The Dog With No Voice

First day canine antics aside, it wasn't long until I was smitten with Sirius/Exeter. He was playful, smart, in tune with our body language and improving daily on our leashed walks (read: he no longer dragged me down the street, and would stop walking when I said 'wait'). Most importantly, he was the biggest, mushiest love bug. Leave it to a Mom to fall in love with all those traits. The rest of the family, though, was not fully on board with the idea of keeping him past Tuesday. 

"You guys do what you want, but I'm not going to get too attached to the dog," my 20-year-old avowed. We suspected lingering loyalties to our sweet Bailey, who we lost some 8 years ago. But I knew that, in time, Ben would come to love this new dog too, given the chance. He was not my biggest hurdle.

By Monday afternoon, my husband said, "we should probably have a conversation about the dog." His tone suggested I shouldn't get too attached either. But it was too late.

Hubby wasn't really interested in adopting a dog. I understood. Exeter/Sirius is only about two years old, which translates to a 10- to 15-year commitment, and would mean a lot of responsibility. Still, I made my case.

"Yes, he'll have to be walked multiple times a day, and I'm willing to take that on. Get my steps in, and all that," I said. And before my husband could point out that winter was just around the corner, I said, "Yes, even in winter. I'll layer."

He didn't seem convinced, and I admit I sounded like a kid who wants a puppy and swears up and down they will take care of everything the animal needs. We all know how that story goes.

"Have you noticed how much he's learned in just the past couple of days?" I asked, referring to how well the dog had adapted to our daily routine, listened to commands and loved to play whatever game we came up with to entertain him. 

My husband did concede the dog was very smart and sweet. 

"And he loves our neighbors!" I went on. "He's good with every kid and dog that he's come into contact with!" Did I sound desperate? Could he hear the exclamation point at the end of my every sentence?

"The neighbors wouldn't be adopting him, we would," he said, still not convinced.

I had one card left up my sleeve. True, it concerned me somewhat. I wasn't even sure whether anyone else had picked up on this fact, or what was causing it. Maybe it was a temporary thing, or maybe it was a medical issue. Maybe it was caused by stress or the fact that Exeter/Sirius never really had an opportunity to learn how to be a dog. But these were questions to delve into later. If the trait would help my case now, I would play it. My ace.

"He hasn't barked once, have you noticed that?" I asked. "No early morning yapping, no barking at the wind or people walking by. Not even at dogs." I took a breath. "Hon," I paused for emphasis, "he's practically the perfect pet."

My husband considered this. Sirius/Exeter was lying at his feet, one paw on my husband's slipper, as if he couldn't bear the thought of being apart from him, even while sleeping. I pointed this out as well. Yes, I was shameless.

"All right, I guess we have a dog. What has to happen ne--"

"I'll take care of everything," I said, rushing to my computer without letting him finish. I wanted to finalize things before he changed his mind. Or Sirius started barking relentlessly.

I'm kind of happy to report that Sirius did eventually bark. It was about four days after we'd completed the adoption process, and he was sitting by the bay window in the living room, sandwiched between me and my husband as we discussed something that was, for once that week, not dog-related. Sirius couldn't see the street from the window, since we're on a hill, but he could look up into the pine trees that line our property. Maybe he saw a squirrel or bird. Maybe he just wanted to join in our discussion. Or maybe he is smarter than we realized, understood everything we were saying, and was perturbed at no longer being the topic at hand.

He barked. Once.

It was short, sharp and loud. My husband and I looked at each other, stunned to silence.

"Yes? You have something to say?" he asked Sirius.

And our new Dog Star put his head against my husband's leg and licked his hand, as if to say,

"I'm just so happy to be home, and I wanted you both to know it." 

 "shh" by Kradlum is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

The Dog With No Name

Considering how long it takes our family to make a decision about anything (this includes what to have for dinner; make of that what you will), I was pretty sure if we were to ever get another dog, there would be months of planning, discussion and research before we came to 'yes'.

So I can't help but credit the Universe for the turn of events that broadsided us this month.

One of my dearest friends and a three-dog-owning, foster mom of rescue animals had been trying (unsuccessfully) to get us to foster a dog for ages. She knew, after we lost our sweet Bailey several years ago, we just weren't ready to open our hearts to a new pet. In her view, fostering would benefit all involved: we could flirt with the feeling of pet ownership again, and we'd help dogs on their way to their forever homes, with no long-term commitment necessary. Still, my husband resisted.

Enter Exeter. My friend called me on a Thursday with a half-joking question: would we be interested in emergency fostering a 2-year-old German Shepherd mix for the weekend? Just until a new foster family could be found? I needed more information. She sent me a link with a photo and info on the dog, and said he was in NYC for the night but needed to be placed before Saturday.

I showed my husband the picture and explained the situation.

"It's just for the weekend. Look, he's super cute, though what is up with that name?" We laughed, and I reasoned that we still had all the toys, bowls, crate etc. that had belonged to Bailey. Plus, my friend would bring him up from the city for us on Friday! We'd have a beautiful autumn weekend of play and walks, and be doing a good deed. It couldn't be easier! He was skeptical, but indulged me.

Friday evening, the dog rode the train from NYC to Westchester, then sat the car with my friend, who drove him to our driveway. He was sweet, shy, beautiful and well-behaved. We showed him around the house so he could get his bearings, where he was and wasn't allowed to go, and immediately put the kibosh on his couch-surfing habit.

After a piddle incident in the playroom (mainly, I assume, due to his nerves and not knowing where the exit was,) he had a walk, drank some water and slept (reluctantly) in his crate.

