Dear Teenager.....

We're in the home stretch now, kiddo.  Only four months left until you graduate. Add a few more days to that, and you'll (finally!) be 18. Where have the years gone?

You were my first personal miracle; given to me when science had said you never would be; given to me again when medical experts said you should have been taken in that fall from the window.  You were my starter baby, my guinea pig, my "grow up quick" guide to adulthood. You were all that often kept me locked to reality when you were a baby; you still often are.  You were the highlight of my existence in those early years. You helped me remember that what I did mattered to someone. That I mattered to someone.

When your brother came along, you might possibly have been more excited than I was. Well, after you accepted that we weren't going to exchange the baby for a puppy.  You were my little helper, feeding him and keeping him happy.  You used to love it when he trailed around after you, and even though you will never admit it now, I think you still secretly smile when he talks about how awesome he thinks you are.

You never really were one of those difficult children that so many parents get to experience. You've always been loving, generous and open with your affection. Remember that afternoon you proudly called out to me from the street where you were riding bikes with your friends "Love you, Mom!"; and how they teased you? Do you remember your response? "What? Don't you guys love YOUR moms?" 

You have turned into one of the most amazing young men I've ever been blessed to know.  You are honest beyond measure, trustworthy, reliable, and still so amazingly generous with your love and affection.  If you care about someone, they know it without a shadow of a doubt. Your friends admire your dedication to making the right decisions, and your commitment to following through on your choices. Your little brother STILL knows he can count on you to steer him in the right direction, whether you want to--or even know you're doing it--or not.  Adults seek you out, because they know that when you say you'll do something, you'll do it. Even your dad and I know that; even if the dishes are still done with a little bit of grumbling.

Son, you are, without a moment's doubt, one of the very best parts of my life; of me. You are the keeper of a very special section of my heart that has belonged only to you since the doctor told me you existed when everything else said you shouldn't have.  You make me prouder than proud; more proud than I ever realized I could be. I am proud of who you were, more proud of who you've become, and I can't even fathom how proud I will be of who you will continue to grow into.

From singing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" when you were three, to our weekly "dates" after your football games in high school, you have given me more memories than anyone would have ever believed a heart could hold. I can only hope that I have given you just as many to take with you on your journey into adulthood. 

I don't just love you, baby, I adore you.....

--Mama

I'm Really Not That Naive

I've often been accused of walking around wearing blinders, and of being ridiculously naive, when it comes to raising my boys. People want to believe that I am absolutely clueless about what they may or may not be getting into, just because I choose to believe the best of them.

Does this mean that I'm not aware that my boys swear with a mouth that is just begging to be disinfected? Does it mean that I was completely blindsided when the Teenager made the decision to take up private modeling to an audience of one specific person?  Does it mean that I have absolutely no idea what an obnoxious individual my Bug can be?  Does it mean that I don't hear the many times they both have told me to take a running leap off the nearest cliff?

No. What it means is that I take a moment each time something happens (even if that moment is several moments later) to remind myself that they are only 12 and 17. To remind myself that I, too, was once only 12 and then 17.  To remember that no matter how old they look, or how quickly they are being forced to grow up in a world that simply has no patience for children anymore, they are still just little boys.

Little boys who are stuck between building imaginary worlds with Legos and building actual lives they'll need to step into. Boys who are caught somewhere between a fear of catching cooties from a girl and the realization that cooties are not a bad thing if it means being close enough to breathe in her shampoo.  Boys who go from thinking mom is their favorite girl in the world to forgetting that they're leaving their favorite girl at home in favor of the ones who suddenly make their hormones jump, shower and wear cologne.

No, I see all of these things. I know they're happening. I sit there, struggling to hold onto my little boys and feeling them pull away, leaving me grasping at fingertips.  I hear the hateful words when they don't have the patience or the knowledge to use less hurtful ones to make their point in any discussion. And I watch them make choices I never would have made for them.  I'm not naive, I'm not clueless, I'm not wearing blinders.

I'm choosing to look past it all, and see that my boys are doing the best that they can to grow into the best men they can grow into. I hear them tell me they hate me, but I feel them telling me that they love me enough to give me their heartache, anger and frustrations, and trust that I will believe in them anyway.

Because I do love them enough to believe in them anyway. Always.

His Teachers Might Want to Take a Self Defense Course or Two if They Keep This Up

If one more teacher at that high school sends something to me via email that even references the sentence "Senior year is almost half over!"..... well, I won't be held responsible for my actions. Actions that could very well include things like wailing like a banshee, pulling someones hair out (not my own, though; I'm rather partial to it), breaking very important typing fingers or kicking them in the shins (which, let's face it, is what these teachers should expect for reminding mamas all over the school district that their babies are growing up and leaving them), followed by a rousing game of Hide and Seek, where eventually everyone will find me curled into a tight little ball with his baby pictures surrounding me.  Or something like that.

In my saner (more sane? eh *shrug*) moments, I realize that despite my best efforts this boy is going to grow up. He is going to grow into a man that is not going to be living with his mother. With any sort of luck or careful thinking on his part, he will become a man who lives on his own first, so as to learn how to care for himself and not rely solely on batting his beautiful golden lion's eyes at someone to get them to cook for him.

And so I remind myself that he needs to learn to cook.  I even force myself to make him do it on occasion, too.  For example, last week he made the most amazing turkey-vegetable soup. We all had seconds! And there are no leftovers still in the fridge! Oh, bonus... he used the crock pot to perform this amazing feat!  Woohoo....go me! I've ensured my boy can make more than just ramen noodles and scrambled eggs (although, he does that in the microwave; does it really count?)!

