Brain Candy

It seems to me that our society values children as a demographic only, and markets to them as if they were miniature adults. In a way, it's a step back in time to the days when children as young as three were put to work on the farm, given tools, chores and responsibilities and were preferably seen and not heard. This explains why, in all those old-fashioned family photos, no one is ever smiling.

But that was before television and newspapers, before Sunday comics and Cartoon Network. In today's comics pages alone, which my children love to read, there were two strips that raised my eyebrows. One talked about their child asking questions about sex, and the other used the word "damned." Ironically, I read them and thought, WTF?

When I occasionally stroll by the television when the boys are watching, I sometimes catch them viewing a cartoon that has a scantily clad, big-boobed female character who is not a superhero. And since when did cartoon characters start using words like 'stupid,' 'crap,' and 'moron'? One of my favorite cartoons as a kid was The Pink Panther, and that had NO DIALOGUE AT ALL.

I used to love to watch PBS with my kids when they were small. Their spongy, SpongeBob-less little minds would soak in all those songs about colors and numbers--heck, I could still sing most of them because I learned them when I was a kid. At what point does educational television become too babyish, forcing kids to other channels that push sex, bad language and poor manners under the guise of "entertainment"?

At least, I comforted myself, they both love to read. And now the comics are following suit with television. As publishing continues to tank, it's as if everyone is grasping at straws to sell, sell, sell (and everyone knows, sex sells). But to children?

That, then, is the point. When it's animated, kids assume it's for them. Sadly, so do many harried parents. School-age children are now viewed as 'tweens- and teenagers-to-be, ready to learn life lessons before they hit second grade, as long as those lessons are couched in animation to soften the blow. Cartoonists see kids as mini-adults, turning today's cartoons into the kind of 'educational' television that I'd rather my kids not learn from.

I may have grown up in the oh-so-dangerous 70s, before technology, but I turned out OK. So I'm revoking the brain candy this summer and encouraging my kids to eat sugary Good Humor ice cream instead. I've shipped my oldest off to the Adirondacks with his dad for a week of sleep away camp, and my youngest and I are off to the lake with friends.

Call it "roughing it," but we're going to spend as much time outside as possible this summer, bugs and UV rays be damned. I mean darned.

Pack Animals

My dog has a problem with luggage. I don't mean he owns too much of it, or that he has a sudden urge to bite someone when he smells an alligator bag. But it seems he's smart enough to know that luggage=change.

When duffel bags show up with my parents, he knows they'll be staying for a while; the pack will grow, the food dish will be moved, the schedule will vary. This happened last week, and it took him a day or so, but he adjusted. And then yesterday, out came the bags from the guest room, and the pack subsequently shrank again. Dog dishes were moved, and at bedtime he was once again relegated to the basement.

Yet he seemed content this morning: his own pack was here--kids, parents and no one else--and things seemed to have gone back to normal. But then my husband pulled out a list and a big backpack. Bailey immediately started pacing and whining.

"Wait, now YOU'RE leaving?!?" he seemed to cry. "What the (fill in doggie expletive here)?!" I truly believe if he had hands, he'd throw them up in despair.

And yet as anxious as he is about my husband and son leaving for sleep away camp, I know that he will be the only one of us whose behavior will subsequently even out and be most consistent for the week. He'll keep me on schedule with his walks and meals, he'll wrestle with Ben when he's missing his brother, and he'll cuddle with me when I'm missing them both. He seems to know better than all of us that there is safety--and comfort--in numbers.

We may be at the top of the food chain, but there's something to be said for animal instinct.

Mercury Rising

In the same way that Jacob has always made everything easier--parenting, fun, learning--Benjamin has always made things more difficult. I don't mean to say that it's intentional. It's just a fact.

Many years ago, a friend made a comment to me about having children. He said, "the first one turns your life upside down. The second one turns it inside out." When I think about how incredibly accurate that statement is now, it strikes me as both funny and sad. For how many of us are able to stand on our heads with relative comfort and ease? We gain new perspective, experience new feelings and see the world in a whole new way. Yet how many of us can turn ourselves inside out and say the same thing? Right.

As a baby, Ben cried a lot, slept very little and the rest of the time wore a frowny face. By the time he was a toddler and we started branching out into the world again, dealing with our new dynamic, he was sleeping better and eating and smiling more. But somehow, he still made things difficult.

The Sunday before the last Thanksgiving for which my sister-in-law and dear friend would be alive, Ben came down with a fever. Not a low-grade-maybe-it-will-pass, maybe-he's-about-to-have-a-growth-spurt, maybe-he'll-be-better-by-Thursday fever. It was 104, the kind that stops him in his tracks and removes his appetite completely. For Ben to stop moving and eating, he's got to be really sick. The fever persisted, yet I held out hope that it would run its course. On Thursday morning I finally had to concede that I was staying home with Ben, and sent my husband and older son off to Thanksgiving dinner without us. I cried all day.

Things have gotten much easier with Ben since those days, though I wouldn't call them a breeze. We can actually make plans now and do things as a family more often than not. For that I'm thankful, and it helps me forget those tough, early days.

This weekend, my dear father-in-law passed away after a long illness. The funeral is this morning in less than an hour. Family members and friends will converge on my in-laws' house with well-wishes and hugs soon after. Why, then, am I sitting here writing on my blog? Because yesterday afternoon, Ben developed a fever.

Yes, I'm upset that I can't go to the funeral, sad that I am at home when my place is with my family. But one of the many things my father-in-law taught me was that each of us is just a piece of the bigger picture. We all play a part in building the future by caring for each other and by teaching and nurturing the next generation. In my mind, my place is with my husband and mother-in-law today. But in Ben's mind, my place is with him. We each need to be comforted, but Ben needs it more.

We will lose people we love. That is inevitable. But parts of them will live on through the rest of the family, because that's what family is. A continuation, a legacy, of love and life. And that is why I'm here.

Thank you, Jack. We love you.

Generation Moi

OK, so maybe 10 years old is a little young to be given the job of Person In Charge of the World. And maybe it's unfair to expect them to have true global awareness and be thinking of others when hypothetically asked what they would do with such power. But I was pretty disheartened to read what the 5th graders who are graduating from my son's school had to say on the topic, and it's likely because I was hoping for more.

If I Were In Charge of the World...

"I would cancel school; I would make playing video games an every day holiday."
"I would make video games cost less; I would let kids get paid for going to school."
"I would make a holiday where you get free video games; I would make recess all day."
"I would make a national Video Game Day; I would cancel school."
"There would be more video games; there would be grades no lower than a 'B.'"
"There would be a 2-hour subject where you played video games."
"I'd make homework a myth; I'd let us learn to play video games in school."

"I would put a mall in everyone's house; I would make recess all day."
"I would make the school a mall; I would end school early."
"I would go to the mall every day."
"I would turn the world into a mall; I would buy one million things."
"I would make every store an Abercrombie."
"I would make all things at the mall free; I would make summer longer."
"I'd have a mall the size of Boston."

Can you guess which were the boys and which were the girls? Can you see my concern over the direction these kids are heading? Can you believe how many examples there are?

Granted, there were some standouts in each class who wanted to cure all diseases, stop animal cruelty and end global warming and world hunger. But they were few and far between.

I guess my complaint is that these kids are on their way to middle school next year. Isn't that kind of a big deal? Shouldn't their parents be teaching them about the world, how to understand important issues, the responsibility that comes with power and the idea that they can change the world someday?

I know, I know, they're only TEN. But they already sound like self-centered, materialistic teenagers. Why? How is this happening? Someone is feeding these passions they have, and from the sound of it, it isn't their teachers.

