Raising my Boys to Be Wife Huggers

I sat across from my four sons at lunch on Sunday afternoon and I thought about what kind of men they will grow to be. I watched as they laughed and made fart jokes, and realized that they really are mini versions of their father. Admittedly, there is a bit of me in there too.

It is inevitable that brothers are going to argue.  In the past, when I would hear the argument escalating I would intervene and tell them to go hit a pillow, or their bed, just not each other.  I have been bombarded with the media's attention to abuse recently, particularly at the hands of men. I realized that I just couldn’t risk a single move in the wrong direction.  If I tell them to use their fists as an outlet for anger now, how can I be confident that there will always be a pillow handy? If not, they will hit a wall, possibly followed by a person, friend or spouse? Even after they punched the stuffing out of their pillows, it didn't appear to help the matter.  In fact, they seemed more agitated than when they started.

I have never been in an abusive relationship.  I never witnessed abuse first hand.  But I have loved ones who have.  When someone chooses to hit a child, the child never forgets. That pain will last throughout their entire life, and it will spill over into their own family's lives, which will spill over into the next generation. Just by the single act of someone making a very poor choice because they were trying to impose authority and prove their dominance.

My husband and I made the choice not to spank our children.  This wasn't a decision we made right away. Both of us grew up being spanked.  It was all our parents knew, it was all we knew too. I spanked my son once and he might not remember it, but I do.  It was a parenting low.  I felt like it was an out of body experience and I was watching myself.  I looked like a monster. How can an adult justify striking a helpless child?  You can't. The cycle has to end somewhere and it ended there for me. 

When I was in high school a friend of mine was in an abusive relationship. Mostly verbal, and she denied any physical abuse.  When he learned that she was pregnant things got worse.  But after a fight he would entice her back with promises and sweet words.  When she went missing I knew that she hadn't run away. She called me too often to just stop one day.  I graduated high school and moved on, wondering, but knowing deep down what had happened to her.   Three years later I was a freshman in college and my mom called to tell me that she had finally been found.  She was in a shallow grave. Her boyfriend was found guilty in her brutal murder. It still haunts me to think about it.

His rage changed the course of so many lives, and ended two of them.

I made a promise to myself that when I had my first son, I would make every effort I could to teach him that it is never permissible to hit a woman. Or use your size or words to intimidate her. As much as I try however, I am not the person of influence in this matter.  His dad is.  Boys learn how to treat women by watching their fathers.  And if they don't have fathers, they watch how their mother allows herself to be treated.

The most important thing I can teach them is respect, not only for women, but humans, old, young, bad, good.  I have witnessed my son’s get mad and have seen the internal rage boil within them. Anger is uncomfortable. 

That is not the time to tell them how to deal with it.  The best time is when they are not blinded by it.   If they learn one thing from me I hope it is this, when they succumb to fisticuffs are disregarding any credibility they have. They are showing the opposite of strength.  Authentic strength isn't how hard you can hit someone; it is how you show restraint.  And I know how hard that can be.

At first it will feel unnatural when every fiber of their being will be urging them to get physical, but we can help reprogram that urge to the point will it will seem natural and logical to find a different solution. 

Of course I encourage them to defend themselves, but not to use that as an excuse to hit someone.  A stronger impact can come from not hitting back. I’m not asking them to suppress their feelings, but rather confront them, sit with them awhile and then release in a healthy outlet.  The only way this can become a habit is if it is acknowledged and practiced.   In my experience each of my boys initial reaction to anger is physical, it is our job as parents to introduce and encourage a more effective and peaceful way to deal with it.  This is just as important of a skill as washing their hands and will stay with them throughout adulthood.

Having negative media attention on famous athletes hurting children and women sends a major collision in the mind of a young boy. How can someone who can be so dedicated and driven, lack the strength of self-control? It could be their childhood repeating itself, but that doesn't make it right. If they would have known better, they may have chosen a different way to deal with their anger.

Our purpose as parents should be to teach them just that. It takes one boy at a time.  It is hard to compete with the perception that violence is the only solution to problems, big and small.  But everyday I remind my sons that they are already stronger and smarter at their young age, than any man, famous or not who turns to physical violence and hits his children or spouse.

My intention is that the gentleman of tomorrow will have the knowledge and strength to know it is okay to walk away.

Lured into the Den

I'm not even sure what happened to me last night.  My 9-year-old son asked to go to a cub scout meeting.  How did he get this idea in his head?  Well, a Cub Scout guy recruited him, that's how.  A man came to the school, (it wasn't on the playground or anything, I checked) and gave a presentation. My son was the only one in his school to follow the trail of crumbs leading to the place we were last night, a dimly lit den in the back of an old school gym.

I knew very little about scouts.  In first grade I was a girl scout, okay I was actually a brownie. And truthfully the name was misleading.  I had no idea I would have to do anything other than eat brownies. Public service? Talk to old people? I guess I am better off for it, plus the sash came in handy for my 1998 girl scout Halloween costume.

When we arrived I was greeted with extreme enthusiasm.  A man wearing an outfit similar to a park ranger approached me.  I'm sure his shirt fit him at one point, but on this particular day the buttons were working overtime just keeping it together.  He immediately started talking to me in what sounded like a different language.  All I heard was Webelo, patch, ceremony, and few other words.  He asked if I had the book.  Again, I had no idea what " the book" is or anything else he was talking about.  No problem, he pulled a well worn book out of his back pocket and began showing me all sorts of things that I would have to witness my son doing in order for him to earn a patch.  He swiftly corrected my faux pas saying that it is a badge, not a patch.  I thought that all this stuff was his job, not mine.  I guess you could say that I like to keep my parental involvement in extra curricular activities to a bare minimum.  As soon as you volunteer to be a coach or a snack minion you are put on an underground list and will be contacted to do everything forever more. I learned that the hard way, so now I put my husband's name on the list.  With everything he was describing it made me wonder if I wasn't joining this troop too. 

