A Christmas for the ages

Our Christmas celebration at home

If you're like me, perhaps you're filled with a little bit of the post-Christmas blues today. It's hard not to be. I so love listening to songs of the season, watching favorite holiday movies, the wonder and awe that sometimes overtake me as I watch the twinkling Christmas lights. And I know all too well that three more months of winter await us (three months if we're lucky).

I'm lucky this year because while another Christmas is on the books, our dear family friend's visit continues through the end of next week. Carlos was our beloved exchange student from Spain. He stayed with us for the first time more than 21 years ago, and the connection with our family was instant. He came back to see us subsequent summers, but it had been 17 years since I'd seen him.

Carlos's return has been the best gift I could imagine. I'm delighted to report that he hasn't changed a bit. His deadpan humor remains intact. He amazes me with his memories of every major and minor detail of his past visits. He and I and my parents and brothers have shared laughter and joy reliving those halcyon summer days of long ago.

Me and Carlos, 17 years later

My dear friend's voice sounds miraculously, joyously just as it always did. Hearing it again and seeing his familiar face fills me with happiness. Carlos displays the uncanny ability to connect with my boys and nephews just as he did with my brothers when they were young.

It has been a special Christmas indeed. When we all gathered for my family's celebration on the day after Christmas, it was every bit as raucous as you'd expect for a gathering of 11 adults, seven kids and two dogs.

At the center of all the festivities is my mom. The end of the light-hearted movie Arthur Christmas always manages to make me cry, because it reminds me so much of my mom. Arthur has been named the successor to Santa because he has always worked to make everyone happy. My mom could be Santa. She works so unbelievably hard to make Christmas a special time for everyone. I think everyone in my family would agree that Mom overextends herself, but it's all for the love of her family, and protest though we may, we know she wouldn't have it any other way. Thanks, Mom.

Our celebration was a day of kids' joy and anticipation, a day of kids whining and bickering, a day of dogs barking and stealing food off people's plates (Tim and Emily - I love your dogs - it was all part of the glorious mix). I'll admit that at certain moments, I began to feel the stress and strain.

The chaos reached its apex at dinner time. Mostly thanks to seven hungry boys, the dining room was cacophonous as everyone waited for my mom and me to serve dinner. The meal was rushed, the kids had many requests and demands. These affairs never turn out as you envision - unhurried, peaceful, contemplative.

After the long-anticipated and quickly passing day was finished, I realized that in all its imperfection, I would not change a thing. These are the days we'll look back on as my kids' halcyon days - a time of togetherness, forging bonds with cousins, presents, food, fun.

I'll remember my boys, 11, 8 and 5, all still young enough to revel in the magic of Christmas. This is what I'll see in my mind's eye: Ben is so excited but trying to act the mature oldest cousin; Paul cites his stuffed animals as his favorite Christmas gifts; Gus is bursting with anticipation and trying so hard to wait to open the gifts. Someday when Christmases are much quieter, I know I'll look back on the Christmas of 2013 with longing. These are the days.

I am his quiet place, he is my wild

I was thinking, Gus and I would make a great pair of characters for a movie. We're the odd couple. She: straight-laced and uptight, quiet and mild. He: exuberant and loose, loud and wild. Watch as hijinks ensue!

This idea occurred to me as I sat fussing and fretting about how my youngest might do at his Christmas performance this afternoon. I couldn't help but flash back to last year's concert, which was a mixed bag to be sure. All of my worry was for naught, though. Gus helped put on a great show, spreading Christmas cheer and singing loud for all to hear, yet restraining himself from going over the top.

From very early on, Gus began dragging me out of my comfort zone. The summer when Gus was almost 2, we would go watch (or should I say "watch") Paul's park & rec t-ball games. It was as if he was saying to me, "You want to sit and peacefully take in my brother playing his game? Ha! Fat chance, lady." I spent the entirety of every game chasing my little hellion.

As he's gotten older, things haven't changed. I'm a quiet person. I like to sit back and observe my surroundings, and Gus likes to make a splash. When I go someplace with Gus, we are not blending.

At school drop-off, we don't get to stand there quietly, dutifully waiting for the doors to open. Gus is stomping in the snow, jockeying for position at the front of the line, trying to engage the other kids in play. Similarly, after school while waiting for Paul, Gus is spinning around, urging kids from his class into a snowball fight. I stuff my hands in my pockets, exchanged bemused or apologetic looks with other parents.

Of course, in some ways Gus challenges me in good ways and in some ways, well, it's just difficult. G naturally nudges me to be more social because he's so social. My parents and I took him to McDonald's for ice cream after his show yesterday. He immediately befriended the other boy in the play land. His grandmother and my parents and I exchanged laughs and smiles taking in their natural rapport.

When Gus's teacher reports to me about days he's struggled at school, it forces me into a place I hadn't envisioned for myself. These conversations are never pleasant (though the last two weeks have been going really well!). With exposure comes acceptance, though. I'm gradually learning that every setback is not a crisis. And I'd better learn to start handling them with grace and perspective or I'll be a basket case by 12th grade. I'm getting there.

Sometimes I question whether I can accurately judge Gus's character. I'm so far the opposite of him, so guarded with my emotions that I think I often see some of his actions and antics as a bigger deal than they are. Whereas lots of people around me seem to genuinely enjoy my son, sometimes I'm too busy watching him with my eyes half-covered, worrying what he might do next.

Gus's and my movie would end with the realization that we both have something to offer each other. I come to learn the value in loosening up and enjoying life more. Gus learns the benefits of once in a while settling down and enjoying quiet and reflection. Between you and me, I wouldn't want Gus to go too far in my direction. I think he's got the better way. I reflect too damn much if you ask me, and I'm far too sensitive.

You Are my I Love You by Maryann Cusimano Love and Satomi Ichikawa is my favorite children's book. It so perfectly captures the essence of a relationship between parent and child. I defy you to get through it without a shedding a tear or all-out sobbing. It's beginning line captures me and Gus exactly: "I am your parent; you are my child. I am your quiet place; you are my wild."

Being Gus's mom is better, and sometimes more challenging, than I ever could have imagined. He's opened me to new worlds and charted new courses for me, and he will always be my "I love you."

It's his birthday, but he's my gift

It's occurred to me that when I write, it's often about Ben or Gus. Ben is my oldest, and I'm continually experiencing issues with him for the first time. And Gus? Well, that's easy - he tends to challenge me, and consequently I spend a lot of time worrying and thinking about him.

"Paul is the quintessential middle kid, isn't he?" my sister-in-law, Emily, observed recently. We were at my nephew's birthday party at the pizza place/arcade, and Paul was trying to guide Gus about the correct party etiquette. "Eat your pizza first, and then we can play some games." Emily was right, Paul is the perfect middle child.

Yesterday, I went to school to watch Paul conduct a science experiment for his class. I hadn't realized he was supposed to bring his own materials, so he couldn't do the experiment that day. Instead, Gus and I stayed for the last part of Paul's day. I watched with joy as Paul encouraged Gus to come sit on the floor with him. He sat there with his arm around his brother the whole time.

It can't be easy to be Paul. He's stuck between Ben, an academic standout and an always-voracious athletic competitor, and Gus, who by his very nature often takes the spotlight through either positive or negative behaviors.

By contrast, Paul is quieter and more contemplative. My middle boy isn't much for sports. He'd rather create with his box of markers and paper or maybe engage in some kind of imaginative play with his younger brother.

When he was younger, Paul was the boy who cried - sobbed - when I left him anywhere. These days, he's become more outgoing, but at the same time, he still likes to stick close to Mom. To my delight, Paul has amassed a group of buddies, and he's a good and loyal friend.

All of this isn't to say that Paul is an angel. Boy, can he make himself heard when he's angry. That comes with being a middle too, I suppose.

On this, the eve of his 8th birthday, I've been reflecting on all that is special about my sweet boy. Paul loves animals. Sea turtles were his first object of affection, but there have been many others since then.

This summer, we had a house finch nesting in our hanging basket. One day, I went to water it while the boys were playing outside. I was unaware that the baby birds were sitting in their nest, and they did not enjoy being sprayed with the cold water. The babies flew down and landed in our lawn (don't worry - all were fine). Paul watched the whole scene with wonder and amazement - and promptly fell in love with birds. I think we checked out every bird book in the library.