Some may say it is my fear talking, my worry that my own child will sound like this next year. I prefer to think of it as a wake-up call. For all of us.

Good Cop, Bad Cop

I used to rail against parents whose kids would break the law, do something to hurt someone or just be plain old bratty in public, while they stood by and let them get away with it. "If you don't make them take responsibility for their actions, how will they ever learn to change them?" I'd squawk. Consequences, consequences.

Well, today I was called an enabler. At first, I was indignant. But then, as I considered the situation, I realized that it wasn't as black-and-white as I had first perceived it.

Jacob claimed yesterday to have "only a little" homework. What this means in 'tween speak is 'I have a ton of homework, but in only two subjects.' So once he started it after dinner and worked on it until bedtime without finishing it, I informed him I'd be waking him early to get the job done.

When the morning came and he suddenly had a mysterious stomach ache and his jaw hurt, I said "nice try. You're still going to school" and made him get to work. But after 1/2 hour of working over breakfast when he still hadn't finished, I told him I would drive him to school (rather than make him take the bus). This would buy him an extra 30 minutes of time in which to finish the work.

I did this because I've been there: work not finished, teacher to face, spring fever making me not want to do it, sudden, strange illness to get out of facing teacher, etcetera, etcetera. It doesn't happen every day, and it has not been a habit or a pattern.

Yet my husband and parenting partner protested. "You're enabling him. Let him go in with the work undone and answer for it. Why are you bailing him out?"

But I didn't see it that way. I saw it as poor planning and sudden regret. I didn't let him stay home. I didn't give him a note asking the teacher to excuse him. I didn't tell him to lie about it. Granted, I didn't tell him 'get on the bus and deal with it' either, but didn't I find a happy medium? I made him face the problem, but helped by giving him the time in which to tackle it rather than evade it.

Yes, kids need structure, rules and the chance to make mistakes and learn from them. But they also need understanding and a chance to fix mistakes if they can. This doesn't mean they won't still learn from the experience. It just means they'll learn that mom can be flexible and (holy cow) even helpful sometimes, and that maybe she'll be a good person to take my problems to when I'm older. Maybe she'll help me figure out how to solve them when I can't do it alone.

I don't know if that makes me the good cop or the bad cop, but if it means Jacob will be willing to confide in me when the REAL problems arise, I'll answer to whatever title you want.

The Passing

In another of life's great rites of passage, this morning I had to tell my sons that the goldfish we won at a preschool event four-plus years ago, and who had grown to be five times his original size, had died.

Surprisingly, they took the news rather well. Jacob checked the empty tank to see if I was telling the truth, then said 'oh' and asked me to pass the cereal. Ben wanted to see the body.

Perhaps the novelty had worn off, or they felt they had graduated from fish ownership when they moved on to the bigger, warmer challenge of owning a dog. Regardless, I still harbored some guilt.

Nemo (nee Curly, nee Goldy, nee Mike Wozowski) had been sick for some time, showing signs of Ich (fish disease) which I treated with medicine. He had suffered through this before, and responded well to treatment. But then his tail began turning red, a symptom of too much ammonia in the water. I treated this with ammonia lock and water and filter changes. (Goldfish are notoriously filthy fish, and require extensive cleaning of tanks and changing of water and filters--caveat emptor). Yet no matter how hard you try, it never seems to be enough.

I didn't try very hard. I admit that I had begun to resent the fish after about two years when I had my living room re-done and wanted my sofa table back from beneath the 10-gallon tank we got to house the little sucker. Did I harbor a death wish for him? No, but let's just say that, with all the things that needed to be cared for around here, Nemo was at the bottom of the food chain. Which is why I laughed when I asked my husband to take care of the corpse this morning and he informed me he had put it in the refrigerator. (I think he feared it would clog the toilet).

The whole incident reminded me of the time I was 10 or 11 and my hamster died because I forgot to feed it. Repeatedly. Sure, he was cute and all when I got him, but hamsters are nocturnal (didn't know that), and he turned out to be quite dull. He hid under his wood shavings during the day and ran in his squeaky wheel all night. I named him Jack LaLune because all he did was exercise while the moon was out and sleep during the day so that I couldn't play with him. The novelty wore off fast. And as everyone in my family knows, don't mess with my sleep or you will be sorry.

I really believe Nemo is in a better place now, a place where they won't change his name every time a new Pixar movie comes out; a place where newspapers and crayon boxes aren't stacked up next to his windows, making him think that Donald Trump has bought the rest of the sofa table top and put up condos around the tank.

And if Ben has his way, Nemo will come back again in a different form, perhaps that of a frog. With my luck, it will be one of the tadpoles out on the deck that we recently rescued from the pool cover. Perhaps I shouldn't pack the tank up just yet.

Brave Thursday

Today was a banner day for Jacob. He competed as a finalist in the 4th grade spelling bee (ironically getting knocked out on the word "congratulate"). He got to have sushi for dinner (his favorite, because we were so proud of him) and played some great tennis at his last lesson for the season. All this put him on top of the world, it seems, because tonight after dinner, he called a girl. Who he likes. To ask her to the movies.

She said yes.

It was hard to sit here and look at his blushing, freckled face as he shyly gave his name and asked to speak to her. It wasn't just because he's my firstborn, my love, and the whole episode brought up flashes of his future social life--shaving, dates, proms, a wedding. And it wasn't because, though I know I'll always be his first love, I'm no longer his only love.

The hardest thing was, when he got off the phone, resisting the urge to tell him how cute he was. Because to me, he was cute. But to him, he was courageous. I am convinced by the bedside conversations about this girl that he and I have had for the last three nights that he has been thinking about this for a long time. Today was so full of achievements and high points that I really believe it fueled his nerves enough to help him make the call. So I didn't tell him he was cute, despite how much I wanted to.

I told him I was proud of him.

He will always be my little doll, but what he needs to hear now is that he's becoming my young man, that I'm here to help him however I can, and that I'm happy for him. Even if I'm sad to see my baby disappearing, and even though I am still compelled to do everything for him but force myself to let him do for himself. Because he is, and he can. And this makes me happy. Really.

These are tears of joy.

Language Barriers

After gymnastics today, I was told in no uncertain terms how not to speak to my 9-year-old's friends. As he and a classmate came out of class, I said hello to Frankie, 4th-grader style:

ME: "Hey, F-Man! What up?"

JACOB: "MOM!"

ME: "What? I'm just saying hi to Frankie."

JACOB: "You are NOT allowed to talk like you're cool."

ME: "Oh, well excuse me. Hi, Frankie. I'm Jacob's mom. How are you?"

FRANKIE: "You're Jacob's mom?"

ME: "Yep."

FRANKIE: "Jacob, that was rude."

Frankie, my man. He gets me. Regardless, Jacob went on to try to compensate for my lack-of-cool by explaining that I am a writer and editor. Frankie seemed duly impressed. Jacob smiled. But this was not over between us. Oooh, no.

Over dinner, I started throwing some French out at Jacob to illustrate that, just because I am forbidden from using tween-speak, I know other languages. And I'm not afraid to use them against him.

ME: "Bonjour, mon ami! Comment ca va?"

JACOB: "Huh?"

ME: "Oh, je suis tres bien! Merci beaucoup!"

JACOB: "What is that, Mom?"

ME: "It's French!"

JACOB (intrigued): "Really? What else can you say? Can you say the days of the week?"

ME (getting cocky): "Let's see. Lunes, Martes, Miercoles... uh, no, wait. I think that's Spanish..."

