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.