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.

Artistic Endeavors

Anyone who has kids has received them: scribblings, ashtrays, flowerpots with glued-on buttons, construction paper designs, self-portraits of the artist. From the time our children are old enough to hold a crayon and wise enough not to chew on it, they are creating. It's a beautiful concept--give their growing minds free reign and endless mediums in which to express them and the possibilities are endless. But it also creates a conundrum for parents with small houses. What to save and what to chuck?

The question makes me sound like an insensitive, culture-starved jerk. I realize this. But truly, is there an answer? How do we decide which art projects should become part of posterity versus the trash heap? Take the above sculpture for example. I'm pretty sure Jacob made it, but since it has no date, I don't know when. My husband found it in a drawer recently, mixed in with a lint roller, cough drops, plant hooks, old Father's Day cards and the manual to a cell phone he no longer owns. It took me several minutes of spinning it around and studying it to figure out what it is supposed to be. A telephone? A bridge? The letter M? A giant ear? Eventually I found an angle that made it look like a bird and declared it a cardinal. It's sort of red; the pointy end sort of looks like tail feathers; isn't that an eye? Great! We have a verdict. Now what?

I am not an organized person. I don't have a "craft room" though I have many craft materials and project ideas. I do not have a "library" although I own a lot of books (my husband would say too many. How can you have too many books?). We do not have an "art table" although my kids love to paint and draw. My husband doesn't have a "workshop" although he owns many tools (I might say too many. You know what he would say). The point is, with many interests in a family of four, storage is an issue.

Of course, once something is tossed, it is soon forgotten. My kids don't remember every project they've ever made, and I encourage this form of amnesia. But the ones that I do hang up and save, they look at all the time. They comment on them, point things out to me about them, show them off to visitors when they come. Often they are then inspired and pull out the art supplies to create something new. How can I squelch that?

I came across an idea in a magazine once (because I save lots of those too) that suggested taking pictures of all the favorite art projects, then making a collage of the collected photos, framing it and hanging it up. I thought that sounded great! Of course it means I'll need to pull all the projects together, photograph them, shrink and collage them, print and frame them. Did I mention I am not an organized person? Without a craft room, it's not likely to happen soon. So if anyone else has ideas about this, chime in! I'm all ears. Real ones. I'm sure of it.

Metamorphosis

I hate it when people talk about how Becoming A Parent Is Such A Humbling Experience like it's a good thing. What they really mean is that having kids takes you down about 10 notches on the coolness scale, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

After having a child, for example, the illusion of competence vanishes. This child will cry and scream, moan and wail, and your Master's, Ph.D., high salary and stellar resume will mean nothing to him. You will cuddle and coo and rock and walk him and it will not be enough. You will sing and whistle, take long drives with him and consult the doctor and it will help and it will make you feel as if you are improving, but you will actually remain incompetent.

All of those old insecurities, from which you were paroled after being released from high school, return in force. Only now, the more your child goes out into public, the more ridiculous you become. As they grow, you will go from being the-most-super-amazing-wonderful-magnificent-person-on-the-planet to a know-it-all. You will do it wrong, not understand, be old fashioned, be impossible, be an embarrassment, be controlling and ruin his life, in that order.

Newly married, we are cool and chic, in love and on top of the world. So to perpetuate our hipness, we create a life and then nag it until it flees the nest in a flurry of pierced rebellion. It's the American Dream, only because none of us realize what we've done until we've done it. Then it becomes a plan that perhaps we should have thought through a little more carefully.

In reality, the birth of children and the emptying of the nest are the prideful parentheses of an otherwise challenging experience. Even as we become less and less cool, we love them more and more. They push us away and we hug them closer. They criticize, and we stand our ground. They leave and we let them. It all sounds very black and white, but in reality it's hard. It's really, really hard.

Someone once said that when you have children, the days are long but the years are short. And we don't really think about this until we are standing on the quad hugging and crying and not caring that we're embarrassing them in front of these people who aren't yet their friends. But it's true.

The challenge, once you've had a child, is to put your ego in a box on a high shelf somewhere. Once they've moved out, there will be plenty of room to take it down and put it back on. Just don't count the days until it happens. And don't expect it to fit quite the same way when you do. But it will still look really cool. You just won't care as much as you used to.