Paul has been the impetus behind some of our best adventures of the past year. Whereas I might have just spent yet another day at home, my boy urged us to go to the nature center. We had the best time taking a walk and spotting animals, including a teeny-tiny frog.

This fall, Paul's love of birds led us to a special raptors event at the Audubon center in Milwaukee. I'll never forget the look on Paul's face as he got a close-up look at owls, hawks and eagles.

One of my favorite aspects of motherhood is all that my kids have taught me. Through Paul, my love of nature and the world around me has grown. Because of him, I now pay attention to the red-tailed hawk that is perched on the telephone pole.

Whether Paul is asking me to devise an art project or begging me to take a walk to a nearby field to see if we can spot a sandhill crane, he makes me a better, richer person. What a gift he is.

This is going to hurt

A few weeks ago after he endured four vaccinations with little more than a grimace and a whimper of pain, I decided to try to cheer up Ben with some stories of pain tolerance, or lack thereof, from my younger days. My kids are so much braver than I ever was.

I had Ben in hysterics telling him about getting my first cavity filled. I locked myself in the family station wagon and refused to get out. I won that battle. My mom had to reschedule the appointment. 

Then there was the time that I decided to nuzzle noses with my pet hamster. It didn't enjoy the nuzzling and instead sunk its teeth into my nose. My mom took me for a tetanus shot. She had to drag me into the office literally screaming, and it took a small cadre of nurses to hold me down and inject me. 

If only I'd known when I was young what a small deal fillings and shots are, in terms of the pains life throws at you. I would've crossed that worry right off my list.

Parenting will break your heart in a thousand different ways. I never know day to day what's going to come way, but I've been doing this long enough to know that most days will test me in some way.

This week brought its trials right on schedule. On Sunday night, Ben said, "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I had this problem in gym class."

It turns out that before we had left for vacation, he couldn't get his gym lock to work, so he left his locker without a lock on it. Another kid, thinking he was helping, stuck a lock on Ben's locker, but it wasn't Ben's lock. Ben returned to school and couldn't get into his gym locker.

When Ben went to his teacher with the problem, the teacher responded sarcastically and basically refused to help. I suppose I can see where the teacher was going with his response - maybe trying to instill natural consequences or something, but it left Ben frustrated and confused. I emailed the teacher to try to get the situation resolved, but I heard nothing.

By Tuesday morning, the day of his next gym class, Ben was crying tears of worry and frustration. I was indignant at the stupidity of the situation with the teacher (just help the kid figure it out!), and he was starting his day upset.

Of course, the situation just blew over, as they so often do. The teacher, though he never responded to me, clearly got my message and removed the lock for Ben. He came out of school that day happy as ever.

It all got me thinking, though, of hard it is to grow up. I know Ben's school tries to ease the sixth-graders into becoming middle-schoolers, but clearly the expectations have risen. I can imagine the panic Ben felt trying to get into his locker, simultaneously trying to ensure he'd make it to class on time.

On top of that, I know that on his journey to manhood, my oldest must be facing fears and frustrations that I can never understand. I can see that Ben is trying very hard to shed some of his youthfulness, but he's still very much just a boy.

With Gus, I've been experiencing a different kind of pain. Each day when I pick him up from school, I tense up waiting for the teacher's report. Most days, she says nothing, and some she notes that he's had a good day. Every once in a while, though, I get a bad report, and yesterday was one of those days.

It never gets any easier, hearing the details of Gus's transgressions. Inevitably, I weirdly feel like I'm the one who's behaved badly and should hang my head in shame. I understand that Gus's behavior can be maddening, but I want his teacher to look for the good in him each day as well as noting what's going wrong. When I feel like that's not happening, it's really hard.

It's a daily battle with my youngest. Sometimes I get complacent when things have gone well for a while, but I need to keep sticking to what's worked in the past. Today I will tremulously hope that a firm reminder of expectations will once again get Gus back on track.

I recently read the excellent Counting by 7s by Holly Goldberg Sloan (great book to read with a little older kids, by the way). In my favorite passage, the young protagonist, Willow, tells about a time that she took care of a wild green-rumped parrot she had found and named Fallen. "When Fallen was finally strong enough to fly, I reintroduced him back to his flock. It was incredibly rewarding. But it was also heartbreaking. It has been my experience that rewarding and heartbreaking often go hand in hand."

As it is with green-rumped parrots, so it is with little boys. Only exponentially more so.

Falling under the spell

Our big trip started with a most unwelcome bang, but against all odds, it ended with a week's worth of great, unforgettable times and sweet memories.

My family's long-standing vacation curse of sick kids refused to die, even with so much at stake. I don't know why I didn't anticipate this. "Everyone stay healthy!" Mark and I called out in the weeks leading up to our trip. But I guess, pessimistic though I am, even I didn't believe that fate could deal us such a cruel hand.

When I dropped Paul off at school on the day before our trip, he and Gus and I happily chirped about Disney World eve. However, when I picked him up, I immediately saw something was wrong. Paul looked green, and then he uttered those most frightening pre-vacation words: "I feel weird."

I took Paul's temperature when we got home, and he was at 99.9. I maniacally, foolishly hoped that it would turn out to be nothing major. My hopes were dashed when less than two hours later, his temp had spiked to 103.


A gag, pun intended, thank God.

In desperation, Mark took Paul to FastCare, all of us praying that there would be some simple, easily remedied explanation. Paul came home with a diagnosis of possible sinus infection and a prescription for antibiotics. He had been sick with cough and cold symptoms for a couple weeks. I was slightly heartened.

Paul downed his dose of amoxicillin ... and promptly threw up about half an hour later. We went to bed, still holding on to hope. When our boy vomited at 1:30 a.m. and again at 3, my optimism evaporated.

I managed little sleep that night, my mind churning with how we'd get through this. How would we get a vomiting boy through two flights? Airlines are not exactly amenable to working with passengers to change flights when situations arise. Could we postpone somehow? Drive to Florida instead? What if we all got sick?

The day of our trip dawned, and Paul looked moderately better. Mark and I watched him closely and bombarded him with queries about how he was feeling. Miraculously, by the time we needed to leave for our flight, our guy looked remarkably stable.

After all the initial adversity, the rest of our trip was cloaked with good fortune. The flights went seamlessly, arriving early even. The boys were champion flyers.

One of my other small worries was me. I'm a rather tense person, to put it mildly, and I often have a really hard time sitting back and relaxing, going with the flow. Furthermore, I'm a homebody. I tend to miss my home after a day or two, even if I'm someplace really nice. As much as I thrive on spending time with my family, I cherish times of solitude, too.

Yes I'd always wanted to visit Disney World, but I remained skeptical about how much I'd be into the whole scene. "Do you think it'll be really ... theme park-ish?" I asked Mark nervously, picturing myself spending an entire week at Six Flags Great America.

My fears evaporated when I actually saw the Magic Kingdom. Nearly everything about our experience was a pleasant surprise and exceeded my expectations. With very few exceptions, the people - "cast members" - treated us amazing well, and everything at every property is impeccably maintained.

The parks were incredible, especially the beautiful Animal Kingdom, probably my personal favorite. But one of the best parts of the trip for me was taking in all that's different about Florida. We relished watching tiny lizards scurry past, observing different kinds of trees and foliage, becoming acquainted with white ibises, which apparently as common to Florida as seagulls are to us. Then of course there are the stunning sunsets set against palm tree backdrops.

I have cherished memories from each and every person in my family. For me, I'll never forget seeing the palace for the first time. I'll remember the huge smiles Mark and I shared watching the boys' reactions, Ben chattering happily about all our new experiences, Paul crowing about how much fun he'd had designing a car at Epcot's Test Track, Gus's look of wonder taking in The Lion King show, fighting Darth Maul, and falling asleep clutching his new Stitch stuffed animal.

My dad amazed me with his unwavering willingness to try anything. Ask him to go on any ride, and he was game. Similarly, my mom dazzled me with her nerve. Midway through our trip, she told me she'd decided she would try anything I would try. If I'd ride a rollercoaster, she would. That's a pretty low bar, since I'm gutless.

