Holiday hangover

In our earlier, more ambitious years of parenting, Mark and I amassed and wrapped a children's Christmas book for Ben to open each night of Advent. We quickly became lazy and stopped wrapping and instead put the book in a gift bag. One bag featured a picture of a snowman, and somehow a lore developed that the "Magic Snowman" delivered books at night. These days, the Magic Snowman leaves the books on Gus's bed completely unadorned.

The signs of Christmas meltdown are all over Gus's face

A few years ago, Gus went through a "Llama Llama" phase. It's a charming series of children's books that features Llama Llama, who's decidedly kid-like in that he's sweet but has his share of transgressions. His Llama Mama wears cute capri pants and remains mostly patient through Little Llama Llama's little dramas.

Llama Llama Holiday Drama appeared on Gus's pillow a week or two ago. Little Llama Llama bakes
cookies, makes presents, wraps gifts and in general is told he must wait, wait, wait for Christmas. This leads to an inevitable meltdown. "All this waiting for one day? Time for presents right away! Too much music, too much fluff! Too much making, too much stuff! Too much everything for Llama ..."

I can relate to poor Llama Llama, and there's no doubt my kids can. In these weeks leading up to Christmas, I've swung between feeling excited and drained. I must admit to Grinchishly asking myself once in a while if it could really be Christmastime already and must we be called to go all out like this on an annual basis.

Everyone in the house is nursing a festive cold. Paul has been hacking painfully for two weeks now. As he and Gus and I trudged through Target the other day, Paul broke into his umpteenth spastic coughing fit. "OK, enough, Paul!" I whined stupidly, cruelly.

It's not that I don't like Christmas. I do. I love it, in fact. It's just that my favorite parts of the holiday - sharing special times with my family and drawing near to the ones I hold dearest, just seems to get lost in all the frantic preparations. Too much fluff, too much stuff, stretched too thin.

As we gathered at my in-laws' house Saturday for the first of many Christmas celebrations my family will attend, I saw many signs of holiday hangover, and the big dance hasn't even happened yet. "I'm just not feeling Christmas this year," one sister-in-law lamented.

Gus hurled toward meltdown as the wait to open gifts stretched on and on. When it finally arrived, he excitedly went tripping through the packages, threatening to upend gift bags and stomp on boxes. "Be careful, Gus!" a relative admonished. I felt slightly wounded on his behalf. I can remember being little, and I can understand how hard it is to have prettily wrapped gifts bearing your name laid out before you only to hear wait, wait, wait.

After the presents were opened, I found Ben lying on his stomach, his face smashed into the couch. He looked utterly bereft. "Feeling exhausted?" I asked, rubbing his back.

"Yeah, it just wasn't what I'd pictured," Ben sighed. 

I could relate to it all: my sister-in-law's holiday apathy, Gus's restlessness, the relative who was concerned about him making a mess of so much work, Ben's lack of fulfillment. Christmas already? I can't wait to give the boys their presents. Hey, slow down, guys! Is it over already? 

In no time, it will be over. While there's still time, though, I'm going to focus on my favorite parts of Christmas. I'll snuggle with Gus and read a book the Magic Snowman has delivered, share my favorite movies with the boys, try to commit a few random acts of kindness, blast Christmas music and eat way too many cookies. 

Presents are fun, but my family and friends are my favorite gift, and as long as I have them, I'll survive this holiday hangover.

Careful what you wish for

It wasn't so long ago that Ben's social life - or lack thereof - was high on my list of worries. For a time, Mark and I used to beg, plead and, on and occasion or two, bribe Ben to put himself out there socially. As the saying goes, watch what you wish for because you just might get it.

Once the boy who was seemingly content to spend his hours reading, hanging out with the family or playing video games on his own, our oldest son's social life has found its wings. And now, of course, I'm wishing things were a little more like they used to be.

On a recent weekend, Ben went on a middle school bus trip to Folk Fair, an ethnic festival in Milwaukee. He was gone all day Saturday, and when I picked him up in the turnaround of his school parking lot, in some ways it was like I'd retrieved an entirely new boy.

Ben had spent the day with a friend, eating a Filipino combo plate (and many churros). It's the kind of thing that he'd never try if I were there, but he clearly enjoyed this bit of freedom. In the car, he handed me a bracelet he'd bought for me. He'd also purchased small gifts for his dad and brothers. Who was this kid?

Once home, Ben promptly received a text from our neighbor and his best friend, Ben, and he was gone. That night, he asked if his friend, Austin, could spend the night. I agreed, having a hard time wrapping my head around exactly how we'd gotten to this point.

I relish watching Ben form bonds. I love that he's got a best buddy. The Bens are together most of the time, either here or at the other Ben's house. It makes me smile to see them carry on like brothers and tell their many inside jokes.

Though he's got the faintest hint if a mustache, Ben has yet to undergo his major growth spurt, but his friends certainly have. They come over with their ginormous, man-sized feet and deep voices, and it's hard to believe that these were the little boys who first came to Ben's birthday parties years ago. I remember learning that adolescence is the fastest time of growth aside from babyhood, and that is happening before my eyes.

In a lot of ways, though, the youth of these boys still shines through. Yes, one of Ben's good friends may be old enough to have a kind-of-girlfriend, but that doesn't mean he and Ben are too old to unabashedly tell truly lame jokes in the car while I sit and shake my head, smiling. 

I must admit that part of me feels sad. Ben has begun to seek autonomy, which is natural and good, but it leaves me feeling lonesome for his company and a time that passed all too quickly. He still loves to sit down and watch "Survivor" with Mark and me, but at bedtime where he used to come snuggle in our bed for his reading time before retiring to his own room, he now heads to his room to read solo. For now Ben still wants to be tucked in, but I know it's just a matter of time before he merely accepts good night hugs rather than actually seeking them.

Despite my blues, wish from not so long ago was sincere, and I'm happy it came true. My boy is becoming his own young man and all is right in the world.

The spectacular now

Ever since my daytime nest has become oh-so-noticeably empty, I have been inhabiting a strange place of permanent wistfulness. I've become fixated on the past, longing for a time when my children were small.

I'm living every parent's dream of being able to go to Target or the grocery store nearly anytime I want sans kids. Yet when I go, I don't waltz through the aisles celebrating my freedom. I see the moms and dads with their toddlers in tow, and part of me wishes I were back in that time.

I know I must be delusional because shopping with kids, especially toddlers, beyond sucks. I don't miss the begging for stuff or the tantrums, of course. I miss the presence of my kids, of talking them quietly through our errand (oddly I rarely recount the many threats and ultimatums I made in those years), and the relief of coming home and being finished with it.