And we'll just keep quiet about the part of this story where I should 'fess up to the fact that the only reason he made dinner in the first place is that I forgot to put everything together and into the crock pot before I left for work that morning and called him when he got home from school to ask for his help. And walked him through every step.  And laughed myself silly when I hung up the phone because he uttered this sentence:

Celery salt....Season salt... it's all the same thing. Salt's salt, right?

I'm actually hoping we get to have many more conversations like that when he does eventually move out; for two reasons. One, it will mean that even though he's grown he still wants to turn to me for advice.

Two? Well, maybe my cooking is *quite* as bad as I'm fairly certain it is......

The Final Countdown

Dear Teenager...

I'm sure you haven't noticed it yet, and I'm equally convinced it will come as a total shock to you, but you start school in just nine days. In nine very short days, you will *officially* enter your very last year (Math-gods willing) of high school. In nine days, you will be looked upon by underclassmen as that most revered of all high school creatures. A Senior.

Let's ignore for the moment what an emotionally turbulent year this is going to be for me, the Mama Who Should Have Been Smart Enough To Invest In Kleenex and Hershey's When You Were Born. No, let's look instead at what this year means to you, The Boy Who Too Quickly Has Grown Into A Man.

This is going to be the last year you have someone to look at when you discover, an hour past when you wanted to go to bed, that your athletic uniform still needs to be washed for tomorrow and Please, Mom? Will you wash it for me?

This is going to be the last year you won't have to worry about what's for dinner, because it's already been planned for you. On the upside of that, though, this is also going to be the last year you have to do dishes for anyone other than yourself.

The last year you have to conform to anyone else's schedule; you'll get to make your own. The last year of mandatory room cleaning. And as exciting as all of this surely sounds to you, I hope you remember a few other things as well.

This is your last year of never being lonely, because there is always someone else around. The last year of knowing with absolute certainty that I will be at every important event in your life (because I somehow have my doubts that your future supervisor will not only hold a celebration when you get that promotion, he'll give me plenty of advance notice so that I can arrange my schedule to be there. Early, and with my ever-present camera.).

But honey, there's something else I want you to remember; especially when confronted with those unexpected moments of loneliness and dirty laundry.  I will never have loved you more than I do at that precise moment. And I will always answer my phone to tell you just that.

Even if you still just text instead of call.

Love you always,

Mom

I'm Going to Buy Stock in Kleenex and Make Millions for Myself

There comes a point in every mother's life when it smacks her right in the face that her baby isn't such a baby any longer. Actually, there are several of those points in a mother's life. However, there is always ONE moment when you really and truly acknowledge it and stop running in the opposite direction screaming "NO NO NO.... my baby is TOO still a baby!!"

I think I may have run straight into that moment this weekend. (Personally, I think that moment is a sneaky moment, and while you are busy running away from all of the other moments, it creeps along the alley right next to you....waiting for the perfect moment to plant itself in front of you when you're not looking. And then BAM! Knocks you flat on your backside.)

I may or may not have mentioned here at some point that Mouse is back. (You'll have to search my blog for her; there's just a couple too many times I've mentioned her for me to want to link them all.)  The Teenager has been hung up on her All. Year. Long. Apparently, persistence and friendship have paid off for him. I've gotten used to the idea of him having girlfriends. I've accustomed myself to seeing him hold hands with someone, and give her a small kiss goodnight. I'm even able to stop myself from separating them on the sofa and sit myself between them when she's over at our house hanging out.  But this time around? I think she's a bit more important.

He's asked me to take her along when I drop him off at the airport next week for his visit with his grandma. He's asked me to bring her when I pick him up. (Really....he'll only be gone for 4 days. Sheesh.) He brings her to Bug's baseball games. And they laid on the sofa together and he just held her, lightly stroking her arm, while they watched movies at my house this weekend. The really hard part, though, was when she curled into him and they fell asleep.

When did my baby, my beautiful little boy with big brown eyes who slept with stuffed animals and Mickey Mouse sheets, grow into this man?  And how in the world am I supposed to let him go?

You're Gonna Like The Way You Look......

As I stood next to my teenager tonight in "the" place to rent tuxedos this prom season, I caught myself watching how other moms were handling this milestone in their sons' lives.  Each of the boys was clueless, that was a given. But it was the moms I found myself studying. You could almost guarantee which moms had done this before a time or two, which ones were walking this path with their final babies, and which ones were trying to wade through this quicksand for the first time.

Had anyone warned them? I wondered. Warned them about how amazingly difficult it was going to be to watch their babies morph into young men?  Something happens to a boy when he puts a tuxedo on for the first time. Your son can wear all of the grown up clothes in the world, never shave his face at all so that he ends up looking like Wolverine if you catch sight of him out of the corner of your eye, date different girls and give out all the goodnight doorstep kisses ever imagined; but when he shrugs on that jacket......suddenly, he's gone from this:

To this:

And you find yourself standing in the middle of the tuxedo rental department, watching a trained salesperson measure your son's neck, chest and arms; helping him pick the perfect shade of silver vest to match the accents in her dress; with big 'ole crocodile tears in your eyes.

I miss my baby. But I adore the young man he's turned into.




