Do We Ever Leave The Land of the Uncool

High School: when no one could even get my name right.

In the nicest part of McDonald's, the section where they have the leather chairs and a loveseat, seven teenage girls sit. They're texting each other, instagramming, and squealing with each "like" they get on their posts.

I'm sharing a lunch with my high school son, my middle boy, and we hear everything the teens are saying. I ask him how these girls could have so many friends. He shrugs and says, "People do," and he goes back to his burger. I stop chewing so I can hear them better, because I have always wanted to know, Why do some of us have the secret to social life? Will these girls fall away from how effortless friendship feels right now? Do we lose this sense of feeling at ease with others, do only some of us? Will we all?

"Oh!," one of the girls shrieks. "She just liked my selfie!" The other one grabs her phone to look and asks, "Why do you even like her?" "I'm only stalking her to find out about her boyfriend's friend. She doesn't know I can't stand her." I ask my son if people in his school pretend to like each other a lot. "Some might," he answers again without looking over at them as they leave.
---------------
I was never a teen in the midst of giggling girls. I was never among a crowd that numbered in the sevens. I was eighty-nine percent of the time on my own, inside my head. My teen life was spent in the land of the uncool.

Back then, when I met someone new, I would cross my fingers that maybe they would turn into a friend, but instead of smiles back when I initiated conversation, it was knitted brows and pursed lips that came back in reaction to my not knowing when to stop with any topic of discussion. I couldn't help it, I had a head full of trivia and nothing that I loved to do more than share little known facts and historical surprises. Believe me, I had no shortage of things to talk about. And each one, at the ready.

Kids would spend a few minutes with me and then excuse themselves, saying, "I'm going to go talk to Jackie now," I'd smile at them and nod, "yeah, sure, Ok. I'll see you at school Monday!" And they'd give me a tight lipped smile back, no teeth showing, a quick look back but without the energetic, "Yeah! For sure!" that I hoped I'd hear.

Then, when I was 15, during our school's morning announcements, some news came out that could have changed my world. The department store downtown was going to be interviewing for a candidate to win a scholarship to their charm school. Charm School is what I needed! This was it! My big chance to learn how to do everything right. I would learn how to eat in an expensive restaurant if someone ever took me to prom or homecoming. I would learn how to waltz if someone ever asked me to dance at a wedding reception. I would learn how to walk with my shoulders back and how to keep eye contact. I would learn etiquette and how to carry conversation so it would be equal for both parties. I clicked my pen and wrote down the date, Saturday, and the time, 9:00 a.m., at Boston Store.

The Friday night before Interviewing Saturday, I set my clothes out: a pair of brand new sailor pants, a thin as an extension cord white suede belt, a red ribbed sailor top and white suede platform sandals that matched my belt. I snuck a red chiffon neck scarf from my older sister's room to tie around my neck, I planned to have the bow twisted to the side. I bought new blush, "apricot sparkle." It was a cream form, and cost almost a dollar more than powder.

I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. and tried to get the beauty sleep Seventeen magazine told me I needed so my complexion would not be sallow and my eyes would be bright. On Saturday morning, I arrived at the department store by 8:30 a.m. for the interview. It had taken me two buses to get there. I had only been up to the third floor of the store before, but the offices holding the session were on the 7th floor. I got on the elevator and pushed 7. When the doors opened, I looked out into a hallway that held every beautiful teenage girl in the city. Their tall, long bodies with hair to match, leaned against walls, sat in front of occupied chairs, and rested against window sills. There wasn't a single girl who looked anything like me there. There wasn't a single girl there wearing pants.

When I checked in with another tall woman who had a clipboard, she wrote my name down and gave me a number. She told me I probably wouldn't get seen because of the amount of girls that had answered the call. Still, I wasn't going to go back home after taking two buses to get downtown before 9:00 a.m. I would wait until they told me I had to leave and locked the doors behind me.

At a little before noon, the woman with the clipboard shouted my number. I gathered myself up from the hard floor and with wobbly legs and a pounding heart I followed her to the office where the interviews were happening. There, a woman sat behind a faded wood desk. To me, at that time, I guessed her to be about 50 years old. She had black glasses that sat at the end of her nose that she kept pushing back up to her eyes with her sharp red fingernails.

She asked me to keep standing. Then to turn. Then to walk away and then turn and walk back to her. She asked me to turn sideways, then to lean the side of my body against the cold wall, with one hip jutting out. I did all those things while I watched her write. She made some notes, had me repeat my name and phone number, and then asked me for my pictures.

"I don't have any." I panicked. No one had mentioned pictures.

"Well. Thank you. You can go now."

I stayed, I was ready for the interview part.

"You can go now."
"I'm ready for the interview. I can talk about any question you ask me."
"This was the interview. You can go now."
"Didn't you want me to talk?"

She put her pen down and peered up at me. Then she stared. She asked, "What did you think today was for?"

"An interview," I told her, "for charm school."

"This was the interview and we have other girls to see."

I looked down at my feet, flustered. I had so much information to tell her, from all the books I had read. Then I noticed that the zipper on my pants had been down the entire time. My cheeks burned, both from embarrassment as well as the excess of apricot sparkle. I thought about how I never got anything right and never fit in anywhere. I stood, ready to go, but before I left, I turned around. "When do we find out if we won?"

"We'll let your school know."

I was sure to thank her for her time.

On Monday morning, back at school, girls buzzed about the interviews. "Do you know anyone that went? Who would go? I can't believe anyone would go. You'd have to be beautiful. I heard Antoinette Omdahl went." I stood frozen against my locker. Antoinette Omdahl, the senior went? She was the girl with the most perfect legs, a ballet dancer, a cheerleader, on student council, prom queen. Her teeth looked like they had been put in place by a master. Why didn't I know the interviews were for girls like Antoinette Omdahl? Why did I think I was one to go?

The school morning announcements began, and toward the end, our principal cleared her throat. In her thick Italian accent, she began, "It is my great pleasure to announce that one of our girls was chosen for the Boston Store Charm School scholarship. Antoinette Omdahl is going to be our ambassador with Boston Store."