We did get my mom on one rollercoaster. When I asked Ben, who was my mom's seatmate, what Grandma was like on Big Thunder Mountain, he said, "She kept her eyes closed and just kept shaking her head no."

Yes, our time was beset with minor annoyances. Plenty of days, Gus would be asking to "go home" by 11 a.m., though he always rallied. "He's touching me!" was the complaint we were sure to hear many times a day. What is it with that?

Overall, though, things couldn't have gone much better. The weather was perfect - not too hot and not too cold. The day we left was cooler and rainy, and that felt significant somehow: wonderful times, now time to go home.

I guess you can count me as one of the many who has fallen for Disney World's charms.

Always swim

Much to my shame, I've become one of those adults who avoids swimming at all costs. My younger self would be so disappointed in grown-up Jess. She loved to splash in the water at any reasonable temperature.

There's something magnetic about swimming when you're a kid. What kid doesn't love to swim? In the summer, I shook down my mom to take me to the public pool; in the winter I begged to be taken to an indoor pool.

I've become one of those lame adults who's always too cold to go in the water, and worse, one who hates to get her hair wet. When forced, I tentatively wade in, standing on my tippy toes to keep as much of my body out as possible. Rarely do I ever submerge.

When we visited Chicago last Christmas, the boys naturally gravitated toward the hotel pool. I donned my suit and stayed in for as long as I could possibly hack it, which was maybe about 20 minutes. "You look absolutely miserable, Jess!" my cousin noted. I was. I made a beeline for the sauna.

Many times, I bow out. I give Mark by best puppy dog eyes, knowing that he will valiantly step in and swim with the boys since Gus is the only one who still needs assistance. 

Even though it's in the 80s here in Orlando, I'm still not warm enough to want to take a dip. On Thursday evening after visiting Magic Kingdom, I passed on getting into the water, letting Mark and my mom go in with the boys. Yes, my mom could handle it, but I could not. They had a splash fight while I sat in a lounge chair and chatted with my dad.

It's bothered me a little bit ever since. In making the choice to skip swimming, I'm giving up special times with my boys, doubtlessly having our sons think of me as the boring parent.

Today when the opportunity presented itself I decided to go for it. I put on my suit and tiptoed into the water. I hemmed and hawed, and it took me a good five minutes or more, but finally I plunged into the water. 

I showed the boys my handstand, challenged them to races, turned somersaults, gave Gus and Paul rides on my back, tossed a ball back and forth with Ben. I had a grand time, emerging smelling like chlorine, my skin tight, my hair dry as straw, my eyes bloodshot. It was worth it. So worth it.

Here's my advice to you. Always swim. You won't regret it. Except maybe that first cold minute.

The future can wait; time to enjoy now

If you want to peer into my psyche, look no further than my night stand. Along with whatever current piece of fiction I'm reading, twin stacks of books sit waiting to be opened. My book titles read like a table of contents to my worries and thoughts.

A book on raising gifted children sits atop Getting to Calm: Cool-Headed Strategies for Parenting Tweens + Teens (Ben), and then there's a copy of Parenting Children with ADHD: 10 Lessons That Medicine Cannot Teach for my not-suffering-from-ADHD-but-still-sometimes-hyper Gus. I don't have anything about progressing normally kids like Paul, but I probably should add something soon. And those are just my parenting books. My self-help books live there, too.

Relegated to the basement or perhaps a new home courtesy of Goodwill are volumes on pregnancy, morning sickness, bringing up babies, getting babies to sleep, scream-free parenting (is it sad that I gave up on that idea?), and surviving stay-at-home mommy-hood. Trust me, that's just to name a few.

Whenever something is bothering me or worrying me, I buy a book about it, and it makes me feel better just knowing that I have information at my fingertips. The odd thing is I often don't even finish the books, and, sadly, sometimes I don't even crack them open. The truth is, when I have precious free time, I'd rather get lost in reading for pleasure than for learning.

I listened to a radio program yesterday about super powers. It asked people whether they'd prefer to have the power of flight or invisibility. Forget those. I'd like to be able to acquire knowledge and wisdom effortlessly. Try though I may, I still haven't been able to implement my super-duper plan for absorbing my bedside library via osmosis.

Right now, I need a book for stay-at-home moms who are losing their identity as their kids quickly grow up. My beginning of the school year funk lingers. Gus is still home half days, so my daytime nest isn't completely empty yet, but I know it will be soon. My what-comes-next angst has been eating away at me. I've thought about it, worried about it, obsessed about it, and, yes, blogged about it.

Just as I was about to be taken down by a tsunami of uncertainty and self doubt, I had an epiphany thanks to someone else's blog. Writer Jennifer Benjamin penned a piece entitled What's so Bad About "Just Being a Mommy"? It was exactly what I needed.

"Recently, a woman with a grown daughter said to me that she would pay $1 million to have just one day with her toddler again. Just for one day," writes Benjamin. "That time for me is right now. If I’m spending these precious minutes worrying about what I’m doing with my life, then I’m just going to miss out on theirs. Besides, they are my life, aren’t they?"

Epiphanies can be a dime a dozen for me, probably thanks to all those darn books, but I hope this one sticks, because I really need it. Right now is still my time to raise my boys. I need to stop freaking out about what job I might get next year and focus instead on painting a picture with Gus or enjoy our time together constructing Angry Birds towers out of Jenga blocks.

I'm at an age when it's high time I realize that if I keep my eyes locked on the future, very soon I'll be mourning what was left not fully appreciated in the past. And that would be a travesty worthy of a book.

Extraordinary, ordinary Ben

As we sat in a meeting room at Ben's school a few weeks ago, I couldn't help but think of the "Middle School" episode of radio show This American Life. (If you've never heard it, give it a listen sometime. It's excellent.) We were there to discuss Ben's education plan for the gifted program.

Mark and Ben and I, along with the principal, the district's gifted-talented coach, and Ben's guidance counselor and English teacher, sat around the conference table. I'm sure it must have been intimidating for Ben, to say the least, and his actions showed as much.

Throughout the meeting, Ben sat next to me, his eyes cast downward, looking uncomfortable. I can only imagine the singular feeling of sitting there listening as six adults talk about plans for your future. The moment when the GT coach handed us an education plan (a loose one) that would take Ben through 12th grade was enough to sending me reeling.

At one point, someone queried Ben about his favorite class. Six sets of eyes peered at him expectantly. What would he say, what insight would we learn? "Gym," Ben finally mumbled, looking at the table.

All of this got me thinking about Ben's future and that episode. In it, host Ira Glass talks to Linda Perlstein, author of a book called, Not Much Just Chillin', which chronicles a year she spent following five middle-schoolers.

"This is the time of biggest growth for a human being, aside from infancy. So your bones are growing faster than your muscles, so you can't actually sit still," says Perlstein. "But your brain, your gray matter – during the middle school years, what happens in your early stages of puberty is this fast overproduction of brain cells and connections, far more than you actually need. And only some of them are going to survive puberty. This growth in your frontal cortex, it peaks at 11 for girls and 12 for boys. And then what happens is the cells just fight it out for survival. And the ones that last are the ones you exercise more."

"During those years your brain turns you into you, the adult," Ira interjects. "The stuff you don't exercise just kind of goes away."

"So if you think about what you learn in the early stage of puberty ... it sticks," Perlstein concludes. "... It's embossed in your existence. It's this important time for your brain. It's this use it or lose it time."

I thought of Ben and wondered what he would exercise in the next couple years, what would stick with him. He plays piano, he's taking clarinet. Will he always be musical? Is his love of soccer here to stay?

I also thought of myself. I first listened to this program about two years ago, and I was a little alarmed at first when I heard that part of the show. What of value had I taken with me from those years? I played saxophone and rarely practiced, was probably in last chair, if such a thing exists.

I desperately wanted to be a cheerleader and finally was made one out of pity from a kind coach. You see, all the really popular girls were on the pompon squad by eighth grade, so that left just a few who tried out for cheerleading. I was hopelessly uncoordinated and embarrassed myself completely. So that's a big no for development of musical and dance talents.

It honestly bothered me. I wracked my brain and unearthed this memory from maybe seventh grade. I was waiting in the commons to be let into school. Two eighth-grade girls approached me. "Do you have a staring problem," they sniped. "You stare at us every day."

