Delegating Nest Duties

This is the first summer in five years that my oldest has not been a day camp counselor-in-training from Monday through Friday, 9-5. Did I worry that his paying, part-time job that has him working only five hours a week would upset my writing schedule? Heck yeah. Did it? Heck yeah. So there was no way I was going to let that happen without some kind of upside. 

Welcome to the first summer that's been about my kid making progress instead of me.

Jacob is entering his senior year of high school in September. ***Pardon me while I pause here to hyperventilate a moment. *** What this means is that, in addition to doing summer reading, and researching and visiting colleges, he's also working toward his Eagle Scout award, the highest rank you can earn in Boy Scouts. There are certain requirements for each merit badge as well as a certain number of merit badges that need to be earned to reach this goal. Beyond that, he also needs to find, plan, gain approval for and then complete a large community service project. This all has to be done before he turns 18. Being at camp forty hours a week would not have been conducive to making the kind of progress he needs to make over summer break (i.e. when there's no homework). So we ditched camp in order to give him time to do as much as he could on scout stuff.

Like most parents of teens, my biggest worry was that without a daily routine, Jacob would fall into a pattern that looked something like this:

-sleep late
-eat
-watch videos on his phone
-play video games with his friends online
-eat more
-nap
-shower
-watch more videos
-ask what's for dinner

Luckily for me, three of his merit badges require daily chores, a fitness workout and weekly personal financial tracking. He's also aiming to get his driver's license in August, and leaves for sleep away camp in less than a week. What does all this mean? A lot.

He's been getting up early every day to eat breakfast before driving his brother to day camp (with me in the passenger seat). Then he drives around town as we run errands. When we get home, he does his fitness workout and marks it on his tracking sheet. Then he showers and does chores around the house (laundry, vacuum, empty the dishwasher, collect and take out the garbage/recycling, etc.) and records them for his other merit badge. Eventually he stops and makes lunch for us both. In between all that, he's packing for camp. And we've got a list of possible Eagle Scout projects for him to research so he can draw up some draft proposals and seek out early approval for at least one.

Suffice it to say that getting up and being productive first thing in the morning has given him momentum. Sure, he still pauses to watch inane videos from time to time (thankfully, not while he's driving). But the bottom line is, stuff is getting done. Productivity is occurring. And my not having to drive or cook or do laundry for a fourth person just adds to the list of great things. But the most important revelation of all occurred to me at Jacob's senior photo session this morning.

As he donned a cap and gown over his suit and tie, I realized that when he goes off to college, things are going to change. I'd been looking forward to it because it will mean no more smelly sneakers, loud singing at all hours, art supplies all over my living room or battles over homework.

Sure, I'm going to miss him. But today I realized I'm also going to miss his doing things around the house that help me out so much. I'll  have to start vacuuming, cleaning the boys' bathroom and doing all the cooking and driving again. Sure, hindsight is 20/20. I realize now that I should have had him doing all this stuff years ago.

Need more proof that I'm slow on the uptake? Today I finally got why the whole "empty nest" thing actually makes parents sad.

A Shift in the Animal Kingdom

Today we had to say goodbye to our sweet Bailey boy, who made it to the ripe old age of 15 just two days ago. It's never easy to say goodbye to a beloved pet, and even harder to know when and how to tell the rest of the pack (i.e. kids). What is inevitable are the conversations that ensue about love and family and pets and death, and the different way each child handles it all.

One child fought it. He asked if the decision could be delayed or changed, if there were things we could do to treat all of Bailey's multiple symptoms in order to keep him with us longer. This child is the problem solver, the so-loyal-to-the-end-that-I-never-want-the-end-to-come guy.

The other child accepted it, but fought to assimilate the information into his knowledge about life. What it would mean to us as a family? How he would cope? Could he talk about it with his friends? Where would Bailey go after he was gone? Heaven, reincarnation and the power of love were a big part of the conversation.

Regardless of our faith, we all need a way to understand how loving, vibrant souls cease to be just because their physical bodies have worn out. Many (including me) believe the souls go on living. Maybe they go to Heaven to be reunited with others who have gone before, and enjoy an eternity of joy and painless existence. Or maybe they come back to the world in another form, perhaps to cross paths with those who loved them before, in order to teach or learn new lessons. No one knows. But exploring the possibilities, and finding the one that brings us the most peace and comfort, and the ability to live with the hurt, is part of how we grieve and let go. For this pack anyway.

Look! Something Shiny!

I did it wrong. Both my kids both needed new cell phones--theirs were outdated, beat up and crashing non stop. Even when I saw the sale I knew I should wait for the weekend, but to be honest, one more echo of "I NEED A NEW PHOOOOONE" was going to send me screaming from the house. So rather than wait, I took my oldest to the mall and bought two new phones. On a Monday.

Then, of course, we needed to get home and make dinner. And Jacob had to shower because he had to leave for a meeting that night right after we ate. And Ben had homework and laundry to do, and I had unfinished work. I thought I'd be OK when Jacob said he'd rather drive home than play with the new phone while *I* drove, that he wasn't as crazy-excited as I thought he'd be.

I was wrong.

Needless to say, I spent the next half hour over the stove cooking while simultaneously yelling, "Get in the shower! Get in the shower! Go do your homework! PUT DOWN THE PHONES!"

I was frustrated, but not surprised because I could totally relate.

The boys are growing up and becoming more responsible, but they're still kids. My generation didn't grow up with technology, surrounded by friends' iPhones and Galaxies. Puma sneakers and Guess? jeans were what I longed for, the costly, pretty things owned by seemingly everyone but me. Those were the shiny baubles I craved. When I finally got my own pair of Guess? jeans, I didn't take them off for a week. So how could I possibly hand my kids brand new phones and tell them to put them away a few minutes later?

True, jeans and sneakers aren't as distracting and fun to play with as a phone that holds the world in games, music, videos and more. But I still get it. So I laid down some rules. If each kid doesn't do what he needs to do before becoming absorbed in his phone at the end of the day, I get it.

The phone, that is. At least until the work is done.

Yes, almost all kids have devices these days, but that doesn't mean parents have to hand over control. I paid for half of each phone. I drove to the mall to get them, and I pay the bill each month. The phones are tools of communication, first and foremost. Yes, they are also entertainment devices, but like any other toy, if they are getting in the way of work that needs doing, they get taken away.