When I finally moved past the six inches from the door where he had stopped me, I realized that I was the only woman there.  I cursed my husband under my breath.   In addition to being the only woman, I had just come from work and was wearing a pencil skirt.  Not a big deal except the table in which I had to sit was a cafeteria table with the bench attached to it.   Being gentlemanly scouts, they asked me to sit down and were all waiting for me to do it.  I got as close to the bench as I could and hopped to lift my leg over. Now I was straddling it and very fearful that my skirt would rip. I still had to lift the other leg. I tried but my tight skirt restricted any movement past my knees. I had no other choice then to hike my skirt up to my thighs so I could manage to get my other leg over.

This could have possibly earned all the boys and their fathers the peep show badge. I'm sure they saw more than they needed to and more than some ever have.

Once I was seated the meeting began. When I finally got a chance to look at the rest of the boys I started to panic. Fin was twice their size.  I raised my hand and asked if this was the 4th grade group.  He seemed annoyed and said yes.  As I looked around, the boys looked like a deck of garbage pail kids.  I saw Bony Tony, Travelin Travis, Junky Jeff and Starin Jarren.   It was hot as blazes in this room and I had to go to the bathroom but I didn't want to get up. So I sat there and listened to them talk about fund raising by selling popcorn, beef jerky and chocolate.  This is involvement-slacker karma.  Peer pressure from your own child so they can win that unattainable laptop if they sell a silo of popcorn.  Is there a pyramid scheme a badge? Because that is all fund raising is. The kids sit back, while their parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents beg all their friends to purchase items that they otherwise wouldn't.  Yet the kids reap all the rewards and the parents get fat from all the extra chocolate they had to buy. 

The den master said that because Finegan was new they were all going to tell everyone a little bit about themselves.   Finegan began with 

"My name is Finegan with only one "n". I like to eat sausage and milk."

What the hell? Why would he say that?  Irony aside, it made no sense? Despite my horror, his answer seemed perfectly acceptable to all the cub scouts. The den guy even gave me a wink. I know he was seeing dollar signs for the beef jerky sales.   I clearly need to talk to Fin about disclosure and introductions.

They discussed earning the health and environmental badges.  Followed by a snack of indoor s'mores, which consisted of marshmallow in a jar, Nutella and graham crackers served on paper plates.   The meeting concluded and the garbage pail gang headed outside to play.  That was it?  I thought boy scouts was all about learning to tie a knot or build a fire, apparently not.  At this point I would like to learn to tie a noose and get me out of this uncomfortable situation.

Before I left I was given specific instructions as to where to purchase the uniform and book.  Finegan finally came back inside with his new best friends talking about farts.  Add my son right into that deck of Garbage Pail Kids under Flatulent Fin.

What I have learned as a parent is that the path you see your child going on is usually not the same path they take.  It doesn't mean it's wrong, but as a parent it is really hard for me to not redirect him in a direction that I feel would be more suitable.  But if both path's destinations are happiness, I guess it doesn't matter which path they take. For him, his preferential path includes this, and I am not going to create a roadblock, (even thought I really want to). I will provide an exit strategy however if he is so inclined. 

I returned home and shared this story with my husband.  He did not share in my distress. In fact he seemed proud. Why? Because he was a freaking boy scout! My God sometimes you have no idea who you marry.  I would not be surprised if by weekends end he is sporting his old uniform. But then again, why shouldn't I be proud too? After all, my child did walk into a room full of strangers and leave with 6 new best friends. More than I can say I did. 

As promised I went to the office headquarters to pick up a shirt and a book. The Boy Scouts of America was founded in 1910 an I believe the man who helped me may have been there at the inaugural ceremony.  I explained what I needed and he was not amused with my ignorance. Unlike him, this has not been my entire life.  He shuffled along in his uniform and asked me a bunch of questions I did not know.  He said I needed a shirt, belt, hat, patches and neckerchief. At which I laughed, because who actually says neckerchief? This man did not have a sense of humor either.  When I asks him if the patches were iron on he asked me if I knew how to sew. Obviously not, if I'm asking if they are iron-on.  His patience had just about run out but it wasn't until I said the outfit was cute that he about lost it.  He quickly found the book for me and took me to the register. Where this "outfit" cost more than any outfit I have purchased for myself since becoming a mother.  

Over lunch I was able to peruse the book and think they need to add a humor badge because as of yet, I have not seen any notion of it.  I did notice a few good things in it. Like, how to change a tire, how to care for a house etc. This may not be all that bad.  But for the price, I think I will have Finegan mentor all his brothers in a weekend intensive so that we can cut to the chase without the rest. 

What Picture Day Really Looks Like

Judging by my school photos, my mom let me wear whatever I wanted and style my own hair.  I have hidden most of the photos.  However the yearbooks are still circulating. It makes me ill to think that at least 200 copies were issued for each school year, meaning that from K-8 there are 1800 awful photo proof of me out there.

It is a good thing I am not famous because the rumor mill would have been running had most of my elementary photos leaked.  It is safe to say that I looked like a butch lesbian. In one way, it is refreshing that my parents accepted that I may be part of the LGBTQ community at a very young age.  The problem is, that I wasn't and now I have to look at photos of myself with a mullet.  One of which had a spike on top.  Along with one of my brother's hand-me-down polo shirts with pit stains and a gold chain. Add to the fact that I already looked like a boy and I can see why I'm listed with only my first initial, N. in my second grade photo. The poor yearbook distributer didn't know what to think.