I miss my games of Sorry with Gus, putting together a puzzle with him, snuggling on the couch and reading a look-and-find book.

When I drop off the boys at school, my eyes flash toward the 4K entrance to the school and I wish I could have Gus back with me, at least for part of the day like I did last year. This reverie is no good for me. I know this. And yet it's hard to stop it.

On the last day of our recent trip to Boston, we had to check out of our hotel room early. Mark was still in his conference, and I had an hour to kill sitting in the hotel lobby before we would leave for the airport. I'd already finished the one novel I had brought. I figured I'd just play around on my phone, but for some reason I couldn't connect to the internet.

I began to feel a mild panic. God, what am I going to do for a whole hour? See how quickly I've become addicted to the black hole of my smart phone? I knew I was wise to resist for so long. Reluctantly, I picked up the non-fiction book I'd packed, Full Catastrophe Living by Jon Kabat-Zinn. I didn't exactly feel like being enlightened at that moment.

It's a fat tome about mindfulness-based stress reduction. The subject interests me, and I certainly need this in my life, but I know my track record. Most non-fiction books I buy, I dive in with gusto only to abandon them well before finishing. For all I know, that will be the case with this one, too, but as luck would have it I ended up taking away lots of wisdom in that hour.

What I read helped me put into perspective what I've been feeling and really the way I tend to live my life. The author correctly points out that we humans spend most of our time either thinking about the past or the future. Most of us are rarely fully present in the moments of our lives.

I can attest to this. These past few months, I've been doing a lot of living in the past and fretting about the future. I wish my boys were 2 years old again. What will I be doing two years from now?

Mindfulness and meditation require practice and deliberation. I can't say I've fully embraced this, but I wish to incorporate these practices into my life more consistently.

I have been trying to stay more mindful when spending time with my boys. I realize that some of the pain I feel about the passing of the years is directly correlated with the times that I failed to be more present in my children's growing up.

It's not always easy, but it's worth it. I've tried to let the joy of moments wash over me. 

Ben scoring the winning goal at the last game of his soccer tournament. Paul's excitement at planning every detail of his upcoming Minecraft birthday party. Gus hamming it up at the bird show a few weeks ago. My boys are no longer babies or toddlers, but right now is pretty wonderful.

I've had a lot of stress and worry lately with Gus starting medication, and Paul had another seizure over the weekend. I feel the pressure to get everything done for the holidays. I fret about beginning classes and whether I can balance it all and succeed.

Moving forward, I'll keep this passage of the book with me.

"There is an art to facing difficulties in ways that lead to effective solutions and to inner peace and harmony. When we are able to mobilize our inner resources to face our problems artfully, we find we are usually able to orient ourselves in such a way that we can use the pressure of the problem itself to propel us through it, just as a sailor can position a sail to make the best use of the pressure of the wind to propel the boat. You can't sail straight into the wind, and if you only know how to sail with the wind at your back, you will only go where the wind blows you. But if you know how to use the wind's energy and are patient, you can sometimes get where you want to go. You can still be in control."

As we enter this busy season, I hope you and I will take time to be mindful, to live fully in the spectacular (or even not-so-spectacular) now.

The great medicate debate

It was a fun day, a really special day, actually, but as I watched the video my husband had created with footage from our morning at Raptor Day, tears – sad not happy – spilled down my cheeks. It's all too familiar lately, my emotions run so high, I cry without a thought. Something overtakes me and my face just screws up and tears begin to fall.

As is so often the case of late, it all comes back to Gus. After months, actually more like years, of debate and much research, Mark and I have decided to try medication to treat Gus's ADHD.

Every step of the way, I've not so secretly hoped to be talked out of it. When I began to receive reports this year about Gus's difficulties in school, our first stop was our family doctor. Our doctor is pretty conservative when it comes to prescribing. I was sure I could count on him to sway us in

another direction.

Instead, to my surprise, Dr. K. told us about his own daughter's struggles with ADHD and what a help medication was when she finally tried it. The drugs, he told us, are really pretty safe and effective. He gave us some other tools we could try, including a meditation book for kids, but I was left with the message that drugs might not be such a bad option.

I felt better about the idea of giving meds a try, but as is often case with me, my relief didn't last for long. I took to the internet for some ill-advised research, and the waters were muddied again in no time.

The catch-22 of ADHD is that, as a parent, you will be judged no matter what you do. Choose to medicate, and you may be labeled lazy or worse. Maybe choose not to medicate. Nope, you'll still be judged: Why can't you control your kid? I read one particularly scathing screed written by a teacher complaining about parents sending their ADHD kids to school unmedicated. You cannot win.

When we received Gus's diagnosis last year, the clinician told us that medication can really help but gave us little else in the way of resources. For questions, he directed us to a website.

Feeling desperate for help and guidance, I found a local counselor who specializes in ADHD. Her website looked pretty earthy, and she describes her practice as holistic. Surely she would steer us away from medication.

The counselor, who was by far the most helpful resource we found, told us about her son who grew up with ADHD. She asked how we felt about medication. I told the truth: I tell myself I'm open to whatever might help Gus, but every time I think about actually medicating him, I find the idea repugnant.

She told us that she's loathe to take even an aspirin, but when it comes to ADHD, medication is something we really needed to consider, and sooner rather than later. She asserted that we needed to get Gus functioning on a level field with his peers. ADHD that is properly treated can reduce self-esteem problems and other serious issues like depression. She went on to say that since they're used on children, ADHD meds are among the most studied and tested.

After that appointment, Mark and I had decided to try medication and chose a mid-November start date. In the weeks leading up to the day, I was not at peace with our choice. I wavered constantly. I was fine with the idea of starting, but when it came time to imagine actually giving Gus the meds, I felt ill.

We chose Sunday as the first day to trial the medication. Saturday Mark and my parents and I took Paul and Gus to Xtreme Raptor Day in Milwaukee. Paul is a bird lover, and Gus has caught the fever, too.

It was a happy and memorable day, culminating in Gus being chosen to go on stage for this bird trivia contest led by super heroes Capt. Talon and Eagle Eye. Each child was assigned a bird, and the audience had to guess which bird was the correct answer for a series of questions. Gus chose to represent the Harris's hawk.

Gus was in his glory, hamming it up. I watched with my usual mix of joy and trepidation of what he might do. I don't know where he gets it, but Gus is a natural showman. He danced about, gleefully shouted out answers and generally stole the show. A question about which kind of bird was in class by itself perfectly matched Gus himself as well as his bird. That's Gus: in a class by himself. When Gus was one space away from winning, Capt. Talon cracked, "I can't imagine what he'll do if he wins."

Gus did win, and his joy was pure. It was a sweet moment, and it's poignancy hit me hard. The current that runs beneath all that's happening is my fear that if we medicate Gus, we might lose the real him, and I can't bear that thought.

