Good God, man, relax your face!

When Ben was a baby, his aunt, uncle and cousins always commented that he had a "concerned look" on his face. Eleven years later, not much has changed. More often than not, my oldest goes around with a scowl on his face.

It wasn't always this way. Ben enjoyed a lot of smiley years. I suspect it's the preteen angst that's brought on this resurgence of concerned face. Like every other middle-schooler, I'm sure Ben is battling insecurity and the hardship of dealing with lame parents and their even lamer nagging. 

Of course, I lecture Ben about social graces. Frowny-face is especially a problem when he's consorting with adults. Ben and I have been helping with the running club at the elementary school. The coach, who's also Paul's teacher, stopped to chat with us the other day. She was giving Ben tips about how he could help the kids even more. Through the whole conversation, he glowered and mumbled, eyes cast toward the ground.

I wanted to scream, "Good God, man, relax your face!" 

When we got in the car, I reminded Ben about the importance of making eye contact with people. Just try to smile a little bit, I urged. It makes people feel good. I'm sure he promptly filed it under annoying advice from Mom. 

I know that Ben is experiencing a whole internal storm right now, one that will only intensify. I try to tread lightly with him, but some days I manage to step in it despite my best intentions. 

One particular morning, I was trying to pack Ben's lunch and realized he had (once again) left his lunch bag at school. "Could you have left your lunch bag at school?" I queried mildly.

Suddenly Ben went all Mr. Hyde on me. "I didn't leave it at school! It was probably Paul who left his at school," he yelled.

Admittedly, sometimes I'm spoiling for a fight with Ben. I dig in my heals, engage him when I shouldn't. This wasn't one of those times. I was truly puzzled, and I stewed about it. It's often hard for me to let go of my annoyance after an altercation with Ben, but not so for him. Soon after, it was like nothing had ever happened. Hard as it is sometimes, I think I need to take advantage of this and let it go, too.

Undeniably Ben is at that socially awkward stage, but sometimes he manages to surprise. At his spring conference, I was reminded how kids can be completely different people at school. His science teacher told us how well Ben did on his oral report on vaccines. Most kids constantly look at their notes, but Ben did a great job engaging the audience. Our Ben? Ben Thiel? Perhaps there's hope yet.

Genuine smiles are rare these days. They're mostly reserved for moments of levity between Ben and his best friend, Ben. Every once in a while, though, he breaks into a huge grin, dimples and all, and it's like the sun has come out on a cloudy day. It's addictive, and I want to find ways to get him to do it more often.

Ben's always been a little nervous about rides, but at the Mall of America on Monday, Mark persuaded him to ride the biggest rollercoaster. He was nervous, probably couldn't have done it if not for the short line. But afterward, he wore the biggest smile I've seen in a long time. More. I want more of that.

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

I wanted to share a quick update about Paul. We had his appointment with the pediatric neurologist a week and a half ago. The doctor, who was fantastic, explained that Paul has a condition called benign epilepsy with centrotemporal spikes. It's often characterized by seizures that occur either at sleep onset or upon waking.

The news is mostly good, in that Paul will most likely outgrow the condition by the time he's a teen-ager. Paul's chances of having another seizure are about 40 percent, and unless he has another one, we don't need to medicate.

This was a hard time, but in a way it's good to be able to put a name to Paul's condition. I don't imagine that a clear EEG would have provided much more comfort. 

Thanks, everyone, for all your care, concern and support.

Limping to the finish

I remember this day, sitting in Ben's piano teacher's duplex. She lives alone with her two cats. I thought, "I could handle this."

And I'm not a cat person. At all. I suppose that says something about my state of mind on that particular day. Other days, I'll see a retired person and think longingly that I could really dig having all that freedom.

There are certain times when I just long for alone time. I guess when I start to wish I could trade places with a single person or sacrifice a couple decades of my life to join the over-60 set, it's time to take a little breather.

I had to do just that yesterday. Do you ever have one of those days when your kids just embarrass you?

When we were kids, we regularly visited my mom's side of the family in Chicago. My mom recalls the well-dressed women of Chicago and the twinge of embarrassment she felt encountering them on an elevator, my mom and dad with their motley crew of four disheveled children.

We went to church and then out to breakfast with Mark's parents, and I felt just like mom used to feel. Paul and Gus are badly in need of haircuts. Ben had bedhead, and he was wearing the frown that he seems to wear perpetually these days. All of the boys' pants are too short because it's the end of the season, but I'm too stubborn to buy new ones. They'll be in shorts soon, right? Right?!?!