Sure, the boys are growing up. But they are still kids, and I'm still the parent. While it would be easy to let them do their own thing so I could do mine, on my shiny device, it won't help them when they're in college and choosing to play video games over going to class or doing homework. Better to teach them now how it should work, even if leading by example is really hard for this shiny-toy-loving mom.

Wanderlust Meets Worrywart

My mom is a worrier, has been for as long as I can remember. It's kind of a joke within our family because, in fact, we're all worriers: my mom's siblings, their children and me. But the worry never held me back in life--I guess my passions were too strong to succumb to the "what if?" so I was always able to ignore that niggling fear and plow ahead on new ventures.

Until I became a mother. Since then, life has been a series of small victories. For the first years of my kids' lives, I was their world--one full of love, laughter and exploration. It was very hard to release them into "the system" when they headed off to kindergarten, but I didn't let them see my tears.

As they moved from primary school to the dreaded middle school years, I fought back my horrible childhood memories of feeling like a misfit, smoking, and hanging with a bad crowd as I sought acceptance. I put my faith in my kids and our school system and stood by to help with any issues that arose before they got out of control.

This year, my oldest is a high school junior and, as such, has been presented with some fabulous opportunities. Last week, he took advantage of one and headed off with eighteen other students to spend winter break touring Italy and Spain. It's a trip of a lifetime, and he lost sleep in the days leading up to it because he was so excited.

I lost sleep too, but not for the same reason. My worrier gene was highly inflamed.

The overnight flight landed safely in Rome on Friday, and I relaxed a little. The short flight to Barcelona landed safely on Monday and I relaxed a little more. The high-speed train to Madrid arrived safely this morning and I'm almost back to normal. They've only two flights to go until they're home again on Friday night.

We used to tease my mom about her superhuman ability to leap, in a single bound, to the worst possible scenario, conclusion or outcome. Do we live in a different world than she did as a young mom? Sure. But does that make my worry any less ridiculous or any more justified? I don't think so.

Why? Because the worry doesn't stem from overactive anxiety or terrible news headlines or even our kids' innocence and immaturity. It's born out of love--a mother's love--which is perhaps the most powerful, empowering and debilitating force in the universe. Of course, with great power comes great responsibility.

This is why I didn't let my kids see me cry when they left me to go out into the great big world for the first time. Or the second time, or every time after. I smile and hug them, wish them luck and tell them they'll do great. I wave and cheer and tell them I love them as they're pulling away. I wait until I'm alone to cry out my fears. Because they will do great, and I do love them and I'm happy to watch them go and grow, even as I fear that very act so much that it makes me weep.

But I'll continue to keep that part hidden from them, because it wouldn't serve them at all. I'll let them go find adventure and themselves, and say nothing about the worry gene. If they've inherited it, they'll learn about it soon enough when they become parents.

Strangers Among Us

Lately I've been feeling like a boarder in my own home. The beings I used to live with are morphing, and I'm not sure how much longer we'll all be able to live together peacefully.

Our dog, Bailey, is fourteen-and-a-half years old. His body's been failing him for a while. He struggles on uneven ground, stumbling often and sometimes falling when his back legs go out from under him. He doesn't do stairs anymore. He can't see well and is mostly deaf. But he'll still occasionally bring a toy and drop it into my lap, and is happy to nudge me with his nose when he wants some attention and love.

Our sixteen-year-old is eating constantly. He comes home from school and has a big salad, then eats the equivalent of two dinners and dessert, with room for a snack later. He's now taller than I am. When he speaks to me from down the hall, I often mistake him for my husband. He'll be taking his permit test on Friday.

Our thirteen-year-old is on the cusp. He's still my baby, but he's fighting that. He tussles with teen issues while maintaining a foot in his younger self's world. He's recognizing he can't be both teen and child, but sometimes the teen angst can be crushing and it's easier to revert to child mode, when things made sense. Like girls. We butt heads a lot.

Not so recently, Bailey started barking at the sixteen-year-old. We theorized it was Jacob's dark sweatshirt that threw the dog off, perhaps reminding him of a contractor or other stranger that came through the house, uninvited by Bailey. But then he started snarling and growling when Jacob would come upstairs and into the living room, so we thought perhaps Bailey couldn't see him well enough without the lights on and, since Jacob looks and sounds so much different than he did a few short months ago, Bailey thought he was an intruder. We decided to keep the lights on and Jacob would walk slowly so as not to startle the dog. But then Jacob would be sitting in the dining room looking at his phone and absently petting the dog, and the dog would be fine and then suddenly start growling at him for no reason. We decided Jacob should just keep from extending his hand to the dog at all, just in case. But then yesterday, Jacob was studying and came downstairs with me to do something, and when he came back upstairs right behind me, while I breezed past the dog, Jacob was stopped on the stairs and Bailey was crouched and snarling at him. It made me so uncomfortable that I pulled the dog by his collar into the living room, sent Jacob up to his room, scolded the dog (which did nothing), and then "banished him" to the basement while we had dinner upstairs.

There are a lot of growing pains in our house. We're all adjusting to our changing bodies and emotions as we age, and doing our best to continue to be kind to each other. But as my husband and I discussed, while we may be uncomfortable sometimes, it's not right that any of us should feel threatened or endangered living in our own home. We know Bailey can't see, hear or smell well anymore, and we know Jacob's hormones have changed almost everything about his body. But it doesn't mean Jacob should be afraid to be in the house with the dog.

I don't know what the answer is. I refuse to let things be until there is a dangerous incident, when Bailey finally decides that Jacob is a true threat and goes after him. I'd never be able to live with myself if that happened.

For now, we keep them separated. But it's not a big house, and it's winter. We can't keep Bailey in the yard, he's too old to find him a new home, and we know he's not a vicious animal. At least, he never was before. But he no longer seems to know Jacob, and little by little, I feel we no longer no Bailey. Everything is changing.

Faith Without A Label

Yesterday my son asked me what religion we are. I experienced an initial pang of guilt (I was raised Catholic, after all) that he felt we needed to belong to a particular religious group, for why else would he have asked? But then I told him I was raised Catholic and Dad was raised Jewish, but we don't practice any one religion by, say, going to church or synagogue each week. Instead, we live by the most important things each of those religions taught us: kindness, patience, love and acceptance. We acknowledge that there is something bigger out there--a spirit, god or deity--than just us here on Earth and it connects us all to each other. This made him smile.