Hosted by Cecily and Mamarazzi

Our Butterfly Effect

It occurs to me that I do more thinking about life, and how choices and actions affect not just your own but those around you as my children get older.

I was sitting in the stands this weekend, talking to the Teenager’s best friend, Junior. We were watching Jock compete in a decathlon. (Side note: holy heck that is a grueling competition! The athletes were all jelly by the time things were done!) As Junior and I sat there, I could see that something was bothering him. He’s normally a pretty cheerful kid when he’s around us, but this time something was off. Being the nosy mom that I am, I asked.

Wanna know something pretty cool? He actually told me.

Anyway, turns out that Junior was fighting with his parents. And stressing over where his life is headed, what direction it should go, and the fact that he just doesn’t know WHAT he wants to do with it. He wants to make a difference, but he just doesn’t see how he ever can or will. Junior’s told me before how my Teenager has been a good influence on him, getting him to stop doing self-destructive things just by watching the choices Jock was making in his own life. Being the clever meddler that I am, I shamelessly used my boy as an example of how you can make a difference without being the center of the World’s attention.

I told him that although the Teenager might not have the most book smarts, he pushes himself to do the best he can do so that he can play sports. He has a goal in mind for his life, and knows there are certain things he has to do to get there. He is determined, he is focused, and he is stubborn. And then I asked Junior what he thought Bug thought of his big brother. He idolizes him, he told me. Wants to be just like him.

Now, take Bug’s book smarts and creativity, combined with Jock’s determination, focus and stubbornness. Do you see the possibilities for Bug? What if Bug goes on in life to invent something that changes the course of someone’s life? Do you realize that would be because he was trying to follow his brother’s example of making the right life choices? Junior, everyone – EVERYONE – touches someone else’s life. Everyone creates a ripple effect. Your choice is simply whether or not you want your ripples to be positive or negative.

Junior and I talked for just a bit longer, and I told him that when we dropped him off at his house after the meet he needed to go and make things right with his mother. Moms put up with a lot of crap from most of the world; we shouldn’t have to put up with it at home. He told Jock later that I had really gotten to him, and that the first thing he did when he walked in the door was to apologize to his mom and tell her he loved her.

I’ve talked before about my conviction that everyone influences people. I am so proud of my boys for the positive ripples they create on a daily basis.

Little Bits

I witnessed what might arguably (wow does that word look funny all typed out!) be one of the sweetest acts of brotherhood to come out of my oldest son the other day. There is a bully in our neighborhood. A bully that is just slightly older than Bug. A bully who decided that it was fine for him to talk smack, but not for Bug to talk it right back. A bully who decided that he could just haul off and punch my kid in the face for no reason other than Bug stood up to him. A bully who is very lucky that Bug didn't know where he lived, exactly, because when Bug came home sporting a bright red cheekbone.....his big brother stood up, put his shoes on, and declared he was going to "have a talk" with this bully.

See, here's the deal. Its fine, expected even, for Jock to pick on Bug. But it just ain't cool for anyone else to do it.

And in a related snippet..... when I told that teenager that he just couldn't go have a little talk with a kid in the 8th grade, he looked at me and pouted that I was ruining his fun. "Mom," he said. "You're a ruiner."

I would talk to his English teacher about what they're learning, but I'm just too happy he was protecting his little brother.

_______________________________________

When Jock recently heard me state that it was so much more painful to sit by and watch his heart being broken than it ever was to have my own broken, he explained why that was with a very confident, no hesitation at all, response:  It's because I'm your kid, and you love me more than you love yourself.

Smart kid, that boy. 

Which is probably why I am not upset at all that my kitchen right now resembles some strange combination of art studio/greenhouse. There is an upside down, pointed tip cut off to leave an opening, hanging (or not so much anymore) moss basket mounted on a square wooden board that has been covered in plaster of paris to harden it so that it can be painted and surrounded by some other forms of nature, sitting right in the middle of the counter on the kitchen island.

He smiled while creating that mess. And was teasing me with the plaster spreader thing. Everyone knows when you start smiling at messes like that, and threatening your mother with plaster spreader thingies,  you're heart is maybe hurting just a little bit less.

The Chapter of The Parenting Handbook They Left Out

Have you ever really, I mean REALLY thought about some of the movies and TV shows that you've always found the funniest? Not the ones that were necessarily approved by your parents when you were younger (although I could just about guarantee that when you weren't around they were laughing at least as hard as you were at them); but the ones that made you laugh the most.  There was always an element in them that you somehow recognized and identified with, right?  Something that made you think Yeah! My life is JUST like that!

Movies like the American Pie series or Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Maybe you still sneak in a viewing of Risky Business or Ferris Bueller's Day Off from time to time?  Or just about any John Hughes movie from the 80's.  Or maybe you find yourself laughing at each rerun you catch of That 70's Show when it's on five times a night on various cable channels.  Perhaps part of the appeal to these shows and movies is that, for a time, you can remember what it was like to be a teenager. You can remember thinking about nothing but should I or shouldn't I? when it came to sex or certain drugs. You can think back and laugh at how easy it seemed to hide the fact that you were growing up and were no longer a little baby from your parents.

And you continued laughing. Right up until the day it dawned on you that YOU were now a parent of a teenager. A teenager who, along with his friends, stangely and very closely resembles the teenage characters on these shows and in these movies. A teenager who (cue the horror film music here) most likely is thinking near constantly about sex, certain drugs, and how easy it is to hide the fact that he's no longer a baby.

