Tag Archives: Boys

Moral Relativism: How I taught my son to tell a lie.

The Truth is not always clear.

Yesterday I sold myself out.

The Caboose had a concert last night, the “final exam” for his chorus class. It was at 7:00 P.M. at a church about 30 minutes from home.

My Mother-in-Law (who lives with us) has been having some medical issues this week, and my husband and I thought it best that she stay home and have her visit with the home health nurse. Knowing she’d be upset if she found out he was performing and we weren’t taking her, I did something I’ve never done before.

I told my son to lie.

I wrapped it around an explanation that, albeit true, was justification to disregard one of the standards I hold highest. At least I did until yesterday.

Since we’d be leaving the house just a few hours after getting home from school, she was bound to ask where we were going. And in his chorus uniform (dress clothes with a tie) a casual explanation wasn’t plausible. I suppose I could’ve just sneaked out the back door in stealth mode, but there would have to be an explanation of why the sitter was staying late. I felt trapped by The Truth. So I made a judgment call. And I lied.

We all tell lies. We really do. “This is the best cake I’ve ever tasted.” “I can’t make it in to work today.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t get the message.” We rationalize the lies we tell by pretending they’re harmless. We justify their use by the goal we’re trying to achieve.

As adults, we live in a world where things are not always black and white. We rely on experience and outcome to make judgment calls at times. And we sometimes lie in the process.

But at eleven years old, he doesn’t yet have that body of experience, or the understanding to make those calls. I told him that it was OK to lie because the truth would hurt her feelings. I packaged it up neatly in a way that would make it easy. Then I engaged him in the process, we told the cover story, and left.

On the way to school this morning, he was the first to bring it up. “It felt weird lying to Grandma last night.” I told him that I thought so too, and that we shouldn’t do it again. But the fact of the matter is that we will have to do it again, because she can’t do everything we do. I’ll just have to make sure I have a better plan, one that doesn’t require his participation.

And I’m now left to wonder where else he’ll apply this new standard of relativism.

“If it doesn’t hurt anyone, it’ll be OK.”

“She’ll never find out, so why not?”

“I’m only lying because I don’t want to hurt her.”

So The Truth, which I used to hold in such high regard, is now reduced to a standard I’m willing to sacrifice for a greater good in my son’s eyes. I sure wish I could get a do-over on this one.

___________________________________________

What do you think? Is it OK to tell a lie in certain situations?

I hope there’s wine in hell.

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Yesterday The Caboose pinched his middle finger in his closet door. Not the whole finger, just the fleshy tip. It made a purple blister at the pinch site, and the tip of his finger was all swollen and throbbing. We applied ice and elevated the injury. To protect it, he curled the other fingers protectively, extending the middle finger full and straight. You get the picture.

He was making a hand gesture similar to this one. Only with one less finger. (Thanks, Microsoft, for the royalty-free image.)

This morning, it was hurting a bit, so I gave some ibuprofen. Then we got ready for church.

Mass was lovely. Sitting around us were friends, neighbors, and a nun. As the “peace be with you” moment approached, I look over at the boy and see that he has resumed the protective hand position, with the other fingers curled tightly and the injured middle finger fully extended.

I wanted to die.

“Peace be with you.” he sweetly said to the nun.

Happy Mardi Gras!

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Today, I took one for the team. I stayed home on Mardi Gras.

If you don’t already know this, today is Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras Day, the culmination of our weeks-long celebration leading up to the somber season of Lent here in Catholic New Orleans.

If you’ve never been to Mardi Gras or to New Orleans, you should definitely put it on your bucket list. I know there are other Mardi Gras and Carnival celebrations around the world, but ours is unique for many reasons. But I digress…

This story is about my family.

My family loves Mardi Gras. But we love it in different ways.

Uptown parade via Nola.com

My idea of a great Mardi Gras is having a base camp at the beginning of the route with chairs and ladders and food and potty passes somewhere. My preferred location is on Napoleon Avenue, at the beginning of the parade route, nestled under a lacy canopy of live oaks, with actual grass beneath my feet. Because it the beginning of the route, you have to arrive early, while most of the city is still pondering their second cup of coffee. Or second Bloody Mary.

For Slick and The Trailblazer, a great Mardi Gras experience means being further up St. Charles Avenue, where throngs of high school and college students flock. (Mardi Gras is the new Spring Break.) The scene up there is a bit intense for me, and the thick crowds give me the heebie-jeebies, so I prefer to leave them with their own kind while I stay with mine.