Antoinette Omdahl. Popular, athletic, always smiling and giggling. The senior who skipped down the hallways, her shiny hair bouncing behind her. Her hair never needed to be tied down when it was humid. Why did I think I belonged somewhere where she was? This was another event that I thought I understood. My life was missed marks and misunderstandings. How did people know not to do things, when I didn't?
------------
The girls at McDonald's begin to squeal again. "Oh.My.God. You guys, look at this-I can't believe she posted this. And that Keith even likes her. Whatever."

I've forgotten about the story of charm school, until today. And how much being cool mattered. I tell my 18-year-old son the story about the charm school interview, my zipper being down, my cheeks ablaze with apricot sparkle. How I waited for the interviewer to ask me for my favorite Louisa May Alcott book, to which I would have answered Jo's Boys. He laughs while eating his french fries and almost spits out his soda. "You're so funny, mom. I wish I could have known you back then."

The last 20 years of my life have been spent as a mother. I have been with my children who accept me as naturally as sunshine and without question. Their hearts so full of love, they listen to me prattle about facts and the books I've read and the things I've learned, and look at me as if I'm the most fascinating person they've ever known.

They make me feel like I just graduated from charm school.

 

* * *

I Don't Understand This Weepiness Over High School Graduation

This whole week on the internet, there have been posts, Facebook updates, pinterested pinterests on the woeful parent saying good-bye and good luck to their child moving on from his days at home. Life beyond the four walls you've given them, and their turn to leave our two arms that have held them for so long. There are new beginnings on the wide horizon! And always, these posts end in "hold me" "tears" and "where did my baby go??" Sometimes, they use an interrobang.

I don't get it.

So your child is ready to spread his wings, this is a good thing, right? I mean, this is evidence that we've been successful, no failure to launch at this house! All of us had that as our goal.

The first time our son mowed the lawn at this house, he looked like this:

 

And now he looks like this:

 

When we moved into our house, our dark-haired boy looked like this:

 

And this past Christmas, in front of the very same fireplace, we had someone who looked like this:

 

 He stands above me now

when I once could hold him, the entire whole of him, with one arm.



The boy who has always talked of airplanes, flying, of someday being a pilot so much that every year at every fair, the first ride he would run to would be this one:

 

is now getting his dream with an Air Force ROTC scholarship.

Sappiness, nostalgia, poignancy, bittersweet, the march of time. What are people getting verklempt about? You mean going from this?

 

To this?

 

Is that it?

There's a trick to it all, you know. Pretend the days last forever. Go about your way and when his almost 6 foot frame reminds you of the months ticking down until he starts the life you hoped and dreamed for him, find that smile -- practice it in front of a mirror so that you look borderline lunatic. Do it, keep on doing it, until you convince everyone around you.

It's all good. Because it is all good.

If, as I've heard, tears and a lump in your throat that you can't swallow away show up on graduation day, remember it's just part of the beautiful messiness of life, of moments too big to contain, of a world that's been so good to us, why wouldn't there be tears from the joy and excitement?

Looking at these pictures doesn't bother me. Really. They're photos of my life, our life, together. Packed with love that is more than four letters powerful. Of time spent with my son that feels like he's been with me since my own life began. This boy lives in my body, my bones, my heart.

These pictures show you something, but not everything. How does an image capture love, pride, inspiration and gratitude that I have for the days shared with him? *insert interrobang* There's no painful heartbreak, just surreal disbelief of such a good life.

And I'm going to be fine.

That's another trick I've learned to maneuver through these days looming with high school graduation now too real to ignore, my 24-hour mantra, I'm going to be fine.

I love you, my boy. I am so proud when I hear people say as I walk past, "That's Alec's mom."

I think these came to the wrong house.

* * *





How To Get Your Teen To Clean

Last Saturday day, I made my 18-year-old son clean his room. I say Saturday day because that's how long it took. The two of us worked together, side by side, because misery loves company and I'm not a fan of cleaning, myself. I sequestered myself to do the boys' bathroom which looked like a meth lab, and my teen son worked on his bedroom, which looked like the pilot episode for World's Youngest Hoarders.

We began not bright and early -- second cup of coffee o'clock would be more accurate. My goal was to not have to kick clothes out of the way with my foot to make a path past his front door and to accomplish this without me needing a whip and a chair. And no threats. Because what is a threat anyway but just an upside down bribe.

I wanted to get his room clean because I had just read an article about how disorganization can cause stress for teens. What I wanted for my son was for his room to be a sanctuary of retreat, a haven of zen where he would look forward to spending time at the end of the day, and not like his brain had a compound fracture at the sight of it. Long story short, mission accomplished and here's how we did it, minute by longest minute on earth, minute:

9:03 a.m.
I walk past the room. It looks pretty bad. I didn't think it would be this bad.

9:21 a.m.
Spend quiet time over cereal, talking to son, follow him back upstairs after breakfast.

9:32 a.m.
Act surprised at the condition of the room, "Oh my gosh! Wow. Look at this. Looks like things got out of hand. And the bathroom! Well, we'd better get busy, if we wait until we feel like it then we'll never feel like it." (This I know my son relates to because, apple, tree)

9:37 a.m.
Son mmhhmms, then wanders into room and plops on bed to listen to music to get him ready for the day. I rubber glove up and begin with the toilet seat in the boys' bathroom.

9:49 a.m.
Time for son's music to have done its day prepping. I tell him so.

9:57 a.m.
Son with music still on ears, that's okay, I can deal. I'll just shout and point. His first job is to make the bed. I extend my index finger toward the rumpled sheets and hope he sees the possibility of a miracle is in his hands.

10:03 a.m.
Mission underway, he sees the vision, too, and Houston we have lift off! While he grabs the blankets scattered around the bed frame, I tackle the bathtub with something deceptively called Soft Scrub which still makes me scrub hard. I leave him with the job of the bed, and a pat on the back to prove team work.

10:05 a.m.
He stops mid blanket toss and runs downstairs for a fruit roll-up break. I don't say a word and ask him to save me a quarter inch.

10:09 a.m.
I wait four minutes and then I call downstairs, "FRUIT ROLL-UP BREAK OVER!" Some mumbling and muttering but he bounds back upstairs two steps at a time. Needs to rest on bed to let "sugar enter his blood stream."

