Soothing the Savage Beast

I hate homework. I know I've mentioned this before, and some might think I should just shut up about it because I'm not the one that has to do the homework. But here's the thing: I could deal with doing it. What I can't deal with is the kid who has to do it and doesn't want to, and instead chooses to whine, complain, yell, gripe and kvetch about it. To me. While I'm trying to work. And then when I offer to help, he yells at me even more.

This happens a lot, and even more when it's the end of the marking period and every teacher is heaping on the assignments, projects, quizzes and tests the final week before grades are due. So what's a mother to do when the level of homework threatens her sanity and the potential health and safety of her children?

Blast some music.

Yes, it sounds simple. And listening to music is the oldest study aide in the history of schoolwork. Sure, the methods have changed from record players and AM/FM radios to cassettes, CDs, MP3 players and Internet radio. But it's not the method of delivery that matters. It's the music.

The old saying is often misquoted. In fact, the phrase was coined by William Congreve, in The Mourning Bride, in 1697:

"Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak."

In my house though, anyone with ungodly amounts of homework automatically becomes a beast, so I stand by the title of this post. Yesterday, my younger beast was close to being locked out onto the porch for how difficult he was being about the amount of homework and studying he had to complete. It was that or beat my head against the wall until I hurt myself. Voices were being raised, ultimatums issued, and I saw the escalation potentially soaring. Then something occurred to me, and I stopped.

"Ben, what's that song you heard on the radio last night that you loved? Let It Burn?"

"Huh? Let It Go you mean?"

"No, it was Burn something." I Googled 'the Burn song' on YouTube. Boom, there it was. I hit play. Ben said, "Oh, YEAH! This one!" He watched the video the first time, then I hit play again and he sat down to start working. When the song ended, he got up and went to his room, but before I had a chance to call him, he returned with his portable Bluetooth speaker and his cell phone, complete with playlists. He hooked them up, put them on the table, hit 'Play' and went back to work.

And it worked. The music, that is. By the end of the night, Ben had completed six Social Studies worksheets and studied for his Spanish exam. Yes, I had to listen to Minecraft parody songs repeatedly until I thought I would have to leave the house myself, but it was better than shouting. And way more effective.

So when the homework load gets heavy in your house, I highly recommend popping the 'Frozen' CD (or whatever tunes of choice will make your student drop everything and start singing) into the player and letting it rip. If your kid is anything like mine, it will make the process far less painful. For everyone.

The Homework Conundrum

I hate homework. Granted, it's been several years since I had any assigned to me directly (hey, I went to grad school. When I say "several" I don't mean "dozens." I mean, like, eight.). But as if to help me appreciate the misery that my middle- and high-school-aged sons must suffer, teachers make sure to pile on the homework so that no kid can really do it alone. Invariably, they will start off fine. But before long, they need to call in reinforcements. Read: Mom, just as she's starting to cook dinner.

This year, however, has been different. Ben comes home, sits down, takes out his planner and his books and gets to work. When he says he's done, I pop onto the computer and log in to the school website, click on his name and check all the assignments he has due tomorrow, listed by class.

"Ooh. Science test tomorrow. Did you study?"
"Yep, we studied in class."
"OK, we'll review after dinner. Math worksheet?"
"Done." Holds it up.
"Spanish vocabulary words list?"
"Done." Holds it up.
"Did you start your music paragraph on jazz yet?"
"I started it at school, but it's not due 'til Friday. I'll finish it tomorrow."

And I brush the computer dust from my hands as he heads outside to play.

Jacob, however, is in high school. They use a different grading system, which means the assignments can't be posted on the school calendar site the way Ben's can. This year, it's up to Jacob to write it all down, keep track of it and get it done. And he has stated categorically that he hates homework and doesn't see the value in it.

But with my ignorance of the assignments, and the inability to check them, I have to take him at his word when he says the work is done. The fact that he's a sophomore means he should be mature enough to handle the responsibility. I mean really, what 15-year-old needs his mother nagging him about his homework? I was excited to have a hands-off year with him, finally.

Until the grades started showing up.

"Um, hey Jacob. What's with this chemistry homework grade?"
"Oh, yeah, that. I didn't realize it was two pages so I didn't do the back."
"Hey Jacob, what's with this math homework grade?"
"Oh, I didn't realize it was due today."

Etcetera, etcetera. Control freak that I am, I went a little crazy. Crazy to the point of lecturing every day, threatening to take away privileges, following him around the house and telling him he couldn't possibly be done with his homework because he had hardly done any at all and I'd better not see another bad grade or else blah, blah, blah.

It was so effective that I managed to end every afternoon in a shouting match with him, and every bedtime became a mutual apology session.

Then the other day I read a quote by Ben Franklin that I loved:

"Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn."

And it dawned on me that maybe this new situation is a good thing. Maybe the fact that I can't go on line, see what his assignments are, remind him and nag him and ride him about getting them done is a sign that I need to let go. I need to allow my kids make their own choices and mistakes, regardless of whether I agree with them. Will it impact his ability to get into college? No. Will it ruin the rest of his life? No. So do I need to start World War III over it every single day? Unquestionably no.

Jacob is old enough to do this stuff on his own. And he is the one whose grades will drop if he doesn't figure out how to manage it all. He'll be disappointed in himself when we don't go out to dinner at the end of the quarter to celebrate his making the honor roll. Maybe the only way for him to learn is to let him see what happens when he does the work on his own, and when he doesn't.

Maybe homework does have some redeeming educational value after all.

Odor Control

My kid stinks. Not his attitude: his body. But he can't smell it on himself. When it first started happening, I tried not to hold it against him. But soon, I didn't want to hold anything against him, including myself. How do you avoid hugging your stinky kid when he wants to be hugged?

Of course, it's not his fault. He's a teenager--it comes with the territory, and we made sure to tell him that. We explained that when wet sweat and hormones mix with bacteria in a warm place, it becomes a petri dish of growth and stink. Then we set out to help him manage it. We tried deodorant. We tried deodorant soap. We tried daily showers. We tried a combination of all three. I've also read that drinking lots of water helps, and antibacterial wipes can come in handy after gym if there's no time (or desire) to shower after class. Finally, we decided he has to shower every morning, not before bed, because physiologically, he is only capable of remaining stink-free for about 18 hours post-shower. This seemed to do the trick.

As this is my first-born child, the whole situation is new to me. But apparently it's a widespread issue that impacts families, peers and even teachers, as a high school teacher friend recently pointed out to me. She was scheduled to spend an 87-degree day hiking in the company of a group of teenagers, subjecting her to multiple cases of body odor. And she was not at all happy about it.