Bad school photos run in our family. In one of my husband's elementary photos he is wearing a party hat and has a fruit punch mustache. I KID YOU NOT.  Apparently he wanted to wear it and the photographer didn't notice. Why the teacher allowed a birthday celebration before pictures is beyond me. However, it was the 70's and they pretty much did whatever they wanted. In the 80's my husband looks like every facial feature is swollen.  Including his eyes, which were shut most of the time.

So you can imagine that I take picture day for my own boys very seriously.  I start thinking about their outfits weeks in advance.  You see, those photos are going to be on my mantel for the next year and if I have too look at them, I am going to make them aesthetically pleasing.

Our school hires a really great photographer. Gone are the days where you chose your neon background, or you place your hands on an artificial log as the fluorescent light dances off the over active oil glands on your forehead.  Their photos are done in natural light next to wild flowers.  So that is one thing we have going for us.   And the fact that they are all pretty cute.  Although, I have never heard of a parent describing their child as ugly… (and we all know there are some ugly kids out there).

I can appreciate that my mom let me wear whatever the hell I wanted but that is a luxury my boys don't have.  I lay out their picture outfit and they put it on.  It was a little chilly, so I insisted on layers. Plus, I like that kind of collegiate, professor look.  Who knows,  by the time they apply to college the school may require elementary photos in addition to blood samples. Besides, anything you put on the internet stays there, and if those photos come out decent, you better believe I will post them on Facebook, because nothing gives a mom parental street cred more, than your child looking perfect.

Perfection is all about smoke in mirrors after all, and to achieve it requires a lot of hard work.
This morning I woke up early because I knew I had to put my game face on for this battle.  Naturally, the boys all woke up with varying degrees of bed head.  Except my oldest who had taken a shower last night and then wore headphones while his hair was wet making it appear that he is wearing an enormous invisible headband.

They all have about 1000 cowlicks too.  Each of them having a lollipop shaped one right at the back of their head creating a spiral of Alfalfa looking hairs.

When my seven year old came downstairs he is wearing the layers in all the wrong order. The sweater was under the button-down shirt and he has put his older brother's pants on. Which means, his older brother came down wearing his younger brother's pants.  Not even stopping to notice they are 4 inches too short.  I almost let it go since the bottom half of the boys is not pictured, but for practical reasons I made them trade.  My oldest son is fully capable of dressing himself, but apparently not feeding himself.  Thankfully his sweater caught the yogurt that missed his mouth, but he is left with only one layer which threw off my entire collegiate theme and now he has a slight farmer appearance.

I took each of them into the bathroom where I turned the blowdryer on high and hairsprayed their hair straight up in the front. A little I trick I learned in 1987 when the higher your bangs meant the higher your self worth. Also, the boys hair falls flat in a matter of an hour so if the photos are taken in the morning their hair should be pretty perfect.

Toothpaste is also a threat so I instructed them to be careful.  To my knowledge there were no toothpaste incidents, but that would only be true if they actually brushed their teeth, which I cannot be 100% certain.

Somehow we were out the door with a few minutes to spare to capture this photo.  Although, their smiles are plastic, they are being forced to stand next to each other,  and they are fighting under their breath,  I'm proud of these little guys.

What I'm not so proud of is my short temper to get them this way. Hopefully, that memory will fade away, but the year books, those things never will.

The 25th Lunch of the week

Today marks the last day of the first week of school!

Obviously someone was excited by this. 

I have heard that moving and the death of a family member rank high on the list of life's most stressful situations, but somebody forgot this one.  We lived the life of a Jimmy Buffett song all summer.    They didn't wear shirts or shoes. Stayed up late playing outside, slept in, had cheeseburgers, margaritas (well I did), and if you look at a list of Jimmy Buffett songs, all the other stuff too.

Although we knew this day was coming for 2 months, it came as a shock to all of us. If I thought trying to put shoes on feet which hadn't worn them all summer was tough,  what was even worse was waking the boys up before 7. At one point I had to check if they were breathing because they would not move.

The first day was filled with excitement. The second day, not so much.  The third day someone puked.  Don't get me wrong, they actually like going to school, but they just don't like the act of getting there.

Several mothers celebrate the return of school. The kids are finally out of the house, but for me it is more work.  After coming home from work, I don't sit down until the last kid kisses me goodnight. But honestly it shouldn't be a goodnight kiss, it should be a see you later kiss because it is only a matter of hours before I see my four year old at the end of our bed.

The boys teachers must have major confidence in my ability because two of them required me to bring snack on the first week of class on the same day.  That was a lot of mini muffins.

One of the tasks that takes up so much of my "spare" time is making lunches.  At first I thought this would be a fun. Using Pinterest as my muse I was ready to shock and amaze.  I consider myself somewhat of a health nut, but by the end of the year I would have no problem sticking a hot pocket in their backpack if I could.   I admire the school having strict dietary guidelines in theory, but sometimes nothing would make me happier than a bag of Doritos. And if you know me, baking and cooking are not things I excel at.  They have made for some pretty funny fail photos however.

I have reusable lunch containers with four compartments and those compartments mock me. Challenge me to fill them up with nutritious food. And after a long day, I can't remember which kid is repulsed by string cheese. Or if any of the food in the compartments intermingle, they are tainted and considered uneatable.

Lunches are like a complex math problem of making different combinations for food each day without repeating one.  It's mentally exhausting.   Our school does have a hot lunch program but if I were to get hot lunch for every child everyday I might as well just hand over my salary.

I also make lunch for my husband.  It is the same lunch I make the boys. Some people may think that is unnecessary, but to me its not. It is the one way I can show him that I love him and care about him when I have forgotten to look at him all week. And, it is great ammunition when I need to one up him in an argument.  For example: "Who makes MY lunch everyday?"   Plus, if I didn't pack his lunch he wouldn't eat.  Then he would come home hungry and be an asshole, so its a win win situation.

