Mom, we can have this conversation, but you can’t look at me. Just….look at the TV, ok?
And that was how Bug and I started the conversation about his very first kiss. Which hadn’t happened as of last night and that conversation we had where we weren’t looking at each other, but most likely has happened by the time this post is up and you’re reading it.
He informed me that he’s going to do it. He’s going to kiss his girlfriend today. He’s got a plan.
A plan?
Yes, Mom. A plan.
And really, it’s a brilliantly simple plan. After school, he’s going to take her around the building to somewhere there are no teachers (Because PDA will get me in trouble at school, Mom)….and kiss her. Simple. His brother agreed; it was a pretty good plan.
When asked if he was sure, was he really ready for this since he hadn’t been comfortable with the idea with previous girlfriends, he assured me he was. As long as he could get her around the corner where no one was at.
Because really, Mom…I just don’t want to do this with everyone watching.
So it was set. He had it all planned out. This first kiss thing should go off without a hitch. Until this morning….
Just one last question, Mom. How, exactly, do you kiss a girl?
::blink blink::
To my credit, I recovered quickly. I’m not even sure he was aware of just how big a loop he just threw me for. But all of those recovery brownie points go flying out the window in the face of what I told him. Because, really…I have no idea how to kiss a girl. And I don’t remember agonizing over how to kiss a boy, either. So I told him it would probably be a lot like kissing me, except on the lips; and that he could practice on his hand a couple of times. Oh, and don’t pucker up like a fish.
If I wasn’t so sure that once it’s started kissing becomes fairly natural, I’d really worry that I’d just completely doomed him to a kiss-less lifetime. As it is, I have to hope that it goes smoothly enough to not leave him distracted. He’s planning on doing this right before tryouts for the school baseball team today.
I’m still not sure what I was wishing him good luck on as I backed out of the driveway….the kiss, or tryouts.
Showing posts with label The Trials of Being Boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Trials of Being Boys. Show all posts
Friday, December 9, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
A Daughter Wouldn't Have Cared
A three day weekend. Nothing to do but be lazy. Don't even need to get dressed if I don't want to. I was soooo looking forward to that. And then...the Teenager ruined it.
We've had a long standing agreement, he and I. He would warn me if he had friends walking in the door, and I'd make sure I was wearing a bra when they did. After all, I'm just a little too endowed, and gravity has taken too cruel of a toll, for me to run around in front of teenage boys with no bra on. I don't recall if it was started at his suggestion or mine, but it has worked very well for us. No embarrassment for anyone.
So here I sat, being lazy, and I hear him holler at me..."Mom! Put a bra on!"
Damn. Friends are coming over.
I know that at one point, what I wanted most out of being a mom was having the house everyone loved to come to. I wanted all of their friends to be so comfortable with me that they'd all call me "Mom" and just walk in my front door. And they do.
It is possible, though, that I didn't think this through very well. I didn't take into account that I would really, really, really want to spend a full few days with no restricting underclothes on.
Having daughters might have been easier, since I wouldn't have to worry so much about boobs and how they'd be worried about, but it would have been nowhere near as entertaining as having sons.
We've had a long standing agreement, he and I. He would warn me if he had friends walking in the door, and I'd make sure I was wearing a bra when they did. After all, I'm just a little too endowed, and gravity has taken too cruel of a toll, for me to run around in front of teenage boys with no bra on. I don't recall if it was started at his suggestion or mine, but it has worked very well for us. No embarrassment for anyone.
So here I sat, being lazy, and I hear him holler at me..."Mom! Put a bra on!"
Damn. Friends are coming over.
I know that at one point, what I wanted most out of being a mom was having the house everyone loved to come to. I wanted all of their friends to be so comfortable with me that they'd all call me "Mom" and just walk in my front door. And they do.
It is possible, though, that I didn't think this through very well. I didn't take into account that I would really, really, really want to spend a full few days with no restricting underclothes on.
Having daughters might have been easier, since I wouldn't have to worry so much about boobs and how they'd be worried about, but it would have been nowhere near as entertaining as having sons.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Its All Part Of The Adoption Package
Here's the way I see it. If, as a friend of my son, you are going to call me "Mom"...well then, you are giving me all rights and privileges associated with that title. Pride in your accomplishments. Disappointment in your poor choices. And when told that one of your classmates is suddenly an expectant parent, questions like this:
Seriously. How hard is it to use a condom every time? Tell me you use one, Every.Time.
And also, if you're calling me Mom, you really should be prepared for me to continue on with that lesson in responsibility for at least another ten minutes. And you should expect me to reference things like genital warts and herpes, and you should expect to hear statements like "This is your penis. This is your penis with warts." And you really, really, REALLY should expect me to say "Wear a condom EVERY SINGLE TIME!" a minimum of 2,358,903,884,954 times.
Because if you're old enough to be having sex, then you're old enough to be having sex responsibly. And if embarrassing conversations with me about condom use is what it takes for you to remember it? Well, you asked for it when you gave me pseudo-parental rights by calling me Mom.
Consider it my parental prerogative. So don't act surprised when you come home from college on break in a few months, run into me at the local Wal-Mart, and I ask you again if you're wearing a condom EVERY TIME.
Just know that you are loved enough for me to continue drilling that into your hormone-riddled brain for as long as you are a part of my son's life. And then some. Because parental love, even the love from pseudo-parents like myself, doesn't stop just because you've graduated from high school.
Seriously. How hard is it to use a condom every time? Tell me you use one, Every.Time.
And also, if you're calling me Mom, you really should be prepared for me to continue on with that lesson in responsibility for at least another ten minutes. And you should expect me to reference things like genital warts and herpes, and you should expect to hear statements like "This is your penis. This is your penis with warts." And you really, really, REALLY should expect me to say "Wear a condom EVERY SINGLE TIME!" a minimum of 2,358,903,884,954 times.
Because if you're old enough to be having sex, then you're old enough to be having sex responsibly. And if embarrassing conversations with me about condom use is what it takes for you to remember it? Well, you asked for it when you gave me pseudo-parental rights by calling me Mom.
Consider it my parental prerogative. So don't act surprised when you come home from college on break in a few months, run into me at the local Wal-Mart, and I ask you again if you're wearing a condom EVERY TIME.
Just know that you are loved enough for me to continue drilling that into your hormone-riddled brain for as long as you are a part of my son's life. And then some. Because parental love, even the love from pseudo-parents like myself, doesn't stop just because you've graduated from high school.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Just Because
"Why doesn't HE get in trouble for that?"
"Why does HE get to do that and I didn't?"
"You NEVER let ME do that, but you ALWAYS let HIM do that!"
Grumble, grumble. Whine, whine. Stomp, stomp. Slam, slam.