JACOB: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

OK, so this is where I started getting confused. Granted, it's been about 30 years since I had any language lessons. And truth be told, since becoming a mom, my brain has turned to mush.

Also known as bouillie.

The point is, if my kids aren't going to let me speak their language, I'm not going to let them have the last word. If you can't dazzle 'em with tween-speak, baffle 'em with French. That's what I always say. Well, maybe not always. But at least since this afternoon.

The fact is, all too soon I'm going to be crying in a quad somewhere and bidding my babies au revoir. So I'm going to revel in this time of their lives for as long as I can, while they enjoy my company (even when I embarrass them) and are still willing to talk to me. Now if we could just settle on a language, we'd be all set.

Location, Location, Location

Poor Ben. Until yesterday, he thought he had three sets of grandparents. Leave it to Mom-the-killjoy to dispel all fantasy worlds.

We were at my in-laws' house, speaking about how old a coin was, and Ben--ever the mathematician--said, "In sixteen years, my Grandpa is going to be 100!"

"That's right, Ben!"

"Not this Grandpa, my other grandpa."

"Er, you mean PopPop?" I asked.

"No, I mean my Grandpa in Massachusetts." My in-laws have a summer house in Massachusetts, and we spend long weekends there with them when school is out. Clearly, Ben didn't quite make this connection--different house, same grandparents. I tried to figure out how to break it to him gently.

"Um, Ben? That's the same Grandpa that's sitting in the dining room right now."

(pause, eyes moving, brows furrowing, wheels turning...)

"You mean..." I braced for tears and confusion.

"...you mean they own TWO houses???"

OK, so maybe 'poor Ben' isn't really accurate. He had split his grandfather into two people in his mind--the summer, Massachusetts Grandpa who made pancakes, and the rest-of-the-year Grandpa in New York who doles out silver dollars for the found pieces of Afikomen at Passover Seders.

Once I realized that his six-year-old brain had no trouble assimilating this new information (indeed, the next words out of his mouth were, "I want to own two houses!"), I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then I steered him back to the money talk, figuring he'd need it if he wanted to own two houses one day.

Practice Makes Perfect

This morning I began the serious task of doing things to completely mortify my children in front of their peers. I'm not much of a planner (ask me what's for dinner any given morning, and I'll tell you to check back with me at 3pm), but I can see that I'm already on the right track for when my kids become teens. It seems I have a knack for it.

Ben had a field trip today to the town library. I knew this. I had the flyer and it was also written on the calendar. But Jacob had a trip on Tuesday, and he has another tomorrow, and I was up till 1am last night... Suffice it to say the flyer was buried under other papers and I didn't look at the calendar, remember the trip and pull out the instructions until the school bus had pulled away.

Quickly emailing Ben's teacher about my faux pas, I hoped for a reply along the lines of, 'no worries. We're not leaving until 9. Just drop off his water bottle and library card before then.' Instead I got nothing. So after getting Jacob on the bus and the dog walked, I gathered up what Ben needed and headed to the school, fingers crossed.

Of course, the class had already left the school and their library tour was well underway by then. I zipped into the parking lot and ran up to the locked front door of the library (because it was still closed to the public, of course. How else could I fully embarrass anyone if it weren't?). Scarf flying, plastic bag with Ben's name on it and library card in hand, I knocked on the glass doors as soon as the class, teacher and librarian came into view. "I HAVE BEN'S CARD!" I yelled as I held the card up against the window while frantically pointing at the group of kids.

Everyone turned to look at me, and the children's eyes grew wide. Unable to recognize or comprehend this mad woman banging on the glass, the librarian (likely in an effort to keep me from frightening the children) pointed me toward the other entrance of the building. She met me there, and I gave her the items with explanation and apologies. "It's OK," she kept saying, as if to calm me. "It's OK." I left without looking back.

Later, when I went back to the library to return some books (because I'm a glutton for punishment), I asked the same librarian how the first-graders had done with their tour. She very professionally assured me they did fine, that they were adorable and well-behaved and seemed to enjoy themselves.

But did she just emphasize the word well-behaved? Is she stifling a smirk while checking out my Sylvia Plath book? So before my face grew any redder, I made my second quick getaway of the day from her, again to avoid knowing exactly what was going through her mind. I figure by the time my kids are teenagers, I'll have this public embarrassment thing down to a science.

I just hope they appreciate all I do for them.

Just Say No

I would like to have a word with the people who bottle children's medicine. I have to assume that they are not parents themselves. If they are, they are the kind of parents that show up in the news: clueless, not forward thinking, bordering on dangerous.

At 2 a.m. there was a small but persistent knock on my door. Jacob had woken with an incessantly runny nose and headache. No cough, no fever, no sore throat, no mucus. OK, sounds easy. Into the bathroom we go, and open the medicine cabinet.

As I stood there with my astigmatism by the dim glow of the nightlight, the only thing I could see clearly was Jacob's worried face out of the side of my eye. I moved each bottle of medicine--cough, fever, mucus, allergy--close to my face, then farther away, then close again trying to read the 7-point font. Several of them were written in pink or green, perhaps to make them seem like more kid-friendly products. Once I was able to determine the right medicine, I had to rub my eyes a bit and move on to the dosage chart.

Does that say under 12 or over 12? Is that age or weight? OK, 1-2 teaspoons. No, tablespoons. No, teaspoons. Right. Now to pour it into the dosage cup.

Clear liquid filling a clear cup with clear, raised markings and numbers, also in a size 7 font, did not make the task any more reassuring. (At least they're consistent). My own head hurt by the time I got it all straightened out.

Finally resigning myself to the fact that it would probably be safe because it was less than half the bottle, I handed the cup to Jacob. He took it hesitantly, as children do when they know they're supposed to follow instructions but are beginning to doubt the source, and drained it. I didn't hear from him for the rest of the night, which I would normally consider a good thing. But I found myself sighing with silent relief when I saw his light on this morning, aware that I had not overdosed him and therefore would not have to wake him and send him to school in a drug-induced fog.

So to the people who bottle medications for children, I would like to request the following:

-Consider that 99% of children get sick in the middle of the night

-Consider that the majority of parents these days have their children later in life and are therefore likely to need reading glasses before being able to read the bottles.

-Consider that most reading glasses are not kept in medicine cabinets.

-Consider that, though parents have trouble seeing tiny print in the middle of the night, they are not really blind by traditional standards. Raised, clear numbers and markings on dosage cups are all but useless.

-Tiny, pink and green fonts do not show up well in sunlight, let alone in a windowless bathroom at night.

In short, USE BLACK. WRITE BIG. All medication must go through the parents to get to the children. Serve us well and you will provide much better care to the children.

Sincerely,
A concerned mother

Memories

I try to write everything down so that when my kids grow into obnoxious teens who want nothing to do with me, I can go back and read--through my tears--about the way they used to love me. Ben reminded me last night, after having a bad dream, that we used to rock together in a rocking chair in his room to help him fall back to sleep after such episodes. I'd sing a James Taylor song to him, changing the lyrics to "Rock-A-Bye Sweet Baby Ben" instead of Baby James. It worked from his infancy right up until he was five. I had forgotten all about it.

How does that happen, that we forget all those wonderful little gems, even the ones we did for years with our children? Signing with them as babies; stacking blocks for them to knock over every morning; their waking up singing in their cribs; the silly names Ben had for everyone before he could pronounce words clearly. For God's sake, this is the stuff I need to hold onto to get me through the rough days, the days when reality scores so high on the suck-o-meter that withdrawal is the only option.