Sunday came, and difficult though it was, we gave Gus his first dose. The day didn't go so well. G seemed subdued at first but then was emotional, just not himself. He seemed agitated, sensitive.

I know it's a process, getting the right dosage and hitting on the right medication. On Monday we sent Gus to school with meds on board, fearing the worst, hoping for the best. By midday I got an email from Gus's teacher: his demeanor was laid-back, and he needed no reminders or redirection. Today, I received another email: "Hi Mom and Dad, I'm a rock star at school today. Love you, Gus."

As we were lying down for bed last night, I asked Gus how the medication made him feel. "I didn't even think about doing a cartwheel," he said. "I only thought about school."

My eyes clouded with tears once again from the relief and stress of it all. We made it through a day. Gus seemed more himself, and the real him certainly wasn't lost.

There's no easy endpoint to this story, no "and everything turned out fine in the end." The road we're traveling isn't straight; its long and winding.

I wish I could say to hell with what other people think, but my skin is thin. Every time I come across information advising against our decision, every time a friend or acquaintance proffers unsolicited advice, it hurts. 

We made a choice that we hope is best. There's no road map to follow with this condition. How I wish there were. I don't know when or even if I'll ever feel at peace with it. Perhaps only in retrospect. 

All we have is the hope that we're moving in the right direction and the knowledge and security that we love and adore our boy and will never stop working for his best interest. 

The Gus-Mom connection

Guilt. Among moms it’s pretty much a universal. Over the years, as the creeping recognition of Gus’s ADHD symptoms began to set in, it took me no time at all to begin asking myself what I might have done to cause them.

I’ve researched enough to know that parenting styles and choices can’t actually cause something like ADHD, so I quickly let that particular worry go. But just as I’d indicted myself with my two miscarriages, I began to question myself. What if it was something I’d eaten or done wrong in my pregnancy that caused this?

Rationally, I know it’s unlikely that anything I did caused Gus’s ADHD, but as I’ve gone about my borderline-obsessive research into the condition, I’ve begun to see links between me and Gus. These connections are the stuff of genes, way beyond my control, but Gus and I, we may not be as different as I’d thought.

It’s early in Gus’s school career of course, but here’s what I see so far. He’s an exceedingly bright boy who has a difficult time controlling his impulses and activity level. He’s joyful, mischievous, the class clown. His teachers and classmates find him magnetic and adorable yet exasperating.

Here’s what I remember of myself. I was shy and quiet, well behaved. All along the way, school was a real struggle for me. I did well in classes that I liked and held my interest: English, history. Classes in which I didn’t have a natural aptitude – math, science – were another story. Math, especially, I didn’t understand, so I simply wrote it off and tuned out.

It wasn’t until fairly recently that I even contemplated that something more might have been up with my school difficulties. I was reading an ADHD book, and the author was describing dreamy girls who can’t seem to focus, and the realization hit: that was me.

Girls like me often go undiagnosed with attention difficulties. I caused no disturbances in class. By all accounts I was “cooperative and courteous.” But certainly I also failed to “work up to my potential.” My achievement unquestionably was borderline but perhaps not alarmingly so.

After cleaning out their files, my parents handed me a stack of old report cards a year or two ago. One from third grade stood out. I felt humiliated and then frustrated as I read through my teacher’s comments. My teacher said I was a really sweet girl but often seemed “confused.” My fifth grade teacher made similar comments. My junior high and high school report cards were more of the same. Feeling the sting of embarrassment, I quickly stuffed the papers into the recycling bin.

All these years later, I sat and wondered, why the hell didn’t anyone notice a pattern and investigate it further? I suppose the answer is that it was a different time. Schools and education today are radically changed from what I remember. Lots of difficulties like mine probably went unaddressed.

Sometimes I wish in vain that things could have been different for me, that my problems could have been recognized and remedied. Looking back, I internalized that I was a lazy student and worse, stupid. Stupid stays with you, and it affects my confidence and the way I feel about myself to this day.  

Of course, things turned out OK for me in the end. It took me until the middle of college to find my stride with school. I suppose you could say I adapted. Initially, finding success took me being able to pursue almost exclusively classes that interested me. That, of course, couldn’t happen until about my junior year in college, when my general ed classes were out of the way.

My first semester at UW-Oshkosh, after transferring from UW-Fox Valley, I began taking mostly journalism and history classes. I achieved a 3.9 grade point average that semester and could have cried from the pride and joy I felt. I had made the dean’s list. It was unthinkable.

That taste of success was potent and sustaining and marked the beginning of a sea change for me. Doing well felt amazing, and I wanted to keep up the momentum. I surprised myself in succeeding in classes like micro and macroeconomics. Though numbers to this day make my brain turn to mush, I put in the work and study time, and the grades naturally followed. I graduated college with a cumulative GPA of 3.2, and that may not sound all that astounding. To me it felt like an unimaginably high achievement.

Anxiety about math dogs me to this day. Next semester I will begin my pursuit of a communications degree at the technical college. I had a mini breakdown last week when I learned that the D-plus I’d earned in my college math class was not sufficiently high to transfer over and earn me credit for the math class required for my degree program.

Honestly, I almost decided to scrap the whole idea based on my hate and fear of math. That D-plus – I worked long and hard to achieve it, sad though that may be. Mark spent hours tutoring me. I could do well enough when he and I worked together, but I’d go to take a test, and everything got all mixed up in my head.

Luckily, my tech school adviser was able to make a switch for me and I’ll be able to take a math with business applications class instead of another dreaded college algebra class. I think I can handle it. And maybe it’s for the best. Perhaps I owe it to myself to overcome math – in some way, at least.

I look at my boys, and I feel profound relief that they seemingly don’t share my arithmetic struggles. From what I can tell so far, all three are natural mathematicians. Ben, with his math scores in the 99^th percentile, is a wonder to me. I don’t understand how this can be so, but I feel staggering gratitude.

All my mistakes and stumbles brought me to where I am today, which is a pretty great place. I wish fervently that Gus didn’t have to face the struggles he does, but I know well the stakes, and that makes me all the more determined to fight for his success.

If Gus ever feels down about his challenges, I can say, boy can I relate. But you can do this. Believe me my dear boy when I say that success that is hard-fought is all the sweeter.

Worth bending over backward

Near the end of yoga class a couple Saturdays ago, our instructor told us we would do back bends. As the members of the class made their way into bridge or wheel pose, Janet encouraged us to picture someone who was worth bending over backward for. Grammar problems of that sentence aside, I knew instantly who that person was for me.