As much as I hate it, making the boys lunch each day is a way for me to be part of their day when I can't be.  I have been their source of food since they were born and some how I still feel obligated to keep up with it. And even though I have opened the lunch in the evening to find the very lunch I took such care to make went untouched because I forgot somebody didn't like mustard that week, doesn't discourage me from doing it all over again the next day. Even though the boys don't notice, it is an extension of my love for them.

After a few complaints from the customers about my lunch packing abilities, last year I let Parker pack his own lunch .  It consisted of  pita chips, corn chips and sweet potato chips. That was obviously not acceptable even though it was delicious.

Plus, if I didn't make their lunch what would I have to complain about everyday?  I posted something on Facebook about how I only had a million more lunches to make before they graduated from high school. Then a friend commented how I'm already over half way there. Leave it to a guy to think that way.

When I read it, it hit me.  In less that a decade 2 of my boys will be in college. They will eat dining hall lunches that will be so much better than what I make, and they will love it and forget all the lunches I made for them.  They won't miss them, but I bet I will.

The every mundane tasks are what I'm going to miss most.

So, the next time I am rolling another tortilla into a turkey and cheese wrap, I will remember that this is only temporary.  A decade flew by and now my babies are boys and in a blink of an eye they will be men.  Well fed men at that.

So in order to keep our Jimmy Buffett summer lingering just a bit longer I will quote one of his songs, because even Jimmy had to go back to work.  It's all the way you look at it.

It's those changes in latitudes,

changes in attitudes nothing remains quite the same.

With all of our running and all of our cunning,

If we couldn't  laugh we would all go insane.

Walking the Dog

My second son is very…. well, unique.  First, he is really really smart, proving that intelligence can skip a generation.  He devours information and his appetite for knowledge is never quite satisfied.  I'm not saying that his father and I are stupid, but our interests are the opposite of anything remarkable.

Finegan has a mature book intelligence but his emotional intelligence is still developing. (Actually, so is mine).  In the past year, he has read too many books to count, learned to play the ocarina…yes ocarina, the violin, and composed several pieces on the piano. He likes Minecraft, magic and origami.  Not exactly your triple threat. Plus I have noticed that he is introverted.  We have tried to force him to get outside and play, but he always comes back defeated and sad because kids call him weird.   The truth is, he is weird. Wonderfully so. 
I told him that when I was a kid people called me weird all the time. His response was, well you are weird. And we laughed and I got up and did a jig, proving that weirdness doesn't wear off and he is pretty much screwed if he was hoping it did.

Even if you embrace your weirdness, it can leave you filling left out, and sad at times.  I have learned to channel my weirdness into humor and creativity.  Yet, to a nine year old, it feels terrible. As a mom to the nine-year-old it feels even worse.

You want your kid to fit in, yet when they get older you want them to stand out.

I toyed around with the thought that maybe it is okay he is an introvert. After all, he is happy when he is in his room discovering something new.  To what standard am I measuring happiness? Mine or his?

I have been walking our dog a lot lately.  Actually, he has been walking me.  This dog is stronger than a spastic horse. To get Fin out of the house I have asked him to come along. Most of the time he does willingly, the other times by force.  Once we catch our stride we have had some amazing conversations.  I feel that I can talk to him like an adult, until he reminds me he is a kid again.  He is inquisitive and I would be doing him a disservice if I wasn't honest with him. He told me he was going to build a time machine so after I am gone, he can still go on "our" walks.  I told him that he needs to secretly tell me the winning lottery numbers.  Sometimes our conversations take an unexpected hairpin turn. 

He asked how Robin Williams died.  I hesitated a bit and told him that he had committed suicide.  Some how he already knew what that was.  He asked how he did it. At that time I wasn't sure, but I told Fin that it didn't matter, the end result was the same.  Of course he asked why.  I explained that nobody will ever know for sure. He said, "maybe it was because he felt left out."

This kind of hit me like a ton of bricks.  Was he empathetically implying that feeling left out would be a good enough reason to kill oneself? It worried me.   I explained that he suffered from depression.  We continued our walk and he asked me what it felt like to be depressed.  In addition to being weird, I also have had to deal with reoccurring depression and as much as I have tried to leave the boys in the dark about this, they have seen it first hand.  I wasn't trying to hide it but I didn't want them to feel they were at fault. No amount of love or laughter can get you out of it.  That is why it sucks so much.

He said that he is going to find a cure for depression and then come back in time and give it to Robin Williams and me.  And as much as I admire him for doing that, and I'm confident he will,  I don't know if I would take it. Its one thing to manage it, but to just delete it?  What we perceive as wrong, may be what is right for us. Trust me, I have been to the dark abyss but the lightness that came out of it was beautiful.  I don't like it when I'm in it, but as a creative type, I respect it, I appreciate it, and after all these years, I have learned to cope with it.  Honestly, I don't know who I would be without it. 

It is what makes me unique.  And it has gotten me to this very moment where I'm walking with my son.   I made sure to let him know that just because someone has been diagnosed with depression it doesn't mean they are going to kill themselves. It is not black and white. And I assured him that I would never leave this Earth by my own accord. 

I explained that I can't judge someone who has taken their own life, and I don't want my children to either.  But if we are going to love this life, we have to travel through a couple hills and valleys.  And put more focus on others and less on ourselves. Life is about service, and on that path there will be a dip or climb. True love is supporting each other in the good choices and bad. 

I intend to walk together as long as we can.  To make him know that he is not alone, even when he prefers to be.

Keyhole Vision

We live in a very old house.  It still has the original doors. The kind of doors that don't shut correctly. Don said it is something about the temperature and the humidity bla bla bla.  All I know is that our doors don't shut.  They also don't lock.  Apparently in 1931 kids had enough sense to not just walk into the bathroom when someone was in there.  What is weird is that there are key holes.