For Mr. Wonderful, being in the thick of the action, not tied down to chairs and a home base, drifting with the crowd chasing an elusive Zulu coconut and eating from street vendors is Utopia. Before we had children, we schlepped through the French Quarter, caught the drag queen costume contest, roamed through the city in search of fun. It was never my thing, but he loved it so much I went along with it. Don’t get me wrong, I had a good time, but I’m definitely a fair-weather fan of this season.

Once the kids came, we settled down a bit, hunkering in a hotel on St. Charles Avenue for the long weekend, partying til someone dropped. The kids slept on the floor of the old mansion-turned-hotel and ate pub food for days.

But as they got older, the family became divided. The teenagers tired of hanging with mom and dad for days on end. After three kids my bladder could no longer go all day with limited potty stops. But Mr. Wonderful’s lust for the party never ceased.

The kids and I were holding him back.

Then last week, Mr. Wonderful and I found ourselves downtown on a parade night with only The Caboose in tow. As we approached the parade route, the boy ran ahead to get there first. Mr. Wonderful glanced back at me, looking for permission to follow. I nodded my consent and he took off after the little dude. I caught up a few minutes later to hear them shouting and having fun, with an armload of beads and a giant stuffed fish. Two peas in their Mardi Gras pod.

So Sunday, when Mr. Wonderful commented about last year’s Mardi Gras Day rain out, and how upset he was when the rain clouds passed and he saw the TV broadcast of the people on the streets reveling without him, I knew I had to throw him a bone. I convinced The Caboose that he and dad would have a great time on the man-prowl. No one to tether them to a bathroom, no one to make them stay put in mom’s happy place. They could travel light, work their through the crowd, go where the wind would take them.

I sent them off without me, so they could have their kind of fun.

My theory was validated at 9:25 this morning, when the first photo came via dad’s Blackberry of a smiling boy.

Shortly after that came another photo of The Caboose holding his Zulu coconut. More followed, all chronicling the day exactly as I hoped it would go. Father and son, having fun together, making special memories at on Carnival Day.

The Mardi Gras prize: A Zulu coconut. (Photo credit: Mr. Wonderful.)

King Zulu. (Photo credit: Mr. Wonderful.)

Hail Rex. (Photo credit: Mr. Wonderful.)

I’m sure (OK, I hope) when they return home this afternoon, they’ll both say I should have come. But the truth is it couldn’t be both ways. Their kind of fun is different from my kind. And today I wanted them to have their kind.

Next year I’ll probably go with them, and we’ll figure out a compromise that covers us all.

But I’m certain that someday I’ll hear them telling stories about this day – the year they went out by themselves – and the adventures they had. And I’ll smile.

He really was listening.

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Evidently he heard the real words. Not just these.

All those years, when I was yelling sharing my wisdom with the children, it seems The Trailblazer really was listening.

This week I called him at school to discuss a change that’s going to be happening to our family soon. (The details of which are a story for another day.) I tell him about it, expecting a reaction of surprise, probably objection, definitely questions. Since he spends nine months of the year away at school, it affects him the least, but it’s still a big change.

After a brief discussion, he pauses and says, “I’m sure you and dad thought it through, so if that’s what you decided, then I’m sure that’s what’s best.”

There was a lifetime of reward crammed in that one sentence.

He actually said “I’m sure you and dad have thought it through…”

Did he really acknowledge that his parents are capable of intelligent thought? I wasn’t expecting that paradigm shift until he was about 30.

Did he really understand that we had considered the impact on everyone, and deemed it the right thing? I think he did.

Now, maybe he was just trying to get me off the phone so he could resume his game of beer pong studying. Or maybe he’s trying to figure out how to stay in Baton Rouge this summer to avoid it altogether.

Or maybe he meant what he said. Yeah, I’m going with that.

I’m giving myself a gold star for raising that boy. I hope the other ones have been listening, too.

The Joy of “Yes”

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A while back I noticed something.

I was telling my kids “no” a lot.

“Will you make pancakes for breakfast?”

“No.”

“Can we go to see a movie today?”

“No.”

“Can I invite friends over?”

“No.”

Source: thecircleproject.com

One day I paused, and contemplated what it must be like for them hearing “no” all the time. Not having the ability to control decisions about their day, or their life. Being on the receiving end of parents’ and teachers’ permission all the time.