At any given time, it could be either of my boys saying those sentences. And while they never like the answers I give them, it all comes down to one simple thing. I didn't know then what I know now.
The Teenager has been my Great Experiment. The ultimate science project. My no-shades-of-gray, pass-or-fail-only test of parenting. Everything I do or say to him, Every. Single. Thing., is a first. So naturally, I either learn from it and make the necessary changes with Bug, or I continue to convince myself that my way was right the first time and it must have been the kid who was to blame for the spectacular failure of epic proportions. Or I smile, clap my hands excitedly because I never expected it to work, and try it again. Maybe tweaking it just a bit, because, you know.... you can always do better.
Which is why Bug gets to tell me NO! more often than the Teenager ever did. I learned that telling me NO! isn't always being defiant, but sometimes the only way to get me to really open my eyes and see that there's a very good reason for him not to be doing something.
And why Bug got a cell phone when he turned 12, as opposed to the Teenager being forced to wait until he was 13. I learned that just because the world was more cooperative when I was younger, and all of my friends had house phones and parents that always knew where everyone was at, doesn't mean that my boys are blessed enough to live in the same sort of world. Sometimes, a mom's just gotta be able to have some sort of tracking device on her kids.
It might also be why I'm considering locking Bug in his room, nailing the windows shut, until he's 35. I let the Teenager grow up, and look where that's gotten me? Four months away from hearing him tell me he gets to make his own decisions, and accept the consequences.
It's also gotten me four months away from getting my first tattoo, since he and I have decided that for his 18th birthday we are getting tattooed together.
Um....I might need some help there. Because despite having learned that I can conquer broken bones, stitches and multiple injuries that happen to my children? I have yet to figure out a way to NOT freak the heck out about a needle piercing my skin.
On the other hand, it's a great metaphor for parenthood. Painful and messy, requiring you to remain in one place for longer than you originally wanted to. But oh! The results? Are always beautiful and worth showing off every chance you get.
"Why does HE get to do that and I didn't?"
"You NEVER let ME do that, but you ALWAYS let HIM do that!"
Grumble, grumble. Whine, whine. Stomp, stomp. Slam, slam.
At any given time, it could be either of my boys saying those sentences. And while they never like the answers I give them, it all comes down to one simple thing. I didn't know then what I know now.
The Teenager has been my Great Experiment. The ultimate science project. My no-shades-of-gray, pass-or-fail-only test of parenting. Everything I do or say to him, Every. Single. Thing., is a first. So naturally, I either learn from it and make the necessary changes with Bug, or I continue to convince myself that my way was right the first time and it must have been the kid who was to blame for the spectacular failure of epic proportions. Or I smile, clap my hands excitedly because I never expected it to work, and try it again. Maybe tweaking it just a bit, because, you know.... you can always do better.
Which is why Bug gets to tell me NO! more often than the Teenager ever did. I learned that telling me NO! isn't always being defiant, but sometimes the only way to get me to really open my eyes and see that there's a very good reason for him not to be doing something.
And why Bug got a cell phone when he turned 12, as opposed to the Teenager being forced to wait until he was 13. I learned that just because the world was more cooperative when I was younger, and all of my friends had house phones and parents that always knew where everyone was at, doesn't mean that my boys are blessed enough to live in the same sort of world. Sometimes, a mom's just gotta be able to have some sort of tracking device on her kids.
It might also be why I'm considering locking Bug in his room, nailing the windows shut, until he's 35. I let the Teenager grow up, and look where that's gotten me? Four months away from hearing him tell me he gets to make his own decisions, and accept the consequences.
It's also gotten me four months away from getting my first tattoo, since he and I have decided that for his 18th birthday we are getting tattooed together.
Um....I might need some help there. Because despite having learned that I can conquer broken bones, stitches and multiple injuries that happen to my children? I have yet to figure out a way to NOT freak the heck out about a needle piercing my skin.
On the other hand, it's a great metaphor for parenthood. Painful and messy, requiring you to remain in one place for longer than you originally wanted to. But oh! The results? Are always beautiful and worth showing off every chance you get.
Monday, December 20, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
If You're Offended By Teenage Boys You Probably Should Skip Today's Post
Before I get too far into this, I'm going to give you all fair warning.... there is every possibility that you could be offended by where this goes. Which totally means that I'm exposing the fact that my guys, all three of them, have very little in the way of knowing just what's appropriate conversation to have so that I can blog about it. It also means exposing the fact that I laugh myself silly over their inappropriateness. *sigh* Which I guess also means exposing the fact that, um, hello? My house is full of BOYS. Boys who use inappropriate language, even when they don't fully know what it means. Boys who think things like bodily air emissions and feminine hygiene products are more hilarious than the best stand-up comic. Boys.
So you know that means endlessly amusing times when I have to explain some GIRL thing, right?
Apparently, the word to use when you want to insult someone is "douche". I've heard that word come out of more teenage boy mouths that I can even count. And you have to admit, it's more fun to say that than "jerk" or "booger head". It has a certain grammatical...fun-ness...about it. None of which makes it even remotely appropriate to use around your mother or your younger brother. Especially when your younger brother doesn't have a clue what a douche actually is, putting your mother in the decidedly unenviable position of needing to explain just what, in fact, a douche actually is and does.
But, in the event you forget that rule and call one of your People in a Position of Authority at School (because it would be seriously unwise of me to even say if it was a teacher, administrator or coach) this while driving around one night with both parents and your younger brother in the car? Well, maybe relying on dad to sum it all up isn't the best thing to do.
It is, however, laugh-til-you-pee-yourself funny.
Teenager: This Person in a Position of Authority at School is just a total douche!
Bug: **laughing hysterically--totally a give-away that he has no clue what he's laughing at but wants to laugh at anything his brother says**
Me: Um, do you guys even really know just what a douche actually is?
Teenager: **laughing again**
Bug: No, what?
Me: **to my credit, I didn't pause uncomfortably at all, thankyouverymuch** Well, it's something that women use to wash the inside of their vaginas.
Teenager: **by now, choking on his laughter**
Bug: Oh. Um....just oh.
Coach: **in his best Beavis and Butthead voice** Ha ha.... Person in a Position of Authority at School is a vagina washer...ha ha
At which point I lost all control over any part of the conversation in the car. All three of those guys were laughing so hard they had to keep wiping their eyes, and I was even caught laughing.
Hey. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Sometimes, in a house overloaded with testosterone, that is the only sanity saver you'll get.
So you know that means endlessly amusing times when I have to explain some GIRL thing, right?
Apparently, the word to use when you want to insult someone is "douche". I've heard that word come out of more teenage boy mouths that I can even count. And you have to admit, it's more fun to say that than "jerk" or "booger head". It has a certain grammatical...fun-ness...about it. None of which makes it even remotely appropriate to use around your mother or your younger brother. Especially when your younger brother doesn't have a clue what a douche actually is, putting your mother in the decidedly unenviable position of needing to explain just what, in fact, a douche actually is and does.