I am beyond thankful that when I ask him, he answers honestly. Do I sometimes get answers that, as his mother, I might rather not actually know? Sure. But I still ask. Does he look at me and tell me it's really kinda awkward to be telling his mother these things? Yeah. But he still tells me. So I tell him how glad I am that he trusts me enough to be honest with me, and he tells me how glad he is that I care enough to be nosy.

Even if I can't laugh at a scene in That 70's Show without a certain amount of queasiness these days.




Hosted by Cecily and Emily

Post Game Pieces

After the game on Thursday, while waiting for Jock to come out of the locker room, I was standing with my sister-in-law and killing time. We're standing in the middle of a fairly large crowd of parents and teenagers, when my SIL says to me "Hey... that girl's got Jock's number on her cheek. Do you know her?"

No. No I didn't. And the immediate response from the mama in me was to wonder just who the heck was this girl who was so proudly proclaiming her support for my son? My reaction to that response won't win me any additional points in the Mom of the Year contest, at least in the Offspring Voting category. But it WAS kind of fun....

I walked right up to her, smiled, and said "Excuse me. I know you don't know me, but you've got my son's number on your cheek. And I have no idea who you are."

She smiled, blushed, and stammered "Oh.... I'm a friend of his and he asked me to wear his number!"

"And that's great, I'm glad you support him. But.... Who.Are.You?"

And then she told me her name. Which I actually recognized as someone he talks about and to frequently. I laughed, and told her I'd be sure to tell Jock that I embarrassed her. When I talked to him about it, he admitted that they're kinda crushing on each other right now, so we'll see where it goes.

She really is a cute little brunette with darling dimples when she smiles. And she's the first girl EVER who has come to watch him play. I think this one might be okay.

____________________________________

Speaking of that game on Thursday, Jock told me something else that night.

At one point in the game, there was a 15 yard dead ball personal foul penalty called on the opposing team. The defensive player had shoved himself off my boy AFTER the play while he was still on the ground. The ref saw it, and called it. It's what the ref DIDN'T see that Jock was telling me about later.

Apparently, this kid was all kinds of a wienie, and when he was shoving off Jock, he shoved his hand right through that face mask and into Jock's face. And so my son? Bit his hand.

You saw that right. He. Bit. Him.

There is a part of me that is appalled at that. I mean, you don't just go around biting people. Certainly not when you're 16 years old. But another part of me? The more competitive, don't-be-putting-your-stupid-hands-in-my-boy's-face part of me?

Thinks that if you are dumb enough to put your hand in there on purpose, you deserve the teeth marks.

Do you think that thought redeems myself from asking strange girls why they're wearing my son's number on their face?

There Is Victory In Defeat

Tonight is definitely a very bittersweet night.

You all remember that Thursdays are game nights around here, right? And maybe you've picked up on the little part where we've won every game this season? Oh, and last season. And the season before that. Yeah, two years (plus) undefeated.

Until tonight. Tonight, we lost our first game in over two seasons. And that, my friends? Was a bitter pill to swallow for those boys who have been on each of these undefeated teams. We lost not because we were up against a better team, although that might be possible. No, we lost because, quite simply, we did not play like a winning team. It doesn't matter that there were a handful of boys who played their hearts out. A team is more than just those handful of boys. And when parts of the team fall apart, the whole of the team suffers. And so we lost the first high school football game since we started high school.

Have you ever witnessed anything more heartbreaking than 16 and 17 year old boys walking off the field in tears? Tears. Unashamed, unembarrassed, heartfelt heartbreak.

BUT. And you knew there'd be a "but", right?

Jock was the last player off the field tonight. He walked off with the coaches and headed into the locker room. When he came out, there was something just a bit different about him.

He had a pair of purple football pants around his neck.

Let me explain the significance of that. The Freshman and JV teams do not wear purple football pants. No. Purple football pants are worn by one team only at this school. The Holy Grail of teams. The Varsity.

Once again, based on his performance alone and not because of anything else, my boy has earned a spot on that holiest of teams. He isn't up there just because he's a Junior. He isn't up there just because he played on the coaches Pee Wee league teams for years. No. He's going up there because he's EARNED a spot. And so tomorrow, we will be playing under those revered Friday Night Lights.

And that, my friends? Is the sweet part.

Hosted by Cecily and Linds

Who Can You Blame?

I will be the first to admit that I talk a lot. A lot. Really, a lot. And I've even been guilty of over sharing, on occasion. Although, in my defense, that usually only happens with my friends. Oh, and here. But you're all my friends, right? However, I generally am able to refrain from over sharing with strangers in the grocery store, in the checkout line right behind me. I mean, there are simply some people you probably shouldn't immediately consider your bestest friend in the whole wide world; and some places where some discussions just aren't comfortable. And not just because I was busy stretching myself across the conveyor belt, placing my groceries in some semblance of order for the check out girl. (No, I don't just randomly throw my groceries up onto that belt. Yes, I arrange them somewhat. Who wants their can goods tossed in with their bread and eggs? And I keep my price matching items at the end, so that the checker has less of an opportunity to get it wrong and overcharge me. And yes, I realize my control issues are deep rooted. Wah.)