To my recollection, I admired one of the girls' short, stylish haircut, so that's probably why I watched them. I guess maybe I really did "have a staring problem." I think maybe, though, this began my fondness for observing people and situations, which later helped serve me as a writer. Perhaps I really did cultivate at least one valuable skill during those awful years, even if it did garner me some social grief.

I'm curious to see what will stick with Ben. When we were at the school meeting, Mark and I wished Ben were a little bit more poised. Thinking about it now, though, I think it's good that Ben is both exceptional and unexceptional.

At 11 years old, I'm sad to say that more than half of Ben's childhood has passed. There is precious little consolation in that. For now, though, I still have my boy with me. He's remarkable enough to skip second grade and to read a 450-page book in one day. But he's still ordinary enough to list gym as his favorite subject and to need a reminder not to use his shirt as a napkin. And that's just as it should be.

Playing defense

I first picked up on it when I taught swimming lessons in high school. If parents of my pupils thought I'd erred in judgment in my teaching, they would become quite defensive of their kids. I endured having a parent or two yell at me. It was then and there that I crossed one profession off my list of possibilities. Among other reasons, I'm much too thin-skinned to teach.

Eighteen years later, I can much better understand those parents' defensiveness. Though my levelheaded side wants to remain calm and cool in the face of perceived slights against my kids, my mother bear side tends to rear its head, even if I don't usually act on it.

Two Wednesdays ago, Gus had a bad day at school. A spectacularly bad day. When I went to pick him up after school, Gus bypassed the sidewalk, running through the wood chips and darting close to the road. 

When G finally landed safely next to me, his teacher motioned for me to come over. First, she talked to Gus, telling him that what he'd done was unsafe and against the rules. To my mortification, as she talked, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, complete with snoring sounds. 

Mrs. S. turned her attention to me and informed me that it had been a challenging day for Gus. Furthermore, she said most days up until that point had been rough. He was having a hard time sitting still. He rushed through tasks, refused to take his time on activities like cutting. Feeling blindsided, I thanked her, assured her I'd talk with Gus at home, hung my head low and walked to the car.

I knew that this was a possibility, a strong possibility. That knowledge didn't make the reality any easier to accept, however. I tearfully recounted the series of event to Mark. Then I took to the internet, researching ADHD symptoms. In true Jess fashion, I went from "it's been a bumpy first two weeks" to "but I don't want to medicate my son!" in no time flat.

When I first met Gus's teacher, I thought she'd seemed friendly, laid back. I liked her. But here was this defensiveness rising within me. Irrationally, my feelings began to shift. She's just not a good fit for Gus, I thought. She must not understand preschool boys very well.

Beneath it all was my long-time fear: what if Gus is that child, the one for whom school becomes an unpleasant place. I worry that my boy will be misunderstood, that (even though this hasn't happened yet) he will get stuck in a cycle of losing the privileges he probably needs most - recess, free time. 

We had Gus's conference set for the following Wednesday, and I thought I couldn't possibily wait that long to address the issue. After I calmed myself a bit, I sent a follow-up email to Gus's teacher. She quickly sent a thoughtful reply. He's a great kid, and we'll figure this out together, she reassured.We agreed that I would check in each day after school, and I said that we would try to reinforce school rules at home and tie his behavior at school to his privileges at home.

Nearly two weeks removed from that unfortunate Wednesday, I see now that Gus's teacher probably was exasperated that day. I, of all people, should be able to relate. Lord knows how exasperating my youngest can be. And I needed a reminder that teachers deserve to have "off" days too. I cannot imagine teaching 20 4- and 5-year-olds.

Each day before school now, I review expectations with Gus. Be a good listener. When an adult is speaking to you, look at her eyes. Amazingly, I've received good reports every day since then. Don't get me wrong. There's no miraculous transformation here - just each day getting a little better.

We had Gus's conference last week. We learned that G responds extremely well to positive feedback. The other day, he was beyond excited to come home and tell the whole family that he'd earned three cougar paws. His school distributes these for positive behavior.

We're trying now to use school terminology at home. We talk about demonstrating good body basics at the dinner table, at church. We even hand out our own cougar paws here. I feel better these days. I view Gus's teacher as a partner who is helping us find the best ways to educate our very active boy.

 

Gus is the child who can be impulsive, the one who, on our walk today, couldn't scooter more than a few feet without stopping to pluck a wispy dandelion going to seed. I wouldn't change a thing. He is my occasional headache; he is my always laughter.

 

I don't think there'll be a point anytime soon in Gus's education where I can breathe a sigh of a relief: ahh, smooth sailing from here on out. I think I'll always hold my breath each day until I hear Gus has had an OK day. As I told his teacher, it's trial and error with this one. The best we can do is take it a day at a time and keep looking for the strategies that work. It's going to be a long journey, but I'm confident now that we can do this.

The changes have begun – the big ones

"Do you have children?" the woman next to me in yoga asks as we engage in polite small talk. I reply that yes, I have three boys, the oldest of whom will be 11 in a couple weeks. She looks at me, incredulous. (It's the face. I've always had one of those young-looking faces, but if she saw me out at, say, Target by myself with all three boys looking tired and haggard, boy would she believe me. Child-rearing is the perfect antidote to that too-young-looking countenance, I'm telling you! It'll knock that youthful vitality right out of you.)

Anyway, it's true. My boy is almost 11. I can scarcely understand how we got here so quickly, but I do the math, and it's inevitable – Ben is a tween. The intervening 11 years have changed me - emotionally, physically and otherwise. (Especially physically. I used to have breasts. Swear to God. Then I spent years nursing three children, and now I could more successfully shop for bras of the training variety. The things we moms sacrifice! Let's not even get into pelvic floor muscles.)

As much as time has altered me, it's nothing compared to the number it's working on Ben. This is the time, the period when everything starts to change. It started toward the end of summer. My oldest suddenly began to take more interest in hygiene. He'd begin most mornings with an unprompted shower. Say what?

"Um, Mom?" he asked hesitantly a few days after cross country practice began. "Do you think you could get me some deodorant? Coach says we should all be using it."

This is all so odd to me. I hadn't begun to detect the tell-tale funky smell that often accompanies tweens of a certain age, but I honored Ben's request. He's taken to using his dad's bath products and emerges from the steamy bathroom each morning smelling manly. It's a little disquieting.

Ben began the school year gung ho. That first week of school, he'd pop right out of bed, up and at 'em, enthusiastic for his new adventures. Already that's beginning to change. He needs to be at his bus stop at about 7 a.m., a feat that would be challenging even for me, but this early wake-up time runs completely counter to tween and teen biology.

It's getting harder and harder to rouse Ben in the morning, and already I can envision all the mornings for the next seven years that I'll be dragging him out of bed by his feet. (I can still hear my mom's chirping calls to us in middle and high school. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" In the winter when I was in junior high, I'd often fall asleep in front of a space heater and nearly, or sometimes completely, miss my bus. Gosh, I hated junior high.)

Can scarfing down enormous amounts of food be far behind? And as yet, I'm not seeing signs of interest in girls, but I'm sure that isn't too far off. And then I think I'll lose a little piece of him forever.

As much as these are strange times for me, I'm so pleased with how Ben is doing. He does his homework dutifully each night, no complaints. The second week of cross country, my guy was named athlete of the week for demonstrating hard work and leadership. "Ben is our rock star," his coach said at open house last night. "He works so hard."

Ben's English teacher praised him for how much he participates in class, saying he was a leader to the other kids. I burst with pride at how well he is turning out. We're beginning to see the benefits of many years spent shaping Ben into a person of character.

I knew this would be a transition year for us, and truly everything feels different. Ben leaves a full hour before I drive Paul to school. With cross country practice after school, piano on Tuesdays, faith formation on Wednesdays, soccer a couple nights a week, I feel like I don't get to see my oldest very often. I miss him. And this will be life from here on out, I suspect.

Harry Chapin was on to something with that whole Cats in the Cradle thing. I spent years desperately trying to carve out a little bit of time to myself, and now well ... "When you comin' home son
I don't know when, but we'll get together then, [Mom], We're gonna have a good time then."