10:39 a.m.
Blood sugar is stabilized and he works on making the bed. I'm still working on floor in boys' bathroom. We are humming along.

11:00 a.m.
Teen son notices it's 11:00 and tells me his body is used to lunch at this time because of school schedule. He runs downstairs and has 18 chicken tenders, 4 glasses of apple juice, 1 Arizona iced tea, and a bowl of raspberries, still frozen. He has to rest on sofa, he tells me his stomach "sloshes" when he moves.

11:45 a.m.
I let him digest lunch and then call son back upstairs to finish work. He begins to hang up shirts from the floor but then tells me can't be done without hangers. I tell him where to find hangers. He says he'll work for as long as the hangers hold out.

12:15 p.m.
I find every single hanger in the house and all the shirts are hung. He needs rest. He flops on bed, closes eyes, gets much needed "rest."

12:40 p.m.
I jostle him after a long half hour and tell him time to start folding pants. I offer to help him fold after I see it looks like he gave all of his jeans in the closet spiral perms.

1:10 p.m.
Shirts are hung, pants are folded, clothes are off the floor and away from the front door and we are no longer in violation of fire codes! We now begin with the paper piles on the floor. He determines with a finger snap that anything he needs he already has and so papers are all put in recycling!! and !!! Go, return to whence you came, paper bits! You will live again!

1:27 p.m.
He asks for a break since he has spent the whole weekend on cleaning. He is allowed a break until I finish the laundry downstairs. He tells me I'm the best.

1:43 p.m.
His break is over and his interest is waning. I promise a movie tomorrow.

2:06 p.m.
He is growing weary. I ask him if he likes his iPod and would like to keep it. (will hold off on the big guns of his phone for the most dire of moments)

2:31 p.m.
He shouts down to me that he is tired of working working working. I remind him that I'm tired of cooking cooking cooking, maybe I'll stop. He gets the picture.

2:50 p.m.
Laundry is folded and next load is started. I run back upstairs. We begin anew. "This way, child, this way," I teach him the order of the sock folding phoenix. Every single freakin' sock has a mate! Huzzah!

2:56 p.m.
T shirts get shoved in drawer (that's okay to me) underwear is shoved in drawer (again I don't care) and socks are tossed into closet drawer. It looks good.

3:09 p.m.
Books are picked up from floor and put back on book shelves. We reminisce about his Treasury of Classics collection and how much he loved The Invisible Man. He tells me that if he were invisible he could leave and not come back to finish. I tell him that is true. He could indeed be gone but the mess would still be here because the principle of Invisibility doesn't apply to the mess in the room.

3:17 p.m.
Fruit roll-up break.

3:48 p.m.
I ask him to hold me up while I dust his ceiling fan. He is a great working partner.

4:01 p.m.
He decides he wants to make salsa. Which sounds like such a stereotype but we make salsa. Instead of tomatoes we use carrots and it's delicious. We also use potato chips to dip instead of corn chips and that's pretty delicious too.

4:31 p.m.
I ask him to carry vacuum cleaner upstairs and I suck up the dust from the rug.

4:42 p.m.
The room looks great, he only has the top of his desk to clear up. He falls on his bed and tells me how he never has fun. I tell him I can clear his desk for him -- all he needs to do is run downstairs and get me a plastic bag. He stands up and starts to work.

4:52 p.m.
He tells me he has to send an important text.

4:57 p.m.
He is still sending important text. I think Moses was faster pounding out the commandments, I ask "Are you chiseling it out on flint stone?"

5:13 p.m.
I bury an iTunes card in the midst of the desk mess the same way I used to bury dimes and quarters in the sandbox for him when he was five and I'd say, "Just think what else could be in there! Let's get digging!" When he finds the card he holds it up excited and looks exactly the way he did in the park 12 years ago. "Let's keep digging!," I say.

5:32 p.m.
Voila! The desk top is in neat piles and the room could hold a yoga class from the free space vibes. Breathe in breathe out we now have a sanctuary. He smiles and asks, "Doesn't it look like there's more room in here?" We stand back and admire. High five because it looks SO gooooooood. The oxygen of the declutter cannot be underestimated.


What's the most important thing I learned here? Don't be afraid to go all Look at me, Look at me, I'm the captain, I'm the captain on him. Because, obviously, they may be the ones making the mess up on deck, but we're still the ones that know how to steer that ship.

How Teens Feel About Their Mothers and Baby Haircuts, Naturally

On May 5th of this year, I was thrilled to be part of Listen To Your Mother Show/Milwaukee. Aside from the incredible experience of producing and directing a production for the first time, there was room for me to read an original piece in the show. I talk on the natural subject of babies, first haircuts, and who has the say of the timing of said first haircut.

And as if all that weren't enough heaven on earth for one person, the baby of above referenced haircut is now 18, and he passed the LTYM auditions and was cast in the 2013 Milwaukee show. His original piece, again on a very natural subject, that of a technophobic mom who turns to Dateline to keep her son safe on the internet.

How I wish what he shares here was an example of well-written hyperbole.





If you find my family's dynamics addicting, you can watch me here, explaining the rules regarding when, where, how, and who decides your baby's first haircut.



 For a full playlist of the LTYM Milwaukee show, featuring 14 spectacular stories, please go here.

I can't imagine an audience not feeling our love for community and voices shared.

 Enjoy!

**A special thank you to our sponsors and to all who came out to see our debut show in Milwaukee! For a full list of those that made these videos and the shows across our country possible with their financial support, please visit our LTYM main page. Thank you to Orphonic Multimedia for the awesome quality of these videos.

* * *

So I Have A Son Who's 18 Now

Our oldest son turned 18 a month ago, and I still walk around telling myself, "I have a kid who's 18." It's not something you get used to easily.

I was listening to the radio while re-stocking the refrigerator for the second time in four days, because I live with one other teenager, an 11 year old, and two men, when a segment came on about women and dreams. The mental health expert being interviewed reported that women dream more vividly than men because we deal with more emotions. "Dreams," she explained, "are when we process the emotions of our day."