While in the checkout line at the grocery store a few days ago, the lady behind me remarked on the sheer amount of food I had in there. You must have a big family! (Okay, really? Why assume that I have a ton of kids just because I happen to have 5 boxes of cereal, 6 gallons of milk, 2 loaves of bread, 4 packages of lunch meat, and the really big box of Flavor Blasted Goldfish?) I just looked at her and said No. Teenager. Which, apparently, is a universal code for Ahh, yes. THAT would be the only acceptable reason for a butt load of food if you don't have eight kids! I also mentioned that he's on the football team, to which I got a commiserating smile in return.

She then went on to tell me all about how her step-son, when he was still in high school, had been in all sorts of trouble with the law. To the tune of $20,000 in legal expenses. And that was just THEIR share. She had no idea what this boy's mother had kicked in to help pay for his legal education. She told me about his history of robbery and car theft. About his drug use. About his no-good friends who dragged him down into it. About how frustrated and saddened she was that this boy was such a dedicated follower, and had no leadership abilities. She was just thankful that he had found himself a nice girlfriend, now, so he could follow her and not these friends.

That was a lot of information to give me, a total stranger, about her life. Her son's life. And after I sympathized with her, and remarked how blessed I was with my teenager, I finished up at the store and went home. Where I kept thinking back to this conversation. While this certainly wasn't the first time I've been smacked with this realization, I once again took a minute to reflect on how fortunate I am to have the teenager I have. He's active in school activities, he studies hard, he's polite and respectful to his elders and to anyone of the female gender, and he's still affectionate to his mother.

That night, I told him so. He came out to sit by me on the sofa, and I put my arm around him and rested my head on his shoulder. (Side note: it's kinda bittersweet that my baby is big enough now that I'm the one putting MY head on HIS shoulder, rather than the other way around) I looked up at him, kissed his cheek, and said I'm proud of you.

For what, Mom?

Just for being you, I said. You're a good kid and a hard worker, and that's something to be proud of.

He paused for a moment, shrugged his shoulders and replied Well, it's your fault. You're raising me.

You know what? If I have to be blamed for something, I think I'm okay with being blamed for sending a pretty decent young man out into the world.

Support With No Reservations

Eight years ago tomorrow, my children's futures changed in ways that I still cannot even begin to imagine. Eight years ago, my oldest son was only 8 years old. Fully half of his life has been spent under a cloud of uncertainty regarding how life will be when he's grown. Eight years ago, he wasn't thinking beyond who to play with at recess, or where to sit at lunch. Today, he's spending more time thinking about just where his future will take him, and what direction he should take when he finally reaches that fork in the road that happens when you graduate from high school. He'll reach that fork, that moment when he has to make a choice on his destination, in two short--very short--years.

More and more often, Jock has been leaning towards a destination that travels right through some time spent in military service. The Marine Corps, specifically. Does he still want to play football? Absolutely. Does he still want to go to college? Definitely. Does he still want to choose SWAT police officer as his lifetime career? Beyond a doubt. Has he decided that the route through the Marine Corps is the best one to take him there? It is certainly beginning to look that way. He tells me that the Marines will pay for college. I know that. He tells me that he'll still be able to play football while he's enlisted. I'm not sure of the details, but I'm sure he'll figure something out on that score. He tells me that the training he'll get while in the Marines will prove invaluable when he enrolls in the Police Academy and takes the further steps of becoming a SWAT officer. I can't argue that point.

Am I 100%, with no reservations, comfortable with this particular life path that he could choose? That is a loaded question.

I have always, ALWAYS, supported my children in their decisions. Not only supported them, but actively encouraged them to make their own decisions based on information they, themselves, have gathered. I also have always, ALWAYS, been an active supporter of our military forces. Both my brothers have served in the military; one in the Army, one in the Navy. My dad was a Marine. Heck, when I was Jock's age, I was determined to join the Air Force.

Of course, when I was Jock's age the world wasn't in quite the same shape it is today.

I'm surprised, actually, at the difference it makes that he's my son. My baby. My little boy. My heart. And yet, I'm not surprised. After all, if I could keep this kid surrounded by nothing by peace and harmony, without experiencing a broken heart or any disappointment, I'd certainly try. So why should it be surprising to want to protect him as long as I could, from as much as I could? Despite knowing that I simply can't.

Do I feel in my heart that he believes in HIS heart that the decisions he makes are the best ones he could make? Do I believe in his abiility to think through all aspects of any situation he faces? Do I trust that I have raised him to think clearly, look thoroughly into and beyond any momentary glory?

Yes, I do.

And so I have to say that while I may never be comfortable with his decisions to immerse himself in places and careers that leave him vulnerable to hurts, heartache, disappointment and danger; I can 100%, without reservations, support, encourage, believe in and trust him.

Hosted by Cecily and MamaGeek

They Can Teach Me, Too

Here we are, Junior year of high school. We're still playing football! Since our school doesn't actually "cut" in most of the sports, we don't even have to worry too much about what team we're playing on. We know we're at least as good as some of the other guys playing up on Varsity, so we're pretty confident that's where we're going to be. Sure, we'd get more reps in certain positions we play if we played down on JV, which would ultimately make us a stronger player (especially next year, when as a Senior it will really matter!); but hey! It's VARSITY! And that's where we want to be. That's where we deserve to be.

Gah. Reading through that paragraph literally causes my stomach to clench. I get tense and all stressed out, and do you know why? Go back and read through that paragraph again, and see if you catch just what is being said that is making me wonky.

Did you catch it? Read it again.... slower this time. And pay special attention to all use of any pronouns.

Get it yet?

Yep. That persistent use of the word "WE".