Of course this has been an ongoing discussion in our children's lives. My husband and I talked about it before we were married. How would we raise the children? What would we teach them? What about rituals and services and milestones like Bar Mitzvahs and Communion? Neither of us had gone to services for years, though I do still enjoy the beauty of church choirs, and not just at Christmas time. We tried Unitarianism, which embraced the ideas we shared and seemed the perfect answer. But we are not ones for ritual, and once we moved, attending services each week some 20 minutes away, especially with babies in tow, quickly fell out of favor.

The news from around the world today is so fraught with fear, violence, tension and hate, often in the name of a god, that the thought of sending my children out into such a climate breaks my heart. I worry that they will be afraid to travel and learn about other cultures and lands. But at the same time, I worry that they *won't* be afraid to travel and learn about other cultures and lands and that, while doing so, they will be harmed. It's a sad and scary time to be a parent, a student, alive. It's hard not to worry all the time.

But there's one thing I don't worry about. Despite my children having no "category" in which to place themselves when asked what religion they are, I'm proud of the young men they've become. They are kind and accepting of everyone. They step in when someone is being bullied. They are willing to look at themselves and their behavior when I tell them they have wronged each other or behaved disrespectfully, discuss it with me and then apologize. Sometimes, I don't even need to step in: more and more, they communicate with each other and work out such issues themselves.

I've decided that the only way to let go as a parent is to consider how much better the world is with our children in it. We must appreciate their gifts, have faith in the lessons we've taught them and then send them out into the world, not despite the state it's in, but because of it. They are our hope for a better future, and they will brighten the world with what they've learned, religious label or not.

A Love Of The Past

When I was an ignorant teenager, not only did I not know I was ignorant but as a result, I failed to appreciate many things in my life. One of these was my first high school boyfriend. When I think of him now, sharpened through the lens of hindsight, I see a sweet, thoughtful, artistic gentleman. He brought me a single red rose every time he came to pick me up. He wrote me love letters on parchment paper and illustrated them with cliffs and castles, creating magical worlds for my imaginative mind and heart.

But I was so wrapped up in personal insecurity and fear of the world at large that, as much as he had to offer, I couldn't see beyond my own pitiful self to relate to him. I can't even remember sending him a single letter. When he finally broke up with me, via letter, every point he made about why he couldn't stay with me was valid and true. And seeing the truth about my ignorant self printed before me was too painful to bear, let alone read over and try to learn from. I threw out the letter and all the ones that had preceded it.

Ah, regret, how are you today? Always abysmal to see you.

Fast forward thirty-some-odd years. I'm now the proud mother of a sweet, thoughtful, artistic gentleman. He has a girlfriend, but he laments rarely getting to see her as they live a town apart. Though they speak on the phone, text and Skype with each other, these methods of communication lack the intimacy they can share when they're together. So I suggested Jacob write her a letter.

I gave him some nice stationery and an envelope. I told him of my long ago letter writer, his penmanship and drawings, which I can still see in my mind's eye.

"There's no limit to what you can write," I told him.

This was several days ago. Since then, he's been thinking, drafting and, until late last night, writing. This morning I mailed the letter, neatly addressed with a purposely placed, upside-down stamp.

Whatever may come for the young couple, I hope the letter's recipient values it for the novelty it is, even more so today than in my pre-email and cellphone teen years. I hope she will keep the letter (and any future missives) until she is older and wiser. Then I hope she will re-read them and recall with fondness their youth, innocence and intimacy. But most of all, I hope she will appreciate the rare and unique gift she received: a ticket to travel back to a sweeter time and place whenever she wants, one she can forever hold in her hands.

Raising Husbands Who Get It

Sometimes I think about my future daughters-in-law. True, it's early, but I already feel a responsibility toward them to raise men who will make their lives as my sons' wives happy, fun and (dare I say it) easier.

To this end, I've realized I can't always be the taskmaster. Sometimes I need to just be a woman. That is, I need to be able to read--and react--to a really good book. And I need to do it without worrying about what my sons think.

Son: "Mom? Are you OK?"

Me: *sniff* "I'm fine."

Son: "Why are you crying?"

Me: *shakes head* "I just... I just finished a book."

Son: "Um, and you don't know what to read next?"

Me: "No, the characters. She thought she could save him, but he... they..." *leaves room for more tissues*

Of course, the same goes for movies. If I'm sitting down to a non-Pixar movie and there's a love story involved, sit and watch beside me at your own risk. Soggy popcorn will likely be involved.

My mom never cried in front of us when I was growing up (though not because we didn't give her good reason). So I was well into my thirties before I would let anyone else see me cry, likely because it was just something I'd never seen done. I presume it was the same way in my husband's house when he was growing up, as he tends to roll his eyes and shake his head when I cry at books or movies. But I want the women my sons date to be comfortable getting weepy and emotional without my sons getting freaked out. Better they should learn now that this is something women just do, and that it has nothing to do with them.

They say death, sex and money are the topics that don't get explored in polite conversation. I'd go so far as to say that showing emotion also falls into that category, and I'm doing my part to change this.

To best help them understand the feeling, I have repeatedly viewed Hachi: A Dog's Tale and had them watch it with me. It's not hard. Richard Gere is very easy on the eyes. The movie is based on the true story of a college professor's bond with the abandoned dog he takes into his home. It's about love and friendship, loyalty and loss, just like any good book or movie, and it always makes the kids cry.

So to my sons' future girlfriends and wives,  know that I'm thinking of you and doing all I can on your behalf, at least as far as this is concerned.

You're welcome.

When Being Unremarkable Means Everything

The other day, a friend commented to me about the high school principal's back-to-school assembly to students this year.

"Wasn't it amazing what he did?" she asked.

Since she has daughters in high school and I have a son, it became clear to me that my kid rarely shares anything that goes on at school while hers share everything. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about.

"He basically 'came out' to the student body and shared his story about growing up gay and how difficult it was for him. He had a conversation with the kids, talked about how he was bullied and went to school in fear, and then made it clear that this kind of behavior would absolutely not be tolerated in the school he was running."

"He came out? But I thought everyone already knew he was gay," I said.

"Yes, but he made it a point to say so himself and then open up a dialogue about respect with the students."

