Finally hearing the words you should have been hearing all along.

Last night Oscar was very sick.  He had a persistent cough and last night it peaked.  Around midnight his loud cough was enough to get me out of bed to check on him.  In the dim light I saw he was miserable.  I felt his head and he was burning up.  He was in a half sleep state and I asked him if he was hot and he said a barely audible "yet." (He is still working on his S's).  I took his pajama bottoms off and I heard a little "Thank you."I got him a cold wash cloth and placed it on his burning forehead. "Thank you", he mumbled.  I gave him a drink and again he said "Thank you mommy" and after a long pause he said,  "I love you."

Maybe it was the way he said it, or just the fact that he was feeling so awful but still wanted to tell me he loved me and was thankful, that brought me to my knees.  I kneeled down next to his bed and held his hand.  And within seconds tears were rolling down my face. My head was resting against his bed because I didn't have the energy to hold it up on my own.   Even when I heard his little snores I still sat there holding his hand and crying.

Words coming from my four year old touched me deeper than any words ever have.  I'm not exaggerating. Because for the first time I heard someone say they loved me.   I mean, I actually heard it with my heart and soul.

I am lucky that those words are familiar to me.  A day doesn't go by without hearing it from my Mom. When I talk to my brother he always tells me, my grandparents used to utter those words,  friends say it too.  When Don first told me he loved me I replied with "thank you." Not because I didn't feel the same way, but because the word itself just feels overused.

Don and I don't say "I love you" for that reason.  We have other words that are unique to us and sound ridiculous to anyone else.    The boys tell me they love me mostly after I tell them, but sometimes on their own.  Hearing it certainly makes me happy and I appreciate it, but at the same time, the words don't carry much of a punch.

It was in the middle of the night when I was at my most vulnerable state.   Our usually loud rambunctious house was quiet and sleepy.  Just moments before I was fast asleep and now I was kneeling at Oscar's bed crying.

Perhaps it was guilt. When I heard him coughing my first thought was that I was going to miss out on my sleep.  My legs took me to his side before my brain had even woken up.

But in that dark room I heard for the first time that I am loved.  It clicked.  I wasn't prepared to deflect his words, and in the silence I didn't have it dubbed into the mix of chaos of the day.  I was put in that silent moment so that the only words I would hear were ones I should have heard a long time ago.

Just because I don't attach weight to the words doesn't mean the person who is saying them feels the same way.  It is like being on a golf course and hearing the word "FORE" and not looking up and assuming the person who yelled it must not have actually meant it.

It wasn't until that moment that I was unexpectedly open and able to receive it, and I did.

A few minutes later I returned to bed feeling loved.  I woke up feeling loved.  Oscar's words occupied the hollow areas of my soul that I have neglected for so long.  I'm pretty good and finding reasons that I am unlovable, but at that moment I didn't try and it felt wonderful.

What Oscar couldn't have known is that I have had a rough couple months.  I had sunk into one of the familiar dark holes without explanation. I didn't feel anything, let alone love.  His words were the rope to start the processes of getting me out.

I needed to write about this  because I know in a few months, or a year I will be going about my day and one of the boys will tell me they love me and my mind will talk over it.  Or they will give me a picture of a rainbow with the words I Heart You and I will file it away with all the other rainbows.

I understand the tendency as a mother to keep going, trying to get as much done in the least amount of time. But I beg you, the next time your child or parent, or partner tells you they love you, listen with your heart because they mean it. And you never know when you will long so deeply to hear those words and won't be able to.

And in case you are wondering, Oscar is feeling much better. Apparently we equally needed each other to heal.

Did I offend you too?

Today is cold.  I reminded the boys to wear coats because, like I stated earlier, it is cold.  I don't know how I gave birth to expert meteorologist, but somehow my children know the weather without even stepping outside.  I explained that I had already been outside, watched the weather channel and checked my weather app and it was unanimous, it was going to be cold.

Apparently the boys think I'm trying to trick them. That nothing would give me more satisfaction than having them to go to school to find that their coat has made them too warm.  Or that I find pleasure in having them lug around a cumbersome article of clothing so they would have a miserable day.  

Here is how my conversation went with the oldest.  "It's cold outside" I said. "No it's not", he said. 

This went on about three times before the second oldest chimed in with a complete lie.  " I heard it was going to be in the 70's today".  Really? I'm surprised I even heard him because clearly he speaking out of his butt.  By this time the 3rd son chimed in and explained that he doesn't have a coat.  Which is complete BS because I was standing there holding it.  The 4th son just decided to fall to the ground in protest. He didn't even know what he was protesting. 

By the time we walked  out the door they were still arguing with me that it wasn't going to be cold, despite being able to see their own breath.