Now, regardless of whether or not you know me as an actual, live person or not, I will confess something here. I, The Sports Mama, have never--not once--donned a pair of football pads. I've never even tried on a helmet. Not even for a Halloween costume. And despite the fact that Jock once mentioned at a Thanksgiving dinner that he was thankful he got his athletic talent from me, I'm definitely not really in the running to EVER put on a football uniform. Ever. So why on earth am I including myself in what he does or doesn't do on the field?

As parents, I think we're all guilty at one time or another of trying to live vicariously through our children. If you try to tell me that you don't do that, I'm just going to remind you that you don't have a teenager yet. Trust me. When your child is old enough, you WILL try to relive certain moments (or live them for the first time if you didn't get to do it when you were that age) as they grow up. For Coach and I, we apparently try to live through our boys athletic prowess. It's easy enough to do, as our boys really are athletically talented. What we don't factor in often enough is that OTHER parents have children who are just as talented as our boys. Well, in their opinion, anyway. However, we keep being smacked in the face with the fact that the coaches? Are actually (mostly) impartial. And they really do (mostly) make the decisions that are best for the team.

So when Jock explained to me that he was pulled back down to JV for this season, at least to start off, he waited for me to finish my "but-you're-every-bit-as-good-as-those-other-boys-and-I-can't-believe-THAT-one-is-still-on-Varsity-when-you're-not-and-why-are-you-not-more-upset-about-this" spiel. Quite patiently, actually. And then he looked at me, asked if I was done, and very calmly said

Mom, I'm ok with it. I actually would PREFER to be down at JV right now. At least there, I get to start instead of riding the Varsity bench.

He might as well have had the words I'M OK WITH IT printed on a towel and smacked me across the face with it. That stunned me that much. Which made me realize a few things. One, (and this one shocked me) I'm not the one playing, he is. Two, if he's ok with it, I need to be. And three, he's got a good point. Where is the glory in being on the Varsity if you never get to play? Wouldn't anyone rather be one of the stars of the JV team, if it means playing time? He's guaranteed a starting spot, and has been approached by mulitple coaches at that level about how they are so glad he's down there, they can definitely use his ability and his leadership skills to strengthen what could be a not-so-strong JV team. And in making this move graciously, he's proving to the coaches that he is willing to do what it takes to be an asset to the program, and to strengthen himself.

(On a side note, I'm discovering I can spin just about anything to make him look good to a college recruiter. I should hire myself out to other parents, no?)

And then he reminded me that football is NOT what he wants his career to be. He's been planning for a while now to go into law enforcement. So for him, football is something he enjoys that he would like to continue playing in college; but it's not his life.

I can read between the lines there; and he's telling me to back off. I get it. And he's right. Besides, I remember how much I just love watching him PLAY. And now I get to do that a little more this season.

Who knew that one of the hardest things about parenting a teenager would be simply letting them enjoy the life they are living?

I Need To Work On My Coping Skills

I've always been an emotional person. Some might even say I am overly emotional. I know Coach thinks I am. Eh. Oh well. It's a side of myself that I embraced long ago.

Tonight was the night we went up to the high school and picked up Jock's schedule and textbooks for this upcoming year. Nothing there to get emotional about, right? Most people would agree with you. Unless of course you know me. Then you suspect that there was bound to be SOMETHING that would tug at my heart and make me all weepy. And if you know me, you would have been absolutely right.

We were handed the emergency contact information along with the class schedule, and told to look over it and make any necessary changes. Okay, everything looked fine there. Then we were handed some form or other to sign, an authorization for technology use, I think. What it was didn't really matter, though. What mattered was the information I needed to put on there.

Student name? Check. Student ID? Check. Student Grade? Oh mercy. 11th grade.

When I saw what I had written, I looked over at my handsome boy. I can no longer say I looked down at him. I guess I didn't really even look over at him. I looked UP at him. (Which I will tell you, made this entire thing worse somehow.) I looked up at him, pointed to the paper, and told him that writing that number there was probably one of the more difficult things I'd done recently. So his friend pipes up about how I'll only have to do that one more time next year, and then it will all be over and Jock won't need me anymore.

After I mentally punched this kid in the nose (because OF COURSE I would never ACTUALLY punch someone in the nose, especially if that someone was 20 years younger than I am and a sometime friend of one of my children), I pointed out a small fact that he would do well to remember. Pointing out that the time when a child will no longer need his mother, to that mother, is a bad idea of epic proportions; as it triggers mom tears. To which Jock pointed out, grinning the whole time, that no one wants to deal with mom tears.

That grin and the dimples he was blessed with are the only things that saved him from being punched in the nose. (Okay, fine. The grin, the dimples AND the fact that I don't punch my children in the nose. Sheesh.)

Emotional does not always mean tears. Sometimes it means someone gets punched in the nose.

One Step Closer

School is out for my boys in just two days. Technically, only one since the next two days are only half days. Do you know what that means?

In three days, my baby will be in middle school. He's one step farther from being a baby, and one step closer to being a young man. He's also more determined to find a girlfriend next year. Ugh.

In three days, my oldest baby will be a Junior in high school. He's one step closer to graduating and becoming an adult. He's also more likely to find a girlfriend who doesn't try to compete with football and baseball, and who makes him actually fall in *gulp* love. Double Ugh.

