Tag Archives: Kids

Nearing the End of Lazy Summer

Talk Nerdy to Me — Part I

They’re irritating and overused. Like the sound of fingernails of a blackboard, I cringe when I hear them. We’ve all got a few on our personal lists, but there are a handful that are universally accepted as obnoxious. Annoying phrases are everywhere.

Source: universecityblog.wordpress.com

I know I’m not the only one who wishes many of these phrases and words would go away. I know there are others like me out there who long for a return to a more genteel manner of speaking. (Now, I don’t want to swing to the opposite extreme. I don’t need to ask my son “with whom he will be going to the movies.”) But I would embrace the renaissance of a few polite and well-mannered phrases to replace some of the ones I feel just have to go.

The number one offender: “(I/she/he) was like.” Attention teenagers: this is not a verb phrase. If you want to describe what someone says, does, or feels, there are verbs for that purpose. Please learn how to use them.

Fusion words: combining two words, then dropping a syllable or two because you’re too lazy to say the whole thing. “ ‘Sup?” is the number one offending word in this category, but there are many, many more. “Dja-eat?” (“Did you eat?”) If the statement or question requires two words, please speak them both. Having a conversation reduced to a few grunted syllables is just rude and makes you sound like a cave man.

Overuse of the word, “Whatever.” This non-committal word usually means the responder disagrees with what you’re saying, but doesn’t have the energy or vocabulary to respond appropriately. Parents, beware. It does not imply agreement. It’s a verbal tool teenagers use to stop a conversation.

Interrogative words: What happened to them? Questions should begin with words like how, may, why, or did. Raising the pitch at the end of a phrase and inserting a question mark does not constitute a question. (“You went to the store?”)

The dreaded “No offense, but…” This phrase should just be stricken. No good can come of anything said after that phrase. This disclaimer does not give you license to say rude or ugly things, just because you’ve preceded the insult with a feigned politeness. Using the Southern cousin, “Bless his/her heart” (as in, “My aunt is crazy, bless her heart.”) after a put-down is just as offensive. Don’t do it.

Now, I realize that language is an evolving entity. Today’s vernacular is significantly different from that of just a few decades ago. Therefore — as with all things – this, too, shall pass. I just hope I live long enough to hear it happen.

For now, if you see me around and want to chat, avoid these phrases. Speak in complete sentences and leave out some of the slang. Let your language bear some resemblance to the mother tongue we learned in school. Please talk nerdy to me.

Which phrases make your head spin? Please share if I’ve left out the one that makes your head spin!

Coming soon: Part 2 – Nerdy words, and how to use them.

Tales from the Treehouse*

With Apologies to Dr. Maslow

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I don’t consider myself an “expert” in any way. But with 45 years combined experience (19+16+10) parenting 3 boys, I have learned a thing or two. And by today’s measurable standards I’ve done a decent job. They make good grades. They have reasonable standards of hygiene. None of them has been to juvey.

So (after I pat myself on the back) let me share with you a little of the wisdom I’ve gained.

Teenage boys only give their undivided attention to one thing: video games.

When there’s a controller in their hands, they can block out anything. Parents calling, little brothers screaming, phones ringing. I pray the house never catches on fire while Slick is playing Call of Duty. He’d be a goner. I even saw The Trailblazer’s girlfriend on a Skype screen competing for his attention while he was playing FIFA. She lost. They get hypnotized by the pixels on the screen like deer staring into headlights. (A few days ago I thought about throwing the main breaker and telling them there was a power outage just to get their attention. But it was too hot to be without the A/C, so I had to shrug off that idea.)

Once you get past video games on the Needs pyramid, everything else comes with an underlying distraction: thinking about girls. The chart is self-explanatory from that point forward.

The tiny space at the top of the pyramid is what remains of their former dependence on us. As they rely less on mom and dad for other things, the remaining contact is only for the purposes of bonding (us) and asking for money (them). They want to spend as little time with their parents as possible, preferably not in public.

So those of you with teenage boys in your life, study this chart carefully, and save yourself a lot of grief. Don’t get your feelings hurt when they bail on having dinner at home in favor of hanging out with friends. Don’t think you understand what motivates them. Don’t speak to them in public. And make sure the smoke alarms in your house are loud enough to be heard over COD.

I’m sure Dr. Maslow would agree with me.

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

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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.

These are the Good Old Days

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There are a lot of changes taking place in my world these days. Lately I’ve been pondering the differences in life now, and life as I used to know it. And I’ve been really happy with my findings. Many things have changed about my boys, and about our lifestyle because these pesky kids are growing up.