Today, for example, after getting up at 5:30 (thanks, Ben) and staying up to get Jacob ready for a class trip, I sat on the couch with my bucket of coffee thinking about my first day home alone with Jacob. He was just a couple of weeks old. It was a cold, rainy morning and I was scared out of my wits, on the verge of hormonally-induced tears, sure that I would somehow mess this up. As if to spite me, Jacob was a dream baby all day. I still remember the song that was playing on the radio as his dad left for work, and to this day consider it 'our' song.

Daydreaming about this helped me to ignore the dog humping his pillow, the hamper full of laundry that needs washing and the piles of books to be edited and bills to be paid, despite my fatigue and nagging headache. People knock delusions, but sometimes it's nice to live in the past. So here's another deposit in the memory bank, for later withdrawal. Literally.

The Art of Motherhood

There is nothing quite as wonderful as the grammatically incorrect, typo-filled, sloppy, eraser-marked, strange and unedited professions of love that a mom receives on Mother's Day. Yes, breakfast in bed (my first!) was fantastic. Coffee in my Jane Austen mug; mango smoothie and ham, egg and cheese sandwich on an english muffin were just what I would have asked for, had I been given a menu. First dibs on the Sunday comics? Unheard of every other Sunday of the year. But oh, the art, the heart that went into those handmade cards!

"Dear Mom
you ar speshul to me becoas you fid (feed) me and you take care of me. your Love Ben"

He is my love. I call him my lovey all the time. This wonderful note surrounded by pink smiley faces (38, to be exact) clearly took more time to make than he spends in the bathtub.

A laminated bookmark has a poem written about me.

My Mom
by Ben

A lover
A hugger
A kisser
A golfer
A water drinker
An eater
A coffee drinker
A great mom
An awesome mom

When I think of our bad days together, I am very lucky to see what Ben chose to write when creating his list. It could have been rather damning. Let's face it: motherhood is often artless, graceless and ugly. It's messy, embarrassing and brings out our worst just as easily as (if not more often than) our best.

The beauty of these little creatures who make it all possible--the ones who drive us to the brink, who made us mothers in the first place, changing us irrevocably into something we cannot ever remember NOT being--is that they see only the good stuff. They latch onto it, store it away to pull out in those low moments.

When it's time to make lists and cards for mom, they don't think about her full glass of wine, her mumbling under her breath as she picks up everyone's stuff around the house, her revoking the Nintendo DS, her yelling until she's hoarse. Instead, they remember the goofy, gross songs she made up for them about ear wax and boogers; her teaching them how to make armpit farts; the picnics in the yard and trips to the donut and ice cream shops 'just because.'

They remember what makes them feel good, the things they love about me, just as I do with them: their angelic faces when they're sleeping, their silly giggles, funny jokes and heartwarming hugs.

There's a saying that when you're a parent, the days are long but the years are short. Perhaps that's how it is for kids too. When they are suddenly all grown up and on their own, we remember all the good things and conveniently forget the bad. Perhaps they will continue to do the same, just as they do now.

At least until they decide to write a memoir.

Flick Chick

My nine-year-old is obsessed with all things sci-fi. Star Wars, Star Trek, it doesn't matter. Books, movies, LEGOs, toys, food: if it's got one of these logos, it's all good.

With the release of the new movie Star Trek, I'm torn. I know Jacob would love it; that he would revel in seeing a non-cartoon movie for a change, and my husband--also a sci-fi guy--would love to take him.

The problem is, it's rated PG-13.

Part of me says that Jacob is already exposed to a lot of things in the world that should be rated PG-13, if life came with situation ratings. Riding the school bus with older kids. Hanging out at recess with younger brothers of middle- and high-schoolers. He hears thing, sees things. I'm not stupid.

But, he also is not getting this info from me, or with my endorsement.

Movies are art, and they are entertaining and educational. Yet what does it say to a kid when his parents take him to a movie with lots of violence, the "f" word and partial nudity in it?

Everyone is quick to judge, and a mother making a decision about how to raise her children is prime judgment real estate that starts before our kids are even born. Natural birth or epidural? Home or hospital? Breast or bottle feeding? Attachment parenting or not? Gender-specific or gender-neutral toys? Spank or not spank? Co-sleep or own beds? Harvard or Yale? It never ends.

And as any mother (or anyone who reads the newspapers) knows, it's easy to find "bad mothers" everywhere. Some throw their kids out of the car for fighting. Some even write books about it when their so-called 'bad parenting' becomes a hot topic of debate. And no matter how many people yell that these mothers are terrible parents, there is an equal amount of people who agree with and support their choices.

So truly, the decision must be up to my husband and me. We are damned if we do and damned if we don't. Regardless of what we decide, I doubt we'll end up on Oprah. And the best case scenario is the movie will spark a new passion for art and film in Jacob, and he'll grow up to be the next George Lucas.

To all you parents who struggle with decisions about your kids (are there any who don't?), may the force be with you.

A GPS Could Help

Ben: "Mom, only six more days until our chicks hatch!"

Me: "Where are the chicks going to go after they hatch, Ben?"

Ben: "They're going to stay in our classroom until they grow up, and then we're going to set them free."

Me: "Well, that could work with a mouse or bird, but chickens don't live in the wild. They live on farms."

Ben: "But when we set them free, they can walk to a farm. Oh, wait, maybe they won't know where there's a farm…"

Mr. Bubbles

While in the tub the other night, Ben mentioned that he is afraid of water. He said whenever he sees water, he's afraid he's going to fall in and won't be able to swim and will get water up his nose. I was glad he confided this, and told him he would likely learn to swim at camp this summer so he wouldn't need to be afraid anymore.

"You'll start out by blowing bubbles. That's how your cousin Sarah teaches kids to swim. You know, she's a lifeguard."

"Mom, I already know how to make bubbles," he said.

"You do? That's great. Can you show me?" I sat there proudly, waiting for him to bend over and stick his face in the water, but he just sat there looking at me with a goofy grin on.

Then I saw bubbles rising up in the water and he laughed out loud at the look on my face when I got the joke.

Ya gotta love boys.

Inventory

When I was younger, I carried a purse with the essentials of a younger woman: wallet, journal and pen, keys, lipstick, mascara, tissues and emergency phone call quarter (this was in the days before cell phones).

Not long ago, I realized that my large purse, while no longer needed for hauling around diapers and baby toys, weighed almost as much a my six-year-old. So I decided to scale down to a smaller size. I figured the limited space would help me avoid accumulating the unnecessary 'stuff' that finds its way into larger bags, much in the same way cosmic debris finds its way into black holes in space.

My new bag is 8 inches wide by 8.5 inches tall. Cute, sassy, chic. This morning, I decided to clean it out. Here's what I found:

wallet
keys
lipstick
journal
checkbook
14 receipts
cell phone
train schedule
sustainable seafood guide
8 handi-wipes
3 lollipops
2 bottles of hand sanitizer
3 pens
1 deck of cards
Twizzlers
1 granola bar
tissues
tic tacs
popcorn
Bandaids
KI pills (in case of nuclear attack)
toothpicks
1 package of wasabi
2 packets of soy sauce (thankfully, no sushi)
9 Dunkin' Donuts napkins
LEGO Darth Vader figure
neon plastic alien
two marbles

Either the laws of physics cease to exist inside my purse or I truly have become a magical mom, able to carry any number of food and entertainment items with me, regardless of purse size. I feel like a modern day Jesus. Instead of loaves and fishes, I'm ready to sugar up the pint-sized masses with Twizzlers and lollipops, then play a quick game of Crazy Eights before the train comes. I know we have time, because I have the schedule with me, you see.