There's no magisoso to what we see when we close our eyes to sleep, it's just how we humans rehash the events of our life. (that would be why all the taco shells made out of bacon make at least one appearance per night)

This theory explains exactly so much about just how my brain is processing the emotion of having an 18-year-old son.

I had a dream this week where my bicepped son sat at the kitchen table, legs kicked open, downing white milk out of a quart container, streaming dribbles of it pouring down both sides of his mouth and onto to his unclothed chest.

"Stop!" I ordered while running toward him. "You're allergic to milk. You can't drink that!"

He kept glugging, not missing a drop, while he looked me straight on in the eye. Swallowing the last of it, he said in a bored tone, "Says you."

Wiping his dairy-drenched mouth with his hand, he stood up from the kitchen chair and went from being shirtless to suddenly head to cleated toe dressed in a red and white football uniform, huge shoulder pads sticking out of the jersey sleeves. He slammed a black helmet on his head with one hand and began to click across our wooden kitchen floor with his spikes on. I watched him walk out the back door and join up with a group of other red and white football jersey wearing 18 year olds.

"You can't play football!," I called out after him telepathically, because it's a dream, and I never talk in my dreams, it's just lightning bolts of thoughts. "Remember?," I brain messaged him, "We decided you'd swim instead, right?"

No brain waves of answer back.

I knew I couldn't pull him out of the marching ranks so I decided to make my next non verbal shout into the dream world a practical one. "When will you be home?," I asked via hopeful raised upwards eyebrows, ::feeling:: the emotions of wanting to bribe him with pork chops.

Clicking the helmet's chin strap, he mentally spit back his answer, "Two days." Kapow -- right between my frontal lobes.

Message received and noted.

Punk didn't even look back.

...processing processing processing...

Picture of an 18-year-old-man that is my son

 It does not compute.

* * *

Maybe Someday They'll Tell Me

*with special thanks to my ever musing muse, Taming Insanity.

Questions I Want To Ask My Children:

1.)   Do you walk around then stop mid pace to fart, just for my benefit? Or are your friends at school treated to this special delight, also?

2.)   During lunch at school, does the conversation also begin with your favorite blood letting scene in a movie and then end with how you'd perform brain surgery on yourself via your nostrils, or, again -- am I just the lucky one?

3.)   Are screaming goat imitation competitions held elsewhere other than this house? Or do you feel it can only be done at home, because the acoustics are best when they bounce off the back of my head like that?

4.)   I have a feeling you place bets with your friends on whether or not I will bring your lunch to you at school if you forget it at home, don't you? You know what? I don't care. The thought of you with no food just dissolves me.

5.)   I won't ever get an answer to "who left their socks on the coffee table?!," "who left the empty pitcher of kool-aid in the fridge?!," and "who left the van door open all night?!," will I?

6.)   Why do you think I can get you to school in negative ten minutes and reverse time when the rest of the world would take twenty minutes to travel the same distance?

7.)   Please explain to me, so that I can help myself understand, why I go through the work of setting the table with silverware when you each grab the meat off the platter like cavemen after a shared mastodon kill.

8.)   Do you boys know I have no special skill in finding things? When something is lost, I have to look for it in the same way as any other human being does -- search and locate, boys, just like everyone else.

9.)   Please tell me when you'd like a class on toilet paper roll replenishing. I'm pretty much home all the time.

10.)  You do know I'm on to you, right, when you tell me that no one butters toast all the way to the edges like I do, just so that you get me to do it for you? Again, I don't care, the thought of you no longer being here for me to do this for, dissolves me.

xo

* * *

Parenting Will Cost You A Good Night's Sleep, Here and There

I have a difficult time with disrespect. My blood pressure rises when a lack of respect is shown toward me. When it comes from my children, I cannot move beyond that moment in time when I hear that barrel full of words of disregard for me as a human, aimed right at my head. 

I feel we are to respect everyone we share space with. If we share a home and live with them, it goes double. If that person you interact with is the one who bore you, it rises to the millionth degree. I idealistically believe that if we show respect to our children, that they will mirror that back to us. So far, so good...until the piece of your heart that goes walking around outside of your body begins making testosterone by the gallonfuls.

I always knew I'd have exactly the tricks up my sleeve that I needed for being the mother of teens. I had such fresh memories of how I was raised during this part of my life, that I knew a whole lot about what NOT to do. That's all you need to know, right, what NOT to do? I never thought I'd need to have the ace in my pocket of what TO do.

Why am I awake right now, at 1:30 a.m., sitting on the sofa eating chocolate chips thinking of what happened in our home tonight, instead of sleeping the sleep I need so much? Because I love my children and when miscommunication between us escalates to a level where you start thinking how much you'd love to have them get their own bodies back and forth to where they need to go, make their own dinners, keep track of their own schedules and Dr. appointments -- well, that's not a healing, productive train of thought for anybody. No matter how good it feels. I am awake, buzzing with thoughts of what I should have done with my teen tonight; asking myself how I could have parented better. These thoughts of pro action are being interrupted by whizzing personal reprimands of all the triggers that flew from my side and right onto him.

I know what I could have done differently now, eight hours later, and it would've been the right thing to do. The mature, zen seeking mother I want to be Plan of Action. I have it. Right here, in three simple steps, how to put out that adolescent fire.

Taming a Teen in Three Simple Steps:

Step 1: So easy, just shuttup. Pretend you don't feel the sting of their words that feel so personal. Let them wail, vent, curse, explode at the crappy day they had. Don't interject, don't advise, don't smirk at the perceived miniscule events they're ranting on. Now is not the time. Listen, and drive: your two jobs.

Step 2: Go to your happy place when they tell you it's your fault they missed that important meeting/assignment/deadline. Later, you can bring up their own scheduling capabilities. The flame is high, don't throw the corn oil on it--avoid that after school explosion. If you need to, keep driving and take the long way home. When it all simmers down, show them how to keep track of school, sports, work, assignments, meetings, on their own calendars.

Step 3: This should have been Step 1, really. Pick them up with a snack in the car. Low blood sugar, a disappointing day, a minor break out on the cheek, and it's every man for himself. Have a bagel, have a travel pak of Pringles, have something. Let them crunch and munch and carb load while they unload. It won't hurt.