"That is completely awesome."

"And I think I know why he did it," she said.

I was pretty sure I knew why too. We turned to each other and said the girl's name. Then we nodded in agreement.

I'll call the girl Mary for the purposes of this post. Mary is a transgender student who was born a boy, who I'll call John. She's an awesome kid from a great family, and has known my son since they were both in second grade. They've remained friends through the years and often attended after-school events together. I was driving Mary home one day early last year and the kids were talking about relationships, boyfriends and girlfriends. Mary said she'd been in a relationship but was newly single.

"Oh, I'm sorry. That's never fun," I said to her (this was when she was still John).

"It's OK. He wasn't very nice anyway," he replied.

"By the way, Mom, John's gay," my son said from the backseat.

"Well," I paused, trying to think of what relevance this had on the conversation, "that doesn't make it hurt any less," I offered.

There were parties and gatherings throughout the rest of the year that my son was invited to and Mary (as John) was often there. Toward the end of the year though, my son told me John was now Mary. She was a she and I should refer to her as such, and by her new name.

"Okeedoke," I said. And so I did.

This was not really surprising to me, but I was very happy that Mary was comfortable enough with her friends, herself and especially with me to be sharing the information so openly.

The news of what the principal did made me proud. Both that Mary is cared about enough in her school community to be protected from any potential ill-will, and that this message is being sent both to the student body and the families in town.

I was surprised, though, that my son hadn't mentioned the principal's speech to me. Even if he doesn't want to share the details of his school and social life with me, this felt like kind of a big deal.

"Jacob, did you go to the back-to-school assembly?"

"Yes."

"How was it?"

"Fine. The same as every year."

"Oh. So the principal has this conversation about being gay and telling students to be tolerant every year?"

"No, that was new."

"Well, Ms. Smith and I think it was great, and that he probably did it because of Mary. Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "It didn't seem like that big a deal."

Mary's identity change is old news to my son. She's still the same friend whose company he's enjoyed for almost ten years. The principal is the same principal my son's had for the past two years. And respect and tolerance is something he's been taught since he was a toddler.

When I read the news, I worry over the future of the world and how the younger generation will handle the weight of all that's wrong in it today. To my son, these events at school are no big deal. That, to me, means everything. Most importantly, it gives me hope.

Vacation's End

In order to vacation with the grandparents, we schedule our summer trip for the end of August. This usually brings us back home several days before Labor Day and gives us plenty of time for last minute, back-to-school prep. This year, however, school started before Labor Day. We arrived home from a nine-day vacation with one day to prepare.

I wasn't too worried. My middle schooler's backpack had been filled with all he needed before we'd even left for the beach. But the high school teachers hadn't posted until after we were gone. Upon our return, we pulled together a list of supplies my high schooler needed and targeted two stores: Staples and A.C. Moore. The middle schooler wasn't interested in going shopping for things that weren't for him, so he stayed home to play with the neighborhood kids for a couple of hours while his brother and I ran around and checked items off our list.

The best way I can describe going from a week of no cooking, grocery shopping, cleaning, dog-walking, etc. to a day of driving around running errands, standing in lines, washing clothes and figuring out dinner is a hockey stop. You know, when ice hockey players are gliding along with smooth, effortless strokes and suddenly whip 90 degrees to the side, coming to a sudden stop and sending ice shards flying up into the air? That. That was my Tuesday.

I had grabbed an ice coffee while we were out though, determined to get the job done, even if I needed a little caffeine to boot me back into "mom mode." It seemed to be working, too, until I was in the grocery store and my cell phone rang.

"Mom?"

"Yes, Ben?"

"We have a problem."

"What kind of problem? Are you hurt?"

"No, but you know that blue bucket in the laundry room?"

"Yes."

"Well, we filled it with water for our water guns and were carrying it outside..."

*swallow* "Yes?"

"And when we got to the front door, the handle broke..."

*face palm* "Of course it did."

"...and the water went all over the tiles and carpet and those little rugs..."

I was going to explain where the mop was and decided it would take too long.

"Ben? In the bench by the door are a bunch of beach towels. Put those around to soak up all the water. I'll be home in fifteen minutes."

"OK, thanks Mom! Bye!"

And just like that, summer vacation was officially over.

This year, we'll be dealing with college essay workshops, PSATs and driver's permits. Somehow, I don't think I'll have a problem with any of it.

Letters From Camp

Shortly after I blogged about taking my youngest to sleep away camp for the first time, I went out to check the mailbox. Ben had been gone three days. One of the things I'd packed for him were stamped, addressed envelopes that he could use to write home. I'd given him three, one for each week that he'd be away.

Yesterday, all three arrived.

I'm guessing he wrote the first one minutes after we left him on Sunday afternoon, just in case we hadn't fully understood what his tears and desperate tone really meant. Knowing how his week had gone before camp, I assumed he woke at 5 am on Monday and likely wrote the second one when he couldn't go back to sleep. And allowing two days for mail to go from MA to NY, I figure he wrote the third one after breakfast on Monday and put them all into the mail slot.

The first one made me sad, but I understood where it was coming from. The second one had me worried because Ben NEVER skips a meal unless he's physically ill. Thankfully, the third one had me laughing out loud and put my mind at ease. He would be fine.

#1
Dear Mom,

I know this is early, but I don't like it here. I want to come home!! Please. I'm begging you. I may sound desperate, but that's because I am. Please. I love you. 

Ben :(
-----------------------------
#2
Dear Mom,

Listen, I hate (yes, HATE) it here. I didn't eat last night, I was really scared and I want to come home. I was crying the entire day. Please. 1 day is enough. I need you. I love you. 

Ben :( :(
------------------------------
#3
Dear Mom, (sorry, Dad)

Day 2. It's gotten better, but I really don't like it here. If you do make me stay (dear god, please, no) I need more envelopes. I love you. Stay in touch. 

LOVE Ben xoxo

-----------------------------

And I admit to doing a proud, nerdy mom dance when I realized that all of his grammar and punctuation were correct, because come on. If he was that careful, how upset could he really be? 

Departures

I am not a mush, one of those overly sentimental people who feel everything deeply and weep easily at any situation that's joyous or sad. Yes, I cry at weddings, but the bad stuff rarely gets to me.