But, in the event you forget that rule and call one of your People in a Position of Authority at School (because it would be seriously unwise of me to even say if it was a teacher, administrator or coach) this while driving around one night with both parents and your younger brother in the car? Well, maybe relying on dad to sum it all up isn't the best thing to do.
It is, however, laugh-til-you-pee-yourself funny.
Teenager: This Person in a Position of Authority at School is just a total douche!
Bug: **laughing hysterically--totally a give-away that he has no clue what he's laughing at but wants to laugh at anything his brother says**
Me: Um, do you guys even really know just what a douche actually is?
Teenager: **laughing again**
Bug: No, what?
Me: **to my credit, I didn't pause uncomfortably at all, thankyouverymuch** Well, it's something that women use to wash the inside of their vaginas.
Teenager: **by now, choking on his laughter**
Bug: Oh. Um....just oh.
Coach: **in his best Beavis and Butthead voice** Ha ha.... Person in a Position of Authority at School is a vagina washer...ha ha
At which point I lost all control over any part of the conversation in the car. All three of those guys were laughing so hard they had to keep wiping their eyes, and I was even caught laughing.
Hey. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Sometimes, in a house overloaded with testosterone, that is the only sanity saver you'll get.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Oh, The Irony
If you know me in real life or on Facebook, you've heard recently about the amazingly thoughtful thing that the Teenager did for me last week. Solely for me, so that I might not find myself missing football games so much. Uh huh. That expression you're wearing right now? The one that just screams "You are soooo full of crap, kid!"? Yeah. That was the same one I had.
Well, after I got done freaking out over the whole What do you mean, he hurt himself in weights class? You're taking him to the HOSPITAL? In an AMBULANCE? WITHOUT ME???
*sigh* The kid isn't even playing football this season, and he still manages to injure himself.
Long story short (because let's face it....I don't know how much you all know about weightlifting, and I don't really know diddly about weightlifting, so telling you what lifts he was doing just wouldn't make me sound like the super-intelligent woman you all know me to be), the Teenager got hurt in class, they called the paramedics, who made the decision that he would be better served at the local hospital. So they called us, basically telling us what they were doing, and let us know which hospital we could meet them at. Oh, and could they give him something for the pain?
Would you believe we beat the ambulance to the ER? Oh yes we did.
After several hours, many painful x-rays resulting in tears from his eyes that broke my heart into millions of tiny pieces, and multiple forms of pain-relieving narcotics (that incidentally? didn't do a thing for the pain, apparently); we were given the verdict.
Hyper-extended spinal column. Severe lower lumbar strain. Possible slight herniated disk. Wow....not a bad list for doing something he does every day, right? Sheesh. I will tell you that we've pretty much ruled out the herniated disk by now, though... his legs are working just fine.
And I can't even tell you how many times I thanked God that his legs were working at all. Spinal injuries cause things like paralysis. Which would seriously curtail his ability to run track again this year and go to State once again; AND his ability to get around in my kitchen to do the dishes. You know, the important things. 'Cuz I'm a selfless, thoughtful mama that way.
He DID enjoy the wheelchair ride out to the truck when we got to go home, though.
Also, we are going to all ignore the tiny little fact that he asked for Mouse to be kept informed about 523,687,469,841,642,359,895 times that afternoon. This is MY memory space, and I'm still coming to grips with the apparent development of someone more important than I am. Acknowledging that is acknowledging his pending adulthood.
And the hospital did not send home enough narcotics for me to face that one just yet.
Well, after I got done freaking out over the whole What do you mean, he hurt himself in weights class? You're taking him to the HOSPITAL? In an AMBULANCE? WITHOUT ME???
*sigh* The kid isn't even playing football this season, and he still manages to injure himself.
Long story short (because let's face it....I don't know how much you all know about weightlifting, and I don't really know diddly about weightlifting, so telling you what lifts he was doing just wouldn't make me sound like the super-intelligent woman you all know me to be), the Teenager got hurt in class, they called the paramedics, who made the decision that he would be better served at the local hospital. So they called us, basically telling us what they were doing, and let us know which hospital we could meet them at. Oh, and could they give him something for the pain?
Would you believe we beat the ambulance to the ER? Oh yes we did.
After several hours, many painful x-rays resulting in tears from his eyes that broke my heart into millions of tiny pieces, and multiple forms of pain-relieving narcotics (that incidentally? didn't do a thing for the pain, apparently); we were given the verdict.
Hyper-extended spinal column. Severe lower lumbar strain. Possible slight herniated disk. Wow....not a bad list for doing something he does every day, right? Sheesh. I will tell you that we've pretty much ruled out the herniated disk by now, though... his legs are working just fine.
And I can't even tell you how many times I thanked God that his legs were working at all. Spinal injuries cause things like paralysis. Which would seriously curtail his ability to run track again this year and go to State once again; AND his ability to get around in my kitchen to do the dishes. You know, the important things. 'Cuz I'm a selfless, thoughtful mama that way.
He DID enjoy the wheelchair ride out to the truck when we got to go home, though.
Also, we are going to all ignore the tiny little fact that he asked for Mouse to be kept informed about 523,687,469,841,642,359,895 times that afternoon. This is MY memory space, and I'm still coming to grips with the apparent development of someone more important than I am. Acknowledging that is acknowledging his pending adulthood.
And the hospital did not send home enough narcotics for me to face that one just yet.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
I Really Need To Stop Blinking
It occurs to me that at some point in the last few months, my baby has been growing up behind my back. Or right in front of my eyes and I've just not been nearly as observant as I've always given myself credit for being. It sounds much better to say that he's been doing this whole growing up thing in a very sneaky manner.
Bug had a girlfriend. A real one who made demands on his time and attention, not just someone he liked who maybe liked him back. No, this girl held enough sway over my baby that when she told him he wasn't paying enough attention to her, he started to question himself. Which prompted a super-secret conversation in his room one night, that I was sworn never to tell dad or his brother about. He needed to be reassured that it was okay to be his own person, hang out with his friends, and know that those actions did not make him a "bad boyfriend". Naturally, that is exactly what I told him. I also told him that at his age, there was no such thing as a bad boyfriend or girlfriend. Just that maybe someone was the WRONG boyfriend or girlfriend for someone else. Because the RIGHT one? Would have no double standard about hanging out with friends and the amount of attention given to anyone.
That little practice relationship lasted one more week. Apparently, she broke up with him yesterday. Which prompted this reaction from him:
I took it fine, but girls are difficult to understand. I'm not goin' to have a girlfriend 'til I'm in high school. But in my guts, I'm kinda sad.