I love yoga for many reasons. The hour or two I spend practicing each week is the closest I come to quieting my noisy mind. Oftentimes, the experience is quite emotional for me, and once in a while I feel as if I'm about to cry. As I pushed up into my wheel, I felt weepy as I pictured Gus.

Two days before, Mark and I had sat down with Gus's teacher for his fall conference. "How do you think things are going?" his teacher asked.

Oh, God, this is a trap, I thought. Mrs. S. had been in touch about one negative incident, but in the three and a half weeks school had been in session, I hadn't heard much else. I knew things probably weren't fantastic, but I had been optimistic that they were going reasonably well.

"Pretty good, actually," I chirped hopefully, in the manner of one who is trying in vain to delude oneself. "Better than last year, anyway."

It turns out I couldn't have been more wrong. Despite my fervent wishful thinking, Gus had not magically matured into a model pupil.

Mrs. S., kind soul that she is, told us gently about the difficulties Gus faces on a daily basis. Acts of impulsivity mar most days. On any given day he may be found turning cartwheels in the middle of the room or invading the personal space of a classmate with some wrestling or a tickle fight. The kids think Gus is hilarious. Most of them know when to stop; Gus does not.

Gus is ahead of the curve academically. He's got letter recognition and sounds down cold. He can easily identify numbers into the hundreds, a task with which many first-graders still struggle.

On the downside, though, Gus has a lot of trouble functioning in a classroom. Small groups and one-on-one work are fine for him, but center time, a part of the day when children participate in self-directed learning stations, is a disaster. He can't handle the lack of structure. He's often disruptive to other kids and distracting for the teacher. Transition times, like walking in the halls, also don't go well. Gus may fail to pay attention and carelessly bump into someone, or he may simply choose to goof off.

I believe Gus's teacher when she says she loves him and enjoys him so much, and I see her concern for him is genuine. That is life with Gus. Mrs. S. told us of one incident in which she caught Gus rubbing soap on the walls in the bathroom. She knows Gus and his challenges but expressed worry that other adults may not and that he may get in genuine trouble down the road with some of the choices he makes.

I felt wrung out and depressed after the conversation. I spent a lot of time worrying and shed my share of tears of frustration and helplessness.

The truth is, though, I'm not helpless. I can allow myself to dwell for a bit in my self pity, but I can't set up permanent residence there. It won't help me, and it certainly won't help Gus.

We've talked to Gus's doctor and to a counselor who specializes in ADHD. Mark and I likely will have to make some treatment decisions we wish were avoidable but clearly are not. I've spent much of the last three years dealing in wishful thinking. It gets me nowhere. These choices are difficult, but it also feels empowering to know that we're taking steps toward helping Gus attain lasting happiness and success.

I remember my gymnastics days from when I was a kid. I always was good at back bends. Age may be robbing me of some of my flexibility, but I like to think I've still got it. That's a good thing because my sweet, smart, struggling boy is, without a doubt, worth bending over backward for.

Twelve. Twelve?!?!

Twelve years ago today I sat wondering if this would be the day my baby would finally arrive. Ben (or Lauren for all we knew) was already a week overdue. If this had been my second or third child, perhaps I would have relished a few extra days of peace, but since this was my first, I was beyond ready.

Go time wouldn't arrive until my waters broke in the wee hours of the next morning. After 12 hours of labor and two hours of pushing that left me wrecked, at long last I heard my destiny: "It's a boy!" Ben was laid upon my chest, and with clarity I can conjure to this day I recall the wonder I felt the first time I laid my hands upon his tiny body.

I was just 25 years old when Ben was born, a naïf. It wasn't exactly a whim, Mark and I wanting to start a family so young. We had solid reasons both personal and practical. Yet I distinctly remember thinking, how hard could it be?

One day when I was about six months pregnant with Ben, Mark and I were taking a walk and I expressed my fear about the physical pain of labor that awaited me. If only I'd known. Labor is painful, yes, but in the end it's the ultimate gratification. It was the forthcoming decades of fretting, worry and uncertainty that should've had me nervous.

We moms often like to ponder what was the hardest transition. One to two children, two to three? No and no. When Nos. 2 and 3 came along, I relished having the knowledge I'd earned after going through birth and raising a baby. No thanks, Ms. Lactation Consultant. I'm all set.

By far it was the hardest for me to go from no babies to one. What do I do with him? I puzzled once we brought Ben home. This is a question veteran moms never ask. Duh. You don't need to do much besides kick back and feed the baby, fall in love with him, rest when you can, read a book, watch some TV. In short, enjoy this brief time while it lasts.

Hearkening back to the how hard could it be question, I had no idea. I knew babies sometimes didn't sleep, but I did not nearly grasp the extent to which this could happen. As evidence, our first night home, I lovingly laid Ben in his bassinet and set the alarm for four hours later so I could wake up to feed him (I know I've probably told this story before, but I still cannot get over my naiveté). Not one minute later a waaaaah! rang out. It heralded months of interrupted sleep.

I somehow thought baby sleep could be dysfunctional but in an organized, contained sort of way. Surely a baby could not be needy all night long? I know some parents have babies who sleep like champs from the beginning. For this I loathe congratulate you. This was not the case for us. We were sleep-deprived for a good year.

Twelve years later, I can recall the physical and emotional toll sleep deprivation and first-time baby angst took. I'm here to tell you, once again, that I hadn't seen anything yet. These past years have brought both soaring highs and crushing lows.

I've watched Ben's evolve into his own person, one whose intellect, abilities and drive are awe-inspiring. Paul has become this passionate, creative, imaginative kid. He's all heart, and he's sensitive in ways both good and trying. Gus makes me laugh every day. I wish I had an ounce of his confidence. 

On the flip side, trying to negotiate a tween's moods, worrying about a middle son's frightening health episode, and facing a youngest son's school troubles are enough to make me long for those "simpler" days of babyhood.

In going through this life transition, these days I often find myself feeling wistful. I look at pregnant women and moms of babies and toddlers with real envy. Should we have had one more? I ask myself. (Not going to happen.)

When I think about it, though, we're really in a pretty sweet spot for reasons not the least of which is that everyone now sleeps through the night. Yes, I feel ambivalent about 12 (six more years someone recently said to me, to which I respond, shut your mouth!). The years really are passing staggeringly quickly, but these are good times.

The baby smell on my oldest has been replaced by body wash for men and deodorant at a good moment and tween boy funk at a bad. His body is growing ever longer and more muscular, and his face is no longer that of a little boy, but a young man. I was gobsmacked a few weeks ago to realize I had a son old enough to interview me about my memories of 9/11. 

I know even as they are happening before my eyes how fleeting these days are. I miss my babies, but I relish these moments watching my boys grow, building a foundation of who they will become. 