But how does one approach the parents of stinky teens and have them instruct their progeny on the mechanics of their changing bodies, and their responsibility to maintain order when in the company of others? Or should teachers be offering tips and tricks to their students on using wipes, re-applying deodorant and showering daily?

Personally, I think that goes above and beyond a teacher's duties, even if she is looking out for the well-being of her students (in addition to trying to maintain a healthy classroom that's conducive to work). So parents, listen up! Take a whiff! Save your teen the embarrassment of being told by peers that they are smelly, and spare their instructors the uncomfortable job of a hot classroom full of B.O. After all, aren't raging hormones and late-summer heat enough for them to contend with when trying to educate our kids?

Trying to Get Demoted

I'm trying to get demoted from my position as super-mom.

When the kids were little, of course, I did it all. That's when my control freaky nature was helpful--I had to take care of every little thing, so being detail-oriented was a perfect trait for the job. Then Jacob started to transition to just "needing a little help" and he'd roll with the rest of the job himself. Cooking dinner?

Me: "Figure out what you want to make."

Jacob: "Stir fry."

Me: "What time do you want to serve dinner?"

Jacob: "Six."

Me: "And how long will it take to prep and cook it all? Work backwards from six and that will tell you when you need to start prepping."

Jacob: "Hm. I have to start now."

Me: "OK, take out all your ingredients: chicken, veggies, sauces, rice, oil. Then your tools: cutting board, spoon, measuring tools, knife, bowls, pot, pan."

Jacob: "Got it."

Me: "All right, all your stuff is assembled. Now what's going to take the longest to cook? You want to start that first."

Jacob: "The rice. OK, I'm good, Mom. You can go."

Sweet. Now, Jacob can do all these steps himself without my help. I figured I was well on my way to being demoted. Next, I tried to help Ben do the same type of thing: take control of whatever he's trying to accomplish, with me standing by and handing him the tools he'll need.

Then I was reminded that my kids are two completely different people and don't operate the same way at all.

When I offer Ben tools, he seems to keep lifting his hands up, as if the tools are too hot to handle, and he'd rather I do it for him or leave the job undone.

The problem is, my control-freaky nature is trying to rear its ugly head back up, and I know that's exactly the wrong tool for the job.

Take riding a bike. Ben never learned how when he was younger. We did get him balancing on a bike with training wheels years ago, at the end of the fall. I could see we'd be able to remove the training wheels shortly, and he'd be on his way. Then a snowstorm hit. Several feet. Power outages, school closed, the works. And just like that, bike-riding season was over. The following spring, he had no interest in getting back on the bike.

"That's OK," I figured. "They say once you learn, you never forget."

This summer, I tried to get him on his brother's (bigger) bike. He was not enthusiastic. I pushed it. He conceded, grudgingly. It wasn't long before we both learned that, apparently, you can forget how to ride a bike, especially if you'd only learned for about five minutes.

But I can't let it go. I keep pushing him to learn, and to learn to swim, and do all the things kids are supposed to do in summer, acquiring skills they can carry into adulthood when they will ultimately NO LONGER NEED ME AND MOVE AWAY TO START THEIR OWN LIVES. Ben is having none of it.

I remember talking with him once about "someday", when he's married and living in his own house, and he cut me off and said, "Mom, I don't ever want to leave. I want to live here with you forever."

Oh dear.

I've read that the more you push a kid, the more he will resist. But rather than step back into the do-it-all-myself role, I'm going to try a different approach. I'm standing right beside Ben. And just like when he was a picky eater as a baby, I just keep handing him the same tools over and over. I change the form they take, or the way I hand them to him, but I'm making it clear that they are not going away.

My hope is that, with a little maturity and a realization that I have faith that he can do these things, he will one day decide to take the tools and give them a try. I figure all he'll have to do is surprise himself once or twice with his true capabilities, and he'll be confident enough to be on his way too. Then maybe I'll be able to get that demotion after all. Hopefully before he's twenty-five.

No Longer the Know-It-All

This week, my husband attended a retirement party for the director of his division. This man had interviewed my husband for his first position at the company, over 20 years ago, and my husband still remembers one of the questions the director had asked: What is the binary representation of the number eleven?

My husband had gone up to talk to the man at the party and relayed this little story to him, and was telling me and Ben about it when he came home. Before he could finish his story, though, Ben said, "Wait!" and started thinking. We could see the gears in his head turning, and his fingers working, keeping track of something as he calculated. After a minute or so, he said, "1011!"

"Huh?" I asked.

"The binary representation of 11!" he answered.

"Whoa!" my husband said. "That's right, Ben!" He was clearly as impressed as I was confused.

When they were babies, everything my kids learned came from me. We'd play, sing, move, go for walks and they'd learn about their world. Ben has always had a keen aptitude for math and science, so I shouldn't have been surprised at his math wizardry. What did surprise me was the realization that he knows things now--amazing things--that I could not have taught him.

It's so fascinating to watch children grow, mainly because it doesn't happen all at once. When we are adults, we go through experiences that help us to grow emotionally, and perhaps take classes so we can continue to grow academically and intellectually. But kids? They are doing it ALL, and all at the same time: physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual, social and likely many more -als that I haven't even thought of. Think about how hard that must be!

But looking closely, I see that it comes in fits and starts. There may be an academic leap, and then a social setback. Or maybe after a social event or a big test, we'll be graced with an emotional meltdown to balance things out.

Every spring, as school winds down, my kids go a bit berserk. Their listening skills are skewed (I'm trying to be kind, as this is a family website), their language slips ("what did you just call him?"), their sleep and appetites are off and they are generally cranky little pills. I used to think it was allergies; as they got older, I attributed it to spring fever and the excitement of summer coming.

But I also began to notice that, just after this spring "spell" they go through, both my kids seem to have big emotional growth spurts in summer. Just a few weeks after I'm fretting over their being able to handle the next grade in school, they turn around and show me that they are more than ready.

The best part about all this growing? Watching how each element feeds off the others. When Ben wows us with something mathematical, he gets an emotional boost; that, in turn, makes him feel more confident, which spills over into his social life. When that puts him in a good mood, he's less likely to tick off his brother, and then Jacob treats him more like a peer, which feeds the fire even more.

My overall goal in this job as Mom is to work myself out of a job, and it's already happening. By outgrowing the need for my help in most areas of their lives, my kids can then go out and live productively and happily on their own. So when I get frustrated at a setback, I just need to remind myself that it's likely a precursor to yet another leap toward adulthood. They are keeping themselves in balance as they learn, change and grow. My boys won't be with me forever, I'll make sure of that. So I need to enjoy every moment as much as possible, both good and bad, as they continue to become the men they will one day be.