This past weekend, we dropped my youngest off at sleep away camp for the first time in his life. Before now, the longest he'd been away from us was one night, for a sleepover at his best friend's house next door. We knew this would be a good experience for him. He's twelve, and would greatly benefit from a taste of independence in a fun, safe environment. We've been talking to him about it for months, showing him pictures of the camp, explaining what they do there, what the schedule is like, what the activities will be and more. His friend from next door went last year for the first time and, after an adjustment period of a few days, loved it. He couldn't wait to go back this year and was thrilled Ben was coming along.

Ben knew they'd be in different bunks, as they are in different grades at school. He knew it was a couple of hours' drive from home, and that it would be a three-week stint instead of two. Because of his age, the two-week stay for first-timers was not an option. He was fine with that. He was excited.

The week before we were to leave for camp, Ben started having anxiety. He became clingy, texting me during the day from day camp to tell me he loved me, he missed me, he wanted to come home. Even though I would pick him up at five o'clock each day, it wasn't enough. He didn't want to go to day camp anymore. He didn't want to go to sleep away. He didn't want to leave my side.

We talked about it, about the unknown aspect and his fears, and did our best to alleviate them. He began having stomach pains at night and trouble falling asleep. He started having nightmares. So we had him talk to his friend next door, a pep-talk of sorts, and he got excited again.

It took longer to get to camp than it should have (Mom read the directions wrong). We toured the campus and saw Ben's friend and had lunch and helped him unpack his things. But when it came time to say goodbye, there were still tears. I'd expected this, and we'd spoken to the nurses, the counselors in his bunk and the director about it. When Ben begged us not to leave him, to take him home where he felt "safe", it took all my strength to hug him and tell him he'd have a great time, and then walk away.

I knew there would be an adjustment period for Ben. What I didn't anticipate was how much *I* would struggle. In the days since dropping him off, I tear up at everything. Croissants are on sale at the supermarket; Ben and I love to get those as special treats for ourselves. *sniff* My husband made roast chicken for dinner, Ben's favorite. *sniff* The song on the radio in the car was made into a Minecraft song, and I'd heard that version first, before the mainstream version, thanks to Ben. *sniff, sniff* And thanks to a week of conditioning before he left, I've been waking up each night at 4:30 am, inexplicably. Unable to fall back to sleep, I lie awake and think of Ben, wondering if he's also awake and missing us, if he's still sad, or angry at me for making him stay, miserable and despondent even while plotting a way to get home. And I cry.

The night after he left, I made dinner, one of Ben's least favorite dishes. As I chopped vegetables and began combining ingredients for sauce, I thought of him and my eyes began to well. I added some soy sauce into a bowl, and the ingredients separated into a smiley face (photo above). My first instinct was to show it to Ben. My next was to take a picture of it, for surely, this was a sign.

My neighbor told me that if the camp hasn't called, it means Ben's doing fine. His brother wrote him a letter. I shipped him a package yesterday, full of things I think he'll enjoy, and he'll receive it tomorrow. I've been keeping busy working, cleaning, scheduling events, and it's helped. I'm not tearing up at every turn, and I've even stopped thinking about him every ten minutes. I also haven't needed to call the camp to see how he's doing, which means I'm going to be fine.

I knew Ben would learn a lot about himself, about what he's capable of, by leaving us for a while. What I didn't know was that I would do the same. So I'm really looking forward to swapping stories with him about it when he gets home.

In 16 days and 21 hours.

It's Not Me: It's You

My twelve-year-old and fourteen-year-old are no longer on speaking terms with each other. That is, my son and my dog.

Within the last few weeks, it seems something has shifted in our dog's brain; he now views Ben as a threat. It started when I came home with both boys from camp one afternoon. Bailey was in the den downstairs, and I unlocked the door and held it open for the boys to enter. Ben went first, said hello to Bailey, and reached out his hand to pet him. Bailey growled, then snapped, missed and snapped again, catching Ben's finger and drawing blood. I hustled the boys outside and around to the back door and left Bailey downstairs.

Maybe we startled him? Maybe we woke him up? Maybe it was too dark and he didn't actually hear us come in (his hearing is failing), saw a hand in his face and reacted? We tried to apply human logic to a dog--a dog we've owned for over seven years--to grasp what had changed. How else to calm our son who feels that suddenly, inexplicably, our dog no longer loves him?

For the next couple of weeks, the two tenuously circled each other like barely tolerant roommates. Bailey seemed fine when Alpha Dog Dad was around, and that put the rest of us at ease. Over the weekend, with his older brother away at camp, Ben gently fed snacks to Bailey from his hand with no ill effects or ill will on either side. Things seemed to have returned to normal.

But today, Ben and I went out for a little over an hour. When we returned, I opened the door into the den and entered first, holding the door open for Ben, who hung back. Bailey was there, lying on the rug with his eyes open. I said hello to him and stood waiting for him to stand up. He didn't react right away, so I addressed him again. That's when he popped his head up and began to growl, then bark, at Ben.

Ben was still standing outside the screen door, so I shut it. Bailey approached the screen and was barking and growling fiercely now, so I told Ben to take off his sweatshirt hood. He did, but it didn't help. To Bailey, he was a giant, thug-like being wielding a bat.

I sent Ben to the back door and left Bailey downstairs.

Alpha Dog Dad and I have been discussing this a lot recently. We've done research, spoken with the vet at Bailey's thorough wellness check up last week, and tried to calm both Ben and Bailey. But now we're unsure. We've read about canine cognitive dysfunction, the signs and symptoms and why they occur. But what the experts don't tell us is how to coexist with a family member who now makes another family member feel threatened. I can only imagine what it must be like for people whose loved ones are suffering from Alzheimer's. Cognitive dysfunction unties the things that fasten us to each other. It steals not just memory, but relationships, history, leaving everyone involved unmoored.

For now, we'll keep the two separated. As much as it saddens me, I don't want to force a closeness that would make either (or both) of them uneasy. Until we know more, all we can do is try to prevent any additional painful episodes.

A Teenager, A Sex Tape, A Conversation

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Last week, my fifteen-year-old son was invited to make a sex tape. He was really excited about it, so I signed the release form. But before you get CPS on the phone, let me explain.

In May, Jacob won an essay contest for the Best Teen Date in our county for 2015. The contest was sponsored by a teen outreach program aimed at enriching the lives of teenagers, educating them and helping them to make healthy choices. As a result of the contest, Jacob met the heads of the program to receive the award.