Happy birthday, sweet Ben, my first, my guinea pig, my teacher. These lyrics from one of my favorite children's songs feel appropriate today: "Evermore I will love you, evermore I will stay, ever right here to hold you, never so far away. And though I know sometimes you go to find your way alone, evermore I will love you. You are ever my own."

Lost

What parent hasn't dreamt of swaths of free time, time to do whatever their heart desires while their kids are nestled away in the competent hands of another? My brothers like to joke that they'd love to be stay-at-home dads if they could put their kids in daycare all day. As with so many things in life, though, the reality doesn't match the vision.

I suppose I'm living the dream - all of my kids at school for seven hours a day and me with little more than free time. Only it doesn't feel very dreamy. It feels weird and wrong.

I've been dropped into this big change, and at the same time I'm mourning the permanent passage of a time in my life. The strangest things get to me. I had to choke back a sob the other day upon stumbling across "Curious George" on PBS Kids and thinking how much I wished Gus had been there to ask me if he could watch.

It's been quite a month, filled with bitter, sweet and bittersweet. I sent my youngest son to kindergarten. We adopted and then returned a dog. My husband just got this amazing promotion at work. Through it all, though, I keep coming back to feeling discontent.

I've applied for a handful of jobs and have yet to receive an interview. My phone sits silent, and I feel like the woman the world has forgotten. I have a lot of confidence in my abilities and what I can offer, but I'm afraid all employers see is the gaping hole in my resume.

It's strange, this juxtaposition of Mark's soaring success at work and my inability to launch even a meager career. I don't have any regrets about choosing to stay home, but I do wish I'd focused more on the end game. 

You know that admonition to young women: don't go directly from being someone's daughter to someone's wife to someone's mother? Well, I pretty much did just that. And I'm happy with the way it turned out. Yet I see the wisdom in this advice. If could go back I'd tell myself to have a long-term plan. Now I'm in my late 30s and have not a clue about how to spend the rest of my life.

I've been through enough doldrums to know that inertia is your worst enemy, and I fight it at all costs. Tempting though it is some days, I will not let myself slip into indulging in a "Grey's Anatomy" rerun bender on Netflix. I fill my days with exercise and house work, decluttering the basement.

Mark encourages me to go easy on myself, enjoy this time. I have been raising kids full-time for almost nine years. Take a break. I try, and I know someday I will look back on this time and kick myself for letting myself get so angsty about it and not just living it up. I will not be here forever.

Sometimes I have a hard time telling what's really bothering me. Part of it is embarrassment with a generous helping of guilt that I'm a stay-at-home mom without, you know, any kids with me the majority of the day. 

Aside from self-loathing, I think what really gets me is that I want to do something meaningful with this time. I want the adult conversation and interaction with people that a job would offer. I want to do some good in the world.

I pictured myself in a part-time job with flexibility, leaving me time to volunteer and still be there fully for the kids. That hasn't come to fruition, at least not yet.

I'm determined to figure this out, though. My beginning plans are humble. I've signed up to do substitute secretarial work in the school district. I will be volunteering one morning a week at the hospital and am looking to do some work at St. Joe's Food Pantry. It's all in the name of soul searching, trying to figure out who I will become.

I've been in kind of a funk creatively, but maybe I'll use this time to write more, try doing a few things that scare me.

I'll tell you one thing, though, I most certainly am not going to go watch an episode of "Grey's Anatomy." The "messy side" of the basement is calling my name and the bedrooms could use a vacuuming. In the meantime, please do let me know if you know of a great part-time job or volunteer opportunity.

When life gets hard

If we knew the pain and suffering that could follow, would we ever make any big decisions or would we just sit, perpetually crippled, afraid to do anything? For me, sometimes I suspect the latter. It's a good thing I can't anticipate every eventuality, because as my husband so eloquently reminded me as we were going through the events of last week, these experiences, good and bad, joyful and sorrowful, make up life itself.

Things didn't work out with our dog, Finn. Even though I know it was the right decision for my family, it's hard for me to write about this because the guilt and sorrow I feel is wrenching. However, it's always my goal to write candidly about my experiences raising a family, so here goes.

Getting a dog was no impulse decision for us. Mark and I had talked and researched a lot. We knew we wanted to adopt a shelter dog, and we were heavily leaning toward choosing an adult dog. We didn't feel up for the trappings of raising a puppy. Breed didn't much matter; we wanted to find the right personality (and preferably a dog that was a little less allergenic for all of our sneezy noses and itchy eyes).

I had reservations about taking the boys to look at dogs with us - too easy to get attached, I reasoned. But Mark correctly asserted that the kids needed to be with us so we could see how the dogs interacted.

Our first visit was overwhelming, to say the least. Pushing open the door to the anteroom that housed the first group of dogs was loud, but as we made our way back to the back of the shelter, where more dogs lived, it was cacophony. We couldn't even talk to the person next to us, so loud was the barking. It was a lot for the boys and even for Mark, but I made my way around, trying to identify the dogs that remained calm through the chaos.

We settled on a few dogs that seemed like they could fit but couldn't interact with any of them that day, as most of the dogs there had recently come from Tennessee and were in quarantine. We filled out an application and decided to come again a few days later to meet the three dogs that had made our short list.

At the top of our list was a 1-year-old hound/shepherd mix named Todd. But when we returned on a Thursday afternoon, the first dog we met was Bruno, a Catahoula Leopard dog mix. We were a little skeptical upfront because Bruno was just shy of six months old - younger than the adult dog we'd said we wanted.

The connection with Bruno, however, was immediate. We all felt it. He especially seemed to bond with Mark. We adored the white stripe down the middle of his face and his calm demeanor.

We met Jada, also on our list, and she did not care for us at all. Todd was lovely, but we'd already fallen for Bruno. Flying high with euphoria, we made plans to pick up Bruno two days later.

In the intervening two days, I was wracked with worry and doubt. Were we really ready for this? Mark and I both read about Catahoulas. Some aspects of their personalities seemed like a perfect fit, others not. The hard part was knowing how much Catahoula he had in him and how much another breed, or even breeds. It made it difficult to draw any conclusions.

In the end, we took a leap of faith and brought Bruno home. As we talked with the worker at the shelter, we were delighted to hear her say that we could still change Bruno's name. We debated the possibilities excitedly as we drove to the pet store to pick up some supplies, Bruno peering curiously out the windows. We finally settled on Finley - Finn for short.

The first days Finn was with us, we couldn't believe our luck. We were prepared for the unexpected. We assumed we'd be dealing with some house training issues. We didn't look forward to the prospect of him chewing on our things but were realistic about the fact that it probably would happen. We expected a disrupted night or two as he eased into sleeping in the kennel we'd bought.