Apparently all those cub scout meetings have finally made an impact, their message sinking in to my tired, frazzled brain: be prepared.

The funny thing is, I'm rarely out with my children for any extended period of time anymore. Instead, they are at school, gymnastics, tennis, piano lessons and den meetings. My job now is merely to get them there.

I suppose I could downsize again and get rid of all the kiddie-oriented, no-longer-needed stuff. Maybe I can even go back to my own bare essentials. Think of how light my purse would be!

Of course, that would mean letting go of a lot more than just a few lollipops. I'm not sure I'm ready to do that just yet.

Relative Age

"Mom, this penny was built in 1971."

"Oh yeah? Well now it's 2009. So can you figure out how old it is?"

"Um...."

"Count up by 10s from 71."

(Ben's eyes look up to ceiling while calculating)

"38!"

"That's right!"

"And Dad's older than that, and he's not dead, so it'll be a long time before this penny dies."

"Let's hope."

Whine List

Ben is a homebody. He loves to sit around in his pajamas, all day if I'll let him, and just eat and play and cuddle and read, occasionally jumping on the couch or bed to burn some energy. On the weekends I call him Hugh (as in Hefner) because on the rare days we don't have to go anywhere, he will remain in his pjs from the time he gets up until it's time for bed.

Normally, this is fine with me. He's good to go when he knows we have plans, and he's happy to stay home when he can. In fact, it's only a problem when vacations end. Of course, no one wants to get back to the regular routine after a vacation (OK, so maybe I do, but that's just because school vacations are actually more work for me). But Ben, as much as he loves school, still seems to struggle mightily. The worst part is that I am always blindsided by it.

"So, Ben, how was your first day back at school?"

"GREAT!"

"Really? What was so great about it?"

"Everything!"

"That's terrific! Shall we go to the library?"

"Yeah!"

And off we go, happy as clams. Ben gets to play on the computer. He gets his very first library card, and picks out a book for his brother. Life is good. Until we get home.

"Mom, can I play DS?"

"Well, why don't we have a snack and check out your homework folder first?"

"Nooooo, I don't waaaaant to do homework!" (italicized because there is no 'whine' font).

"Tell you what. If you finish your homework, then you can play DS until dinner time."

"Nooooo, I'm hungry nooooooow! I can't waaaait for dinner!"

And so it continued until it was time to pick up Jacob at scouts, Ben interspersing his whines with tears, tantrums and other fits usually reserved for the toddler set. Hello? Where did my happy boy go?

After picking up Jacob, Ben began asking for another snack (his fourth) in the car. I told him I had no food, but we'd be home in minutes and he could eat some veggies then. He let loose. Of course, there's nothing like a captive audience in a small space to help you make your point. By the time he yelled that if he didn't eat something nooooow, he was going to starve, all I could think was, "at least then you'll be quiet."

Suffice it to say that nothing was right with the world anymore. If Jacob was sitting in a chair, Ben wanted to sit in it. If he had to use the bathroom, Jacob was in the bathroom he wanted to use. The only vegetable he wanted to eat was the one we were out of, and so on.

After an hour and a half of trying to curb the whining and getting nowhere, I figured I had two choices, the legal one being a personal timeout with a glass of wine.

Then it hit me. First day back after nine days home with Mom. 'Alex, let's go with Vacation Withdrawal for $200.'

I got down on one knee and opened my arms.

"Ben, I really missed you today."

"I missed you toooooo!" Finally, the dam burst. Tears, hugs, kisses, cuddles and more hugs ensued. And then....

It was done.

When I tucked him into bed later, smiling, he noticed that I'd set his radio to play for 90 minutes before shutting itself off.

"Well, I hope you won't be awake to hear it the whole time, Ben."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's 7:20 now. If you stay awake for 90 minutes, what time will it be?"

"Um, 8:50!"

"Wow! That was great! How did you get to be so smart?"

"S-H-O-O-K. No, wait. S-H-O-O-L."

"Close enough, school boy. Good to have you back. I'll see you in the morning."

"'Night, Mom."

Thank God there are no more vacations before summer.

Stimulus Package

You would think that I wrap my kids in bubble wrap, the way my husband talks. Granted, Jacob is almost 10 years old and until this past week, would not let us take the training wheels off his bike. He can't swim the crawl, and he can't ride a skateboard or scooter. Heck, just getting him to remember everything he needs before getting in the shower is a challenge.

OK, I know I'm overprotective. But I haven't forbidden him to do these things; I just haven't actively encouraged him. I don't want to be one of those parents who pushes her kids to do things because *I* think they should be doing them. But I will concede that swimming and riding a bike are things a boy needs to know how to do. I gently encouraged him, suggested he take the bike out on sunny afternoons, even offered to hold on to the back to help him feel more steady. Apparently, this was not enough.

How to encourage our kids without being overbearing? It's something I've struggled with since my children have become old enough to learn independence, and independent enough to push back. With all my psychology background, I couldn't find the right balance.

Fortunately, my husband is a man of logic and intelligence. To help me with this challenge, he drew on his parenting skills along with his own background of, well, being a boy. As they say in Vegas, money talks, bullsh*t walks. He told Jacob that if he could ride his bike without training wheels by the end of spring vacation, he'd give him 20 bucks.

Needless to say, within an hour, Jacob's training wheels were gone and he was pedaling, albeit unsteadily, up and down the block.

I have never been above bribery, and can see the logic, especially in Jacob's case: he covets LEGOs, and they are expensive. He's too young to have a job. His birthday and Christmas don't come until the end of the year, and they are the only time he gets gifts. So when he's given a task that will earn him some money, it's pretty much guaranteed that the task will be accomplished and, more than likely, a lot sooner than you would expect. It's a win-win: we get what we need from him, he gets what he wants from us. What's not to love about such an arrangement?

I'll continue to preach to my kids that you can't just throw money at a problem, because they also need to learn problem solving and frugality. But inside, I'm composing a list of things for Jacob to do, and doing quiet little cartwheels on the way to the bank.

The Guilta Fish

My father asked me point blank the other day whether I was trying to kill the fish. He was referring to the goldfish in the tank in our dining room, the fish that will be 5 years old in October, the fish that is bigger than my hand and that I am convinced is part cat, because it has survived so many near-death experiences. I didn't have an answer for him.

My dad was alluding, of course, to the fact that I want my sofa table back. The fish is in a 10-gallon tank, atop my sofa table, taking up lots of space. Once the fish dies, I get my table back. When I'm in decorate mode, I hate the fish. It's a living thing, though, and I would never do anything intentionally--should I say consciously?--to hurt it, like pour bleach in the tank or something.

I admit that I do pour a lot of other chemicals in the tank though, mostly to keep the fish alive. There's Insto Chlor to remove chlorine and chloramine, on the rare occasion that I change the water, at least partially. There's Clear Water, to remove odors and cloudiness when I actually don't have time to change the water, even partially, and Nemo has to swim around in his own, er, debris for a while. We've also got Ammonia Chloramine Eliminator, to remove ammonia when his tail and fins start getting red, indicating that the levels are too high because he has been swimming in his own debris for too long. And of course, Maracide, for when Ich and other external parasites set in, along with my guilt. When it's time for Maracide, it's usually time for an intervention. Some type of fishy CPR.

No, I didn't major in marine life in college, and no, I didn't learn all of this at the cub scout trip to the aquarium last month. I learned it through experience. You never really know a fish until you live with it, as the saying goes. Nemo and I have been through a lot. The funny thing about fish is, even though they don't need to be walked or played with or even taken to the vet for shots, feeding them is not enough. I didn't really realize this until actually acquiring a fish. Feed it, clean its room and keep it warm is not a lot to ask, but sadly, I don't even do all those things as regularly as I should. So it's a wonder to me that Nemo has lived so long.