Saturday, my husband and I went to the local pet store for necessities--dog food, a rope (he really liked tug of war with the smaller toys we already had) and cookies. We had been calling him Exeter, the name the rescue had given him, but he didn't respond to it and we didn't particularly like it anyway. Do we change it? we wondered aloud. We only have him for four days. But it's a dumb name. Yes, but what if an adoptive family wants to rename him something else and he gets used to what we start calling him? My husband said, if he were to rename the dog, he'd call him Sirius, the dog of the hunter Orion, according to Greek mythology. Plus, the dog was black, so we had a neat little Harry Potter reference thrown in to boot (Sirius Black, who'd also had an unhappy early life).

We decided to start calling him Sirius, though sometimes called him Exeter, afraid to commit to either name, just as we weren't ready to commit to keeping the dog ourselves. Needless to say, the dog responded to neither name.

Upon returning from the pet store, my husband held open the front door to let me in. Of course, the dog walked out. He stood on the porch a moment as if disbelieving he was actually outside untethered. Then he took off down the driveway, gathering speed as he ran toward the corner and main road nearest to our house.

Calling to him was fruitless, of course. He had tags but no identity. He was a wanderer, a foster, having gone from home to home, south to north, city to suburbs over a matter of weeks.

"No! Exeter! Stop! Come! Sirius! No!"

As I chased him up the block, praying no car would come over the hill and hit him, my 20-year-old son followed me out with a leash. I lost sight of the dog but pointed to where I'd seen him go, and told Ben to keep looking; I was going back for the car.

A million thoughts raced through my mind. What do I tell the rescue? We lost the dog less than 24 hours after getting him? How would I post a "missing dog" status in my community groups?

"Missing: black and brown, German Shepherd mix dog, approximately 45 lbs. Does not answer to any name. Not food-oriented. No owner but has a collar and a chip." Putting my phone number and address would be as embarrassing as having lost him in the first place.

Was the Universe trying to tell me we were not cut out to be dog parents again? Had we gotten too old, too careless?

By the time my son and husband cornered Exeter-the-Exiter/Sirius two blocks away, he'd befriended a lovely family with two boys and a female dog named Layla. Thankfully, he's also neutered.

I was winded, the dog was scolded, and we were all too tired for tug-of-war with the new rope. At least, we told ourselves, we'd only have him for three more days. Surely we could manage that. 

Narrator: "In fact, they could not manage that."

To be continued....

Animal Instincts

Teenagers! My guess is that anyone, even people without children, know exactly what I'm talking about with that one word. Because teenagers have a reputation. They're surly and unpredictable. Emotional one minute and ambivalent the next. They'll engage you in a heated fight over something as banal as a dirty dish in the sink, but offer only monosyllabic grunts in reply to questions about their friends, schedule, and life plans. At times, I feel like I'm trying to parent an exotic animal. They really should come with a user manual.

Just this week, the Spare was scheduled to have his senior portrait taken at school. Yes, my baby is in his last year of high school. Don't ask me where the time went. I'm sure it's in the secret location where all the missing socks are hiding, along with my sanity and once-tiny waist. But I digress. I'd worked with the Spare over the weekend to find a clean dress shirt and suit jacket that fit, as well as an acceptable tie. We created a Windsor knot so the tie could be slipped over his head and tightened for the sitting, then immediately removed lest any of his peers see him. We arranged for me to bring the shirt, jacket and tie to school before the sitting so he could change, have his photo taken, and then change back into street clothes. I also brought along a hairbrush.

I arrived early and handed over the goods. From the huff and glare I received at proffering the hairbrush, you'd think I suggested he change clothes in the school's common area.

"Mom. I don't care about my hair."

Look, I get it. He's a boy. He shuns the spotlight. And here's his mom telling him how to dress and to fix his hair. But I'd already made this session as easy for him as possible, so this was it. This was the hill I was going to die on.

"Listen, kid. This is the last school picture I'm going to get. It's going to cost hundreds of dollars and I'm going to send it to all your relatives. Then I'm going to frame it and hang it on my wall so I can stare at your baby face when you're away at college and cry over how fast the years have gone. And I'd rather you not be sporting a cowlick in it. Brush your hair."

Perhaps stunned that I would whisper-shout at him in the middle of his school, or processing this new perspective I'd just thrown at him, he was silent. There might even have been a hint of fear that I might do something even more embarrassing if he tried to push back again. Regardless, he took the brush and went down the hall to change. 

A few minutes later, I helped him fix his collar, straighten the tie, and insisted he button the top shirt button. Then with both of us grumbling, I followed him into the photo shoot. While the photographer instructed him on how to tilt his head and hold the props, I stewed in the nearby seats and scrolled through my phone. Why does he have to make everything so difficult? It feels like he's fighting me just to fight. A few minutes later, the photographer brought his camera over and flipped through the pictures so I could see what he'd captured.

As I looked through those photos of my baby-- this one in a suit and tie, that one in a cap and gown--I loved each one more than the last. Yet I didn't weep. Because I was still a teensy bit angry about our spat. That's when I realized what perfectly brilliant animals teenagers are. They know they'll be leaving soon, and their instinct is to push away from us at every turn in order to make it easier on all of us. And it worked.

After the session, the Spare changed, handed me back the jacket and tie, and walked down the hallway without a word. He left me with no goodbye, no thank you, and no idea how much mortification he'd just avoided by giving me grief. And even though I was still angry, I had to laugh.