None of the negatives happened. Finn was house trained from the beginning. He didn't have a single accident. He half-heartedly picked up a Lego tire or two from time to time, but for the most part, he left our stuff alone. He slept silently all night in his kennel. He didn't beg for food, didn't bother people while they were eating. He rarely barked or made a peep at all.

In the end, what didn't work with Finn was not something we'd anticipated, and it felt like an issue that was much more complicated than house training. At first, Finn was fantastic with the boys. The entire time we had him, he gamely tolerated Gus's annoying habits of pulling at his hears and tail. The first time the kids took him downstairs for a romp, he chased and nipped at them a bit. Puppy play, we assured the boys.

The first time I felt truly nervous was when Finn spotted our 1-year-old neighbor boy playing at the outskirts of our backyard. I think it was the first time I'd really heard him growl and bark - perfectly normal, my mom and Mark told me when I fretted. He just feels protective of his domain.

Finn, though, began to behave unpredictably toward the boys. One day I'd taken him for a walk with my nephew. My nephew was walking beside us when Finn caught sight of his leash and got riled up, a common occurrence with him. He rounded on my nephew, growling, jumping up and snapping at his shoulder blades. The same thing happened again with Gus days later.

The day I decided I couldn't keep Finn, though, was Paul's first day of school. The day had begun in a lovely way. I'll never forget the sound of Paul's laughter and delight upon seeing that Finn could shake.

I was feeling iffy toward Finn that day because he had had the incident with Gus while we were out for a walk in the afternoon. Nevertheless, I took Finn out on his leash to wait in the driveway for Paul's bus. It was supposed to be one of those beautiful moments: dog, tail wagging, reunites with boy after school. Paul came running, and Finn began to bark, growl and jump. By the time Paul reached our driveway, Finn was so worked up, he would hardly let Paul pass. Poor Paul just cowered. That was it. I couldn't do it any longer.

I don't pin any of this on Finn. It's just his personality. It's in his nature to be protective, but our house is one of constant comings and goings. Finn's temperament just felt like the wrong fit for us. His unpredictability with kids was daunting to me, and I didn't feel like I had the know-how or the resources to train it out of him; I felt skeptical that it was possible. In the end, I thought it was best for us and for Finn for him to be placed in a more suitable home.

Telling the kids was one of the hardest things we've ever had to do. Paul was explosive in his grief, Ben more reserved yet determined to change my mind. "If he's really, really good tomorrow, can't we keep him?" the boys begged.

I was resolved, though, and remained so, even though the prospect of returning Finn to the shelter made me feel ill. I made myself do it, though by the time the day arrived to bring Finn back, I didn't want to anymore.

It's done now, and it hurts, the kids most of all. As a mom, I'm supposed to prevent pain, to relieve pain, not inflict it. To have done so is truly hard to accept.

I understand and respect if you disagree with our decision. To me, we tried and failed at something we went into with altruism and best faith. It came down to doing what I thought was best for the kids, as everything does when you're a parent.

As for now, I'm hoping for healed hearts and mended spirits as we walk through this painful part of our journey. 

An amateur parent

It's a good thing my kids don't know how utterly clueless I often feel when I'm raising them. If they knew how often I improvise and fumble, how frequently I have no idea what to do, say or threaten to get them to cooperate, I just might lose the slim amount of authority I carry. 

I suppose someday the jig will be up my kids will realize my ineptitude and look back and laugh at the phrases I repeat ad nauseam. For example, when I say, "Stop what you're doing or there will be serious consequences," really it means I have no idea what to say right now to get you stop. 

I can reasonably fake my way through small day-to-day situations. It's the big ones that worry me, and these often involve Ben, my oldest and my guinea pig as I try to figure out what works and what doesn't. As he prepares to enter adolescence, I struggle to find the right balance between asserting parental authority and extending him autonomy. 

As is the case with many almost 12-year-olds, Ben can be petulant as a toddler one moment and show remarkable maturity the next. He taunts Paul by running away with his favorite Lego minifigure, and that same day he surprises me by doing all the dishes while I have his brothers at swimming lessons. (I tried mightily to suppress my worries about washing temperature and ignore the smudges on the blender and the fact that he washed and left half wet glasses that I would've put in the dishwasher.)

My latest dilemma is piano lessons. Ben has been taking private lessons for more than three years now, not an inexpensive endeavor. He and we have invested time and money ... and he's grown tired of playing, whining whenever it's time to go to lessons, majorly slacking on practice time.

Do we let Ben begin to make some life decisions on his own, or is it better for us to step in and act in what we think are his best interests? I picture hauling a complaining Ben to lessons every week for years to come, nagging him to practice, shelling out big bucks for something he doesn't want to do. Then I envision Ben of the future, years after we've given up and let him quit: "Why didn't you make me stick with piano?"

Situations like these arise in nearly every family, I'm certain, but what to do? My waffling was evident. I'd talk to Ben one time and emphasize how much we'd invested in piano; another I'd tell him that if he was no longer interested, maybe it was time to consider giving it up.

Ben was feeling the effects of my dithering. He complained mightily about going to lessons on Wednesday, and as we drove, I broached the subject once more. Ben laid it out for me: he doesn't really like playing anymore, but he didn't want to disappoint Mark and me or his teacher.

Ben's teacher had been noticing a change in Ben, too. My oldest is a natural at reading music, and piano has come fairly easily to him. If he does this well without practicing, we like to say, just think what he could accomplish if he actually practiced. Lately, though, Ben's apathy has been showing. He's been stuck on a particular song for weeks, and everything right down to his posture sends an I-don't-want-to-be-here message.

I usually just drop off Ben at lessons, but luckily I was able to stay on Wednesday. My preferred technique in dealing with tough, potentially awkward situations often involves strained, phony optimism. I half-planned to say to his teacher, "Oh, we'll get this scalawag practicing again, and everything will be fine!"

As I sat in the other room listening to Ben play, though, I decided to try candor. When his teacher had stepped away from Ben, I took her aside. "What do you when your students just plateau?" I asked. "Ben says he doesn't want to play anymore."

I'm sure in all her years of teaching, this has NEVER happened before. It has. All the time. Then Mrs. Anderson hit me with a much-needed dose of tough love and reality. "This happens to every musician," she said. "I tell parents to remember that their kid is a kid and they're the parent, and the parents need to make the decision."

It's the kind of statement that usually would make me bristle and feel defensive. But I realized instantly, she was right. 

Mrs. Anderson went back into Ben's lessons and talked him through the situation a bit. She discussed the summer slump that kids often face when it comes to music and the importance of finding a regular practice routine. Ben loves nothing more than a good lecture (and any time an adult talks to him in a serious way, it's perceived as a lecture), and I'm sure he took in her words with good grace.