Damn you, hormones. You were supposed to give me a little more time before you took over this child. You won the battle with me over the Teenager.....why couldn't you leave me my baby for just a little bit longer?
Bug had a girlfriend. A real one who made demands on his time and attention, not just someone he liked who maybe liked him back. No, this girl held enough sway over my baby that when she told him he wasn't paying enough attention to her, he started to question himself. Which prompted a super-secret conversation in his room one night, that I was sworn never to tell dad or his brother about. He needed to be reassured that it was okay to be his own person, hang out with his friends, and know that those actions did not make him a "bad boyfriend". Naturally, that is exactly what I told him. I also told him that at his age, there was no such thing as a bad boyfriend or girlfriend. Just that maybe someone was the WRONG boyfriend or girlfriend for someone else. Because the RIGHT one? Would have no double standard about hanging out with friends and the amount of attention given to anyone.
That little practice relationship lasted one more week. Apparently, she broke up with him yesterday. Which prompted this reaction from him:
I took it fine, but girls are difficult to understand. I'm not goin' to have a girlfriend 'til I'm in high school. But in my guts, I'm kinda sad.
Damn you, hormones. You were supposed to give me a little more time before you took over this child. You won the battle with me over the Teenager.....why couldn't you leave me my baby for just a little bit longer?
Saturday, July 3, 2010
If You Say Yes, Turn to Page 4...If You Say No, Turn to Page 5
Wouldn't it be nice if parenthood came with a handbook? Not one of the thousands of books written by people who are, in essence, just telling you what they've found to work best with children just like theirs, but an actual guide book developed just for you on how to raise your specific child? They have manuals for individual makes of vehicles, how-to booklets for every new cell phone to hit the market; there's even directions on the box of dishwasher detergent these days. So, wouldn't it be amazing if, when you were handed your sweet-smelling, all wrapped up and cuddly baby...you were also handed instructions that would take you from birth to adulthood? Maybe even beyond?
Of course, we probably wouldn't read it anyway. What with the sleep deprivation that comes with a newborn, the exhaustion that comes with trying to keep up with a toddler, the lack of free time that accompanies the elementary school years, and the knowledge that your teenager already knows everything that there ever was and ever will be to know....who has time for, or even needs, that handbook?
Me. I do. Right here. Please?
My baby is twelve now, and the oldest is seventeen. That means I no longer actually have a baby. And while there is a wealth of advice out there on babies, there ain't a whole heckuva lotta help for teenagers. Or beyond. And what there is, isn't as helpful as you'd think.
Think of it like this: When a recipe calls for adding salt and pepper "to taste", it is taking into account that each person's ability to handle seasoning is different. Well, hormones are a lot like salt and pepper. Without them, life is beyond bland. But each person is different when it comes to how many hormones they can hold at a time. There is absolutely no way to know how testosterone will affect every single boy, or estrogen will affect every single girl. All you know is that it WILL affect them. And while you have control over adjusting your food seasonings as you get older and are better able to tolerate spicier foods, you don't have the luxury of adjusting hormones. Which is where it would ever so helpful to have something handy to tell you how to handle things.
Things like pushing their boundaries of independence by repeatedly missing check-in times; telling you what they're going to be doing rather than asking for permission; looking you right in the eye and telling you No, I won't do that; or going toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose, muscles bunched and fists clenched, that first time they decide that they've finally had enough of the unreasonable rules and can take the old man on.......
*sigh*
Fortunately, things always stop there. My children, while secure enough in the knowledge that they are loved unconditionally and therefore supported through everything, are also bright enough to realize that maybe they still need to be the ones to back down first and go back to playing by the rules of the house. Silly rules, it's true; rules that tell them they have to clean up after themselves and be respectful to their mother; but still the rules they have to follow.
I still really want that handbook. Maybe it could be written like one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books were...... because sometimes, I'd really like the chance to change how our adventures play out.
Of course, we probably wouldn't read it anyway. What with the sleep deprivation that comes with a newborn, the exhaustion that comes with trying to keep up with a toddler, the lack of free time that accompanies the elementary school years, and the knowledge that your teenager already knows everything that there ever was and ever will be to know....who has time for, or even needs, that handbook?
Me. I do. Right here. Please?
My baby is twelve now, and the oldest is seventeen. That means I no longer actually have a baby. And while there is a wealth of advice out there on babies, there ain't a whole heckuva lotta help for teenagers. Or beyond. And what there is, isn't as helpful as you'd think.
Think of it like this: When a recipe calls for adding salt and pepper "to taste", it is taking into account that each person's ability to handle seasoning is different. Well, hormones are a lot like salt and pepper. Without them, life is beyond bland. But each person is different when it comes to how many hormones they can hold at a time. There is absolutely no way to know how testosterone will affect every single boy, or estrogen will affect every single girl. All you know is that it WILL affect them. And while you have control over adjusting your food seasonings as you get older and are better able to tolerate spicier foods, you don't have the luxury of adjusting hormones. Which is where it would ever so helpful to have something handy to tell you how to handle things.
Things like pushing their boundaries of independence by repeatedly missing check-in times; telling you what they're going to be doing rather than asking for permission; looking you right in the eye and telling you No, I won't do that; or going toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose, muscles bunched and fists clenched, that first time they decide that they've finally had enough of the unreasonable rules and can take the old man on.......
*sigh*
Fortunately, things always stop there. My children, while secure enough in the knowledge that they are loved unconditionally and therefore supported through everything, are also bright enough to realize that maybe they still need to be the ones to back down first and go back to playing by the rules of the house. Silly rules, it's true; rules that tell them they have to clean up after themselves and be respectful to their mother; but still the rules they have to follow.
I still really want that handbook. Maybe it could be written like one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books were...... because sometimes, I'd really like the chance to change how our adventures play out.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Prom is Going to Kill Me.....
I do not remember prom being this involved and detailed. I really don't. Of course, that might be because, being the girl and therefore the "ask-ee", I didn't have to worry about anything beyond my dress and my hair. However, the fact that the Teenager is a boy and therefore the "ask-er", I'm discovering that there is a lot more to this whole thing.
(And before I hear from anyone else wondering why the Teenager is not doing all of this himself.... the fact that I control the little plastic card attached to the place where the money lives is one of the biggest deciding factors. Plus, he asked me to. And you all should know by now that I have a realllllllllly hard time telling either of my boys no when they ask me to do something.)
And there is a lonnnggg list of things that have to be done for this dance, too! First, there is the whole "who do I ask" dilemma. Then there is the decision of HOW to ask her. Then the tux selection. The tux fitting. Mode of transportation. Reserving said transportation. Dinner reservations. Corsage ordering. Oh! Ticket buying. My-date-goes-to-another-school-and-needs-a-guest-pass procedure. After party planning. Or attempting to plan; turns out that's easier said than done when you and your limo-group aren't really into the whole "prom is for drinking, partying and getting laid" thing that the rest of the football team seems to be wholeheartedly throwing themselves into. (Thank You GOD for answering some very specific and life long prayers from this mama!)