Back in the Day -- when we needed a babysitter to leave the house.

I remember when silence in my house meant disaster was brewing. I rarely had to look far for the source of the silence, for there was usually a trail. Freshly cut hair, water dripping through the downstairs ceiling from an overflowing sink, or the gentle scratching of a kid drawing on the walls. Silence will freak out a Little Kid Mom. Now, silence means harmony. It means Slick is playing X-Box with his noise-cancelling headphones on and The Caboose is listening to his iPod. Or it means they’re not home, which happens more and more often as they get older. (There’s always something better going on somewhere else. Always.) Which leaves ME with silence. I don’t feel the need to put the TV on for background noise or listen to music. I’ve been waiting a long time for this silence. I’m embracing it.

And hygiene has changed. My kids think they invented the old run-the-water-and-put-on-Axe-Body-Spray trick. (They’re so clever.) Ha! I was doing that back in the 1960s. I recognized it as a sign of maturity when my kids realized showering was actually a good thing. Back then, I couldn’t get them in. Now I can’t get them out.

There was a time when sending my kids to their rooms to lie down was used as a threat. It was actually one of my better negotiating tools. “If you’re going to be cheeky, then it’s nap time.” Much like showering, I realized my kids had come around to the next phase of life when they no longer saw sleep as punishment. I grin when The Trailblazer says he’s going to take a nap in the afternoon. He’s officially a grown-up.

The simple pleasures of being a Big Kid Mom are definitely suiting me. I smile at the Little Kid Moms in the grocery store juggling toddlers and balancing a baby in a sling and pushing a cart. I offer to reach things for them and smile at the “cute” things their kids blurt out. I’m glad I’m no longer one of them. I like being a Big Kid Mom.

I love eating in restaurants and not fearing the disapproval of my waiter when we get up to leave, and the table looks like a F2 tornado has ripped across it. We no longer need to haul crayons and books, sneak in chicken nuggets in my purse, or ask for special concoctions from the kitchen for my picky eaters.

I’m happy that there are no longer designated “play areas” downstairs. Just a couple of dumbbells (the weight-lifting kind, not the kids) sitting next to the TV.

I cherish days that are free from meltdowns over trivial things and drama, drama, drama. (Well, those aren’t completely gone, but they’re less frequent.)

I have a few friends who are struggling with having Big Kids, starting to fear the days when our nests will be less crowded, and we’ll start re-feathering them with sewing rooms and home offices. Not me. I’m picking out the drapes for my woman cave. The one that will have no sports memorabilia or wipe-clean leather furniture. Just a pretty table for my laptop, shelves for pictures of my kids, a comfy chair with floral upholstery and a wine fridge.

So to all you Little Kid Moms, take heed and take heart. It goes by fast. You need to enjoy every moment of diapers, sticky hands, Nick Jr., and kids’ menus. For being a Little Kid Mom is short-lived. Thank God.

It’s a Good Thing I Drive a Big SUV

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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: 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.

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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 15^th. 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…

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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!

With apologies to those who had to put up with me…

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Many years ago, my friend and I were pregnant with our first child at the same time. We compared notes throughout our pregnancies, and eagerly anticipated the arrival of our little bundles of joy. (I was due first.)

So along comes The Firstborn, and everyone agreed he was perfect. Perfect little round head, perfect little eyes, perfect fingers and toes… you get the picture. My husband and I stared googly-eyed at him for hours, because he was so darn cute. Ahhh.

Then my friend’s baby arrived, and I went to the hospital to visit her. She escorts me over to the bedside cradle beaming, and said, “Isn’t he perfect?” I looked down at the little guy and smiled. He was, indeed, cute… but perfect, no. He had these little white bumps on his face, and broken capillaries on his cheeks, and his fingers were peeling. Cute, yes. Perfect, no.

At that moment I heard angelic harp music in my head, accompanied by visions of my baby. “No, but my baby IS perfect,” I thought.

Then, like the needle being scratched across a record on an old Victrola, my vision stopped. “What if my baby isn’t really perfect?? Maybe they’re all like this, and we just don’t notice it on our babies… Oh, no.” I kissed her goodbye, reassured her once more that her little angel was perfect, and made the mad dash home.

I raced into the house, tore back his covers and stared at him. Sure enough, he had the same little bumps on his face and weird fingernails. I just hadn’t noticed. I saw him with my Mama Eyes, which made him perfect. To me.

So thank you all for putting up with me this week, as I stare once again at my children with my Mama Eyes, overlooking their flaws, seeing only the good parts. You’ve all been really good sports.