Ben emerged from his lesson wearing his serious face, eyebrows knit. "Everything OK, Ben?" his teacher asked.

"Yeah," he muttered, as I squeezed his shoulder and told him to smile.

On the way home, though, something amazing happened. "I think I need you and Dad to tell me exactly when I need to practice," Ben said. "And you can't let me say I'll do it later."

We talked about what would be the best time of day to practice, and I was reminded that sometimes kids need to hear important messages from someone other than their parents. He hadn't enjoyed it, but he'd taken in what he needed to hear.

Going forward, no situation will be exactly like the next. All I can hope is that as I accumulate parenting experiences, somehow I can sew a convincing tapestry that will see me through each challenge. Now Ben, what say we practice some piano?

August blues

On this, the last day of our vacation, it strikes me that this week has been like a microcosm for the last several years of my life. I began the week flush with anticipation. Wow, a whole week! I was going to savor it. But before I knew it the week was drawing to a close. Where did the week go? Where have the years gone?

Perversely, I often find vacation challenging. I'm a pretty tightly wound person, and it's hard for me to let go and just relax. I'm a homebody and tend to miss my own space under even the best of circumstances. We're here with my whole family on a big, gorgeous spread of prairie land, yet I knew that with 18 of us it could be tight and nerves could flare.

I'm so thankful that I've been able to enjoy our time here to the fullest extent. A couple of acquaintances have experienced losses recently, and it's been on my mind how much I shouldn't take for granted time with people we love.

In true Ceman style, we filled the week first and foremost with lots of game playing, but that was only the beginning. We had an impossibly beautiful week of weather, so we got a lot of time to enjoy Wisconsin's natural beauty in all its summer glory. We took in two state parks, kayaked, canoed, tossed frisbees, and even played a family game of kickball.

One of my greatest joys this week has been watching our small army of boys - seven grandsons plus Ben's friend. I'll hold onto the sounds of Paul, Gus and Truman playing Hero Factory, of Ben and his friend, Ben (Ben Squared) giggling at stupid jokes. I like to think the cousins are forging bonds that will last a lifetime.

The last day of vacation is always so hard for me. I can only hope that as we pull away later today, I'll hold it together enough in the car to cry softly and quietly rather than loud and hiccuping.

I feel so vulnerable and tender lately, like one giant bruise. In a few short weeks, Gus will turn 6, and soon after that, a chapter will close, and a new one will begin. Don't worry, I'll write an epic opus on my grief about that in a few weeks.

I was watching my 2-year-old nephew sit on my mom's lap watching The Wonder Pets. For a brief moment, I lost myself and thought, oh Gus hasn't seen this episode yet! Of course, Gus long ago moved past his love of The Wonder Pets. But the memory of him as small, the warm weight of him on my lap watching that show felt almost close enough to touch.

Like vacation, summer can be hard for me, too. Usually by August, the bickering, the heat and the lack of structure in our days begin to take a toll. I start to long a little bit for the beginning of school.

I can't say that this summer has been some kind of miraculous transformation and that I've been impervious to irritation. I have, however, been appreciating and enjoying this summer in new ways. It's been a season of skinned knees and elbows and boys playing the way boys should.

It's been a relief to take a break from rousing Ben at 6:15 a.m., a joy to let Gus do what he does best - roam free. This has been a desperately needed respite from "Gus had a rough day" reports.

I know we have nearly an entire month left of summer. I also know all too well how quickly these weeks will evaporate, leaving nothing behind but sweet memories. All I can do is make the most of it and try to savor every moment.

Just because he's sullen, doesn't mean I need to be

Yesterday I was thinking about 11-week-old Ben and 11-year-old Ben. As an infant (it doesn't feel so long ago), Ben didn't sleep particularly well. As an 11-year-old, he sleeps until 9 and wakes up complaining that he's still tired.

I've traversed the bumpy waters of guiding three children through sleep difficulties and now relish being able to get a full night's sleep. Yet yesterday I thought I just might prefer to go back in time and parent 11-week-old Ben for a while. At least he smiled then.

After suffering upper back pain for a few months, I finally made an appointment with a physical therapist a few weeks ago. As I sat on the table, she told me to slump my back like a teenager would. I know all about that, I thought. I see it every day.

Slump-shouldered and sullen seems to be Ben's default state most of the time these days. I try to understand and be sympathetic. It's odd how I can remember feeling the same way when I was his age, yet it's still so hard for me to honor those feelings.

Ben is no longer the boy who chirps excitedly about topics that interest him. Consider this interaction he had with my brother, Mike, the other day. Mike teaches seventh grade social studies, and Ben is going into seventh grade. 

Mike: Ben, have you read Chasing Lincoln's Killer yet? (Mike had given Ben this book for Christmas and was trying to glean whether his seventh-graders might like it.)

Ben: Yeah.

Mike: What'd you think?

Ben: Good.

Sorry, Mike. If you were hoping for more insight, that's all your going to get. Though I know Ben has the most amazing brain residing in his skull, one that regularly devours several books at an astonishing pace, I expect he will speak to adults exclusively in monosyllables for the next several years. And don't go looking for eye contact, either.

It's hard to lose the boy who used to actually want to spend time with me. It causes me no small amount of pain, but I know if is natural for kids Ben ages, this seeking of autonomy from parents. His peers are the center of his world now. He reserves his smiles and his levity for them, and I get precious little.

My interactions with Ben seem to take on an unintentionally negative note. Yesterday Ben and Paul were in my room listening to a Harry Potter audiobook. Gus was bored and wanted his brothers' attention. He kept going in and bothering them. 

I went into the room to referee and found Ben lying on my bed, the comforter rumpled and the throw pillows discarded on the floor. No one would accuse me of being a neat freak, but I like a nicely made bed. It's just one of those little things that helps me hold onto my sanity. 

Using a stern voice that I was sure would be misinterpreted as yelling, I asked Ben to please get off my bed and sit on the floor instead. (Earlier I'd come upon Paul listening to the book while pacing circles on the bed, so I was pretty annoyed already.)

Ben followed me into the kitchen and served up a steaming pile of hyperbole. "Gus is on your bed now, and you're not punishing him horribly!"

I had given no punishment except that of him having to listen to my (admittedly) annoying voice. By this point, though, I'd had it with the boys' fighting, and I told Ben to go chill in his room for a while.

Shortly later, I decided we all needed to get out of the house. We headed to Memorial Park. I softened and apologized to the boys for being crabby. I had grabbed my iPod and scrolled for music Ben might like. I settled on The Avett Brothers' "Kick Drum Heart." Ben surreptitiously glanced at the device, noting the artist and song, tapped his fingers on his knee but said nothing. It occurred to me that this might be as good as it gets right now: small moments of connection.