This gives me the impression that they either used them to keep people out of the room, or in it. Either way it's kind of creepy.  I suppose some day we will get new doors, but Don is adamant about keeping the original ones.  The doorknobs are beautiful glass. When they aren't sticky, they are quite

stunning.  The people building the house didn't splurge on much, but by God they were going to have nice doorknobs.  They were on to something because 70 years after it was built a young couple fell in love with the house and focused so much on the doorknobs that they didn't notice the parts of the house that were falling apart around them.

The house has been a lot of work.  For 13 years we have been trying to get the place as we want it or need it, but by the time one project is finished another one emerges out of nowhere.  We grumble and stress but it is worth it to us to maintain it's original integrity and respect the intention of the house and the person who built it and choose the glass doorknobs.  It's easy to find the faults, but it is the small details that make it lovable.

Don was gone for six weeks for work. That is a lot of home projects he missed. I kept the house standing, but I missed him.  Yet, he has been back for about a week and I don't think he knows it.

I have a tendency to look at him with keyhole vision.  I focus on one thing, possibly two that he is doing wrong.  And because I can only have a narrow view, I can't focus on what he is doing right.

Yesterday I made this very clear.   When I met Don one of the things I adored about him was his laid back, easy going personality.  These traits were his glass doorknobs.  Not implying that he was falling apart everywhere else or anything.  But what didn't occur to me was that when we got married, he was still going to be the easy going, laid back person, but now my husband.   And these same traits I loved are what drive me cah-ray-zy.

Yesterday, we drove to Chicago and didn't leave as early as I wanted to because as I was loading everyone into the car I heard the blender.  He decided that this was a good time to make a fresh fruit smoothie. This includes cutting, cleaning, and blending fruit.  It's not a (let me grab a drink and go) type of thing. It's a 10 step process.   In addition to that, he decided to purchase an i-zoom pass but not register it.  We both know it's time we stop borrowing my parents pass, but who knew it took 3 hours to register a new one before you could use it? Well…...I did.  Which led to us searching the house (piggy banks) for change for the tolls. Again, not the thing you want to do when you have four boys waiting unattended in the car and now you are hearing screams because someone has spit in someone's ear.

You get the idea. I admit,  I'm not the world's most organized person, but I had packed a lunch for each of the boys including Don, and gotten them dressed and out the door faster than it was taking him to make this damn smoothie.  The first hour of the trip (it takes two) I let him (and the entire car) know how unhappy I was. At one point I even got tired of hearing myself complain but because I wasn't getting any sort of reaction I just kept talking.

By the time we arrived  I had managed to make us all in a bad mood.   When we entered the Shedd Aquarium Don took us up to a different door.  He had planned on purchasing a membership so we could go the entire year.  He had been searching for the email before we left and that is what was taking so long.  When we sat down for lunch, I realized I hadn't packed one for myself, he pulled out the smoothie he had made me.   I was so focused on what he was doing wrong that I couldn't see what he was doing right. Just like the house, its the little things that make a man lovable.


I was mad that I had to figure this out myself and felt like a complete ass, but that is where his laid back attitude is a blessing.  However, the i-zoom pass was still his fault.

It isn't just about him. If I focus on what goes wrong in the day like, my son almost falling into a stingray exhibit, I prevent the chance of seeing what went right . Like, the above picture that captured the tender moment when I was walking with Jack, so engrossed in conversation I didn't know it was taken.  Who knows if I would have even been able to focus on that moment if I hadn't seen the picture?

The person who took it wasn't viewing me with keyhole vision and it shows.

It is impossible to get an accurate impression of entire room if you are only looking through a keyhole. But when you open the door you can see it all.

It all depends on what you choose to look for. If you can find all that is wrong, chances are you can expand your view and find double what is right.

Thoughts in the wind

A year ago today we had to put our chocolate lab to sleep.   The memory of the days leading up to this are as vivid to me now as they were then.  The hardest part about it was watching each of my four sons say goodbye.  Each farewell was unique.  I wrote about it here.  My husband was out of town and I was left to take Graham myself.  As horrible as it sounds, I enjoyed the last moments I had with him.  It was just like the good old days.  As we drove to his favorite park for the last time it was reminiscent of 14 years ago when he and I would make our daily trips down the PCH to the dog park in Santa Monica.  I wasn't married then and he was my co-pilot. He was the one I confided in.

In the days leading up to his death we spoiled him like only four boys could.  A lot of hugs, a lot of mouth kisses and several cookies, pizza and ice cream.   But after a few weeks the boys stopped praying for him at dinner, stopped talking about him.  I thought they had forgotten him.  Except when February 23 came around they all knew it was his birthday and we had chocolate cake.  We always had it on his birthday which is extremely selfish of us because obviously he couldn't have any.

Today Finegan asked if we could release balloons.  We have never released balloons (intentionally.)  We went to the grocery store and got four brown balloons.  The clerk asked what the special occasion was,  Parker responded "our dog died" without any hesitation.

We drove to Graham's favorite dog park and stood in the middle. I gave each of the boys a balloon.  For a moment they were not fighting, not yelling, not wrestling. They were standing there holding a balloon.  They decided to whisper things into the balloon and release it to Graham. It was the only way they felt he could hear their voice.   I was expecting this balloon release to last 2 minutes, tops, but it was edging on 10.  They were all whispering their thoughts to their deceased dog via balloon.

Runners and bicyclist passed by. Surely thinking I had some nut job parenting skills seeing four kids talking to balloons. After awhile I asked if they were ready.  All said yes except for Jack.   He finished his monologue by saying he was sorry he yelled at him that one time when he ate all of his crayons and pooped them all out in the middle of his room.