The boys were okay at church, or as okay as we ever are. At breakfast, Gus was a little noisy and restless, but not too bad, not too far out of the norm. But back at Mark's parents', things took a turn for the worse.

The boys were loud and obnoxious. They had a clear case of spring fever. "Go play downstairs," I urged them, so the adults could visit for a little bit.

"Nah, we want to stay up here," they said.

I thought things had improved when they all started to play a game together, but that quickly devolved into them throwing the pieces at one another. And then that quickly devolved into my least favorite activity: grab-ass. That's when the boys just can't keep their hands off one another. This session of grab-ass ended with my boys just lying on top of one another. We cut the visit there. Time to go.

In the car, I was furious, embarrassed, and annoyed. It didn't feel like too much to ask. Just occupy yourselves for a little while.

At home, I was having a hard time shaking off my irritation. I wanted to take advantage of the warmer weather, go for an afternoon run. But it was hard to even make myself do that. I looked out the window as the wind blew. Awfully windy for a run, I whined to myself.

I decided to go anyway, I pounded the pavement for a few miles, no music, just trying to get some endorphins going, clear my thoughts and improve my mood. It worked. I felt better by the time I got home.

January through March is by far my least favorite time of year. It's fitting that my lousy day went down on a day late in March. I'm in the last mile of long race.

This has been a long, hard season. We've had setbacks big and small. The weather's been abysmal. Heck, we had zero-degree wind chills less than a week ago.

I know that when the calendar flips to April tomorrow, everything will just magically improve, a Wizard of Oz-like transformation.

Until then, though, I'll have to tough it out for one more day. This morning Paul, woke up at 4:30 and vomited, and despite his malaise, he and Gus are bickering. Here we go again. Is it tomorrow yet?

Thank God it's Wednesday

When I received a mailing about Gus's 4K schedule last spring, I immediately noticed that every other Wednesday, concurrent with the district late start days, Gus would have a day off of school. I rolled my eyes – that seems excessive.

Little did I know. I have come to love every other Wednesday off. For me, it's a nice break from rushing to get Gus to school (amazing how it's always a rush) and leaving the house early to get a parking space when I pick him up. For him, it's just a nice break – a whole day to play freely. We could hit the gymnastics center or the library or simply spend a day together at home.

More than any of that, though, I see this extra time with Gus as a gift. I'm feeling acutely how the year, our last year at home together (sob), is flying past. This may feel like the winter that never ends, but it's the end of March. Just two full months remain in the school year. And then it's just a quick slide to the big K.

It took four years or so of Gus's life to get to the sweet spot. The first four were work, just really hard work. The past year and a half, though, my boy has blossomed into someone I genuinely enjoy having around. 

Gus has developed so many interests that we can share. We may choose to challenge ourselves with a 150-piece puzzle, build Angry Birds towers for each other to destroy, take up some markers and draw, or play a game of Zingo. 

When I began staying home with my kids, it felt like the time would just stretch on indefinitely. Amazing how almost nine years can just vanish. Here I sit at the almost-end of the line. Everything is about to change.

This morning I saw a job posting, one that looked like a great fit for me. Part of me wanted to pounce on it, but in the end, I decided I'm not quite ready. 

For now I'll savor my mornings and my every other Wednesdays with my sweet Gus. The boys and I will have a blast together this summer. After that, your guess is as good as mine. What I wouldn't give to know what I'll be doing next year at this time. But now, now it's time to play.

Closer I am to fine

"How are you doing?" my neighbor in yoga class asked a couple weeks ago. 

"Fine!" I chirped. "Doing well!"

I wasn't fine. I've been down-dogging next to this friendly acquaintance for a couple years now, but still I didn't feel comfortable telling her how I was really doing.

"Well, my son had a seizure a couple days ago, and the truth is, I'm kind of a mess."

I felt wildly disingenuous uttering my false words of cheer. Yet I wasn't comfortable going the other way. Unburdening myself with my tales of woe did not seem like the best lead-in to a yoga class partly intended to clear the mind.

It struck me as funny afterward how often we ask one another how we're doing and how infrequently we answer with the truth. It's like some kind of verbal tic. We ask and answer and unthinkingly.

Nearly three weeks have passed since the morning of Paul's seizure. That first week, I was tense with worry, part of me always on the lookout for another seizure. Our schedule was a little out of whack due to Paul's midweek sleep deprivation EEG. I was weary and snapping at everyone - even more than usual. And I can be pretty snappy.

