Giving my blades a rest

When your oldest kid is nearing 13 and about to enter eighth grade, believe me, it does not escape your notice for a moment that the next five years will pass so quickly it'll make your heart ache. When you drop off that boy for a week-long camp at a university, that awareness increases a hundredfold.

Last Sunday, we drove Ben to the UW-Madison campus, where he would participate in a week-long engineering camp. Ben has never been away from us for more than three or four days, so that was enough of a mental hurdle. The eeriness of dropping him off at "college" unsettled me completely.

We took Ben as a family, thinking it would be "fun" to spend a summer afternoon together in Madison. We did enjoy a lovely lunch together before making our way to the dorm where Ben would stay. Ben hurriedly scarfed down his food, excited and filled with nervous energy.

He's exceptionally handsome. Just saying.

We arrived at check-in, and Ben was presented with the key to his dorm room (see how weird that sounds?). He had two-plus hours to kill, and the counselors told us we could stay or that he could just hang with the counselors and other campers.

We checked out Ben's room, hoping to meet his roommate and family. By this time, Gus was done. "I. Can't. Walk. Any. More."

I really wanted to stay to make sure that Ben was okay. I've read plenty about helicopter parenting and knew, however, it would be best for us to leave.

In theory, I think it makes perfect sense to give kids autonomy and freedom to make mistakes and learn from them. In practice, it's hard for me. I'm one who loves to nurture.

Every time I see a headline decrying helicopter parenting, I bristle a bit. For one thing, as a parent, it feels like just one more way to tell us, "You're doing it wrong!"

Also, a lot that I read and hear tends to focus on outlandish examples of helicopter parenting that seem way out of the norm to me. The parent writes the child's essays for him. A college graduate interviewee's mom calls the interviewer on her son or daughter's behalf. In reality, I think most of us fall somewhere between "free-range" and helicopter parent.

Wrestling with stay or go, I know that Gus soon will torture us all with his meltdown anyway, so I slow and then stop my helicopter blades. I set aside worries that Ben will somehow not figure out how to use his access card to get into the building or that his roommate won't show and he'll be all alone in his sad little room for a whole week. I resolve let him figure things out on his own.

I start to say, "Please try to text us at least something short each day."

I stop myself, give him the freedom but not entirely. "Let us hear from you at least a couple times, okay?"

I push my sunglasses onto my face to hide the tears springing to my ears and pull Ben in for a patented stiff Ben hug, no kiss, and say goodbye, that I love him and will miss him so much.

Later that night, Ben texts. "Had fun today, got a roommate named Cooper."

That's about as effusive as it gets for our boy. We all laugh that Ben's roommate shares the same name as our dog. At dinner, Paul spontaneously bursts into tears. "I. Miss. Ben!!!" Me too. It's weird without him here.

I've heard from Ben sporadically this week, texts laden with emotion: "Hey. It's the second day."

Me, hungry for details: "How's the food?"

Him: "Foods good."

In our quick text sessions and our one brief phone call, I want to pump him for information. I know, however, that whether I talk to him one of these ways or in person, I'll likely only receive grudging, monosyllabic responses.

I can hardly bare it, but next week, he will leave again for a few days to accompany his friend on vacation.This is his time, his time for pulling away, and I want, or rather, need to honor that. The fact that it's normal and expected isn't really enough balm to heal.

Over the next months and years, I'll aim to fall somewhere in the middle of the parenting spectrum. I'll obsess over his grades, but in the end I'll let him do some trying and failing, as that's part of life and growing. Maybe he won't become valedictorian, though I know he's more than capable. He needs to pursue his own passions and find his own way. I'll encourage him to make his own oatmeal in the morning, maybe even make him start making his own school lunches, but I'll secretly love to make him his favorite scrambled eggs with ham and toast.

I'll try to cool my blades, and painful though it may be, I'll let him learn to fly on his own.

The dog days

"If you knew what it would be like when we got Cooper, would you go back and change your mind?" Paul asks, searching my face with his big eyes.

"Oh ho ho," I say. "Best not ask me that."

Paul was referring to the chocolate labradoodle we brought home six weeks ago. It would be him, my most sensitive son, who would ask, not that my struggle with our pet hasn't been evident.

Yes, we've done it again, despite our two times failing at pet ownership. I still burn with shame when I think of surrendering first Rocky, our bearded dragon (if you ever think of getting one, seriously ponder the commitment it takes to have a pet that eats live food; I can still conjure the smell of reeking, fetid crickets), and then our rescue dog, Finn. My guilt probably never will subside, but shame is kind of useless, not to mention damaging, so I'm trying to let it go.