Finally on the count of 3 they released their thoughts in the wind.  We watched the brown balloons which were a dark contrast to the blue sky fade away until we could no longer see them.  They stayed relatively close together.  I found myself getting really emotional.   Not because the loss of my pet, but the simplicity of it all.

The world right now is not in a good place.  Planes being shot down, wars, conflict, the killing of innocent  children.  Children who, I would guess would also see nothing odd about whispering thoughts into a balloon to send their deceased dog well wishes.

When we left they were happy.  I regretted not sending a balloon off myself.  If only I could get the flurry of thoughts in my head, especially the bad ones, the ones that question everything, that doubt the direction of humanity into a balloon and release it to the Universe to handle it and take it off my hands.

After I learned the news of the Malaysian flight all I could think about was how I could bring children into a world like this.  How can I keep them safe from the evil that leaves no child off limits?  I can't.  And I can't expect anyone but myself to.  I can keep them from crossing the street in front of a car, from eating worms in the back yard but I can't keep them from evil people who have a great way of looking normal. They have to learn to protect themselves.

All I can do is bombard them with all that is right. Let them have moments of stillness to reflect on what is good.  In this case, it was our pet.  Graham was as good as it gets. Loyal, loving, a good listener, forgiving,  a protector and a fantastic companion. Even though we go to church, God is still a concept to them that is hard to grasp, and I'm including myself in this struggle.  I'm trying to show them tangible way to see  glimpse into what is great in God's creation, and to teach them love, forgiveness, loyalty, empathy, compassion and advocacy of what is good.

I can also release any thoughts of doubt I have to the wind because standing in front of me is four little ambassadors of the hope for the future.  Another example that something as simple as having a pet can show you what it is like to love unconditionally, despite differences or when they make poor choices and eat your favorite toy or take a preverbal dump on all that seems good.

For the Love of God...

I have become desperate. Very desperate.  I have been alone with my children for 17 days. I noticed my desperation after the third day, but I tried to justify my panic with the fact that I was just in the Genesis stage of the summer and eventually we would all settle in.  My husband comes back in a few more weeks and I hope by then to have some order to the chaos.
I am a strong believer in a woman's capabilities, but it is not natural for a woman to be left alone in a house of boys, a dog and the classroom pet who is a lizard.  Did I mention I don't like reptiles?  Well it doesn't matter because my husband left me alone with it after no other parent volunteered to be the host family for the summer.  Do you know what lizards eat? Live crickets.  Did I mention I don't like bugs?
So I have 6 mouths to feed not including my own. Which doesn't matter these days because the only thing I have been eating is whatever is left over from what the boys don't eat because I am too exhausted to make myself something.
My children are not old enough to be left alone. And even if they were I can't say I would.   They like to screw around. Last week we left to go to the store to buy one item, dishwasher detergent. Since we are eating at home for every meal included all the in-between meals we (I) have been running the dishwasher about 400 times a day.   Of course when we left the store we had dishwasher detergent, 3 boxes of sugar disguised as cereal and a box of doughnuts.  All of which will make an appearance on my butt by the end of summer because they grow tired of the same cereal after awhile and I find myself eating it alone while watching Orange is the New Black.  When we returned home someone (nobody has come forward yet) had left a fake lizard sitting on top of the real lizard's aquarium.
Whether is was a sick joke, or an accident, I think the fear was reflected back on them tenfold when they saw their mother screaming and running from the mudroom.  I panicked because I briefly thought I was never going to be able to sleep because I would have to have one eye open in case it crawled up on my bed.
After realizing it was fake, it didn't make me feel any better because the one thing I forgot was that I had drank my all the wine the previous night, and there was no way in hell I was taking them all back to the store to get a bottle of wine.   I considered mixing vodka with milk (our only other beverage because I forgot to get OJ) but even I know that is too gross, but if the lizard had gotten out I can't say I wouldn't have done it.
The truth is, I haven't slept.  Maybe that is my problem. Everyone is nervous that someone is going to break into our house, despite having a fantastic alarm system. Which is useless if the power is out, but that would only happen if their was a tornado or something.  Oh, that's right there was.  Since my husband left I feel that I am being faced with the ten plagues of Eygpt.  Bugs, Frogs (lizards) darkness, thunder…. I pray the list doesn't continue.

My girlfriend visited and as much as she helped, I think I saw her do a Charlie Chaplin kick when she left.  I know my boys can be a little "intense".  I will say that by the end of her visit she had become a pro in tuning out the never-ending looped remix of "mommy, mama, mom, mommy, ma," Ja ja jammin' on the one.  (In case you  don't know, that lyric is it one of the great ones from Theo Huxtable) and in case you were looking for an example of my sleep deprivation, there you go, a random 80's reference.

In an effort to keep them occupied I decided to take all of us (except the lizard) to a dog park.  I haven't been able to walk Wally regularly and I was worried he was getting depressed… or maybe that is me, either way, we needed to get out.    The park is 3 minutes away but we have to go through a rough area in order to get there.  As we were driving Finegan screamed " Wally is pooping! He is pooping! Pull over!" I thought he was probably over reacting because Wally's butt was directly in front of his face but when I turned around Wally was hunched over ready to drop a bomb.  I immediately pulled over, jumped out of the car and let him out to poop in the grass.  When I looked up, I realized I was in front of a house which appeared to have an entire neighborhood sitting on their porch.
I wasn't sure if they were looking at me because I was only wearing a beach cover-up which was not doing it's job of covering up, or if it was because my dog was walking around in the poop position because he had a continuous stream of poop coming out of his butt.  He poops when he gets excited.   I'm pretty sure they were not happy about it, but I had come prepared with plastic bags for this very reason. Albeit, I didn't think it would happen so soon. But when I turned to grab a bag, my son's had rolled the windows up and locked the doors.
This really conveys the notion to the neighbors that my kids are afraid of them and what might happen next, and that they believe in me enough to be able to handle it myself.