Reply hazy, try again later

Ben has come home from sixth grade each day this week proclaiming the awesomeness of middle school. Paul? He loves second grade, especially his teacher, Mrs. Burns, who "never yells." (She's one up on Mommy there.) Gus digs 4K, and his favorite is recess, just as it should be.

Everyone is doing great but me. I feel utterly adrift. I didn't see this coming. I've waited nearly eight years for this, right? Three hours a day of uninterrupted time to myself. Now that the time has arrived it feels ... weird.

The house seems unnaturally quiet. On Thursday, after sitting at home and listening to the sounds of silence for two and a half hours, I finally grabbed my book and headed to school early to sit in the car and wait for Paul and Gus to be finished.

A fellow 4K mom stood swaying her sleeping toddler son tethered to her in a carrier. I felt envious. You spend years with a child jabbering constantly in the back seat of the car. Maybe you wish for just a little bit of peace and quiet. The day to day wears you down, all that buckling and unbuckling, in and out of the car with your young one. Then suddenly that time in your life comes to a close, and it's a little devastating.
 

Yes, Gus still is with me half the day, but really, this feels like the beginning of the end. I know all too well, after all, how quickly a school year passes. Best not be blasé about having plenty of time left.

I've been at this stay-at-home mom gig for so long, I'm suffering a bit of an identity crisis. Who am I without a kid with me all day? It's unsettling because when I peer into the Magic 8 Ball of my future, I see ... nothing.

It's perfectly honorable, of course, to remain a stay-at-home mom when all of one's kids are in school full-time. Lord knows there's plenty to do. I never really saw that for myself, though. My family will always be my No. 1 priority, but I want to do something more, even if it's just a little something. But what?

My plan has long been that I'd take my extra time this year and explore my options. I look at every opportunity, each help wanted sign. Would I be happy doing before and after school care for the Y, working part-time in a coffee shop? Freelance writing, work-from-home jobs, I've considered it all. I've been out of the game so long that it all feels foreign to me.

I've thought about going back to school. Culinary school. I'm passionate about cooking. Or maybe I'd like to become a paralegal. But I already have a degree. Do I really have the focus for that right now, and do I want to put my family in debt? This is the inner dialog of my days.

I have a hard time being at peace with uncertainty. Since that's all I've got right now, though, all I can do is appreciate that I have this time to search and try to enjoy the journey. Maybe shed a few tears for time that has passed too quickly. Wish me well.

Summer's swan song

As my friend's son was preparing to leave for his freshman year in college this past week, I commented to my friend that I supposed the only way to get through her sorrow was to focus on what an exciting time this will be for her son. Easy for me to say. When my time comes, I suspect I will spend the weeks before and after my sons' departures ugly-crying locked in my room. Maybe my advice holds some truth, though, so I'm trying to focus on that as I prepare for the upcoming school-time transitions.

Beginnings and endings, they always get me. I have such mixed feelings about this time of year. Though all conventional wisdom tells me summer is supposed to be carefree, the season can be challenging and overwhelming for me. For the boys, I try to find that perfect balance between scheduled and free to just be. I inevitably fail, often either feeling crazily over-scheduled or sitting there with wide expanses of time wondering how I could possibly fill them.

It's hard to keep constructively occupied three little dudes with different interests. This one wants to go to the nature center, while another turns up his nose at the idea, and the third says he wants to come along but when we arrive and have walked approximately 100 steps, he can't possibly go any farther. A lot of days are some variation of that.

Complaining aside, though, I like having all three boys home with me, or at least the idea of it. It makes me happy knowing I can see their smiling, naughty faces whenever I want. It seems that this time of year I can't shake the feeling that somehow I've failed at summer. I haven't been the least bit carefree.

The fact that Mother Nature has dealt us this final blast of heat has helped me through my uncertain feelings. I heard on NPR recently that violent crimes spike when temperatures climb. While I am confident that I won't be committing any crimes, this weather certainly does make me ever so slightly deranged and irritable. My heart may be saying I don't want to see the boys go back to school, but my head knows it's time. Besides, this place is a mess, and I need to whip it into shape. 

I took Ben to his middle school last week to scope out his locker, try his combination, walk his schedule. We rode our bikes so he will feel confident riding to school if he so chooses. By the end, he was pretty excited, and I was happy for him. This was a first. I'd been feeling the tiniest bit apprehensive. Today I dropped my oldest at his first cross country practice. This is just the first of many new opportunities he'll get to experience in the coming months. He is ready for this.

Paul has grown so amazingly much over his school career. I know he will be happy to go back to his friends. I'm certain that 4K will bring all kinds of surprises for Gus and for us. 

Fall is my favorite season. I love the weather, the changing colors, the getting back to some semblance of structure and organization. Ultimately, I feel happy and hopeful. I just need to get past this little bit of malaise.

I will remember: this an exciting time for my boys. I will try to hold that thought in my head as next week I watch each son take one more tiny step away from me.

Summer's end brings a storm of emotion

It was one of those days that had turned into one of those nights. Sometimes when it's like this, I have a hard time telling if it's the boys or me or both who's in a difficult place, but either way, it was a rough one.

I'd spent the better part of three hours in the morning driving Paul and Gus around the Fox Valley for various lessons, so by lunchtime, I was already pooped.

In the afternoon, my sons fell into their routines of annoying one another - and me. Ben is a master at getting under Paul's skin, and Paul gives him just the reaction he wants, screeching exasperatedly. "Beeen!" And Gus, well, he just goes around acting like his crazy self, and that's enough.

When the boys get bored, they start to play what Mark and I like to call grab-ass. They get all over each other, wrestling around, sitting on top of one another. It doesn't seem to bother them - in fact they seem to enjoy it - but I can't stand it. "The boys are playing G-A again," I'll sigh to Mark. It was that kind of a day.

We were finishing dinner and I told the boys that we needed to go to Rogan's to get shoes for my cousin's wedding. You know how boys love to shoe shop, especially when it's dressy shoes! So you can guess how that went over.

I had also mentioned that the basement was getting a little messy again and suggested that they may want to tidy up sometime soon before it got out-of-control messy, which is wont to happen. Mark started cleaning the kitchen and dispatched the boys to the basement to clean.

Ben immediately began bossing around his brothers and was unhappy that we called him on it. When we told them it was time to go to the store, Ben was fuming.

I must interject here with a story. When I was growing up, my mom would go on these tirades when I called her "she" or "her." Cocky shite that I was, I pretended I didn't understand why it got her so worked up, but of course I did. I'd be complaining to my dad about something my mom had said or done and talking about my mom in front of her like she wasn't even there. To this day, I think twice about referring to my mom with a pronoun.

Of course, divine justice intervened, and Ben gave me a dose of my own medicine last night. To Mark: "She told me I had to clean the basement, and now she's telling me I have to go to the store!" Suffice it to say, I understood my mom better than ever.

On the way to the store, we had a fruitless discussion about respect with Ben. It left all parties in a foul mood. Once at the store, things weren't terrible except Gus running around like he owned the place. "Look at my new shoes!" he gleefully shouted to a teen-age employee. It would have been amusing, but I was in no mood.

By the time we got home, it was nearly 8 p.m., and we still had to get through the whole bedtime routine. Ben chose that time to start in on Paul, and I chose that time to have a meltdown that involved screaming and a slammed door.

After very briefly feeling vindicated and righteous, I felt regretful and sheepish. We got Paul and Gus off to sleep, and I indulged in a long, cleansing sob. By the time I was through, I felt wrung out, utterly exhausted, like I'd purged myself of all my emotions.

While I'm sure I surprised the boys with my outburst, I shocked myself a little, too. Yes, it was a hard day, but I didn't see myself heading for the cliff. Today, more clear-headed, I think it was the culmination of one hard summer. I tell myself every June that I'll do better, but the truth is it's just challenging to have the four of us spend so much time together.

I'm pretty private about matters of religion, but as a person of faith, I loved this passage in a book I'm reading, Carry on, Warrior, Thoughts on Life Unarmed by Glennon Doyle Melton: "I like to compare God to the sunrise. That sun shows up every morning, no matter how bad you've been the night before. It shines without judgment. It never withholds."