Maybe some of this wouldn't have been so difficult if he'd been left to his own devices. After all, he didn't care that the pattern on the tuxedo vest was going to clash spectacularly with the pattern in his date's dress. He only cared that it was the right color. It didn't occur to him that I would need to call several different limo companies to find one that didn't require a ridiculously long amount of miminum hours or charge an astronomical fee per hour. He quite likely would have only called one, and either said yes or no depending on the initial amount quoted. He put only as much thought into where to eat dinner as it took to agree with the first suggestion I made, and is computer savvy enough to have made the reservation online just as easily as I did. He most likely would have accepted the first corsage suggested to him, because it wouldn't matter to him if it was one large rose or three smaller sweetheart roses, or if the flowers were pink or white, or if the ribbon were white or silver. Thankfully, it seems that ALL corsages are wrist creations these days so there wasn't a choice there. Which is probably a very good thing, as I can only imagine the production it would be if he had to figure out how to pin that sucker on her dress.
All of this planning, all of these details, and I'm fairly certain we haven't managed to remember the one thing that can make or break the entire evening.....
Last time I checked, he didn't know how to dance. Fortunately for him, I'm positive he's going to look freakin' amazing in that tux!
*I'll absolutely post pictures of it next week! The dance is this Saturday.*
(And before I hear from anyone else wondering why the Teenager is not doing all of this himself.... the fact that I control the little plastic card attached to the place where the money lives is one of the biggest deciding factors. Plus, he asked me to. And you all should know by now that I have a realllllllllly hard time telling either of my boys no when they ask me to do something.)
And there is a lonnnggg list of things that have to be done for this dance, too! First, there is the whole "who do I ask" dilemma. Then there is the decision of HOW to ask her. Then the tux selection. The tux fitting. Mode of transportation. Reserving said transportation. Dinner reservations. Corsage ordering. Oh! Ticket buying. My-date-goes-to-another-school-and-needs-a-guest-pass procedure. After party planning. Or attempting to plan; turns out that's easier said than done when you and your limo-group aren't really into the whole "prom is for drinking, partying and getting laid" thing that the rest of the football team seems to be wholeheartedly throwing themselves into. (Thank You GOD for answering some very specific and life long prayers from this mama!)
Maybe some of this wouldn't have been so difficult if he'd been left to his own devices. After all, he didn't care that the pattern on the tuxedo vest was going to clash spectacularly with the pattern in his date's dress. He only cared that it was the right color. It didn't occur to him that I would need to call several different limo companies to find one that didn't require a ridiculously long amount of miminum hours or charge an astronomical fee per hour. He quite likely would have only called one, and either said yes or no depending on the initial amount quoted. He put only as much thought into where to eat dinner as it took to agree with the first suggestion I made, and is computer savvy enough to have made the reservation online just as easily as I did. He most likely would have accepted the first corsage suggested to him, because it wouldn't matter to him if it was one large rose or three smaller sweetheart roses, or if the flowers were pink or white, or if the ribbon were white or silver. Thankfully, it seems that ALL corsages are wrist creations these days so there wasn't a choice there. Which is probably a very good thing, as I can only imagine the production it would be if he had to figure out how to pin that sucker on her dress.
All of this planning, all of these details, and I'm fairly certain we haven't managed to remember the one thing that can make or break the entire evening.....
Last time I checked, he didn't know how to dance. Fortunately for him, I'm positive he's going to look freakin' amazing in that tux!
*I'll absolutely post pictures of it next week! The dance is this Saturday.*
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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:
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
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
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Recently Heard In My House
"Mom, I am so done with anything at my school. Except for friends. And classes. And sports."
"So, basically you're just done with GIRLS at your school."
"Yeah. Done. Absolutely done."
You have no idea how glad I am to hear this, for however long it may last. After the stress-ball that his life became when he and Mouse didn't work out, I am beyond ecstatic to hear that he is done with girls he goes to school with. Teenagers are very much of an "out of sight, out of mind" state of being, and not being in the same daily environment as someone he has just broken up with is just not something I can see as a bad thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our larger dog has some sensitive digestive issues. Not generally a problem, but does sometimes generate some interesting household conversation. For example, the other night there was a mad rush to the patio door when everyone noticed that the dog had started sounding like a cat with a hairball. Once outside, after um... clearing his throat, my poor puppy headed over to the special potty place we set up for them outside. (Yes, my dogs are trained to only go in one area. The brilliant man I married actually designed a special potty kennel for them. It's awesome, and makes clean up a snap!) Where he proceeded to do his business.
When he came back inside, someone mentioned how much happier the dog looked. Which is when Bug piped up: Well, pooping always makes me happier, too.
He is definitely all boy. And all of his father's son. 100% honesty, with none of that pesky modesty to get in the way.
"So, basically you're just done with GIRLS at your school."
"Yeah. Done. Absolutely done."
You have no idea how glad I am to hear this, for however long it may last. After the stress-ball that his life became when he and Mouse didn't work out, I am beyond ecstatic to hear that he is done with girls he goes to school with. Teenagers are very much of an "out of sight, out of mind" state of being, and not being in the same daily environment as someone he has just broken up with is just not something I can see as a bad thing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our larger dog has some sensitive digestive issues. Not generally a problem, but does sometimes generate some interesting household conversation. For example, the other night there was a mad rush to the patio door when everyone noticed that the dog had started sounding like a cat with a hairball. Once outside, after um... clearing his throat, my poor puppy headed over to the special potty place we set up for them outside. (Yes, my dogs are trained to only go in one area. The brilliant man I married actually designed a special potty kennel for them. It's awesome, and makes clean up a snap!) Where he proceeded to do his business.
When he came back inside, someone mentioned how much happier the dog looked. Which is when Bug piped up: Well, pooping always makes me happier, too.
He is definitely all boy. And all of his father's son. 100% honesty, with none of that pesky modesty to get in the way.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
At Least He Doesn't Say He Hates Me
"I just want to move as far away from you two as I can!"
With those words, those fourteen words that when on their own are powerless but combined in just that way are one of the most powerful tools in a child's arsenal, I felt my world tilt and spin and my stomach cramp up. I felt my muscles tense up, my eyes started stinging and my heart just....broke.
It's not the first time I've heard them. I'm relatively certain it won't be the last time I hear them. But that doesn't make those words any less powerful. It also never changes my response.
Oh, honey. *sigh* Where are we going to go? 'Cuz you know that I have to go with you, right? You are one of the biggest and most important parts of my world, and I need you around to make my world happy. There's always more smiles than there are tears when you're around, you know. And how do you think my life would be if I didn't get my daily hugs and laughs? So yeah. Wherever you go, ya gotta make sure they've got room for both of us.