I guess they forgot that just Friday they were trick or treating in the snow. And that I had to aid them in the emergency that their fingers were going to fall off.  I was a hero then. Today I am the antihero who wants to ruin their lives.

I don't know when I became the temperature representative, but as a mother I find it is my single most important job next to feeding them.   Perhaps I put an over emphasis on their comfort.  Who in their right mind likes to be cold? I bring extra sweaters wherever I go.  And I have to wonder, when the boys are coat less on the playground and shivering, if they think "Wow, my mom was right, it IS cold today."  But I doubt it. 

I really could not believe that I was actually having an argument about this.  As they begrudgingly got in the car they made it known that their seat belt wouldn't fit because of their stupid coats. That they were carsick because they were overheated. That they were all going to die and I just didn't care.

We live about 2 miles from school and as we were driving a scream was heard from the backseat.  Fin saw a stink bug on Parker.  This caused pandemonium and I had to pull over.  He jumped out of the car and threw it on the ground.  This is a boy who has held worms in his hands.  After we collected ourselves, we were back on the road. Until a second stink bug made its appearance.  Now, not only was he going to die, but there was a stink bug infestation going on in his coat which was going to result in an allergic reaction.  *He is not allergic to anything.

I finally dropped them off and did all I could to not peal out of the parking lot. 

When I arrived at work I opened my email to find an message from the editor of a website I write for.  The subject line was something along the lines of "Heads up! Cranky people" in reference to the comments I received from an article of mine that she recently published.  Not that comments from people online matter, but they are saying some really negative things about me personally despite the fact that they don't know me. Honestly who has time to be offended these days?  At least if you are going to be offended have it be about something worthwhile, like if someone mocked your heritage or excluded you because of your gender or suggested the non-fat latte when you ordered the regular. But a humor piece written by a mom in the Midwest? Because they have never met me the don't realize how obsurd that is.  They must have a lot of time on their hands.   If you are curious about the article you can click here .  On the bright side, there were far more positive comments and I was given a heads up. 

To make my morning even better, I got called into my boss's office over  the title of a breast cancer fund raiser called Jammin for Jugs.  He had received an email from someone saying that they were deeply offended by the name. To which I had to explain to him that I was the brainchild of.  I  had to say the word JUGS to my boss. Which is surprisingly super awkward especially when my own jugs were at his eye level. And in defending my name choice, I had to say that I saw other campaigns using the words Ta-Ta's, boobs and boobies.  Nothing could create more discomfort in a working environment and after that he said I could go.

I am not offended very easily, but apparently I have an enormous capacity for offense.  I would never mean to offend anyone on purpose. People seem to like to place blame and to put me in the hot seat. Which is fine with me,  as a temperature representative I can take the heat. Besides,  I'm always cold anyway. 

While Other Girls Were Princesses, I was the Hulk.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be a little boy.  I mean desperately.  For my first Halloween I dressed as Darth Vader, my second, I dressed as the Hulk.  It wasn't until I was eighteen when I dressed like Scary Spice from the Spice Girls that I dressed like someone of my own gender.

My mom told me that when I was six years old I threw a penny in a fountain and made a wish. Later that day when I came out of the bathroom crying she asked why. I said it was because I wished for a penis and I didn't get one. 

I'm sure some people may have thought that it was the influence of my older brother.  We were close then and are close now, but I also have an older sister who could have influenced me.  I didn't want to be Nathan; I just wanted to be his little brother.  As soon as I had a choice in my hairstyle I wore it short.  I hated dresses.  I wore Spiderman Underoos and peed standing up.

I tried out for the football team in 5th grade and was devastated when I was told that girls couldn't play. When people thought I was a boy it made me happy.  My parents didn't discourage it either.  

I didn't realize how progressive my parents were until I went through some of the photo albums my mom had archived from 1979-1984.  In the majority of the pictures I am in public and not wearing a shirt.  Nobody noticed because everyone thought I was a boy. To this day I still don't like wearing a shirt, but obviously I don't do it in public. 

I liked getting dirty, riding my bike and hanging out with the boys in the neighborhood.  And on numerous occasions I was the only girl invited to boy's birthday parties. 

 I have wondered what this would have meant if I were a child today.  Everything I did back then would have been considered transgender or at least consistent with gender identity disorder.   If my parents had chosen to give me this label I would have believed it and who knows where I would be today.

For the first 8 years of my life I wanted to be a boy. I identified myself as a boy. It seemed that the writing was on the wall.  Yet, my parents did something that many parents don't do today. 