And as an added bonus? In just seven days, I get to start getting up at the butt crack of dawn, aka 4:30 AM, to cart Jock's non-driving self (because he STILL hasn't read the whole Driver's Manual, which means he can't get his permit, which he has to have for 6 months before he can get his actual license.....despite the fact that this boy will be 16 in just three (3!!) short weeks) to Varsity weights every stinkin' morning. All. Summer. Long.

I would suggest you send a relief package full of chocolate, but it's summer in Arizona. Even nuts melt here right now. You can, however, just shoot me. I have it on good authority that those long range super soaker water guns? Are awesome.

The Trip From Birth to 18

In the beginning, when you have your first child, you're so excited. You drag that poor, defenseless little baby around with you everywhere. You show him off to anyone who chances to look in his direction, expounding on all the wonderful baby things he can do. You arrange your schedule around time spent with him, and more often than not find yourself making up excursions just to take him somewhere. You love holding him, hugging him all the time, and never wanting to put him down or let him go.

Somewhere around the toddler/early childhood years, you begin yearning for those days when you had a few minutes to yourself. You only feel a little guilty for leaving him with Dad or Grandma so that you can go to the grocery store alone. You still arrange your schedule around him, although that is due more to school and activity scheduling than any conscious effort to spend time with him. You probably don't realize that hugs have gotten shorter and he climbs off your lap before you set him down, as you're already off to the next agenda item in your world.

Then those preteen years hit, and you not only yearn for time spent alone, you are actively planning it. You justify it by telling yourself that you've already devoted so much of your life to him that you deserve a few hours alone each week. And of course you do! You are still arranging your life around his; and between school and multiple extra activities you no longer find yourselves with extra time on your hands. And when you look back on this time, you'll see that hugs have become quick mini-squeezes on his way out the door to catch the bus or play with friends, and that when you blinked he became too big to sit on your lap any longer.

And then suddenly, you find yourself with a teenager. You wake up one morning and realize that you only really have a short couple of years left with him before he moves on to adulthood, beginning his own life. Sure, he could drive himself to and from sports practice, but you find yourself offering just so that you can have a few minutes spent with him. You're once again showing him off to everyone, bragging about all of his accomplishments and successes. You consciously arrange your schedule around his, trying to snag some of his precious time away from friends and girlfriends. You hear yourself making up stupid things about how science has proven that hugging your mom at least once a day is good for your health, just to get a decent hug out of him. When he does revert to being a little boy for just a bit, laying his head in your lap, you willingly let the dishes sit in the sink and the laundry walk itself to the washer, feeling your legs go numb, just to keep him there for as long as possible.

Because once again, you realize that you never want to let him go.

His New Nemesis

Mom, when's Dad getting home?

Soon, why?

I need him to help me with my tie.


Now, we all know that I'm just a mom, but really? Did we have to wait for dad? I mean, how hard can it be to tie a tie? It looks like one of those over-under-through the loops and pull sort of things. Easy, right?

Um, no. Not so much. And I'm not sure what was the funniest part; Jock trying to tie it, me reading the stupid instructions off the web page that Mr. Google was kind enough to locate for me, the fact I Googled the stupid instructions in the first place (but seriously? over 48 MILLION different web pages for how to tie a tie?!?), or that I felt the need to video it.

Or quite possibly, it was his final comment to me as he got too frustrated to continue and decided to wait for dad after all:

I'm never going to learn to tie this stupid thing. I'll just always have to come home to have Dad do it. On my wedding day, he'll have to come tie it for me.


But at least he's promising to get married some day, so that's a bonus.

*The reason for needing to fight with the stupid tie in the first place? The baseball coach's rules: On game days the team needs to wear slacks, dress shirts and ties.*

**also? I'm having problems with my stupid media player, so I couldn't check the video. So... if it's not nearly as funny as I thought it was at the time? Sorry. I couldn't confirm that before I posted. I have a sneaking suspicion that a certain teenager (possibly his father.... ) was messing around with my computer, and now I'm missing key files. And I will never know which ones they are. Argh!!**

I Am A Horrible Mom

There are certain things you learn as a mother, things you learn to just not do. Want a holiday with no runny noses or pukey tummies? Simply don't comment on how healthy you all seem to be this year. Want to ensure potty training goes as quickly as possible, with the fewest amount of accidents? Just don't tell your mother-in-law how smoothly things are progressing. Want a truly beautiful family picture? Don't comment on how fortunate you are that your kids don't seem to be the sort that walk into flying footballs or forcefully kicked soccer balls.

Want to ensure that your teenager suddenly and heartbreakingly finds himself no longer in a relationship he was really happy in, with a girl he really liked? Just make sure the entire world, complete with all the Internets, knows how much you like that girl.

I got home from work tonight, and Coach asked me if Jock had filled me in yet about The Girlfriend. Now, I'm no dummy. When asked a question like that, I'm quite aware of what the answer will be. And still I went and asked Jock. Immediately. (Only taking just enough time to actually finish changing my clothes from work, because really.... what kid wants to talk to his mom while she's half dressed?)

Me: So.... what happened today?
Jock: With baseball?
Me: Sure, lets start there. And then work our way back to your girlfriend.
Jock: Well, she's not anymore.