It's Not What It Looks Like

Some time ago, someone gave me a few bottles of bitter lemon soda. It was good on its own, but I thought it would make a perfect mixer. I put it in my fridge and there it stayed.

Last week, I stopped to buy a bottle of wine at the liquor store while running errands. Just as the supermarket checkouts have candy, gum and mints as impulse items for kids, liquor stores have little novelty bottles of alcohol for grown-ups. This day, one caught my eye because it was made with Sriracha, a hot sauce our family uses. The liqueur was recommended for use in Bloody Marys as a substitute for Tobasco sauce. Next to this was a blue, berry flavored mini-vodka bottle. As I stood in line, I read it: mix with lemon soda and serve over ice. Hey! I thought. I have lemon soda! I paid for my wine and added this in as an afterthought, tossing the little bottle into my purse so it wouldn't get lost.

Fast forward 24 hours. It's raining. The high-schooler is home and we are driving to pick up the middle-schooler to take him to the eye doctor. I don't know if I reminded him this morning not to get on the bus after school. He doesn't have his cell phone. We wait at school until all the kids getting picked up are dismissed. None of them is mine. I get back in the car and text my neighbor's daughter who rides the bus with my son to ask if he is on the bus. No answer.

We begin driving back home to meet the bus. My cell phone rings. I tell my high-schooler to go into my purse to answer it. It's my neighbor's daughter: yes, my son is on the bus. He will meet us at home. My high-schooler hangs up, then says, "Mom, what the heck?" At the red light, I look over at him. He's holding up the bottle of vodka that was in my purse. Oops.

I am forever talking to my kids about distracted driving, cell phone use, and other unsafe practices that too few think about and that get too many into trouble. I'm like a preacher sometimes with the lectures. And I practice what I preach, never looking at my phone or answering it in the car, with or without my kids present. But this situation was, like the liqueur, a novelty.

I explained about the lemon soda. I told about seeing the Sriracha bottle and then this one and my thought process. I said it's not what it looks like. Of course, I grew up in the smoky-hazed 70s. Most memories I have of adults from that decade include them holding highball glasses or beer bottles. So to me, "what it looks like" is probably completely different from what it looks like to my fourteen-year-old. And yet.

When it comes to hypocrisy, kids are like bloodhounds. Telling them that not every night is a dessert night means nothing if they see me eating Oreos each evening on their way to bed. The same goes for just about every other rule on behavior. Kids won't learn to share if we don't model generosity. They won't learn compassion if we bully them at home.

What I constantly remind myself is that rules are not made to keep the children in line until they are responsible adults. The rules are made to help them become responsible adults. And that's not going to work if the kids have to follow rules while the adults do whatever we dang well please. As they move toward driving age, I know my kids will be much more likely to remember what I did than what I said.

My son knows me very well. He follows me on social media: we're connected on Facebook, he comments on my tweets, reads my blog and even tells his friends about it. Deep down, I wasn't worried that he would think he had discovered some dark secret about his mother because of a little bottle of vodka in my purse. In the end, we both had a good laugh about it.

Still, I made a mental note not to drive around with alcohol in my purse anymore, for this and a million other reasons that could cause the situation to end badly. And I have to admit it did mix very nicely with the lemon soda.

Toddlerhood: The Second Coming

The other day, my husband and I were recalling the diaper days, those messy, smelly, never ending years of baby- and toddlerhood. I guess I had blocked out the memory, just as I've blocked out most of the joyless aspects of parenthood: things like sleepless nights, food jags and tantrums.

Someone once told me the reason all babies are so cute is so their parents will keep, care for and not harm them, despite the tremendous amount of work and sacrifice they demand. It made perfect sense. My kids' cuteness certainly saved their young lives more than once.

So why don't we turn them out of the house when they are teenagers? If you think about it, the teen years are a lot like the infant and toddler years combined. The children become noisy, smelly, disagreeable, back-talking eating machines that can't be reasoned with. They're emotional, throw tantrums, make you want to tear your hair out and cause you to lose sleep. To top it all off, they don't appreciate a single thing you do for them.

Despite being a teenager, my son Jacob is one of the sweetest kids I know. He frees insects that get caught inside the house. He doesn't go fishing because he hates that the worms have to die. He's kind to everyone. But when he was in middle school, he was bullied. He was small, had glasses and braces and was very chatty. Some kids decided these were good reasons to push him around.

The fact is that too many kids in too many schools get bullied for multiple reasons, and sometimes for no reason at all. It tore my heart out to see my sweet boy hurting, especially because I knew he would never fight back--it's just not in his nature to fight.

Fast forward three years. Yes, he still has glasses and braces, but he's grown. He's found his "tribe" in high school and feels accepted and respected among his fellow drama club members and artists. He's no longer bullied. Some kids would put the negative experience of those days behind them, maybe chalk it up to one of those things that "all kids go through," or just block it out of their memory. But he didn't.

This week, Jacob participated in the GLSEN Day of Silence. The DOS is a national youth movement aimed at bringing attention to the silence faced by lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people and their allies. It's intended to echo the silence caused by anti-LGBT bullying, name-calling and harassment. This was no small feat. Jacob is still very chatty. I knew that going a whole day without speaking would probably be one of the most difficult things he ever tried to do, and it was. But he did it.

Though Jacob isn't bullied anymore, I realized that he carried that experience with him. He hasn't forgotten what it felt like to have no voice, to be unable to speak up or fight back when he was being picked on just because he was different in some way.

Teenagers have a bad reputation. As they approach these volatile years, parents tend to brace themselves for "the worst". We're warned that they will start experimenting with drugs, alcohol and sex. They're going to fight the rules, push back and make life difficult for everyone in the household. They're going to start acting like big babies all over again.

But what's really happening is, they're growing up, and figuring out who they're going to be. And just like when they were little, they're learning how to  make choices. These choices have higher stakes though, and consequences much more serious than the time-out sessions of their younger years. So as parents, our job of guiding and teaching them is even more important. No wonder we worry and cringe.

I have yet to walk on eggshells with my teenager, and I know I'm lucky to be able to say that. I'm sure there will be tough days ahead. But seeing my child making selfless choices, based on his priorities and convictions, is an amazing experience for me as a mom. So if the bad days are tempered by moments when he's thoughtful and respectful of others (even if it's not me), then no matter how bad those days get, I'll take them. Because in those good moments, I see a young man that I'm proud to call my son.

And I can just block out the bad days from my memory later.