And I decided I would try to say “yes” more often.

Because when it came down to it, sometimes I said “no” for my own convenience. If I wasn’t up to cleaning up a mess, I said “no” to a project. If I didn’t have the energy to handle a bunch of kids, I said “no” to the sleepover. They heard me saying “no” a lot.

So I had a little talk with myself about saying “yes.” And I adopted a new mantra. “I’ll say ‘yes’ when I can.” Practical realities sometimes intervened, making “yes” impossible. But as I started saying it more often, I liked the feeling I got from being agreeable. “Yes” usually meant something fun. “Yes” usually meant making memories. “Yes” brought joy back into our day.

I started to like “yes.”

And then the strange thing happened. They started saying “yes” back.

“Please pick up your room.”

“OK.”

“It’s time for bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And the one that causes more arguments in our house than any other, “Turn the game off.”

“I will.”

This morning on the way to school, The Caboose was feeling a little run down. He was listening to music on his iPod, getting ready for another day of sixth grade as we approached campus. Now this kid does not respond well when asked to terminate something in mid-stream. The typical response is “after this song,” or “I need to save my game.” But this morning as we pulled up to school, I told him to turn off his iPod and stow it in the seat pouch, and he said “yes.”

God, I love “yes.”

Saying Goodbye to Small, Medium, and Large

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I used to have three little kids. One was Small, one was Medium, one was Large. Their clothing, their shoes, the servings on their plates all reflected their birth order appropriately. We had no trouble determining whose clothes belonged to whom, which bicycle was the right size for which kid. They were spaced out by enough years that there were clear markers of birth order by the size of everything.

You may not know this yet, we’re smaller than the average family. Dad’s a towering 5’6”, and mom a proud 5’2”, so our offspring are destined to be of short stature. By other people’s standards, we’re all small. But within our home we’ve always had a distinct – albeit relative – range of sizes.

As any mom of small kids will tell you, we watch growth carefully. We celebrate when we make it to the 5^th percentile on pediatric growth charts, and then have “the talk” when we fall back off the charts. Growth ebbs and flows in pre-pubescent boys, and small boys often go through puberty later than their taller friends, exacerbating the physical differences for a while. But we are what we are, and in this house, we’re okay with that.

Slick was two years old when we first began monitoring his slow growth. My pediatrician did that little formula that pediatricians do with a child’s two-year-old stats and calculated his estimated adult height. His came out 1” taller than his older brother’s. The doctor laughed, being a younger brother himself, and told me to expect Slick to pass The Trailblazer up in height at age 16.

Lo and behold, in the last six months, they got to be the same height. When The Trailblazer comes home from college for visits, we have the mandatory height check to compare stature. And it happened. He passed his brother up. Only by a half-inch or so, but that was enough to make it official. The older brother is now the smaller brother. And both are taller than mom and dad.

It’s strange. And wonderful. Because it means they have become men. And they are comfortable with who they are. (Except for The Trailblazer. He’s a bit miffed about the taller little bro.)

Then, last week, another strange thing happened. The Caboose needed a green t-shirt to wear to school for a Spirit Week event. I pulled a green T out of the dryer (y’all know I hate folding laundry), and realized it was The Trailblazer’s. But it looked about the same size as The Caboose’s. Puzzled, I held it up to the child and, although it was a little big, he could pull it off. So Small wore Large’s shirt to school

Small, Medium, and Large are gone. I now have one Medium and two Larges.

Family photos will look different from now on. When standing in order there will no longer be the familiar downward trend. It’s strange, and wonderful.

Watching my little boys grow up into smart, compassionate young men has been the greatest reward of motherhood. When juxtaposed against learning to ride a bike and read a book, the accomplishments big kids are far more fulfilling. And there’s the added bonus of not having to wipe their butts or cut their food anymore.

So saying goodbye to Small, Medium, and Large isn’t bad at all. Because Large, Large, and Medium have made me so proud.

Lovin’

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Here are a few of the things I’m Lovin’ these days:

{ Source: Pinterest.com }

Slick getting his own car.

Fresh memories of The Trailblazer being home.

The forecast for a mild winter.

Pinterest.

Trying new recipes.

Cooking big, so I can send food to The Trailblazer and his roommates.

Helping Slick make plans for his future.