I was able to convince Parker to roll down the window enough to give me a plastic bag and I picked up soft serve the best I could off their front lawn.  This too was a wonderful spectacle because again, my cover up, was not doing its job, now on the back side.
Even though there was a trash can right next to me, I put the bag of poop in the car with me and we drove to the park with the pleasant stench of humiliation and fresh dog dung.
Once we were at the park I set them all free to run like the wind and hopefully tire them out so I could go home and return to watching Orange is the New Black. In case you don't know, the show is about a woman's prison. And to be honest, at this point I would be willing to trade my freedom for a brief solace from crap both metaphorically and literally.

I'm going to try and appreciate the notion that I have got this.  I am going to try and ignore the fact that it doesn't look like it. Or that my husband is texting pictures of his "work" trip to us which includes time with his old high school buddies and NYC.  With every text he sends with a photo of something like the Statue of Liberty or a beer, I respond with a photo of whatever is in my view at that very moment. Sometimes it is a burnt pancake.  Other times it is an angry child who is mad that I can't find the hair to go with his stupid lego figure. Or a photo of a rash.  Just to bring him back to reality of what is waiting for him when he gets home.

We have been talking about God a lot lately. Mostly because when ever I say it, for example "For the love of God, will you please stop fighting!" I feel the need to actually consider the love of God.  And open the discussion. Today I distracted the boys after I flipped out by asking them what they think Heaven looks like. Oscar said it looks like the sky with fire ants and rolley-polleys and legos, all of which happen to be his favorite things.  Jack said it has fluffy clouds, with Uncle Butch, Graham (our departed dog) and Bill Bixby.  We have been blessed to have very few close family members die, but Jack took it pretty hard  when he learned that his favorite character on the 1970's sitcom The Incredible Hulk was dead.

It reminds me that without God, I surely would not be able to have made it this far. An entire 17 days. And if I were to answer this question of Heaven I would also list all the things I love. Which happen to be with me 24 hours a day and I didn't have to die to experience it.  I not only have got this.. I get it too.

All I ask of him, is that if this is a test, to please please grade me on a curve…. and possibly change my water to wine, just once.

I am turning into Mama Boucher

When my first son Parker was born I vividly remember wishing for time to pass. I felt that his next step would make me feel less paranoid.  I thought, when he rolls over, then I won't worry so much that he will die of suffocation.  Then when he could roll over I thought, when he sits up we won't have to worry if his head is going to be flat.  The list goes on and on with each milestone.
I was stupid.

I haven't stopped worrying.  My brother who is in his 40's recently broke his finger golfing.  I don't understand it either. In fact, I even made fun of him making reference to Lucy Li.  Anyway, he has to have surgery next week.  My mom is physically sick about it.  It's his left hand for God's sake.

 But,  I have to say I kind of understand how she feels.

 I kind of wish I would have spent more time in each step than skipping to the next one.

Now that Parker is 11, I have discovered something about myself that I could have never anticipated.  He is extremely social.  Given the fact that both Don and I are very social, that isn't the surprising part.    He would rather spend time with his friends than with his family… well, mostly me.  The surprising part is how this makes me feel.

I feel sad, rejected, lonely.  Like he is choosing his friends over me.  And honestly, he really is.  I feel that a part of our set is gone.  The Beatles couldn't have sung Yellow Submarine without Ringo, it would have sucked.   I look forward to when he will walk in the door. Our  family harmony is restored.   I think it is more about not being needed.  Granted I have 3 additional boys who need me desperately, but he is the one who used to fight to sit next to me at the table.  Now he doesn't care where he sits as long as he eats enough.

Wasn't this the step I was looking forward to? After all, we have tried to raise him to be self sufficient.  To problem solve. To confidently walk out the door and know his way home.  I should be proud of him, but I'm reluctant to say I'm a little hurt.

When you rush up the stairs, sometimes you skip steps and trip and fall on your face. The point of running up the stairs fast was pointless because you are on your face and now it has taken you longer than if you would have just taken one step at a time.

 And this is one of those times for me. I'm already envisioning him going off to college, meeting someone and never coming back.

Writing that was hard because even I know how morainic and psycho and somewhat mommy-dearest that sounds. I'm worried that I will find myself like Kathy Bates in Misery, except I won't smash his ankles, I will just spoil him to death in an effort to keep him home. Or worse, Kathy Bates in Waterboy,

"You don't have what they call "the social skills." That's why you never have any friends, 'cept fo' yo' mama."

Ok I'm starting to sound even more f'ed up than I thought, but I write to figure things out. So lucky for you, you get a front row seat in the Crazy Show.

The most important thing I can do is not let him know any of this.  I have found myself saying no to him when he wants to go outside to play with friends. When he asks me why, I have absolutely no reason.  He has done his chores, he has cleaned up his mess, there is nothing left to say.  I have given him lame excuses like, you have to wake up early tomorrow.  To which he responds "But Mom, its only 5:15."

These feelings are shocking to me because I always thought my mom was happy when I left to spend the night at a friends.  Maybe she was, or maybe she just kept her thoughts to herself. I prefer the latter.

My husband is out of town for the summer.  Parker has stepped it up a notch.  He mows the lawn, he herds his brothers when we are in public, he runs through the house turning off lights.   He is 11 after all, but it's difficult for me to consider that "old" when half of my wardrobe was purchased in 2001, 2 years before his birth.

He is just growing up. Now I just need to step out of the way and let him. One step at a time.