Just The Facts, Ma'am

I'm writing a novel, and one of the things I've been struggling with most is point of view. I'm one of those crazy, scientifically-minded people who tries to see every situation from every angle and then approach with objectivity.

The problem with doing that in fiction is, it's boring. I didn't realize this before. I figured knowledge is power, so the more the reader knows, the better. Makes sense in life, makes sense for fiction, right?

This week I was handed a situation that exemplified why knowing every angle of a story makes it boring.

I live in a small, close-knit neighborhood. I know everyone who lives on my street, as well as what their cars look like. We all have driveways, and there are no sidewalks or curbs. Visitors park in the driveway of whoever they are coming to see. A car on the street is unusual unless there is a party going on.

Yesterday, there was a car parked on the street outside my house, and I didn't recognize it. It was empty, but on my way back from walking my dog, I saw a young man get in the car and drive away. I didn't know where he came from, so I dismissed it. Today, after putting my son on the bus, I started walking my dog again, and the same car pulled down the street past me. It went to the end of the block, turned around and sat facing me, waiting for me to pass my house. It became a game of 'chicken'. I picked up my newspaper, looked at the headline. The car didn't move. I put the newspaper delivery bag into the recycling bin. The car didn't move. I began walking down the block, in the direction of the car. Once I passed the next driveway, the car drove past me and parked outside my house again. The young man in the large-brimmed baseball hat sat in the car, engine off, sipping a large drink from a straw. I couldn't see his face.

I kept walking, calling a friend and my husband for consult. Is this guy casing the neighborhood? Watching for kids getting on and off school buses? Taking notes of who's in what house and which houses are empty? Waiting to make a drug deal? The possibilities were endless. My tension was high.

When I got back from my walk, the car and driver were still there. I memorized the license plate, went into my house and double-locked the door. Upstairs, I began searching for the non-emergency police number which, apparently, is no longer listed in the phone book. (If you have to ask "what's a phone book?" you are too young to appreciate my tension.) Five minutes had passed. The car was still there. After giving up on the phone books and Googling the number, I called police. They took my name, address and the details of the situation. They said they'd send a car. I waited.

The minutes ticked by. I knew another school bus was coming soon and the kids getting on it were young, and often came out alone to go to the bus stop. What if the police didn't come before the kids came out? Should I call the parents and let them know about this strange car? Should I go out myself? Now the stakes were rising.

The kids came out. I watched through the window. A dad drove with one of them to the bus stop and stayed until they got on the bus. The strange car stayed put. Now I was alone in the house, and most of my neighbors had gone to work.

See how intriguing all of this is from just my perspective? I had no details, no police backup yet and no idea what was going to happen next.

If I was reading this story, I'd keep turning the pages.

Sometimes, we get so caught up in story arc, language, voice and plot that we forget our characters need to make the reader feel something as they join them on their journey. That's why readers keep reading: they care about what happens. And the best way to make them care is to keep some of the details from them, raise the tension and make them wonder where they're headed. My goal today will be to keep this fear, tension and excitement in mind as I sit down to work on my writing.

Ultimately, the police showed up. The driver was the relative of my neighbors, and had been living at their house. Why, then, didn't he park in their driveway? He'd been avoiding them. The reasons for that haven't yet become clear, but I'd met this young man once and felt bad that I'd called police on him. Once I had all the information, though, I realized he was not a rapist, drug dealer or pedophile. Just a young man who needs to work out some family issues.

But having all that information up front makes for much less interesting fiction, don't you think?

Nothing

Nothing

A secret place within

deep forests, waiting

to be discovered.

Paper airplanes, yearning

to be flown. Gliding every

which way in a mass of paper.

Birds dodging quick-flying

airplanes in a flurry of wings.

Doing something on a day

when nothing has to be done

is much better than doing

nothing.

--Jacob Adler, 2007

Age 8

Honorable Mention in Sarah Mook Poetry Prize competition

Foreign Correspondents

Go ahead, admit it: Barbie is probably the last character you'd expect to find on my blog. I mean, come on. I have nothing but boys in this house (if you doubt me, listen closely and take a deep breath. No matter where you are, I'm pretty sure you'll be able to hear and smell them). I considered changing my dog's name to LEGO. I'm a great shot with a Nerf gun. I've written essays about how happy I am not to be raising girls, mainly because (personal gender aside) I feel completely ill-equipped to do so. I think girls have a hard enough time in this world, thanks to our messed up society's values and messages, without me getting involved with my loud opinions and anti-pink attitude.

So imagine my surprise when I discovered today that:

1) I have an active Netflix account;

2) It is being used on multiple devices, all Apple-based (the closest I've gotten to Apple is boycotting iTunes because it's so user-hostile. We are a Windows/Android household);

3) It is being charged in Euros (apparently whoever is using the account is in the Netherlands) and

4) For the last month, it has primarily been used to watch all varieties of Barbie movies.

Ummm... yeah, now I'm definitely thinking 'fraud'

Like most people, I've had to deal with compromised credit accounts in the past, so I knew what to do about it. But I think the thing that upsets me most about this whole thing is not even the Barbie tarnish on my good name. It's the fact that, obviously, whoever hacked my account is a parent.

I tell myself that my disappointment is my own fault; I've long held people in higher esteem than most of them deserve. I'm a cheek-turning, benefit-of-the-doubt-giving, do-unto-others type recovering Catholic. Personally, I think parents should be held to even higher standards that non-parents, mostly because they have little trainees in their charge. If parents aren't doing the right thing, what the heck kind of world are we going to have in the next generation, especially if the kids outnumber the parents now? An even worse society than we've already got.

While I'm sorry for these girls in the Netherlands being raised by unscrupulous parents, ones who are willing to indulge these Barbie binge viewings at someone else's expense, I feel worse that their little habit is about to come to an end. But I have to admit that a teeny part of me--the tomboy, Barbie-is-an-unrealistic-and-evil model-for-girls-and-part-of-what-feeds-the-mentality-that-still-prevents-women-from-being-paid-the-same-as-men part of me--is thrilled to be pulling the international plug on the Barbie flicks. Especially since I won't have to be the one to deal with their screamy little tantrums when it happens. Maybe the parents will learn a lesson from that, if nothing else.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

I remember when my kids were babies. We'd visit the pediatrician every month for the first six months of their lives, then every three months until they were a year old.

"He grew an inch. He gained a pound and a half. His head circumference grew. Here are four more shots he'll need today."

It took me a long time to stop shaking my head in awe at such exponential growth every few months, but after a while, I got used to it.

When the kids got older, their exams dwindled down to once a year. This seemed like an awfully long time to go before checking on things. And when we did go, the growth for a year was about the same as it had been each month when they were infants.