The Jig Is Up

Although Inauguration Day was an awe-inspiring, much anticipated and monumental day for the world, it was a crappy day in my house. Not because of the new president, but because all afternoon, my children behaved like escaped zoo animals in search of raw meat. And all the while, I kept trying to get them to sit down and do homework.

Suffice it to say, I failed. Yelling didn't work. I was being ignored, and I knew I needed a new approach. But I just didn't have it in me to get creative.

By the time dinner was served, DS privileges and television viewing time had been revoked. Dessert had also been taken away for the night, but I decided to bake a batch of chocolate chip cookies anyway, for reasons including--but not limited to--the following:

--To give me something to do besides listen to them fight;

--To fill the house with yummy smells instead of noisy yells;

--So I'd have something to enjoy with my tea after everyone had gone to bed.

--To have desserts for the kids' lunches the next day.

After the cookies were done and cooling on racks, my sons ventured over to longingly stare, sniff and drool over them. Then my nine-year-old spoke.

"Mom, tomorrow can we have chocolate chip cookies for dessert in our lunches?"

"Well, we'll see how everyone behaves in the morning. That is why I baked them, after all."

And my son looked at me, raised one eyebrow and said, in a knowing voice,

"To torture us?"

Damn. They're on to me.

The Dangers of Self-Improvement

OK, so cutting down on caffeine may not fall under the heading of "self-improvement" for some, but it's a big deal to me, a daily drinker. The last time I gave up caffeine was 10 years ago, and I went cold turkey. Not because I'm a masochist, but because I was young and spry, optimistic and pregnant. I wanted the best for my little punkin, so I evaluated my diet, upped the produce and cut the coffee.

I like to think that this is why my firstborn was, and remains, such a great sleeper. This is also why I can forgive him for causing me a month-long headache and unending fatigue, the likes of which I've never experienced before or since.

It should be noted here that I love coffee. I drink it for the flavor, the warmth and the perk. I start my day with it. In summer, I drink it iced, frozen and spiked. In winter, I often drink it twice a day. But caffeine has a tendency to build up in the system over time, and lately I've been having trouble sleeping. So I started thinking that, despite the single-digit thermometer readings, I was in need of a purge.

This time, I decided to start slowly: one-third caffeinated grounds to two-thirds decaf. I'll wean myself, I thought. Eliminate headaches and still get a little eye-opener in the morning.

What happened was this: I made my coffee at the same time as my eggs. I dragged the sugar bowl over near the dishes and pulled the milk and salsa out of the fridge when everything was brewed and cooked. I proceeded to put salsa in my coffee.

This, to me, is not only wasteful, it's depressing. Had I been in a more alert state of mind, perhaps not getting lost in the rich, deep color of my coffee swirling and steaming in my mug, this would not have happened. I just thank goodness it wasn't a $4 cup of Starbucks.

What's worse, I'm not the only one to suffer from my addiction withdrawal. (I know, it's only the first day; bear with me here. I'm trying to make a point.) When I went to walk the dog this morning, I clipped the wrong ring on his collar, and he magaged to break free and get himself stuck in a bramble after chasing a squirrel that he was lucky enough to be able to follow. I contributed to the warming globe (no, it was not done selfishly or on purpose) by using an extra 1/2 gallon of gas to go back to the store when I forgot to get the one thing I had set out to buy there.

Finally, my first grader came off the bus and immediately pointed out that I had put two different shoes on him before sending him to school. At least they weren't on the wrong feet.

Some might be so discouraged by the blatant incompetence brought on by this mild shift in diet that they would throw up their hands, say, 'forget it. I cannot operate without coffee' and go back to their old ways. Personally, I think that sounds like a great idea. But I'm going to wait. I'm going to try to get a better night's sleep tonight, and maybe even try the partly-decaf route again tomorrow. But if the kitchen catches fire, the goldfish ends up in the refrigerator or my kid comes home in a bathing suit, I'm giving up. I may be addicted, but I'm not stupid.

Hell Is So Cold

I don't know why it's taken me over 40 years to realize that I hate the cold. I'm relatively smart; you'd think I would have figured this out years ago and moved to California before setting down roots, but no. It occurred to me last night, as I was walking the dog in six degree temperatures, while wearing four layers of clothes and feeling my nose hairs freezing before I got to the end of my driveway. Winter is my version of hell.