But he keeps on keepin' on, making kissy noises on top of the water at mealtimes and when he sees us playing with each other and the dog. He's one of the animals we feed each day, and though not as snuggly as the others, he does his best to participate with us. The sofa table, from where he can watch us eat and talk and play, is his world and through its window he watches us, its inhabitants. He seems to forgive me my transgressions and lapses in his care, by bouncing back to health every time.

Granted, it may be because he can't hear me joke to visitors that when he gets big enough, we're going to fry him up and eat him. But I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, even though I'd love to get my sofa table back, I wouldn't eat anything that lived in water that dirty.

Unknown Devils

Right now, my sons are playing Nintendo DS (well, one is playing, one is rooting him on) and I am in front of my computer editing first graders' memoirs and updating my blog, checking my email, twittering, applying for writing jobs, entering contests.... you get the picture. We may all be wireless, but we're tethered nonetheless.

When I have nothing to feel guilty about as a parent (ha!), I reach back in time. Throughout my own childhood, I was just as tethered--if not more so--to the television set, as my children are to computer game devices. Mom had work to do, homework was finished, and Bugs Bunny was on. We would watch until dinner, sometimes watch through dinner, and watch before bed. Then I grew up, a member of the generation that was studied regarding such behavior, and learned that too much television is bad for kids.

So I limit my kids' television time. The shows today are not what they were in my youth. Slapstick cartoon comedy is gone (though have you noticed how incredibly violent Tom & Jerry is? Wow!), replaced with sass, crudity and boogers. Sure, boys find it funny. But for all we know, that's even more harmful than mousetraps on tails ever were.

Of course, I'm a mom, so I also always have things to do. Rather than let my kids sit open-mouthed in front of the television, I let them play animated computer games. But is there wisdom in replacing the devil you know with one you don't?

Some studies have emerged citing violent video games as being linked to aggressive behavior and hostility. Well, duh. But we're talking about bouncing, animated balls that are trying to go from town to town to save the slimes. Or something. Can that really be bad? As bad as hours of television?

My mom didn't worry much about television having harmful effects. Look. We're going to grow up and be exposed to all kinds of horrible, nasty, dangerous things, some of which we don't even know about yet. But does that mean we should live based on the potential future of illness and as-yet-non-present personality disorders? Or should I let them play a couple of rounds of Rocket Slime so I can finish some work for Ben's school and get a healthy family dinner started?

Such is the life of a parent. Nothing is ever black and white, no decision is ever cut and dry. It'd be nice if it was, but really the best we can do is go with what we're comfortable going with and let the rest work itself out. The way I figure it, no matter what I do, they're going to resent me for some things. At least this way, I have a chance of it being for the right things. Heaven knows I still love Bugs Bunny to this day. Thanks, Mom.

Grown Ups Behaving Badly

Hey humans! (I am specifically addressing shifty strangers here, reader.) I have a real problem with your ethical standards lately, and I'd like to know what has happened to the "it takes a village to raise a child" mindset. Anyone? Anyone?

When my kids and I walk the dog down my street, I find garbage strewn along the gutter. This is obviously trash that people have thrown out their car windows: napkins, soda cans and cups, bottles and paper bags. I am always teaching my kids how important it is to put trash in the trash can, recycle when we are able, and we even go out and clean up the roadsides periodically. Somehow, the trash continues to return.

Recently, someone sideswiped the passenger side of my husband's new car. This happened presumably in a parking lot, because he didn't find it until the other day. There was no note, no indication that the person even stopped to check the damage, which was substantial. (I hate to think they did check and left anyway). Let's just say these types of recurring incidents are beginning to leave a sour taste in my mouth.

My problem is this: while my children are young, they are still willing to listen to me about the importance of personal responsibility, being accountable for our actions, making good choices and fixing our mistakes. But they're growing fast, and can think for themselves. How long until they say, "Hey Mom, why are we working so hard to do the right thing when nobody else does?" My fear is, not long. And that's because I don't really have a good answer.

Parenting is hard, especially if you are very conscious of the type of adults you are attempting to raise. Sure, we can teach by good example, but ultimately, there are only two of us against a whole world of people who seem to be setting bad examples. I suppose most people today feel that if the children aren't theirs, neither is the responsibility to behave well around them. Though everyone seems ready to step up and complain when other people's children are the ones behaving badly.... But I digress.

For now, we do what we can. We take these instances of bad examples (lemons) and turn them into teachable moments (lemonade). My hope is that we will fill our kids' consciousness tanks with the right ideas. Maybe if we can teach them well enough, when the time comes to make choices, they'll make the right ones regardless of whether we're around. This hope is the only thing that keeps me from throwing up my hands in disgusted resignation.

So I'll keep at it, but all this lecturing is thirsty work. Please pass me another pitcher and some ice cubes.

Sowing Seeds

I think all parents have those topics that make them cringe a little, and we dread the day when our children will ask us about them. To save my own sanity, I've found that honesty is the best policy, even when I don't know the answer.

When Ben has asked about death, I have told him that no one really knows what happens after we die. However, I believe that our souls go on to become other beings, returning in another form: maybe a flower, a butterfly, a bird. Trying to explain the inexplicable mysteries of life is easier to do when you can relate them to what children know, and give them comforting ways to puzzle things out for themselves.

Ben seemed to like the idea of recycled souls, and it comes up every now and again. "Mom, I want to be a cat next time so I'll be allowed to jump on the furniture," or "Mom, I'm a boy AND a chow hound!" The other day, we watched an IMAX film about the wild coast of Africa. After a particularly visual feeding frenzy, where birds, sharks and dolphins went after a shoal of sardines, Ben whispered to me, "Mom, I never want to be a fish."

The Buddhists say that death is not the end of life, just the end of the body we inhabit in this life. Once the body dies, our spirit will remain and seek out attachment to a new body and new life. Where it will be born is based on our past actions, both positive and negative. This means awareness plays a big part in life, as how we treat others, the earth and ourselves will determine what happens next. I personally think this is a terrific view of things, as it teaches the importance of personal responsibility on many levels.

Some may object to teaching children things that we can't prove, or creating the idea that they may one day become something different. But isn't that what we do their whole lives? When we teach them to reach further when striving for their dreams, we are instilling in them the knowledge that they can become something more, something different, and impact the world in ways they are not yet able to imagine. Getting kids to think about what they want to be, what they don't, and why, gives them insight into their priorities. It will help shape them and their actions. Shouldn't that be the role of every parent?

No matter what we teach our children about the world and beyond, one thing is certain: their knowledge of our unconditional love is critical. This morning, the first words out of Ben's mouth were whiny and demanding. He pouted and complained through dressing, breakfast and brushing and finally looked up at me exasperated when he couldn't zipper his jacket. I smiled at him, and asked if he'd like some help. He nodded, and then the cloud over his head seemed to lift and he said, "I love you Mom."

Creating a safe garden, where children can be themselves, is how we sow the seeds of our budding adults. None of us has all the answers. But if we are careful to nurture our kids consciously, gently and lovingly, we may still reap far more than we could have imagined.

Art Imitates Life

I like to tease my friends that if they're not careful, they'll end up in my novel. After all, as Nora Ephron said, life is copy. Material is everywhere, and the experiences writers have, as well as the people they meet, help to feed the stories and characters they create. Now, it seems the tables have turned.