But after a while, I got used to that too.

"Grew an inch, gained three pounds." This became our new way of measuring. "Eats well, sleeps well, likes school, no scoliosis. Flu shot, booster shot, see you next year."

Well now, it seems, the annual physical exams will hearken back to those of their infancy. I imagine this is a pre-teen/teen thing, as this year's was the first glimpse I've had.

"Your 11-year-old will need to see the eye doctor; his vision is 20/70. He'll probably need glasses."

"Your 14-year-old is doing well. You can expect him to grow about four inches this year."

I'm sorry, what? He's going to be as tall as me in less than a year? Yes, that visible, fervent morphing from boy to man is beginning.

How did I deal with this news? Like any rational mother when she's told her firstborn is leaving his childhood behind and there's not a damned thing she can do about it. I told my husband to brush up on his shaving lesson skills, and stocked the refrigerator with lots of meat. Then I pulled out all the baby pictures and videos I could fit in my lap, sat down on the couch and cried at how fast it's all going.

OK, not really, but I felt  like doing that. Because for all the trials and tribulations of sleepless baby nights, tantrum-y toddlerhood and social navigation maneuvers that the last 14 years have wrought, I could not give you a single detail about any of it that I'm happy to leave behind. I only remember the good, none of the bad (though I'm sure there had to be some bad, right?) and what I do remember all feels like a dream.

Last week, I had the opportunity to spend time with my neighbor and her 22-month-old son. Little M is at that stage of development where everything is fun: reading Elmo books, playing with trains and having stuffed animal tea parties. For me, participating in these activities with him was like a gift. The memories of my own boys' early years came flooding back, and I could not stop smiling.

I know the next several years will be full of new experiences: dating, shaving, driving, college. After that, the boys will be gone--on to their own lives and worlds, and no longer part of my immediate orbit. And I know that those years are going to be challenging, probably even more so than the toddler years were. But I also know that they are going to fly, leaving me to replay them over and over in the rear view mirror of my mind.

So I'm hugging my man-boy a little tighter these days, even as he makes his way forward toward independence. I try to plan experiences with him that will create fond memories for both of us to recall once he's gone. And maybe when he does, he'll pick up the phone and give me a call to say hi, and tell me what kind of big changes he's looking forward to that week, that month, that year.

Love, Loss and Learning

There are a lot of things I say these days that make me sound like a mother:
"I don't care who started it."
"Homework first."
"Because I said so."

But the one that's echoing the most these past couple of weeks is, "Life isn't fair." I often say it when someone who didn't get their way and feels he should have cries "that's not fair!" in the hopes of some change. I want my kids to learn that just because something isn't fair doesn't mean it isn't right. We might not always understand why events have to happen the way they do, but we still have to accept life as it comes.

At the end of the year, my kids proved that they understand this a bit better than I.

Almost three years ago, we lost our dear friend and neighbor Augie, who left behind a goofy little Beagle name Flash. Augie's wife Mary had passed away just a couple of years before, and now Flash was completely alone. So we took him in and our pack grew. Bailey was both excited and dismayed to suddenly have a brother, but we had known Flash for years, so the two just had to get used to living together, which they quickly did.

Learning how different our two dogs were from each other was a lot like being a parent and learning the differences between your children. You raise and care for them equally, they share the same experiences, but how they approach life reveals much about their personalities, outlook and interpretation of the world.

It didn't take us long to fall in love with Flash. Silly and unpredictable, with big soulful eyes, and ears that felt like mink, he soon grew comfortable with us. He went from a one-on-one family with his dad to a boisterous, busy family of five, but he didn't seem to mind it a bit. So many hands for belly rubs! So many people to beg for snacks! And of course a big brother to tussle with. We had to teach him the rules of the house, no easy feat with an 11-year-old dog, but by gosh, he got it.

As kids, we worry that our parents love one of us more than the other, especially when it's a big family. And parents always explain that they love their children equally, that love is not a finite thing to be divvied up between family members. More members of the pack means more love grows. I hope Flash was able to feel that in his new home.

Right around Christmas, Flash slowed way down. He tolerated all the comings and goings of holiday revelers but stayed in the background. Then all at once, he stopped eating and drinking. He wouldn't get out of bed, and his breathing became very shallow. We carried him up to the vet who ran tests and told us of multiple problems throughout his body.

We knew what we had to do. Flash was weeks away from his 14th birthday. We had talked about this in the past, and agreed we wouldn't put either of our dogs through excessive testing, medications and treatments just to avoid saying goodbye. Yet somehow, now that it had become real, it all seemed terribly unfair. And I was angry. Angry that I had to make such a decision, angry that he could get so sick so fast, robbing us of the chance to give him time to heal, angry that I felt so helpless.

What helped me get through it was the strength and stoicism of my kids, so full of love and hugs for Flash and for each other and me. I reminded myself that Flash would be joining Mary and Augie again, that he wouldn't be suffering anymore, and that we'd had great fun with him for the short time he was with us.

We stayed with him until the end, which was peaceful and painless. He closed his big brown eyes as we caressed and cooed to him, telling him how very much we loved him, what a good dog he was and that Bailey loved him too. Now we are all giving Bailey extra hugs and petting, since he seems sad and a bit lost. I wish we could explain to him that Flash is in a better place now, but of course, we can't.

Life isn't fair, but there's nothing we can do about it. We just have to love each other as much as we can for as long as we can.

Throwback Thursday

This morning was like most mornings until about fifteen minutes before we had to leave to get the school bus. That's when several things happened that ended up making me feel like I was 25 years old again.

First, my high schooler texted me. "Mom, I left my tablet home today--I don't need it. But can you go on it and email me my Italian document? I need it today."

I picked up the tablet and, after a minute, figured out how to turn it on. Then I remembered it has Windows 8, an operating system I've only seen a few times (and haven't really used at all). No problem, use the keyboard password option instead of the Swype one, since I know it. Find the email program, start looking for a document with a title that sounds like it's in Italian. As I was doing this and instructing my younger son to go brush his teeth, the phone rang.

It was a girlfriend, and she had a request: her son needed a document printed for class today, but their printer is broken. He had shared the document in Google Docs with my son. Would we please log on and print it, and have my son deliver it on the bus?

No problem. I booted up my PC while my son was brushing his teeth, then instructed him on what to do while I continued looking for the Italian document to email my older boy.

We were such a buzz of activity, I felt like I was back on the Help Desk, doing tech support for colleagues and clients just as I did in my twenties. And just like then, even though it was chaotic and hurried (we did have a bus to catch, after all), I got such a rush from it all that I felt young again.