I felt a little better after Paul's test had passed, so sure was I that it would show nothing. When we got the results back the following Monday, my worry returned full force. We received word that the EEG had come back abnormal with a note that the doctor wanted Paul to see a pediatric neurologist ASAP. We were able to learn little else that day. I tried to set up an appointment with the neurologist but was stymied there as well.

It wasn't until the next day, when Mark obtained a copy of the EEG report, that a little relief came. Based on the EEG, the report states that Paul may have a condition called Benign Rolandic Epilepsy. It's often characterized by seizures that occur during sleep. The good news is that most kids outgrow the condition by their teen years.

I began to feel a little better again, but still I wanted that appointment scheduled, wanted our questions answered. That process would drag on a bit, I would learn, when at the end of last week we were informed that the neurologist would review Paul's case and call us to schedule an appointment in a week or two. Not the news I wanted.

Even after a huge challenge has been dropped on you, life doesn't stop throwing hurdles your way. In the wake of Paul's seizure Ben was out of sorts with a combination of worry for his brother and jealousy of all the special treatment Paul was receiving. Add to that a report here and there of a difficult day at school for Gus. I think I've developed at least three new knots in my back these past few weeks.

I have to say, though, in spite of it all, I'm amazed that we're holding it together relatively well. I've been anxious my whole life, imagining scenarios, telling myself I could never handle it if something terrible happened. Then something pretty terrible did happen, and we're okay. Perhaps I'm stronger than I knew.

Things are beginning to look up. Paul continues to do well. We finally got that appointment scheduled for early April. It's not as soon as I would like, but then again, it could have been late April rather than early.

With each passing day, I get closer to fine. I think one day soon, I just may be able to tell my yoga mat neighbor that we're doing well. And mean it.

The day our world split in two

The day our world split in two was supposed to be an ordinary Sunday. I would try to sneak in a run before church. After participating in youth-hosted liturgy with his second-grade classmates, Paul and I would go to a preparation session for his upcoming First Eucharist. As it turned out, fate had other plans for us.

My eyes fluttered open a few minutes before 6 a.m. I lingered in a bed a bit. Per usual, we had nighttime visitors. Gus lay on one side of me, Paul on the other. My peaceful morning reverie broke when suddenly, Paul began to make choking sounds. I was sure he was about to vomit and roused Mark to grab the trash can.

It soon dawned on me that the sounds Paul was making were not normal at all; they were rhythmic. Still groggy, Mark and I fumbled to turn a light. Finally, I reached the switch, and we took in the sight of Paul lying in our bed, convulsing, foaming at the mouth. We watched helplessly, powerless to stop it. Paul had wet himself in the process, and Mark transferred him to the bathroom floor, laid him on his side.

Mark and I panicked. What to do? Take him to the ER? Call 911? Yes, definitely call 911. Mark stayed with Paul while I tearfully spoke to the dispatcher. Soon our bedroom was filled with a variety of rescue personnel.

Paul, looking tiny, helpless and dazed, stared up at the seven or so strange men surrounding him. 

"How long was he seizing," one asked.

Interesting question. It felt like an eternity, but I think it was only 90 seconds to two minutes.

My parents came quickly to stay with Gus and Ben. For Gus, the whole thing was a spectacle. Firefighters, a fire truck, an ambulance! Ben took it as only an 11-year-old boy can. "This is going to ruin my whole day!" he wailed, tears springing to his eyes.

As I prepared to board the ambulance for a ride to the hospital with my son, I was slightly dismayed at the mundane thoughts my brain could still produce. Should I grab a bra? I'm going to want a bra. I can't wear green socks with these black pants.

Numbly, I stroked Paul's head as we rode to Theda Clark. I could barely form thoughts to respond to the EMT's polite, benign chatter.

Once at the hospital, everyone took good care of us. I would have expected no less, but Paul remained a superstar through finger pokes, blood draws and an IV insertion. We were taken to a room for a CT scan. Through it all, Paul was responsive but not at all himself. He looked utterly wiped out, complained his head hurt. There was no trace of my funny, silly boy.

Fairly quickly we learned that all of Paul's tests were normal. Thank God. The CT scan ruled out all the major causes of seizure: brain bleeds, tumors.

I knew Paul was coming around when he quietly asked me, caressing the stuffed animals we'd grabbed, "What do my owl, my hippo, and me have in common?"

