Tag Archives: Boys

It Was Only a Dream… It Was Only a Dream…

Last night I had a wild nightmare.  It must’ve been a subconscious reaction to my gloating about how independent my kids are now.  Or maybe it was my social conscience telling me there was more work to be done.  Or maybe it was my good sense kicking in to give me a subtle reminder not to do anything crazy.

Anyway.

I dreamed I adopted babies.  Not one baby.  Babies.  Triplets.  A girl and two boys.

In my dream, I go through the adoption process to arrive at the moment the adoption counselor is going to present me with the baby I’ve been waiting for.  But when they bring her out, it turns out she’s part of a set – of triplets.  They explain it’s a package deal only.  So I say Yes.

I bring these babies home, and I realize I can’t tell the boys apart, so I resort to putting initials on their feet in Sharpie so I can remember who’s who.  The girl’s easy to identify, because she has blond hair and green eyes and looks just like me.  Just about the time we’re ready to announce to the world what we’ve done, Mr. Wonderful wakes me up.  Thank God.  Because my dream mother-in-law would’ve dropped dead on the spot if we’d told her we got more kids.

So to those of you who can interpret dreams, have a field day with this one.  I’m obviously no longer capable of taking care of babies who don’t come with labels.  And I’m obviously afraid of shocking my mother-in-law. And my husband has really good timing.

All I know is, I’m sticking to my story that I’m glad my kids aren’t little anymore.  And I’m glad I can tell them apart.

It’s a Good Thing I Drive a Big SUV

Yesterday, we went to the beach.  I’m so sorry I didn’t have my camera — because the visual image of us going to the beach speaks volumes about my family.  As there are no photos, I’ll just have to give it the thousand-word description it deserves.

For most people, going to the beach would conjure up images of a tote bag, a bottle of sunscreen and a floppy hat.  For us, it’s more like moving a 1-bedroom apartment out to the shoreline.  Mr. Wonderful is called Mr. Wonderful for many reasons, but chiefly because NOTHING is too much trouble for that man to do for his family.  So when we go to the beach, he hauls enough crap equipment for us to spend the rest of our natural lives in comfort at the water’s edge.

As we pulled out of the driveway, the back of my SUV was packed tightly with all the necessities, barely leaving room for our three kids + one more.  We have shelter from the sun for me (I’ve had malignant skin cancer), chairs, a table to keep our shirts and towels out of the sand, food, beverages, skim boards, boogie boards, goggles, towels, shovels… I think you’re getting the picture.  The hour-and-fifteen-minute ride was relatively pleasant, thanks to a couple of fully charged iPods and an air conditioner that reaches back to the third row.

We met our friends en route and arrived at the beach just before noon.  Out pops my BFF, a feisty Cuban-American schoolteacher who has skin that is genetically perfect for tanning.  (Her dark brown eyes make her the lowest possible risk for skin cancer.  I hate that about her.)  She’s holding a tote bag and a bottle of SPF 4 sunscreen, and her skin begins turning a shade of golden bronze the moment she steps out of the car.

My group starts hauling crap equipment through the sand, setting up Base Camp in a lovely spot.  20 minutes later, while my friend has already turned over twice and taken a walk, we’re ready to sit back and “relax.”  I let the kids shed their shirts (so I can apply Neutrogena SPF 100+ sunscreen to their pasty white skin) and let them play, because by this time I’m needing a drink and a chair.

The weather was perfect.  (90-ish degrees is a lovely day for us on the Gulf Coast.)  There was a gentle breeze, and the sun sparkling on the water was mesmerizing.  The kids played in the sand and swam out to the pilings where piers once roosted (before Hurricane Katrina).  At various times they were throwing baseballs and lacrosse balls, digging holes, and burying The Little Guy in the sand (because he’s the only one who still thinks it’s fun to get sand in every orifice of his body).

Then, when everyone was tired, and the spots where we missed putting sunscreen were starting to sting, it was time to pack it all up and haul it home.  This is where it gets tricky, because it never goes back in the car the same way it came out, and inevitably, something gets pitched so we can see out of the back window.  (This time it was a blanket that we didn’t use…)

Today I’ll pull it all out and clean everything, because a lifetime of going to the beach has taught me NEVER to put things away without cleaning them, lest you be surprised by the Most Horrific Smell Ever next time you want to use any of that crap equipment.

So the images of this day at the beach exist only in our memories.  Next time I’ll try to remember the camera, to record it for posterity.  For a day at the beach is definitely a metaphor for The Lucky Mom’s life:  be safe, have fun.  Then blog about it.

As our children grow older, it’s really hard to find activities that everyone can get excited about.  With kids ranging in age from 10 to 19, someone is usually being dragged against their will to family outings.  But the beach is a great equalizer.  Everyone acts 10 years old at the beach.  Some of us just bring more equipment.