I see now where my sons get their enthusiasm to help out, whether it be around the house or volunteering for every community service opportunity that comes along. There's a great feeling that comes from helping others, from being a part of something bigger than yourself. For some, this type of work may make them feel like nothing more than cogs in a machine. But for others, being the gears that help keep things humming reminds us that we are all part of something bigger. And when we can help others out in some way, no matter how small, we are removing stress and spreading happiness. Ultimately, it can all add up to a better world. Didn't we all feel we could change the world when we were in our twenties? It's gratifying to realize we always possess that power, no matter how old, or young, we are.

The Hungry Games

When I was a kid, my mom used to make us eat something before going visiting, even if we were going to someone's house for dinner. This made no sense to me. Why eat when we're going there to eat?

"Because when you don't eat, you get evil."

It sounds like a terrible thing to say to a child, but the fact is, she was right. We'd be cranky, surly and more obnoxious than usual at the first sign of hunger. Best to make a preemptive strike.

The torch has been passed in my house (or, rather shared: I still have to keep from getting too hungry if I want to remain civil). But it's not only my children who share the trait, apparently. It's also my dog.

When the kids get home from school, they are hungry. I know it because they eat lunch at noon or before, and don't get home until three or later. It would make sense that the first thing they do after dropping their backpacks is open the fridge and rummage, but no, that's not how it works. Their brains are still back at school. They take off their coats, pet the dogs, start their homework, read the mail. Usually, I'm still writing or doing some other work, so I let them do their thing and I do mine. Until the fighting starts.

"Mom, Jacob won't let me have the comic book that was in my spot before he took it."

"No, Mom, he's had it there for two days. The only reason he wants to read it now is because I want to read it."

"Gimme it!"

"It's my turn!"

"MOM!"

That's when it dawns on me that no one has eaten yet.

"Who wants a snack?" I offer.

Suddenly, the book is no longer important. A pop tart and a glass of milk later, everyone is happily sitting and reading, the fight forgotten.

One of my dogs, it seems, has also picked up this habit of becoming obnoxious when he wants to eat. The problem is, he's a dog. So he *always* wants to eat. In fact, my beagle will often go out and eat random who-knows-what from under the leaves when we walk right after breakfast. I know his stomach is full, so it must be a dog thing. Rather than try to decide when they are truly hungry, it's easier to just put them on a schedule and stick to it. I mean, come on. If they could talk, they'd say they were hungry all the time.

The dogs' dinner time is five pm. Lately, though, this has not been early enough for Flash. We go for a walk at three, and when we come back, each dog gets a biscuit. This has been our routine for over a year. Suddenly it's not enough of a snack. It seems it just gets the juices flowing, because for the last week or so, the biscuit has flipped some switch in Flash's brain. From 3:30 until 5:00, he just barks non-stop.

The first day it happened, I went downstairs to investigate. I knew he didn't need to go out again, so I checked to make sure Bailey wasn't in Flash's bed. Nope.

Maybe he wanted water. Check the water bowl. Empty? Nope.

Is someone outside the door? Nope.

I let him in to the playroom and gave him fresh water, then called him over to it. He walked right by and started sniffing the dog food bin.

"Uh, Flash?" I say, checking my watch. "Nope. You have an hour and a half to go."

Maybe it's because it's winter and he wants to fill out so he'll be warmer. Or maybe he's just overheard my conversations with the kids after school. Whatever it is, he has been wanting more of a snack after his walk, and has no problem complaining about it. But until they make beef flavored pop tarts, I'm just going to have to deal with his getting evil. The barking is just his little game to see how much I can take before feeding him ahead of schedule.

So far, I'm winning. But I make no guarantees: when the weather gets cold and dark and I can't retreat to the porch to get away from the noise, I may just have to start looking for those doggie pop tarts. Until then, let the games continue.

Love, Outsourced

I think I'm a bad mom. I know, I know, don't we all? But it's true. This week, I saw a pattern of behavior in myself that made me think, "Whoa. You are one selfish mother." I realized that, when my kids want to do something that I have no interest in doing, I will outsource the task.

This may not sound so terrible on the surface. I've been finding a way out of these situations since my kids were little.

"Mom, can I have a piece of candy?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's too close to dinner time."

"BUT I REEEEALLY WANT ONE!!!"

"Hey, listen! It's your favorite song on the radio!" (starts doing geeky mom dance)

"Yay, I love this song!" also begins dancing and forgets about candy.

Ah, the power of distraction. It served me well for so many years. The problem is, schools like kids to stay focused. So they teach them all these tricks to keep them from losing their train of thought, even when something interrupts them. This is great for school work, but it stinks for parenting. They could have at least sent a memo warning me. One day, the power of distraction stopped working in my house.

I needed a new tool. My kids were still going to ask for things and I was still going to be unwilling to provide them. The problem was compounded by the fact that, as they got older, they wanted experiences instead of just things.

"Mom, can we go to some-ridiculously-overpriced-teeny-bopper-event-in-which-you-will-have-no-interest-but-that-I-can't-attend-by-myself?" The details are meaningless. We've all been there. I have several supermom and superdad friends who say yes. Some even go whole hog, buying the VIP tickets, driving two hours to the venue and bringing along a friend for their child. I bow to them.

But as I said, that's not me. When my son wanted to take up camping, I pawned him off on his dad and, later, the Boy Scouts. When he wanted to go to Comic Con, I sidestepped the request until one of his friends invited him along as part of her birthday celebration--all I had to do was buy the ticket. Her mom was going to drive them to NYC, park, attend the event and even take them to dinner afterward. Bless her, I would have paid triple what I did. In the end, my son got to go and I was spared eight hours of milling with thousands of adult, costume-clad comic-geeks and their attending tribes. Whew.

The pattern emerged last night, however, when I got an email that my son could go to Disneyworld in Florida, march in a parade through the Magic Kingdom and spend the rest of spring break going to all attractions Disney. He'd be chaperoned, transported and insured. All he had to do was start coming in to rehearse again with the Fife and Drum Corps before then.

Next to winter weather, Disney is my hell. I did a happy dance when my second son was born because I knew no daughters meant I would never become a slave to the Disney Princess dynasty. I went to Disneyworld when I was eleven, on a school trip. It was fantastic and magical and I loved it.

But I was eleven.

Disney today is rides with hours-long lines, tchotchke kiosks, super-sized big gulps and millions of screaming, sticky children. Yes, it's something every child should experience at least once. Yes, we've talked about going as a family. But this is one of the very few instances in my history as a parent where I have dug in my heels and resisted with every fiber of my being. As Elizabeth Bennet said of her marriage proposal from Mr. Collins, "every feeling revolts." I. Just. Can't.