In order to be warm I must wear several shirts and pairs of pants at once. This leads to exponential amounts of laundry, so it's like having an adult-sized newborn in the house. Normally this would not be a problem, as I have no desire to leave the house between January and March, so could spend all of my time washing clothes in my nice, warm house and therefore never fall behind.

But I have children. And it snows in winter. So I MUST leave the house in order to take them sleigh riding and snowball fighting and snowman building. Not only do I have to leave the house, I have to stay outdoors in the cold weather. As if this wasn't bad enough, I must also somehow convey a positive attitude and actually feign enthusiasm for being outside. It helps if I am smiling when I leave the house, as the smile freezes there within moments of stepping outside.

My hatred of being outside in winter leads to my attempts to stay indoors as much as possible doing fun things. I build fires in the fireplace, rent movies, do crafts and bake. But then I get stir crazy, and the only way to remedy that is to go out. But I don't want to go out because it's so very flippin' cold. So I'm trapped. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

Finally, winter is dark. A lot. It's dark in the morning and it's dark after school, so I always feel like I'm in a cave. The way I see it, if I'm going to feel like I'm trapped in a cave all winter, I'd be better off hibernating. If I stayed in bed until spring, my family wouldn't have to deal with my crankiness and I wouldn't have to deal with winter. It's a win-win situation.

Since my children are already entrenched in school, activities, and community involvement, I figure this will be much easier than uprooting them and moving to someplace warm. So I just need to make up a meal schedule for them to follow from now until spring, hire a cleaning lady, and turn on my electric blanket. It's my only viable way out of this hell.

Wake me when it's over.

Food Police

The morning after my son's first sleepover at a friend's house, the phone rang. Expecting a report of how little sleep they got or a suggested time for picking him up, I was greeted instead with an accusatory tone:

"What are you doing to your son??"

Huh?

"What? Why?!?"

"I just offered your son chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast and he said to me, 'no thank you. I'm not allowed to have candy for breakfast.' What are you teaching him? You are depriving this poor child of his childhood!"

Oops. Of course, her accusation was said in jest, though I could absolutely see Jacob giving that answer and asking for a bagel instead. And I understand why he made the leap from 'no candy for breakfast' to 'no pancakes with candy in them for breakfast.' But what if my friend was right? What if I was being maniacal about the food thing, to the detriment of my son's childhood joy?

It's probably worth mentioning here that I also don't let my kids eat raw cookie dough. I know, I know, it's amazingly, wonderfully delicious and some would even say a necessary part of childhood. But the raw eggs! E. Coli! My little brain has tremendous trouble justifying the risk. Isn't it better to just let them have an extra, baked cookie when they're done?

The most ridiculous part of all of this is that I grew up watching my father eat a raw egg every day (for health), and I personally consumed countless pounds of raw, ground lamb as a child. This was a standard appetizer in my house, just as it had been a regular dish in my grandparents' homeland. Thankfully, I never got sick. I grew up, learned how to read scientific information that taught me the dangers of such "foolhardy behavior" (read: previously normal behavior), and changed my ways. If my kids were going to get violently ill with nausea, fever, diarrhea and vomiting, it wasn't going to be because of me.

Granted, ignorance is bliss. My kids were very happy even before knowing about chocolate chip pancakes. But at the same time, I still remember going to a friend's house as a middle-schooler and eating bagels with lox and cream cheese. In my Armenian/Irish/English household, this was something that had never graced our table. (I'm pretty sure my Jewish friend had never eaten raw lamb either, come to think of it.) I went home and asked my mother if she would buy some bagels and lox. She didn't even know what it was, let alone where to get it. Needless to say, it was never served in my house. Instead, I was forced to get over my disappointment and befriend more Jews so I could get my fix at their houses.

The point is, just like in real life, our culinary lives are a journey. Start here. Travel there. Land somewhere in between. Just because we've never done things a certain way doesn't make it bad, and it doesn't mean we shouldn't give it a try to see how we like it.

Once I got past my bruised ego, I was OK with the chocolate chip pancake thing. In fact, I felt so magnanimous one day that I offered to make them for my son.