May was also Teen Pregnancy Prevention Month. The organization that had sponsored the contest was making a short film talking with teens about their views on teen pregnancy. Since we live near the filming location, they contacted Jacob and asked if he'd be interested in being in the film. I figured he'd won Best Date contest, so surely he must have thoughts about this topic, right?

After I gave him the OK to make the tape (the head of the program's last name is Coppola--what could possibly go wrong?), it occurred to me that my son and I had never actually discussed his views about teen pregnancy. Oh sure, we'd had talks about relationships, respect, protection, maturity, communication and all the other important aspects of teen dating. Maybe I thought that, because of those conversations, teen pregnancy wouldn't become an issue. Or maybe I just didn't want to go there.

It was way too much to discuss via text, so I waited until he got home and brought it up in the car on the way to the movie shoot, doing my best to be casual about it.

Me: "So, for this movie, it sounds like they're going to ask you about your thoughts on teen pregnancy. What exactly are your thoughts on the topic?"

Jacob: "Well, I think if the couple has done their research and discussed all the aspects of what's involved and want to do it, I support it."

*crickets*

I don't know if my tongue actually bled while I bit down on it, but I wouldn't have been surprised because it took all my strength not to scream out, "ARE YOU INSANE?!"

Now don't get me wrong. I appreciate the fact that he understands the importance of research, communication and weighing all the risks before making any big decision. And I told him that. But this is not about picking a college or buying a car. It was clear to me that he was neglecting to consider a few majorly important factors in this situation, such as the fact that a baby, unlike a car or a college, is a lifelong commitment. And teens are minors. And still in school. And unemployable. And... well, you get my point.

Before I opened my mouth, I took a deep breath, because I also understood what a big deal it was that he was even willing to have this conversation with me. I knew I had to think fast about how to get my points/fears across without lecturing like a health teacher. I decided the best way was to ask questions. What other options would you have? What if the girl was afraid to tell her parents? Who else could you talk to? How would you support the baby? How would you stay in school? What about college? If you didn't stay in school, what kind of jobs could you expect to get? What about health insurance? And on and on.

We got to the filming location before long and there were two lovely teenage girls there. Once we were introduced and Dr. Coppola arrived, I got the signal from Jacob that I was dismissed. I was disappointed that I didn't get to watch the filming and hear the discussion (admittedly, I'm probably the only mother on earth who wants to see the sex tape her son made). But at least I knew I'd given Jacob a lot to think about.

He did say that if he ever found himself in a such a situation, he knew he could come talk to me. I just hope, now that we've had this little chat, he'll never need to.

Raising Humans

Before I had kids, I never thought much about being a mother. Sure, I presumed I'd have a family one day, but that vague notion was as detailed as it got. Until I became pregnant. Then the tomboy in me kicked in.

I grew up in a neighborhood that was mostly boys. I had one brother, and our three male cousins lived next door. When I was young, I saw us all as equals--kids who liked bikes, bugs, fishing and baseball. And at that age, I was right.

But when I became a teenager, everything changed. I was nothing like other girls. They wore makeup and flirted with boys and smoked and drank and knew things. I didn't know anything, especially about boys. Sure, I could put a worm on a hook for a boy or throw a football around with them, but that other stuff? Pfft. Clueless. Whoever passed out the "How To Be A Girl" manual definitely missed my mailbox.

So when I became pregnant, I realized that I desperately wanted to mother boys. Only boys. In fact, the idea of raising a girl was so foreign to me that I was in a bit of a panic. I'm the type of person who learns from experience. I didn't even know how to be a girl. How could I be successful in raising one? Even in my twenties, all my best friends were male. When I sat down to consider what skills I had to raise a girl, I came up with bupkis. I was completely ill-prepared for the task.

I got lucky and had sons. But I have friends who have both daughters and sons, and they tell me they are the opposite of me: completely comfortable raising their daughters and in foreign territory with their sons. Of course I can understand exactly what they mean. But I started thinking about what kind of mother I am that makes me more suited to raising boys over girls, and the only thing I felt strongly about was that I'm comfortable with who I am and confident in my convictions as an adult.

So? you might say. That doesn't sound gender-specific at all. And you'd be right. In fact, if anything I'm more girly now than I was when I was younger. I hate bugs and video games and sports (well, OK, not hockey). I love flowers and pretty shoes and sappy, romantic movies that make me cry and dressing up. These are not exactly traits I share with my boys. And when they want to go camping, I tell them to go talk to their father.

But here's what I figured out: I'm not my sons' friend, so it's OK if I don't share certain interests with them. I love them with all my heart and I'm here to teach them how to be confident, capable, respectable and self-sufficient. But I also want them to be compassionate, fair, tender and thoughtful. And the best way to do that is to teach by example. I set standards for their behavior and I live by those standards myself. I'm not hypocritical and I'm always willing to listen to their side of the argument. Don't those parenting skills cover both genders? I think so.

All this tells me is that I would probably have done alright raising a girl. Sure, I might have had to call in the experts for some things. But the stuff that matters? I've got that down. The rest, they'll figure out on their own just like I did. I'm not teaching them how to be men and I wouldn't have to teach a girl how to be a woman. That's biology and it will happen regardless of what type of parent I am. I'm raising humans. Sure, it would be nice to have someone to help me do my hair and nails and watch weepy movies with once in a while. But as long as my kids grow up to be respectful of others and their world, and they build lives that they're proud of, I'm OK watching chick flicks alone.

The Puppy Inside

Today, I'm pretty sure I saw my dog longing for his lost youth. It's happened before, in encounters with younger, more vibrant dogs who want to jump, wrestle and play. These dogs always intrigue Bailey, but he's almost fifteen, so they also give him pause. It's as if he's thinking, "Man, I'd love to but I know I'd throw my back out."

Today, a neighbor dog who lives up the street came running through a nearby yard just as we finished our morning walk. Nash is about two or three years old, a mutt with insatiable energy who's always up for a game, a run or a belly rub.

I heard Nash before I spotted him. He came down through the trees, and I thought at first that perhaps he was a deer. Bailey's hearing has significantly diminished in the last year or two, but when we were half way up our driveway, he saw Nash and turned. To say he was riveted would be a gross understatement. Nash ran like a racehorse, down the street and back. He bounded into the woods and out again, approached Bailey with a 'hello' sniff, then crouched as if ready to wrestle. He wasn't even breathing heavily.

