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.

Letting him spread his wings

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a few beats. Could I do it? Did I have the nerve to sign up Gus for gymnastics at the Y despite my reservations?

I'd thought about it a lot, how a physical activity like gymnastics or martial arts might be a great outlet for Gus's energy. Underneath ran a current of angst, though. What if he acted up, couldn't follow the rules? An anxious person like me can be taken down by what if.

I pictured Gus going rogue in gymnastics, running off to the trampoline when he was supposed to be stretching. In karate, he might do something careless and hurt another child.

We had tried gymnastics once before and it didn't go well. To be fair, though, that was when Gus was, like, 3 and the class was Tumble Tots. Not exactly serious business. 

Nevertheless, I flashed back to last time. We had visited the gymnastics center at the Y enough times for Gus to feel comfortable there. And he was plenty comfortable. He completely bucked all efforts at organized activities - just ran off and did his own thing. 

Really, what was the big deal? He was 3. Somehow for uptight, rule-following me it was a big deal, though. My guy seemed to be the only one who couldn't just go with the flow. We went a few times and then just stopped because I was embarrassed. This is a pattern with me, letting my insecurities run my life far too much. 

I took a deep breath and signed him up. I was relieved when Mark was free to accompany me to Gus's first class. If G did something embarrassing, at least I'd have someone there to share my mortification.

Where normally I'd read a book or magazine during one of the boys' lessons, I watched vigilantly, as if doing so may prevent some calamity.

This is shocking, but I needn't have worried. Gus acted pretty much like every other boy in the class. He was excited, yes, but he followed the rules and participated in all the activities. He even executed an excellent near-handstand (his fearlessness comes in pretty handy sometimes). As the weeks passed, I felt more at ease with class and even began to read a page or two of a book.

I've spent the past handful of years being hyper-vigilant. I haven't taken into consideration that Gus has had two years of school. He's learning and understanding expectations, even if a little reluctantly. I've given little leeway and kept the reins pretty tight. I think I've failed to notice that my youngest is growing, evolving, and, yes, maybe even maturing.

It's time for me to let go a little bit. So when I was looking at the park and rec brochure and contemplating signing up Gus for t-ball, only for a moment did I let myself entertain worries about him transforming into a maniacal little dude with a bat. I dropped the form and check in the mail with hopes for the best. Bring on the summer.

Truth or dare

It's one of those games that stands the test of time. I wasn't too surprised to find Ben, his friend, also Ben (Big Ben), and Paul playing truth or dare one Saturday morning after a sleepover. 

The possibilities are delicious and irresistible for kids and teens. Maybe your friend will be compelled to reveal his crush. Perhaps he will be forced to perform some mildly embarrassing activity. Or called chicken when he refuses.

The boys' game quickly evolved into simply "Dare." They each devised and wrote down dares for one another to perform, even recruiting Mark and me to come up with some ideas to throw into the pot. Run around the house with your shirt off. Go outside and yell, "I need to poop!" 

Ben had no problem with most of the early dares. He even stepped up to the challenge of belting a karaoke version of "Let it Go," earnest emotions and all. 

Things quickly took a turn when Ben was forced out of his comfort zone, i.e. anything that asked him to interact with people outside his small circle. He flat out refused to ask for and kiss one of Big Ben's sister's stuffed animals. Asking Ben's dad how he would rate him on a scale of 1-10? No way.

It became clear that Ben fell squarely in the "it's fun to watch you do embarrassing stuff, but don't ask me to do it" camp. I watched with a bit of distress as relations between the friends became a little chilly and strained at Ben's refusal to complete the challenges.

Ben's face looked defiant, angry. I fretted for him as he began to look teary. Ah, to be 11, caught between two worlds. You still very much feel like crying at times, but to do so is socially verboten.

Watching it all transpire, I remembered my own time in this phase of my life. I was pretty much like Ben. I participated in many a game of truth or dare, not to mention being a victim of plenty of slumber party bra freezings. I tended to find the whole thing humiliating, unable to take it all in stride. It's a rite of passage, I suppose.

It's a strange experience going through this phase as a mom, especially as a mom of boys. I know and understand the cruelty of girls. I suffered through, and, sadly, I'm sure I was a party to it on more than one occasion. Boys, though, act in ways that are completely foreign to me. It's intimidating.

As hard as it was to go through middle school myself, it's harder still to imagine pain and humiliation befalling my children. Believe me, I wanted to throttle the jock-football player kid who told Ben that soccer isn't sport. 

Overall, everything seems pretty good with Ben so far, not that he tells me much of anything. I want to say that no matter what, he'll get through the slings and arrows of adolescence. It's tough, though. You can't really be blasé about this, either. I've read the recent study that links bullying and teasing suffered in childhood to lifelong problems. And yet I feel powerless to have much influence over the situation. In many ways, I feel like all I can do is hope for the best.

The day of the doomed truth or dare game, I took Ben aside, tried to defuse the situation. "You know, you can just tell your friends you'd rather not play that game." 

Of course Ben insisted that he likes the game, that Big Ben and Paul were being unreasonable and ganging up on him. This line of defense is classic Ben, perfect 11-year-old evasion.

As I reflected on all of this, I felt grateful to be an adult, to be past the phase of doing things I don't like.  My truth or dare days are long gone, and to this day I don't like games or activities that call on me to act silly. Charades? No thanks. As an adult I can say that, and no one tries very hard to pressure me to change my mind. I'm an introvert, and I own that, and I accept who I am.