They didn't do anything.  They didn't talk to our doctor.  They didn't freak out and turn to the Internet.  They didn't have nightmares about how their child was going to cope growing up as a transgender or a lesbian. They just let me be who I wanted to be.  

As I grew I started to like wearing dresses once in a while. I liked wearing my hair in braids so I wore it long.  My parents didn't take a sigh of relief.  They just let me be.

When I was thirteen the boys I used to hang around with suddenly became awkward in my presence.  By the time I started high school I looked like a young woman, and I was fine with it.  I began having crushes on the boys that I used to run shirtless through the woods with.   

Through it all my parents never influenced who I was suppose to be or who I was going to be. 

I grew into a woman who married a man and together have four sons.  Yesterday my oldest son asked me if he could take ballet.  Before I started Googleing my concerns about his sexuality, I just sat back and thought, just let it be.

Does it matter either way?  Children need to find their own way without their parents influencing their decisions.  Today we want to help and end up putting a label our kids early on. My child is transgender, my son is a jock, my daughter is a princess.   Why not just let them be themselves with out a label?

The only problem I face today is that I still prefer to be around men.  This has caused problems because women often think that I'm coming on to their husbands, then get mad at their husbands, and then I find myself at a party on the "girl side".  When really all I want is to return to a happy time when hanging out with the boys didn't have any connotations attached to it.  

As parents today,  we rush to label our children. In some cases the label may be correct, and in some it may not be.  But labels stick and before branding your child for life, just let them be.  

I'm grateful to have parents who didn't jump to conclusions to who they thought I was or should be.  They loved me enough to provide a solid foundation to let me discover who I was.  Whether it was a Hulk, a princess or both. 

You are My Sunshine

Today was Grandparents day at the boy's school,  I mean my entire family's school.  It has been nice that Don has always been a teacher wherever they have gone.  It is a package deal.  So my parents not only get to see four of their grandsons, but also their son-in-law who is much more of a son than an in-law.

While this was going on I sat at my computer, listening to my co-workers talk endlessly about Renee Zellweger's new face while the people I love most are enjoyed baked goods together.  I texted all of them, called them, because I wanted to know ever single detail of their day. What did they do? What did they show you? Did you like it? Was it fun?  My mom responded with a single word "Terrific!" To this day she is the only person I know who uses that word.

As I was mindlessly scrolling through Facebook and listening to my Paul Simon playlist on Spotify,  Mother and Child Reunion came on.  Like a lot of Paul Simon songs,  I honestly don't know what it is really about.  It is cryptic I'm sure. It is probably about pot or something.  But at that very moment it made me miss my boys.

Within moments I saw that someone had posted on the school's private Facebook page. It was a video of the pre-school aged kids singing You are My Sunshine to their Grandparents. My heart swelled so much it hurt and the pressure of the swelling pushed out any tear that was being held on reserve for a moment like this.  I watched it about 400 times.  I could see my little Oscar singing the words perfectly and looking around for my parents.   I watched my son with a fly on the wall view point.  And he looked… old.  His clothes are too small, and his face is beginning to look more like a boy and less like a toddler. He looked perfect. A little too perfect for being without me.

They have grown up with a mama who works. They have never known any different. But all the worrying I have done about how they are coping without me is displayed on my computer screen and the truth is, they are doing just fine.

This morning I failed as a mom.  It's okay. Every mom fails. It makes us better moms and I have learned to fail really well.  When Fin told me that he wished he was an only child and that his brother's were never born, I responded with "be careful what you wish for". I know it is bad because if anything ever did happen to them he would feel responsible. Like I said, FAIL. This is on the heels of me not realizing my son broke his arm until 2 days after it happened. That fact has been deposited in the guilt bank and will resurface the next time I feel horrible about myself.   I hurried them out the door, so I could get to my work. Work that I could get to 10 minutes late and nobody would notice.

I never really stopped to look at the boys.  Until now, through a computer screen.

A friend of mine is a new mother and just returned to work after having a baby. She mentioned how hard it was.  I don't think it ever gets better.  Here I am, 11 years after the first time I left my son to go back to work and it feels just the same.  Not every day is like this, but I think every so often a mom's heart strings are pulled back to their child. Sometimes the strings squeeze harder than other days and today just happens to be one of those days that it hurts.

I can't speak for mother's of grown kids, but I have a hunch that these strings are constant and indestructible.  At least from a mother's perspective.

So when I get home, I will have the Mother and Child reunion that Paul Simon was singing about. Even if it isn't about a mom missing her 4 year old while she works and he happily goes along without her.

"I can't for the life of me remember a sadder day, I know they say let it be, but it just don't work that way. And the course of a lifetime runs over and over again. But the Mother and child reunion is only a motion away" 

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.