"We all have butts!" he said, breaking into soft peals of laughter.

He was referencing TriBond, a game we'd played the night before. (What do rifles, cigarettes and rams have in common? They all have butts!) Mark had chosen to read that game card specifically because he knew it would make Paul laugh. That was before. Before our lives split into before and after.

It was astonishing to me how quickly our time at the hospital passed. Two hours later and we were on our way, a follow-up appointment set with our doctor's office. I know it's not the way things work, but part of me was screaming, whoa, whoa, whoa! Let's keep him here for observation. I don't want to see the bill, but let's keep him here.

Once home Paul was completely back to normal, walking, talking, playing, eating. It was hard to reconcile the jarring images of only hours before with the average 8-year-old behavior before my eyes.

This experience is still so new. We're in after now. After is when you realize that though you've always felt so, you're not immune to scary things happening. I've learned a few things already. Daytime isn't so bad. During the day, I can watch. Nighttime is another story. At night, I can't stop picturing the events of the morning. Paul slept next to me last night so I could maintain my vigilence. I worried every time I felt him twitch.

It's strange co-existing with the normal and abnormal. Paul remains utterly himself. You would have no idea anything had transpired. On Tuesday night, though, we will need to let him sleep only a few hours so he will be sleep-deprived for his Wednesday morning EEG.

The EEG will tell us one of two things. Something could be abnormal, in which case he'd need to see a pediatric neurologist and begin treatment. Not good. Probably most likely, everything will be normal, and we won't know what caused this. Still not good. Neither, however, is awful. We will survive.

I suppose life returns to normal after these things. Eventually, I will become more comfortable letting Paul out of my sight. Certainly I will have to let him sleep solo and have faith that nothing awful will befall him. And yet, I don't think I can go back. To before. When bad things only happened to other people, when everything felt quite secure in retrospect.

For each of your children, for every day that goes by without incident, count your blessings. I know I will.

Coloring outside the lines

As I sat in the kitchen with Gus, I felt my back tense, my heart rate accelerate ever so slightly, I pinched the bridge of my nose and struggled to maintain composure. Yes, we were having creative differences over how he should decorate his Valentine's Day mailbox.

More like what I had in mind for Gus's box ...

Gus wanted to style it in his own way. I had taped red and pink construction paper to an oatmeal container and cut out a hole in the top. His little hand gripped a marker, poised to heedlessly put down whatever drawing came into his head. And it probably had nothing to do with hearts, I'll tell you that much.

I had to battle my control-freak tendencies in a major way. I think I actually employed some deep breathing to stop myself from commandeering the whole project and imposing my will.

What we settled on

Even as I was experiencing it, I knew I was being ridiculous. What does it matter, and what would it mean if I'd gotten my way? He wanted to do his own thing, and there was no reason for me to stop him. Yet, I had this picture in mind, this picture of perfection. How silly is it, though? I can just see it. Wow, Gus, what an awesome Valentine's Day box YOUR MOM made. She really can go online and follow some instructions.

Some of Gus's best wok

Gus loves to draw and color, and thank God for it. Imaginative play is not a natural for me, but I can happily sit down with him and take up some colored pencils or crayons. I adore this time together. Hilariously, my youngest sometimes emulates the words I occasionally use. "This isn't my best wok [work]," he'll declare.

Inevitably, Gus creates something cool that he sees in his mind, while I take an illustration from a book or a picture from online and copy it. G thinks this is pretty impressive. But really, almost any adult can copy a picture. If you asked me to draw my own interpretation of something the way he does, I'd be lost.

Paul is the same way. He actually craves indoor recess. All he needs is a notebook and a pencil so he can happily sketch whatever is his latest obsession: birds, Greek warriors, maybe a character from his Disney Infinity game.

Paul's output from a winter full of indoor recess

All of this resonated with me when we took the boys to see The Lego Movie. It took me by surprise. The filmmakers could have so easily phoned it in and still made lots of money. I mean, it's Lego. Parents will take their kids either way. Instead it was unexpectedly poignant. It was chockfull of humor and so many sight gags, it would take multiple viewings to catch it all.

My drawing with Google Images as my inspiration

I wouldn't dream of spoiling any of the major plot points, but it's not giving away too much to say it had a great message. Everyone has potential, and anyone can turn him or herself into something special.

I know it's right to let my kids follow their own paths, even though sometimes it's hard not to impose on my kids my ideas of what's aesthetically pleasing. Pablo Picasso once said, “Every child is an artist, the problem is staying an artist when you grow up.”