So when this invitation came for Jacob, I was all over it. They'd be bused down, stay the week, perform and play and experience Disney, all for less than a thousand dollars. My first thought was, can I send his little brother too?

But Jacob, ever the mature child, decided he has "too much on his plate" to fit in the required rehearsals.

Me: "But it's Disneyworld!"

Jacob: "I know, but it would just be too much."

Me: "Well, yes, there'd be a couple of rehearsals a week starting in December. But drama club will be over, and your Italian tutoring job will be off that week since school is closed, and you won't have Boy Scouts that week either, and... and... it's Disneyworld!"

Jacob: "I know, Mom, but I just think it would be too much."

Me: "But.... it's Disneyworld!" (And it's hands-free for me!)

Jacob. "Sorry."

Yes, I was practically begging him to juggle and find a way to work it into his schedule. That way, I would not have to feel the guilt of depriving my child of the Disney experience. And he wouldn't have to know that he will otherwise never see Disney during his childhood, that's right, because of my selfishness.

I didn't admit this last fact to him. My hope is that he'll give it a try in the next couple of years. Failing that, maybe by the time the opportunity to travel there with school is no longer an option, he will be too old to care that he missed Disney as a child. And he'll never have to know what a bad mom he really has.

Foreboding of Winter

I'm cold. If you ask any of my friends, they'll tell you wryly that I'm cold any time the temperature drops below sixty-five degrees. But no matter how much everyone laughs at me, the fact is that the temps are now in the fifties during the day and the thirties at night. According to my body, it's winter.

For the last three days, I've had a chill I can't shake, so today I decided to wear long johns underneath my jeans when walking the dogs. It helped, and I'm both chagrined that it's about two months earlier than I usually have to do this, and relieved that I thought of it. This year, though, I have a bigger problem. It seems Ben has the same system that I do. This has made mornings downright painful.

Thankfully, my high-schooler is very self-sufficient. He gets up at six a.m. (bless his heart), makes his breakfast, packs his lunch and gets himself out to his bus before seven. That's about the time I drag myself out of bed, go wake Ben and proceed to put my coffee on and prep his food for the day. But even though Ben's bus doesn't come for almost another hour, I know I will have to go back and try to rouse him at least three more times.

Today, it was about thirty nine degrees outside. Ben looked like he was encased in a cocoon in his bed, blanket wrapped like a hood around his head. Part of me wanted to crawl in next to him. It's not a fatigue thing when bears like us don't want to get up in the morning. I actually send Ben to bed earlier than most kids his age, and I go to bed earlier in winter. This is to help keep me from being tired the next day because, let's face it, being cold *and* tired is a pretty good way to insure I will not want to get up unless the house is on fire. No, on these days, I've come to realize, it's about warmth. We don't want to get up because we are so very, comfortably, toastily, cozily warm. And I hate that he has to get up, because I completely understand how he feels.

I'm doing what I can to make it easier for both of us: I have the heat come up well before we have to rise so the rooms are warm. I have Ben lay out his clothes the night before so he can stumble into them drowsily and not have to get his brain going too (I'd be happy with just the body at that hour). And I have stocked the freezer with pancakes and waffles, and the cabinet with hot chocolate and oatmeal, so as soon as he makes it to the table, I can start warming his insides.

Time will tell if these tactics will work, and I'm trying to remain optimistic, but this morning was not a positive indicator. I asked Ben what he wanted for breakfast and lunch. He barked, "Waffles. Bologna. Now get out." Strangely, it didn't hurt as much as you might think.

The Haunting

Boy Sundae

If you're here because this title sounded like a fun Halloweeny, crafting post, I'm going to level with you: Halloween is not involved, although there is some reference to crafting and definitely some haunting to be discussed.

Still here? OK, you've been warned. 

A few years ago when I was young and ambitious, I decided that, despite having no real crafting skill or history, I would try to make a Halloween costume for Ben. It turned out great, and inflated me with a sense that, with enough determination, Internet access and hot glue gun sticks, I could create anything. 

Today, my novel is stuck at 47,000 words. Why is my novel stuck? Because this is Ben's birthday month. Normally not a big deal. But when I asked him where he's like to have his party this year--the bowling alley, the driving range, the gym--he said "at home". I admit I had become one of those parents who throws money at a venue and bakes a cake, letting the birthday decorations, entertainment, food and cleanup be taken care of by someone else. Let's face it: it's easy, it's painless and the kids still have a great time.

But for the last two years, Ben has watched me go a bit over the top for his older brother's birthday parties (at home, where the teenagers could be supervised), planning James Bond- and ComicCon-themed parties, games, invitations, decorations, prizes and even food. And yes, it was lots of fun and the kids all loved it. But it was so much work that one per year was enough. In fact, this year I sent Jacob to the *real* ComicCon in NYC, swept the dust off my hands and called it a birthday. I figured I was off the hook for good. 

So when Ben decided he wanted a Minecraft-themed party at home for the first time in...ever, after what I had done for his brother, I couldn't very well say no. Thus, for the last week, and for the next several days, my schedule looks something like this:

print Minecraft Creeper faces onto t-shirt iron-on paper 

iron them onto green t-shirts

hot glue 12 glitter, shiny "item" boxes to hide for an item hunt

create a Minecraft-themed punch box where kids can punch through a hole in the box and get a prize

print Minecraft food labels

blow up "Enderman" balloons for a "Kill the Endermen" game

make a Ghast pinata

wrap up licorice "TNT"

burn CDs with Minecraft song parodies for goody bags

create Creeper faces to hang for a "shoot the Creeper" contest

bake meringue "bone" cookies
print Minecraft pig faces and attach to pink goody bags

bake square "dirt blocks" with green frosting "grass"

and the list goes on. 

In a way, this is all happening because I am now haunted by that first decision to make a Halloween costume, and the subsequent swell of pride that something worthwhile came out of it. But in truth, I know these parties mean a lot more to my kids than the ones at the bowling alleys and driving ranges. The boys will remember them forever because they feel extra special. Yes, they require a boatload of time, effort and planning. But my legacy as a mom will be one of making super birthday parties for my kids while they were young. I know because I'll be reminding them of it for the rest of their lives.

Back (In Time) To School

Every year, I can count on certain things: the impatience for routines to begin again in the week before Labor Day; the craziness of birthdays and holidays from October through December, and the regression of my youngest child in the two weeks after school actually begins.