Photo credit: "218/365 - 5/14/2011" by GabrielaP93 is licensed under CC BY 2.0 

Mothering The World

Last night, I dreamt of babies--pudgy infants chewing fists, sleepy toddlers rubbing eyes. These babies were strangers, but alone and unsure of the world and looking to me for comfort.

In the dreams, I knew who the parents were, though I hadn't met them personally. In one instance, a toddler girl wanted her mom, who had just stepped away. I picked her up and explained Mom would be right back, then chatted with her about birds and cows, and sang songs I thought she'd know. It was a game, to distract her and help her feel safe.

In another dream, a quiet, months-old boy and I were in the yard of the house where I grew up. His parents hadn't yet returned from house-hunting in my neighborhood, and he was getting anxious. For a while, I pushed him in a baby swing. Then I put him into his jammies, and taught him some basic ASL signs as I'd done with my own boys when they were his age. Because babies can understand spoken language long before they can physically form words with their mouths, sign language helps them communicate before they can speak. Knowing simple words like eat, sleep, sad and hurt can minimize frustration-driven tantrums by allowing pre-verbal children to make their needs known.

Upon reflection this morning, I think my dreams were driven by a variety of factors. One was my own experience as a mother, and the desire to do everything in my power to ensure my sons were secure, healthy, and happy. The other was this week's disturbing photos and reports of children who'd been separated from their families at the borders of our country.

Making sure young children feel secure is the foundation on which their emotional growth is built. A strong foundation paves the way for healthy relationships with others and the world. Conversely, the biological response to trauma or severe stress can be incredibly destructive, causing lifelong damage. According to the American Academy of Pediatrics, while some stress in life is normal—and even necessary for development—the type of stress a child experiences may become toxic "when there is strong, frequent, or prolonged activation of the body’s stress response systems in the absence of the buffering protection of a supportive, adult relationship."

The adult world is scary and dangerous. But when my children were very young, I was their world. Whenever they were scared or upset, they came to me for comfort. When describing their nightmares, they painted frightening scenarios of being in danger, and either they couldn't find me, or they couldn't get to me.

I want to soothe the children I've seen crying on the front pages of newspapers. They look frightened, alone, and powerless. They don't understand what's happening, and their parents are no longer with them. I want to mother them until their mothers return. I want to allay their fears and comfort them and tell them everything will be okay. Of course, I don't know that everything will be okay. But I never have, not even when my own children were small. I told them it would be okay anyway, because I didn't want them to worry. It was my job to do the worrying for them.

A mother's love is boundless and protective, and my desire to shower it on all children may be irrational, but it's not a choice: it's instinctual. My arms reflexively open to every frightened child and crying baby I see.

I know I can't mother all the suffering children in the world, and that frustration is what invaded my dreams last night. I've felt this way before. But this is the first time I've ever wished the desire alone could transcend the reason for their suffering, that the desire alone was enough to make them feel my love.

Setting the Bar

I have a love/hate relationship with expectations. As a service provider, I know how critically important it is to set them appropriately. When each party knows what they're getting and giving, there's little room for undue disappointment. But setting expectations in parenting is different. We're talking about potential--what a kid should or should not be able to achieve at a certain age. While I've always thought of expectations as a way to help my kids stretch their abilities, I recently learned that if I'm not careful, they can also have the opposite effect. 

I loved that The Spare's freshman year of high school was a sort of 'joint venture' with the Heir,  a senior. It helped the Spare feel safe and welcomed in the new school; he made friends with older students, and knew his brother had his back. 

But this year, The Spare headed off to high school on his own. No, he didn't have his brother's guiding presence, but he was also no longer a newbie. I had every faith he would continue to strive for honor roll-level grades, as he had the year before. 

Things started off fine. He didn't want me to buy him a planner, so I conceded and let him organize his work on his own terms. When his grades started to slip in the second marking period, I questioned him, offered to help him study, emailed with his teachers and pushed him to work harder. I also gave him a pocket-sized notepad to keep track of homework. But by December break, I could see it wasn't working well. There were no dates in it, and he often neglected to write things down. 

By the time the third marking period arrived, I told The Spare I was buying him a planner and I expected him to use it. When shopping for one, I took his preferences into consideration. He wanted something small he could carry in his pocket, but it needed to have enough room for all his classes' assignments. I searched around until I found one that seemed perfect. But then, before buying it, I paused. 

The Spare is a bit scattered, both in his thoughts and his actions. This was my attempt to help him get organized, and I was looking at a planner that I would choose for myself for that purpose. But when I considered his scattered nature, and the very real possibility that he could end up losing anything pocket-sized, I selected a similar but inexpensive pocket calendar instead. 

I had high hopes that, as a sophomore, he'd be mature enough (and understanding of my concern and expectations) to carry, use and make the most of this new tool.  For a couple of weeks, he seemed to be. But then, as I'd feared, he lost it. 

Part of me was disappointed. Why did I even buy the thing? Another part of me shook my head. I knew this was going to happen. At least I had only spent $2.99 and not $11. I had made that choice unwillingly when buying the planner, but knowing it might be necessary. I was bummed to have been right.

Here's the thing. We want our kids to succeed, to do their best, build their confidence and make their way in the world. That is the understanding all parents have--that one day, our kids will move out and no longer need us. So whenever I try to help move my kids toward that goal and they don't seem to be progressing, I feel frustrated. Disappointed. And yes, sometimes angry. Why isn't he trying harder? Why doesn't he take the help I'm offering? Why isn't he meeting my expectations?

