Tag Archives: parenting

With Apologies to Dr. Maslow

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.

Dear Mr. Wonderful,

In case I haven’t told you lately, you’re a wonderful guy. When I was a girl, and imagined my life, I never even came close to the way it’s turned out. I hoped I’d find someone who loved all of me — my big mouth, my mood swings, and the awful sounds I make in the morning to clear my sinuses. You’ve been a really good sport through all of it. You’ve even validated me by reading my blog.

And you’re a wonderful dad. You’re never too tired to go for a bike ride, push someone on the swing, or fix problems on the computer. When I can’t moderate another argument, you step right in. And you’re the best at preparing for social studies tests! I know our boys will turn out to be great dads, because they’ve had such a great example.

Putting you on a plane today made us all a little sad. But I’m smiling knowing you boarded the flight in your Who D@d t-shirt, and were probably thinking about us as much as we were thinking about you.

Happy Father’s Day.  You rock!

The Lucky Wife

Not in my Job Description

There are a couple of things I just don’t do.  I don’t cut grass.  I don’t climb on the two-story ladder.  And I don’t buy cups.  I’m talking about athletic cups, not the kind you drink out of.

The only illustration I'm using for this post.

One of my kids returned home from a week at the beach with a friend’s family last night.  He looked exhausted and had a beautiful tan (obviously no SPF 100+ sunscreen applied).  I knew exactly what would happen without my intervention, so to avert crisis this morning, I gave him two tasks:  unpack your bag from the beach, and get your lacrosse bag packed and in the foyer.  (Lax camp began this morning.)  I even gave a deadline.  9:00 P.M.  I was very proud when (a few minutes before 9:00) he went out to the garage to gather his gear.

He returns with the bag, then goes to his room, and begins making noise that indicates he’s looking for something.  Soon thereafter, he appears downstairs and asks if anyone knows where his cup is.

Now, as his mother, I feel it’s my job to stay on top of certain things.  I make sure he has clean underwear and socks with no holes no more than a few holes.  I keep shampoo and soap available, and provide meals.  But I will not be responsible for his cup.  I just won’t.

Mr. Wonderful remembers seeing one in his closet, so goes to help him look.  I’m having no part of this search — just shaking my head and fetching a wine glass to be an observer.  They find one.  My son announces that it’s too small.

I just walked away.

If any other male made that statement I’d have been on it like gravy on rice. There are sooo many punch lines.  But this is my kid, so it’s a little creepy going there.

As it was now too late to go buy a “bigger one” I listened as his dad asked him if he could manage for the first day of camp with the one we found.  He said he could.  This afternoon I’ll hand him some cash and send him in to Academy Sports to go resolve this issue.  By himself.  Because I’m not going to get into a discussion about what size cup he needs.  Ever.

P.S.  For the love of all things sacred, please don’t tell him I wrote this. 

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.

These are the Good Old Days

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.

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!

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.)