The Clean Up.

The Clean Up: Those boogie boards have been to beaches from Florida to Hawaii. Really. We've actually checked them as luggage.

My preferred sunscreen. {http://www.neutrogena.com}

Hello, Summer. I’ve missed you.

When your children are little, time is measured on the Julian calendar.  Years begin in January and end in December, and you recall the year by the age your little ones were at the time. Once they start school, you recall the time by what grade they were in, and the calendar changes: years begin in August and end in May. The time in between is the wonderful period known as Summer.

As for me, I’ve finally realized what summer really is to us: A cleansing. A renewal. A release. (To my IT-guy husband, a reboot.) And we’ve developed a few rituals to welcome it, and habits to make it fun.

The 2011 Burning of the Notebooks.

One of the rituals we began many years ago is the event we call The Burning of the Notebooks.  After cleaning out backpacks (and checking for things others might be able to use) we light a fire in the backyard fire pit and ceremonially toss in the notebooks of the subjects that caused us the most grief that year.  The Trailblazer gave up on this ritual a few years ago, opting to just toss them in the trash.  But Slick gets a perverse particular pleasure out of it, so it continues.  This year the only subject to make it into the pit was Latin.  The curriculum this go-round included the mastery of advanced grammar, as well as the translation of Cicero’s orations and literary works.  (Makes my head hurt just thinking about it, so I’ll indulge him whatever release he needs.)  He had hundreds of pages of translations reduced to ash in just a few moments.  But the smile stayed on his face all afternoon.

We also dispense with haircuts.  Attending Catholic school, my kids are told what to wear and how their hair must be cut 9 months out of the year.  Mr. Wonderful and I figure the least we can do is lay off during the summer.  (Slick has figured out how to gradually eek by on haircut standards for the last month of school, so he usually starts the summer already looking a little shaggy.)  One summer there was a family wedding, and I figured a good chance for some lovely photos, so I insisted on a trim.  But we usually let them look like homeless dudes if they want to, because it’s only for a short time.

Our laid-back look from last summer.

Shoes also become optional.  There was a time when leaving the house (or returning home from someone else’s) meant a shoe-check.  More than once I got phone calls from friends giving me the count of how many shoes were left behind.  I was always a little puzzled when it was an odd number.

My favorite summer accessory is the attitude I get to assume:  Being Agreeable About Things.  From August til May, my role is that of Drill Sergeant.  Get up on time.  Get dressed in the right uniform.  Brush your teeth.  Eat your breakfast.  Load the car.  Go to school.  Do your homework.  Feed the dog.  Clean your room.  Eat your dinner.  Take a shower.  Brush your teeth.  Go to bed.  Whew.  It’s exhausting.  And most of the time we can’t vary from the routine, or all hell breaks loose.  So when they ask to do something off the regular path during summer, I like to say yes.  I like to surprise them with my agreeability, hoping to send them the message that sometimes you have be disciplined, and sometimes you get to go freestyle.

Summer has already commenced for the two oldest boys.  The Caboose has a few days of school left.  Once those days are over, you’ll find us hanging out, often doing nothing in particular.  I checked the calendar this morning to see just how long I get to be laid back.  As school starts earlier each year, the summer gets a little shorter.  This year we have until August 15th.  That’s long enough.

What are some your favorite summer activities??  I’d love to hear about them!

I thought it was the most important meal of the day…

A few days ago, Mr. Wonderful and I were at the grocery store, picking up a few things to get us through the weekend.  As we strolled through the dairy aisle, he put eggs and biscuits in the cart, saying that with all the kids at home, it would be nice to have breakfast together this weekend.

During the school/work week mornings go at a pace just short of a frenzy.  The first round of alarm clocks goes off before 5:30, the first round of waking up kids at 6:00, and the first carpool run leaves the driveway at 6:30.  To have an organized meal on these days would require an even earlier wake-up, and since we value sleep here as much as food, grab-and-go breakfast during the 30 minute commute to school has become the norm.

Our kids go to “academically advanced” schools, and they work really hard (4 years of Latin hard).  Harder than Mr. Wonderful and I ever dreamed of working in high school.  (OK, harder than we worked in college, but don’t tell the kids that.)  They make good grades, stay out of trouble, and basically, do what we ask of them.  So when we have the chance to do so, we like to let them have some latitude.

Which brings me to breakfast.

We never eat breakfast together anymore.  I mean, hot breakfast, served at the table.  (Don’t call social services yet on me… we have lots of food in the house.  As I write, Mr. Wonderful is whipping up waffles for The Little Guy.)  He and I have had coffee, and Slick is still up in his room, either still sleeping or playing Xbox quietly (so we don’t know he’s awake and demand that he come down for breakfast).  The Trailblazer spent the night out, so that chair’s empty, too.  I guess the eggs and biscuits will have to wait for another day.