Jacob has started writing a book. He has a journal that I gave him, and this idea has been burning in his mind for some weeks. At first read, one would think, "it's science fiction. What's to worry about? It's not like it's a memoir." And before anyone gets upset that I'm surreptitiously invading my son's privacy and reading his journal, I should note that he asked me to read it. In fact, he asked if I'd be his editor, so he's obviously not plotting to out me as 'Mommy Dearest' or any such monster.

As the story unfolds, a boy in a far off galaxy is trying to have an earnest conversation with his father about impending galactic doom. Father, of course, is busy reading his holographic newspaper and answers with distraction and disinterest. What struck me about the story was the dialogue, that a 9-year-old could have such an attentive ear to inflection, tone and implication and convey it through words on the page.

I could flatter myself and say that he got it from me, but what indeed would be the point? The fact is, the distracted conversations portrayed are clearly ripped from our life together. And even though it's 'dad' in the story and the newspaper is virtual, the message is clear. Jacob doesn't feel he's always got my full attention.

Of course, if he were trying to save the galaxy and I told him, "Not now, I'm making dinner," I'd be a villain indeed. But what his story showed me was that when Jacob tries to talk to me about what's on his mind, it is just as important to him as his character's need to save the galaxy is in the story. Message to mom: you need to pay attention--I have things on my mind.

Stories like Harry Potter, where a young boy is destined for growth into greatness, are extremely popular. They fuel imaginations and teach children that, regardless of clueless adults, that inkling of greatness they feel inside is real and they should do whatever they must to follow it. Even Jacob's story begins to sow that seed from the very first page. His showing it to me was his way of telling me to sit up and take notice.

Kids need adults to guide them as they grow, but ultimately, the journey is up to them. Helping them to believe in themselves and aspire to greatness is our responsibility. We can nurture that seed by listening, asking questions and hearing what our kids have to say. Who knows? With a little help from us, they might just grow up to save the galaxy after all.

The View From Childhood

Ah, children. Through their eyes, we see all that is innocent, right and beautiful in the world. Or so the theory goes.

My kids like me to tell stories about my childhood, and it's fun to tell them the things my brother, cousins and I used to do when we were kids. Saving our allowance to buy comic books and bubble gum at O'Neill's Country Store; going for pizza and movies in town on Saturdays when the theater showed three straight hours of cartoons; waving to the trains as they went by our house until the engineers would blow the horns for us. Through my rosy-hindsight goggles, my childhood was idyllic and fun.

But my kids always ask to hear the bad stuff.

Most of the bad stuff that I remember from my childhood (I realize I'm probably in denial here) are stunts that my brother pulled. Telling my mom there is no mouse in the mousetrap under the sink for the fourth day in a row when, in fact, today there actually is something in it. Leaving the rubber snakes and spiders in the bathtub after you're done playing and closing the curtain so that the next adult to open it for a shower gets a shock. And of course, my all time favorite, peeing on the radiator in the bathroom so that it always stunk in there, even after mom had scrubbed the room top to bottom several times. (She eventually caught him doing it one day after he'd had a fight with her.) Talk about creative.

Now that I'm a mom, of course, I see why my mother had to lay down every afternoon with her eyes closed to "collect her thoughts" and why she was always encouraging us to go play outside.

One day, after telling my kids how great they are, they asked to hear a story about my childhood. To illustrate how much better behaved my kids are than their uncle Mike was, I told them the bathroom story. I am still incredulous at the mere idea of such a stunt, and told the story with awe and disbelief, making the point to ask my children, "can you believe he did such a thing?" just to underscore what a stinker my brother was to treat my mother that way.

Well. One parent's cautionary tale is, apparently, another child's brilliant revelation.

After weeks of insisting that the children flush the toilet after using it, to no avail, I was convinced this was why their bathroom smelled like a bus terminal. But the other day, my husband walked in there, the toilet was clean, and he was still gagging. He went to work scrubbing it--you guessed it--from top to bottom. And waddya know, today was a very cold day, and the heat came up. That's right, not long afterward, the sparkling clean bathroom smelled like a bus terminal again.

We finally figured it out: someone had peed in the baseboards. I'm not sure who and I'm not sure when, and I don't have the courage to tell my husband that it was my idea. What I do know is I'm going to start choosing my uncle Mike stories a little more carefully from now on.

So let this be a lesson to others who like to spin tales of their reckless youth for their offspring today. Keep in mind that they revere you and the fact that you're full of ideas. Also remember that we were a lot more creative than they are (less video games made for more plotting time). And finally, even if you think you're telling a story as a warning of what not to do, that may not be what they're hearing. State it categorically. You may save yourself a lot of scrubbing in the long run. And you won't have to learn a lesson from something you got away with decades ago.

Growing Pains

My husband is always complaining that I do too much for my kids.

"Let them put away their own laundry."

"But it sits there for a week when I do that."

"Why are you changing his sheets?"

"Because it's hard to get into the back corner."

"He can get breakfast himself."

"But he can't reach the bowls in the cabinet."

And on and on. Part of it is, I know, the way I was brought up. Mom was the caretaker and we let her do it all. And I'm sure part of why I do it is because I can. As an at-home mom, my job is to take care of the family. So I do the big and little things to make their lives easier, finish my jobs more quickly and keep everyone on schedule. But this week I had a reality check, courtesy of a neighbor.

The neighbor, who has four children ranging in age from seven to 17, was helping her son get his art college applications and portfolio together and submitted. While she feels he would benefit from another year at home, he made an offer that made her reconsider.

"I'll stay home if the only chores I have to do are take out the garbage and make my bed."

Huh? Indeed, if this were to be the case, he should be BEGGING to stay home, not making it his ultimatum. His mom and I both feel that, at age 17, this boy should be doing a lot more around the house. But like me, she has always taken care of things. Hm. A preview of things to come? Frighteningly, I see now that this is a very real possibility.

Of course all parents know that children need to do chores in order to learn to take care of themselves and their stuff, as well as handle responsibility. Even the Obama girls have to make their own beds, even though they have staff members to do it. But what's a mother to do to garner interest, or at least cooperation, from the LEGO and train fanatics?

It'll take an adjustment on my part, for sure. I need to be able to let the laundry sit, clean and folded in the hampers, in their rooms until they want something specific that isn't clean anymore. I need to make sure no dessert is served until the table is cleared and the dishes have been put in the dishwasher. And I am not above bribery and blackmail.

"Jacob, did you change your sheets yet?"

"Not yet. I'll do it later."

At bedtime: "Jacob, did you change your sheets?"

"Oh, dang. I forgot."

"You're sleeping on the floor tonight."

"WHAT???!? Wait, I can't. There's no room because my hamper full of clean clothes is in the way."

"OK, then go sleep with the dog in the living room."

Yeah, right. Then I'll wake up from that dream and close his door on the way to the kitchen so I don't have to look at the piles of laundry and the unmade bed.

As parents, we have to pick our battles and I admit I'm a wimp. This is just a battle I choose not to pick, usually because it's less aggravating to do the jobs myself. I know that the longer I take to make chores a part of their daily life, the harder it will be (see note on neighbor). And yet it always seems that tomorrow will be a better day to turn over a new leaf than today.

Maybe I should write to Michelle Obama for some tips.

Bedding by Boodalee: http://www.boodalee.com/ourcollection.html

Minor Cuts

There's something about being a parent when you have things cut out of your body and biopsied that makes you a little queasy. More than the pain, the discomfort and even before the results come back, there is the 'what if?' factor. And it is perhaps the worst part of all.