For a moment, Bailey went through the motions. He crouched as best as he could with his arthritic hips. His tail went up as if ready to have a go-round with Nash. He never took his eyes off the dog.

But when no play actually ensued, Nash grew bored and ran off down the street again, a flash of black and tan who'd be gone if you blinked. He stopped momentarily to smell the wet leaves, then heard his owner calling from up the block and took off back through the trees and up the hill.

When Bailey and I reached our deck and I told him to go around back as he always does, he stood and looked at me. I motioned for him to go on, thinking perhaps he hadn't heard me. But then he turned and looked across the street for a long moment, to the spot where Nash had just been running to and fro.  He let out a heavy breath, then loped up the deck toward the door and the bed that awaited him inside.

I'm starting to think Bailey is like the rest of us. As we feel the effects of aging come on bit by bit, we learn to adjust and live with them. We buy reading glasses, ask people to repeat themselves, turn up the volume on the television. This all works fine until we find ourselves somewhere with a younger bunch: those who can eat richer food, dance more freely, drink more wine. Then we sigh and hold hands, glad we're not alone, but a little sad for what we no longer have.

So I'm giving Bailey some extra love today. A bit of gravy in his bowl, lots of scratches and coos and calling him my puppy, the one I love most, my best boy. I don't even know if he can hear me. But in this warm, familiar setting he's known for years, I'll try to ease his heart. I can't give him back what he's lost. But I hope our love is enough to make up for it.

A Penny Pinched is A Penny Saved

I used to think I had one kid who was a reader and one who was a non-reader. My oldest, like me, has always been content to sit beside a pile of books for hours if left to himself. From the time he was a toddler, he'd sit devouring story after story, regardless of subject. He's gotten more discerning as he's aged, but reading is still a favorite pastime. In contrast, my younger son loved to be read *to* when he was little. Once he learned to read, though, he'd only be caught with a book if it was a homework assignment. Even then, reading seemed like a chore.

But I recently learned something about Ben and books. It's not that he doesn't like books; he's  just more selective of what he's willing to spend time reading. If it's funny, he's hooked. If the topic is one he loves, that's a definite selling point. And if he loves the subject *and* the book is funny? Good luck getting him to the dinner table. 

To help us get to this point, I've been taking my kids to the library since they were infants. First it was for the mommy-and-baby programs. When they got older, there were kids' programs, then teen clubs. But no matter how I got them there, we'd always, always bring home books. It's how we explored lots of different genres, authors and topics without forcing dad to build more bookshelves or breaking the bank. When it comes to books, a library card is a kid's first credit card. You want to take out ten books? No problem! You too? Just put it on the card.

This weekend, I glimpsed how this philosophy may have backfired, at least with Ben. I'm the type of person who will hear about a book, borrow it from the library and, if I love it and know I'll re-read it over and over, buy my own copy. Ben, however, seems to have a greater love of saving money than of owning great books. He recently discovered a series at the library. He read and laughed through the first two books, but the third wasn't available. Since he has accumulated several gift cards for Amazon.com, I suggested he buy all three books, as well as the next series by the same author, on the same topic. That way he could read them all, then read them again and again whenever he wanted. 

"But Mom, I can get them for free at the library."

"Yes, but if you use your gift cards and buy them, you can re-read them all whenever you want."

"I know but... I don't think I want to do that." 

He couldn't quite articulate his struggle. Did he love the books? Yes. Does he have plenty of gift cards? Yes. So what's the problem?

Ben loves money, even representations of money. Gift cards, coins from other countries, pretend credit cards, he loves it all. In fact, I think he loves it so much that to exchange it for something else, even if it's books that he know he'll enjoy, is just too hard.

At first I felt bad that he wasn't taking advantage of this opportunity to own some books he'd really love. But then I realized, that's what *I* like to do. The kid has a sense for the value of money, and a great understanding of the benefits of the public library. Considering both will take him far in life, I didn't push him to buy the books. It's his money and his decision on how to spend it. I've done my job and taught him these lessons. So why contradict myself when he's happy?

I couldn't think of a good reason either. 

Parting Is So Sweet. (Sorry)

When my kids were little, I couldn't imagine life without them. Sure, I could (and often did) imagine going to the bathroom without them, but those were more temporary breaks that all mothers of young ones need from time to time.

But now that they are getting older, I actually can (and often do) imagine life without them. At least, daily life. And I admit I kind of like it. But now I'm starting to wonder if I should keep that to myself.

This week, a few friends' kids went away on trips and their parents mentioned how much they missed them. And here I sat, not musing about where my son is and what he's doing, but excited to be spring cleaning and making piles of things to donate. I admit I felt a bit down when I passed his empty room around bedtime, but it passed when I went downstairs and gazed longingly at the piles of stuff I want to get rid of but can't until the kids are gone.

Is this just a gosh-this-endless-winter-is-almost-over-I-feel-like-simplifying fantasy? I admit for weeks I've had a need for open windows and springtime air, light, warmth and a clutter-free home. After being trapped in the house with kids for days on end, week after week throughout the last few months, sunshine and quiet and time with my honey are at the top of my must-have list now. So when my oldest left for an educational tour abroad and my youngest headed for a day-long outing with friends, was it just cabin fever that made me do a happy dance? For six whole hours, I pretended we were empty nesters and IT FELT GREAT.

Don't get me wrong. I love my kids and I love spending time with them. But being an individual myself, with passions and drive and goals, I really, really like not having to think about their needs sometimes. Remember when you could eat a bowl of cereal for dinner if you wanted because you were working on a chapter or some edits and you just didn't want to stop and cook? I miss that. Remember when you could stay up until two or three a.m. to finish a great book because you didn't have to get up in the morning and drive someone somewhere or pack their lunch or make sure they ate breakfast and brushed their teeth? I miss that too.

I miss being an individual. Not that I miss it more than I love my kids. But when I get a glimpse of a life that is my own, it's a great reminder to keep encouraging my kids to build lives that are their own, to pursue their passions and figure out what they want. When they go off on adventures and are comfortable exploring the world, they are trying out their wings while at the same time looking forward to coming home and telling us all about it. It means we're doing our job as parents, and that they see themselves as individuals too, separate from us. It also shows me they're confident in making decisions without me standing there "in case they need me" as I did when they were younger.