Listening The Caboose rehearse for an upcoming concert.

The freedom that comes with having older kids.

Finally loading music on my iPad.

My new laptop.

King Cake

Share your list! Post it in the comments below, or drop in your link! Can’t wait to see what you’re Lovin’!

Quiet Time — or How I Watched a Movie in my Own Living Room

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I’m not sure if he thought I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, or if Mr. Wonderful made some unshared New Year’s Resolution to pay greater attention to my ‘needs,’ but for the last few days, some freaky stuff has been happening.

Take Sunday, New Year’s Day, for example. I found myself home alone for a little while. Mr. Wonderful and the boys left the house for about an hour, leaving me and the dog all by ourselves.

Now, I get my fair share of alone time – after I’ve dropped a kid off at school or at a friend’s house, when I’m headed to my MIL’s to pick her up for a doctor’s appointment, and even in the grocery store. But you may see a pattern here. If I’m by myself, I’m usually away from home, and usually doing something for someone else.

I hardly ever put myself first. I rarely ask others to do what I could just get up and do myself. And I very, very seldom watch TV.

So with this gift of an hour, I cozied up in the big chair with a glass of wine and the remote. At first it felt a little odd, scanning the channel guide, passing up all the football games, zombie shows, and Spongebob reruns. I scroll to the channels that never get watched, and see a lovely chick-flick beginning. Figuring I can watch the first hour or so, I settle in.

Sipping my wine in the clean, quiet house, a sense of calm sweeps over me. I resist the urge to watch the clock, not wanting the precious time to end.

{ Source: Touchstone-Disney 1990 }

Just about the time Julia Roberts is picking out some new clothes on Rodeo drive, the guys return home.

That’s when the freaky part happened.

The boys instinctively entered the living room, intent on usurping control from me, and Mr. Wonderful stopped them.

“Your mom’s watching a movie. Y’all go upstairs.”

Curious, I looked to see where these words came from. And there was Mr. Wonderful looking my way.

“Really?” I replied. “I’ll turn it off.” It seemed almost foreign for me to be sitting down watching a movie — a chick-flick even — when they were home.

But I went with it.

I just sat there.

Watching Julia and Richard get to know one another for the one-thousandth time.

I heard the little kitchen TV turn on and the sound of NFL announcers wafting my way. Was he testing me?

I was in the living room, with the big tv and the remote, watching Pretty Woman while he sat isolated at the kitchen table watching football.

This was uncharted territory. I wasn’t even sure how to respond.

Was this some passive-aggressive attempt to get me to put the game on? Did he have some dreadful news to deliver, and wanted me in a good frame of mind to do so? Or was he simply … letting me watch tv?

I didn’t really know what to think. So I pushed the complicated thoughts out of my head.

And watched a movie.

Christmas in Holland

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{Source: http://albums.flyingdreams.org/albm1209.htm}

There are a lot of people who find Christmas difficult. This year I find myself becoming one of them, and I want to stop.

The Christmas Crunch is bearing down hard, and I’m trying hard not to let it steal my joy. The events of the last few weeks could easily have done so without some pretty strong defenses. (Luckily, my 25 years as an Army wife have taught me a few of those.) But it’s hard.

This morning, Mr. Wonderful and I were discussing the many ‘adjustments’ to our holiday celebration we’re making this year. I tried not to get disappointed about not having time to bake gingerbread cookies. I put aside the fact that I didn’t send out cards this year for only the second time in twenty-six years. I let go the fact that half of my decorations are still in their boxes, where they’ll sit for another year. We agreed not to fry our turkeys this year, but to go with a plan that’s less labor-intensive. We’ve trimmed Christmas to the bone, because we’re spread too thin to pull off our usual routine.

Then the phone rang.

And we were reminded that none of that’s important.

Instead of spending the day trying to catch up on all that’s behind schedule, we decided on a paradigm shift. We decided to let ourselves off the hook, and have a different celebration than we usually do. We did it the year after Katrina, where we scaled back out of necessity, and we did it the year Mr. Wonderful was in Iraq. And we’ll do it again this year.

I won’t worry that my chandeliers aren’t decorated, and that my linens may not be pressed. I won’t worry that I’m serving steamed carrots instead of my mother’s cornbread dressing.

Instead I’ll give thanks that we’re gathered together.

