too?

I hope Santa brings me vodka for Christmas. Just kidding. Sort of.

 

Posted on by Me 1

Mom Lottery

Sum Total of My Life's Work Thus Far

Some days I am certain I am not qualified enough to be a parent. On those days, I can’t seem to do or say the right thing. And, reminiscent of that scene in the film Parenthood, I half expect that one day one of my sons will climb to the top of a bell tower and open fire on an unsuspecting crowd simply because I messed him up so badly. Who knows? Maybe the other one will be up in the bell tower too, egging him on and cursing me out? Yesterday, however, was not one of those days. Yesterday I got that nanosecond glimpse of how I must be making some sort of positive impact on them after all.

Joe wrote a book report on Sunday. The first one he ever wanted to write without my help. In fact, he wouldn’t even let me in the room while he was working. When he handed me his draft and I read it, I smiled hugely. It’s not that it was the finest piece of literature I’d ever read. It’s that it was complete and well-thought out. It had his own inflection in the words. There were even capitals at the start of sentences and periods (in most cases) at the ends of them. Being an editor, I took a red pencil to his paper and corrected the spelling and punctuation. Then I asked him simply to rewrite it so it would be legible enough for teacher consumption. When he got to the car yesterday, his teacher followed and approached my window. She told me that his rough draft was excellent, so much so that she didn’t need him to do a final copy. If I hadn’t been sitting in my car, I would have executed a perfect, cheerleader-worthy, celebratory jump for joy. Progress. I’ve been working diligently with Joe on his writing, and he’s making progress. Sigh.

As we start to pull out of the school parking lot, Luke makes this announcement:

“I signed up for the school spelling bee.”

I nearly choked on my Coke. “You did what?”

“Signed up for the spelling bee,” he repeated.

I tried to gather my composure. “Can I ask what made you decide to?”

“Well,” he replied, “I thought it would be a good experience. I know I’m not the best speller in class. Jason is. But I’m going to try. If I get out on the first round, I won’t even mind. At least I will have tried.”

Seriously? Where is the camera? I have to be on Punk’d, right?

If there is a Mom Lottery, yesterday I took home the big money. Now I remember why I work so hard at parenting every day, even on the most difficult, depressing ones. It’s because, sometimes, when you least expect it you will get a crumb of positive affirmation that you’re doing a good job. Oddly enough, that crumb can sustain you for a long time.

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