I owe this budding independence to my husband, one of a family of three boys. I was drawn to his self-sufficient nature. But for years I also fought him as he insisted I back off and stop doing everything for the kids. I knew they needed to learn how to do things themselves, but it had also been my job for so long, I didn't know how to stop doing it. But I did. I let go, consciously, little by little, and they stepped up. Not only did it teach them how to do for themselves, it reminded me how great it is to watch them learn to do things without me.

Of course it proved my husband was right. Not that I'd ever tell him so. Well, maybe I will when the kids are grown and gone. Then, I won't just tell him, I'll thank him.

How Writing Saved Me

I go into every new venture with a sunny outlook. Change is good, learning opportunities even better. Of course, there will always be challenges; that's how we grow. But I don't fear change.

I sort of backed into writing as a career choice. Over the years, I'd worked jobs ranging from administrative to retail, customer service to tech support, and gained something from each experience. But I didn't love any of them.

So I welcomed motherhood as yet another positive change. While I was on maternity leave, a dear friend suggested I start a blog on his computer server. This was over fifteen years ago, when "blog" was a relatively new and unknown term.

"But what will I write about?" I asked. After all, I was home with a newborn, rocking and singing and feeding him all day, doing laundry and catching cat naps while he slept. There wasn't much of interest going on.

"Write about motherhood," he said. This from a single, techie guy who knew about as much about mothering as I did at that point.

"Well," I reasoned, "my parents are the only ones who'll read it anyway. I guess I'll write about my baby and how he's growing."

And so it began. I wrote every day, and it quickly came to feel like a personal success amid the constant drudgery and sleep-deprivation. Like a shower but more satisfying. My far-flung parents, as first-time grandparents, thrilled at the daily news, and I admit it made me a more attentive mother. I had to really think about what to write each day. Then something strange happened: I began to write not just what Jacob was learning about his world, but what I was learning about myself.

Fast forward six years. Our house now held a grade-schooler and a special needs toddler who confounded me at every turn. He didn't sleep. He hardly ate. He cried all the time. He just never seemed happy, no matter what I did. The only thing that kept me from crying all the time too, was writing.

I wrote to puzzle out what was happening, what I was doing and what I would try instead. I wrote about how hard it was every day, all day long. I wrote about feeling like a terrible mother who was failing my child, and about how much I loved him, even though I had yet to understand him. And when I finally realized I couldn't meet the challenge of understanding him, I switched gears. My new challenge to myself was to find the humor in each mystifying situation.

So as he grew, I laughed. I wrote about the things he did and what was funny about them because, of all the reactions I could have, I decided that was the best. No tears. Instead, laughing made life tolerable, manageable. As I got stronger, so did my writing. Ben gave me more material for my blog over the first five years of his life than I'd had in all the decades I'd lived before that. The challenges kept me writing, and the writing helped me cope.

Now that my boys are older, I use writing to set goals for myself. Articles, blog posts and, this year, a novel. With all it's helped me survive and accomplish over the years, writing is the best job I've had alongside my other, more important job of being a mom. It's evolved as I have, and helped me create a tangible record of my relationships with my sons.

But above all, writing was something I could count on during all the years when nothing was certain. Because I never knew what to expect, I relied on writing. And in the end, writing is what saved me.

The Winter of My Discontent

Anyone who knows me knows I hate winter. Not all of it--I'm not ready to give it up completely, yet. I love the first snow, the muffled walks with the dog, spying small animal tracks in the dusting on the ground, the smoky smell of the neighbor's wood burning stove. What wears me out is the bitter, incessant wind, single-digit temperatures and extended views of nothing but white, gray and brown. I start to miss green.

This year, December really wasn't too bad. Cold, but manageable. Some snow, but nothing back-breaking. We decided to renovate our master bathroom and the contractor gutted it in early January. Around that time, I seem to recall commenting about how it looked like it would be a much better winter than I'd expected. Out loud. What was I thinking?

What followed were several long weekends at home with my family and a seemingly six-week-long February filled with single-digit temps, double-digit-below-zero wind chills and lots of cabin fever. You'd think the long weekends with the family would have saved my sanity, but you'd be wrong. They were brought on by snow storms that rolled in every three to four days, causing more school closures than I can remember since they started kindergarten. Their first Monday in school this year didn't happen until mid-February because they'd had snow day closings every Friday and Monday since 2015 began. They've burned through their allotment for the year along with three vacation days in April and May. We've shoveled so much snow that there's no place left to put any more. And there are still three weeks left of winter.

The storms also caused problems on the roadways and made travel tricky. Because my contractor comes up county from about 45 minutes away, we didn't see much of him those weeks either. We're now on week eight since we started, and the bathroom still isn't finished.

Rather than curse the friends who escaped to warmer climates for the mid-winter break, I instead let myself linger over their photos of clear pools, white sandy beaches and suntanned shoulders. I bought fresh flowers from the supermarket and put a cream colored tablecloth on the table. When a skunk sprayed somewhere beneath our deck, I burned lilac- and lily-scented candles in every room of the house because it was still five degrees out and I couldn't open the windows. I hoped in vain that they would hide the stench and also give the illusion of spring.

Every eave of our house is sporting icicles, some as big as my twelve-year-old. When they began to sprout inside the kitchen door and drip onto the tile floor, I laid down a beach towel to catch the water. "Think summer!" I told myself as I replaced the soaking wet one with a dry one the next day.

When the furnace started to sputter and sleet ticked on the window panes, I started to worry. If I keep the green, flowered drapes closed and turn up the heat, I can usually forget it's still, unendingly, relentlessly winter outside. But if the heat goes out, I can't take a hot shower and the indoor temp drops into the low fifties, I know winter has forced its way into my house, my life and my consciousness in a way that I can no longer escape.

There are only a few more weeks until spring. We are in the home stretch. Beginning this weekend, the days will be lighter longer and the sun will start to feel warm again. I think I'm going to make it through, and I have no intention of stating all the good things about this winter that I've actually been thankful for, because you don't have to hit me over the head with a brick more than once.

But I have a few choice words for the groundhog when I see him, and am still open to invitations from any of my friends in warmer climates. I'll even bake something before I come. At least it will make the house warmer before I go.