Warning: Be open to accepting a heartfelt apology from them when they give it, not when you're ready to receive it. As much as the non parent ego person that still lives inside you from years ago wants to shout, Fresh Wound! Damn straight you should be apologizing ...did you hear what you said to me? Don't do it. With a generous and unconditionally loving spirit, accept and thank them for their apology. They don't like being little sh*ts, either. And they know when they've been one. Just like we do.

UNDER no circumstance ever say, even under your breath, I can't wait till you're away for college. Never sink that low. We are the adult, they're not. Instead, think things like, Wow. You're sure ready to be on your own.

Keep a mantra ready. Mine is, This, too, shall pass. I've been using it for the last 16 years.

Most importantly, know that I do accept shipments of boxed wine. I find the crisp green apple from Franzia a delightful white that dances on the tongue.

Being A Source Of Embarrassment To Your Kids

BIG post photo here, right? Well, you'd swear that's the size of the embarrassment I make my oldest son feel, just by my breathing and being generally alive.

My beautiful firstborn son, who long ago and in a galaxy far, far away, couldn't get enough of me to the point where my husband had to hold this little 3-month-old baby boy up so he could still see me every time I showered, this little baby of mine who I'd have to hold on my lap when I had to go to the bathroom because his world would fall apart if I was out of his sight ... this same little boy now D.I.E.S. that someone might realize that oh my gawd I am his mother. And how many teens actually DIE of embarrassment anyway? (well, yes, I know I did go out to get the newspaper in my nightgown and boots that one time, but it was only once).

The cause for this knife straight to my heart? Three words: He Is Sixteen.

Sixteen-years-old, when everything is about you. Everyone is talking about you. The whole world only notices you. It all has to do with you.

I am no physical monster. Last time I checked, there was no one-sided hump on my back, my eyes were evenly sized and equally spaced upon my face. As the joke goes, when I walk down the street, people do not hang out of their cars shouting, "Is it Halloween already?"

I have always taken care to not embarrass my children. BUT this? Embarrassing them by just being alive? What can I do with that?

There are so many new rules that are spit out by my son at school drop off time now that he is sixteen. Rules like bullets--they come at me, "don't say good-bye, don't say my name, don't wave, don't get out of the car, don't wait to see that I get in, don't shout at me if I forget something in the car, if I fall down flat on my face and my brains spill out, just.keep. going ..."

It's not like I break into self-choreographed interpretive dance moves upon hearing Adele's Rolling In The Deep -- no matter how much that women slays me -- when my son is with me. I save that for when I'm alone in the mini-van. I may think about swaying my hands all over my head like that, but I don't do it.

Not with him - I try not to think about how he once was my bald-headed dance partner in the kitchen, 3 a.m.

He makes me wince as I remember how much embarrassment I felt about my own mother as a teen. She had come another ther country. I was embarrassed, but there was reason for it, right? Or so I thought. I mean, she had an accent, and dressed funny, and acted like she wasn't even in America. She would try to imitate the movie stars of the time. I knew back then, as a teen, that any children of mine would never be self conscious that I was their mother! I had too much going for me -- I spoke perfect English, I didn't dress in the costume from the old country *blackdressblackdressblackdress,* and I never thought to try and imitate Elizabeth Taylor. What kid wouldn't be proud of me as their mama? I was cool, with it, American, and had no delusions of grandeur.

You can see how knocked off my feet I am by this new role in my life: that of social pariah of the village.

Our morning drives to school now go like this, my son reading to me from his How To Be Invisible Manual: "don't drive right up to the door, mom. Just slow down, and I'll get out and DO NOT say good- bye to me so loud the world hears it. You're so loud. I mean it. I MEAN IT."

To which I meekly ask, "c-c-c-an I look at you? for a minute? can I just l-l-l-l-ook at you? I promise not to make eye contact ..."

"No. See? SEE? This is what I mean. Just drop me off.
Just.
Go.
Home."

He might as well have said, "Go back to your door built into a tree house on the swamp, Fiona, go back from whence you came."

I do as he instructs and drop him off far enough from the school's front doors, per his request. I slowly creeper-drive away, sunglasses covering my eyes, so he can't see that I'm still watching him, watching my handsome, tall boy walk away from me ... without even one glance back in my direction.

He walks away, taking my heart along with him. I breathe deep, and pat myself on the back, congratulating myself on my verbal restraint. How badly I want to screech on the brakes -- good and loud, roll down the window and SHOUT, "embarrassing? you want to see embarrassing? How's this:  "BYE HONEY I LOVE YOU AND DON'T FORGET TO WEAR YOUR CUP AT PRACTICE TODAY BECAUSE IT'S IMPORTANT TO PROTECT YOUR TESTICLES!"

You know, I think I might just call it his nutty buddy, for good measure.

*************************

Never Act Irresponsibly In Front Of Family Members

It was a hot and humid 97 degree day last summer. I had an hour's worth of driving to do in 30 minutes time. I had just picked up my 15 year old sweat soaked son from his soccer practice, and we were on our way to his swim lesson, with three stops in between. He sat, shirtless, next to me, while I was my own Garmin "recalculating" my way between two small towns amid all the summertime construction and road repair.

Wisconsin has two seasons: construction, and winter.

We were in construction.

Earlier that day, with a string of errands before me, I had run out of the house barefoot, jamming two twenties into my front pocket. With just my housecleaning clothes on, I grabbed nothing on the way out except for my lemonlime Powerade. Before hitting the community pool, I had a  planned quick stop at MickeyD's for dinner to make tonight work, (I hear your gasps, and I know, and I don't care) and then a run into the grocery store--which he'll have to do for me--sans shoes and all, AND all the while knowing that I had 20 minutes to make it to pick up Baby E from his soccer practice.

I guess I must've been going too fast, because as I looked in my rear view mirror, I saw the cherries go on behind me.

Yup.

In the front seat, sitting across from my impressionable teenage soon to be driving son, I glance into the rear view mirror and say, "shysters."

Crapola.

Now what.

And, this is just what I need.

"Mom!  Is that the cops?? Are they after you?"

Holy frijole. "Yes. Yes. They are after me. And what's worse? This is never quick. Never."