I woke up this morning to the sun shining and felt grateful to have yet another chance to get it right. I offered apologies to the boys, and things are back to normal in every way, complete with bickering and even grab-ass.

I don't know if you've ever paid attention to the quote at the top of my blog, a line from the lyrics of the Avett Brothers song, "Living of Love." "When the days aren't easy and the nights are rough, when they ask you what you're thinking of, say love, say for me love."

Those words mean so much to me because they encapsulate my greatest wish. I try to be a good mom, but occasionally I behave badly. In spite of that, I hope that, in the end, all that shines through to the boys is how very much I love them.

Please practice (being someone you're not)

Summer school came to a close last Thursday, and with it came Gus's progress report. When it comes to my youngest, I view these assessments with a little trepidation because I know they're bound to bring me some angst.

Gus participated in the early learners class. This was his second go-around. With his mid-August birthday and his, shall we say, maturity deficit, Mark and I had been gathering information to try to determine the best course for Gus. He did early learners as a 3-year-old last summer, and we enrolled him in three-day-a-week preschool last fall, seeking structure and looking for help in deciding whether to hold Gus back a year. Ultimately, we decided to do just that.

This summer, Gus had the same teacher as last. The first day that I picked him up, his teacher told me that my guy had made such progress between this year and last. It was like night and day, she said. Hurray for preschool! I was feeling good, optimistic.

When I looked at his report card this year, Big G had definitely improved over last. His fine motor skills have come a long way. He no longer mixes up pink and purple. He's articulate, expressing needs and wants clearly, though that was never an issue.

I must say, though, I was a little crestfallen to see that Gus still received "P" marks - for "please practice" - in the areas of listening to adult instruction and attending to tasks like listening to stories. I shouldn't be surprised. These have always been a struggle for G, but I keep holding out hope that this will magically improve for him.

This is new territory for me. Ben and Paul have sailed through school with next to no behavior issues. Sure, they may need a reminder from time to time to stop chatting or get back to work, but mostly I think they're pretty easy kids to have in class. As a major rule follower myself, it's always mildly mortifying to me when Gus can't seem to follow instructions.

When I volunteered in Paul's class this past year, a couple of boys perpetually had difficulty following the rules. One, in particular, often had to take his work and sit in the hall. Paul's teacher sometimes would take away recess time, often telling the boy that she would need to write another note home to his parents, sending him into a talespin.

Watching the situation in Paul's class unfold, I couldn't help but worry: what if Gus turns out that way? Kids need consequences. I know that and don't take issue with it. Yet it pains me to imagine Gus on the receiving end of this. I'm speculating wildly here, but it's hard to resist falling into that.

Thinking about the situation, I kept coming back to the idea that this simply is how Gus was made, and I've found it really difficult to change that. I wish I knew how to please practice getting him to be a better listener, but I don't. I try to be consistent, to keep structure in his life, but beyond that, I'm at a loss. Before Gus, I didn't give much thought to kids like him. In fact, I probably was a little judgmental. Believe me, I understand now.

A couple months ago, I listened to a public radio program about kids with ADHD. Gus, as far as I know, doesn't have that condition, but as my doctor told me, there's a continuum of normal behaviors for kids. Gus undoubtedly struggles with impulse control.

Anyway, the expert on the program I heard talked about kids with ADHD as square pegs in round holes. I see Gus as that. I think the next few years will bring some difficulties for him. I've heard time and again that kindergarten and the early years of elementary school are more suited to a girl's nature, that they have an easier time handling the expectations of focusing and sitting quietly.

Observing Gus at rug time in preschool this past year, I could just see his attention begin to take a nosedive. He'd be fine at the beginning, but the longer we sat, the antsier he got. He wants, needs to be active, not sitting. But of course a lot of school requires just that.

I'm trying to prepare myself emotionally for some struggles ahead. It's hard not to take it personally, to resist being defensive of your child. With practice and consistency, I hope that the demands of school will become easier for Gus. In the long run, though, I'm confident that Gus's exuberance will serve him well, that my square peg will find his place in the world.

Remembering Grandpa's cabin

As I was going for my morning run in today's sickening heat, something about the terrain I crossed triggered a memory of what it was like when we used to vacation at my grandpa's cabin. And just like that I was awash in nostalgia.

My Grandpa Ceman was part owner of a cabin in Drummond, WI, in the northernmost part of the state. From the time I was very young, my family took its annual summer vacation in Drummond. I'm sure that when I was 4 or 5 or so, I loved the place. However, all I can really remember is hating it.

I didn't hate the experience, of course, being with my family (though maybe sometimes I did). No, the actual place, it disgusted me. The cabin was red. The lone shower in the lone bathroom (minus the outhouse, of course) was red, too. It was covered in rust and was creepier than any Bates Motel shower. Only iron-tinged water ran through the pipes there, so the bathroom had that distinct aroma.

The place, at large, smelled of mildew. Dampness embedded deeply each bunk bed and all the furniture. The rampant moldiness sent my childhood asthma into overdrive many a summer.

I have a hard time pinpointing what got to me most. My grandpa and his friends (and his friends' families, etc.) used the place from time to time, of course. To this day, I still have neuroses about using things that aren't mine.  "Is that a cabin spoon?" is a running joke that my family still has when we vacation together. I'm a home body at heart and soon begin to long for my own space no matter where I am.

Back in the good old days, Mom and Dad would pack one of our perpetually breaking-down vehicles to the gills, and we'd make the six-hour trek to Drummond, always stopping at the Dairy Queen Brazier in Tomahawk to eat. We used car-top carriers to haul all our stuff. We lost my favorite Wonder Woman sleeping bag on one trip when it rolled off the top of the car. One of our cars was a giant Buick station wagon. It had a rear-facing seat. We called it the way back and fought over who got to sit there.

My parents invited various family friends to stay with us. Some of those people, whom we know only tangentially now, I wonder, why on earth did they invite them? Mostly, though, we spent time there with our dearest family friends, the Hammers, as well as friends of my brothers and me.

My best friend, Crystal, and I spent many a summer day there. Here we are, at left. I don't think Crystal was as prissy as I was, but in a show of solidarity, she, like me, decided to forgo showering for most the days we spent there, instead taking our inner tubes and a bar of soap out to Lake Drummond, just down the path from the cabin. Sorry, environment!

My brothers and I feasted on junk food and swilled cans of Jolly Good soda in flavors like grape, fruit punch and pina colada, blissfully unaware of the evils of high-fructose corn syrup and artificial colors. We didn't have a lot of money growing up. At home, my mom usually bought glass bottles of Springtime Soda, the kind that we'd drink and bring the empties back to the grocery store. Drinking our own cans of soda was a big treat.

Stargazing was second to none at the cabin. With virtually no light pollution, we could sit in our lawn chairs around the fire and take in the night sky in all its glory, intermittently playing silly games like telephone.

My parents brought us on all kinds of great adventures when we were there. We'd visit places of natural beauty like Amnicon Falls or Copper Falls. As something special, we might drive to Bayfield and take the ferry across to Madeline Island. Sometimes we'd go to Hayward and eat fudge or trek to Duluth to look at the giant ships. And, of course, I spent a lot of time bellyaching about the many hikes we took.

I'm sorry to say, I spent a lot of time complaining away my time in Drummond. As I headed into my teen years, this only grew worse. I took my boys to Sunset Beach in Kimberly yesterday and was dumbstruck to realize that it was 21 years ago - more than half my lifetime - that I fell in love for the first time at 15 years old at that very beach. Yes, I was that teenage girl who was perpetually falling in and out of love.

The guy was Raimon, an exchange student visiting from Barcelona. Raimon was staying with our friends, the Hammers. My family went to Drummond that summer, without the Hammers, and I was heartbroken and angry to spend precious time away from Raimon. This is a picture of my family with Carlos, our exchange student and now a lifelong friend, on the last day of our trip. Look how happy I am! How happy we all are, really.

A few years before my grandpa died in 2001, he sold his share of the cabin. The buyer renovated the place. It was quite the transformation, but I must say, it's that old ramshackle red cabin that holds a special place in my heart. My family stayed there a few times since then, but we've long since found other vacation locales. It's been a good 14 or 15 years since I've been there.