And that's usually the point when the words that tumble out through the sobs are all about how unfair it is that we make him do everything and yet never let him do anything. How he never gets to just play and he always has to do his chores first. How he doesn't always like us or his brother, and so why should he have to spend all of his time with us? And when I point out that I never get to play and I always have to work first, and I don't always like the attitudes of him and his brother or their father, so why do I have to spend all of my time with them? Without exception, I get the same answer back.
Well maybe YOU should run away, too, then! *sniffle, sniffle, sob, sob*
I've found that if I just sit there quietly at that point, he'll figure out on his own that running away just ain't gonna work. For either of us. And then he remembers that I love him. And that he loves me. The sobs start to calm into mere tears, until they eventually just stop. Before long, he's trying not to giggle over the mental image of running away from home with his mama tagging along behind him.
Doesn't stop me from shedding a few tears over the whole thing later, though.
With those words, those fourteen words that when on their own are powerless but combined in just that way are one of the most powerful tools in a child's arsenal, I felt my world tilt and spin and my stomach cramp up. I felt my muscles tense up, my eyes started stinging and my heart just....broke.
It's not the first time I've heard them. I'm relatively certain it won't be the last time I hear them. But that doesn't make those words any less powerful. It also never changes my response.
Oh, honey. *sigh* Where are we going to go? 'Cuz you know that I have to go with you, right? You are one of the biggest and most important parts of my world, and I need you around to make my world happy. There's always more smiles than there are tears when you're around, you know. And how do you think my life would be if I didn't get my daily hugs and laughs? So yeah. Wherever you go, ya gotta make sure they've got room for both of us.
And that's usually the point when the words that tumble out through the sobs are all about how unfair it is that we make him do everything and yet never let him do anything. How he never gets to just play and he always has to do his chores first. How he doesn't always like us or his brother, and so why should he have to spend all of his time with us? And when I point out that I never get to play and I always have to work first, and I don't always like the attitudes of him and his brother or their father, so why do I have to spend all of my time with them? Without exception, I get the same answer back.
Well maybe YOU should run away, too, then! *sniffle, sniffle, sob, sob*
I've found that if I just sit there quietly at that point, he'll figure out on his own that running away just ain't gonna work. For either of us. And then he remembers that I love him. And that he loves me. The sobs start to calm into mere tears, until they eventually just stop. Before long, he's trying not to giggle over the mental image of running away from home with his mama tagging along behind him.
Doesn't stop me from shedding a few tears over the whole thing later, though.
Monday, January 11, 2010
There Really Should Be A Guidebook
There's a shockingly large amount of information that is never given to you as a parent. Things you just have to discover on your own, and then just....wing it. Turns out that I? Haven't quite figured out yet if I'm any good at winging it. It might be helpful if I figured that out soon, as I'm almost out of time with the teenager; and would like to confidently make some decisions with Bug.
For example, no one ever tells you how to handle your child dating. They (I'm still wondering just who the heck "they" are, and just how "they" got their credentials...) tell you allllll about puberty, and it's effects on your child's physical, mental and emotional states. But no one ever tells you just how YOU are supposed to cope with those effects. It's one thing to know your son has a girlfriend. It's quite another when he's dating.
Yes, I know that sounds strange and backwards. Try to stay with me, here.
When your teenage son has a girlfriend, you have the comfort of knowing that he's convinced himself that he cares for someone. There is a strange sort of mellowness you feel as a mother knowing that he's emotionally invested in someone. This way, if something of a physical nature should happen between them, at least they care about each other. Right?
But when your teenage son is dating, then you start to worry about whether or not you've somehow let loose into the world some testosterone driven, cleavage obsessed, one track minded man-whore in the making. And it doesn't matter how respectful and well mannered your son is normally. You just know, deep in your heart where all mama insecurities reside, that it could happen. And so naturally, you freak the heck out every time he says Mom, can I borrow the car tonight? I have a date.
You also find yourself saying things and asking questions that you NEVER expected to hear come out of your mouth. Things like Sweetheart, I think dating Mouse first this time around is a good idea. But until you both have been committed to each other for a while, like---a few month's worth of a while, just don't sleep with her. Unless it's too late for that request. It's not too late, right? You would tell me if it was, right?
All I can say is Thank GOD he looked me straight in the eye and told me it wasn't too late, and agreed that yes, he WOULD tell me. Because I have not quite figured out how I'm going to calmly accept when that changes. Not the telling me part. I'm fairly confident that he'll always tell me when I ask. It's the not too late part I'm freaking out about.
Some things? You just can't wing without a little preparation.
For example, no one ever tells you how to handle your child dating. They (I'm still wondering just who the heck "they" are, and just how "they" got their credentials...) tell you allllll about puberty, and it's effects on your child's physical, mental and emotional states. But no one ever tells you just how YOU are supposed to cope with those effects. It's one thing to know your son has a girlfriend. It's quite another when he's dating.
Yes, I know that sounds strange and backwards. Try to stay with me, here.
When your teenage son has a girlfriend, you have the comfort of knowing that he's convinced himself that he cares for someone. There is a strange sort of mellowness you feel as a mother knowing that he's emotionally invested in someone. This way, if something of a physical nature should happen between them, at least they care about each other. Right?
But when your teenage son is dating, then you start to worry about whether or not you've somehow let loose into the world some testosterone driven, cleavage obsessed, one track minded man-whore in the making. And it doesn't matter how respectful and well mannered your son is normally. You just know, deep in your heart where all mama insecurities reside, that it could happen. And so naturally, you freak the heck out every time he says Mom, can I borrow the car tonight? I have a date.
You also find yourself saying things and asking questions that you NEVER expected to hear come out of your mouth. Things like Sweetheart, I think dating Mouse first this time around is a good idea. But until you both have been committed to each other for a while, like---a few month's worth of a while, just don't sleep with her. Unless it's too late for that request. It's not too late, right? You would tell me if it was, right?
All I can say is Thank GOD he looked me straight in the eye and told me it wasn't too late, and agreed that yes, he WOULD tell me. Because I have not quite figured out how I'm going to calmly accept when that changes. Not the telling me part. I'm fairly confident that he'll always tell me when I ask. It's the not too late part I'm freaking out about.
Some things? You just can't wing without a little preparation.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Awkward Teenage Moments....
When you parent a teenager, you discover that life is full of awkward moments. The first time you realize that you really need to start knocking on their door before you open it. The first time you go searching under the bed for stray socks and find a pillowcase or hand towel. Or how about the moment when your teenager tells you about their first more-physical-than-a-small-no-tongues-used-kiss experience?