That's the phrase that made me step back: my expectations. Why do I have these expectations in the first place? Who am I to say he's not fulfilling his potential? He is not The Heir. He is who he is. How am I so sure he even has the emotional or physiological ability to do these things yet? 

The fact is, I can't be sure. So I need to do something that, a decade ago, I'd have scoffed at: I'm lowering the bar. Because no kid, on seeing a look of disappointment on his mom's face or hearing the dejection in her voice, is going to be inspired to try harder. He's not going to feel good about himself. And the more it happens, the more convinced he'll be that he is nothing more than a disappointment to her. And that's not what I want my kid to think. 

There's a popular saying that floats around the internet: 

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” 

The point is, as parents we need to put aside expectations we have of our kids and just keep loving and cheering them on. Eventually, each of our little fishes will find the ocean that suits him best, and swim off into his own life. Better to make the short time we have with them uplifting and positive, even if it means sometimes lowering the bar.

The Art of Religion

A million years and three lifetimes ago, when I was an IT consultant, my job involved traveling to meet with prospective clients and pitching my company's services. Traveling for business was new to me, and I was still learning the ropes of efficiently and effectively packing professional attire that let me adhere to airline rules on baggage, yet still show up unrumpled at client meetings.

Before one particular trip, my boss pulled me aside and mentioned that our upcoming client had a dress code of sorts.

"You mean beyond corporate attire?" Admittedly, I was young and green in the ways of the world. Other than a ball gown, I couldn't imagine anything dressier than a business suit.

My boss nodded. "No pants. You have to wear a skirt and it has to fall below your knee."

I stared at him, mentally running through my wardrobe to see if I'd need to go shopping.

"Also, your shoulders and upper arms need to be covered. Oh, and wear your hair up. Not too much makeup, and low heels."

"Who is this client?"

"LDS," my boss said. When I didn't nod with recognition, he raised an eyebrow. "Mormons."

Fast forward twenty-five years, and the Heir, my singing, acting, musical-loving son, texts me from college. He'd been carrying an armload of packages across campus and, at one point, lost his grip. A guy came over and asked if he needed a hand, and the guy and his friend helped the Heir carry his boxes another five minutes to his destination. The young men then introduced themselves as Mormons, and asked the Heir if he was religious at all.

When told that he was interested in religions as a whole, the men said, "great, here's a copy of our book."

"Oh, like the musical!" my son said.

"Yeah, we get that a lot."

"You guys should start an outreach group on campus."

"Great idea," they said. "Do you want to start it with us?"

At that point, my son backpedaled a bit since he had to return to his friends to help transport more packages. "No, but thanks for the help and the book," he said.

When he told me he'd almost been recruited by Mormons, we laughed about it together. My thoughts drifted back to my trip to Salt Lake City, and how restrictive the church had felt to me, an outsider. He did say he wanted to learn about different religions, which is great. It's how I found my own spirituality. Not to taint his enthusiasm, all I said was that they have a lot of rules, and suggested he read their book. I'll be interested to talk more after he reads what is likely the first bible he's ever really seen. (Yes, I know, I'm a horrible, agnostic parent.)

Am I worried he might decide to convert to Mormonism and become a missionary? Well, considering he met the recruiters while dropping a box of beverages for his e-gaming club, not really. I was raised Catholic, but am not religious at this point in my life. All religions are interesting to me, as they are to him. I trust the Heir will find his spiritual way just as I did, though I suppose anything is possible. I do hear they have a pretty impressive choir.

Discovering The Truth

I still remember the first day the Heir went to kindergarten. As I put him on the bus and watched it pull away, the thought that ran through my mind was not, 'Oh, my big boy is growing up', or 'I hope he makes lots of friends', or even 'I hope he enjoys it'. It was, 'Well, my baby is now part of the system.'

Indeed, for the first few years of their lives, I was lucky enough to have my kids with me 24/7. Granted, I didn't always feel lucky. Sometimes I just wanted a break. But all that time together, especially with my firstborn, meant that his entire concept of what the world is came from me. What power! What responsibility! Yes, that first day alone with him, after my parents had left and my husband went back to work, was terrifying. But once I got the hang of things, I loved playing and singing and reading and walking with him. I was shaping him and his perception of the universe.

So it's not surprising that, once he became part of "the system" of public education, recognizing that I was relinquishing that power was tough. He was going to learn things from other people, people who might not see the world as I do, and might have different views from mine. What if they teach him to be fearful the world instead of curious? What if he learns to hate? What if they RUIN ALL THE WORK I'VE DONE?

The fact is, our kids are shaped by their experiences. As much as I'd have loved to encase mine in bubble wrap to protect them, it would have done more damage than good. And even when they went off to school for a few hours a day, they still lived with me and I knew everything about them and their lives.

When the Heir went off to college this past fall, our communication dwindled. That was hard for me. When he was in high school, we would text several times a day and have dinner together every evening, so I knew about his hobbies, his struggles,  his friends, and his likes and dislikes. Now it could be days before I'd hear, and even then it's a "hey, how's everyone at home? Things are good here." I know him well, I tell myself, despite the distance and the new experiences he's having at college. Even if he doesn't share them with me, of course he's still the same person.

Or so I thought.

The last time he was home, he and his girlfriend were watching a movie together one evening and I passed through the room to move some laundry around. Well. Talk about a shock.

APPARENTLY, MY SON IS ADDICTED TO GOSSIP GIRL.