On days like today, I still feel pangs, missing the halcyon times we spent in Drummond, many days that I squandered.

Truth be told, I haven't changed a lot since then. I still love my creature comforts, and if you plunked me back down in that old cabin, I might well long for my home after a few days. My parents, however, have instilled a love of nature in me. Hiking is one of my favorite pastimes now, and I feel most at peace walking through the woods. My parents, in fact, who didn't have much, gave us so many rich experiences.

Each summer, we take a summer vacation with my side of the family. We're forgoing it this year in favor of a trip Mark and the boys and I will take with my parents to Orlando in November. I'm feeling wistful about skipping summer vacation.

I've always been lukewarm about camping, but for my boys, I'm going to make a point of having us get out there more. I want to give the boys the same gift my parents gave me.

I'm thankful for the many weeks we spent in Drummond. Those memories will stay with me always, crystalline, perfect in their imperfection.

The bad parenting habit I wish I could break

My middle child is a sensitive soul. At 7, Paul still loves to crawl into my lap and hear a story. He is artistic and thoughtful. Paulie loves animals, especially birds. When I told him he should become an ornithologist, he said, no, that his job simply would be to take care of baby birds.

On the flip side, Paul is the only one of my boys who ever minded when I left him someplace, and boy did he mind. He would throw grand tantrums when I dropped him off at preschool. I'm not talking a few tears. I mean he would follow me, howling, grabbing onto me in an effort to prevent my departure. I think I'm still scarred from those memories. Even dropping him off on the first day of summer school this year, Paul was a little weepy. Yes, he takes a bit to warm up, but he's a loyal and attentive friend.

I suppose it's fitting, then, that Paul is the one who is most sensitive to my yelling. Ben just kind of rolls his eyes when I raise my voice or gets angry right back, Gus seems oblivious most of the time (though of late he's been parroting his brothers - "OK, OK, you don't have to yell!"), but Paul takes it personally.

Paul and Gus's summer school classes start at 7:45, and though that's just 30 minutes earlier than the normal school day, it's really hard to get out the door on time. It seems that it's always a mad rush. The other morning, I was trying to guide Gus into putting on his own shoes. Paul started laughing at his brother and distracting him. "Paul! Stop it!" I roared.

Instantly, my boy looked wounded. On the way into school, I apologized to Paul for yelling. "That's OK, I forgive you," he said sweetly. When I get it wrong, I always take the opportunity to explain to the boys and say I'm sorry. Thank God for forgiveness.

It seems that even when I think I'm in control of my emotions, Paul can pick up on my irritation. We were trying to leave the house to eat supper at my parents' last week. I had asked the boys to put their shoes on (we have a lot of battles over shoes in this house, I notice) and they'd ignored me. Ben did something to Paul, and he got hurt. Paul was whimpering, still shoeless. I don't even recall what it was, but I was not feeling too sympathetic.

"Paul. Put on your shoes, and get in the car," I intoned.

"You're talking to me in an angry voice!" he sobbed.

I wasn't. I was taking great pains not to shout. But he's so attuned, I guess he can even pick up on it when I'm being passive aggressive. Man, I can't get away with anything.

The summer can be a challenging time around here. Togetherness breeds bickering, and I spend a lot of time resolving disputes. I'm perpetually reminding the boys to shut the door. It's a stupid thing to get worked up about, but yet it makes me tense every day.

The boys love to play in our sandbox. On Tuesday, Paul and Gus came into the house caked in the stuff up to their knees. Immediately before that, Gus had tried to clean himself off using the hose. It was spraying full-blast, and he couldn't control it and kept accidentally spraying himself in the face and aiming it at the screen door. I couldn't even get to him for fear that I'd be doused. I suppose it would have been if I hadn't been so livid. Here's what the tub looked like after Paul and Gus's midday bath.

Yelling is a terrible parenting habit, and I'm ashamed to say that I do it too often. I suppose it's mostly borne of simple frustration. Also, I probably resort to shouting to make myself heard over the voices of three boisterous kids. Either way, I hate that I do it but have a hard time stopping.

I have a whole collection of books that I mean to read but never get around to cracking: a tome on the purpose of boys, various self-help titles. Do you think if I put my Scream-Free Parenting book on my nightstand that I'll absorb its contents by osmosis? I have lots of books situated there, and unfortunately that magic hasn't happened for me yet.

Until I get around to finding a solution that works for me, I guess I'll just keep renewing my daily pledge to myself to stop the shouting, not to mention seeking a lot of forgiveness. Needless to say, this is important to me. When the boys look back on their childhood, I want them to remember a mom who was calm and loving, not one who was on edge all the time.

So what do you think? Got any keep-your-cool strategies for me?

Sometimes success requires a little push

It dawned me that I've been writing about Ben a lot recently. He sure has been schooling me about what it's like to be the parent of a tween. So here we go again.

As I wrote earlier, this summer, Ben made the switch from baseball to soccer. He plays on the recreational league for the Menasha Area Soccer Club. While Ben, in my not-so-objective opinion, is a strong player and athlete in general, his team has struggled mightily this season. In the team's best game, they tied. On a good day, they may lose 7-1. On a bad day? They lose 15-0 and the opposing team undeniably begins to take mercy on our poor kids. The cheering dies down for the other team's many goals, and the parents and coaches start to laud every little good thing our team does. 

It's been a tough season. It's difficult for the kids, who seem to grow ever more beaten down with every goal scored on them. And it's challenging for the parents, who if they're like me, don't need to see wins. We just want to see our kids having fun and making progress, but a lot of times, they just look dejected.

This is the place from which we were operating when I received an email that tryouts for competitive league were upcoming. "Do you want to do this, Ben?" I asked the day before the tryouts.

"Yeah, I'll do it," he said, sounding enthusiastic, hopeful.

Friday, the day of the tryouts, rolled around, and Ben began to hedge. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure he wanted to go through with it. 

Ben has been burned before. Last year, he tried out for the tournament team for baseball. He didn't make it, but the coaches didn't even inform us of that. They just carried on without so much as a word. Then there was basketball. Ben was a newcomer when he joined last fall. He did his best, but it turned out that it just wasn't for him. It was a long season, and the experience was making him miserable. We ended up deciding, with Ben, to have him quit the team mid-season.

So Ben's already-shaky confidence has been wounded. Despite that, I don't want to see Ben making decisions just because he might fail. I see my oldest as someone who thrives on competition and activity. I saw a boy who wanted to do something but was letting fear stand in his way.

Mark and I set in trying to persuade him to change his mind. "Ben," I said, "if you think you'd like to play soccer later in life, like in high school, I think this is an opportunity you shouldn't pass up."

Ben is absolutely brilliant at twisting my words. This feature must come standard with kids his age. "Mom said that I'll never play soccer in high school if I don't do this!" he wailed a little later in our conversation.

Our boy clearly was in a lot of angst, and it anguishes me when he looks all tortured. And yet, Mark and I really believed this experience of trying out - even if he didn't make it - would be valuable for him. 

The boys were scheduled to stay at my parents' Friday night so we could go out for Mark's birthday. Ben finally came around and agreed to go to the tryout, and we made a stop to watch and offer support after dinner.

Ben did great. His skill level definitely matched that of the other boys there. Mark chatted with the coach afterward, and it quickly became clear that Ben had made the team, that the only formality was figuring out the correct team on which to place him. The enormous grin that spread across Ben's face upon hearing the news erased every bit of "pain and torture" we'd inflicted on him earlier. 

Ben may not be able to understand until he's an adult that all of these life experiences - the successes and, maybe even more importantly, the failures - help create us. That's why I'm going to keep trying to nudge him toward these trials, even though some turn out to be painful.

This is hard, deciding the right way to steer Ben. No pressure, though, right? We're only helping him become the person he's meant to be.

Friendly persuasion

I can't help but marvel at how the tables have turned. As few as two years ago, I didn't worry a bit about Ben's social life. Paul, on the other hand, I had big concerns. Both years he spent in preschool, he didn't really bond with the other kids. He came away without a single solid friendship. I was really concerned for Paul going into kindergarten.

Fast forward to today, and everything is the opposite. Paul has friends aplenty. He's got a best buddy, and he establishes new relationships with ease. He has no fear of calling up someone and asking to play. Now, Ben, I'm a little concerned.

