This isn't what I pictured

When I pictured parenting as a younger person, I saw only a rough draft, a hazy, rosy picture of myself holding an adorable, content baby. I didn't think much beyond that. I didn't envision squalling newborns awake at 2 a.m., their needs not so easily met, toddlers into everything, the fury and mischievousness of a 3-year-old.

I certainly didn't imagine some of the challenges that would come later: a boy so beset with separation anxiety that he'd throw a huge tantrum every time I tried to leave him anywhere (Paul) or a youngest child whose energy level and impulsivity would cause difficulties at school on a regular basis.

Now my illustration is more nuanced, and I have more realistic expectations, but of course, childrearing keeps offering up new difficulties. Naturally, a lot of these come courtesy of my oldest child, who's schooling us on the agony and ecstasy of raising a tween.

I've recently come to the realization that with Ben, I'm raising a child whose disposition is very much like my own. Like me, he can be mercurial. He's often defiant in the face of parental authority, as was I. And sadly, like me, he's got his share of anxieties.

This past summer, Ben battled with a bout with sleep anxiety. Almost every night, we would hear whimpers and cries of frustration emanating from his room. The refrain was always the same: "I'm so tired, but I can't fall asleep."

After trying lots of solutions, including some sessions with a counselor - he loathed that, Ben's issues seemed to resolve. The routine of school and the sheer exhaustion of a 7:30 a.m. school start brought him back to sleeping well.

These last few nights, though, Ben's anxiety has returned with a vengeance. I feel for him. I've suffered through my own bouts of sleeplessness. Yet even though I know it's completely wrongheaded, it's so easy to slip into the "can't you just get over it?" mindset.

I hate to see Ben suffer. I endured anxiety starting at a young age, and I know how hard it is. As an adult, I have the benefit of having reached full maturity. I can cope much better now. As a kid, I'm sure he feels at the mercy of his inner thoughts and worries. I want to make my boy feel better, but in a lot of ways, I feel helpless to do so.

And then there are the times when Ben just challenges me. Yesterday afternoon, it was approaching the time that I would need to leave to take Ben to his piano lesson. He was still wearing shorts and a t-shirt (another way he inadvertently tortures me, since I would be perfectly comfortable walking around the house in jeans and a parka when it's this cold). I told him he needed to go get dressed and ready.

I walked into Ben's room about 10 minutes later and found him lying prone on his floor, still wearing the shorts and t-shirt. By this point, I was shrill and yelling. "Why aren't you ready?!? Do you know how long it's been?"

"I didn't know I had piano!" Ben whined. "How can I go to piano when it's so cold?" (Because no way could you play piano in your teacher's warm house on the day like this.) Of course, through all of this, I still had to wrangle his brothers into the car, too.

We ended up entrenched in a full-on argument. I told Ben that before he could do anything he enjoyed, he would need to write me a letter of apology. He shot back that there was no way he could do that because he didn't feel the least bit guilty about anything. Ah, the joy of having to look into that smug little face when you're so angry you can hardly stand the sight of it.

By supper, Ben's anger had dissipated; mine, not so much. He chirped happily about the new flat bread recipe I'd tried. I did this very same thing to my mom growing up. I'd be a total beast and then turn back into a normal human being and expect everything to be fine.

After dinner, my annoyance subsided, too. I talked with Ben about what had happened. There was no miraculous attitude turnaround on his part, but I think he began to see my point. After the talk, I had let go requiring him to write me a letter, but he did it anyway.

I've thought about this situation a lot. The most recent parenting book I read urged parents not to play their tween's game or stoop to their level. That can be frightfully hard to do in the heat of the moment. I'm seeing the value in it, though. If I can remain calm in the face of Ben's antics, I can retain my credibility and then try to catch him when he's not entrenched in his own righteousness.

When we talked last night, Ben let on that the winter is getting him down a bit. I told him how important it is to focus on little things to look forward to at times like these. Before he knows it, the weeks will flow by, and spring will have arrived. I suppose that serves as a metaphor for Ben's struggles, too.

Through his strife and worries, I hope Ben can begin to see life for all its pain and joy. The painful parts make the joyful ones seem all the better.

As for me, my full picture of life as a mom continues to fill in. It may be a little messy, but it's also beautiful in its own way for all its detail.

Losing pains, growing pains

Saturday was understandly a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day for Ben. At his first indoor soccer match of the season, his team was walloped 13-3. After scarfing down a quick lunch, Ben headed to his basketball game at the Y, where his team lost 43-10.

As Menashans, I guess we're used to defeat. Our high school has an excellent football team, but beyond that it gets rough. Among other factors, I suppose, our city just doesn't have as large a talent pool as others in the area.