He swears the writing and dialogue are great. The plots are interesting and engaging. The acting is terrific. As one who reads and watches TV to help inform my writing, it sounds reasonable. But I can't help but wonder if he's just saying that to help me get over my shock. If anyone asked me about my son, "rabid fan of Gossip Girl" would never have crossed my mind or passed my lips.

What this experience has underscored for me is that, as well as I know my kids, they are their own individual people and have their own lives. No matter how great they are at communicating with me, I will never know everything about them, their internal lives or all the pieces that make up who they are.

In reality, this is just a continuation of the journey that began all those years ago as the kindergarten bus pulled away. For me, it's been a journey of steps away from him as he becomes his own person. For him, it's a continuing journey toward himself.

Differential Equations

Though experts say you should never compare siblings to each other, it's almost impossible not to. While I appreciate the distinctions between the Heir and the Spare, and parent each one differently as a result, sometimes the evidence of those distinctions is sharp.

The other day, I was driving in the car with the Spare in the passenger seat. He was watching a video on his phone and I was listening to the radio. A YES song came on, triggering many vivid memories of a summer from my youth, and I turned up the volume. The Spare proceeded to turn up the sound on his video. I increased the radio, he upped his video. We quickly reached a standoff.

"Really?" I asked. "You do realize this is YES, right? A classic song by a classic band? You should listen to it, seriously. They lyrics alone are amazing."

At this point, he conceded that he could just pause his video and listen, which he did. But I couldn't stop thinking of what a stark difference the situation was from similar instances with the Heir. In those cases, a song would come on the radio, we'd both reach to turn up the volume and then both start singing, one of us the melody and the other the harmony, while the Spare rolled his eyes in the back seat and plugged in his ear buds.

This is just one example of how dissimilar the Spare's and my personalities are. I'm not complaining, it's just interesting. When he and his father are together, they share everything related to food, sports and nature. They really are of like minds. But my husband and I are also very similar in many ways, so it's surprising to me that sometimes, the Spare and I seem so very different.

In moments like this, I miss the Heir. I miss moments of shared excitement over something as small as a song on the radio we can sing along to together. Perhaps that's why, in the last few days, I'd be in the middle of a task and a not-yet-conscious thought worked its way forward in my mind. "Where is Jacob today and will he be home for dinner?" Or, "what time do I have to pick Jacob up again?" When I became fully conscious of each thought, it made me sad to realize he won't be home until Thanksgiving week.

I get the whole empty nest concept, and will surely miss both my sons dearly when they've moved out of our home for good. But with the Heir gone, I think I'm feeling it much more acutely than I will when the Spare heads out on his own. And it's likely my husband will feel then what I'm feeling now.

Strength Training

The dynamic shift in our household over the last month has been unlike any we've had since the Spare was born and the Heir, up until then the only child, had to welcome him into our home. This time, though, the process was the opposite: our nest has dwindled to three.

The most interesting thing to me has been watching the brothers blossom apart from each other. Being the worrying type, my concerns were that homesickness at college and a lack of time-management skills would throw my freshman into a deep hole of overdue work he'd never be able to escape. At home, I feared my high schooler's keen sadness in missing his brother, who had been his guide and advocate all last year, and a subsequent regression to old patterns of handling school work (read: not doing it).

The Heir is settling into college well. He's enjoying his classes, making friends, doing his own laundry(!) and living independently for the first time in his life. There's one course he's struggling with, and we've discussed how to approach it and options he has available. But the decision will ultimately have to be his.

At home, the Spare has begun his sophomore year of high school, reconnected with old friends and taken control of his work in a way he hasn't before now. He seems more mature, eager to take on responsibilities and happy to bask in the only-child glow for the first time in his life. But homework is becoming more frequent, and he pushes back when I make suggestions on how to better handle an assignment. Whatever he hands in, he'll have to live with the consequences of his efforts. Again, the decision will ultimately have to be his.

Amid this swirl of change, I looked forward to showering the Spare with all the attention he never received back when I had to split my time between two children (a.k.a. his whole life). I also made lists for care packages to send to the Heir and mapped out when I'd be able to write and edit my book.

But I never really considered what my own adjustments might be, so I didn't account for the quiet. I didn't schedule time for the vacancy. I find myself missing the Heir's laugh, his puns, his cooking, his hugs. I knew it would happen, but didn't know when. Like something akin to grief, it sneaks up on me at odd moments: when I'm trying to work out a plot point, when I'm making tea, when I'm reading an article I know he'd like.

It turns out we are all wobbling a little at the shift in dynamic, feeling our way into unchartered waters. For all of us, the change is just part of growing up. I imagine it will take a few months until we've settled into our new routines and habits, and in that time, I expect we'll build some never-before-used muscles: self-reliance, budding maturity, strength to let go. My hope is that we'll also gain an appreciation for those we love, as well as what we can do with them, and without them, by our sides.

Finales

It's been a pretty emotional few months. Well, for Mom, anyway. We had a lot of endings. What's funny is that, before they occurred, I didn't think of them as endings. They were events, celebrations, performances, things we do each year with The Heir. But then they started coming one after the other, speeding into me like a freight train with so many cars that you lose count, and with each one I realized: This is his last high school musical. His last high school concert. His last Boy Scout achievement. His last day of high school. All those 'lasts' finally hammered into my head the fact I'd been denying until now: nothing lasts.