At least all of those are awkward moments just for you and the teenager that belongs to you. Don't forget about the awkward moments that happen with your teenager's friends.
Jockwas forced to endure enjoyed an afternoon at the grocery store with me today. Along our route to the shampoo aisle, where I would be forced to take out a loan just to pay for the particular brand of shampoo he insists he has to have, we passed the family planning aisle. And standing right in front of the main attraction on the family aisle was one of Jock's friends from the football team. This friend was debating the merits of one particular brand versus another with yet another teenage boy. Jock walked up behind them and greeted them in the universal teenage boy way; a slap on the shoulder and a loud "Dude!"
The boys looked up, glanced over at me, and proceeded to ignore me. Which I was totally okay with, because hello? Acknowledging what they were shopping for would have mortified them, and reminded ME that my son is plenty old enough to have been standing right beside them shopping for the same thing. So I walked myself over to the next aisle and pretended to look for the perfect shampoo while waiting for my son to join me.
But I AM giving those boys HUGE points for being responsible enough to use those family planning aids. And for having theguts confidence to be in the middle of Wally World on a Saturday afternoon three weeks before Christmas, when every last family in the community is there and word is absolutely guaranteed to get back to their mothers about what they were buying.
At least all of those are awkward moments just for you and the teenager that belongs to you. Don't forget about the awkward moments that happen with your teenager's friends.
Jock
The boys looked up, glanced over at me, and proceeded to ignore me. Which I was totally okay with, because hello? Acknowledging what they were shopping for would have mortified them, and reminded ME that my son is plenty old enough to have been standing right beside them shopping for the same thing. So I walked myself over to the next aisle and pretended to look for the perfect shampoo while waiting for my son to join me.
But I AM giving those boys HUGE points for being responsible enough to use those family planning aids. And for having the
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
It's a Darn Good Thing I Only Have Two
I had planned to write something witty tonight about the things I'm thankful for right now. Okay, fine. I had planned to ATTEMPT to write something witty tonight about the things I'm thankful for right now. Some kind of profound play on the latest "new" idea to be thankful for one thing a day. Something like "30 Things I'm Thankful For". Or something like that. But then I spent 30 minutes holding my baby while he cried tears he didn't want to be crying, sobbing about how he's torn between the part of him that doesn't want to grow up and the part of him that does. And telling me that he's missed me "sooo much" lately, and feeling ignored and unimportant to me because I've been spending so much of my attention on his older brother. It occurred to me then that I hadn't spent a great deal of time with my Bug since before football season started. Okay, okay. It didn't just occur to me. It walked right up to me, looked me square in the eye, and whomped me upside my thick skull.
I am such a craptastic mother sometimes. How could I ignore one child and lavish so much time and attention on the other? How had it completely escaped my notice that the reason my son has been such a royal puke for the last several weeks was because it was the only way he could get my undivided attention? (And in the spirit of thankfulness, I did take a moment to thank God that He had only given me two children. How much more damage to the future of our nation would it be possible for me to inflict if I had been gifted with the original six children I had started asking Him for when I was younger?)
And then I stopped beating myself up. (Mostly stopped, at any rate. I think it's normal for a mother to regularly flog herself over her perception of how she sucks at the whole motherhood thing.) I squeezed my boy a little tighter, and told him how sorry I was that I hadn't been paying close enough attention. Both to him, and to everything else. I told him that I loved him, but even bigger than that....he was super important to me. I told him that he was not just one of my favorite kids, but one of my favorite people in the whole world. And that I had missed him, too.
We talked about how growing up is hard, and I reminded him that sometimes? It's okay to still do the things you did when you were little. Lego cities and watching cartoons, sleeping with stuffed animals and having mom sing to you at night. It didn't mean you weren't growing up just because you did one of those things sometimes. He told me that right now, the part of him that wants to grow up fast is still mostly small; but that it's getting bigger all the time and it's really making it hard for him to just be fine. All I could say to that was that I understood. I'm not sure he believed me, though.
In the end, after we had found our way through the tears and back to the giggles, Bug and I made a date. We're going on a Mother-Son date this weekend, and he gets to decide what we're going to do. I'm thinking movies and food, but he could surprise me. I hear there's a truck pull in town this weekend.
I am such a craptastic mother sometimes. How could I ignore one child and lavish so much time and attention on the other? How had it completely escaped my notice that the reason my son has been such a royal puke for the last several weeks was because it was the only way he could get my undivided attention? (And in the spirit of thankfulness, I did take a moment to thank God that He had only given me two children. How much more damage to the future of our nation would it be possible for me to inflict if I had been gifted with the original six children I had started asking Him for when I was younger?)
And then I stopped beating myself up. (Mostly stopped, at any rate. I think it's normal for a mother to regularly flog herself over her perception of how she sucks at the whole motherhood thing.) I squeezed my boy a little tighter, and told him how sorry I was that I hadn't been paying close enough attention. Both to him, and to everything else. I told him that I loved him, but even bigger than that....he was super important to me. I told him that he was not just one of my favorite kids, but one of my favorite people in the whole world. And that I had missed him, too.
We talked about how growing up is hard, and I reminded him that sometimes? It's okay to still do the things you did when you were little. Lego cities and watching cartoons, sleeping with stuffed animals and having mom sing to you at night. It didn't mean you weren't growing up just because you did one of those things sometimes. He told me that right now, the part of him that wants to grow up fast is still mostly small; but that it's getting bigger all the time and it's really making it hard for him to just be fine. All I could say to that was that I understood. I'm not sure he believed me, though.
In the end, after we had found our way through the tears and back to the giggles, Bug and I made a date. We're going on a Mother-Son date this weekend, and he gets to decide what we're going to do. I'm thinking movies and food, but he could surprise me. I hear there's a truck pull in town this weekend.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
"The World Don't Move To The Beat Of Just One Drum...."
"....Everybody finds a way to shine...."
One of the things I absolutely love the most about my youngest son is the fact that he charts his own path in life. He is the most unique of individuals; moving through his life to a tune that no one else can quite get the beat to. He's a free-thinking, risk-taking, trail-blazing kid. And if he likes something, it doesn't matter to him what others will think of him because of it.
This attitude has always served him well. Especially during weeks like this week, when the school has been promoting different things for Red Ribbon Week fun themes. Monday was Mismatch Day (generally a given state of being for him, on any day of the week; so this one was easy!), Tuesday was Wear A Tie Day (he managed to find an old clip on he had from kindergarten, and wore it clipped to his t-shirt!), and today was Funky Sock Day. The only problem with Funky Sock Day? Well, Bug doesn't actually own any funky socks.
But I do. And he knows it. Which is why he raided my sock drawer looking for something. He found two different pairs of toe socks; my personal favorite funky socks. As the kid is super sensitive about what goes against his toes, those were immediately discarded. But then he found two other pairs of funky socks. Long funky socks, which apparently were even better, as they would cover his entire legs when he wore shorts to school. But.....there was one slight hiccup to be pondered. Both of these pairs of socks? Were predominantly.... PINK.