At Ben's cross country meets last fall, teams like Kaukauna and Neenah dwarfed Menasha. It was like "Where's Waldo" trying to spot a Menasha kid among the masses of other-colored uniforms. With numbers like that, it was tough to compete.

Ben's quite used to being on losing teams. His soccer team last summer held a perfect defeated record. Same for the Menasha Hoops Club last winter. My oldest accepts losses with slumped-shouldered resignation.

When it comes to sports, it can be genuinely perplexing to watch Ben compete. At practice or playing for fun, he's aggressive, a tough competitor who appears to have some natural athletic ability. When it comes to game time, however, he takes on what Mark calls that deer-in-headlights look.

Ben seems so worried about making a mistake, he just kind of shuts down. At his soccer game, when the ball came to him, Ben's face looked utterly panicked, and he quickly kicked the ball away, plenty of times to an opposing player. At basketball, he's overtaken by the same fear. He gets the ball, and then he's afraid to own it.

Sometimes I worry whether competing is really making Ben happy. Ultimately, I guess that's his decision, though. In high school, I had fun, for a while, on the swim team and track team. I enjoyed little success, but I stuck with it until I decided it wasn't making me happy any longer. 
It's all part of growing up, I suppose. Our hopes and dreams, our wishes to become a soccer standout or basketball star fall away. What remains, eventually, is the real us - our talents, our gifts, what we will nurture and spend our lives pursuing.

Along the way, it's painful sometimes. Ben, who's one of the shortest kids in his class, has been complaining of aches in his legs. Growing pains, I tell him. He complained to Mark that he's probably not growing at all, that he's suffering the pain with nothing to show for it.

He may not believe it now, but Ben will surpass 5 feet and then some, and I can only imagine what he'll become. I see someone who's so smart, bound for great things. He loves to run but no longer cares about winning races. He watches soccer and basketball and plays in the yard with his own son or daughter. And all those defeats? They no longer matter. He simply remembers a childhood well spent doing things he loved.

Janu-weary

January. Oh, January. It's a new beginning, but this time of year makes me think of when I ran the half marathon. I got off to a fantastic start. I was cruising, feeling pretty good. Then I reached mile 10 and hit a wall. The last 3.1 miles were pure pain and suffering. January is like the last mile. At the race, I was practically in tears by this point. January is the time when things get really hard.

The festive season bids adieu for another year. I was so sad to take down our Christmas tree earlier this week (yes, we left it up longer than usual). When we worked with interior designers last summer to redo our living room, they gently teased us for having a string of white Christmas lights strung around our curtain rod. I got what they were saying, yet I find those little white lights so comforting. I guess I have to sacrifice in the name of good design sense.

See, sometimes I suck it up and just get out there.

There is little redemption in this most-despised month. At the end of each December, I try to be optimistic, set goals for myself. For 2014, as in years past, I resolved to focus more on contentment and finding joy in my life. I wanted to let the small stuff go, stop snapping at my kids and husband.

The morning of Jan. 1, I awoke. As Mark and I were preparing the kids' breakfast, I sniped at him about giving Paul too much sweet cereal. Then I threw a mini fit about our new microwave. It cooks hotter than the old one: the day before I'd burned a whole batch of caramel corn I had planned to bring to a New Year's Eve party. This day, my oatmeal boiled over, creating a big mess.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. I had such good intentions, and less than an hour into starting anew, I had strayed from my resolutions.

I was telling our visiting friend from Spain (in his city, it doesn't get much colder than 40 degrees) that here, we just kind of survive winter. My sister-in-law interjected that she loves winter for its beauty and opportunities to partake in favorite activities like cross-country skiing. I wish I could adopt a more embracing attitude like that one.

When it's not winter, I'm able to take on a more romanticized view of the season. I picture sitting in my warm, cozy home watching the snow fall gently outside my window, reading a book by the fire with a mug of steaming tea, taking the boys sledding or building a snow man with them. Yet when winter actually arrives, I feel disheartened by its darkness and length. Naturally, the most difficult time of the year also feels the longest.

Of course, this January, too, shall pass. Soon it will be February, and the months will keep rolling by as they always do. In the meantime, I'll try to remember and enjoy the small pleasures this season has to offer.

As for those resolutions, I hereby resolve to go a little easier on myself when I screw up. At the same time, rather than make sweeping statements about things I want to change, I'll look for small, concrete ways to get closer to my goals.

All the while, I'll long just a little bit for that beginning-of-the-race feeling of ease and happiness. I know it's waiting for me just out a little ways.