Last autumn, I'd anticipated an insane second half to his senior year, and told him he likely would not be able to perform in the spring musical. He was working, had finals, college commitments and an Eagle Scout project to finish. There just wouldn't be time for all those rehearsals.
"But mom, what if they do Les Miserables?" Les Miserables is his all time favorite musical, the one that introduced him to what musicals were about (thank you, Hugh Jackman). "Fine, if they do Les Miserables, you can be in it. But they can't. It's still on Broadway." Bullet: dodged. Or so I thought. Until I got a text in late December."Mom. Guess what musical they're doing in the spring. GO AHEAD. GUESS." Damn. That's right, Les Miserables. There was no way I could say no. But he did it. He did it all. He finished his college forms. He performed in Les Mis. He finished his Eagle Scout project and paperwork and earned the badge. And he graduated. Now it's all behind us. All that activity! All those demands! They were met, and I'm so, so proud of him. We've since moved on to a summer job and shopping for college, and in a few short weeks, all that will be behind us too. The  one thing I keep waiting to put behind me is the tears, but for some reason, I have a feeling those will hang around. It seems ridiculous. This was the goal since he was born! Raise him to be a strong, happy, capable guy who could go off and live his own life! Yeah, yeah, I know that. Mission accomplished! I am thrilled about that. I just didn't think it would happen so soon. 

On Imitation and Vulnerability

Put your ego aside, listen to those crossing your path; they may hold the key you have been looking for.  --Martin Suarez

There was a time when the Heir would complain constantly, as eldest children tend to do, about the Spare. 

"MOM, Ben's bugging me."

"MOM, Ben's following me."

"MOM, tell Ben to stop copying me."

Tired of breaking up the endless fights, I sat the Heir down one day for a little tête-à-tête. 

Me: "Why do you think he does these things?"

Jacob: "To bug me."

Me: "BZZT. That's what bullies do. This is your brother we're talking about. Try again."

Jacob: *blinks*

Me: "Do you really not see it? Ben does these things because he doesn't just look up to you. He worships you. He wants to be just like you."  

Jacob: *skeptical look but still listening*

I pull out some baby pictures for effect. 

Me: "Look at this. You're sitting on the floor looking at supermarket flyers, just like Dad does, marker in hand. Now look at Ben. He's in his bouncy seat with a million toys attached to it, and what is he staring at?"

Jacob: "Me."

Me: "Here you are playing with your trains, and Ben is in his swing. What is he looking at?"

Jacob: "Me."

Me: "Like me and Dad, you've been a constant in his life since he was born. You've always been here, down on his level. You're a kid, like him, whereas we were the big adults. You're a boy, like him, where the other mainstay in his everyday world was me, a girl. He's been studying you since he could see, trying to figure out how to emulate you, and he still is. Only now you're a cool and talented teenager with lots of friends and he's a new freshman trying to find his way in high school. Of course he's going to copy you. You're living the best life and he's trying to figure out how to do the same. He loves you, Jacob. You're his awesome big brother, and always have been. He does these things because he wants your attention. But he's obnoxious because he doesn't want you to see how much it hurts when you dismiss him. He's hiding his vulnerability so you won't see his pain."

Well. This must have shocked Jacob because he didn't know what to say, other than, "Really?" He took some time to absorb it, and watch his brother to test my theory. 

What's happened since has been a seismic shift in the family dynamic. Jacob is patient with his brother, not short. He doesn't ignore Ben's questions as "coming from a little kid," but now seems to see them for what they are: a search for big-brother wisdom. They dab* and joke together. They work together in the morning--Jacob wakes Ben up and Ben does what he needs to to make sure they're out on time, since Jacob often drives them to school. Jacob suggests a stop at Dunkin' Donuts on the way to school, but it means getting up and leaving earlier; Ben rises to the challenge (no pun intended). This is a big deal because Ben is NOT a morning person. But at the request of his brother, he becomes one. 

The biggest change I've seen, though, is in the ripple effects in both boys. Ben's confidence is higher. He doesn't apologize all the time. He's not whiny. He seems more mature, and I know it's because he feels valued. Not just by his parents; their opinions don't mean the same thing. He feels valued and respected, in actions and words, by the person who most influences his life right now as he wades through the world of high school: his big brother. He's no longer playing the role of "annoying little sibling." He's less obnoxious, less guarded, more real.

Jacob also seems more confident. He's less defensive, and doesn't tense up when his brother's around, no longer waiting for the jab or interruption. No longer viewing himself as merely Ben's target for torment, he feels important because his brother cares deeply what he thinks and how he navigates the world. His actions have weight: someone important is watching and learning from them, so he is careful to make sure they matter, that they teach the right lessons. 

A family therapist I worked with once told me that helping to build the bond between siblings is the greatest gift a parent can give her children. At first I didn't really understand, but as I've grown older, I see how right she was. One day, my husband and I will be gone. All our boys will have left of our little family is each other. Each will be the only other person who remembers their shared childhood and the same family memories. How magical that they should be friends now, at this formative time of their lives. How inspiring that by shifting their views, they've come to understand each other's motives and thereby dropped their guards, no longer afraid to show their vulnerabilities. 

Yesterday Ben finally agreed to get a haircut (it was past time). When he was done, we went to the mall because he wanted a beanie. His brother has one and wears it all the time. Ben had tried it on and liked it, then decided he wanted one too. We looked at different patterns, styles and colors but in the end, he chose one exactly like his brother's. 

When he got home and showed his brother, Jacob didn't get angry that Ben was copying him. Instead, he gave him instructions on how to wear it, and this morning they left the house together in matching hats, their laughter echoing in the house long after they'd gone.

*Dab: To give a sharp nod to your raised forearm. Dance with sharp nods repeated. To acknowledge.