"Mom? How do you know it's never quick?"

errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr..............

"Well, I mean, you know, they have to check all your information...and...CRAP! I left the house WITHOUT my purse! Oh, they are going to nail me to the wall."

crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrappitycrap

OK. Inner dialogue, going like this: the role parents play in the lives of their children coming into sharp focus. This is truly a defining moment.  One my son will not soon forget. Great example. High expectations. Awesome role model.

I look across the seat at my young, morally developing teen son. I take a deep breath, and say, "You know what we do now? We pull over. And then we stay in the car and wait. He'll walk to us here."

"Then what happens, mom? Do they take you to the police station right away? We're going to be so late."

"Yes, yes, we are. And I must've been doing something. And the sign somewhere must say what the speed limit is, but I didn't even see it."

The police officer walks over to my rolled down window. "How are you this evening? May I see your registration and license?"

Me, extending my palm out: "Officer? Please give me a ticket."

My request was earnest.
 
I continued, "my son is at an impressionable age, and he needs to see what happens when a person breaks the law. Please serve me with the maximum allowable for breaking the law in a residential area----NEAR A CHILDREN'S PARK YET--- in this obviously quiet, residential street."

"Is that your son here?"

"Yes, officer. This is my son. And I want him to see what happens when a person breaks the law. Please. Do everything allowable by penalty of law for speeding while driving." I feel the need to have this ticket.

He peeks into the car, and looks at my son: "Hello, how are you? Ma'am? how's your driving record?"

"Perfect, officer."

"Perfect?"

"Yes, officer. Perfect."

::son whispering:   "mom! don't lie!"  me whispering:   "I'm not lying!" ::

"Let me go check, if it's "Perfect," we'll decide from there."

The officer walks away with my registration information, we wait, a tense 10 minutes we wait. And don't think there was quiet in the car: "See, son, because of this now we're really messing the whole night up. I should've noticed the speed limit. Look, there's a kid's park, and it's a single lane, all CLUES, honey...all CLUES..."

The police officer returns, "Well, your driving record is perfect. I'm going to give you a warning. Pay attention to the speed limit. There's a kid's park here."

"Officer, I really need you to give me something. Like a ticket. My son needs to see this." There is such an affordable lesson here, I want this ticket.

Officer: "ah... I gave you a warning." 

"Officer, I think my son needs to know that I should have gotten a ticket for speeding NEAR A PARK." I will plead my case.

"Ma'am, I did do something. I gave you a warning. You have a perfect driving record for 30 years. A warning is what you got for going 6 miles over the speed limit. Don't do it again."

"Officer, can you tell my son that speeding is wrong while driving? And that he should not do as I did, and he should pay attention to the speed limits posted?"

"Ma'am? I think he's gathered enough information from our interaction here. I think he gets it."

"Well, thank you, officer. Thank you. And this was a wonderful lesson. And God bless you. And I won't speed again and I'll make sure that I talk about this with my son some more and thank you for doing your job and pulling us over. This was a time appropriate opportunity, thank you so much. I'm so happy you pulled us over. This couldn't have been more perfect --he'll be driving soon, and this was just wonderful. Thank you..."


"Well, you seem like a very nice woman. And I think your son understands what happened here."

"Officer. I know I should really leave this alone, my husband tells me this all the time. But, I just have to ask you one more time, can you give me a small ticket? Just like, a little bitty small one? You know, to show this is wrong...for my son to see..."

::son hissing: "mom!! you should just go, dad is right. just.go".::

"OK, then officer, thank you, again...this has been such a wonderful, wonderful night. Thank you!"

::son eyerolling: "mom, you are so crazy. You know that? So. Crazy."::

"Yeah, well, honey, I may be crazy, but you won't forget what it feels like to see cherries going in your rear view mirror and looking back at your own face reflected in officially issued regulation aviator mirror sunglasses anytime soon, will you?"

-----------------------------
*This is a true story that happened last summer. I hear my son tell it to his friends, still, as in,  "man, that was the scariest thing. I hope I NEVER get pulled over."

I will never understand why I didn't get the ticket, I wanted my son to see what happens. I think, pretty sure, it's because of my 30+year perfect driving record.

Wooohoooo! It's Crazy People Having A Good Time

 

It's been a busy week.

I'm still here, but REALLY HERE.

With my family.

Today is our oldest son's, DDG's*, birthday. He is 16.

Thursday was Baby E's day. He was 9.

The house is a beautiful shambles of torn giftwrap, barely hanging streamers, spilled orange soda, and piled up presents.

That's the visual bouquet.

The noise? Of three boys?

Sheer heaven.

We'll see you soon!
--------------------------------
*DDG - Drop Dead Gorgeous (I can't take the credit for that, that's what Lady Di would call Prince William)

Sunday Best - Blessedness

Beethoven Lives Upstairs

A little background info. about me: I grew up with no music lessons, piano, dance, art, etc., or any enrichment otherwise.  This next posting is, to me, evidence of the surprising beauty that one gets gifted with in life. Just as there are many downs in our lives, there are also tremendous ups. Given my childhood environment, it is amazing to me--beyond my imagination amazing -- that I am able to post something such as this. Please, I hope you don't see it as bragging as much as it is -- for me-- awe coupled with sheer grateful disbelief, though it stares me right in the eyes. Yes, parts of my life have been very, very hard: but I have emerged with such blessings.

The sounds reach me upstairs, but I still can't believe it. My brain tries to talk me out of my reality, though I am hearing it through my own ears, in my own home. The sounds are real, but the stories in my soul tell me it can't be so.

As I lay half awake in my bed on an early Sunday morning, I hear our 14 year old son playing the piano that is in our front room. I know it is him, and that it has to be him, he is the only one who plays in our family. My eyes have seen him sit in front of the keys daily. Five years ago a friend of mine had to find a home for her old piano, which turned out to be here. Now, our son plays, and plays. All his favorites: Journey, ColdPlay, Linkin Park, Green Day. I've seen his fingers touch those keys so many times. 

