Tag Archives: Teenagers

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…

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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.

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.