Living In A Post-Hope World

There's a lot of hate in the air since the election. Sadly, there's a lot in my house as well.

-I hate that my children had to keep asking me if I was OK because I randomly started crying every day right after the election was over;

-I hate that I have lost so much hope and optimism for myself and my family's future;

-I hate feeling afraid all the time, both for what this will mean for our nation as a whole and for everyone who is going to suffer under the new administration;

-I hate that the Electoral College effectively showed they didn't care that a person so completely unfit to lead our country is about to be handed power;

-I hate that more bad news about the people being hired for the administration comes out every day, and

-I hate that, although I need to look away for my own health and sanity, I struggle because when I do it feels like I'm ignoring the problem.

The new president-elect has effectively told the world that I suck at parenting. For seventeen years, I've been teaching my children to share, be kind, be respectful and earn respect through their own actions. I've taught them that 'hate' is a very strong and ugly word and we don't just throw it around (except maybe when talking about homework).

By electing a man who personifies and encourages all the behaviors I've told my children are unacceptable, my country has proven it's not the country I thought it was. It's not the world I thought I was preparing my children to live in. My America was the one where every parent taught their children these lessons, instilling in them and our society hope for a peaceful, respectful future full of possibility and problem solvers. Clearly I lived in a bubble. I hate that too.

My question to myself following this change is, what do I tell my children now? Now that a man who bullies others has been chosen to lead us all? Now, when they see other children on their school bus being teased, harassed or getting hateful comments thrown at them? Now, when the adults on the bus look the other way?

Our family is not one of color. My children are not female. We were all born here. This means that we are less likely to be targets of hate crimes. We are "safe". But really, we're not. Not when hatred and ugliness and a lack of civility and humanity surrounds us. Not when we no longer know who we can rely on to act as we do. My children are not bullies, but they need to be prepared to stand up to bullies now. Because they won't just be speaking up for themselves or even all children, but for all people--our friends and neighbors, their fellow classmates and even those they don't know.

I hate the uncertainty of our future.

I hate feeling disappointed in my country.

Most of all, I used to have hope for our society and its future, because we had leaders who were taking us in a positive, respectful direction. That's no longer the case. My hope is gone. I hate that I can't just "wait and see what happens" as people are telling me to do. I already see what's happening, and our new "leader" isn't even in office yet.

Hope has not served me well this year. 2017 will therefore be a year of action, in which I do my best to stamp out hate and maybe, maybe restore some hope.

Generational Convergence

Over the past few years, I've learned that the Heir is the grandson every senior citizen would love to have. He's a helper. He's patient. He's diplomatic and kind. And he knows technology. By volunteering at the library to help local senior citizens with their technology, he learned this too. E-readers? Ipads? Laptops? Printers? Cell phones? If you've got questions, he's got answers. Of course he was groomed by helping his own grandparents, so this seemed a natural transition. But I have to admit, the former IT Help Desk manager in me is very proud of his professionalism in dealing with strangers this way.

One day after work, he came home from the library and mentioned that he'd met a man who reminded him of his late Grandpa. 

The Heir: "He was really smart and sweet." 

Me: "Oh yes? What did he need? Were you able to help him?"

The Heir: "Yeah, I showed him how to set up a profile at an online dating site."

Me: ....

What struck me most about the conversation was that, to The Heir, this was no big deal. Just another day at work. But to me, it was surprising. Which of course begged the question, what does that say about me?

For one thing, senior dating sites exist for a reason. There's a demand and people older than me don't stop living and dating and loving just because they are widowed or divorced or... older than me. I admit none of this had ever crossed my radar. So I had to examine why. Was I stereotyping? Biased? Part of the problem in today's society that overlooks and underestimates the aging population on a regular basis?

The kindest answer that made the most sense is that my parents and in-laws all had marriages that lasted over 50 years. Till death did they part, in the case of my in-laws, and my parents are still alive and well and together. 

But the truthful answer is, I am blind to the needs of our population's seniors. I don't think about them because I don't have to. But that doesn't mean that I shouldn't. They are part of my community and, as my son's actions reminded me, can benefit from services and people in that community, including me.

I have no personal experience with seniors who want to date. The fact that options exist for them, and that this man was brave enough to go to the library and ask for help in utilizing said options, from a teenager no less, made me smile. 

I hope never to be in the situation where I need to date again. But if I am, I hope I have the guts to go outside my comfort zone as this man did. I hope to have the options my community offers its seniors, and that the teenager who helps me is as kind, patient and genuinely caring as the Heir was. 

And if I'm honest, I hope I'm lucky enough to meet a man like the one he met at the library. I'd love to tell him the story of how once, when he was a teenager, my son helped a stranger--and me--learn something new.

Take Cover

Even before I became a mother, I hoped for boys. I couldn't explain why I felt the way I did, other than the vague idea that "boys are easier to raise". I'd been a girl, after all. A girl who grew up in a house with a brother and lived next door to three male cousins. I spend my youth climbing trees, riding bikes, roller skating, drawing comic strips, burning bugs on the sidewalk with my magnifying glass, putting weird things under my microscope to see what they were, collecting stamps and coins and playing baseball, kickball and manhunt. 

In other words, I was a regular kid. Not a tomboy, though that's what they called it back then. I was a kid enjoying and experiencing my world. Having fun and learning stuff were my priorities. Easy.

Until I became a teenager. Then things got weird. Why? Why was everyone suddenly acting so strangely? My friends at school, male and female, changed. Not just physically, but in thought process. Suddenly it seemed like I was supposed to care about Jordache jeans and Adidas sneakers and Izod shirts and feathered hair and the right bands and the right lip gloss and the right way to kiss a boy.