By all indications, Ben does fine socially in school. He hangs with a group of boys at lunch and recess. A sports lover, my oldest seems to gravitate toward the jocks, a crowd of boys destined for a popularity that I don't see Ben reaching. But I digress. Figuring out that stuff is all part of growing up.

I have no desire for Ben to be popular. On the contrary. I was no popularity queen when I was Ben's age (quite the opposite, to tell the truth), so I take a dim view of that whole game. No, all I want is for Ben to have at least a small group of close friends, but that seems to be a struggle for him.

Kids from Ben's class don't call, and he doesn't call them either. Rarely if ever does he have people over to the house or go anywhere. For Mark and me, this is tough. In high school, Mark was shy and rarely did anything with his peers. He regrets that, and it's hard for him to see our son on the same path.

More often than not, we turn to nagging. "Ben, why don't you call Kobe?" "Go and see if the neighbor can play!" Sometimes we go so far as compelling him to call two or three people. This goes about as well as you'd expect, and we feel powerless to help.

The other day, we were at Paul's soccer game, and one of Ben's classmates was there. "Look Ben, it's Mac!" I said. "Why don't you go over and say hi?" I coaxed, knowing full well that he wouldn't.

When Mac walked by a little later, I tried again, prompting Ben to say hello. He waved weakly and mumbled. "Oh, guess he didn't see me," he said. When his classmate came past a final time, instead of saying hi, Ben got a sudden and curious urge to cheer for Paul vociferously. Yeah, I wasn't buying it.

It's such a tricky situation. Ben is an introvert, no doubt. He's happy reading books two or three hours a day. That's great, but both Mark and I worry that now is the time when he really needs to make connections with his peers. We fear that if he doesn't put himself out there now, he may be left behind.

I've been reading the book, The Purpose of Boys. In it, the author notes that boys tend to bond over activities. They're more comfortable chatting while throwing a ball back and forth than having a deep conversation.

In the end, it's not up to Mark or me. At 10, Ben's well past the age of us setting up play dates for him. We'll have to trust him to make his own choices. I'll keep the bit of knowledge from the book in mind, though, and try to work my influence subtly. Ben does like activities, so we'll encourage him to pursue those, and hope that he'll foster some friendships along the way.

For all of the aforementioned reasons, I'm so relieved that my boys all have one another. They bicker plenty, but as Paul is fond of saying, they're best buddies. And that is a lot.

Reflections on an elementary school career

Kindergarten

First grade

Third grade

Fourth grade

"It's my last full day of elementary school!" he said gleefully, a broad smile playing across his tan face, as he exited the minivan yesterday. My heart seized a little bit when he said this. It's not as if this hadn't resonated with me already. Ben's declaration was just my latest reminder.

Fifth grade

Whether I've been fretting over the looming middle school years or trying to process the realities that my son might face as he gets older, this transition has taken up a lot of my mind space in the past few months. Much of what I'm feeling is a wonderment at how quickly the years have passed, and I don't know if it's the state of the last several years or just time's funny tricks. Granted, we didn't anticipate Ben spending one less year in elementary school.

Ben's first day of kindergarten was a scant two weeks after Gus was born, and I was still such an emotional mess on that first day of school. Gus was not an easy baby or, for that matter, an easy toddler. He was colicky, and then once he became mobile, he was a bigger handful than ever. Things really didn't get easier until he turned 4. I can safely say that I spent most of kindergarten, first and third grades in a haze of stress. In the intervening years, we've sent Paul to school and Gus to preschool, and I'm scratching my head trying to figure out how it's been nearly five years since we started this adventure.

I'll try not to bemoan this, because every parent knows of what I describe. Instead, I'll take a short walk down memory lane. I'm so thankful to our school and to each of Ben's teachers. Class sizes have only grown since Ben enrolled, but every one of his teachers has taken the time and effort to look out for our boy and his needs. In the past five years, Ben has learned a dizzying amount, and it's been so gratifying to watch.

I often feel wistful for the time that has passed. There's no way around it. The process of kids growing is irrevocably painful, but it's exciting, too. How amazing is it that Mark and I can have real, nearly adult conversations with our son now?

I will steal a bit from the series finale of "The Office," and I'll do it badly, because I don't remember the exact words Andy Bernard spoke. It was something along the lines of not knowing you're in the best time of your life until it comes to an end. We're in that best time right now, the halcyon days. So let's stay right here, cause these are the good old days.

A piece of advice: be your child's advocate

When Mark and I were going through the process of deciding whether to accelerate Ben from first to third grade, the teachers and principal helping us left us with one big message. No matter what you choose to do, you need to be an advocate for your child. Three years later, we're still following that advice, and this past week we've had to put it to the test.

Ben has been receiving gifted-talented services since first grade. Last Wednesday, we received a letter telling us that he no longer qualified. The reason for the decision is a little long and hard to explain. I will try to make a long story short. While Ben's scored extremely well on the MAPS, an academic test the districts uses, and the gifted-talented assessment, his WKCE (state standardized test) scores did not hold up as well when compared to scores across the nation. For that reason, the district decided to remove him from the G-T roster for next fall.

We had spent years working with teachers to get Ben's needs met. A team from Ben's school helped us make the decision to advance Ben to third grade. I know Menasha faces many challenges as a district, but I felt confident in its teachers and administrators. As I read the letter, I felt stunned, like the district had suddenly and unceremoniously abandoned Ben. 

In the days that followed, as the news sunk in, our anger and bafflement only grew. We know Ben is gifted, and his classroom teacher was just as surprised as we were when we approached her with the news. All along, we've had teachers telling us that it's hard for them to meet Ben's needs, and suddenly the one thing that had helped keep Ben on the radar was being taken away.

The frustration that we felt is what so many parents feel, I'm sure. When making important decisions about a child's education, it's vital to look at all the aspects of that individual. It's not right to reduce him or her to a number, a score. And that is exactly what we felt was happening. Every other bit of evidence pointed to Ben needing these services, but one piece excluded him, and that was it.

We had a phone conversation and then a face-t0-face meeting with the district's G-T coordinator. He was sympathetic but steadfast in his refusal to reconsider, arguing that changing the standards for Ben would "open the floodgates," forcing the district to re-examine every child whose parents received a letter (hmmm ... not a bad idea, now that you mention it). "Do I think Ben is gifted? Yes," he said, only adding to our consternation.

When we pressed the coordinator, we learned that a handful of kids were in Ben's same situation (not exactly a flood of kids) with high scores on the two tests and lower on the WKCE. Something did not seem right about that. We knew that the bar was set higher for the WKCE this past fall. Kids may have performed similarly to the previous year, but their scores may have been lower because of the new standards. Perhaps, we thought, this wasn't the best year to make decisions about taking kids out of G-T based on that test.

It didn't take long for us to decide to take our grievance to the next level of administration, the director of curriculum. We had a meeting this morning and went in ready for a fight. Mark had a speech all prepared, stating explicitly that we wanted Ben placed back in G-T.

Mark began to talk. When he reached the point at which he described accelerating Ben, the director stopped us. "What? Did you say Ben was accelerated?" 

Aha. She didn't have the whole picture. This was my point. Each child who was cut from the program deserved a close and thorough look. In the end, I don't think the missing information was even the deciding factor, but it didn't take long for the director to tell us that Ben had been reinstated into the program. 

The news came so quickly, it was almost like a TV show or movie, where the person doesn't hear the good news and just keeps arguing. Say what? Mark didn't even get to finish his speech! I practically broke down in tears of relief, so stressed had I been for the past week.

I don't want to blame the district, and I don't harbor any ill will (or much, anyway). But I do know that bit of long-ago advice came in handy. We advocated for Ben, and it worked. We got him what we felt he needed. It wasn't easy. I'm not comfortable being pushy, but it was so worth it.

Your situations may not be exactly like ours. Paul falls somewhere more in the middle of the pack. Gus has a whole set of different issues (we may well need to advocate for him in completely different ways). In a time when school districts are stressed to the max, we as parents really need to step up to make sure our kids' needs are being met.

I share my story in hopes that it might help you. Fight. Fight for your kids.