The boys ran and played tag for a while before Ben grew bored. He wandered over to where I was watching Paul and Gus play in the sand. "Do you feel like I'm criticizing you all the time?" I asked.

"Yeah, pretty much," he murmured.

This is what I'd feared. I don't want it to be this way. I want positive interactions with Ben. More than anything I want him to know that he can talk to me, that I'm there for him unconditionally, that I'm a safe and loving place. I want to be the sane person helping shepherd him through this insane time of life. In short, I need to start speaking and acting with intention. It's going to be a long several years (and I've got two more boys coming to this place!), but I want to do better.

On the way home from the park, I selected a song from my younger days, Everclear's "Santa Monica."  

"I'll walk right out into a brand new day/Insane and rising in my own weird way/I don't want to be the bad guy/I don't want to do your sleepwalk dance anymore/I just want to feel some sunshine ..."

Today's a brand new day. I know it's somewhere between hard and impossible for Ben to change the way he copes right now. Luckily, I know I'm capable.

Activity overload: my annual summer struggle

If I could write my March 2015 self a letter, it would go something like this: "Hey, girl, I know it's cold out there and you're dreaming of the wide, expansive summer laying before you in a few months. Summer school brochures have just come out, park and rec, too. Soon it will be time to sign up for the summer session at the Y. You're feeling optimistic about how many enriching activities you can fit into a week. I urge you: stop and think. Remember last summer. How much do you really want to do? I know you're having a hard time seeing it clearly now, but you just may drive yourself crazy. Love, your summer self."

I think I end up here every summer, having the realization that I've undertaken too much. Maybe this is an issue for most parents, either under-scheduling or over-scheduling. Or maybe some just do happily embrace the unscheduled life for their families during the summer.

I talked to Paul's friend's mom the other day. She told me how she chooses as few activities as possible for her kids during the summer. They wake up when they want to each morning, keep things leisurely.

That sounds good. I let myself entertain the thought for a bit. But it wouldn't work for us. And I stand by that. If we went that route, I'm quite sure we'd have fighting, lots and lots of fighting.

Take this morning as an example. Gus woke up at about 5:40 and made enough noise to wake up Paul soon after that. Paul discovered that Gus had broken down his Lego creation for parts and loud, embittered rage ensued.

I thought thankfully of separating my two boys, sending them to summer school later this morning. The classes are fun and short - only an hour and 40 minutes (but good Lord, it's impossible to get anything done in that amount of time). I'm a big fan of summer school.

My boys need time apart or things start to get hairy. It's when I tip the balance and start to schedule too much that I begin to have a problem. And I tend to do that. Every summer.

Maybe t-ball would be a great outlet for Gus, I thought. And the younger two really should take swimming lessons. Add in soccer and piano lessons for Ben, and our weeks become uncomfortably full.

When I laid out the schedule in my mind, it all seemed to work. In actuality, I'm running myself ragged. Technically, I can get it all done but it's not pretty.

T-ball falls right after summer school on Mondays and Wednesdays. It's not a great situation. Gus needs a little downtime between activities. Furthermore, every third time, he plays back-to-back games, and two hours of t-ball is so not Gus's thing. 

After I walked into the family locker room the first day of swimming lessons, I quickly began to think that maybe it wasn't so important that the boys learn to swim after all. Picture a small, dank locker room and every bit of floor space covered with a toddler or preschooler from the Y's summer program. We got there a little late, as usual, and literally waded through little boys to hurry to Gus's class. 

Gus and Paul's swimming lessons are back to back. Again, I thought this would be fine. In actuality it's tedious. It's close to lunch time, and Gus is none too interested in sitting around waiting through Paul's 40-minute lesson after his own is finished.

The truth is it's hard to find balance with three kids. Activities are important, but they cost money, time and patience. I want to keep Ben going with piano, foster his love of soccer. Paul doesn't share Ben's love of athletics, so I like to get him involved in activities like swimming. Gus needs some physical outlets for his energy. I want to meet all their needs.

My mom was telling me the other day about when she took Paul to the park, how he observed the way that the grass was blowing in the wind, moving like waves. He needs time for that, too. Time to just be. All my boys need time without hearing me say, "We've got to go! We're late, late, late!"

Spring 2015 self, here's what I propose: err on the side of keeping it light. Yes, there are non-negotiables like soccer and piano. Take the summer school, skip the park and rec, and maybe save swimming lessons for another time of year. Summer is short. Leave some room to breathe, too.

Here's to strong father figures

I think it probably sometimes feels like moms get all the glory. And don't get me wrong. We moms are pretty glorious. But a loving, involved dad? That's gold.

Each day I'm filled with profound gratitude that I found a man as good as Mark. He's my confidant and my best friend. His kind eyes and adorable dimples make up the face that I long to see at the end of every day.

I tend to think that Mark is more virtuous than I am. Where I can be petty, he overlooks all my faults. I am moody; he is even - maddeningly so sometimes. How does he do it?!?! On my good days, though, I think we make a pretty great match. Mark is a natural at speaking in front of a group; I'm hopeless. I, however, can small talk anyone, a task that Mark finds difficult.

Similarly, when one of us has had it with the kids, the other usually can miraculously step in with the calm. If I'm feeling all bad cop, Mark can play good cop, or vice versa. 

If one of the boys has an interest, it becomes Mark's interest, too. He's always been pretty much a football-baseball-basketball guy, but he has evolved into a soccer enthusiast thanks to Ben's passion for it. (Mark has explained "off sides" in soccer to me repeatedly, but I don't think I'll ever understand or remember what it is.) My husband draws pictures with Paul and builds Legos with Gus.

My husband is the dad who plays catch with his sons, who has taught each boy to ride a two-wheeler, who takes Paul on a drive to spot snowy owls after a long day at workbecause he knows how much Paul loves them, who reads aloud from Harry Potter even though it makes him sleepy and sometimes he nods off.

Mark attended the Voices of Men breakfast last week. Voices of Men is a Fox Valley organization whose mission is to make a clear and powerful statement that committing, condoning or remaining silent about men's violence against women and children is not acceptable.

When Mark told me about the breakfast and what it meant to him and shared with me a video of the poem, "Man Prayer" by Eve Ensler, my love and respect for him grew even more. "May I be a man who understands that vulnerability is my greatest strength, who creates space rather than dominates it ..." I saw that Mark embodies so many of the attributes in the beautiful poem. 

When I look at Mark and the example he's setting for my boys, I have great hope indeed about the men they will become. Happy Father's Day, my love. Be proud today of the man and dad you are.