I’ll be happy that even though Christmas won’t go the way I envisioned it a month ago, it’ll be special. And I’ll remind myself that if I can put my disappointment aside over things that didn’t happen I’ll be able to enjoy the things that will. I might even find unexpected joy.

My little family has faced some unexpected challenges this year. 2011 certainly isn’t ending the way I expected it to three hundred sixty-or-so days ago. But it’s ending well.

The last few days have reminded me of an essay circulated among parents of special needs children. I’ve read it dozens of times as it related to my son’s academic challenges.

I’ve never really thought about it as a metaphor for Life.

But it is.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

WELCOME TO HOLLAND

Emily Perl Kingsley

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability – to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It’s like this……

When you’re going to have a baby, it’s like planning a fabulous vacation trip – to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It’s all very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, “Welcome to Holland.”

“Holland?!?” you say. “What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I’m supposed to be in Italy. All my life I’ve dreamed of going to Italy.”

But there’s been a change in the flight plan. They’ve landed in Holland and there you must stay.

The important thing is that they haven’t taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It’s just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.

It’s just a different place. It’s slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you’ve been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around…. and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills….and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy… and they’re all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say “Yes, that’s where I was supposed to go. That’s what I had planned.”

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away… because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.

But… if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn’t get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things … about Holland.

Memos from your Child

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For those of you wondering where The Lucky Mom gained her vast wisdom, I want to reveal one of my best sources, and share with you some of his best advice.

Dr. Don Fontenelle is a family therapist in my home town. His book, How To Live With Your Children is my parenting Bible. Below you will find a much-shared bit of his wisdom. I hope you learn as much from it as I have. If you share this, please credit Dr. Fontenelle.

MEMOS FROM YOUR CHILD

Don’t spoil me. I know quite well that I ought not to have all I ask for. I’m only testing you.

Don’t be afraid to be firm with me. I prefer it; it makes me feel more secure.

Don’t let me form bad habits. I have to rely on you to detect them in the early stages.

Don’t correct me in front of other people if you can help it. I’ll take more notice if you talk quietly with me in private.

Don’t make me feel that my mistakes are sins. I have to learn to make mistakes without feeling that I am no good.

Don’t protect me from consequences. I need to learn from experience.

Don’t be too upset when I say “I hate you.” I don’t mean it, but I want you to feel sorry for what you have done to me.

Don’t take too much notice of my small ailments. I may learn to enjoy poor health if it gets me much attention.

Don’t nag. If you do, I shall have to protect myself by appearing deaf.

Don’t forget that I cannot explain myself as well as I should like. This is why I’m not always very accurate.

Don’t make promises you may not be able to keep. Remember that I feel badly let down when promises are broken and this will discourage my trust in you.

Don’t tax my honesty too much. I am easily frightened into telling lies.

Don’t be inconsistent. That completely confuses me, makes me not listen, and teaches me to manipulate you.

Don’t tell me my fears are silly. They are terribly real and you can do much to reassure me if you try to understand and accept my feelings.

Don’t use force with me. It teaches me to be aggressive, hostile, and that power is all that counts.

Don’t fall for my provocations when I say and do things just to upset you. Then I’ll try for more such victories.

Don’t do things for me that I can do for myself. It makes me dependent, feel like a baby, and I may continue to put you in my service.

Don’t let my bad habits get me a lot of attention. It only encourages me to continue them.

Don’t try to discuss my behavior in the heat of conflict. For some reason my hearing is not very good at this time and my cooperation is even worse. It is all right to take the action required, but let’s not talk about it until later.

Don’t answer silly or meaningless questions. I just want to keep you busy with me.

Don’t let my fears arouse your anxiety. Then I will become more afraid. Show me courage.

Don’t pay more attention to my mistakes, failures, and misbehaviors than to my successes, accomplishments, and good behaviors. I need lots of understanding, encouragement, and positive attention. I cannot pat myself on the back and rely heavily upon you to do so.

Source: HOW TO LIVE WITH YOUR CHILDREN: A Guide For Parents Using A Positive Approach To Child Behavior.

By Don H. Fontenelle, Ph.D.

For information on this and other books by Dr. Fontenelle (Changing Student Behaviors, The Parent’s Guide to Solving School Problems, Are you Listening?/Attention Deficit Disorders, Purrfect Parenting, and How to be a Good Parent), contact him at 504-834-6411, 517 N. Causeway Blvd., Metairie, LA 70001.