The Little Guy LOVES waffles. (Please no comments about the nutritional value of waffles. I'm aware. But he likes 'em.)

Maybe we’ll have breakfast for dinner.  I can usually get them to show up for that meal.

P.S. Look what Mr. Wonderful did while I was writing. This is why I call him Mr. Wonderful!

Boxer Shorts and other Concerns

The Little Guy:  Mom, you need to get me some boxer shorts.

Me:  OK.  (Huh?)

The Little Guy:  I need to protect my sperm.  I want to have a family some day.

Me:  Okay.  (Whaaat?)

The Little Guy:  You do want grandchildren, don’t you.

Me:  Yes, I do.  (Exhale.)

The Little Guy:  We had Family Life today.

Me:  Really??  (They could’ve sent home a note.)

Family Life is the Catholic school’s version of Sex Ed, and all material is presented within the framework of Catholic values. A parent’s guide was sent home a few weeks ago, and I flipped through it.  It was full of chapters about marriage, children, valuing life.  Nowhere in it was a chapter about boxer shorts.

And why on earth was I the parent getting to handle this???  My husband wanted sons, and I gave him sons.  So I assumed that when it came time to have all these talks, they would be handled by Dad.  But since I get to spend so much quality time with the boys, I always seem to get to do the fun stuff.  Like talking about sperm.

The Little Guy:  And are girls circumcised?

Me:  No, they’re different from boys.

The Little Guy:  I know, Mom.

Me:  Dad really knows more than I do about this kind of boy stuff.  Maybe you should talk to him.

The Little Guy:  No, you know enough. 

Glad to know I’m qualified to discuss such matters.

Nerd + Nerd = More Nerds

{ Source: Sony Pictures Animation }

nerd   (noun \ˈnərd\):  an unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept person; especially : one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits

(Yes, I looked it up.  It’s what I do.)

The Caboose came home from school a few days ago in a bad mood.  He went up to his room to sulk for a little while, then appeared in the kitchen a few moments later, ready to talk about it.

Him:  I’m glad I’m not going back to that school next year.

Me:  (Concerned look.)  Why?

Him:  Because they have too many bullies.

Me:  (Seething.)  What happened?

Him:  The popular kids were calling me and my friends names.

Me:  (Seething more.) What did they call you?

Him:  Nerds.

Me:  (Sympathetic look.)  Aww.

You must understand, “aww” was the word that came out of my mouth, but my brain was saying “yessss!”  For I know the path of a nerd.  And it turned out just fine for me.

You see, I’m a nerd.  To be specific, I’m an English Nerd.  My husband is also a nerd.  He’s a Computer Nerd.  Turns out that when two nerds marry and have kids, guess what their offspring turn out to be.  You got it…more nerds.

Now I use the term with great affection.  Many of my closest friends are nerds.  (Go figure.)  But coming to terms with being a nerd is a long process.  And my Little Guy just isn’t there yet.  It’s my job to get him there.

When my kids read this (…who am I kidding, they don’t read my blog…) they’re not going to be happy.  Having one’s mom tell the world you’re a nerd can’t be good for adolescent self-esteem, but deep down I think the two older kids already know.

As for The Caboose, I’ll tell him over and over that he shouldn’t listen to what other people say.  I’ll reinforce the philosophy that “it’s what’s inside that matters.”  I’ll remind him that he has many friends who like him just the way he is.  But he’ll still want to be more like the  popular kids.  And he’ll want to be one of them.  It’s part of growing up.

This week is my College Boy’s Spring Break.  (Some of my friends have been expressing woe over their kids going to the beach for Spring Break.  I can’t even imagine that level of worry.)  When he said he planned to stay home, I was quite relieved.  Then a magical thing happened:  his girlfriend came to our house, and tucked under her arm was a physics book.  I almost cried.  They spent the afternoon at the dining room table with laptops and physics books. He has (at least on a sub-conscious level) realized he’s a nerd, embraced it, and is seeking out others like him.  The circle of life is complete for that one.

The wild-card among my children appears to be Slick, the middle child.  He has cool hair, a quick wit, and a free spirit.  He plays two team sports.  This apple may roll a little farther from the tree than the others.  (He’ll probably be a Democrat.)  But he did set his alarm for 3:30 A.M. a few days ago to wake up and study for a Latin test, so he’s clearly showing nerdy tendencies.

Raising a house full of nerds has made me happier and prouder than I ever could have imagined.  I’ve realized that the world has enough Alpha Males.  It needs more Nerds.  It needs more people who value intelligence over attention and substance over style.  I’m happily doing my part for the greater good!

So, to all the popular girls who called me names in high school, thank you.  (I’m sure some of you turned out nicely, too.)