I admit I was a little slow on the uptake with the last one. It took me a couple of years to see the change in Ben's behavior for what it was, then remember and recognize it again every following year.

At first I thought it was a stage, likely prior to a growth spurt, with no connection to the calendar year. After all, at the end of summer, the kids are usually as excited as I am for the start of school. Why, then, would its actual arrival cause distress?

Starting school with a new teacher can be exciting, but it can also be stressful. And for a kid who often feels deeply and articulates minimally (i.e. "How was your day?" "Great!"), burying that stress will bring out negative behaviors. Ben has been asking to play video games more often than usual, likely in an attempt to escape the new world of uncertainty and dive into a universe he can control. He's also been requesting a nightly bedtime story and having trouble falling asleep before 10:30, despite being in bed by 9. Last night I attended the middle school open house. When I got home at 9:45, I was exhausted, but he was still awake and asked me to lay down with him. I really just wanted to crawl into my own bed but, thankfully, I remembered how this went last year, so I said yes. He was asleep in less than 10 minutes.

As the boys get older and more independent, needing me less and less for the physical things, it's easy to let the little, emotional hugs from their childhood slip away. Except for September, bedtime stories together have become a thing of the past. But reading stories by William Steig, Rosemary Wells and H.A. Rey before tucking him in is something I always enjoyed as much as Ben. In fact, we've kept many of these books on his shelves because we love them so much, we couldn't bear to give them away. And curling up beside my baby and looking at his long eyelashes and porcelain skin while he sleeps reminds me of his first year, when those twilight cries came every night. I would take him from his crib, we'd sit in the rocking chair by the window and I'd sing to him to try to get him back to sleep. It was a part of our lives that feels like yesterday and a lifetime ago at once.

All too soon, the house will be filled with deep-voiced boys stomping in and out for snacks on their way from one thing to another. "Hi Mom, bye Mom" will be a common refrain, and they will no longer need me for even the emotional hugs anymore. I need to remind myself of this when it's way past bedtime and Ben is asking for one more story, when I'm tired and ready for bed myself and he is asking me to lay down with him.

I won't remember how many times I said 'no' to my children once they're gone, or feel the benefits of an extra 20 minutes sleep here or there. But they will have the security of having gotten the things they needed when they needed them, and I will have the memories of all the times I said 'yes'.

Old Man Beagle

We still refer to our dogs as "puppies" when we play and talk to them, but the fact is, at 13 and 12, they're old.

Flash, the beagle, is truly showing his age. He's slowing down in walking, he sleeps a lot more, and he's not as playful as he used to be. Perhaps the thing that keeps me from getting too depressed about it the fact that he still makes me laugh.

Granted, now he makes me laugh because he acts and sounds like an old man. He snores. He occasionally coughs and wheezes like a 2-pack-a-day smoker. Perhaps the funniest thing is his recent congestion. His nose seems to be always stuffy, and when he sneezes... well, suffice it to say that hope you are no where near his nose. My hope is always that he's outside, or at least near the tissue box so I can clean him up.

The other day, my husband took Flash outside and after calling to him a couple of times, burst out laughing. When I asked him what was so funny, he explained: Flash had come outside but rather than walk with him, he stood on the deck, very still. My husband called him, but he just stood there looking confused. Suddenly, he looked up briefly and then sneezed the biggest sneeze ever--so hard that he banged his jaw on the deck.

As silly as it sounds, it's kind of sad to think that our beloved pets won't be with us forever. Perhaps laughing makes it easier to deal with and gives us a way to continue to enjoy their company even when they're becoming old, leaky and crotchety. Flash doesn't seem to mind our giggles; he's still always open to belly rubs. And we're always happy to provide them, just as we always have.

Making Frienemies

Our neighbors have a new dog. To be more specific, they are caring for a cousin's dog for a few months. The dog is just four months old, fluffy and playful, drooly and energetic, and full of puppy exuberance for, well, everything. His misnomer is "Mellow", for he is anything but. He is a Saint Bernard.

Mellow has been introduced to most of the neighborhood, been cooed over and played with, laughed at and enjoyed by kids and adults alike. Everyone is happy to have him on the block.

Everyone, that is, except Bailey.

One of the things we've always loved about Bailey is how much he loves to play. He will dig through his basket of balls, ropes and bones to find just the right squeaky toy and drop it in your lap to let you know he wants to tangle with you. He was even open to wrestling with Flash when Flash moved in a few years ago, even though Flash is half Bailey's size, and neither dog seemed to know what he was doing.

Whenever Mellow sees Bailey, his head goes down to the ground, his butt goes up in the air and his tail starts wagging. They are just about the same size, and Mellow seems excited to have found a 'peer'; he makes it very clear to Bailey that he wants to play. But Bailey growls, backs off, and seems only to want to sniff, to get the lowdown on the new guy, and then be left alone.

We suspect it may be Bailey's age. He is 12 now; his muzzle is lightening and his movements are slowing. Perhaps Mellow's exuberance makes him jealous (he barks at us when we pet Mellow), or perhaps, like the rest of us old folks, he's just afraid this kid is going to make him throw his back out.

There is one other explanation I can imagine, but it would require Bailey's intelligence to be far higher than we already know it to be. Perhaps Bailey sees a new dog living in Flash's old house, sees us being friendly to the dog and spending time with him, and in his mind, that can only mean one thing: that the dog will ultimately come and live with us as Flash did, forcing Bailey to share his family with yet another dog.

Some might think this a bit of a stretch, but it is only now, five years after we got Bailey, that he has come to semi-accept my friend who brought us together.

Bailey had been raised from a pup by a young woman in her 20s. When she became sick with cancer, she had friends--a family of kids, cats and dogs--who took Bailey in while she underwent treatment. It was expected to be a temporary situation, but the woman did not recover.

The family had watched Bailey for a year, but couldn't keep him long term. They mentioned to my friend, who is a physical therapist and had been making weekly trips to the house, that they were looking for new owners for Bailey. She thought of us. We met them, loved Bailey, and took him home.

The first time my friend came to our house once Bailey had moved in, and for many months after, Bailey would growl, back away from her, put his tail between his legs and tremble. He had never done this at the other family's house when she came to visit. My theory is that he made a connection between being forced to leave his other family and coming to live with us, and the common denominator was my friend. As a result, any time she showed up, he was afraid he'd be taken away again. In this light, the idea of Mellow coming to live with us as Flash had done is not a great stretch.

Growing old is hard. Insecurity can be paralyzing. Bailey seems to be fighting both as best he can. All any of us can hope for as we age is a loving circle of family and friends to stick by us through the hard parts, and our pets deserve no less.