"No thanks," he replied. "They're too sweet."

In the end, things may work themselves out after all.

Censory Input

In the New York Times today, Lisa Belkin, whose writing I love and have followed for years, wrote about fairy tales and whether they are too scary to be read to children. I laughed out loud, but not because I found the topic ridiculous. On the contrary, I actually blogged about it over eight years ago when my oldest son was less than a year old.*

Since then, we've seen more horrors than we could have imagined: 9/11 and Columbine are the first that leap to mind. In light of this, a conversation about fairy tales seems almost trite. There are those who may think that such child-focused discussions and debates are silly or unnecessary, but in fact we are shaping the future. And when it comes to parenting, it's the little things that really make a difference.

Someone once said that perception is reality. To a child, this is especially true. Figuring out the best way to raise healthy, happy children is a difficult job that will ultimately impact (and hopefully benefit) all of society. So to those who laugh, I say, don't mock it 'til you try it.

*Posted 8/15/2000
As a writer, I truly embrace the right to freedom of speech every day. But as a parent, I also practice the art of censorship when it comes to my son. Not that I ever considered doing this. One day we were singing songs, and it just sort of...happened.

"Rock-a-bye baby in the treetop, when the wind blows the cradle will rock."

OK, I'm fine with all of that (though I wouldn't be putting MY kid up in a tree, but whatever. It's Fantasyland, let's go with it).

"When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall and down will come baby, cradle and all."

All right, let's stop right there. Since this clearly illustrates why we wouldn't be putting baby in a tree in the first place, Fantasyland is now out the window. And if we're going to be doing reality-based baby songs, what's the harm in a little censorship?

"When the moon shines, then baby will know that mommy and daddy love him so."

There. Isn't that nice? Wouldn't that be more appropriate for singing baby to sleep? For pity's sake, it took the kid three months to start sleeping through the night, and now with teething, he's got enough problems. Why give him nightmares to boot?

Now let's talk about other forms of entertainment, say television for example. As a worrisome, first-time parent, I've read plenty about the evil affects of television on babies under two years old. And let's face it: kids aren't born loving Barney. They're TAUGHT. So by not letting Jacob watch television at all, right there, I've managed to eliminate some evil, at least from MY life.

I've seen all the baby videos, Baby Chopin and the like, and read the marketing that 'Mozart boosts baby's brain synapses.' We even received a Baby Mozart video as a gift when Jacob was born, but I vowed he wouldn't know what a television was until he was at least two year old. BZZZZZZZZZT!! Wrongo, Mama, but thanks for playing.

Take a day, an ordinary Tuesday, when the laundry needs to be done, the house needs to be vacuumed, the library books are overdue and you're in charge of dinner. Then factor your baby in. Then cut his two 2-hour naps down to 35 minutes each, and sprinkle in a little baby constipation. You see where I'm going with this? I was a convert in the making. And the good news is, Jacob loved Baby Mozart. He won't be seeing it every day to be sure, but it's nice to know I have a little box of sanity-saver in the house, no prescription necessary.

Finally, there are the bedtime stories. Pick a classic. Any classic. Hansel and Gretel? Eaten by a witch. Goldilocks? Eaten by bears. Three little pigs? Eaten by a wolf. Who are the child-hating authors who came up with these stories? "Don't go into the woods. EVER." Unless this was the lesson they were going for, holy cow they should have been stopped by their editors way before print time and referred for counseling.

I've seen the Politically Correct Bedtime Stories, and while I understand the spirit behind them, I'm still a fan of Prince Charming, so I won't go editing those stories (at least not for Jacob. What parent wouldn't want to raise a prince? Ask me about them again when I have a daughter).

But the violence, well that's another story. The way I see it, there is so much violence out there today on television, on the Internet, in the schools, in the streets, and in the music, that I want to make Jacob's inevitably short childhood last as long as I possibly can. And if that means telling only sweet fairy tales, baking cookies and changing some of the classic old songs along the way, well then that's what I'm going to do. I can't control the future, but I can sure create a warm, happy past for him to remember fondly when he's grown. At least then maybe he'll call once in a while.


Photo credit: Fairy Tales by Mary L. Gow, English artist born 1851 - died 1929