I was trying to impart a bit of wisdom to Ben, but he wasn't ready for it. Unfortunately, you can't rush emotional maturity. Some lessons aren't learned but rather earned through life experience. I wish him an easy journey.

I choose gratitude

My former co-worker had this theory about Tuesday. It's the worst day. Upon consideration, I have to agree. Yeah, Monday is hard, but maybe you're still holding onto a shred of optimism: This could turn out to be a great week! But Tuesday it sets in: It's going to be a difficult, ordinary week, and there's still a lot of it left.

It's fitting that a day like the one I had yesterday would go down on a Tuesday. It started as usual with, "Paul, PAUL, hurry up and get your backpack and get in the car. We're going to be late!"

I don't know how I haven't gotten it together by this point in the school year, much less this many years of transporting my kids to school, but it's like this a solid 85 percent of the time.

There was a short lull before the day's big attraction, taking Gus to have cavities filled. We had already had failed experience trying to have the fillings done at our regular dentist. He made a huge blunder in actually showing Gus the needle (what?) and saying, "It's time for a mosquito bite!" (Gus happens to have quite a bug phobia - very bad choice of words.)

The appointment ended quickly with a referral to a pediatric dentist. Two weeks ago, we took Gus to his initial exam with the new dentist. They did an x-ray for the first time, and we discovered that Gus has not only the four cavities we thought; he actually has cavities between nearly all his teeth. I absorbed this news with a potent mix of shock, shame and humiliation. What kind of parent lets this happen?

Here's how it is. Yes, we let Gus eat treats, but not wantonly. We allow few sugary beverages. We brush Gus's teeth for him but were blasé about flossing. 

In truth, I never gave flossing my kids' teeth much serious thought. How was I supposed to be expected to get my big adult hands in their tiny mouths to floss? I kind of hate this argument, but here I go. My parents never flossed my teeth; I didn't start flossing until adulthood, and I turned out okay (yes, I actually really hate when people say this, but that's a topic for another post). What's the worst could happen? Maybe a few cavities. Or a mouthful. Believe you me, ever since, Mark and I have been working our big adult hands into Gus's tiny mouth for nightly flossing.

In order to get Gus's dental work done, we had to sedate him. Per instructions, an hour before his appointment I crushed the pills - Valium - and mixed them with chocolate syrup. I was relieved when the whole process worked fairly smoothly. I kept watching the clock waiting for Gus to be, you know, sedate. Turns out he just acts like his normal self and staggers a bit drunkenly. Figures.

When we arrived at the dentist, I pinched the bridge of my nose as an employee detailed for me what the fillings would cost. She politely informed me that Gus's dental insurance coverage for the year had been exhausted with this first appointment (the work would be done over two), so the second one would be much more expensive. Plus I had uncertainty hanging over my head. If today didn't go well, the dentist said he'd have to do the work in a hospital. Sweet Jesus, what would that cost?

Much to my relief, with the help of nitrous oxide on the dentist's part and prolific use of bribes on mine, Gus came through the appointment quite well. I felt a little vindicated in my guilt when the dentist informed me that Gus's tooth enamel is extremely soft, hence the vulnerability.

I should have basked in making it through this trial, but later that afternoon at the grocery store I mentally pinched the bridge of my nose as I watched the tally of my bill grow. Let me tell you, it is not cheap to feed a family of five.

I hightailed it home, threw the frozen food in the freezer and rushed to picked up Paul. Gus sweetly informed Paul that I'd bought him lunch at McDonald's, and Paul threw a huge fit. Yes, when it became apparent that Paul wanted to deck his brother, I actually pulled over the minivan and made Paul move so he was no longer sitting next to Gus. Good times.

I quickly unloaded and put away the rest of the groceries so I could get Ben to piano lessons in time. A quick trip to the bathroom, and there goes my leaky bladder again. Perfect timing. This is a remnant from Ben's birth. After two hours of pushing, my pelvic floor muscles will never recover, Kegel though I may.

On the way to piano, we are running late, natch. And I encounter the near-daily annoyance of someone going straight in the lane I want to use to turn right. I must wait. Curse you, thoughtless person and stupid intersection of Midway and Oneida! On the way home, Gus falls asleep, ensuring that it will be difficult for him to nod off at night. Oh well, I turn on WPR, and it's pledge week. Pledge week? Again?! Could this day get any worse?

I manage to get supper on the table, and after that I'm exhausted, spent. I'm grumpy. I indulge in a little whining.

But at the end of the day I chose to feel gratitude. Medical bills suck. We've had a lot this year: Paul's ordeal, an MRI for Mark, now Gus. I don't want to spend our money on them. But here's the thing, we can pay our medical bills, and we have decent insurance to help. That sets us apart as luckier than many.

Mark has a good job that supports our family. My days are full, but our bellies are full, too, because we can afford groceries. You can't take that kind of good fortune for granted in times like these.

I have healthy kids. Paul is well, and I am so, so thankful for this even when he gets on my last nerve with his whining. 

And my pelvic floor muscles? What does it matter, when out of the deal, I got Ben? He's been practicing "Für Elise" for his piano recital and sounds amazing.

So that's it. I choose gratitude. Not a bad conclusion to reach on a Tuesday night, especially during pledge week.

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.