But my life's stories tell me this can't be my life. I'm not to be in a life with a home that has a beautiful child playing a piano in it.  This is not my life. How does a woman like me, get blessed with a child, a life, like this? A musical child, a musical home, how does it happen? I've never dared to let my dreams get this impossible. Yet, here it is. The wish in me to have the greeting on our answering machine just be him playing is so strong, and I know I can't. We don't brag about our blessings, no matter how unbelievably bursting with pride and joy we are. I'd love to tell everyone, from the bagger at the store, to the stranger at the park,  "My son plays piano, I mean, he plays so beautifully!" I know I can't. I know society would not find that acceptable.

Instead, I find myself having to close my eyes, so I can hear every sweet second as clearly as I can, with tears of pride and disbelief springing to my eyes too quickly for me stop them. I don't move, I want him to keep playing. I don't want to walk downstairs just yet.

I might break the spell.
--------------------------------------------------

This is the first guest post I ever submitted. It ran early March, last year. It was to a wonderful blog called Four Perspectives.  Their  Guest Post page is here, if you feel you have something that would fit in with their beautiful collaborative blog. Good Luck!

Oh, Doctor....Are You Sure You Cut The Cord?

Alexander, on his 1st birthday

I can't even look at this picture today, without my throat getting tight on me. It's a picture of my now oldest, who was one on the day this picture was snapped. He is 15 now.

I had dressed him in his first grown up clothes that day: a navy blue polo shirt and pleated, pressed khaki pants. He looked just like his dad, and his dad was beaming. I was beaming at finally having my baby, at 36 years old.

Looking at my three boys' baby pictures kills me, anyway--I don't know why I do it---torture myself that way, but, I do. Anyway, today...this picture is killing me.

Since the first second I became their mother, I was transformed into their very own "Ripley." I was untouchable, unbeatable and nothing stood in my way when protecting my children.

It became what I lived for, without question, and I rose up to meet my role. When they cried at night, I'd swoop down and lift them and felt as if I were rescuing them from some lonely tower.

They were soothed by only me.

Life continues on this way, with days that trick you into thinking they will never end. You will always be Ripley, you think, armed and ready, to save them from everything.

Then, the day comes, out of nowhere...where the first live superaction heroine they've ever known, is powerless. The day where she can only sit and watch, and is not able to swoop in and pick them up out of their crying crib.

I watch, feeling a golfball in my throat, while my 15 year old firstborn apple of my eye, struggles with a life lesson.*

I can barely stand it.

The Umbilical Cord

Oh, Doctor, are you sure....
     the day he was born and you cut the cord-
     that cord that connects child to mother-
did you make it a clean cut? complete?

Because sometimes I wonder
    when the sound of his cry would cause
     the strange pain, prickly pins,
     "letting down" the milk to meet his need.
     And when, as he advanced to solids and fed with a spoon
     my mouth popped open
     with every attempt to spoon food into his;
     my tongue licked the corners of my mouth
     when the baby food spilled out on his face.


If the cord was cleanly cut, complete
     why the sinking sick stomach in me
     at the sight of his blood after a fall?
     Why is my mouth dry
     when he is the one on stage to say the lines?
     Why are my palms sweating
     when he is the pitcher on the mound?
    *Why does my heart ache 
      when his is broken?

Doctor, could you check?
I think the cord is still intact.

~Jana Vick


PostScript: a HUGE thank you to Shell @Things I Can't Say, for writing the perfect post for me to find today. Thank you, Shell. I needed to read just the words you had for me at your site today. Thank you.

Depends On Whom You Ask

The Mom:    "We need to leave in about 5 minutes. Is your bed made?"

15 yr old Angsty Son:    "Yup."

The Mom:    "Pleeeeeeeeese, oh, please, don't say "yup." You sound like a baby coyote. Say, "Yes, Mom."

15 yr old Angsty Son:     "Yup. I'm kidding! Yes, Mom."

The Mom:      "So. The bed is made. Your bed is made."

15 yr old Angsty Son:     "Yup."

The Mom:      ".........audible extended puffy sigh............"

The Mom:     "So. If I go upstairs now, to your room, and look at your bed, it'll be made. Is that right?"

15 yr old Angsty son:      "Yup."

The Mom:     "................second audible extended puffy sigh.........."

The Mom:      "Okay, then, let's go take a  look."

15 yr old Angsty Son:     "I told you. It's made."

The Mom:    "Then this'll be good, right? Let's go look at your made bed together."

15 yr old Angsty Son:    "It's made. I know what a made bed  looks like. I don't have to go see what a made bed looks like. Maybe you need to go see what a made bed looks like...I don't. Especially when I'm the one who made it."

Baby E:     "Ooooohhhhooooo!....owned!" 

15 yr old Angsty Son:    "High 5, baby bro..."

The Mom:     "No. Don't encourage that, Baby E. You go finish breakfast, I'm talking to Alec."

The Mom:      "Alright then, Bedmaker Man.  I'll go up and look, and if it's not made, you will make it before school, got it?"

15 yr old Angsty Son:     "You said to make the bed,  You asked if I made the bed. I made it." 

The Mom:    "I'm going up now. To look at your made bed. And if it's not made..."

15 yr old Angsty Son:    "It.is.made.Mom."

The Mom:    "Going up now. Up the stairs. Last chance. I'm on my way. I hope you're not late because you have to make your..............  ALEXANDER!!!!!!!!!!!!"



Perfectly Made Bed

15 yr old Angsty Son:     "You asked if it was made, you didn't ask if it was Perfectly Made."

Lost In Translation

The following early morning exchange occurred on a day when the world's surliest teenager woke up late for school. If this is your first trip to Angstworld or exposure to TeenSpeak, I have inserted translations below the actual dialogue. I have become well versed in "Angst" and am available for hire. [Fee: free, in the spirit of fellow commiseration.]

PARENT: "Hey, darling, you'll be late if you don't get up now."

15 YR OLD: "What time is it? Why'd you let me sleep so late? You NEVER wake me up in time for anything."

HE IS SAYING: "I am so tired, Mom. Can I sleep a bit longer?"

PARENT: "Sorry you'll have to rush, sweetie. I'll help you out. What do you need?"

15 YR OLD: "You still don't know what I need in the morning? How long have I been your son?"

HE IS SAYING: "I'm too tired to think, Mom. You always do it right. Can you do it for me, please?"