No worries. He decided to wear one of each. Proudly and self-confidently. And he had a complete and total blast walking around in them today. Even if he had to answer "Duh!" about eleventy-bajillion times to the question Are those your mom's socks??
One of the things I absolutely love the most about my youngest son is the fact that he charts his own path in life. He is the most unique of individuals; moving through his life to a tune that no one else can quite get the beat to. He's a free-thinking, risk-taking, trail-blazing kid. And if he likes something, it doesn't matter to him what others will think of him because of it.
This attitude has always served him well. Especially during weeks like this week, when the school has been promoting different things for Red Ribbon Week fun themes. Monday was Mismatch Day (generally a given state of being for him, on any day of the week; so this one was easy!), Tuesday was Wear A Tie Day (he managed to find an old clip on he had from kindergarten, and wore it clipped to his t-shirt!), and today was Funky Sock Day. The only problem with Funky Sock Day? Well, Bug doesn't actually own any funky socks.
But I do. And he knows it. Which is why he raided my sock drawer looking for something. He found two different pairs of toe socks; my personal favorite funky socks. As the kid is super sensitive about what goes against his toes, those were immediately discarded. But then he found two other pairs of funky socks. Long funky socks, which apparently were even better, as they would cover his entire legs when he wore shorts to school. But.....there was one slight hiccup to be pondered. Both of these pairs of socks? Were predominantly.... PINK.
No worries. He decided to wear one of each. Proudly and self-confidently. And he had a complete and total blast walking around in them today. Even if he had to answer "Duh!" about eleventy-bajillion times to the question Are those your mom's socks??
Saturday, October 24, 2009
He STILL Didn't Go To The Dance
There's a new girlfriend around the house these days. Well, maybe she's not technically around our house, but she's around the school and at his games. Remember this post? Apparently, this girl is made of pretty strong, doesn't-embarrass-easily-when-faced-with-oddball-mamas, stuff.
Because they've been "official" for six days now. And she's not too shy to approach her boyfriend's mom on her own and introduce herself. She also introduced me to her best friend, who is right at this moment at the Homecoming dance with her while my booger-head son is out with his best friend. Which, while it confuses my old-fashioned and dance loving mom thoughts that say boyfriends should take their girlfriends to the Homecoming dance at the school, is apparently prior arrangements the both of them had made before the "official-ness" of their relationship and they decided to just go forward with them. Weird, but what do I know?
I really do think I like this girl. But I'm not telling him that. That would be the kiss of death in any high school relationship. And I can't do that, because he's making noises about actually taking her to prom if they're still together then. And we should all know by now just how much I want my son to go to school dances. It would be so much fun for me.
I mean for him. Fun for HIM.
Because they've been "official" for six days now. And she's not too shy to approach her boyfriend's mom on her own and introduce herself. She also introduced me to her best friend, who is right at this moment at the Homecoming dance with her while my booger-head son is out with his best friend. Which, while it confuses my old-fashioned and dance loving mom thoughts that say boyfriends should take their girlfriends to the Homecoming dance at the school, is apparently prior arrangements the both of them had made before the "official-ness" of their relationship and they decided to just go forward with them. Weird, but what do I know?
I really do think I like this girl. But I'm not telling him that. That would be the kiss of death in any high school relationship. And I can't do that, because he's making noises about actually taking her to prom if they're still together then. And we should all know by now just how much I want my son to go to school dances. It would be so much fun for me.
I mean for him. Fun for HIM.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Gotta Wonder Where These Boys Get It
It's October, as I'm sure you're all aware. It's the month when high school fall sports are in full swing, and a good chunk of the student body turns out for football games. It's also the month (usually) when most schools hold their Homecoming celebrations.
I LOVED Homecoming every year. Everything about it. The decorations, the shopping for the perfect dress and matching shoes, getting my hair done. I was lucky each year that I genuinely liked the boys I went to the dances with, and each year we had a fantastic time. Homecoming is one of my favorite memories from high school.
Which is probably why I just don't understand why my son won't go. It's not for lack of a date; there's no shortage of girls who would love to go with this boy. He just flat refuses to go. Each year, its almost like he purposely won't have a girlfriend, so he's not forced to take her. This year, there is actually a girl he really likes, that likes him in return. And he won't ask her out.
And when I asked him if he was holding off just so he wouldn't have to take her to Homecoming.... he just grinned at me. The schmuck.
He says he's talked to her about it. And she's still talking to him. As much as I love my kid, I have to wonder what she sees in him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The other night, Coach was laying on the sofa watching TV. Bug had been sitting by me, doing a great job of acting like he was doing me a tremendous favor by letting me rub his back.
Suddenly, he got up and walked over to where his dad was laying and laid down next to him.
C: Bug... what are you doing?
B: Thought I'd lay here with you, Dad.
C: What? Are we..... cuddling?? (And yes, there was horror in his voice. I'm *almost* positive it was just for effect.)
B: Dad... it's a "man cuddle".
Coach busted out laughing, which set Bug off. And just as they got back under control, I had to ask
So, what? It's a ... muddle??
We laughed for a solid ten minutes. There were tears and tummy aches. It was awesome.
I LOVED Homecoming every year. Everything about it. The decorations, the shopping for the perfect dress and matching shoes, getting my hair done. I was lucky each year that I genuinely liked the boys I went to the dances with, and each year we had a fantastic time. Homecoming is one of my favorite memories from high school.
Which is probably why I just don't understand why my son won't go. It's not for lack of a date; there's no shortage of girls who would love to go with this boy. He just flat refuses to go. Each year, its almost like he purposely won't have a girlfriend, so he's not forced to take her. This year, there is actually a girl he really likes, that likes him in return. And he won't ask her out.
And when I asked him if he was holding off just so he wouldn't have to take her to Homecoming.... he just grinned at me. The schmuck.
He says he's talked to her about it. And she's still talking to him. As much as I love my kid, I have to wonder what she sees in him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The other night, Coach was laying on the sofa watching TV. Bug had been sitting by me, doing a great job of acting like he was doing me a tremendous favor by letting me rub his back.
Suddenly, he got up and walked over to where his dad was laying and laid down next to him.
C: Bug... what are you doing?
B: Thought I'd lay here with you, Dad.
C: What? Are we..... cuddling?? (And yes, there was horror in his voice. I'm *almost* positive it was just for effect.)
B: Dad... it's a "man cuddle".
Coach busted out laughing, which set Bug off. And just as they got back under control, I had to ask
So, what? It's a ... muddle??
We laughed for a solid ten minutes. There were tears and tummy aches. It was awesome.
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