Not On My Watch

We just returned from an epic vacation. If your idea of epic is taking four boys through security in an airport and flying with them in a packed airplane on a flight that leaves at 6:30 a.m.  Or if holding your 4 year old's penis in a water bottle you just had to chug because the flight attendant wouldn't let you get up from your seat because it was during take off, even if it is a potty emergency. Or if a series of amusement parks and standing in line for hours in the Florida summer heat to watch your child dangling from a roller coaster propelling through the air is your idea of adventure. All while seeing black spots from dehydration because you refuse to pay $4.00 for a toddler size bottle of water. If that is your idea of epic, then yes, we had an epic vacation.    I'm not an amusement park girl, mainly because roller coasters scare the crap out of me. I get motion sick while standing still in the ocean. I'm afraid of heights, I get nervous on a step ladder.  But all fun aside, an incident happened that left me frozen in fear.

We had just arrived to my brother-in-laws house in Orlando.  They graciously open their home to us for an entire week.  They have two boys. That makes six boys total, four adults…not enough. No amount of adults is ever enough for six boys.  All of us were sitting at the pool. The boys were all jumping in, playing, burning off energy.  Finally, after a day of traveling we were able to sit back and relax.
Before we left both of us made a point to reconnect to the here and now.  We (okay, I) am attached to my phone. I know its a bad habit, that is why I made the effort to not let it be a distraction.

We were laughing, having a good time catching up, all while all four of us faced the pool.  After a few minutes it occurred to me that Oscar  was in the same spot in the center of the pool.  He had floaties on, and his cousin who is the same age splashed around in his floaties.  I called his name to see if he was okay.  He didn't respond.  But he was looking at me.  My tone got a little panicked and all the adults recognized it.  He was literally 8 feet away from me.  I just kept calling his name, thinking he was just zoning out.  Before I knew what was happening Don jumped in the pool fully clothed to grab him.

I froze.   My son was starting to drown and four adults were right there clueless to it.  I am writing this to educate anyone who reads it.  They say drowning is silent.  It is.  He had floaties on, but one had a slow leak. He is not a great swimmer.  Hence the floaties.  Although his nose and eyes were above the water, his mouth wasn't. He is four.  He didn't think to breath. He just stopped and he too, froze.

After Don got him out he began to cough and cry. The poor little guy was just as scared as we were.  The thing that haunts me, is that he was looking right at me unable to communicate he was in trouble, and I was sitting there laughing and having fun.

Trusting any floatation devise to keep your child from drowning is like trusting your arm instead of  a seatbelt to keep your child in the passenger seat as you slam on the brakes. You may know this already. I thought I did.

We were all shaken.  Even four adults supervising, was not enough.  It literally takes two seconds. I would research it for you, but you can do it yourself. I can't bear to see just how close we actually were just yet.   I wasn't even looking at my phone.  I may not have noticed if I had been.  Hell, I may have been taking a picture. Viewing my children through a lens instead of my own eyes.

On a day to day basis I am constantly trying to capture the moment and missing it all at the same time.

Oscar was fine.  It could have been a lot worse. A lot.  I immediately went to Target and purchased a better flotation device. Not that I will rely on it, but at least it will be functioning.  On the way there I had a complete breakdown.  That scared me more than any roller coaster ever could.   Just like when a coaster ride is over and you still feel like you are on it, the after shocks were vibrating through my body at such a strong intensity that the only way to release it was to cry. My mind knew everything was fine, but my body was taking awhile to catch up.

My point is this. Please think of me when you are at a pool with your child.  A phrase I say often in regards to harm done to my children or accidents,which Don teases me about is "Not on my watch".  Now I just need to live up to it, and really watch.  In this case it may have saved his life.

To Vajazzle or Not to Vajazzle

I may be late to this trend. I have been pretty busy, you know working, raising kids, grocery shopping, keeping up on world news and gun violence in our nation that I missed the latest craze (of 2011) Vajazzeling. 

In case anyone missed it, vajazzeling is when a woman, (or man I guess) gets jewels glued to their FUPA.  I can't think of a better use of my time, than going to a salon and getting my entire lady parts waxed, and if that wasn't fun enough, getting jewels glued to the freshly ripe skin. 

Depending on your location, you can get vajazzled for as little as $20.  But because I live in the Midwest the only place to get vajazzled is at Hobby Lobby.  Well, not exactly, but you can purchase the jewels (except on Sunday) to vajazzle yourself. I wonder if Hobby Lobby realizes that they are vajazzle accomplices? 

The point of this trend baffles me.  I cannot understand the need for reflective materials in my crotch.  Men don't need any guidance in finding a woman's vagina.   Men are just seaman and a vagina is a Lighthouse in the night. They don't need to add crystals to make it even more detectable.  The motion of the ocean will guide them there instinctively.

So who is this for? I can't remember the last time I went out to the club, and flashed my vajazzled self to a crowd. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I actually went to a club, let alone went to a club and flashed my Un-vajazzeled self to a crowd.  If it is for yourself,  I suppose you could stand in front of the bathroom mirror admiring your private parts. Maybe if I vajazzled, I would. But I highly doubt it.

So let's say you got it for your partner.  I can confidently say, that my husband would not notice.  Except maybe when he scraped himself on the rigid edges of the jewels.  For single ladies, if you tell a guy on your first date that you are vajazzled I don't think the first thing that will come to his mind is class. But he may see dollars. Particular singles. 

Even though it is just $20 I would rather spend that $20 on something that makes me happy, like anything but putting jewels on my vagina.  Sorry kids, I can't buy you hot lunch because I'm making a hot lunch of myself.  

Maybe it is my age. Maybe it is my level of sophistication. Or maybe its the thought that plastic is needed to make something that is already beautiful, more appealing by adding stupid cheap jewels to it that were probably produced in China and will be recalled in a month because they caused chemical burns. 

Save the jewels for your tiara on your head if you must. At least it will be directing people to your most important asset, your mind.