When we decided keeping Finn was untenable because of the way he behaved around the kids, I swore there was no way we'd ever attempt it again, much less nine short months after the painful day that we returned Finn to the shelter.

I'll never forget Paul's devastation. If you ever need to manufacture tears for some reason, imagine an 8-year-old boy wracked with sorrow but still comforting his crying mom, saying that it when it was time to say goodbye to Finn, he'd shake his paw one last time and say, "So long, buddy."

"You just haven't found the right dog yet," friends and family would tell us. Um, no. Sorry I'm out.

It was Mark who first brought up the idea again. We both really are dog people, and we couldn't let go of wanting our kids to have the experience of pet ownership. I was incredulous at first, but gradually I warmed to the idea.

We thought and planned carefully. As in the past, I had little interest in getting a puppy; however, we also reasoned that much of what went wrong with Finn had to do with the fact that he was 6 months old when we got him, and his critical socialization period had passed. Adults can cope with difficult dog traits but kids not as easily.

If we wanted to do this right, we'd need to survive the hardship of raising a puppy in order to have a chance at having the kind of dog we wanted. Tentatively, we began to look at labradoodle puppies, wanting a hypoallergenic dog.

We decided that if we did it, we'd surprise the boys. This part was all fun and smiles, imagining the boys shocked, joyous faces and all the sweet puppy snuggles. "It'll be an investment of time, energy and money," Mark and I sagely reminded each other.

We settled on a breeder whose chocolate labradoodle and yellow labradoodle had recently birthed litters of seven and 12 puppies (sweet Jesus!), respectively. We sent our deposit and were No. 7 in line for picking.

We knew what we wanted: a cream female. We were so excited. Mark and I talked of little else in hushed tones for weeks and could barely wait to meet our puppy.

When the day finally arrived, we quickly discovered that the lone cream female available had both a looser coat (not good for allergies) and a feisty personality. We hastily changed our minds and considered other options. When the husband and wife took out a chocolate boy who was declared the husband's favorite for his mellow personality, we decided pretty quickly.

We'd name him Cooper and pick him up in two weeks. During that time, I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety. Truly, I mostly focused on the sweet part of surprising the boys, though on some level I also knew that the upheaval would undo me for a bit.

Finally D-day arrived. Mark and I are perpetually, casually thinking about putting our house on the market, The boys know this and beg us to give up the idea. We picked them up from school and told them we were going to look at a house.

We were a little nervous that Ben might be on to us, but he was furious, especially as our drive stretched on. As we pulled up to the house, Paul clearly began to warm to the idea when the breeders' horses came into view.

Finally, we went into the house to claim our dog. Our story worked too well, and the boys' prevailing sentiment was puzzlement rather than joy. Quickly, though, smiles spread across their faces.

In his first days home, I was still excited. After that, I remained game for a bit. Inevitably, though, as I knew it would, the reality and implications of our decision began to set in, and I developed what I can only describe as something akin to postpartum depression.

I felt on edge and tied down. Home all day, I felt the burden of caring for yet another creature with many needs. The need to maintain constant vigilance when he was out of his kennel wore on me.

Sure, I liked some of it. He frolicked in the sunshine of our backyard as I looked on. He played sweetly and gently with the boys and my 1-year-old nephew.

I'm quickly snapped out of my reverie with every challenging incident. He really is pretty calm, but a couple times a day, he's hyper, and during these times I laugh bitterly at being duped into believing we'd gotten a "mellow" wonder dog.

He's a baby, I keep reminding myself with every outburst and accident. I've realized recently that the hard part with puppies is that really they're not like sweet, helpless babies at all; they're like 3-year-olds. Yes, they're adorable, but just like a 3-year-old child, if you turn your back for too long, you need to worry that he'll have an accident, bite someone, or put something he shouldn't have in his mouth.

With a child, most parents have a natural instinct to nurture, but I'm having a hard time finding that with Cooper. We share the same wavy brown hair, but beyond that he and I don't share the easy connection the boys and I do. A lot of times I feel little toward him but obligation and responsibility.

Right now I'm kind of going through the motions and looking to make it through his puppyhood. I suppose I'll miss his puppy days someday. There are few things quite as adorable as watching his chubby little body as he runs, but right now I long to be past it.

My apathy shames me. There it is again. So many friends and acquaintances love their pets madly, and I'm just not there yet.

We plunged headlong into something hoping for happiness. We'll get there. Sometimes love takes time. He'll be a good dog. It'll be an investment of time. And energy. And money. And until we get there, I'll wait, patiently at times, exasperatedly at others.