Let me tell you that my kid is a master at delivering lines like that with very little emotion. It's freaky, really. And then he proceeded to tell me what happened. She was kind about it, I suppose. Telling him that he deserved a girlfriend who was better than she could be. She told him that he's really the perfect boyfriend, treating girls the way they want to be, and should be, treated. She told him everything but the real reason she was breaking up. Because really, who breaks up with someone because he's an absolutely awesome boyfriend? No, there's something else going on, and for whatever reason she's not being completely truthful. (I will say that I don't think it's anything awful, like another person is involved. But I do think that she's somewhere inside herself where she doesn't feel deserving of a great boyfriend.) When asked how baseball was later, he said it sucked. Because he couldn't concentrate. And my heart broke for him. Just simply broke. This wasn't like any previous reaction to losing a girlfriend. This one hurts him. When I went to tell him goodnight, I gave him a tight hug, holding him for a minute or two longer than usual, and asked him if he was going to be ok.

I don't know. Guess we'll see tomorrow.

All I can do in the meantime is to love him a little more, support him a lot more, and encourage him to focus on other things. Well, that and make his favorite dinner. Which I did, because the guilt over this just killed me.

The Year Has Started....Am I Excited Yet?

It's been an interesting few days. Equal parts good interesting and sarcastic interesting. I could let you decide what you wanted to hear about, but I fear that would only lead to my endless whining about the sarcastic interesting. So, let's you and I just discuss the good interesting, ok?

Hush. It's what you're getting, so pouting about it won't help you. Really, enough with the puppy eyes. I can't see you anyway. And? Those are only effective if I'm either married to you or gave birth to you. And if I'm somehow married to you, and you aren't Coach, and you are just now seeing fit to come forward to tell me? You had better be able to buy Jock that Dodge Charger he's had his eye on for his 16th birthday. Otherwise, please just stay hidden until you feel you can pay for college.

So I'm not sure if you've noticed or not, but New Year's Eve came and went. It left behind a new year to try to do something with, too. While I try to figure out what to do with the mess the old year left, and worry about how I'm going to dress up the new one, would you like to hear some more about my kids? Of course you would.

As you may or may not know, Jock has a girlfriend. This one has been around for almost a month, I think. Long enough to have gotten a Christmas gift, so at least since the beginning of December. Which you would know if you had been paying attention. Anyway..... since it really looks like she'll be here a while, I need to give her a blog name. And I'm drawing a complete and total blank here. Let me tell you a little about her. That way, if by the end of this post I'm still clueless, you all can make suggestions!

The Girlfriend is in the same year as Jock, so that's a plus. She's also about three months older than him, and I think that's cute. BOTH of her parents are officers with the Sheriff's department out here, which I also think is a good thing. She's the oldest of 5, with three younger sisters and a baby brother. She's also a cute little brunette that Coach thinks bears a resemblance to his girlfriend from high school. Which? I'm pretty sure I'm not thinking is so cute or a good thing. But I suppose that's an entirely different post, isn't it?

So The Girlfriend came and hung out with us on NYE. We had to have her home by 11, but that was ok. When we went to pick her up, Coach and I went up to the door with Jock. As I explained to him, I was pretty sure her parents would want to meet the people who were taking their daughter. Jock's only complaint, his only embarrassment, was my toe socks. I'm not sure if it was the fact that I was wearing them with flip flops (I was planning on just wandering around in them when we got to Mama G's, and there is that pesky law that requires shoes when driving.), or just that I was wearing them, period. Who cared? They were comfy.

We met The Girlfriend's mom, whom I got along with fantastically, by the way. And off we went. Got to Mama G's where the poor girl was subjected to the entire family. We were nice, and let her and Jock sit out on the back patio for most of the night, where the kids weren't constantly climbing in Jock's lap. Although we did keep checking to make sure NO ONE was doing any lap climbing. Coach and Bug were having a splendid time peeking out the window at them. Every two minutes.

Then it came time for dinner. We had grilled some steaks, and The Girlfriend got one of her own. We weren't going to make her share! This is where she amazed Jock. Amazed all the guys present, actually. She ate her entire steak. In roughly 2.6 minutes flat. Ok, so maybe not that fast. But she certainly didn't play with it or push it around her plate. This? Is awesome news, folks. This means she has a much greater chance of not being so high maintenance. She is not self-conscious about eating in front of him. I? Am thrilled.

And then we took her home. Fast forward to Saturday night, and Jock was invited to come spend the evening at her house. Getting to know her parents. Now, Jock says he wasn't worried about this event at all. Personally, I think he was. He's met plenty of moms before, and charmed each and every one. But he had NEVER met a dad before. As you all know, meeting the dad is a pretty darn big deal. Add to that the fact that dad is a cop. And a dad to four girls. You can certainly see the potential for some serious grilling, right? Especially as my boy is so cute and charming to anything with extra estrogen.

Apparently, dad was ok with him. So ok, that he left them alone to watch a movie. (Although it would seem that they kept some space between them..... just in case he popped in.) And so ok, in fact, that the last hour or so of the evening was spent with the two of them, Jock and The Girlfriend's dad, playing pool with each other. And talking about Jock's very sincere interest in becoming a law enforcement officer after school (you know, if the whole football career thing doesn't work out.).

I'm left to assume that not only can he charm moms, but he can impress dads. Is this good? From certain standpoints, I'd say yes. However, it means that as long as he keeps impressing them, their daughters will continue to want my son.

So to recap: We met (finally!) The Girlfriend. We like her (even if I still can't think of a good blog name for her). Her parents met (finally!) Jock. They like him. He can apparently charm police officer fathers of cute teenage daughters. And I can apparently deliver both the good and the sarcasm simultaneously.

Plus, I still have really great hair.