I fear I've lost most of my artistic instincts, but my kids blessedly still have theirs. Each one has his own beautiful mind. Ben yearns to learn about everything, while Paul takes one subject and wants to learn everything about it. Gus, well, I'm not sure yet. If his mind is like what he puts out into the world, it's cacophonous but filled to the brim with ideas and creativity.

It may take some effort, but I intend to let those beautiful minds roam free, staying far away from adult conformity for as long as possible.

The discipline dilemma

I can imagine my cocksure younger self wondering what could be so hard about disciplining kids. I knew where my beliefs fell on the spectrum of parenting techniques. When, and if (after all my kids would come out perfectly socialized, rarely committing any bad deeds), I would sit them in timeout. Easy. Next?

On my myriad list of unexpectedly difficult parenting tasks, discipline ranks pretty high. That timeout I was so sure would work? Not so simple. In the early days, my biggest misconception was that my kids would actually cooperate for it. My boys, especially my youngest, were close to 3 before they would sit without me physically restraining them. Often, my patience with the task of holding onto a writhing 2-1/2-year-old would die long before their willpower to break free.

Ben makes amends to Paul.

I've long felt utterly ineffectual in this area. At night I pray for guidance in becoming a loving but effective disciplinarian, but the skill seems to elude me still. I feel like I should be at a level of consistency in which my boys know that if they transgress, there will be a consequence, and this should, in the long run, lead to fewer transgressions. Um, we're not there.

Part of my problem is that I can't decide what kind of disciplinarian I want to be. By default, I'm kind of a softie; I'd rather be the good cop. I prefer not to haul out the big punishment guns. But then inevitably one of the boys does something to really tick me off, and suddenly I swing way out the other way, doling out penalties I don't even intend to keep. It should be no wonder to me that we are in this place.

At our boys' ages, with the exception of Gus, we've kind of reached the end of the usefulness of timeouts. It's time to find the next generation of solutions to behavior problems.

I attended one parenting workshop in which the leader noted that all kids have things that are important to them. Those things are their currency. If kids aren't meeting expectations, they can't have what's important to them.

Certainly, I've used this tack, but not very effectively. This is when I start to break all the parenting rules - threats, cajoling, bargaining, I've sunk to it all. It's awfully easy to blurt out in the heat of the moment, "OK, you're off videogames for the next two days!"

One my favorite parenting suggestions came from a book I was reading in hopes of finding strategies for Gus. The book is entitled "Parenting Children with ADHD: 10 Lessons that Medicine Can't Teach."

The author, Vincent Monastra, recommends households implement a parent-child non-aggression pact. The first part of the pact is that "it is not okay for anyone in the family to yell, threaten, hit, tease or be mean to another family member."

The second part of the pact is "if a family member says or does something that is hurtful, when they cool off, they will apologize and do something to make up."

The rule applies to everyone in the family, including parents. A make-up gesture could be anything from writing a note of apology to doing an extra chore to making the family a snack.

"In life, when we do (or say) something to another person that is hurtful, we owe that person an apology," Monastra writes. "It's also a good idea to try to make amends."

I love this idea of making amends, and the goal of setting up my kids for healthy relationships in the future appeals to me immensely.

"In healthy relationships, we don't take something away from our friend or partner if they upset us or we upset them," the author states. "Not if we want an enduring relationship. Instead, we offer an apology and make up. Why not teach that to your children?"

I read about the non-aggression pact idea more than two months ago. No, I have not implemented it with perfect consistency. Like everything in parenting, it's been a learning curve. When I'm really angry, it's not as gratifying to say, "Let me cool down and think about what we're going to do about this."

I'm trying, though, and I hope to only get better at it. On Sunday night, Ben and Paul were playing a rough game. Ben made an impulsive decision and hurt Paul. Badly. Paul was screaming; I was irate. I summoned all my patience, though, and told Ben I'd think about his consequence and let him know when I was calm.

Instead of taking Ben off videogames for a week, which may have been my first instinct, Mark and I decided that Ben would need to make it up to Paul by apologizing and doing something nice for him. Last night, Ben read two chapters of Return of the Indian to Paul.

Ultimately, I want to shape the boys into calm and rational human beings who know how to effectively handle conflict. I think this strategy will help us get there, so I'm going to try to discipline my own inconsistent self into following it faithfully.

I'm curious, though, what strategies work in your household?