Not only was I left WAY behind in all physical aspects of the high school changelings around me (another post for another day), I also felt like the only kid in school who didn't get the "how to be cool" memo. 

Suddenly the fact that I liked climbing trees, reading J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis and going fishing felt like something I shouldn't talk about. And it sucked.

Of course, back then I felt like the one who was losing out. The things other girls were interested in never interested me, and I didn't read magazines like Teen Beat to try to get the scoop. I just retreated into books. It's only now, when I look back, that I see I was actually doing OK and the kids trying to keep up with the popular crowd were the ones losing out. When you try to keep up, there's always something you're not doing that "everyone else is" doing. Drinking, drugs, sex, whatever was rumored to be the "in" thing was what it took to stay cool and ahead of the crowd.

Now I have two sons. One's a boy scout, and he gets Boys' Life magazine every month. Above is the cover that arrived this week. In case you can't read the main story description, here it is:

EXPLORE YOUR FUTURE: Astronaut? Artist? Firefighter? Chef? Here's How to Be What You Want To Be

The issue also includes articles on traversing glaciers on a hike, combating food waste with easy recipes, true stories of scouts in action who saved others' lives, a drawing lesson, a rock climbing lesson, a twig picture frame building lesson, comics, jokes and more.

All I know of the Girls' Life magazine are the cover stories I see listed:

-Fall Fashion You'll Love
-Wake Up Pretty
-Your Dream Hair
-My First Kiss
-Quiz: Are you ready for a boyfriend?

Can I just say, now and as a teen, I would rather read the Boys' Life? There are SO MANY INTERESTING THINGS to read about! My curiosity is piqued by every article. And just think of all the things I'd have to talk about at the lunch table tomorrow!

I admit I'm still glad I have boys, especially because this type of publication is available and marketed to them. But I'm also really sad that in the thirty-some-odd years since I was a teen, girls' magazines have clearly progressed not at all. What are we telling girls is important? Worth reading about? Talking about? Caring about? Spending money on? Nothing of substance. Nothing that will make them interested in their world, curious about possibilities for their futures or that will feed their souls. 

By selling magazines to girls that perpetuate the idea that the superficial is what matters, our society is doing girls and boys a disservice. Girls will have nothing worthwhile to think, talk or dream about and boys will find it difficult to relate to them on any real level.

It's 2016, for crying out loud. Parents, can we please push back on this type of thing and force publishers and marketers to get with the times? Write letters! Get on Twitter and voice your opinion! Boycott these "fluff" publications and explain to your daughters and sons why their content is useless!

And while you're at the store bashing the trash, pick up a copy of Boys' Life for your favorite girl. She'll love you for it. Maybe not today, but down the road.

Just a guess.

Riding Shotgun

Perhaps because I'm an avid fan of historical fiction, I've begun referring to my sons as "the Heir" and "the Spare".  Their recent antics consisted of the Spare taking baby octopus for lunch to camp one day so he could freak out the other kids. He'd hoped the fried anchovies would be an even bigger hit, but instead, the other campers banned him from the table because of the fishy smell. Live and learn.

Monday, the Heir passed his road test the first time out. He can now drive, unsupervised, until 9pm. Legally. But that doesn't mean I'm ready to let him take my car. I've been sitting shotgun while he drives himself to work, picks up the Spare from camp, gets milk, etc.

Until today.

This morning I asked him if he felt ready to take the Spare to camp. Alone. He nonchalantly said, "sure," even though he's been clearly frustrated at my need to tag along lately. And so, short on sleep and prior to coffee, I gave him the keys and watched them leave.

That's right. I put MY ENTIRE TEENAGE BROOD IN A BOX ON WHEELS, AND LET THEM DRIVE OFF WITHOUT ME.

Once the coffee kicked in, I started wondering what was taking him so long to get back. Then the customized "Heir" ringtone chimed on my phone. Oh my god, he's driving and texting did I teach him NOTHING I can't believe I ever..." 

*looks at phone* 

"I'm parked at the community center. Do you want me to go get gas?"

"....

Sure, if you're comfortable with that."

"OK, see you soon."

I never wanted to be a helicopter parent, and I think I've done a pretty good job so far (big kudos to my husband for keeping me grounded in that regard). I also look forward to becoming a couple again when the kids are off on their own. The Heir will leave next summer, and the Spare will be three years behind him. It's like a light at the long parenting tunnel. As in, "yay, no more noisy, stinky housemates!"

But with all the recent college visits and driving lessons, I find my grip tightening instead of loosening. The Heir and I are fighting a lot. I expect more from him and he resists with more vehemence. Gotta admit, I kinda hate it.

Apparently, this is part of the process of letting go. Hold tight, and he will push harder to get away. He won't be afraid to leave. On the contrary, he'll look forward to it. He'll fight back so much, I'll *wish* he would go. He wants to be independent as much as I want him to be. And yet. Though I know it'll be good for everyone, and we're both looking forward to it, we haven't lost sight of the fact that it'll be a huge change. Even when we're fighting, we still understand, deep down, what it will really mean: he won't need me anymore.

I think back to the Heir's toddlerhood, of showing him how to do something and then having him take the toy from my hand and say, "I do it." It's happening again. Only this time, he's taking the car.

I'll get through it, I always do. And I feel just as proud as I did when he was little and learning and doing on his own.

Wasn't that just, like, last month?

Live and learn.

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.