I have a high tolerance for pain, and try not to think about the negativity of such tests, just like I don't panic about air travel until we are taking off. Then my knuckles turn white, I look anywhere but out the window and hum until it's over. Medical procedures aren't much different, except I'm staring at ceiling tiles instead of baggage compartments. I don't deal with the fear until I'm in the moment. It's not that I'm a pro, but I'm no newbie either. I've had enough procedures to teach me how to deal, but not so many that I'm immune to them. And yet.

When I was young and single and these things came up, I'd tell my parents and they'd be there. I knew they'd take care of anything that needed taking care of if I couldn't do it which, fortunately, never happened.

But when you're a mom, things are different. It's not that it isn't about you anymore. Rather, it's all about you, at least as far as your kids are concerned. You need to be around, to stay around, for them. You are a ubiquitous presence, as necessary and constant as the air they breathe. It raises the stakes. The 'what if?' is still there, but what follows is different.

I don't talk about this to be melodramatic, but because it's been on my mind this week, what with the various tests I've been taking. And while I have a high tolerance for pain, I can't say I'm as sure about my level of grace under pressure. I know mothers who have battled cancer and are in recovery. And I know others who have lost. Thankfully, I am still only in 'what if?' mode, and hopefully will stay there.

They say a woman is like a tea bag: you don't know how strong she is until you put her in hot water. Of course it's good to know how strong you are. But if I have my druthers, I won't find out just yet.

Boy Toys

Question: What do a croissant, a LEGO brick and a piece of rope all have in common? Answer: They can be turned into simulated guns. Whether this is a phenomenon that occurs only in my house or is a representation of the single-minded imaginations of all boys, I don't know. But between the four or five Nerf dart guns floating around here and seemingly every other item my children pick up these days, I've heard myself utter the words "put the gun down, it's time for dinner" just a bit too much lately.

What is it about guns that so fascinates boys? While girls tend to act out every social scenario from tea parties to entire cotillions with their dolls, stuffed animals and pets, boys seem to make everything about conflict. Don't get me wrong: I'm not anti-guns. I have friends who are hunters, and I used to own a handgun myself, going to the shooting range every couple of weeks for target practice. But that was just a small part of who I was, one aspect of my interests. And it became a part of history even before my sons were born.

I admit I shy away from conflict. This is a carryover from my childhood, I realize, but thankfully, there is not yet much cause for it in my life. When I have teenagers, I'm sure I'll get plenty of practice, but until then I'm enjoying my peaceful bubble. At the same time, I realize conflict is a part of life, as are guns. Strangely, I'm in the middle of reading a novel (which I don't usually read) and it's the second novel in a row I've picked up that deals with school shootings (this was unintentional. The first book, The Hour I First Believed, was by Wally Lamb, an author I enjoy. The second, 19 Minutes, is by Jodi Picoult, a favorite author of a friend. I thought I'd give it a try). What gives?

There is plenty of ugliness in the world that my kids don't know about yet. The other day, my 9-year-old was reading over my shoulder and saw an advertisement on Facebook suggesting I "pimp my page" and asked me what the heck it meant. I told him it meant to make the page look fancy, but good grief, who coined that term from such an ugly origin? At least I didn't have to go into detail about pimps.

But for some reason, guns seem to show up so early in their lives. They're in movies, video games even cartoons. After much thought, I realized that guns are useful for helping kids play out good and evil, right and wrong, good guys and bad guys in their play, and I'm all for that. We teach them, they practice what we preach, it becomes ingrained. Isn't that what parenting is all about?

So I'll keep my mouth shut while they chase and "shoot" at each other with whatever is handy to them. But the next time someone points a loaded croissant at me, I'm going to have to host an emergency tea party, whether they like it or not.

I Remember Sick Days

Back in my corporate days, I used to get paid to be sick. That is, if I went to work, I got paid. But if I got sick and stayed home in bed, I still got paid. Talk about a sweet deal.

Fast forward 10 years. Mom wakes up, feels great, goes to 'work' taking care of everyone. Doesn't get paid. Next day, Mom wakes up, feels like crap. Dad gets the kids up, dressed and fed. Mom still makes lunches and snacks, figures out dinner and walks the dog after Dad goes to work and the kids go to school. Still doesn't get paid. I'm not complaining. I'm just saying.

The irony of the situation is that we all want to be indispensable in our jobs. There's a special feeling that comes with knowing no one can your job better than you can. But of course, when you're sick, you just want Mom to take care of you like she did when you were little.

This may be why my kids don't seem to understand that Mom can actually get sick. How can she? She's Mom--she can't be sick and take care of herself at the same time. One of my favorite Ben-isms was one I overheard one evening. I had served the kids dinner, and went to lie down with a headache and an upset stomach. My husband came home and asked where I was.

"Mom's lying down."

"Oh. Is she sick?"

"No, she's not sick. She just doesn't feel well."

So there you have it. There is a line, somewhere between 'not feeling well' and 'sick' that Moms just don't cross. Or perhaps the perception is that, no matter how lousy Mom feels, she just keeps on keepin' on. Things get done, people get fed, dogs get walked and stories get read. And when everything is taken care of, Mom will go take a nap, or pick up her medicine or visit the doctor, as long as she knows no one will need her in the meantime.

But I think the truth of it lies deep down inside each mother: we don't want to miss a thing. We know all too well that the years are flying, and our kids need us. So we're not going to let a couple of wimpy germs keep us from any of it. Hey, I was able to function for close to a year on almost no sleep after my youngest was born. What's a bit of congestion?

Pass the tissues and break out the homework!


Photo by ladyhawk365: http://www.flickr.com/photos/13772049@N05/

Identity Theft

My kids have stolen my identity. I used to be me, individual with a professional life, goals and responsibilities. I had meetings and peer groups, business trips and a staff. But over the course of the last 10 years, my business cards expired, my palm pilot died under a pile of dust, and my Rolodex became a paperweight. And somewhere along the line, I began introducing myself as "Benjamin's mom" and "Jacob's mom."

A couple of years ago, that wasn't so terrible because I was editing a local parenting magazine, so I had a reputation that still trumped my sons'. "Of course I know you! I loved your last editorial!" people would tell me. Ironically, since quitting that job to spend more time with my children, people now know more about my children than they do about me.

Just last week, I walked into a birthday party for a first grader in my son's class and introduced myself. I spoke my own name, and then said, "I'm Benjamin's mom."

"I know," came the response from a woman I'd never met. For a split second, I thought she recognized me from the picture that used to accompany my writing, but she quickly popped that bubble of delusion. "I could tell as soon as I saw you. You look just like Benjamin."

This doesn't often happen with Jacob, who looks more like his dad. But I have had people approach me after hearing my name and ask, "You wouldn't be Jacob's mother, would you?" When I say yes, they proceed to tell me who they are, how they know Jacob and a story about him. It seems a lot of people have Jacob stories.

Sometimes this is a good thing. We all have our "under the radar" days when we just want to blend into the background. And really, when you think about it, parenthood is all about the kids. Ideally, we leave behind the selfishness, the laziness and the bad manners we espoused as young singles and morph into the people we want our children to emulate. Because while having kids is a physical feat, raising them demands a bit more.

I suppose, in looking at the whole picture, that my kids haven't really stolen my identity. They've just rounded it out, improved on it. I'm still the same person, but my job description has changed. The things that used to matter just aren't that important anymore. And truly, my performance reviews are much more enjoyable than they ever were. Granted, they come while someone is brushing their teeth or while I'm in my pajamas, curled up and reading Harold And The Purple Crayon for the umpteenth time. But whenever I hear, "Mom, I love you," spoken spontaneously, I know I'm exactly who and where I'm supposed to be.