PARENT: "Here, I've got breakfast set. Come on down, I'll pack your lunch. Then you can wash up instead of a shower."

15 YR OLD: "No shower???!! Did you say No shower??!! Man, does everyone get gross like that when they get old? I'm taking a shower. You're the one that got me up late. Why do I have to be the one to go without a shower."

HE IS SAYING: "You know how important my appearance is at this age. Please figure out a way to make time stop so I can get in the shower."

PARENT: "All right. Sneak one in. Fast. I can get you to school on time. You're never late, it'll be all right."

15 YR OLD: "Nothing's ever all right at that place. They always find something wrong .. I hate having to get a tardy slip. Just get me there, on time, I can't be late."

HE IS SAYING: "I have a lot of pressures with being cool. Walking in with a tardy slip like a little kid is embarrassing. Please oh please, Mom, break some laws and get me to school on time."

PARENT: "It'll be fine. You'll just make it. Come on, honey. Everything's set, and I fixed you something so you can eat it in the car. Get dressed, and you'll make it with two minutes to spare. I'll be out in the car. Your backpack's already in there, too."

15 YR OLD: "Thanks, Mom."

HE IS SAYING: .................

BUT in his silence, he says this: Oh, Mom, Why am I like this? So angry all the time. I'm so sorry for the way I acted toward you. I spoke to you with disrespect, when all the time you just want to help me. I love you, Mom. Will you forgive me?

PARENT: "Of course I do."

15 YR OLD: "Whatcha say, Mom? I didn't say anything--who are you talking to? You're starting to talk to yourself like an old person."

PARENT: "Oh, nothing, honey. Just something I heard in my head. Lean over, you've got some Clearasil left on your face. There. Better. You're so handsome. I love you."

First Love

You are my first born, my first love. You are 15 today, and the emotion of that makes my throat so tight I can hardly stand it.

We've learned everything together. You've pulled me through, and I've pulled you through.

I actually believed I knew what love was, before you were born.

There needs to be a new word invented, for the ferociousness of the feeling I felt for you, when I held you in my arms for the very first time. And saw your face for the very first time. I literally gasped, your eyes were so blue. It was like one of those camera shots, where everything else was out of focus, and only one thing stood sharp and clear and in the center: you.

I have clapped at every first that you brought my way. Everything with you has been new, fresh, wonderful. It's a trail of firsts, that we've both cut together. I marvel at all of it, how could I not?

It's been wondrous and exciting and scary and shaky.

There is a reason that firstborn children are leaders, and doers, and shining stars: because they were the first ones in their parent's sky.

I love you, Alexander....and my voice will crack if I attempt to tell you more than that today.

I love you. And you might taste the tears that fell silently on your sandwich this morning while I packed the lunch of my firstborn son.




Happy Birthday, my sweet boy!
How I love you, Alexander.

The Dork at The Keyboard, Exhibit C

ok something tells me this is going to turn into a blog post. Wait, it already is. How can I get rid of this purple ink?!?

Gaah! Now it's gone, I think I have to go wake up the geeksquad (14 yr old son).

When will I learn that "It's that easy..." usually comes back to bite me in the a**.

Oh, Snap, my husband told me never to push "Edit Html." Snap. I know just what I'll say, too, "Honey, it all happened so fast..." He hates it when I stay up at night, by myself, with the computer on.

Ahem...Heee-eeyyy! Anyone wanna come to a party? (That was Step 2, right?) No, I think the perky twins said something about a link back. "Alexander? Honey, can you come downstairs a minute and help mom?"

5minutesformom

"There. Good night, mom." "Good night, honey, I love you...."

The Dork At The Keyboard, Exhibit B

Me: (to myself) "Wow!! Holy Cow!! Hooking up with these blogger clubs really works, look! I have 83 new email messages on my gmail account! This is so cool."

click, read,click, read,click, read....

Me: "Hey, all these emails have nothing to do with me. I never even heard of these people, and they don't even mention me..."

Smart 14 yr old Son: "Mom, go in and check your email settings."

Me: "Whaaaaa?"

Smart Son: "Here, mom, let me drive....click, click, click.....MOM!!! aaaaaaaaaargh....."

Me: "Yes, honey?"

Smart Son: "You checked "yes" for "please alert me of new member activity!"

Me: "Oh, okay (said in very small, very tiny letters) , that makes sense. Well, it was fun to see all those emails for me, anyway, that weren't actually for me...."

Smart Son: "Mom, Dad's right, you just can't keep pushing buttons."

Beethoven Lives Upstairs

A little background info. here: I grew up with no music lessons, piano, dance, art, etc., or any enrichment otherwise. Not looking for pity here, just a detached statement of fact. So, this next posting is, to me, just evidence of the surprising beauty that one gets gifted with in life. Just as there are the downs, there are also the ups. Given the environment I grew up in, it is amazing to me--beyond my imagination amazing--that I am able to post something such as this. Please do not consider it bragging as much as it is a statement of awe coupled with sheer disbelief, though it is staring me right in the eyes.

I hear it from upstairs, but I still can't believe it. I am hearing it through my own ears, in my own home. My brain processes it as reality, but my soul tells me it can't be so.

From the upstairs bedroom, I hear our 14 year old son playing the piano that is in our front room. I know it is him, and that it has to be him, since he is the only one able to play the piano in our family. I've seen him sit at that piano daily. A piano that just 5 years ago a friend gifted to us. And he plays, and plays. All his favorites: Journey, ColdPlay, movie themes. I've seen his fingers play on the keys, so know it to be true.

But my soul tells me it can't be. How does a woman like me, get blessed with a child like this? A musical child, how does it happen? I've never dreamed it possible, even in my wildest dreams. Yet, it's so. So, though I'd like to have our greeting on our answering machine just be him playing, I know I can't. And though I'd love to tell everyone, from the bagger at the store, to the town librarian, "My son can play, I mean, he can really play!" I know I can't. I know society doesn't find that acceptable.

So, I find myself having to sit down on the bed upstairs, with tears of pride and disbelief springing to my eyes too quickly for me stop them. I let him keep on playing. I don't want to walk downstairs just yet.

I might break the spell.